Sin and the Soldier, page 11
“Exactly! Of course, I never did such a thing.”
“Save it,” she was advised, “for the magistrate.”
Had her mother been murdered? She had to force herself to go back over those awful days of Mama’s final illness and death, before Gerald had hurried her away when she wasn’t yet ready to leave her mother’s grave. Life had been a numbing nightmare of grief and loss and loneliness, punctuated by concerts in places she had known were not respectable. She hadn’t cared at the time because music had been her only solace.
But Mama had been dead by then. She remembered the doctor, Doctor Swinton, who had been traveling to gain knowledge of medicine in other countries. He had been gravely worried about Mama, and rightly so. She had been so distressingly ill.
Once, she had come upon Dr. Swinton sniffing at the glass in which Natalie had served her mother the medicine he had prescribed.
Dear God, did he suspect me? Has it taken all this time for him to send authorities after me? How could he even imagine I would do such a thing?
Would she find him in Bow Street with the magistrate, along with this Italian nobleman who had come to take her back? Would the men be able to get word to Richard in time? She could not bear to be whisked away to another country without him even knowing.
Her mind whirled and panicked, but nothing made any sense to her except that this was a terrible dream from which she would eventually awaken, perhaps even to find Richard right beside her…
But she did not waken. The nightmare went on into the magistrate’s house, where a new fear hit her that she would be put in a prison cell. Though she would have to get used to that reality if this went on, if she could not prove her innocence.
How can I prove I did not kill my own mother?
And then, How can they prove I did, when I did nothing but care for her?
The last thought brightened her enough to restore at least some of her dignity as she was dragged past a long line of sad and furtive people, some clearly drunk, some gaudy, including several obvious women of the night, pathetically young and garishly painted.
“’Ere, why’s she skipping the queue?” someone demanded. “What’s she done that’s more important than what I done?”
That got a laugh, but Natalie’s captors ignored all comments, merely dragged her along to the front, where they exchanged words with another man by a door. And there they waited until the door opened and a sheepish-looking man strode out and slunk past the line of waiting prisoners.
The doorman jerked his head, and the runners hauled Natalie inside with unnecessary force.
A youngish man with an alarmingly sweaty head and a clerk writing busily beside him, said, “Well, well, who have we here?”
“One Natalie Derwent, sir, accused of murder. Matricide,” said the runner, pronouncing the last word with peculiar relish.
Natalie shuddered.
“Ah, yes, the marchese’s prisoner,” the magistrate said jovially. “Best fetch him in. Now then, young woman, state your name for the record if you please.”
“Natalie Derwent. Sir, please tell me what is happening? Why I have been brought here?”
“Just a formality to bind you over to the authority of the marchese,” the magistrate said in what he might have imagined were reassuring tones.
“What marchese could possibly have authority over me, let alone over you?”
“There is no authority here over me,” he said irritably, “or over the laws of England. It is a matter of cooperation and facing punishment where your crimes were committed.”
“Sir, I committed no crime,” she insisted.
“Then it will be for the courts in Rome or wherever to establish that. Today, we will hear only the charges against you and give you over to the custody of the marchese and his men. And here is his excellency.”
Almost bemused, Natalie watched a dark, foreign-looking gentleman strut into the court between two hulking great fellows. He wore lace at his throat and cuffs, and his over-long black curls looked like a stage villain’s wig. He even wore luxurious mustaches. More than that she did not see, for she was distracted by the magistrate’s demand for the marchese’s name.
“Il Marchese del Pietrodusa,” the newcomer pronounced.
“And for what crimes is this woman, Natalie Derwent, wanted in your country?”
“For murder, signor. The murder of her own mother by poison in the year of our Lord eighteen hundred and seventeen, during the month of April. You have the details before you.”
“I do,” the magistrate said so hastily that Natalie suspected the details were in Italian and he could not even read them.
Natalie, wrestling with the bizarre idea that she had heard the marchese’s voice before, tried to concentrate on more than the injustice of these proceedings.
“I need someone who knows the law to speak for me,” she insisted. “I cannot be handed over to this stranger only on his say so, on some trumped-up charge that is not only wrong but vile and insulting and iniquitous.”
“I know the law, young woman,” said the magistrate. “What would you like me to explain to you?”
The words burst from her, no doubt unwisely. “That in the absence of any evidence to support his silly, cruel accusations, I am free to go!”
“The honored magistrate has the evidence before him,” the marchese said haughtily.
“A piece of paper,” she raged. “It is not enough, and I want my own solicitor!”
“Perhaps I shall do, ma’am?” said quite another voice. A tall man with pale blond hair sauntered down the room as though it belonged to him.
Natalie stared. “Mr. Dunne! You could not be more welcome! I am being accused of murdering my own mother in Italy, and this magistrate is trying to give me into the custody of this marchese, to stand trial in Italy. I have not even seen the evidence against me!”
The magistrate waved his paper around as he glared at Mr. Dunne. “And you are, sir?”
“Ludovic Dunne, at your service.”
The magistrate looked momentarily alarmed, and it came to Natalie that he was cutting legal corners for a friend. In which case, a professional lawyer of Mr. Dunne’s high reputation was the last person he would want opposing him.
“I don’t believe we’ve had the pleasure,” Mr. Dunne remarked.
“My name is Budd,” the magistrate said with dignity. “Sir John Budd, temporarily standing in as Bow Street magistrate.”
“Sir John.” Mr. Dunne bowed again to the magistrate as he came to stand beside Natalie. “I believe I came upon a cousin of yours recently. Davenport, was it?”
And just like that, perhaps because of Dunne’s mention of the name, or because she was staring in weird fascination at the Italian, she recognized the marchese.
She should have known him at once. If she had not been so frightened and overwhelmed, she would have seen straight through his disguise.
“Very likely,” Budd said hurriedly, so hurriedly that she knew he was indeed cutting corners and to please his cousin Davenport, the friend of Gerald Monck.
Damn Gerald all over again. He had found a way to manipulate the law to regain control over her. Only none of this was remotely legal. She swung around to Mr. Dunne to tell him exactly what was going on, but he only smiled at her reassuringly.
“The point is,” the magistrate pursued with dignity, “I am perfectly satisfied with the marchese’s credentials and the strength of his case against this young woman.”
“Are you?” Ludovic Dunne turned an amused gaze on the marchese, who seemed to be trying quite hard to keep his back to him while still looking respectfully toward the magistrate. “While I find it very strange that a nobleman of such rank should interest himself in the fetching and transporting of felons. Perhaps I may see these credentials and this evidence?”
Budd looked as if he would refuse, but without instruction, the clerk suddenly bobbed out of his seat, snatched up the paper, and bore it across the floor to Mr. Dunne.
“Thank you,” Dunne said, stretching the paper toward Natalie so that they could both read it.
“It is in Italian,” the magistrate said with dignity.
“As it happens, I speak a little of the language,” Mr. Dunne said. He smiled. “As does Miss Derwent. If we struggle with understanding any of it, I’m sure the marchese will help.”
Natalie spared Dunne a glance of mingled indignation and awe. Was he baiting “the marchese”? She still felt too much at the mercy of this charade to risk alienating anyone. She forced her attention back to the Italian document.
An impressive seal took up a large corner of the document, although it was just smudged enough to make the wording impossible to read. The letter purported to be from a court of law in a town she had never heard of, introducing the most noble Marquese del Pietrodusa and empowering him to bring back the suspect Natalie Derwent for questioning and trial in the matter of the murder of her mother, Mrs. Louisa Derwent in 1817, with the kind cooperation of the law authorities in England.
“Two oddities strike me immediately,” Dunne observed. “The first being, this is not how legal matters are normally handled. The second being the writing of this…document.” Leaving Natalie holding the missive, he bent and rummaged in his document case and came up with another document, which he held beside the other. It was her supposed marriage lines. And the writing was remarkably similar.
He took the marchese’s document from her and walked toward the window, holding it up to the light and then he walked across to the magistrate’s desk and plonked both papers down between the clerk and the magistrate.
“Perhaps the marchese would care to explain why his letter from the court is written in the same hand as a certificate of marriage? Perhaps the priest handles matters of law in… whichever town this purports to come from, because I see no sign of that either.”
Gerald, in the marchese’s theatrical voice, said with dignity, “Many people in official life have been taught the same hand in the same schools. Similarities are inevitable.”
“I expect it is also inevitable that they use exactly the same paper, watermarked as you will see by the name of its maker. Based in Hertfordshire.” Mr. Dunne let that sink in for a little. There was absolute silence in the room. “I’m sure you will agree, Sir John, that if one of those documents is a forgery, the other is also.”
“Not necessarily,” the magistrate said weakly. “One could surely have been copied from the other. But I’m sure the matter is academic. Paper manufactured in England could easily turn up in Italy.”
“True, though this particular company sells solely to the British market. Be that as it may, the supposed marriage lines are most definitely forged. This lady, a Miss Dart, who apparently signed as a witness, was in London on the date of this supposed marriage.”
“Do you have proof of that?” Gerald spluttered, “the marchese” slipping slightly in his anger or panic or both.
“Of course, I do,” Dunne replied. “I am extremely fastidious about evidence. Perhaps the marchese would like to see for himself?”
The marchese, clearly, did not want to go anywhere near him. He took a couple of steps toward the desk and paused, trying to look haughty, as though waiting for the documents to be brought to his noble person. The obliging clerk began to rise once more, but Ludovic Dunne was faster, whipping the documents off the desk and advancing on “the marchese” so quickly that the gentleman actually took a step backward and threw out his hands to ward Dunne off.
But Natalie understood Dunne’s next move. It was time to expose the marchese, and nothing would give her greater pleasure. With all eyes on Dunne and “the marchese,” it was easy to shift away from the runners, who had been watching proceedings with their jaws dropping, and take a couple of paces forward.
Dunne held the documents out in one hand, but “the marchese,” clearly wary, reached out to snatch them with his left. Natalie jumped and grabbed the wig from “the marchese’s” head. His free hand flew up too late to save it, and Dunne used the moment to jerk up his hand and yank the elegant mustaches from the imposter’s upper lip.
The magistrate was on his feet, the runners advancing, though with no clear purpose. The “marchese’s” supposed guards were backing quietly toward the door.
“What the devil do you mean by assaulting a gentleman?” Sir John thundered.
“This is no gentleman, sir,” Dunne declared. “But one Gerald Monck, born here in London, and once betrothed to the lady he persuaded you to have dragged here, Miss Derwent. He is a fraud and the author of both of those documents. He is, moreover, the suspect sought by certain authorities in Italy for the poisoning of Mrs. Louisa Derwent.”
His eyes flickered to Natalie, who stood frozen, staring at him, the wig still clutched in her no longer triumphant fingers. “I’m sorry,” he murmured. “There was no time to—”
The door burst open again to a lot of shouting and running of feet. A sob escaped Natalie’s lips, for it was Richard who strode in, his walking stick clicking purposefully on the floor to make sure he out-sped everyone else. Behind him came a gaggle of his men surrounding a man and a woman. And closely following were several outraged officials and guards and even some of the rabble waiting to appear before the magistrate.
“What is the meaning of this?” Sir John shouted, springing to his feet, his voice high with sudden fear. “Clear my rooms immediately! I am in the midst of a most difficult case! And, Mr. Dunne, if you have no more proof than a gentleman’s vanity—”
“I do, sir,” Dunne replied, his pleasant voice carrying easily over the hubbub in the room. “My proof has just walked in with Captain Lord Richard Gorse, whom you may already know? Certainly, he is slightly acquainted with your cousin, Mr. Davenport. Lord Richard, will you tell Sir John the name of this man?”
“Gerald Monck,” Richard said grimly, stalking straight over to Natalie and grasping her hand. “He was once betrothed to Miss Derwent and has been trying to convince me that she is, in fact, married to him.”
“Thank you, my lord,” Dunne said, already turning away from him. “Miss Dart?”
Natalie let out a gasp, trying to peer through the throng of people.
“My thanks for your prompt arrival,” Dunne said politely. “Do you know this man?”
The woman who had entered among Richard’s men stepped free of her escort. It really was her old friend and governess, Amelia Dart.
“Gerald Monck,” Amelia said clearly. “When I was employed as governess and companion to the family and traveled with them in Italy, I watched him lie and steal from both Mrs. and Miss Derwent for many weeks before he had me dismissed. He and Miss Derwent were once betrothed, thought they were not married when I saw them last in February 1817.”
“Your honor!” Gerald cried, outraged. “We are not here to debate my identity!”
“Oh, I think we are,” Dunne said harshly, and the whole room quietened. Sir John sat down again with a thud. “Amongst other services to humanity, Doctor Swinton, you were the physician who treated Mrs. Derwent in Italy?”
The dignified young gentleman stood beside Miss Dart, reminding Natalie unbearably of the worst times of her life, and yet the sight of him was so blessedly welcome. “I was. I believed she was being poisoned and so informed the authorities. After the lady died, they established who bought the poison and from whom. Monck bought it and laced it into her food and drink and later her medicine whenever he could. They are still looking for him.”
“Then how can he hope to shift the blame to Miss Derwent?” Sir John demanded, looking both irate and confused.
“He cannot,” Richard said contemptuously. “He wants only to cow her into earning money for him, as she did before through her music recitals and the compositions for which he took the credit. In pursuit of which goal, he has made shameless use of your cousin’s good nature and your own.”
Sir John’s mouth opened and closed like that of a landed fish. No sound came out. Gerald was backing toward the door until he bumped into Smith and Daniels, who grinned wolfishly at him, causing him to bolt in the other direction. The runners, who must have managed to follow the bizarre proceedings well enough, stood threateningly in front of him.
Richard began to walk, leading Natalie away as if nothing could prevent him. And she had the odd notion that nothing and no one could.
“I leave Monck to you and the law, Sir John,” he said coolly. “With the valedictory message that if he finds any way to come near Miss Derwent again, he may have time—just—to regret it. And now, I am taking Miss Derwent home. Good day.”
A cheer went up from the ragged defendants clustered around the door. The magistrate’s clerk grinned openly, as did Ludovic Dunne, Dr. Swinton, and Miss Dart. The crowd parted like the Red Sea to allow Natalie and Richard through.
“Good on you, sir!” someone proclaimed.
“You look after the lady, sir! Bloody law…!”
Natalie clung to Richard’s arm, hardly able to walk for the trembling of her legs.
Chapter Eleven
An hour later, she sat, dazed and happy, not at home as Richard had promised, but upon a sofa in Lord and Lady Dominic’s drawing room. Richard sat very close beside her, still holding her hand. Or it might have been she who clung to his fingers. It no longer seemed to matter which.
Their hostess had served them tea and savory morsels and cakes and listened avidly to their tale of Gerald’s gall and the doings at the magistrate’s house. Both Lord and Lady Dominic had welcomed their uninvited and even unknown visitors with hospitable good humor.
Natalie had been unable to keep the tears back as she had been reunited with Miss Dart and thanked Dr. Swinton for everything he had done.
“You will think me so stupid,” she had sobbed to them both. “I had my suspicions he was behind your dismissal, Amelia, though I was too late to prevent it. I never guessed the depths of his perfidy. It never entered my head that anyone could have killed my mother, let alone that it could have been him to…”
