Cheryl Holt (29 page)

“This is a situation of some delicacy, Mr. McGee,” she started, “and I’ve been apprised that you are precisely the man to assist me.” She smiled, a feral smile meant to let him know that she was in charge, that she would be paying him and he shouldn’t forget it. “Confidentially, of course.”

“Of course.”

“I have need for a woman to be prosecuted.”

“For what crime?”

“Assault.”

“Against whom?”

“Myself.”

She blushed. Her chagrin and fury over the hideous incident at Mrs. Smythe’s farm hadn’t waned. If anything, it had grown more potent. She was the laughingstock of Bath, and she couldn’t peek outside without being teased and having her name dragged through the mud. Derisive stories were being bandied, and she was the butt of crude, offensive jokes. People couldn’t get their fill of recounting the battery, or how she’d been evicted, then denied future bathing privileges.

Declining to be cowed by the despicable tyrant, she’d returned to the spa several times, but the gate was locked, and there were guards patrolling the grounds, keeping Stephen in and others out. Herself, included. She wasn’t certain, but she thought the sentries were Bristol footmen, which was an additional insult.

How could Stephen side with Mrs. Smythe? When Camilla had been snuggled in his bed, and the lunatic proprietress had barged in on them, he hadn’t shielded her from danger, hadn’t risen to her defense, hadn’t so much as scolded Mrs. Smythe.

His dozens of slights had her fuming. How dare he! It was bad enough that he’d refused to allow her inside Bristol Manor, but to learn that he’d spurn her at Mrs. Smythe’s emporium! That he would employ watchmen to prohibit her entrance!

Long ago, she should have quit the provincial hamlet and traveled on to London, but she wasn’t about to give the impression that she’d scurried off in an embarrassed huff. Nor did she imagine her affairs would be much better in the city.
Many of her so-called friends had raced home, had embellished the details of the altercation to where it would be impossible to show her face in public.

For all the misery Smythe had caused, Camilla had vowed revenge, and she’d found the perfect method. Before Camilla was through, Smythe would lose everything, would be branded a felon and jailed, might even be transported to the penal colonies.

She garnered an enormous amount of satisfaction envisioning the tortures that were approaching for Mrs. Smythe. The only decision that remained was whether she should ultimately drop a hint as to who had orchestrated the downfall, or if she should forever let Smythe wonder as to who had devised her ruination. There was such pleasure in either scenario.

“Have you ascertained the identity of the individual who committed this attack?” Mr. McGee was inquiring.

“She’s your neighbor. A Mrs. Anne Smythe. She runs a spa in the grotto behind her residence.”

Her mention of Mrs. Smythe caught Mr. McGee’s attention, charging the air with a new energy. He straightened, was more alert and interested in what she had to say.

“I’m acquainted with Mrs. Smythe, and it’s difficult for me to accept that she would assault anyone, especially an exalted lady such as yourself.”

He imbued the word
lady
with sufficient sarcasm to insinuate that he didn’t think she was one, and his skepticism made her gnash her teeth. She’d married far above her station, and she never ceased to be ridiculed because of it, and she wasn’t about to tolerate any scorn from such a lackey.

“The woman is quite mad, I swear it.”

“What is it that she did?”

“I had gone to take the waters. It was my first appointment, and by accident, I went into her house, in search of the changing room. When she stumbled upon me, she became
crazed, screaming and yelling, slapping me and pulling my hair.” He looked so incredulous that she was compelled to declare, “I was lucky to escape with my life!”

“Were there any witnesses?”

“Dozens, but there’s the rub, you see. I can’t be linked to a scandal.”

“No, we wouldn’t want that.”

His acerbity was grating, and she wouldn’t put up with any insolence. As Mrs. Smythe was about to discover, commoners crossed Camilla at their peril. “I was informed that justice could be served without my being involved, but if you aren’t clever enough to manage it . . .”

She began to stand, when he halted her, as she’d suspected he would. By all accounts, he had a criminal heart.

“A prosecution could be . . . arranged. For a price.”

“How much?”

The figure he enumerated was so small that she nearly laughed aloud. He was a fool; she’d been prepared to pay much more. He needed a lesson in larceny! But then, everything was cheaper in the country—even the purchase of unlawful assistance.

“Pardon me for raising an indiscreet topic,” he interjected, “but I’ve heard that Mrs. Smythe permits nude bathing. Did you observe any episodes of indecency?”

“Why are you asking?”

“I’m considering the manner by which Mrs. Smythe might be brought low. If I only had some
evidence
”—he paused to ensure she received his message—“that communal obscenity was occurring, I could examine the facility myself, without naming the source whereby I gleaned my proof. I’d proceed on a case of lewdness, without having to evoke the issue of assault, at all.”

“As a matter of fact”—she was ready to play his game by whatever rules he concocted—“I beheld innumerable interludes of nudity.” She leaned closer, pretending to be aghast.
“I’m shocked to confess that it goes far beyond therapeutic healing.”

“In what fashion?”

“Her customers engage in perversion.” Hah! The reprobate’s brows rose to his hairline! Let him reflect on that piece of news! By the time she left, he’d be hard as a poker. “On the
sole
occasion I visited, women were touching each other’s bodily parts and kissing on the mouth.”

“Was it out in the open? Where any passerby could view them?”

“Yes. It was so foul that I wouldn’t swim in the water for fear of what might happen to me. I’d been advised that it was a respectable establishment. Little did I know that it was scant more than a brothel for aberrant females!”

“Very intriguing. I’ll have to investigate.”

“Thank you.” She proffered the cash he’d demanded, which would guarantee Smythe’s demise, then she stood to go. “There’s one more aspect to concern you.”

“What is it?”

“Captain Stephen Chamberlin is currently her guest. You’re familiar with him, I trust?”

Her alluding to Stephen had a strange effect. His eyes were flinty, his muscles tense.

“Yes.”

“Rumor has it that he’s developed a
fondness
for Mrs. Smythe.”

“Really?”

“In light of his fascination, you should delay until he’s in London, and far away from here. No need to court trouble.” Plus, the longer the lag in McGee taking action, the further separated she would be from the event. There would be naught to connect her to Smythe’s pending misfortune.

“You presume that I’m scared of Captain Chamberlin?”

“If you’re not, you should be.” Stupid oaf! “His family is very powerful. Should he learn of Smythe’s plight, he would
intervene on her behalf, and you wouldn’t be able to fight him. She’d wiggle free unscathed, and I’d be tempted to believe I hadn’t gotten my money’s worth. We wouldn’t want that, would we?”

Staring him down, she let him see how determined she was, how eager to have the situation resolved to her satisfaction. As her wrath could be formidable, he shouldn’t blunder or thwart her. Amazingly, he matched her stare with such unveiled disgust and dislike that she could barely keep from squirming.

She had no doubt that he was dangerous, a cruel and callous villain, which made her glad in her choice of accomplice. He would be as diabolical as she would be herself, and he would serve her well.

“How shall I contact you when it’s finished?” he queried.

“We shouldn’t have to communicate. I’ve told you what I want, and you’ve been remunerated.” She strolled to the door, desirous of making a memorable exit. “Just so we understand one another, I hate to be disappointed, so don’t bungle it.”

“I won’t.”

“Let’s hope not. For your sake.”

Smiling, she departed, pleased with her day’s work.

“Good night, dearest Kate,” Pru said, holding Kate’s hand as they studied the house in the clearing, the moonlight casting eerie, sinister shadows.

“Good night, Pru. Be careful.”

“I always am,” but in spite of herself, she shuddered. It was just a building, wood and stone, an inanimate object constructed by her grandfather a half-century earlier. There was nothing evil or threatening about it, yet for some reason, it emanated with malignancy.

Shaking off the morbid impression, she decided it was the lateness of the hour, and their trek through the forest, that
had her spooked. She was afraid of the dark, and even though she was with Kate, she was unsettled.

“Are you sure you won’t change your mind?” Kate asked.

“I don’t dare.”

Kate had begged her to leave home, to move to Mrs. Smythe’s farm, claiming that she could persuade Anne to let her stay, to give her a job. The prospect of earning a salary tantalized her, but she wasn’t brave enough to acquiesce.

While she could muster the courage to sneak to the pool, to romp and pretend that what they were doing was normal, she couldn’t jump from fantasy to reality. If she accepted Kate’s proposal, she would have to admit that she was deviant, a grotesque anomaly.

She’d never speculated as to why men didn’t appeal to her, why she’d never pestered Willie to find her a husband, but since meeting Kate, her untoward emotions made sense. She was attracted to women. They bewitched her, when men didn’t at all.

Kate insisted there were many females like them who, lest they be caught and punished, concealed their shameful secret, and Pru suspected she was correct. She and Kate couldn’t be the sole exceptions in the entire world, but that didn’t mean Pru could take such a giant step. It was difficult to imagine herself in such a dubious existence.

Then, of course, there was Willie to consider. He would never allow her to live without his protection. To have his sister nearby and toiling for her room and board was a slight he would never sanction. He was a proud man, and if she forged ahead against his wishes, he would forcibly drag her away, and she wasn’t about to bring his vengeance down on Anne and Kate.

“Promise me you’ll think about it,” Kate implored.

“I will, but I don’t want to raise your expectations.”

“I worry about you.”

“Don’t. I’m perfectly safe, and I’m cautious.”

“I know you are, but I worry anyway.”

Pru hugged her, cherishing her concern like a precious gift. No one had ever fretted over her before, and it was so marvelous that Kate was nearby, that she was in Kate’s thoughts. It comforted her when she was lonely or sad.

“When will your brother return?” Kate inquired.

“Not for another three days, at least. I’ll come tomorrow night.”

“I’ll be waiting.”

Kate helped her climb the fence, and she waved, then hurried across the yard. The residence was quiet, the servants asleep. She crept in the rear door and up the stairs to her room, and as she tiptoed toward the wardrobe, she leapt with startled surprise.

“Willie McGee!” She clutched her fist over her racing heart. “You scared the life out of me.”

Her brother was home! When he wasn’t supposed to be! He was lounged in the chair next to her bed! How long had he tarried, angry and impatient for her arrival?

Frantic with dread, she struggled to remember how she looked—were her buttons fastened, her laces tied, her shoes on?—and to devise a plausible explanation as to where she’d been. She wasn’t prone to insomnia, wasn’t the type to wander outside. Her hair was tidy, plaited into a braid, but it was damp.

She compelled herself to act as casual as possible, going to the dresser and lighting the lamp, keeping busy, filling the frightening silence with chatter.

“What are you doing in here, sitting in the dark by yourself? And why are you home so soon? You were in London with your prisoners. If you’d apprised me that you were—”

He uncoiled from the chair, and there was such an air of menace surrounding him that she bit off her sentence. He wasn’t tall, but he was bulky, and he towered over her.

“Where have you been?”

“I took a walk.”

“Liar!” The word sizzled out of him, and he reached behind her and clasped her braid, yanking it. “Tell me! I would hear it from your own mouth.”

“Nowhere, Willie. I’ve been nowhere.”

“Your hair is wet. Why?”

“It’s drizzling.”

“Liar!” he repeated.

“Honestly! Cease your posturing! You’re hurting me!”

He gripped the front of her neck, squeezing tight, tighter, making her squrim, making her panic. “I saw you.”

“What are you babbling about?” He was choking her, and she pried at his fingers.

“I saw you with your freakish lover, with your repulsive Sappho.”

He’d seen her with Kate? Oh, God! Her alarm escalated. “Willie, please—”

“Is that how you like it? From a woman? Or is she actually a man? I’ve often wondered. Does she have a cock in her trousers?”

“No, Willie, you’re wrong. You’re spewing nonsense.”

“All this time, I assumed you were frigid. That you just weren’t interested.” His hand slithered to her breast, and he pinched the nipple until she cried out in pain. “What a pathetic strumpet you are. You finally spread your legs, and it’s for a degenerate female!”

He slapped her, and she stumbled to the floor, smacking onto her knees. Terrified, she crouched down, rubbing her aching wrist. When she peeked up, he was clutching the leather strop with which he sharpened his razor. On many occasions, she’d experienced how proficient he was at inflicting appalling, scarring punishment in wielding it as a weapon.

She hated to show any fear, but she winced.

He hovered over her, stroking and petting the strop, then her breasts, in a manner that made her want to gag. She tried
to scoot away, to escape, but she was trapped between the bed and the wall.