Beguiled (28 page)

At last they went to the hospital. Eleanor Brandon lay on the bed, as white as a sheet—except for the crimson stitching at her throat. She had defensive wounds on her arms.

“Much like her husband,” Ian said.

Mark nodded. “What are the chances she will awaken?” he asked the doctor.

The man shook his head. “One in a hundred, but we will do our best.”

By the time they left the hospital, it was late. Patrick, Thomas and Geoff, who had waited outside, leaning against a retaining wall, straightened when they reappeared.

“There's nothing we can do now,” Mark said. “It's late. Tomorrow, however, I think our best use of time will be to ride again.”

“As highwaymen?”

“The women were involved. They were a part of the murders. They didn't wield the knife, but they allowed it to happen. Maybe the killer was promised part of the financial reward. The killer, in turn, had his own purpose. Once again, we know he escaped the scene in his coach, which waits in the back streets, so there are at least two men involved—a driver and lookout, and the killer. The cloak found in Lord Wittburg's coach was real, but it was placed there to cast blame. If the killer hadn't feared Elizabeth Prine had betrayed him…In any case, the night Lord Wittburg accosted Ally, he had been at the club. He saw Arthur Conan Doyle, Sir Andrew Harrington, and the sheriff, Sir Angus Cunningham. He also saw the journalist Thane Grier on the street. We can discount Doyle, because he wasn't involved in any of the business that took place at the houses, or in the ranks of the anti-monarchists.” He offered them a grim smile. “We can also discount him because I know he is incapable of this kind of butchery. Read his work and you will agree. But in all the lists, Harrington and Cunningham have appeared again and again. And the journalist has appeared many times at the right place.”

“Sir Angus is the sheriff,” Ian said almost angrily.

“Yes, but at this point, I don't think his status can sway us from looking into the possibility that he is involved.”

“Sir Angus involved…in something this heinous!” Ian was incredulous.

“I didn't say it must be Sir Angus, only that it could be. How long do you think you can hide the news of the murders, keep them out of the newspapers?”

Ian shook his head. “The longer we hide the truth, the longer it appears we are trying to abet a conspiracy.”

“Then I suggest you inform the newspapers yourself. Soon. Let your men go over the scenes one more time, seeking any evidence. Then let the information out.”

Ian nodded glumly. “I can only imagine the sermons in the churches across the land tomorrow.”

 

A
LLY WAS SURPRISED BUT PLEASED
to realize she was being taken into the city. The carriage arrived at last at Lord Farrow's townhome.

Bertram, looking sheepish, helped her down. “Jeeter will be inside to help you with whatever you may require, Lady Farrow,” he murmured, his eyes not quite meeting hers. “And you needn't be afraid. I will be standing guard.”

“Thank you, Bertram. I am not afraid, but I am grateful for your protection,” she told him.

“Lord Joseph intends to stay at his club this evening, leaving the house for your convenience,” he told her.

Ah, yes, she was a newlywed, after all.

“None but your guardians know your destination this evening.”

“Thank you.” None knew? Anyone could recognize the carriage. Now, however, it was safely off the street, beneath the porte cochere.

Inside, she greeted Jeeter, but she longed to escape everyone. She hurried upstairs to the room that had been hers before and found it had been well prepared. She stood in front of the dresser mirror for a moment. Her hair tumbled about her shoulders, and she was in definite disarray. She had set off so differently that morning.

She started to undo the tiny buttons on the bodice of the gown, then hesitated, frowning. There was a strange mark on the delicate beauty of the sleeve.

A red mark….

She nearly ripped the elegant gown in her haste to be free of it. Yes, there was a smudge of what appeared to be blood on the sleeve. There was another on the back of the gown, where a man would have set his hand while leading her in a waltz.

Her blood seemed to congeal.

Anyone might have cut himself. Shaving, of course, or cooking, gardening…

Committing a murder?

M
ARK HAD NO IDEA WHAT
to expect when he reached home that night. When last he saw her, Ally had been furious, yet what bride would not be? He wondered, staring at the entry, if he hadn't assumed too much. He didn't think that being the son of the very eminent Lord Joseph Farrow had ever caused him to consider himself important. He had spent most of his youth fighting against such an image, doing his duty for the Empire, never shirking the responsibility of taking his place in the front lines. Two guiding aspects had caused him to set out on the life he now led: a true empathy with the aging Queen Victoria, and a real friendship with and appreciation for Arthur Conan Doyle. Fans had avidly fallen in love with his sleuth, Sherlock Holmes, a fact that had startled Doyle, whose interest lay in creating what he considered more important literature. He'd been distraught when the public had decried Holmes' fictional death, while in his real life, his wife sickened. But in private circles, he never tired of speaking about the importance of observation, his years studying with Dr. Joseph Bell, and how his methods could serve the police.

It was true, though, that being Lord Joseph Farrow's son and heir had aided him in his investigations, allowing him through doors that might not be opened to others.

Had he since deluded himself regarding his own importance? Might he have let others handle the situation while he remained at his own wedding party? Was he living with the illusion that he was the only man clever enough to solve these latest crimes? And had he let his ego drive him to put a wedge between himself and his new bride?

He winced. Surely that was not true. It was just that he had become so involved in this case. Perhaps, before he had met Alexandra Grayson, he had imagined she would be sheltered, weak and sweet, and yes, perhaps grateful to marry into such an illustrious family.

His own life had included several affairs, none hurtful to either party, the longest being with a renowned actress who relished the public's suspicions that she was having an affair with Mark Farrow but never sought marriage. He had cared for her; but he hadn't loved her. Knowing he had agreed to honor his father's word, he had imagined he would be a decent-enough husband. In all honesty, he couldn't say that he had expected himself to be a faithful one. He'd agreed to an arranged marriage, but he had never thought he could fall in love with his prospective bride.

His wife.

He had never expected that on his wedding night, his bride might be angry enough to escape him, and it was with fear of just such an eventuality that he entered the house. Even when Jeeter told him that his lady had long since retired, he mounted the stairs with his heart pounding with a fear he had never felt in the worst of battles.

Yet when he opened the door, miraculously, she was there.

A fire burned, providing the only light in the room. It cast enough of a glow to show him the form in the bed, far more enticing than he'd dared hope. The covers were drawn low, and she was clad in white silk that skimmed over her curves like a second skin, causing his flesh to burn, his body to quicken.

He expelled his breath in relief as he quietly entered the room and shut the door. Heart in his throat, he began to divest himself of the wedding finery he still wore, cuff links and studs, coat, waistcoat, shirt.

He closed his eyes for a moment as he stood before the mirror, remembering the vast amounts of blood he had encountered that day, and he suddenly felt it had covered him, flesh and soul, and he could not go to her in such a way. He let himself out of the room, determined to bathe elsewhere.

In his own quarters, he found himself making haste. Shedding the remnants of his wedding attire, he sank into the tub while it was still filling. For a moment he savored the warmth, but only for a moment. He found soap and a washcloth, mocking himself as he scrubbed, for he was suddenly as industrious as Lady MacBeth, desperate to rid himself of the stench of death and the evil that too often bloomed in the hearts of men.

So intent was he on his thoughts, he didn't hear the outer door to his chambers open, nor did he hear the door to his bath open seconds later. He was scrubbing furiously at his hands when he looked up at last.

And there she was, in her flimsy covering of sheer white silk, the sweep of her glorious wheat-gold hair around her shoulders and falling down her back. She was as stunningly lovely as an angel, but her smile hinted of something far more carnal and erotic. He paused, startled, mesmerized. She seemed to glide to take a seat at the side of the massive clawed tub. He didn't politely wait for her to speak, nor did he remain silent in clever resolve to hear her mind; he simply could not find his own tongue.

“So you're back,” she said very softly.

He swallowed, aware that the water would do little to hide the reaction the mere sound of her voice could evoke.

“You knew I would return as soon as possible.”

“Of course,” she whispered, and leaned toward him.

He was amazed the furious woman he had left had become this goddess of seduction on his return. As she neared him, wafting the scent of soap, perfume and her own intoxicating self in his direction, he felt an inner trembling of gratitude as he moved eagerly to accept her kiss….

He was stunned when he felt the tip of a knife blade against his jugular vein.

She leaned back, eyes as sharp as golden daggers, hand steady on the hilt. He gritted his teeth, furious with her—and with himself.

“What is this greeting?” he asked her icily.

“A lesson,” she informed him.

“Really? And what would you have me learn? That I have welcomed a venomous snake into my home?” he demanded.

She arched a brow. “The first lesson, sir, is that you are as vulnerable as any man—or woman. I cannot live my life ever under guard. Guard her. See that she goes nowhere.”

His eyes narrowed. “As you see, we are all under threat at all times.”

“Second, you have not married an idiot.”

“I haven't? Odd that you should raise that subject now.”

“Be careful what you say while I hold the knife.”

Despite her words and the dagger at his throat, he was finding it difficult to concentrate. Steam had dampened the silk. It rested provocatively over her breasts, so close to him, outlining every nuance of her form.

“What is it you want—my love?” he asked smoothly.

“I am not a possession. I am not to be carried here or there without thought or question—without
opinion.
Believe it or not, sir, I was not distressed that you should be called away on our wedding day. I might mention, however, that most brides would be so. I was angry—no, far too gentle a word. I was
furious
that you could not see fit to explain the circumstances to me yourself, that you did not ask for any thought of mine, not even as to the place where I was to be taken while you strutted about being the great Mark Farrow.”

“Go on.”

“This is where you offer an apology,” she informed him.

He smiled. “I will not apologize for considering your safety the most important factor in my decisions.”

“My safety? I have not been taken off guard. I am not the one with a knife against my throat.”

“There is one thing I have learned about such a situation that you, apparently, have not,” he informed her.

“And that is?”

“Always know when an opponent does not mean to use a weapon.”

In a flash of motion, he caught her wrist, his fingers a vise around it. The knife flew across the bathroom floor, thudding against the wall. He tugged, and she lost her balance. With a little cry, she wound up on top of him in the bathtub.

She had been the embodiment of an angel; now he was wrestling with a hellcat. Muttering curses, she struggled against his hold on her. His arm around her midriff held her tightly against him. Water was still streaming into the tub from the faucet, and now it was spilling in waves upon the floor as she struggled. He sat halfway up, pinning her hard against him, long enough to turn off the water. She was as strong as a demon, but at last he managed to still her flailing arms. He could feel her fury; it emanated from her with a searing heat far greater than that of the water. She was rigid, soaked and at his mercy, and she knew it.

“I'm delighted to see you, too, my love,” he whispered against the dampness of her ear. Tendrils of hair teased his face. She was undoubtedly aware of his complete arousal, since she was locked so tightly against his body. She dared not move.

He was startled when she ignored his gibe and said, “I will not be able to bear it if you don't learn that you can speak to me, if you don't trust me, if you don't…offer me the truth.”

“What truth would you have of me?” he demanded.

“For a start, what did Lionel Wittburg mean about me?”

He hesitated, then sighed. He wanted to hold her more tightly and tenderly than ever, but she remained stiff and hostile in his arms.

“It's complicated,” he murmured.

“Apparently we have time,” she responded.

He took a deep breath, easing his hold on her.
No one must know,
his father had said. But Ally had a right to know. And since he couldn't help but be afraid that the current circumstances might somehow involve her past, he felt strongly that she had to be forewarned. “You have heard the Jack the Ripper conspiracy theories?” he asked quietly.

“Of course.” She twisted in his arms, managing to face him closely, a frown puckering her forehead, her eyes not so much hostile as puzzled. “I can't believe that the monarchy was involved.”

He shook his head. “No. But often, grains of truth are at the root of fantastic stories.”

“What can any of this have to do with me? I certainly don't believe in any conspiracy theories involving the government. And such rumors can't matter now, so many years later.”

“The rumors regarding Prince Albert Victor, Duke of Clarence, known as Eddie, had a grain of truth.”

“I don't believe—”

“He was no murderer, Ally. But he did fall in love, apparently, and he married illegally. A woman named Annie. And they bore a child. Eddie was desperately sick, and circumstances might well have made poor Annie mad. Certainly she was ill, and ultimately she died. The Crown was in danger then, and Eddie was not surrounded by the best of advisers—or even friends, I imagine.”

“So…?”

He found he had to take another breath. “You're the child,” he said quietly.

She shook her head. “The…child?”

“The daughter of Prince Eddie and his beloved Annie.”

She shook her head; he had known she would deny his words. “That's…preposterous!”

He didn't reply. She struggled once more against his hold. “That was a rumor…just a story. Nothing more. If that was the lever used to force you to marry an orphan, I'm truly sorry.”

He didn't try to argue.

“Please…let me up,” she begged.

He released her at last, then helped her to find her footing, dripping on the already wet tile, her silken finery totally drenched and revealing. He rose behind her, quickly seeking towels. Shivering, she took the towel he offered and fled.

Wrapping his own towel around his waist, he followed.

She had headed for “her” room, her private space, as close as she could come to having something of hers here in his father's house. She didn't try to shut him out; she simply stood before the fire, shaking.

He went to her, turning her to face him, stripping away the soaking silk, wrapping her in the towel.

“It's not true,” she insisted.

“I don't know if it is or isn't,” he told her. “It's the story my father was told. I only know that I don't care.”

Her eyes sought his, filled with pleading and naked emotion that stirred him. His every thought one of tenderness and love, he wrapped her in his arms, lifting her, holding her, sitting with her in the stuffed armchair before the fire. She continued to shake, lost somewhere in her own mind, and he spoke again. “I only know I love you.”

She didn't reply, but she twisted in his arms and wrapped her own arms around him. Her lips, parted and damp, rose to his. He joined her in the kiss, salty with a hint of tears, and as he desperately tried to reassure her, the kiss became passionate. Locked tightly, fiercely, in that embrace, he strove to be all she needed, to show her the truth of his love. She returned every emotion in kind, and he forgot where they had begun, or even why. This was his wedding night, and he was deeply, desperately, in love with his wife.

He rose and carried her to the bed, the towels falling away unnoticed. He kissed the flesh of her throat and shoulders with infinite tenderness and need, worshiping her curves and the silken expanse of her skin. Her fingers played across his chest, kneaded his back, danced along his spine. Her lips found his throat, the place where his pulse beat, where so recently she had held the knife, and he feared the loss of her touch far more than the steel of any blade. He cupped the fullness of her breast with his palm, feeling his own erection springing anew, feeling the pulse there of his blood and hunger, augmented by the delicate touch of her fingers, erotic and tantalizing, then a firmer stroke…creating insanity. He buried his face against her throat, breathed in the clean scent and dampness of her hair, felt as if he were dying there. Spurred to an erotic fever, he drew her away and tended with ardor to her breasts, midriff, belly. His fingers stroked to her kneecaps, drew a pattern up the length of her spine. He buried himself between the sleek length of her legs, and teased and savored, feeling her drive him to ever greater madness with each arch and nuance of movement, every gasp that escaped her lips.

And then he found himself forced back, while she ran the liquid fire of her tongue over him, down his torso, her hair teasing his flesh when she landed that exotic liquid caress upon the pulse of his sex.