B006O3T9DG EBOK (70 page)

Her inquiry was met with silence. Perhaps it was too obscure to remain in his memory, she reasoned. Just as she concluded it was thus, he surprised her. When he spoke, it was with uncharacteristic openness.

“In truth, I was apprehensive.”

She blurted, “You? If anyone should have been anxious it should have been me—a simple virgin wrested from the bosom of my family by a gentleman of dour opinions and huge... estate.”

Although she immediately regretted having interrupted him, she understood why she did. His answer was altogether astonishing—and a bit off-putting. It was far easier to jest than believe that he regretted their marriage. As a worldly man, he could not have been apprehensive on any other account. True, she had been quite restless and somewhat agitated on the road to town, but, she had not been truly afraid. Granted, there came a time that night when she was a bit askance that what was supposed to come to pass between them was, in fact, feasible. (Indeed, his member was greatly engorged and she knew not quite where he meant to put it.) Passion quickly overrode such hesitation. After that initial mingling of bloods, she could think of nothing but the next.

The memory of the first night they took as one had always been her particular pleasure. Perchance, her happy recollections were false. It was possible that she had not pleased him as he had pleased her. He had so eloquently convinced her of his gratification, she had never once considered it was otherwise.

Suddenly, all that she believed about that passionate time was in question. She looked at him, but he did not return her gaze. Indeed, he lay on his back, his forearm across his eyes. It was quite obvious that he was more inclined to speak of the recent days in London than of those long past. She endeavoured not to take offence. A singular image (forever imbued with a specific fragrance) would always remain with her from that night. Indeed, was she granted but one memory of her husband, it would be of him as he stood barefoot, casting rose petals across their bed.

Even before she had convinced herself that she was in no way vexed, he removed his arm and turned to her.

He said, “You say I was reticent in the landau after our vows. If I was, I beg you forgive me. For, you see, I was engaged in a great struggle. I longed to remove your glove, but I was but a glance away from compleat want of conduct. I dared not trust myself with so small a liberty, lest I surrender to abandon altogether.”

That admission was one she valued beyond all telling. She kissed him lovingly, fully prepared not to speak of it again. Whatever her limitations as an unlearned bride, she believed she had overcome them. Nothing else was of importance. Upon this occasion, however, he was the one to pursue the subject.

He reached out for her, drawing her beneath him again. Taking her face in his hands, he spoke with uncommon candour, articulating rapturously of what she had no notion that he recalled.

Said he, “Apprehension quite overwhelmed me. Indeed, when we reached London, I trembled at the very thought of lying next to you. Your skin was alabaster; your eyes were limitless pools of wine. The embroidery on your gown, the way your hair fell across your shoulder, the turn of your countenance, all conspired against my restraint. Your very touch shattered me. And when you spoke my name, I was struck dumb.”

His voice remained a whisper, but took on the huskiness of penance as he said, “When we were at last one, I was tormented by guilt at the pain my lust, my ardour caused you. Yet, I could not govern my own passion. My will was stolen—along with my breath, my mind, and my heart. If I do not speak of it, forgive me—for it is what I cannot forget that strikes me silent.”

As she listened, she was still as the night. He had recollected the embroidery on her nightdress (the pattern of pink flowers that she herself had sewn). When she thought she was beyond being surprised by him, she was once again astonished. The clamour of her heartbeat left her breathless. Gathering herself, she clasped his face in her hands, searching his eyes. In them, she saw not regret, but appetence. Wild with abandon, she covered his mouth with hers. Unable to slake herself of him by that alone, she paused but a moment before taking his lower lip between her teeth. She did not bite down, just enough to tug on it a bit.

“Do you happen to recall the first time I did that?

Said he, “The oak.”

In a trice, her gown was in twain, the gossamer fabric no real challenge to a man who was intent on taking his wife. Ere either took a breath, his hand encircled the back of her knee and he stole between her thighs. The familiar frisson of hunger overspread her legs (a week’s worth of ardour stored within them), demanding his repair. As he pierced her very being, she fell back in compleat surrender. Words then came from her lips that she did not mean to share.

“I beg the nectar of your loins!”

In the miniscule portion of her mind not overborne by desire, she feared that that ill-chosen phrase had broken the spell that transported them. (She held out hope that he had not heard her, for he did not hesitate in his passionate ministrations.) Then and thenceforward, he performed acts of exhilaration upon her person that were both sure and insistent, each stroke deeper than the last.

He, master of the crescendoed duet, and she, apt pupil, came to amour’s zenith together—with a minimum of conversation and utmost satisfaction.

Indeed, as he rolled from her, she was left in leg-quivering gratification, but prostrate from exhaustion. Looking lovingly in his direction, she reached out and laid her hand upon his chest. So still was he, she thought (as was his want) that he had fallen asleep. He had not.

“The nectar of my loins?” he repeated incredulously.

For the second time that night, a rubescence spread upwards from her bosom to her throat and brightened her cheeks. Providentially, there was no window light to lay bare her embarrassment.

He rose upon an elbow and inquired, “Where did you ever hear such an expression?”

With compleat candour, she answered, “The words came to me in a dream—a most provocative dream.”

Chapter 93

Dead Reckoning

George Wickham once again found himself standing in the Old Bailey, he was not there to cadge, filch, or prevaricate—well, not on someone else’s behalf. From the court, laughter could be heard reverberating from the King of Denmark Inn across the street. From the gaol, the sound of raucousness did not cheer him.

No matter how loudly he protested, he was taken into custody whilst Howgrave’s blood had yet to coagulate. No investigation was carried out. There seemed no reason to bother. Nonetheless, Wickham insisted that he had been arrested on false charges. At first he screamed; eventually he merely rasped. Never had he begged for his life more sincerely. Eventually, he forsook his pleas and sent word of his arrest to two people. He sent word to Lord Humphrey Orloff and Mrs. Henrietta Younge to come to his aid. To no one’s great astonishment, Mrs. Younge hied to his side directly. Lord Orloff did not come, but he offered to pay whatever legal obligations were incurred by Alistair R. Thomas. Although he accepted the man’s generosity readily, Wickham was not at all grateful.

“How can my friends desert me in my time of need?” he cried.

“You haven’t any friends, Georgie,” reminded Mrs. Younge.

“Hush,” he hissed.

He quickly explained to her that he had not quite decided which name he would adopt insofar as the trial ahead of him. Indeed, that would be an exceptional challenge. Wickham had always kept his identity... fluid. Whilst employing what, one must concede, was a masterpiece of factual manoeuvring, Wickham explained the choice of his identities to his solicitor, Mr. Blackbird. The solicitor conferred with the barrister, Mr. Paret. Both concluded that of the two, Alistair R. Thomas’s crimes were more defendable—and as payment was made in Alistair’s name, preferable. Wickham could but agree, believing that he would have better luck being tried for a crime that he did not actually commit. In this, he was mistaken.

The charges were Murder and Attempted Violation of a Lady.

When word of the heinous crime was announced, court watchers were stirred into a frenzy of eagre anticipation of the trial. Newspapers regaled the general public with tales of the murder and hinted broadly at its lascivious aspects. It did not take great powers of deduction to conclude that the lady whose honour had been near-defiled was none other than the much-admired Lady Howgrave. Staunch widow that she was, her ladyship eschewed anonymity, vowing to bear witness against her husband’s murderer. Hence, the man who killed Lady Howgrave’s husband had to endure general loathing from those in all walks of life.

“I am an innocent man!” he declared again and again. “Howgrave meant to kill me! Indeed, she is the murderer! I am an innocent man!”

Wickham was not unaware that his alternate persona was the talk of the town. Ergo, in the many days that he spent before the bench, old bugaboos troubled him. Most of all was the inability to obtain proper barbering. If he was to stand quite prominently before the multitudes, he demanded tonsorial consultation and was outraged when it was refused. Fussing with forelock made him late for court.

Moreover, he was manacled during the proceedings and he would not wear his good hat to court lest some scoundrel snatch it from his head and make off with it. He sent it home with Mrs. Younge for safekeeping. However dedicated she was to Wickham, Henrietta Younge had a practical side. Instead of holding his hat in protective custody, she sold it to a used clothing exchange, raking in a goodly sum. (It was, after all, a handsome hat.) In return, she brought him some tri-cornered monstrosity (and an insect-infested remembrance of a lately hung felon). He wore it only once, and within the week, he insisted she exchange it for a remedy for lice. Regrettably, his vanity brought him as much notoriety as his crime.

By then, the newspapers had labelled him “The Vain Violator.”

Had he just kept his hat on, his head down, and his mouth shut, Alistair’s aspect might have not been recognised by past cohorts. Old Bailey was just over the street from the Fortune of War. Still, it was not unreasonable for him to believe that those who knew him as a procurer and a body-broker would not come forward. Few of his former conspirators liked to draw unnecessary attention from the magistrate. Indeed, Wickham held out hope that his past life would not overlap his present predicament. However, citizens of the nether-society were no less impressed by notoriety than gentlefolk and sallied forth with lurid tales of his past misdeeds.

Newspaper hawkers did not need to scream the headlines to create sales. In the time it took before the case was finally heard, all of the known world (and half the Dark Continent) knew of the particulars of the horrible crime and were baying for blood.

Alistair’s defence was negligible. He was observed by a half-dozen men standing over Howgrave’s corpse with the blood-dripping murder weapon in his hand. Most regrettably for him, the newly-dead gentleman’s lovely widow stood next to them, announcing her assault and pointing to Alistair as the culprit. Because of this, even his solicitor did not believe that Lady Howgrave was the murderer. Wickham saw his only recourse was for the blame of the whole mess to be foisted onto the victim instead. This took a bit of fancy footwork. It also required him to quit avowing the truth.

Instead, he insisted, “Oh, heavens above! I loved Henry like a brother. Lady Howgrave has simply been too distraught to recall the incident accurately. This was a true accident. I fear Sir Howgrave was overtaken with drink. In truth, we were all a bit fuddled. Poor Henry happened to fall upon his sword—er, letter-knife.”

Alistair also forgot to address the little allegation of attempted defilement. If any one testimony sealed his fate, it was that of Lady Howgrave. When she entered the court, an awed hush overspread the room. A black veil was artfully draped from her hat to her shoulders. (It was just thick enough to imply the convulsive torment of her grief-stricken heart, but translucent enough to display her unrivalled beauty.) Her voice was soft, her French accent peculiarly indistinct. It was the intonation particular to a woman of culture and station. Indeed, her voice was so soft that the spectators had to strain to hear her.