The Apothecary's Curse (32 page)

“It is done, Simon. I—”

“Did he—”

She looked up at him, tears still streaming down her face. “Did he what? Try to force me—again? I would suppose that your houseguest confessed what I confided to him the other day . . . what I asked him not to share?”

He gathered her in his arms. The blood would need explaining to the servants once he got her home. But they would be quiet about it, he was certain; they were loyal. It would be the least of his worries.
What's to be done with her, with . . . this?
Simon took in the horrific scene. “Yes. Erceldoune confessed it, but why did you not tell me yourself?”

“I was afraid you would—”

“Would do what? Murder him? Like
you
have done? My God, Eleanor what shall we do?” He must get her from this place and safely back to his house. Who knew what passerby might have heard gunshots? They needed to move swiftly.

“There is nothing to be done. Simon, what he did to me—I could not go on. I would rather die in the hangman's knot than live in constant fear.” She broke down entirely in her brother's arms.

“Shh. We'll think of something. Obviously, there are no servants about with the house closed.” It was a question.

“He brought me here straightaway from your house. We are alone. To be sure, Simon, I believed with all my heart that he meant to do me in right here, and—”

“Self-defense, then? Hardly likely, since you stole my pistol. That alone signifies intent. Has this been your plan all along—to murder him first chance?”

“Self-defense only in the loosest sense, I fear. Besides, even
if
it was, do you really believe I would stand a chance in the halls of English justice, given Richard's position? At best they would lock me up at Bedlam as a madwoman. At worst . . . well, we shall find out soon enough.”

“My carriage should be outside in a moment. I rode here like a madman on horseback, knowing that you'd stolen my pistol from its case. Let us go back home, and we will think it through; we shall call the authorities after you've cleaned up—and we rid ourselves of that weapon. And its mate.” Eleanor looked ready to swoon from her ordeal.

“You cannot be serious, Simon. I shall not let my brother become an accomplice to this crime.”

“Hush. Say nothing more of it.” The carriage had arrived. “We must move quickly.”

Simon wrapped her in a blanket found in the library and trundled her into the carriage. “My sister is very ill,” he instructed his coachman, whose horrified expression begged further explanation. “She is vomiting blood . . . and more. Make haste and get her away to my house as quickly as you can. I shall meet you there.” Simon mounted his own horse and sped through streets, barely aware that he, like Eleanor, was covered in the remains of Lord Richard Braithwaite.

Gaelan's boots echoed through the three-story foyer as he paced like an expectant father, growing more anxious with each moment. No good would come of this, and he could not thrust from his mind the vivid image of Eleanor in Braithwaite's brutal hands. How had he let it happen? Allow a tether to so firmly attach itself from her heart to his? And now he was in agony as he awaited her fate.

Simon erupted through the door, covered in blood. He was shaking, appearing to be in shock, as if he had emerged from a battlefield, not a London house. His words emerged in short gasps punctuated with deep draughts of air. “Erceldoune,” he managed, “there is little time before my carriage arrives with Eleanor. Braithwaite is dead!”

Gaelan froze, absorbing the blow. Had Simon, then, murdered him? He could imagine the scene, Simon interrupting God knew what and shooting Braithwaite dead.

“How is
she
?”

“How the bloody hell do you think she is? She just bloody murdered her own husband!”

“
Eleanor
did? My God.” There were a thousand things he wanted to say, but the words refused to form.

“Erceldoune! Do not simply stand there agape! Braithwaite shall be missed soon enough, I assure you, and we must—”

“Then you mean to do nothing, not tell the police?” Gaelan's eyes widened in surprise. Yet, what might they say that would keep Eleanor from the noose?

“No. As I said, they will discover him soon enough. And I must use the time to figure out a course of action, although what it may be escapes me.” Simon poured himself a whisky, steadying himself on the sideboard, quickly draining the glass before then pouring another in its wake.

“But where is Eleanor?” Both men turned to the sound of the front door opening. Eleanor entered, wrapped in a blanket, dazed, and disoriented as she swayed. Gaelan captured the faintest gleam of life in her eyes, holding to it like a beacon. She took a small step toward him, but faltered, swooning into his arms.

“Bell, if the police should come by and see the two of you covered in blood—”

He nodded. “I shall bathe and dispose of these clothes; then I—”

“Allow me this one occupation, I beg you; I shall attend Eleanor.”

Simon raised an eyebrow before nodding slightly. “You will find towels and blankets in the linen closet upstairs. Clothing, you will find in the armoire in her dressing room.” He mounted the first stair before turning back toward Gaelan. “Erceldoune. Should any of the servants inquire—anyone
at all
inquire—Eleanor suffers from the bloody flux . . . and they must stay far, far from her!”

With difficulty, Gaelan removed his coat and draped it across the drawing room settee. He carefully laid Eleanor upon it.
It should do for the moment.
He was grieved to leave her even for the few moments needed to locate clean clothing and blankets.

Yes. Dysentery. It was as good an explanation of the blood and the state of the woman as any—for the moment. A keen eye, however, would recognize the lie in an instant.

Even in her sleep, Eleanor twitched and stirred restively, her whimpers cutting to Gaelan's core. He smoothed back her hair, trying to calm her as he cleaned her face and hands. The dress was a ruin, and must be burned. His left hand still useless, he struggled removing the gown one-handed. Finally, it was off her, and he smiled at the small victory. The heavy fabric of her gown had managed to absorb nearly all the carnage. Her petticoats could be left in place at least.

By the time Simon came into the drawing room, Eleanor was wrapped comfortably on the settee, a pillow beneath her head, still asleep. Together, the two men kept vigil, waiting in silence, watchful. Gaelan stood finally, going to the garden doors, looking out into the incongruous peacefulness of summer, its colors incomprehensible in the dull gray lifelessness of the room. He massaged the painful remains of his left hand, no longer bandaged, the scars healed, replaced by smooth skin, as if there had never been three fingers there at all. Even healed, it was now a pointless appendage. “I should have been the one, Bell. It should not have been Eleanor. I . . . I should have done it.”

“What are you saying?”

Gaelan shook his head, ignoring Simon. “I should have—” He pounded his fist against the doorframe over and over in frustration, welcoming the blood as it trickled down his wrist, more with every blow. Had he only known of Simon's pistols, he would have done it. No, that wasn't it at all; he'd been petrified to see Braithwaite standing not fifty yards away in the foyer. He'd not the courage to confront his tormentor, so Eleanor did it. He knew she'd done it for her own reasons, but she'd taken control of her misery and delivered Braithwaite into the hands of justice that the scoundrel otherwise would never know. And now, unless he acted, she would hang for it.

“They'll suspect me anyway—the police, will they not?” Gaelan had not intended to say it aloud.

“What? What the devil are you saying?”

“Eleanor would not be a suspect, at least not at first. Why would she be? I am so much more likely, and in residence here? Given my history with the man? It is perfect. I stole your weapon, confronted him in his own castle, and slew the sadistic monster.”

“That is insane!”

“Would that I'd had her courage, it would have been my bullet in his head, not hers, for what I suffered at his hands.” He hoped Simon would see the sense in it—it was the only way out of this calamity.

“It is madness, what you suggest. Eleanor can easily plead self-defense—driven mad by a brutal husband. No court will convict her, and she will be put safely away in a private asylum for a period of time. . . . God knows she will be a wreck in any event! She is not the first, nor the last, gentlewoman to have killed a husband or lover for—”

“Are you mad, Bell?” Infuriated, Gaelan hurled a goblet into the fireplace, watching it shatter on the stones. “You cannot seriously desire her to be committed to an asylum, private or not. Of course, she would not be committed to Bedlam, yet any asylum would mean at the very least the death of her vibrant spirit. I will not see this befall her for executing a monster. No! I've a much better plan.”

CHAPTER 40

“This is beyond insane,” Eleanor exclaimed, finally awake, sitting on the sofa in a nest of blankets. “I will
not
have you do this, Mr. Erceldoune. Not for me nor for yourself. Please leave it be! I have made my peace, and I regret it not a whit! I would murder—yes, murder—him again in a trice. To have . . . have him walk free . . . to do as he pleases with impunity? I cannot fathom it. Could not fathom it. Surely he would have killed me himself and . . .”

Finally, she broke down into shuddering sobs—wave upon wave. First Simon, then Gaelan approached, but she waved them both away, forcing their helpless retreat.

The authorities could be at the door any moment; it was only a matter of time. Simon implored her to listen to reason. “We have been through this, Eleanor. Please go upstairs to your rooms. You should not be down here when the police arrive.”

“If I might have a moment with your sister alone, Bell?” Gaelan knew he would need to tell her all of it, the whole bloody truth, if there was hope she might agree to the plot. But would she believe him, or instead think him noble, willing to sacrifice his life for her? He waited until Simon closed the drawing room doors behind him.

He knelt at Eleanor's feet, taking her hands in his, self-conscious when she ran her thumb along the crest of his mutilated hand. “Your husband was correct about
one
thing, Eleanor,” he began haltingly. He'd never told anyone besides Simon, and it was more difficult telling her than he imagined. “There is a reason I offer myself in your stead—a practical reason.”

How to say this and make her believe it? “Four and a half years, try as they might: vivisection, rats, rabid bats, fire, the flail, the blade, bullets . . . they could not kill me. Your brother, a physician,
knows
it to be true.” He stopped. Gaelan saw no need to expose Simon as well. “Knows it to be true of
me
.”

Gaelan had wondered time to time about the guillotine. What then? Would his head come loose from his body and stay alive? Or would it writhe on the planks, refusing to wither and die, like Irving's headless horseman? It was something Handley, for all his devilry, had not endeavored to demonstrate.

Eleanor tried to stand, but fell back to the cushions. “Do you think me a fool, Mr. Erceldoune?” she said. “I know what you are up to. You think your life is worthless after the horror you experienced . . . and at
his
hands. And you wish to end your life, and Richard's murder makes for a convenient vehicle. Suicide by execution!”

Gaelan struggled not to be stung by the implication.

“No . . . I know that isn't true, my dear Mr. Erceldoune.” She touched her warm hand to his cheek, lifting his gaze to hers. “But I cannot let you die in my place; I could never live with myself. I—”

They had no time to go to and fro like this. “Hear me, Lady Braithwaite . . . my darling Eleanor. The police shall soon be knocking at the door. You
must
believe me. Yes, this is a chance for me, but not what you think. Never before, Eleanor, have I thought to use my . . . my condition . . . to exploit it to such excellent advantage. How can I not, now when your own innocent life is at stake? What use is it, this curse under which I have lived for two and a half centuries—so many, many lifetimes I have been granted . . . endured? Can I not surrender even one for this? And
know
it is not for you solely I do this, but for my own self as well.”