Fanning the Flame (11 page)

Grim-faced, Blackwood nodded. "Thank you, Reggie."

His attention swung back to Kitt. "I'm afraid you'll have to excuse me, Your Grace. I've a rather pressing matter to attend." Blackwood started walking and Kitt raced along at his side.

"I know you're in a hurry. I just wanted you to know that if your . . . if Miss Whitney needs a place to stay until this is all straightened out, she is welcome at Rathmore Hall."

He flashed her a look of gratitude, but firmly shook his head. "I appreciate the offer, but it won't be necessary."

"Meaning Clay wouldn't approve of a possible murderer in the same house with his wife, and you are not about to gainsay him on the matter."

He almost smiled. "Close enough."

"But you
are
going to get her out?"

He was striding toward the rear of the house, heading to the stable to summon his carriage, Kitt trailing along in his wake. "Jillian's innocent. She doesn't belong in prison."

"You may need support in gaining her release," Kitt told him, hurrying to keep up with his long strides. "Tell them the Duke and Duchess of Rathmore stand firmly behind you in this."

He stopped and turned back to her, caught her shoulders, leaned over, and kissed her cheek. "Thank you, Duchess. Your husband is a very lucky man."

She blushed. She wasn't sure how he managed to accomplish that, since she was a happily married woman. "Good luck with your lady," she called after him.

He opened his mouth to deny it, but simply nodded instead. Once she had been a little afraid of him. In the past few months, she had come to admire his strength and courage and to sense the deep well of loneliness he carried inside. She hoped the woman, Jillian Whitney, would somehow ease the emptiness he so skillfully worked to hide.

And she prayed that Jillian was innocent of the murder.

For three long hours, Jillian paced the inside of the damp, gray stone-walled chamber. It was only a temporary holding cell, the warden had said. By nightfall, she would be assigned a permanent place in the prison.

Jillian swallowed a wave of fear but couldn't suppress a shiver. She tried not to notice how cold it was in the small, confining compartment, how damp and stifling the air, how the straw on the icy stone floor was soggy and smelled of urine. And yet it would get worse. If Blackwood did not come.

On the other side of the door, she could hear the moans of the prisoners deeper inside the prison. Some wept as if they could not stop, others made terrible keening noises, some shouted endless obscenities.

And then there were the guards. Remembering the way they had looked at her made her flesh crawl. Sooner or later they would have her, their cold, unsympathetic eyes said. They would take her no matter how hard she fought them.

If Blackwood did not come.

Dear God, what if he didn't? He had never promised to intercede for her if she were arrested, never vowed to connect his name with hers and see it also dragged through the mud.

Dear Lord, let him come,
she prayed for the hundredth time.

But even if he did, there was no guarantee he could free her. She might have to stay in prison and if she did? If she did, she wasn't sure she could endure it.

Footsteps echoed on the stones in the corridor and she raced to look through the tiny barred square in the heavy oak plank door. The two guards who had brought her to the cell were passing down the dimly lit passageway. They paused when they saw her face through the tiny opening.

"
’Tis the new one," the bigger man said, and she remembered his rotten teeth and foul breath that morning. "Fetchin' lit'le baggage, ain’t she, Clive? Can't wait to put me whorepipe in that tight, sweet little passage."

"I get her first," the other man argued, a thick-lipped, sullen-looking guard with blunt fingers and dirty nails. "You was first with the last one and she were a virgin."

Jillian fought down a wave of nausea.

"She were a tasty little morsel, for sure and certain. I guess it's only fair." He grinned, exposing the blackened stumps of his teeth." 'Sides, you ain't big enough to spoil 'er. She'll still be tighter than a fist when I get inside."

"Get away from that door." The third voice was cold and edged with steel, and Jillian knew in an instant it was the earl. "Now."

Relief made her eyes fill with tears. Blackwood was here. Everything was going to be all right.

Another guard was with him, she saw as the man slid a long brass key into the lock, turned it, and opened the heavy wooden door, this one wearing clean clothes, his hair neatly trimmed, his manner a little more refined.

"Are you all right?" the earl said, brushing past the guard and striding toward her.

She nodded, tried to be stoic, but a lump formed in her throat. Tears welled and began to slide down her cheeks. Blackwood came forward and wrapped her in his arms.

"It's all right. Don't cry." She could smell the starch in his shirt, feel his heart beating more rapidly that it should have been. "They've released you into my custody. I'm taking you out of here."

Jillian clung to him, her knees threatening to give way any minute. He reached out, smoothed back a long strand of hair, tucked it behind an ear. "They didn't hurt you?"

She shook her head. "I was just . . . I was just so frightened."

He watched with eyes full of turbulence and something else she couldn't quite read. "Come on. Let's get out of here." The formidable look on his face gave her the strength she needed. With his hand wrapped firmly around her waist, they started forward. When she walked out of the cell, she saw a small square of light at the end of the passage, and with every step toward it, more of her courage returned.

By the time they emerged from the prison and walked out into the courtyard, she was steady on her feet. They didn't stop until they passed through the heavy iron gates and crossed the cobblestone street out in front, and she spotted the Blackwood crest on the earl's expensive black carriage.

"Thank you for coming." Her legs felt shaky as he helped her inside. She settled herself on the seat but instead of seating himself across from her, Blackwood sat down beside her. He handed her a handkerchief and she used it to wipe her eyes and blow her nose. "I wasn't sure you would."

A black brow arched. "Weren't you?"

She swallowed. Perhaps in her heart she
had
known he would come. She wasn't quite sure why. Perhaps it had to do with duty and honor and being a military man used to fighting for those less able.

"What am I going to do?"

He glanced down at the hands fiercely clasped in her lap. "Nothing for the present. I've hired a barrister. A friend of mine. His name is Garth Dutton. He accompanied me to the magistrates' office and helped arrange for your release into my care. You may thank the Duke and Duchess of Rathmore, as well. I'm not sure we would have succeeded without their support."

"The duchess was there when they came for me. She was . . . very kind."

His mouth faintly curved. "Kassandra is any number of things. I suppose kind is one of them."

"You like her."

"I like both of them. I'm fortunate to call them friends."

"It would seem I am also fortunate, having made a friend in you."

His eyes locked on her face. "Perhaps in time, Jillian, we'll be far more than that."

She refused to think what the words implied. Certainly, he didn't speak of marriage. Not to the impoverished former ward of the Earl of Fenwick, now under suspicion of murder.

He reached over and took her hand. His was long-boned and elegant and she remembered the heat of it, curved round her breast.

"Garth has asked that the trial be postponed and since you've the support of a duke and an earl, they've agreed. Also, I've done as Howard Telford did and posted a reward—this one for any information leading to the man who murdered the earl."

"But I can't afford—"

"Consider it a loan," he said, interrupting her protest. A dark glint appeared in his eyes. "We'll work out repayment when all of this is over. In the meantime, I'll send a footman to Fenwick's to fetch your things. I'm sure you'd prefer your own clothes."

She stiffened at the reminder that the clothes she now wore belonged to his mistress. "Yes, most assuredly."

His gaze slid down to her breasts where they rose above the immodest neckline of her gown. "Of course, there are certain . . . advantages . . . to the ones you've been wearing."

She flushed, felt the heat spread out until she was certain her breasts were flushed as well. The heat in his eyes said it was true, and she quickly glanced away. Blackwood settled back against the seat, studying her with heavy-lidded eyes that made her distinctly uneasy.

Jillian glanced away from his disturbing gaze and stared out the window. A fancy high-seat phaeton whipped past, a young dandy dressed outrageously in a black stock and bottle green tailcoat tugging on the reins. They had returned to the fashionable West End, yet memories of Newgate lingered.

Suppressing a shudder, Jillian leaned back against the seat, grateful for the earl's intervention yet worried about the swelling debt she owed him.

Dear God, she had no money. Even should they succeed in clearing her name, how would she ever repay him? She thought of the hunger in his eyes as his gaze ran over her breasts, and the worry she was feeling continued to build.

Chapter Eight

Adam slept little that night. He kept remembering Newgate, hearing the jailers' filthy threats, seeing the look of utter despair on Jillian's lovely face. For a single instant, he had believed with certainty that she hadn't killed the earl, could not possibly have done it, and in that same instant, it wouldn't have mattered if she had.

Protecting her was all he could think of, getting her out of that disgusting place, taking her somewhere warm and safe. Now that she was out of harm's way, his sanity seemed to have returned. He wanted Jillian in his bed, but in order to have her there he had to know the truth.

He was tired as he descended the stairs later that morning than usual and went to work in his study. A few minutes after, he heard Reggie's knock at the door.

"A note has arrived, milord." He walked over and handed Adam a folded slip of paper. "It's from a Mr. Fraser."

Seated behind his desk, Adam quickly scanned the words and rose from his chair. "Thank you, Reggie."

Grabbing his coat off the rack beside the door, he headed down the hall. He considered taking Jillian with him, but he wanted to hear what Fraser had to say and he wasn't sure the man would be as forthright if Jillian were along.

The Bow Street runner was waiting when he got there. "Good afternoon, my lord." A lanky, red-haired man in his late twenties, Peter Fraser wore a simple brown tailcoat, shiny at the elbows, and a pair of spectacles he seemed to have forgotten he had on. He stripped them quickly away as he led Adam into a small, orderly office where stacks of paperwork sat in tidy bundles on the floor.

Adam took a seat in a straight-backed wooden chair while Fraser sat down behind his battered oak desk.

"I came as soon as I received your message," Adam said without preamble. "What have you learned?"

Fraser scooted his chair a little closer to his desk. "To begin with, in the matter of Lord Eldridge and his unfortunate financial dealings with the earl, the marquess claims to have been at his club, Brooks in St. James's, the night of the murder. I am working to corroborate his story."

"I'll take care of that. I am also a member of Brooks." Eldridge loved to wager, though he never bet all that much. Perhaps someone would remember whether he had been gaming there that night. And there was always the chance his name would be scrawled beside that date in the betting book. "I'll let you know what I find out."

Fraser nodded. "As regards the late earl's former solicitor, Colin Norton, it seems his ailing wife passed away a week before the murder and Norton disappeared shortly thereafter."

Adam leaned forward, alert to the first possible suspect they had encountered. "Perhaps he blamed Fenwick for the death of his wife. Have you sent men in search of him?"

"Yes, my lord. But so far there's been no sign of him."

"Hire more runners if you need to. I want this man found, and soon."

"Yes, my lord." Fraser looked down at the file on his desk. "And now to the reason I sent for you." He flipped open the file. "Early this morning, I spoke to Benjamin Morrison."

"The man who took over Colin Norton's duties as solicitor. I spoke to him briefly myself."

"So Morrison said. Apparently, there was something he didn't mention. Perhaps he felt the information was privileged, I don't know. I reminded him he had a duty to the late earl. I told him you had been working very diligently with the authorities to solve the earl's murder and asked if there was anything he knew that might be of help."

"What did he say?"

"He said that he had information that might be useful, but he would discuss it only with you."

Adam's pulse accelerated. "Anything else I should know?"

"Not at present. Perhaps your conversation with Mr. Morrison will provide new information. Unfortunately, the man is out of town for the next several days."

Disappointment filtered through him but only for a moment. Morrison had information. It was more than they'd had before. He shoved back his chair and came to his feet. "Let's hope Morrison will be of help. We certainly need something new to go on."

Fraser walked him to the door of his office. "I'll keep after this, my lord. I won't rest until we've dealt with every possibility."

"Thank you, Fraser. I'll let you know if Morrison gives us anything we can use."

Adam left the office and climbed aboard his phaeton, turning his fine-blooded, dappled gray gelding back toward his town house. He had stacks of paperwork sitting on his desk and more waiting at his solicitor's. Being an earl, he had discovered, came at no little cost.

He was thinking of Jillian and what Morrison might have to say when he walked into the house and Reggie informed him he had a visitor. Howard Telford, newly titled Earl of Fenwick, waited for him in the Gold Room.

"Where is Miss Whitney?" Adam asked.

"She has gone for a walk in the park, milord. She said to tell you she took some bread with her. Said you would know what it meant."

His mouth faintly curved. He was only a little concerned she would run. With no place to go and no money, she was growing more dependent upon him every day.

Which was exactly what he wanted.

"Telford's in the Gold Drawing Room?"

"Right ye are, Major."

Curious and a little surprised, Adam paused in the doorway to survey the blond man pacing in front of the mullioned window. Howard Telford was average in height, early thirties, with a body that was slowly going to fat. He wasn't bad-looking, yet there had always been a certain depth of character that Howard seemed to be lacking.

"Sorry if I kept you waiting," Adam said blandly. "I must have forgotten our appointment." He walked past Telford over to the sideboard. "Care for a brandy?"

"No. And I didn't have an appointment. I've been in the country. I only just got back to town."

Adam lifted the stopper from a cut glass decanter, filled a snifter with brandy, then slid the stopper back into place with a sharp, crystalline ring.

"So why the haste?" He swirled the brandy in his glass. "Your visit obviously isn't social. What can I do for you?"

The thick folds beneath Howard's chin slightly lifted. "It's been brought to my attention that you've become involved with a woman named Jillian Whitney. As she is guilty of murdering my uncle, I should like to know why it is that you are standing between her and the gallows."

Adam sipped his brandy. "Are you well acquainted with Miss Whitney?"

"Well enough."

"And you're completely certain Miss Whitney is the one who shot him?"

Telford's blunt hands fisted. "How can you doubt it? There were witnesses, forgodsake. My uncle's butler, Nigel Atwater, heard them conversing just minutes before the shot rang out. She was standing over the man's body when the butler walked in and she ran when he accused her of the murder. What more proof do you need?"

"Perhaps she was frightened, afraid no one would believe she was innocent."

"Innocent? I don't know what that woman has told you, but she came into my uncle's home on the pretext of needing his help and seduced the poor man. She openly lived there as his mistress! A woman with that sort of low moral character is certainly capable of murder."

Adam took another drink. He had wanted to speak to Howard Telford. He had expected the man's animosity where Jillian was concerned—after all, many of the earl's own servants were convinced she was guilty. But Adam had always believed the late, aging earl had taken advantage of Jillian's innocence and vulnerability. He didn't like hearing she had seduced the old man.

"Your uncle was obviously Miss Whitney's protector," he said with careful control. "What motive would she have to kill him?"

"I don't know. Perhaps he'd grown tired of her. Perhaps he was weary of the gossip she wrought on his family and his own good name and told her he wanted her to leave. Whatever the reason, the fact remains that my uncle is dead and Jillian Whitney is the woman who shot him. I want you to withdraw your support and let justice take its course."

"And if by chance you're wrong and Miss Whitney is innocent?"

"The woman is a murderer. I realize she is beautiful and she can be quite charming, but as they say, beauty only runs skin deep. And a clever actress can fool even a jaded man like you. Don't delude yourself, my lord. Don't fall prey to Jillian Whitney's charms or you may end up exactly like my poor dead uncle."

Adam made no reply. He didn't know how much of what Howard Telford said was true, but his fingers unconsciously tightened around the bowl of his snifter.

Howard said no more, simply turned and started walking toward the door.

"One last thing," Adam said, halting the man's departure.

"Yes . . . ?"

"Where were you the night of the murder?"

Howard's face turned crimson. "Surely you are not accusing me!"

"I’m not accusing anyone. You are, however, the person with the most to gain from your uncle's untimely demise."

Howard's lips went thin. "I was attending a soiree given by Lord and Lady Foxmoor. If you doubt my word, I'm sure you can find any number of people who saw me, as I was there until well past two in the morning."

Adam watched the earl storm out of the drawing room. A glance at the ormolu clock on the mantel told him it was nearly five. The afternoon was slipping away. He thought of Jillian and wondered how much of what Fenwick had said was true.
A clever actress can fool even a jaded man like you.

His meeting with Benjamin Morrison was set for tomorrow night, but instead of the eagerness he had felt when he left Peter Fraser's, Adam found himself dreading the encounter.

Chapter Nine

Something was wrong. Jillian could sense it. All day, the earl had been moody and out of sorts, locking himself up in his study, coming out only briefly when Reggie had fetched him in to supper.

The meal had been a stiff, uncomfortable affair. Adam said little, just stared at her with dark, brooding eyes that made her want to shift uneasily in her chair. She wanted to ask if something had happened earlier in the day, but he seemed oddly remote and she didn't think he would tell her. Instead, he excused himself and retired to his study.

For a while, Jillian wandered around the town house, stopping here and there to examine an interesting artifact from the earl's collection, still too restless to think of sleep. The threat of Newgate hung over her head and now that she had been there, the horrors she had seen would not leave her.

She carried her embroidery into a small salon at the rear of the town house, but her hands were unsteady and she kept missing stitches. With a sigh of frustration, she set the embroidery aside and went in search of the earl.