The Wedding Night Affair--An Historical Mystery, page 4
Ash walked the length of the trestle, examining the body from all angles. The wound was clean; there were no other attempts to stab him, as there might have been if he’d been in a fight. Only the one deep wound over his heart, a couple of inches wide. The blade must have been pushed in to the hilt, where it would have been at its broadest. It must have taken considerable strength, or determination, or both, to do that.
Ash picked up his lordship’s cold right hand. No nicks, no bruises, no skin off the knuckles. His left hand was the same. Uppingham had not fought back. Interesting. Most likely he’d died in his sleep. Ash saw no hesitation marks on the wound, no wobbling or ragged edges, just a clean stroke. A sharp knife, determination and the right place.
The body lay there, the spirit completely gone, an image of a man, devoid of the vital spark that constituted the soul.
Ash was not unfeeling. He said a short prayer before he turned away and let the footman cover him once more.
That was more than Ash had been allowed to do for his brother.
When he saw a body like this, the memory of his dead brother returned, and the lingering guilt he’d tried ever since to assuage.
He could do nothing for Matt, but he could find justice for this person.
“Where is the blade that killed him?” he demanded. “That weapon is important.”
“It was Lord Godfrey’s own weapon, sir,” the footman admitted. “It is here.”
He gestured to a box on the table. Ash opened it, revealing a dagger. The insignia on the hilt revealed its origin. “This is a military weapon?”
“Yes, sir. Lord Uppingham served in the army for five years. He was proud of his service.”
The blade was dark with dried blood. Gore covered most of it, the shiny metal barely showing above the dulling at the lower end, but with traces near the hilt, too. Stabbing a person wasn’t as easy as many people supposed. Had his bride been seized by anger, or fear, some strong emotion that gave her the impetus to use strength she did not know she possessed?
Or was someone else involved?
The notion came quietly, but once it crept into his thoughts, he could not entirely dismiss it. Nor should he.
He nodded to the footman. “I’m done here. Please convey my thanks to his lordship.”
Now for the lady.
Chapter Six
As the door opened to admit her father, Juliana dropped into her usual curtsey. She had been too stunned to give him this obeisance before, too numb, but now she slipped into habit. Her skirts rustled, the only sound in the room until a full minute had passed.
As she rose, her father lifted his hand, and then dropped it to his side, sighing wearily. He seemed more resigned now, his face more tranquil than before.
People said that eyes were windows to the soul. His were just windows opening into a shuttered room, providing no clue as to what was going on inside. He studied her for five seconds. She counted them. When he wanted to make a point, he always left it for five ticks of the clock, and the one on her mantelpiece had never faltered or run slow. It would be ticking long after her heart ceased to beat.
He made a sound of disgust. “You have disappointed me, behaving like a ruffian off the street. A cheap one, at that. We bred you to a high station, and you took none of that into consideration when you did this.”
Outside, the shouts grew even louder. If the yells inside her could be properly articulated, they’d have the power of ten mobs.
The coldness, the way her father assumed she’d done the deed froze her to the bone. Juliana shivered.
“As the matter stands, you are guilty. Nobody else is suspected, and all the evidence points at you. I expect a visit from someone at Bow Street, who will arrest you on a charge of murder. After that, you will be questioned. Then you will appear in court, and after that...”
A rope at Tyburn and a crowd baying for blood. She would use that last opportunity to speak her mind. A condemned person was allowed to address the crowd.
Unbidden, images rose to her mind, of blows, and the time when Godfrey pinned her arms behind her back with one meaty hand, using the other to roam over her body, poking and probing. The shock of pain reminded her, and would for some weeks yet. She was bruised from that encounter and others, some marks visible, like the ones on her wrists, reddened now but they would turn black in a few days. She had some grazes from where he had pushed her down on her knees on the carpet by the bed, but they were not visible. Last night she had wondered if she could survive the treatment he meted out. At least she didn’t have to worry about that anymore.
“Answer me. Was your marriage consummated, or did he merely strike you?”
Merely? She stared at him, her mouth tightly closed.
His eyes remained expressionless, the mouth a thin, flat line, sharp enough to cut. He stood perfectly still, only his chest rising and falling gently as he breathed. “If you are with child, I will help you.”
Icy horror crept up her spine. If she had a child, a son in particular, her father would have his heir.
Would she abandon a child to her father’s tender mercies?
Did she have any choice?
A chill swept over her, nothing to do with the bright spring day outside. He did not care if she had time to live her life, only that she birthed his grandchild.
And yet...her father’s longing for a male heir gave her a lever. Something she could work with. To keep herself alive. Juliana had had no idea how badly she wanted to cling to life until her death became probable and imminent.
If she had a son, he could become Lord Hawksworth of the second creation.
More bribes would have to be handed over, but he would do it. Her father was tireless in his efforts to save the estate. If she was enceinte, then she was valuable. She could expect to be taken care of, at least until she was brought to bed.
That would not save her, not in the long run, though it would give her a nine-month breathing space.
“What if I am? What if he did consummate the marriage?” She folded her arms over her chest, hating that she had to negotiate. But if she could save herself, she would. At the price of a child?
Any knowledge she gave lessened her power. She wanted to consider her options before she admitted to anything. Keep him waiting, wondering.
He longed for a grandson. If she bore a son, he would be pampered and indulged, cosseted, even. Juliana had not been deprived of belongings, of education or of attention. Only of affection and the freedom to make her own decisions. If it had not been for the servants assigned to her welfare, she would not have known love at all.
She needed her father to fight for her. He had power and influence, and she did not. She mustered all the arguments she could, all the ones she hated, but this was her life at stake.
“If you can help me escape the gallows, even if I am not pregnant now, I can marry again.” She had never spoken to him so straightly before, or met his cold gaze with such boldness. “Oh, I cannot marry the wealthy man you wanted, or gain you the political influence Godfrey could, but I can have children. Society will not allow me back; I know that. But I could bear your heir.”
She could play this game. She didn’t even have to have a child at all, just tease him with the possibility. And she would have some measure of choice in a second husband, although she was not foolish enough to demand that now. If her father helped her escape the gallows for a crime she did not commit, then she would give him what he wanted. Bile filled her throat as she considered the deal with the devil she was about to make. But she had no choice.
He nodded. “I can do something, though I cannot promise anything. I could help you to move abroad. You would have to stay there, but your child must come home to me and his inheritance.”
Moving abroad meant escaping justice. Escaping the gallows. She’d be forever labeled as a murderess, but she’d be alive.
Would she barter a child for her life, even knowing what he had in store? Would she accept the label of murderess, if it meant she lived?
She opened her mouth to speak.
A knock sounded on the door, but nobody entered until her father said, “Come!” Although this room was hers, he would not consider that nicety.
A footman entered and bowed. “There’s a gentleman from Bow Street to see you, your lordship.”
“A gentleman?” her father echoed. “Not a court official or a gaoler?”
“No, your lordship, a gentleman. Says his name is Sir Edmund Ashendon.”
“Never heard of him. If he will not stink up the blue parlor, put him there.”
He turned, glared at her, and then strode out of the room.
* * *
Ash wandered around the large, empty salon, much like the one he’d left half an hour before, except that in this house the upholstery and drapes were sky blue. He’d had to force his way through the restive crowd in the street, at least twice as many people than he’d left behind at the marquess’s house. And they were not in a happy mood. Leaving with his prisoner would be difficult, to say the least.
The door opened to admit a tall, thin man with the air of an exalted being. He wore black, but his waistcoat was a festive sky blue. Undoubtedly the Earl of Hawksworth.
Ash bowed and introduced himself. “I am here to see your daughter, my lord.”
The Earl of Hawksworth shot him an indifferent glance. “I hardly think my daughter is receiving visitors.”
He would have been surprised if the earl said anything else. “I am afraid that if I don’t see her, then someone else will. She is to be arrested, as I’m sure you’re aware.”
“I am not.” He folded his arms.
That unpromising refusal sounded final. But it could not be. “If you do not allow me to see her, then other men will come. Men who will take her straight to Newgate Gaol.”
Outside, the shouts grew louder.
He pursued his point and gestured to the window. “Do you hear that? In a matter of minutes, they could break into the house and take what they want.”
“Is that a threat, sir?” No disturbance touched the earl’s austere features. The lines graven into his pale face had not appeared there overnight. The earl was older than Ash had originally thought. Perhaps fifty, or a few years more.
“No, my lord, it is an accurate prediction of events. It is not an event I have the power to cause or to prevent.”
Lord Hawksworth kept his gaze, his eyes icy. “Tell me what to expect. What will happen to my daughter if I give her to you? If she is here at all?”
Clever. But Ash was sure her ladyship was somewhere in this house. She’d been brought here and the mob outside would not have made her escape easy.
“As the matter stands, Lady Uppingham will be arrested on a charge of murder. After that, she will be questioned, probably by Mr. Fielding himself, or his brother. Then she will appear in court, and after that...” He spread his hands and shrugged. The earl must know the last part. A silken rope at Tyburn and a crowd baying for blood.
“What if she is expecting her husband’s child, what then?”
The question knocked him back. Why had he not considered the possibility of pregnancy?
The man was putting up a good defense, but he’d seen better. “Do you know for certain that the marriage was consummated? Or did they anticipate the wedding, and she is expecting already?”
The earl’s eyes flashed, and the grooves at the corners of his mouth deepened. “I am asking you a hypothetical question.”
He glanced away, and that was enough for Ash to understand that he wasn’t sure. Avoiding his eyes when the earl had earlier made a point of meeting them spoke of concealment. “If she is, then she may plead her belly to defer punishment until the child is born. However, the trial could take place immediately, if Fielding demands it. She could still be found guilty of murder in a few days, and the sentence deferred.”
“What is your role in this affair?”
“I am an independent consultant.” He decided to admit his professional role. “And a lawyer. Fielding informs me of difficult cases. Criminal lawyers are not common currency, and I am a specialist in the field. But I act on my own. Fielding has given me a warrant for the lady’s arrest.”
The earl’s features softened very slightly, losing the hard edge.
“I believe the marriage was consummated, so my daughter may have a child in her belly. You may inform Bow Street of that.”
So dispassionate. “Your wife must be distraught.”
“She is none of your business. She has retired to the country.”
Or been packed off there. He had never met the countess, so he could not say why she had gone.
No compassion, no consideration for his daughter tainted the earl’s elegant demeanor. This man only had one concern, and that was not the welfare of his only child.
For the first time since he’d read the details of the case, he felt deep sorrow for Lady Uppingham, which was, to say the least, unusual. He had never sided with a murderess before. But what chance did she have of learning ordinary human compassion with this man for a father?
Ash was glad to get away from the chilly atmosphere. He followed a footman up a flight of stairs to where another pair of footmen stood outside a door. One of the men opened the door and ushered him through, but did not accompany him. The servant did not knock, a telling omission.
The occupant of the room whirled around, her hands gripping the table behind her, then stood perfectly still, staring at him, no expression on her face.
Stunned by the way she affected him, Ash paused. This woman—
The need to protect her, as if she were a member of his family, slammed into him with the power of a hammer blow.
He groped for a definition, an explanation, but failed to find it. All he could say was that her fate mattered to him. She had gone from an interesting case to a real person.
Her blue eyes were cold and numb. Her lips were reddened, no doubt with biting. She wore a simple gown and petticoat, blue and white, which enhanced the beauty of the dark red-brown hair set in a simple coil on her head. Her unusual height added to her elegance.
Despite her lack of expression, life flowed from her, energy emanating like a living thing. Ash had seen that reaction before in people faced with a severe change in circumstances. Nothing said change like a knife to the chest.
She was in shock.
This woman, this murderess, could be dead next month. Could be dead in a week if Fielding brought the case quickly. Unless Ash heard something different in the next hour.
He bowed. “My lady,” he said. “Your father has given me permission to ask you a few questions.”
* * *
When the door opened, there had been no knock to warn her.
To say she was not accustomed to receiving men alone in her bedroom would be an understatement, but her world had changed and she could no longer expect anything to run on its usual course.
She had never met anyone outside the family without her customary mask of face paint, either. Even now, she was aware of its absence, and the sense of nakedness that gave her. But her response was more than that.
This man saw her. Right through to her bones. His cool gray regard swept over her, not pausing, up and down, down and up until he met her gaze again. He made her feel bare, stripped before his perceptive gaze. But she didn’t feel as she had when Godfrey had stared at her with lust in his eyes—the shame, the fear. This man had none of that in his gaze. He was studying her as if she were interesting, rather than an object of lust or a vessel of gold. She wasn’t used to that.
She stared right back. He was tall and thin but not skinny, and although he bore some signs of age, like the grooves between his brows, she assessed him to be about thirty, perhaps a little older. His face was long and ascetic, his nose a long blade that bisected his features precisely, and his eyes bored into her like arrows seeking their target.
She straightened her spine; she would not look away. Being under threat of death had liberated a part of her she had never known before.
She would repeat the truth until she stood under the gallows. Then she would say it again.
“I am Sir Edmund Ashendon.” His voice was clear, but not overloud. She liked it. “Mr. Fielding of Bow Street asked me to come, since he was informed that your father would not allow a common person into the house.”
That sounded like her father, all right. Ever aware of his consequence, even in such dire circumstances.
“I will listen to your story and decide how to proceed,” he continued. “While I have a document from Bow Street demanding your arrest, the how and when are up to me.”
“I did not kill my husband.”
He raised a dark, winged brow. His coat was exceedingly simple but made of good stuff, and silver buttons marched down its length, as well as down his waistcoat. He was several inches taller than her. She suspected Godfrey had not liked that she had at least three inches on him. “I am here to assess that, my lady.”
His voice went through her like a clean knife.
And with that slice, her emotions flooded back. With everything she had, every speck of willpower, she held back the tide, stood against it as if it was a physical thing. If she did not keep control of herself, she would lose this battle for her life. A woman in floods of tears, unable to speak, could not plead her case. “I am telling you I did not do it.”
He still watched her.
She would not let him win. She met his gaze boldly. “I have no proof, only the truth.”
Belatedly remembering her manners, she gestured to a chair set by the cold fireplace. The scent of the lilacs set in the empty space floated to her nose, reminding her that this could be her last spring. But not if she could help it.
