Unmasking Sin, page 7
“It was brave of you, though.”
“Earned me an instant dismissal, though before I could leave, he got ill himself, and he was the one who died. I wasn’t sorry.”
Ludovic sat forward. “By the time he died, was her ladyship recovered?”
“Lord, no. It took him quick. Bad living can leave you weak. She was still battling it when he died. We stayed with her, nursed her between us. It was a blessing neither of us got ill, but the doctor said it’s like that sometimes.”
“A doctor examined them? An Italian doctor?”
“No, an English fellow. Attending some lecture or other in Genoa and then traveled the country afterward—luckily for us.”
“I don’t suppose,” Ludovic said apologetically, “you know this doctor’s name or where I might find him?”
“Conway. He works among the poor in London. I’ve got his address somewhere…”
“Just to be clear,” Ludovic said as Morgan stood up and rummaged in a drawer. “Lady Cornish—Lady Bowden as she was then—did not nurse her husband, was not responsible for his medication at all?”
“She was too weak even to get out of bed.” He passed a piece of paper to him. “What is your interest in all this? Is her ladyship in some kind of trouble?”
“Yes, I believe she is. I understand you don’t like to think of this, but would you mind very much writing down what you have just told me and signing it as a legal document?”
*
After examining Tom thoroughly, the doctor pronounced he had a summer cold and gave Rebecca some fever powders for him.
“Use these instead of your own medicine,” he instructed. “They will be more effective. I bid you good day.”
Tom remained fractious, slept much, and ate little. Rebecca could not but recall her illness in Naples, when days and nights had passed in a welter of confused nightmares. She had nearly died. Bowden had died. And she had not been sorry.
At night, she and Annie took it in turns to sit by his bedside while his fever seemed to come and go. As she sat, watching him sleep, she wondered how many people in the house were awake. She thought of Dawson and Mrs. Arnott keeping watch over the kitchen door.
She thought of Ludovic Dunne, deliberately seeking her out at Maida. Who had told him she was there? If the uncles knew, could they use that against her?
How? I spent two hours watching other people be merry and drank one glass of wine. She had not even been open to company, let alone flirtation, as Ludovic Dunne himself could testify. If he told the truth.
Someone in her household was probably betraying her, leaving doors unlocked and passing information to the uncles. Yet somehow, Ludovic Dunne’s perfidy rankled more. Because she had liked him. Because she had imagined he liked her, that there was a quick growing bond of friendship between them. She had trusted him enough to ask for his help in this fight.
She never learned, it seemed. Even after her disastrously impulsive marriage to Theo, she had not learned not to trust. She had thought herself immune, aloof, trusting only in herself now. And then, on less than twenty-four hours’ acquaintance…
It didn’t matter. The only thing that mattered was Tom’s recovery.
At four in the morning, when Tom seemed to be sleeping more peacefully, Annie came to relieve her, and she fell exhausted into her own bed. Even then, she could not sleep for the fear churning in her stomach. After a bare couple of hours of fitful dozing, she rose, washed and dressed without Simmie’s aid, and crossed the passage to the nursery.
Tom was still asleep. Annie rose and crept across the room to speak to her. “I think the fever’s gone,” she said low. “I’m letting him sleep for now, unless you think we should wake him?”
“No, let him sleep. I’ll sit with him until he wakes. You go back to bed for an hour or two.”
“Go and eat something first, my lady,” Annie said severely. “You’re the one who looks as if she hasn’t slept!”
Smiling somewhat wanly, Rebecca said, “I’ll have something sent up to you,” and with a last glance at her sleeping son—did he really look better?—she left and went downstairs.
Some commotion below finally pierced her haze of tiredness and worry, and as she rounded the half-landing, she came face to face with a strange footman and behind him, both the Rawlston uncles.
The footman at least dragged himself to a halt rather than barge past her. But despite her sudden explosion of fear, it seemed anger dominated everything.
She stared at the footman from her greater height, two steps above him. “Where do you think you are going?”
Behind the uncles, she glimpsed Dawson beginning to climb the stairs. “Dawson, send to the magistrate. Then require the footmen to eject this intruder.”
“There is no need for that,” Aloitius said grandly. “This man is acting on my instructions.”
“And you imagine that makes it acceptable?” Rebecca said furiously. “You bring your servants to invade my home? Oh, no, sir, you will all leave immediately!”
“Not without the boy,” Constantine said.
“My son is in my care, according to his father’s wishes, as you very well know. Moreover, he is not well, and I will not have him dis—”
“Why do you think we are here?” Aloitius interrupted. “We will care for him before he ends up dosed to death like your husbands!”
The blood drained from Rebecca’s face so fast that she had to clutch the banister for support. “Do you really believe that?” she all but whispered. “I have to believe you are mad.”
“Your beliefs no longer matter,” Aloitius snapped. “We are taking the boy to safety. Now. Please stand aside.”
Their servant actually moved up two steps, trying to intimidate her. Bowden had done the same sort of thing—stood too close and glared. But she was no longer seventeen, and this lackey was not her husband.
“Step back,” she uttered, staring into his threatening eyes. “Now. No one is coming any farther.”
“And do you propose to stop us?” Constantine demanded. “Stand back, David, I—” He broke off in confusion, for suddenly Rebecca did not stand alone. Dawson and Mark, who must have come up the servants’ stairs, materialized directly behind her on the landing. And at the foot of the stairs stood Mrs. Arnott and John Coachman.
“Never in my life,” Dawson intoned, “have I encountered such discourtesy in a gentlelady’s home.”
“To call it no worse, Mr. Dawson,” Mrs. Arnott said from below.
“You will turn and descend the stairs,” Rebecca said coldly to the uncles. “Your servant will be conducted out of the house. From whatever family feeling I have left, I will spare you, gentleman, five minutes in the reception room downstairs. Mrs. Arnott will accompany us.”
“I will not discuss family business in front of servants!” Aloitius declared.
If Rebecca had not been shaking, she would have laughed. As it was, her expression must have said it all, for the uncles turned without a word, the footman trailing after them downstairs. Rebecca stood aside to allow Dawson and James to escort the strange footman from the premises.
She swept past them in the hall, so she did not see his departure, but she suspected it was not gentle.
Mrs. Arnott strode along beside her, then stood wordlessly aside for her to enter the room first. “Dawson will remain within calling distance,” she murmured.
Rebecca only nodded and walked into the room. The uncles had clearly been conferring, for they broke apart at once.
“You must forgive our haste,” Aloitius said. “Perhaps it was not well done. But only the profound concern we feel for the boy’s health drove our actions. I truly believe he will be better with us, under the best medical care.”
Rebecca swallowed her anger once more. “Neither Dr. Wardlaw, whom he has already seen, nor I, think it a good idea—even if I were willing—to move a sick child from his familiar home to a strange house. Is your wife even in London? Either of your wives?
“That is not your concern,” Aloitius snapped.
“No, it isn’t,” Rebecca agreed, “because my son is staying here.”
“You look tired, Rebecca,” Constantine said suddenly, in apparent concern. “Another late night?”
“Indeed.”
“Nursing her son,” Mrs. Arnott said with barely hidden contempt.
Constantine bristled, but his brother changed tack. “How on earth did this illness occur?”
Rebecca shrugged tiredly. “I don’t know. Children get sick. He looks better this morning, but I am waiting for him to wake—”
“Perhaps we could just look in on him?” Aloitius said reasonably. “Just to reassure ourselves.”
Rebecca hesitated. She could neither forget nor forgive the invasion, and yet, a glimpse of their sleeping great-nephew did not seem such an unreasonable request. Even if they tried to snatch him, the servants would not permit them to leave the house with Tom. If there was one pleasure to come out of the last four-and-twenty hours, it was the loyalty of her household. Without which, she would have been reduced to shoving that insolent footman down the stairs and hoping he took the uncles down with him.
Hysterical laughter at this vision threatened to fight its way out. In the meantime, should she allow them? A refusal might count against her if it came to court, but…
She opened her mouth to politely deny them. And then Tom trotted in, holding Annie’s hand.
He caught sight of Rebecca at once and grinned. “Mama!”
Released, he ran to her, and she knelt to hug him, to feel the warmth of his skin. Warm, not hot. Tears threatened to overwhelm her.
“I’ve got a snotty nose,” he said proudly.
Her gulp of laughter sounded suspiciously like a sob, but dashing the back of her hand across her eyes, she found her handkerchief and wiped his nose for him.
“You have a cold,” she said shakily and rose. “It’s what you were sickening for yesterday. But here are your great uncles, come to see how you are.”
Clinging to Rebecca, he cast a winning smile at the uncles.
“Well, young man,” Aloitius said with clearly false jollity. “How are you? I hear you’ve been a bit under the weather.”
“It did rain when we went to Maida,” Tom said cautiously, then grinned. “But it was fun. I saw jugglers and tumblers and had ice cream and rolled down the hill.”
Maida. A gift to the uncles.
“Maida Gardens?” Constantine repeated, glaring at Rebecca. “What in the world were you about to take him there?”
“Providing fresh air and fun,” she retorted.
“Among the lower orders! And you are surprised when he becomes ill?”
“He has a cold,” Rebecca said, hoping she didn’t sound as desperate s she felt. “He could have caught it anywhere. Children must go out.”
“But not to Maida Gardens!”
“Why not?” she battled. “It’s away from the worst of the town stink, which is a lot less healthy.”
“Then take him back to Redpath Hall,” Aloitius said. “Why insist on staying here?”
Because Lady Cornish is at Redpath Hall, and I will not subject my son to her malign influence.
“Because I have places like Hyde Park and Maida Gardens almost on the doorstep,” she said pleasantly. “And now, if you will excuse us, it’s time for Tom’s breakfast. Dawson will see you out.” She paused halfway to the door and turned back to meet their almost identical fuming expressions. “However, I really must insist you give warning of any future visits. I will not have my son, nor my staff, frightened by your bully boys.”
“What’s a bully boy?” Tom asked as they left the reception room.
I hope you never have to find out.
*
After spending the night in Maidstone, Ludovic caught an early mail coach as far as Gravesend, and from there, hired a chaise to take him to the modest Kingswood estate, Brently Manor.
Traveling along the road and up the drive, Ludovic thought it a pleasant, tidy place, prosperous on the whole, with no signs of being short of money. The house, a neat two-story dwelling with another set of windows in the eaves, no doubt the servants’ rooms, also looked in good repair.
So, this was where Rebecca Cornish had grown up. From here, she had married Lord Bowden and defied her parents to marry Sir Theodore Cornish. And here, her parents still lived, apparently estranged from their daughter.
Requiring the postilion to wait as agreed, Ludovic alighted and walked up to the front door. A smartly dressed maid took his card with a bobbed curtsey and, a few moments later, showed him into a pleasant parlor where both Kingswoods waited to greet him.
“Mr. Dunne?” said Kingswood curiously. “If we’ve met, you must forgive me, for my memory is not what it once was.”
Being a man of only middle years, with bright, intelligent eyes, Kingswood gave no signs of a man losing his faculties.
Ludovic bowed to include Mrs. Kingswood, a pale lady with a slightly weary face and very well-made fashionable morning gown of palest green muslin. “In this case, at least, your memory serves you perfectly. We have never met, so I must ask you to excuse the interruption. As my card says, I am a solicitor, currently representing Mr. Rawlston and his brother, who, I believe, are known to you.”
“Family by marriage,” Mr. Kingswood said with a hint of distaste. “How can we help you?”
“I understand you live quietly here,” Ludovic said delicately, “so you are probably unaware that the Rawlstons consider your daughter, Lady Cornish, unsuited to the task of bringing up her son, young Sir Thomas.”
Mrs. Kingswood looked at her hands. Mr. Kingswood shifted uncomfortably. Ludovic was sure they had both heard the rumors about their daughter.
“Do you believe that?” he asked mildly.
“Of course not,” Kingswood said impatiently. “Rebecca was always perfectly capable, and I see no reason why she would have changed now. We told her not to marry Cornish. There’s bad blood in the whole family, but there was no talking her out of it. She wanted a child, and she had taken a shine to Cornish’s pretty face and amiable manners. She would not believe he was worthless. She would not even wait! I believe he played her false almost immediately, but it was too late. She had already married him.”
“Did she tell you much about her marriage to Sir Theodore?”
“Nothing,” Kingswood said flatly.
“We have not seen her,” Mrs. Kingswood offered. “Not since she left us in such high dudgeon.”
“Not even when Sir Theodore died?” Ludovic asked, keeping his voice carefully neutral.
Even so, Kingswood must have sensed some implied criticism, for he shot back, “We warned her how it would be if she insisted on marrying Cornish. We must stick to our promises.”
“I see.” Neither in his face nor his wife’s could Ludovic see much resemblance to Rebecca. She had something of her mother’s features and perhaps her father’s intelligence, but her spirit seemed to be entirely her own. “What did you imagine your daughter might do once Sir Theodore revealed his true colors?”
Kingswood snorted. “You mean this Black Widow nonsense? Of course, she didn’t murder him! She would simply be too stubborn to leave him and live apart. In fact, I’ll lay you odds she nursed the wastrel on his death bed!”
Ludovic gave him a small, glacial smile. They knew perfectly well what she had suffered and what she was suffering now and would not lift a finger to help. And yet Mrs. Kingswood’s gown was newer than anything he had seen Rebecca wear, and the house was recently and tastefully decorated, the curtains and carpets of the finest quality. Whatever settlements Rebecca had taken to her marriages, he could swear the Kingswoods had benefitted with cold, hard cash.
“It must have surprised you,” Ludovic observed, “that she wished to marry again so soon after the unhappy experience of her first marriage.”
Kingswood bristled once more. “Lord Bowden might have been older than my daughter, but I believe their short time together was perfectly contented.”
Ludovic searched his eyes. “Do you?”
A hint of defiance entered the older man’s superior gaze. “I have no reason not to.”
“Bowden’s lifestyle and tastes did not befit him for marriage to any lady,” Ludovic said carefully, “let alone a girl of seventeen. In contrast to your beliefs, sir, her short time with his lordship was a hell from which she was lucky to escape with her life.” He bit his tongue before he launched into any criticism of her second husband’s family, and while they were still gawping at him, he bowed distantly. “Thank you for your time. Good day.”
And strode from the house with more relief than when he had left Redpath Hall.
He was too involved again, trying to take up her banner of innocence with the same enthusiasm he had once pursued proof of her guilt. It seemed there were no half-measures around Rebecca Cornish. But how could these wooden, self-satisfied people have produced a vital, spirited woman like Rebecca?
One thing was certain, at least so far. No one could really blame her if she had done away with Lord Bowden. But no one except the Rawlstons seemed to believe it was even remotely likely that Rebecca had killed either of her husbands. And there was no evidence to say she did.
Chapter Eight
Ludovic returned to London by the same means he had left—on the night mail coach. After an enlightening conversation with Doctor Conway, whom he tracked down to a hospital in St. Giles, he strode into his office, flung documents to Andrews to be copied at once, and hurried into his inner office, kicking the door shut behind him.
Only then did he become aware of two small boys sitting on his desk.
He scowled at them. “Did Mr. Andrews let you in here?”
“Gawd, no, we came in through the window,” came the cheerful reply.
“It was locked.”
“No, Big Sadie left it open to airr, so we nipped inside.”
Ludovic sighed. “If I ever discover who Big Sadie is, I shall definitely be having a word with her.”
