How to Master Your Marquis (31 page)

Old Bailey

August 1890

T
he cell occupied by the Marquess of Hatherfield in the historic depths of the Old Bailey Prison was, all things considered, not all that wretched an abode. He’d been allowed a few comforts of home: desk, chair, books in abundance. He’d made friends early on with the guards, and they left him to his business. When Stefanie came to visit, dressed soberly as the clerk to Mr. Benedict Fairchurch, Esquire, they allowed the two of them space and privacy and all the time in the world.

Which they spent going over the case, the progress of Southam Terrace, and sundry other business matters.

Still. She was there, she was within reach. He could drink in the comfort of her presence, could meet her eye from time to time. Could even, for a minute or two, hold her hand under the square table at which they worked, fingers tightly curled, so still and so close he could feel the tiny beat of her pulse through his fingertips. So perfectly united, it was almost worth the physical pain of separation when she stripped her hand away and rose from the table, eyes shining wet, and gathered her books and papers.

You shouldn’t do this
, he would whisper.
You should go back home.

I have no home. You’re all there is left.

After she left, he would pace the stone walls of his cell, from wall to wall. Where was Olympia? Where was this Dingleby of theirs? He’d written letters, he’d made every inquiry he could think of. Even bloody Lord Roland Penhallow was nowhere to be found. Ashland and Emilie were away on the far side of the world, enjoying a honeymoon in ignorant wedded bliss.

It was as if the entire universe had abandoned them.

He began to punch the wall in helpless fury. The pain of his bruised knuckles did nothing to ease his despair, but at least he was doing something. He was committing an act, instead of lying in his bed, staring at the ceiling, turning everything over in his mind. The soul-shredding worry for Stefanie, disguised as she was; the knowledge that any moment, some member of the Revolutionary Brigade of the Free Blood might discover her, harm her, and he could do nothing about it.

Tonight was the worst. He had fought with her, actually fought. “Don’t you see? If you don’t tell them everything, everything, you might be convicted,” she said.

“By God, I won’t say anything in that courtroom that will put you in danger! Your life’s at stake!”

“Your life is at stake!” She said it in a low, intense voice, mindful of the nearby guards.

“I will not win my freedom at your expense. I gave your uncle my word . . .”

“Olympia’s gone. Everyone’s gone. Don’t you see?” She laid her hand flat on the table, and her fingers were shaking. “I can’t lose you. I’ll go into that witness box myself, if you hold anything back that might save you.”

He’d laid his hand on hers. “No, you won’t. Just trust me, won’t you? Trust that I can do this. I can give the jury what they need, without exposing you. I can do it, Stefanie. I can win them over.”

She’d pulled her hand away and risen from the table. “Why the devil, Hatherfield, do you have to be so bloody noble? Do you know what it would do to me, if they hanged you?”

“They won’t hang me.”

She had gathered her things and left without another word. After the door closed behind her and her scent had dissolved, after throwing three good punches to three separate gray white stones, Hatherfield braced himself against the abused wall, head down, panting, and prayed.

Prayed that his testimony tomorrow would turn the tide.

Prayed that he could save himself without revealing Stefanie’s secrets.

Hatherfield at his most charming. Hatherfield at his most convincing. Nothing to see here but a careless garden-variety aristocrat, a good-natured chap with nothing but sunshine lighting his soul.

A peremptory knock rattled the door of his cell, and then the jingle of keys in the lock.

“Visitor, yer lordship!” the guard said cheerfully.

Hatherfield lifted his head. His insides drowned in relief. Thank God. She was back. He could see her again. Perhaps touch her hand again—her single sweet hand, when he had once held her entire body in his arms, had made love to her, had fallen asleep to the rhythm of her breathing.

“Send him in,” Hatherfield said.

The guard winked. “It’s not a him, sir.”

A small figure walked through the doorway, clothed and veiled in deepest black.

Hatherfield took a step back. “Lady Charlotte! What in God’s name . . .”

The door fell shut behind her. She lifted her veil, and the face beneath was extraordinarily pale, the skin almost translucent beneath the too-prominent bones of her face.

“Good evening, James,” she said.

He crossed his arms. “You shouldn’t be here. I don’t know how you managed to get through them all.”

She made a bitter little laugh. “Don’t you know, James, there’s nothing in this world one can’t obtain with beauty, title, and money? And I have all three.”

“Almost nothing,” he said.

“Have you nothing kind to say to me at all, James? Nothing? When I have suffered so.”

He gazed at her in astonishment. “You’ve suffered? My dear Lady Charlotte, I have been imprisoned and tried for a crime I did not commit. I have been kept apart from the woman I love . . .”

“Don’t speak of her!”

“I will say her name with my dying breath.”

“Then it
will
be your dying breath, by God,” she said fiercely. Her veil trembled at the edge of her hat. Hatherfield looked at her sharp, frail bones, her bloodless lips. The way her rich black clothes hung from her body. No porcelain doll now, Lady Charlotte. She reminded him instead of a dangling ornament.

He said coldly, “Why are you here, madam?”

She held out her hands. “James, I know you’re innocent. I know you didn’t kill the duchess. I know what really happened, the night of the ball. I have . . . I have proof.”

Proof.

The word rang in his ears, a siren’s call, tempting and dangerous.
Proof.
What sort of proof could Lady Charlotte have?

And what price would she exact for it?

Hatherfield kept his voice even. “How unaccountable, then, that you failed to mention this heartfelt conviction in your testimony before the court. Instead, if memory serves, you did your level best to implicate me inextricably.
I saw him upstairs at half past ten
,
you said, or words to that effect.
The duchess had just retired to her boudoir and asked me to send Lord Hatherfield to see her.
Convincing testimony, that. I shall have the devil of a time explaining myself tomorrow.”

Tears welled at the corners of her eyes. “I was angry, I was hurt. I had seen you with her, embracing her, that woman . . .”

“You will not speak of her.”

“I was consumed by jealousy. I admit it. But I can save you now. I can make up for my sins, if you’ll let me.” She reached for his hands.

Hatherfield stepped away. “You are perfectly welcome to inform the court that you have additional testimony. I only ask that you not reveal the single fact of Mr. Thomas’s sex, which has nothing at all to do with the case.”

“I will inform the court. I’ll do it tomorrow. I’ll tell them everything, and you’ll be saved. I only ask, in return . . .” Her voice trailed off hopefully, making a slight echo on the stone walls.

And there it was. Hatherfield’s chest went cold.

“Yes, Lady Charlotte?”

“Renounce her.”

“Renounce her?”

“Renounce her, and I’ll save you. You’ll live, you’ll be free.”

“Never!” The word exploded from his throat.

She stamped her foot. “Don’t be a fool! Do you want to die? You’ll die, Hatherfield, they’ll hang you. Either way, you’ll never see her again. Why not save yourself? Are you mad?” She was trembling, despite the August warmth and her own black mourning clothes; the tears dashed from her eyes.

Hatherfield shook his head slowly. “You don’t understand, do you? She has stood by my side, she’s given me everything, she’s fought for me with all her heart. She has loved me, she has put herself in the acutest danger for my sake. Renounce her? To save my own life?” He shook his head again. “I would slit my own throat first.”

“Die, then!”

Her words revolved in the heavy prison air.
Die then die then die then.

“What contrast,” he said softly. “What contrast, between the two of you. Can you possibly wonder why I love her?”

She flinched, as if physically struck.

“Don’t you see? I would lay down my life for her, if she let me. Because that’s what love means, Lady Charlotte. What fidelity means. I am her servant before God.”

She whispered, “You don’t need to marry me. Only renounce her. Just tell me you won’t see her again. That’s all I ask.”

“Why? Why not allow me happiness?”

She turned away to stare at the dull gray masonry, the encroaching walls of Hatherfield’s cell. Her hands clenched and unclenched into the thick black folds of her dress. “Because I can’t bear it. I can’t bear her to have you instead. When I love you so.”

The last faint flutter of hope died inside his heart.

“You must leave, Lady Charlotte. There’s nothing for you here.”

She spun about. “I’ll tell them all. I’ll tell them your pretty clerk is a woman, a cheeky little slut . . .”

In an instant, she was up against the wall with his fingers pressing the ends of her jawbone. “Do that,” he said, in a tight whisper, “and you will not live to see another day. Not another hour.”

Lady Charlotte’s dark eyes blinked at him, wide and round. “You would strike me? A woman?”

“If you harm a hair on her head, you forfeit the privilege of your sex, Lady Charlotte. I will hunt you down like the vixen you are.”

“You
are
mad.”

He pulled his hand away. “Go.”

She stumbled to the door and knocked. “Die, then. I could have saved you, I could have loved you.”

“You must do as your conscience dictates, Lady Charlotte, and I shall do the same.”

“I won’t forgive you for this.”

The door swung open. The guard filled the passageway, leering back and forth between the both of them. “Ready to go, madam?”

Lady Charlotte stood at the door, staring at him, her eyebrows raised proudly in her flawless forehead. “Well, Hatherfield?”

“She’s ready,” he told the guard.

She put down her veil. “Madman. And who will save your pretty face now?”

The door fell shut, and Hatherfield sank into the chair before his small wooden desk.

Who, indeed?

TWENTY-THREE

Belgrave Square

February 1890

A
t a quarter past nine, the Marquess of Hatherfield leapt up the front steps of his father’s Belgrave Square mansion and tossed his hat and cape to the footman. “Has Sir John Worthington arrived yet?” he asked.

“Yes, your lordship. In the ballroom, I believe.”

Hatherfield strode down the entrance hall to the ballroom, which stretched across the entire back half of the ground floor, its French doors open to the bare February garden. He had no trouble finding Sir John. There were perhaps thirty people assembled, including the musicians; in the center of the room, a few couples danced gamely to a waltz.

He started forward, and a hand appeared on his arm.

“Good evening, Hatherfield,” said his father. “Arrived at last, I see.”

Hatherfield turned. “Father. Good evening. A smashing success, isn’t it? I can scarcely move for the crush.”

“Don’t be impertinent.” The duke’s face was flushed, as if he’d already had a few too many glasses of sherry.

“I heard the most thrilling rumor that Mr. Nathaniel Wright himself will be here tonight. What a magnificent coincidence. I hope you didn’t go to such trouble for my sake.”

“Needs must, I’m afraid.”

Hatherfield flattened his eyebrows and looked keenly at his father. There was an odd note to his voice, or rather a missing note: that of belligerence. As if the grand old Duke of Southam had been defeated by some common foe at last. As if he had laid down his arms and now watched the conclusion of the battle in helpless woe.

“I don’t suppose you happen to have seen Mr. Thomas lying about, have you?”

“Mr. Thomas?”

“My dear friend.”

“Oh. Yes. Of course. I haven’t, in fact.”

“Didn’t he come in with Sir John and Lady Charlotte?”

The duke’s brow crinkled with effort. “No. No, I don’t believe he did. Hatherfield, I . . .”

But Hatherfield was already striding off across the ballroom with a knot of worry tangling his gut. Sir John stood with Hatherfield’s oldest sister, Eleanor, and his old granite face had rearranged itself into an expression of actual pleasure. The flirtatious sort of pleasure.

“I say, sir. I don’t mean to interrupt,” said Hatherfield, “but did you happen to bring Mr. Thomas with you this evening?”

“Well, hello, James.” Eleanor lifted her cheek.

“I beg your pardon, my dear.” He kissed her. “You’re well.”

“Quite. So is little Jane, if you’re interested. You haven’t been around in ages.”