Dicing with the Dangerous Lord

chapter Eighteen

Within the cell afternoon faded to evening and evening to night.

‘Do you wish me to leave?’ Her hair still hung loose and long over her shoulders. She was almost as cool and self-possessed as the divine Miss Fox had been.

He knew he should send her home. She was his wife and no one could now doubt that the marriage had been well and truly consummated, not with the colour that touched her cheeks and the tousle of her hair and the beautiful wanton air of a woman well loved that clung all around her.

He shook his head. He did not want to say the words, did not want to admit the weakness, and yet he did not want to be without her, not tonight of all nights. He swallowed. ‘Stay,’ he said quietly, ‘if you will.’

She nodded and he felt the wash of relief spread through him.

His soul was filled with regrets and hurt and confusion. Shadows of the past and disillusions and betrayal. What did a man say to a woman under such circumstances, when she was his wife, when she was the woman that he loved?

‘Venetia...’ What words could he speak when heavy upon him was the knowledge that the morning would weigh his life in the balance and who knew better than Linwood that the best-laid plans could go so awry, just when you thought them done and dusted? The darkness hovered so close. He raked a hand through his hair.

She came into his arms as if she understood. Without a single word she pressed her mouth to his. And everything of his torment faded away. They loved with passion, with need and with tenderness. Loved through the darkness of that night. So that for those few hours they could forget the shadows of the past and the threat of future, and lose themselves in each other.

* * *

They had loved, and loved again, before the dawn came and it was time for her to leave, and travel home.

They did not speak, only moved in silence to dress and ready themselves for the day and all that it would bring.

He fastened her buttons.

She tied his cravat.

The whole of the prison slept. All was silent. All was still.

‘Francis, I...’ Her hand lingered, light as a breath, against the lapel of his jacket, her gaze was fixed as if she could see through the layers, the superfine and linen, the flesh and bone, to his heart. So many unspoken words whispered in the silence between them. Her eyes rose slowly to meet his, so beautiful and beguiling, and even now, even poised on the brink of losing everything, he thought he would not have done anything differently between him and Venetia.

She leaned so close that he thought she meant to kiss him; instead, she laid her cheek against his and let it rest there. It was such a small gesture, but it touched him in a way he had not expected. He could feel the warmth of her breath and the slight tremble in it. ‘I love you, Francis,’ she whispered, and then she stepped so quickly away that he could not catch her and banged upon the grille, pulling the dark hood of her cloak up to cover her hair as the door opened.

‘Venetia...!’

As she walked away through the doorway she glanced back over her shoulder and he saw the shimmer of tears in her eyes. But it was too late.

The door closed between them.

* * *

Venetia sat in court later that day, her face a mask of sublime control and confidence, while beneath the soft black leather of her kid gloves her knuckles shone white with the strain. With every fibre in her body, every ounce of her willpower, she prayed that it would all go to plan, that there would be nothing to allow the conviction of an innocent man.

‘M’lord, with regard to the witness for the prosecution.’ The barrister, in his black-and-white robes and the neat wig upon his head, addressed the judge presiding over Linwood’s fate upon his high bench. A hush fell over the public gallery within the courtroom. Each and every gaze turned to the woman who they thought ready to take the stand and send her lover to the scaffold. They stared with macabre and fascinated expectation. Within the small family group of the Earl of Misbourne, sitting there on those public benches, the pale blond hair of Linwood’s sister caught her eye. The two women exchanged a glance before Venetia turned her gaze to remain on Linwood alone.

‘Miss Fox refuses to take the stand and she cannot be compelled...given that she is no longer Miss Fox, but Lady Linwood.’

There was an audible gasp across the courtroom followed by the buzz of exclaiming voices.

‘The defendant and the witness for the prosecution are man and wife,’ the barrister added, in case anyone was in doubt.

‘Bleedin’ hell, he’s only gone and married her!’ someone shouted from the gallery.

‘Order!’ bellowed the judge, his elderly face stained ruddy. ‘I will have order in this courtroom.’ His gaze shifted to Venetia and lingered there for a moment with beady accusation before returning to the prosecution.

The gallery quieted to hear what he would say.

‘So now you are without Miss Fox, have you any evidence at all that Lord Linwood started the fire at the Duke of Rotherham’s London town house, or that he is in any way linked with His Grace’s murder?’

Her stomach squeezed in a tight knot of nerves. Her mouth was so dry that the sides of her throat stuck together and made it difficult to swallow. Beneath her gloves those demurely crossed hands gripped so tight that Linwood’s heavy signet ring upon her finger bruised the skin.

‘No, m’lord,’ the barrister for the prosecution finally said.

Thank God. Her eyes shifted to Robert, looking at him for the first time since she had entered the courtroom. His expression was sullen and angry. He sneered and gave a small shake of his head as if he could not believe the audacity of her and what she had done. All the sympathy was with the murdered duke’s son. All the antipathy with Linwood. She wondered what would happen if they knew that she was the murdered duke’s daughter.

She turned her attention to the judge as, at last, the moment for which they had waited arrived.

‘In light of the evidence presented before me, or lack thereof...’ the judge’s gaze flickered to Venetia’s and lingered for a moment ‘...with regard to the accusations brought against him, I have no choice but to direct the jury to find the defendant...’

And despite everything Venetia held her breath along with the rest of the courtroom.

The seconds seemed to stretch. Linwood’s gaze was focused on some distant point. His face wore its usual closed expression—handsome, cold, impassive, as if his life did not hang in the balance. And still the judge paused, stretching the agony until she did not know how much longer she could bear it.

‘Not guilty.’

Her eyes closed as the breath she had been holding escaped with a sigh. The relief surging through her was so strong that she thought she might faint.

The courtroom exploded in a flurry of voices and activity. Venetia’s gaze met Linwood’s across the room and in that tiny moment before the bodies moved to obscure him something more than relief and success passed between them.

The formalities of the procedure were concluded in a blur, and then Razeby was by her side, guiding her away from the clamour of newspapermen.

* * *

The clock ticked loud and slow from its place on the mantelpiece in Linwood’s drawing room. Misbourne and his wife, and Marianne and Rafe Knight, all of them knowing that she was Rotherham’s daughter and yet saying not a word about it, had finally departed, their carriages cutting a defiant and triumphant swath through the crowd of pressman filling the road outside. Linwood dismissed his manservant, the same manservant she had faced so brazenly and boldly on the night she had come here to ruin the man who was now her husband. And only now, for the first time since the trial, were they alone.

Linwood stood by the edge of the window, watching the reporters in the street below as the light faded to dusk.

She sat in one of the armchairs by the fire.

The silence stretched between them and Venetia did not rush to fill it. Now that it was all over, exhaustion and uncertainty had replaced the strain and fear and dread. She rubbed her fingers against the knots of tightness in her forehead.

Linwood turned away from the window and came to stand before her. He watched her for a moment, with an expression she could not fathom. Then, reaching his hand down to hers, he drew her up so that they were standing with their bodies flush together. The fading light accentuated every harsh handsome plane and angle of his face, and revealed the dark smudges that sat beneath his eyes and a fatigue she had not seen in him before. And she felt her heart squeeze at the knowledge that he was not so unaffected by the day’s proceedings as he pretended.

‘It is finally over,’ she said and let her forehead rest against his shoulder.

His lips brushed her hair. ‘No, Venetia,’ he whispered and tilted her face up to his. ‘It is only just beginning.’ And there was a warmth and tenderness in his eyes that lit a hope in her heart. ‘What you said to me as you left the prison cell...’

Her heart lay exposed before him, ready to be crushed. ‘It was the truth, Francis. With you it has always been the truth, no matter what else you might think.’

‘You love me.’

‘Yes, I love you.’

His thumb caressed her lips as if he sought to capture the words, his eyes studied hers. ‘I love you, too, Venetia.’

Her breath trembled. Her heart blossomed. ‘I know.’

He kissed her and, sweeping her up into his arms, he carried her through to his bedchamber, and with her portmanteau lying there unpacked, he laid her on his bed and made love to her.

* * *

Lord Murder walks free. Linwood secures freedom and the Divine Miss Fox with six-figure sum and lure of title. The headlines were scathing.

‘You could not stop them going to print?’ Razeby nodded towards the newspapers spread across Linwood’s desk when he called the next morning.

‘We do not own all of the newspapers in London.’ Linwood topped up both their coffee cups.

‘Only most,’ smiled Razeby.

‘It means the scandal can be contained to a certain extent.’

‘That is indeed fortunate.’ Razeby’s gaze moved from the headlines. ‘Has Miss Fo—’ Razeby caught himself. ‘Has Lady Linwood seen them?’

Linwood nodded.

‘That is not so fortunate.’

‘Perhaps, but Venetia understands how the press works and forewarned is forearmed.’

Razeby glanced down at his coffee cup. ‘Perhaps the two of you should get away. Go to the country and lie low for a few months until the worst of it blows over. I have a hunting lodge in Scotland that you are welcome to use.’

‘Thank you, Razeby, but you know I cannot do that.’

‘No, I suppose not.’ Razeby’s expression was grim.

‘We mean to face down the scandal.’

Razeby gave a nod and sipped at his coffee. ‘For what it is worth, Linwood, there are a lot of people who think Rotherham got his just deserts.’ Razeby’s eyes met his, communicating the message at which his words only hinted.

Linwood was very careful not to give even the slightest reaction, but he felt the shadows flit across his soul.

The soft rustle of silk sounded. Linwood glanced up to see Venetia standing in the doorway that led to the bedchamber. He wondered how much she had overheard.

‘Lady Linwood,’ Razeby murmured and set down his coffee cup. Both men rose to their feet, but only Razeby bowed. ‘Forgive me if the hour of my call is too early. I did not intend to disturb you.’

‘Your visit is nothing of disturbance, Razeby, you are very welcome here,’ she said smoothly, as dignified and self-assured as any duchess, but with an underlying edge of coolness.

‘You are very gracious, but I will take my leave of you both. Lady Linwood...Linwood.’ Razeby made his bow. He looked again at Linwood. ‘If you change your mind about the hunting lodge...’ He clapped a hand against Linwood’s shoulder.

Venetia came fully into the room and sat down in the chair that Razeby had vacated.

There was a small silence before she said, ‘I heard what he said to you of Rotherham.’

He waited.

‘He thinks you guilty.’

‘He does.’

‘Yet he is your friend.’

Linwood’s gaze flickered away before returning to hers. ‘Venetia, all of London thinks me the man who got away with a duke’s murder. They will always do so.’

‘Not if they were to find the real murderer.’

Tension flickered in his jaw. Darkness flashed in his eyes. His gaze moved to the distance, his expression was pensive.

‘But that is not what you want, is it?’ she said softly.

His eyes moved to hers again, his gaze searching hers as if he could look within and see her very soul. ‘No,’ he finally admitted. ‘It is not.’

The admission hung between them.

‘Why must you ever protect him?’

‘It is not him I protect.’

‘Then who?’

He shook his head. ‘It is not my secret to tell, Venetia. I swore an oath of secrecy and I honour my oaths...all my oaths.’

And in the silence the marriage vows he had sworn seemed to whisper between them, along with the words of another vow. We are sworn to speak the truth or nothing at all.

‘I know. It is what betrayed your innocence to me.’

He smiled and there was both sadness and cynicism in that smile. ‘Despite all of the evidence to the contrary.’

‘Yes.’

He reached across and brushed his lips against her forehead. ‘Thank you, Venetia.’

She smiled.

‘Even with my father’s and my own influence upon the newspapers... You know this is not going to be easy.’

‘Nothing good ever is,’ she whispered.

They shared another smile. And then his lips found hers and he kissed her properly.

* * *

But through the days that passed, no matter how much Linwood tried to hide it, Venetia knew that he was worrying over something. She could see it brooding in his eyes when he thought she was not looking. In the small hours of too many nights she woke and sensed him lying awake beside her in the darkness. Sleep seemed loath to visit him and when it did it brought nothing of rest, only dreams that haunted him all the more. And she knew that all of it centred around Rotherham’s murder. Her husband had not killed Rotherham, but he knew who had. And whatever dark secret lay at the heart of the mystery, it was important enough that Linwood would have given his life to protect it, just as he was prepared to bear the unjust label of the murderer who had evaded justice.

She was worried for him, worried over the terribleness of the secret—and what it would mean for them both. She could not kiss the worry from his eyes, as many times as she tried, and she had no right to object to his keeping the secret, not when she was still keeping one of her own.

A feeling of such tenderness and overwhelming love for him welled up in her. This man who had endured so much because of her and to whom her heart was tied. He loved her, in spite of the fact she was Rotherham’s daughter. And she could not bring herself to tell him the other half of it, for fear that she would lose that love.

One night she awoke to find the bed beside her empty, the sheets cold. She climbed from the bed and, pulling a long black shawl around her shoulders, went to find him.

He was standing by the side of the window in the drawing room, staring out into the night. The room was in darkness, the light of the moon kissing the nakedness of his body silver.

‘Francis,’ she whispered his name, feeling the chill of his skin as she slipped her arm around his waist and kissed his shoulder blade and the top of his arm before moving to stand by his side and share his view.

‘Venetia.’ His hand slid to rest upon her hip and pull her closer. ‘I did not mean to wake you.’

‘You did not.’

They stood together and looked out at the clear night sky. The moon was a sickle blade, silver and slender, and sharp enough to see the tiny shadows that spotted it. And the myriad of stars that scattered across the darkness of the heavens were brighter than any diamonds. Her eyes found the familiar shape amongst them, that meant so much to them both.

‘Pegasus,’ she whispered.

‘Yes.’ He kissed the side of her brow.

And they stood in silver silence and traced its constellation.

‘You are worried.’

‘A little.’

‘Over Rotherham.’

He nodded.

‘They cannot hang you, even if they do think you guilty.’

‘That is what concerns me, Venetia.’

‘Francis?’ Her eyes leapt to his in sudden fear.

‘Do not worry. I have no wish to dance upon a gibbet. But will it stop them seeking another neck to place within that noose?’

‘Everyone believes in the guise of your guilt. How can it be seen as justice if they start looking for another?’

‘I hope you are right, Venetia.’

‘And I wish I was wrong.’

He stroked his fingers against her cheek. ‘If you knew what that would mean, you would not wish it.’ And there was something so sad and dark in his voice that it made her shiver.

His lips pressed where his fingers had touched. ‘You are shivering with the cold. Let us go back to bed, Venetia. Tomorrow we have my parents to face and the first full scrutiny of public glare.’

Through the darkness his hand found hers and interlaced their fingers.

* * *

The clock’s ticking was loud within the Earl of Misbourne’s drawing room and the chink of Lady Misbourne’s fine bone-china cup even louder as she set it down upon the saucer. Linwood’s mother had not looked at Venetia once since she had come into the room.

‘Perhaps your...wife...would care for more tea,’ she addressed Francis, her face almost pained at the word wife.

Venetia looked as unperturbed as ever. She set her cup down in its saucer with careful refinement. ‘More tea would be delightful, Lady Misbourne.’

His mother made no move to pour the tea. She did not even glance at Venetia. Her mouth was as pinched as if she had been sucking on a lemon, her expression stubborn and hostile.

The moment of awkwardness grew.

Venetia reached out and lifted the teapot. ‘Would anyone else care for more tea?’

Misbourne cleared his throat and murmured a decline.

‘Thank you, but no,’ Linwood said and felt as proud of his wife as he was ashamed of his mother’s pettiness.

‘In that case...’ She calmly topped up her own cup alone and set the pot down.

Lady Misbourne’s face was aghast. She glared at Venetia. ‘How dare you play hostess, madam?’

‘Very easily, when you are too rude to do so, Mother,’ said Linwood.

‘Rude?’ Lady Misbourne gasped and stared as if he had just slapped her. ‘I will tell you what is rude—bringing that woman into my home and expecting me to wait upon her!’

‘Lest you forget, that woman is my wife. And if you cannot treat Venetia accordingly then we will leave right now.’

Lady Misbourne’s face began to crumple and she clutched a wisp of lace handkerchief to her eyes.

‘Have a care how you speak to your mother, Francis,’ Misbourne chided. ‘She is of a sensitive disposition and this is not easy for her.’

‘It is not easy for any of us,’ he replied. ‘You should remember that were it not for Venetia I would be swinging upon a scaffold.’

Misbourne scowled and got to his feet. ‘Hell’s teeth, boy! She is the one who placed the noose around your neck in the first place! Were it not for her, you would have got away with it scot-free. She has manoeuvred you to her advantage. The apple has not fallen far from the tree. After all that Rotherham did to this family, we end up with his bastard lightskirt daughter as part of it. How he must be laughing at us from beyond the grave!’

Linwood knocked his cup over as he got to his feet and squared up to his father. ‘You go too far, sir!’ he said in a deathly quiet tone.

Venetia rose and laid her hand against his arm to stay the tense ready-to-strike muscles beneath.

His father backed away. ‘Maybe. But you are my son, my heir. I might have gone along with and organised your marriage to her to save your life, but you cannot expect me to like anything of the situation.’

‘The situation is not how you imagine.’ Linwood’s gaze held that of his father. ‘Not with Venetia and me...nor any of the rest of it.’ It was as close as he could come to telling him.

And maybe Misbourne understood something of what he was saying, for he put his head in his hands and sighed a sigh of resignation and sadness. ‘Why does it have to be her?’

It was Venetia who answered, her expression strong and angry as she did so. She looked beautiful and incensed. ‘You are asking the wrong question, sir.’

Misbourne’s brow creased. He turned to stare at Venetia.

‘You talk of him getting away with it!’ She shook her head. ‘Your son, who was so determined to take the blame and go to the gallows, and yet could not admit the murder. Did you ever even ask him if he was gui—?’

‘Enough, Venetia,’ Linwood stopped her, but her unfinished word, guilty, echoed unspoken in the air.

‘Is it, Francis?’ She turned to him, a fierceness flashing in her eyes. ‘I hope so.’

His father’s gaze leapt to his, and Linwood saw the shock and the sudden pallor beneath the grizzled grey of his beard, and, for the first time, doubt.

‘Francis?’ his father whispered.

‘You never asked me,’ he said. ‘Not once. Such faith in your knowledge of me.’

‘But...?’ His mother stopped fretting with her handkerchief and got to her feet before his father. ‘What is he saying, George?’

But his father was still staring at him with an expression of frozen horror. Misbourne’s face was ashen, his lips pulled tight and colourless. Linwood met his father’s gaze, looked directly into those black eyes that were so like his own, and lowered his guard to let his father see the truth.

‘My God...’ his father whispered as he finally understood.

‘George?’ His mother sounded frightened.

‘I will leave you to explain, sir.’ Linwood bowed. ‘If you will excuse us, my wife and I must ready ourselves for this evening.’ With Venetia’s hand upon his arm they turned and walked away.