Wicked and Wonderful (28 page)

“But what I learned rather shocked me for he said, ‘That is not her real name, Mr. Hemyock. She is Judith Pensbury of Sussex.' Aubrey, she must be the daughter of Sir Christopher Pensbury for I remember it most particularly that there had been rumors his daughter had disappeared but later her uncle put it about that she had died. It was all very strange and mysterious.”

Kelthorne stared at his sister. “Good God, but are you certain? However, she once told me that her home had been in Sussex so it must be true.” Sir Christopher, in his time, before ill health removed him from London, had been a prominent London figure, a friend to the Regent and well known in the First Circles. His second wife was said to have had associations with the Marquess of Stolford, which would further confirm his sisters’ report.

“Only, Aubrey, why did she leave home? What could have prompted her to such imprudence?”

Amy looked at Mary and gasped. Kelthorne could see that she had just guessed at the truth. “Do you think it possible Stolford was involved?” she asked.

Mary drew in a sharp breath as well. “You must have the right of it, for I now recall that Lady Pensbury became Stolford’s mistress after Sir Christopher died, if she was not already. Aubrey, you probably did not know of her dealings with Stolford for you were very engaged in your own concerns that many years ago. But this was the gossip of the time and having met Miss Lovington, that is, Miss Pensbury, I can see now that it must all have been true.”

“Do you remember how nervous she was when she first met Stolford in the church in Portislow?” Amy asked. “I had never seen her so distressed.”

“I do, indeed, for I know I thought it odd at the time.” Mary pressed her hand to her mouth and shook her head. “Stolford must have made improper advances when she was but a schoolgirl—”

Amy finished her thought, “And she ran from him and took up with the troupe.”

Mary turned to Kelthorne. “What do you think, brother?”

“I believe you have discovered the truth. I most certainly do. I knew some of it because of my conversations with her over the past few weeks. The child has been running for eight years.” He felt sick at heart, for her, for Sir Christopher, and right now for himself. He should have tried harder to discover the truth of her past, all of it, especially who she was.

Amy said, “But I know that Sir Christopher’s daughter had been well-dowered, some fifteen thousand pounds by recollection. Miss Lovington—that is, Miss Pensbury’s future is thereby secured. Yet, she seems to be wholly ignorant of it.”

“There can be no doubt she does not know. But it is perfectly understandable since she was so young at the time.”

Mary rose suddenly and took Kelthorne’s hands in her own. “I am so sorry that I pressed you to marry Miss Currivard, to marry at all. It was very wrong of me and I apologize.”

He was gratified by her remorse. “Thank you,” he said sincerely. “I believe I needed to hear you say as much.”

“Pray do not go to London.” Amy said. “We wish to make things right. Now that we know who Miss Lovington really is, there can be no objection to such a marriage now, despite the fact that she has lived with the acting troupe. She is a perfect innocent.”

“You must understand one thing,” he said forcefully. “I had meant to return to Somerset this very night and had Judith been the daughter of a beggar I would still have taken her to wife. Nothing—I vow—nothing would have prevented me. These revelations will make the future together a trifle easier for us both but that is all. She is the woman for me. She was from the beginning and I do not wish to live without her.”

Amy rose as well, drew close and petted his arm. “We know. Indeed, when we saw you together, besides being alarmed, I think Mary and I were both struck by how much you did love her. And not only that but by how much Miss Lov— that is—Miss Pensbury loves you as well. We were moved by how honorable her character is that she would so sacrifice her happiness for your sake, indeed, even for ours by rejecting your proposal.”

“She is wholly good,” he stated.

The landlord arrived bearing a tray of tea and toast, even slices of cheese and red apples.

Amy pressed her hand to her stomach. “How grateful I am,” she said, smiling at the man. “Thank you, for we have not eaten in hours.”

Though Kelthorne was anxious now to be going, to pursue Judith into Devonshire if necessary, he took up a seat opposite his sisters and even shared the tea and toast. The return journey would require many more hours and a little sustenance was quite necessary.

The more he thought about just where the troupe might be, that it was possible they were already in Devonshire, he realized he should take a more southerly route by which he hoped to intercept Judith more quickly.

When he said as much, Amy interjected, “Oh, but the troupe did not leave Somerset today. One of the members, Mr. Hemyock—the very one Stolford told of Miss Pensbury’s identity—took ill. The doctor was summoned. It was believed he suffered from some poisoning or other. I thought it was a hum, though. Who would poison Mr. Hemyock?”

“Might they have left after you departed?”

“Unlikely because your servants had it on good authority that the doctor was due to tend the patient in the morning as well.”

“Then we are for Somerset,” he said.

But something nagged at him, especially that Mr. Hemyock, who seemed an extremely sturdy sort, would have taken ill, especially after having so recently conversed with Stolford about Judith. And even though Amy was no doubt mistaken in the number of people who might happily enjoy poisoning the man, he agreed with her; Hemyock’s illness was a complete sham. He felt it in his bones.

*** *** ***

Judith awoke very slowly. Her head ached severely though cushioned, but in what manner she knew not, against the occasional jolting of what she grew to realize was the bouncing of a coach along a road.

A rather deep rut lifted her head from its safe place then set it down hard again. She moaned softly. A hand slid down her arm and squeezed her at the joint of the elbow, quite tenderly. For the barest moment she felt safe and breathed deeply. Kelthorne had found her.

“Are you beginning to awaken, my dear?”

But that was not Kelthorne’s voice. Her body stiffened and a low laugh followed.

“I see that you apparently know me by my voice.”

Stolford.

Prior events rushed back to her, recalling a partially masked man and a club. Oh, how her head ached. For some reason she remembered as well being but fourteen and how the marquess had cornered her in a darkened hall, covered her mouth and pressed himself against her. His words spoken hotly into her ear so many years ago resounded now in her head.
You are mine, little one. Mine.

She would never be his. She had resolved as much then and she resolved as much now whatever he thought, whatever his plans so tidy as they appeared to be. She had escaped him once before when she was so young and powerless. Did he think her less capable now? Now, when she had lived at the edge of civilization in a traveling troupe?

She felt the leather sheath against her thigh. What a fool he was if he thought she was unprotected merely because she was alone. Indeed, she relied on his prejudice against helpless females upon whom he had preyed for so many years. Tonight she would succeed. Tonight the tide would turn against him.

She chose not to speak but moaned again faintly, pretending to be very ill. She even feigned weeping.

“Yes, yes, have your cry out, my dear. You will feel much better.”

Her soul smiled. Better and better.

When the coach began to slow, she whispered as pitifully as she could manage, “Wh-where are we, my lord? My head hurts. How I wish for laudanum or brandy perhaps.” Having watched Betty and the others for so many years, she knew how to deliver a line. How odd to think that her time with the troupe would serve her in this manner.

She pretended to try to lift herself then flopped down on what she realized was his cape serving as a pillow on his lap. She felt ill at the knowledge that she was reclining against him but there was nothing she could do, not if she hoped to succeed.

He thumped his cane on the roof of the carriage and called to his coachman. “We will rest here for the night.” He patted her arm then lifted her abruptly. “I beg you will right yourself, my dear. I have no doubt you can walk. You have suffered only a little bump on the head, after all. I have a long cloak for you to wear.”

She righted herself on the seat and with as much drama as would have caused her fellow actors to complain vigorously about her ham-handed performance, she threw herself against the squabs and moaned again. “I know I can walk,” she whispered mournfully. She then slumped to her right and sought the blade.

“Judith,” he whispered, leaning close. “How long I have waited for just this moment.” She felt his breath on her neck and then his lips. “And you have grown into such a beautiful woman.”

She was having difficulty reaching the sheath, which had somehow become turned on her leg. She could feel the bulk of the blade beneath her. He kissed her neck again. “No,” she murmured, keeping to her weak accents.

“Yes.” he returned, his hand now pulling her nightdress from her shoulder.

She realized she would have to turn into him in order to retrieve the dagger, an act that would encourage him in his wretched conduct, but there was nothing for it. The blade would not be wrested from her in this position. She turned abruptly and faced him thinking that his triumphant expression would last but a second more.

The dagger fell into her hand. She cleared the edge of her nightdress and plunged the blade deeply. A long painful scream filled the coach.

*** *** ***

The return journey in the company of his sisters tried Kelthorne’s soul. Of course two pairs of horses certainly traversed the miles in a goodly time, but now that he had made the decision to take Judith to wife, he could not get back to her quickly enough. The hours wore on. He wondered vaguely if the roads and coach-making would ever improve sufficiently to allow for faster travel. On such a night as this, every rut the coach hit set his nerves on fire.

By the time the vehicle neared Portislow, his sisters slumbered against his shoulders, one on either side of him. He cradled them in his arms, appreciative for their quite wonderful gesture in pursuing him with apologies and the rather stunning news of Judith’s true identity

Thoughts of Judith reminded him of Sir Christopher Pensbury. He tried to recall what he knew of him. So many years ago he would have been engulfed in his own riotous pursuits and certainly not interested in rumors concerning Sir Christopher or Stolford’s relationship to him.

And Judith had run away from Stolford when her father had been ill to the point of dying. How much he had grown to despise the marquess.

“Aubrey, you are crushing my arm,” Amy whispered looking up at him.

“I beg your pardon, dearest. Forgive me.”

“Are you all right? The lamplight may be very dim, but I know that expression. What is amiss?”

“Is Stolford still at the George in Portislow?” He had begun to think he might just call upon him.

“No,” she murmured snuggling once more against his arm and yawning. “He is returned to his home. He took his leave of us this afternoon, just before I heard him speaking with that actor.”

“What were his reasons?”

“He said he remembered an engagement in Bath, which I must say I thought a rather inadequate excuse for leave-taking, but he seemed anxious even happy to be going. I only wonder now that Mary and I had come to think him an agreeable sort of man.”

“He does not lack for abilities,” Kelthorne said.

“Of what are you speaking?” Mary said, coming out of her slumbers.

“Of Stolford’s leave-taking.”

She shuddered against him.

Kelthorne pondered the fact that Stolford had bothered to have a conversation with Charles Hemyock in the first place. And why would Stolford have been speaking to Charles about Judith?

Kelthorne knew the truth before it could be in any manner confirmed. As the horses headed in the direction of the castle, he fairly pushed Mary aside as he opened the door and called out to the coachman. The air was cool, and the gray of dawn had begun easing the night away. He issued an order to head down to the camp.

“As ye wish,” the coachman called back.

“Why ever are we going to the camp now?” Mary asked. “Miss Pensbury will be asleep.”

“By God I hope she is. Indeed, I hope with all my heart she is.”

Before the wheels of the coach ceased rolling, Kelthorne had leapt from the vehicle, calling out Judith’s name, hurrying in the direction of her tent

Within a few seconds, the camp had come to life, figures emerging from tent after tent, most in nightshirts or gowns, all protesting the commotion and desiring to know what drunkard was shouting Judith’s name.

Kelthorne had just moved past Mrs. Ash, even hearing her address him by name, when he found Judith’s tent and brushed open the canvas flap. His heart sank. The tent was empty and the bed still in a tidy state. Judith was nowhere to be seen.

John and Margaret both entered the tent. “What has happened, m’lord?” she asked.

“Where the devil is she?” he asked, turning on them both. “Where is my Judith? What has happened to her?”

Margaret’s eyes, upon seeing the empty bed, grew wide and disbelieving. “I... I do not know. I saw her before bed, but that were ten o’clock.”

Mr. Ash seemed equally dumbfounded. He turned around and posed the question to the growing crowd, “Who last saw Judy? Anyone? Tell us.”

Several answered but the response was similar to Mrs. Ash’s, Judith had been seen near the bathing tent or near Mrs. Marnhull’s wagon or carrying Shelly about, all before half past nine.

He felt a tug on his sleeve. He glanced to his right. Mary appeared quite overset. “We should ask Mr. Hemyock, do you not think so, Aubrey?”

“Charles?” Mr. Ash said. “He won’t be of any use. He’s been sick all day and into the night.”

“He was last seen at the castle conversing with the Marquess of Stolford and I do not believe I must tell you that he is no man of honor.”