Colors of a Lady (18 page)

Thomas’ stomach lurched. Emma needed to know
this autopsy was fake. But, it provided plenty of information.
Someone bribed the coroner to produce a false report. Once he found
that someone, he had the murderer. Who else would go to such
lengths to erase the truth?

He crossed the street with a few long
strides. He was sick of the wind and the snow. This past winter was
colder than any he had known. The Thames was frozen solid until
just a few weeks ago. It was almost May with no hint of spring in
the air. He rubbed his hands together.

Thomas shot a glare up to the overcast sky.
He wanted sunshine and heat. The summer months were too short in
England while winter dragged on and on. Emma, too, loved the
summer. Their happiest times together revolved around hazy days
spent reading books by the lakes or going on walks beneath the cool
canopy of the green forests.

There he was getting distracted again.
Thomas shivered in his great coat and alighted the stairs of the
Sheridan House. This expensive wool was useless when he still felt
the chill in his bones. He raised the bronze knocker in his hand.
It was frozen. He rapped the knocker against the door twice and
waited.

And waited.

He looked up and down the street. Still no
answer. Lewis usually answered the door within a few moments. He
would welcome the Marquess with a bow and a servant smile. But, he
was not there. Thomas reached for the door handle and pushed. It
opened with ease. He shook off his Hessians and entered the
Sheridan House.

Chapter
Ten

He had not often known fear. But it coursed
through his veins like ice, freezing his innards until he was numb.
Thomas, Lord Hartwell, let himself into the Sheridan town house
when no one answered his knock. He walked through the Great Hall,
his Hessians clicking against the marble floor.

The home was far too quiet for an afternoon
during the Season. There should have been laundry maids, arms full
of linens and stockings, rushing up and down the stairs and maids
on their knees scrubbing the floors until they shone. But, there
was no one. Not a soul. Not a whisper.

Thomas noted the doorway to the sitting room
was ajar. He walked towards it and nudged it open with his
foot.

A beautiful tea service with plates of
finger sandwiches and delicious little biscuits sat half-eaten on a
small table. The mistress of the house, Countess Sheridan, hung
half out of her chair, mouth slack and eyes shut. Her chest heaved
slightly with breath. Across from her, Caroline had fallen back in
a similar position in her chair. Her golden hair tumbled freely
from their pins, her rose pink lips stark against her pale
face.

And then, his heart dropped. His Emma lay
prostrate on the floor. The hand upon which she wore the Kellaway
betrothal ring, a masterpiece of braided gold and an exquisite
diamond, clutched a tea cup stubbornly. Messy tendrils of curls
fell across her unlined forehead. She, too, still breathed. He let
out a sigh. Relief curled around his body. They were alive, yes,
but he presumed they had been drugged. In their tea. In everyone’s
tea? That would account for the lack of servants milling about if
they, too, had been drinking the laced tea.

To what end was this done? Thomas brushed
dark hair off of Emma’s forehead. He stared down at the face he
knew better than his own. The lashes so dark they were nearly black
fanned across her golden cheeks. The ever determined curve of her
chin that could organize unruly cats into sweet submission. He
admired her lips, full in size and beautiful in shape. Lips that he
had not kissed often enough.

He loved her. It was as simple as that. A
part of him had always loved him while a larger endlessly stubborn
part refused to voice it. Pride was a terrible sin. The local vicar
spent most of his sermons ranting on the dangers of pride. Not that
Thomas ever paid him any mind. He grew into a man with more pride
than he needed. The pride that caused him to reject Emma years ago
now told him to keep those same feelings to himself.

Still, his heart sang. Usually it was a
soprano’s aria, lilting notes over high-pitched flutes. At this
moment, mournful violins swelled in his ears reflecting the sorrow
growing inside him.

Why did she not stir? What had they been
given? His hand dug into his hair, raking the curls out of his
eyes. The women of this house took tea at one o’clock. It was
nearly three now. They had been out for too long. Whoever drugged
them wanted the household unconscious for hours.

He laid a hand across her forehead. It was
cool to the touch. Thomas frowned and sat back.

“Smelling salts,” he muttered. Those vile
vials could awake the entire household.

“H-Here…” He jumped at the sudden intrusion.
It was Lady Sheridan. A shaky hand extended to him with a tiny
vial. Her face was ashen, but a ghost of a smile touched her lips.
“It as the tea. I am sure of it. I had only a sip and then my
eyelids felt heavy. I just passed out here. Please excuse my
appearance.” She adjusted her fichu. “Emma gulped down half her
cup. She may be harder to rouse. But Caroline drank about what I
did.”

“I am relieved to see you are well, Lady
Sheridan.” He looked down to his fiancée. Constance closed her
eyes. The floral wallpaper she once so loved was now churning her
stomach. There were far too many climbing vines. They unsettled
her, slithering around like snakes up her walls to the ceiling. She
opened her eyes into slits, enough to keep an eye upon the other
occupants. Caroline was stirring, eyes fluttering open like tiny
hummingbirds. She wiped at her mouth and struggled to sit up.

Thomas looked up from Emma. “Do not move too
much. Just rest. I am going to send for a few of my staff.” He
grasped a throw pillow to place beneath Emma’s head before rising
to his feet. “I will return in a few minutes.”

Constance watched him leave. She licked her
dry lips. She knew why this happened. After years of ignoring the
truth, it was being thrust upon her in a damaging way. This laced
tea affected her entire household. When the search began around the
house, she knew that only one room would be amiss: Emma’s. She knew
just what would be missing. Emma had found a packet of letters that
had disappeared since 1796. Constance herself searched for these
letters when times were darkest. She was no stranger to difficult
days. It seems this day, too, would herald sadness.

Lord Hartwell returned to Emma’s side. He
loomed over her. His handsome face crumpled into concern. Constance
wanted to smile. Some goodness at last. Yes, Hartwell was honour
bound to Emma. She knew once the match was announced that he would
treat her with respect and cordiality. Of course, Constance was
annoyed that a match came so easily to Emma when Caroline had
toiled around Almack’s for four Seasons.

Any of her doubts regarding this impending
marriage were erased by the heavy affection--daresay even love--in
Thomas’ famous grey eyes. The sensuous mouth that set both matrons
and maids into flurries of passion was drawn into a firm line. His
long-fingered hands pushed tangled coils of hair off her forehead.
He at last opened the hinged silver box. Thomas turned his head
away at the sudden smell. He held it beneath Emma’s nose. A nose to
which he had almost composed a sonnet. That was years ago on a
lonely night in Vienna.

The girl started, mouth opening to suck in
gasps of air. She swatted the vinaigrette away from her face.

“Awful…” she muttered. Her eyes opened
suddenly, the tender brown orbs focusing at once upon her kneeling
fiance. Emma cleared her throat. “It is my fault.”

“Do not be silly, Emmy. This is no one’s
fault save some madman!” He slammed the vinaigrette forcefully on
the carpet. His anger was sudden and fierce, flowing from him like
a torrent. He let out a breath.

“I know, but I...well…” Emma could not go
on. She reached for Thomas, finding solitude in his hand.

“You may tell me later. You need some rest,
my love.” He kissed her forehead. Her skin was clammy. Thomas
turned his head at the sound of many pairs of feet. A multitude of
footmen appeared in the doorway, garbed in the Kellaway livery.

“You have arrived. Excellent. Please carry
Lady Sheridan and Lady Wren up to their chambers. The rest of you
please go below stairs and attend to the servants there.”

Murmurs of assent were his sole response.
Their feet clattered across the wood floors of the hall. Thomas
waited for the footmen to take away the other occupants of the
room.

“Thank you so much, Thomas,” Lady Sheridan
called across her shoulder. Caroline managed a grateful look. Once
again, the room fell silent. Thomas felt himself losing hold of his
composure. Society dictated he leave the business of carrying his
betrothed to a footman and see about locating Lord Sheridan. But he
could not. He would not. She was his. He wanted to care for her so
he would not lose himself in this overwhelming fear. He need
reassurance. Yes, she was awake and well. Or as well as could be
expected. But still Thomas remained...uneasy.

Emma turned her glorious eyes on him and
tugged on his shirt sleeve.

“I find myself wanting one thing, Thomas…I
want you to hold me. Though I expected this to happen, it has left
me cold. I find myself shaken very deeply...so c--”

“Emmy, don’t make excuses with me.” Thomas
enveloped her into his suitably warm embrace. “I needed this as
well,” he whispered. He needed her so much. He always had.

Emma gripped onto his waistcoat to pull
herself up closer to him. She found no words to convey what she
wanted to say. But he kept talking. “Emmy...I was so distraught
when I came into this room and say you laid out like a corpse...I
just--”

“What the devil has happened here!?” It was
Lord Sheridan in a frightful rage. His mouth was trembling and his
hands were crumpled around a paper. It was not their close
proximity that unnerved him. But the sight of several members of
his staff being carted around, many still unconscious.

“I can explain it all, Papa, but I must rest
first. We all must rest. You can speak with Thomas while I lay down
for a bit.” It was not a suggestion. She nudged Thomas with her
elbow. It was clear he was to take her to her room. Lord Sheridan
did not dare step into the sitting room. He saw the overturned cups
and the tea-stained carpet. No. His study was safest. That was
where Lord Hartwell found him smoothing out wrinkled papers.

“I have some news,” they both announced.

On unsteady feet, appearing more a newborn
fawn than a well-bred lady, Emma crept into the study. Thomas
noticed her quiet approach and turned at once to greet her. His
smile dropped into a frown, wrinkle marring his forehead.

“Emmy, you look pale. You should go back to
bed.”

“Hardly,” she replied with a rueful look. “I
could not sleep. But I had a question for you, Thomas. What brought
you to our house today?”

“I simply wished to pay a visit to my
betrothed.” His trademark charm oozed over his words. Emma was
tempted to smile.

She shook her head, coils of hair bouncing.
“I think not. You are lying. You do not surprise someone with a
call, even your betrothed.”

Thomas looked towards Lord Sheridan for
help. But the doting father raised his hands in helplessness. He
gestured for Emma to come nearer.

“I believe we all have information to share,
do we not?” Emma slithered down into a wooden armchair with a
nod.

“When this all began, I hoped my hunch would
be proven incorrect by Thomas’ exploits...but I fear that I have
always been right. For once, I wish I was wrong.”

Lord Sheridan inclined his head, looking to
Thomas. A ghost of a smile teased at the earl’s lips. His daughter
was rarely wrong and knew it well.

He coughed into his hand. “What of you,
Hartwell? Are we all of the same mind?”

“I fear we are,” he answered in a quiet
voice. Emma chewed on her inner cheek. The contents of her pockets
weighed heavily upon both her lap and her heart.

“It was Mary” she announced. “Mary, my maid,
has always been in the employ of Aunt Lucille or so I think at
least. It is tricky to piece it all together. But, I do know that I
wrote a letter to Helena purposefully mentioning the letters.
Helena just loves to read letters aloud, so I knew that Aunt
Lucille would hear since I have learned that she, too, was in
Dover. Yet...I did not suspect Mary to be in collusion. I have
caught her a number of times going through my belongings and, at
times, she is gone from the house. It was only a matter of time
before she acted upon her find. I do believe the drugging was
superfluous.”

“So, these letters...they are gone?”

A smug smirk and an eyebrow raise was given
in reply. Emma dug into her pocket and retrieved what looked to be
a packet of letters

“Mary stole a decoy. I surmised these would
be too important to leave lying anywhere given the contents.”

Thomas’ mouth fell open. “Y-You are
brilliant. How clever of you to hide the real ones.”

“Now that you know my information, I will
tell no further until I hear what you all have to say.”

“The autopsy is a fake.”

“The will is a fake.”

A once devoted niece leaned back into her
chair absorbing this information. Forgeries? Her aunt had been busy
indeed. If she was responsible for the acts then Emma would still
see this through. The future looked to be bleak for the unmarried
Lady Wren.

“We must go to Dover and quickly. Once she
discovers the letters are fake…” He grew silent, considering their
next steps.

“You will have to wed,” Lord Sheridan
announced. “It is the only way I will allow Emma to travel to
Dover.”

“When asked, we can simply say we are
waiting for our ship to leave on our wedding trip,” elaborated
Emma.