Truly Yours (4 page)

The truth would have been worse, if anyone could believe it, dredging up those old tales of witchcraft and sorcery. What, the judge could read minds? England was as comfortable with such eeriness now as it was in ancient Sir Royston’s time. They might not hang a peer, but they would label him a lunatic and lock him away. Worst of all, the truth would have condemned young Rex to the life of a freak, like the two-headed cow in the traveling circus. Lord Royce had retired from the bench instead, claiming ill health. He could have taken his seat in the House of Lords, listening to the discordant notes of pettifoggery and being subjected to stares and innuendos. He could have become an idle aristocrat, drinking and gaming away his days and nights, if anyone would play at cards with one who was suspected of dastardly acts. Rumors were rekindled about why Lady Royce lived apart. Surely he hid heinous secrets. Lord Royce did not refute any of the charges or make explanations. He chose to live in the country instead, raising his boy.

“I would go to Town myself if I could,” he said now, plucking at the blanket covering his legs. “But . . .”

Signs of his father’s infirmity always distressed Rex. He swallowed his brandy and said, “Deuce take it, what is so important about this girl that one of us must travel to London? I read the newspapers. They made much of it— the murder of a baronet. Everyone knew Miss—what is her name?—was known to despise her stepfather, and the scandal sheets reported rumors that she was sneaking out at night to meet with her lover. She was holding the pistol, for heaven’s sake!”

“My correspondent does not believe Amanda—Miss Carville—killed the devil.” The earl rustled the letter in his hand. “If she is guilty, then justice will be done, and should be done. But what if the young woman is innocent? Not only would she hang for a crime she did not commit, but a cold-blooded killer would be free to strike again. You should be the last one on earth to judge her without hearing her words for yourself.”

“No, you should be, dash it. The law is your preserve, recall, not mine.”

The earl started coughing then. Rex hurried to his side and poured a drink of cordial. “You are not faking this spell, are you, damn it, just to manipulate me into doing your bidding?”

Still coughing, the earl shook his head no.

“Say it, by Jupiter. Say you are truly too weak to go to London yourself.”

“I . . . I am too weak in body . . . and in courage. Truly.”

“Truly,” Rex echoed, defeated.

Then the earl threw back his son’s words. “Bravery is your preserve, recall? Although no one would know it by the way you are acting.”

Rex limped back to the mantel. “You think I am a coward for not taking up a life of indolence and indulgence?”

“I think you are hiding here, yes. But I am not asking you to become a wastrel, nor to set yourself up as a Bow Street investigator. I merely ask you, on behalf of an old friend, to speak to the young lady, to listen and discover if she actually is guilty. That is all.”

“Unless she is innocent, in which case I will have to stay in London long enough to destroy the Crown’s case against her.”

“You said yourself she is likely guilty. Sir Frederick Hawley was a blackguard by all accounts, and it was a mere matter of time before someone took his measure.”

“Someone took his life, dash it.” Rex ran his hand over the scar on his cheek. “Send funds for a competent barrister, then, who can argue that Miss—what did you say she was called?—acted in self-defense.”

“I cannot. My . . . friend asked me to see to it personally.”

Rex knew that deuced few of his father’s friends had stood by him. “Who the devil is this old friend, anyway, that you cannot simply say no?”

“Miss Carville’s godparent. Your mother.”

Rex threw his glass, the handblown, hand-etched crystal, into the fireplace.

Hell, London. Rex sat back against the seat of his father’s carriage, trying to ease the blinding pain that was already holding his head in a vise grip, and he was not halfway there. Every innkeeper, every livery stable owner, every serving girl along the way had lied to him. Every purveyor of foodstuffs or cattle or sex was trying to sell him inferior quality at superior prices because of the crest on his father’s coach. Even the offers from the tavern wenches were lies, for he could read the disgust in their eyes when they noticed his limp and his scar. Oh, they would still take his coin for a hasty tumble, and another if they promised not to speak, but the welcoming smile was a lie. So he kept his coins—including the ones he had learned to offer doxies to keep them from feigning orgasm, so his own pleasure was not ruined by that particular, inconveniently timed falsehood. Why, if half those lusty fellows who considered themselves such great lovers— aye, and half the married men, too—could only know the truth, their ballocks would burn in shame.

So Rex did not accept the offers of companionship, although a brief interlude of mindless pleasure would have given his thoughts a needed rest. Hell, he did not need company; he had Murchison. His father’s valet caught Rex’s glance and silently handed over a clay jug of ale, mixed with a headache powder. Of course he was silent, for Murchison never spoke. He wrote notes when he had to, or used hand gestures. He did not hear, either, the earl insisted, although Rex had always misdoubted the small, bald man’s disabilities, for Murchison was too knowing for a supposedly deaf man, always providing precisely what was needed, which was why his father had insisted Rex take the valet along.

“You cannot go about the way you look now,” Lord Royce had declared, curling his lip at Rex’s disarray.

“I have absolutely no intention of going about, as you say.” The last thing Rex was prepared to do was reenter society.

“You will be calling on a lady, even if she is in prison. She deserves your respect.”

“Perhaps you want me to wear satin knee breeches to call on your murderess at Newgate? Or my dress uniform?” Officially, Rex was still on sick leave, but he intended to sell his commission soon. He was not going back to the army, in any capacity. He had fulfilled his duty six times over.

His father had not answered, and Murchison had packed what Murchison deemed necessary. He had eased Rex’s way at some of the inns, silently but effectively ensuringthe meals were hot and well prepared, the linens clean and aired. And there was no doubt that Murchison made a quiet, undemanding companion, unlike Verity, who insisted on frequent carriage stops, regular meals, and not letting the viscount out of her sight. The dog would have pined for him, the earl had pointed out—if she did not follow the coach all the way to London.

Of course Rex remembered, too late, why he never took Verity aboard his sailboat despite her pleading eyes. The mastiff got seasick, and carriage sick too, it seemed. Which caused Murchison to speak for the first time in Rex’s hearing, in profane, creative French, which explained why the man pretended to be deaf and dumb. A Frenchman at Royce Hall near the Dover coast would be shot before he could say Jacques Rabbit.

“Does my father know?” Then Rex answered his own question. “Of course he does. He knows everything.”

The valet shrugged, said “He saved my life” in English, and did not speak again for the rest of the trip to London, not even to tell his real name.

“Montclaire?” Rex guessed. “Marceau?”

Verity’s groan of discomfort was his only answer.

Once they neared Town, Rex found an inn that would accept the massive dog and the mute valet. The accommodations were simple and the food simpler, but the ale was good and the stables better. He could have found a bunk in the army barracks if he were on his own, but not with a Frenchman in tow. He might have slept on Daniel’s sofa once he fished his cousin out of whatever sewer he was frequenting these days. Perhaps the inn was better after all, for he had no more desire to see his cousin than Daniel had to see him, he assumed, not after the way they had parted in Spain. Hell, he supposed he owed Daniel an apology now, too. But how else was he to get the big lummox to go home to his mother’s aid, except by telling him that he was in the way, that Rex was tired of having an ugly oaf looking over his shoulder, that he was weary of Daniel the giant nursemaid?

Hell, indeed.

First the girl, Rex decided, gratefully mounting his rented horse instead of suffering another mile in the closed coach. How long could it take to ask Miss—he still could not remember her blasted name, likely because he did not want to know her—his two questions: Did she kill her stepfather? Was it in self-defense? He had to hear her answers; then he would know what kind of lawyer to hire for her. His father still had some influence among the legal gentlemen who cared about seeing justice done. The earl had more than enough blunt to hire some eloquent blood-sucker of a barrister who did not care if his client were caught red-handed beside a dead body.

After dealing with the girl, Rex could try to shake some sense into dense-headed Daniel. He’d make his apology, then make the fool go home to manage his estate. With any luck, Rex could be on his own way back toward Dover and Royce Hall in the morning, to his riding and sailing. His injured leg was as strong as it was going to get, he supposed, but the strenuous activity let him sleep at night. He thought he ought to take his own advice and start riding along with his father’s steward, to learn about the lands that would someday be his. He had never envisioned himself as a farmer, though. He was a soldier, by Jupiter, with a dangerous reputation and a diabolic knack.

The alleged murderess was lucky; he had only two questions for her. Damn, Rex’s whole life was a question.

“Bloody hell,” Rex cursed when they opened the cell door. “What the devil happened to her?”

“That would of been the scuffle in the yard, afore some bleedin’ heart gentry mort sent funds for a private cell.”

“That bleeding heart lady is my mother, by Zeus, and she would have sent enough blunt for better treatment.”

The guard shrugged. “Resistin’, she was.”

Rex looked at the brawny warder, then at the small scrap of a woman asleep or unconscious on the floor. Her gown hung in torn and bloodied shreds, her feet were bare, and her hair was so filthy he could not tell the color. Someone had lopped off the rest, likely to sell to the wig makers. “She must have put up quite a fight.”

The guard counted his keys, not coming into the rancid-smelling cell.

Rex had to. “Miss Carville?”

“She don’t talk. Don’t do nothin’. That’s resistin’.”

Rex knelt, grimacing in disgust, at the guard’s reasoning, his stiff leg, and the dirt that would get on the fresh uniform that Murchison insisted he wear. He touched the girl’s gaunt shoulder to awaken her. By light of the guard’s candle he could see cuts and bruises, discolorations and swellings. Even through his gloves he could feel the heat of her fevered body. She did not stir. “Bloody hell,” he swore again.

As a boy, he had once come upon a wounded deer, trembling, yet too weak to run away. He’d dispatched the poor creature and never hunted again, but the image had stayed with him. Miss Amanda Carville was like an injured helpless fawn. Something about her stirred protective instincts he never knew he had. There was no way in Hades he could leave her here to die in this filth. Only an ogre, he told himself, could look at her and not feel pity. Rex looked at her and felt rage. He turned and had the guard by the neck before the bigger man could call out for help. In a flash, out of nowhere, Rex’s knife was pressed against the man’s jugular vein. “Was she raped, besides? Tell me now, and tell me the truth, for, by Heaven, I will know if you lie.”

The guard looked into Rex’s eyes and knew he was inches away from death for the wrong answer. Captain Lord Rexford’s reputation had preceded him. “N-no. Not yet. Tonight . . .”

Rex slipped the knife back up his sleeve. “Tonight the lady will be out of here. See to it.” He tossed the man a leather pouch filled with coins.

“But there ain’t no bail for capital offenses,” the guard complained, tucking the purse under his filthy shirt anyway.

Rex was already unbuttoning his coat to wrap around the woman. “Then see that she is released for medical reasons. And you’d better pray she recovers or I’ll have your hide, and every other warder here. The woman is a lady, by Jupiter.”

“She be a murderess, Cap’n.”

“She is not convicted yet—only
charged.
With Lord Royce as her legal counsel, she will be free before the case comes to trial.”

His father’s name still held sway in the prison, but the guard scratched his head. “I don’t know ’bout releasin’ her, not even to your custody, pardon, milord. Sir Nigel won’t be happy none.”

“Sir Nigel . . . ?”

“Aye, the chief prosecutor for the Crown. Sir Nigel Turlowe. He wanted to see the mort hang particular-like, her shootin’ a titled swell and all.”

Nigel Turlowe, before he was knighted, was the man who had orchestrated Rex’s father’s downfall and disgrace. That made getting Miss Carville out of prison sweet, besides necessary. “You can tell Sir Nigel for me that the charges must be dropped for insufficient evidence.”

The man’s jaw gaped open. “But there was witnesses, and the gun.”

“The witnesses lied.” They always did. “Tell him. And tell him we will bring suit for the mistreatment of the prisoner. We shall start with him, name the warden and the matrons and every blasted guard in this benighted place. If the suit does not work, I will see what my superiors at Whitehall can do. Have you ever heard of a gentleman called the Aide?”

He could tell by the guard’s suddenly shaking hands that the Aide’s reputation was worse than his own. “If all else fails, I will personally pay a visit to every last one of you bastards. Do you understand?” The knife back in his hand again made his meaning fairly obvious. The guard nodded.

Rex glanced toward the bulge of the leather purse at the man’s waist. “I am taking her. Make it right, make it legal, or make peace with your god.”