After the Scandal (44 page)

“She was a slut.”

Though he might have anticipated such a predictable slur, Tanner felt his precious control slipping from his cold palms. “She was a small, vulnerable woman.”

Hadleigh countered with an even more predictable attack. “You thieving bastard, I know all about you, Fenmore. You’re nothing more than a lying sneak thief, whose word can’t be trusted, and—”

“Enough, Hadleigh.” Lord Bennet’s voice cut into Hadleigh’s rant.

Tanner quieted the room his own way. “There is more—much more. There is the murder itself. Which took place in that same closet on the upper floor of Riverchon House. The blood of the victim still stains the wall where the housekeeper, Mrs. Dalgliesh, a servant above reproach in the employ of the Dowager Duchess of Fenmore for some twenty years, found them and brought them to the attention of Mr. Denman, who was investigating the matter at my behest.”

“This changes nothing,” Hadleigh insisted. “Nothing.”

“It changes nothing of the fact that you then murdered Maisy Carter in cold blood. Cleaning up the mess your son had created when he raped her, you thought. Crushing the life out of the struggling girl”—he was obliged to raise his voice over his grandmother’s pitiful cry of anguish—“as she fought you. You wrapped your hand around her windpipe, and choked the life out of her as ruthlessly and completely as if she had been hanged.”

There were more gasps from the ladies, and even the Earl Sanderson closed his eyes and turned away.

“But you left your mark, Your Lordship. The impression of your ring, sir. That crest of the House of Hadleigh upon your left hand. It left a mark and a bruise upon her body for the world to see.” Tanner gestured imperatively at Jack, who did his bit and held up his notebook, as if the pages within contained that very fact.

But Tanner also caught the stern eye Jack leveled on him, as if to warn him he was laying it on too thick. But Lord Bennet was the only one who mattered now, and he was caught openmouthed and slack jawed, staring at the Marquess of Hadleigh with new eyes.

“And then Hadleigh wrapped Maisy Carter’s body in the white velveteen summer cloak of his mistress”—Tanner forbore from making any further reference to the lady, as the name of one lady would invariably lead to another and
that
he would not countenance—“and spirited the dead girl’s body out of the house, and down the lawn to dump her unshriven into the river.”

Tanner held them all spellbound with the tale, and for one fraction of a moment Hadleigh looked well and truly caught, stripped bare of all his layers of cunning and influence and money. And just as quickly it was gone.

“Preposterous. This is all a … a fantasy, a story he has concocted to save his own neck from the noose. His neck that should have been stretched years ago, for it is well known that Fenmore is nothing more than a thief himself, born and bred.”

Lord Bennet swung his troubled gaze back to Tanner.

“It is an old accusation,” Tanner assured him with calm certainty. “You may be assured that the House of Fenmore made quite sure that I was the true and rightful heir, despite my unfortunate and dreadful childhood at the hands of a kidwoman.” God forgive him for abusing poor old Nan so, but he had to press his advantage; he had to strike while Lord Bennet was growing hot, and wanted such a contentious case removed from his desk and passed on to a Grand Jury. “I have spent the past sixteen years of my life in atonement for my youth. And that atonement has been a dedication to English justice that many here are prepared to attest to.”

“Hear, hear,” said the Earl Sanderson. “I will attest to that.”

“They’re all in it together. You can prove nothing,” Hadleigh spat.

“I can prove everything,” Tanner roared back at him. “I can prove that the deceased, Maisy Carter, fought you with her very last breath, because she took something from you. Took it in her hand, and held it tight while you strangled her. She clawed and ripped at you, while you choked the life out of her, didn’t she? She ripped your waistcoat—and held tight to the threads. She took the only thing that she could reach, which was your watch fob, and she held it tight until the surgeon Mr. Jackson Denman pried the trinket from her cold, stiff fingers.”

“You murderer! You murderer.” The Countess Sanderson could not contain her horror.

“Your watch fob, my lord,” Tanner continued, “the token of your financial power. The symbol of a syndicate of investors you have gathered for the purpose of the financial conquest of Britain. A syndicate of investors in a horde of gold aurei from Pompeii. But not even your investors”—here he turned to nod to the Earl Sanderson—“know that the coins are all fakes.”

He tossed the clipped, leaded forgery onto the desk where it rolled and clattered to a stop. “
Male fide
,” he intoned. “Made entirely in bad faith, of lead barely covered in gold. The evidence of which lies in this very house. Upstairs in the Marquess of Hadleigh’s traveling case.”

Lord Bennet turned to one of his men. “Go now. Secure it immediately.”

“He put it there,” Hadleigh accused. “He was in the house. He planted it there to accuse me.”

“A case with your initials stamped into the leather? Come, Hadleigh, you should know there are records, records of everything, that will prove me true. Bills of sale, or an entry into your household accounts for the purchase of such an expensive case. Your man of business will have made an entry into a ledger. His Lordship will not have to take my word for it.”

“But I will. For now,” Lord Bennet confirmed.

“No,” Hadleigh roared.

“Yes.” Tanner rose and advanced upon him, ready for any trick he might try. Ready for a gun to be brandished. Ready for the wicked slice of the letter opener. Ready for anything.

“Like a house of cards, sir, all an elaborate, fraudulent show. As is everything that the Marquess of Hadleigh has charged. It has all been
male fide,
in bad faith. Now he adds lying to a magistrate”—Tanner swept his arm toward Lord Bennet—“to his crime of murder.”

Hadleigh was nearly shaking with some frightful combination of fear and rage. “What about my son?” He played his last card. “What can you say to your assault on him?”

Tanner chose his words carefully, for he knew well he was treading on dangerous ground. “I can say nothing. I can say nothing but that he is a rapist. And a habitual, flagrant one at that. And that he deserved the brawl that ensued when we met.”

“Ha-ha! You see,” Hadleigh crowed. “He admits it.”

“I am happy, my Lord Bennet, to stand the charge of assault. It is my duty as a peer and an Englishman to face my actions before the law. I only ask that you see fit to do the same to Hadleigh.”

The eyes of every person in the room swiveled from Tanner across to Bennet.

It all hung in the balance, whether the magistrate had been swayed, or whether he would toss his hands up, and let a jury of Tanner’s peers hear his story before the King’s Bench.

“It all comes down,” Bennet said cautiously, “to the word of one man against another.”

“Indeed,” Tanner intoned. “One marquess against one duke. Rather a play on the old expression
put up your dukes.
But along with my word, I have evidence. And witnesses. I do not make conjectures.”

Lord Bennet could not make up his mind. “Be that as it may, in the end it is still one man’s word against another’s.”

“And one woman’s.” A clear voice spoke from the back. “I should like to speak on behalf of the duke.”

*   *   *

Claire could hold her tongue no longer. Even if Tanner was content to let it all come out in a trial, she was not.

“No,” Tanner said, furious and panicked. “No. Take her away from here,” he said to her father, and anyone else who would listen.

“No,” said the magistrate. “Why should she not speak? What do you think to hide?”

Claire stepped past her father’s protectively restraining hand. “He thinks to hide my part in this tragic affair.”

She stepped forward, holding her chin up high, as cool and serene as ever the lofty Duke of Fenmore could be, because she would be his duchess and learn to walk like that if she chose. And she chose now to go to him.

“And who are you?” the magistrate asked.

“I am Lady Claire Jellicoe, daughter of the Earl and Countess Sanderson. And I am the lady whom Lord Peter Rosing was attempting to…” She faltered, frozen for a moment by her shame and regret under the eyes of so many strangers. But here was only one man whose eyes counted, and so she looked to him for strength.

Tanner shook his head back and forth, silently begging her not to speak, not to expose herself to their condemnation. But she had no choice. It would not stop until someone with an unassailable reputation stood up and spoke, he had said. And so she would.

“I am the young woman whom the Duke of Fenmore aided by striking Lord Peter Rosing down. I am the young woman whom Lord Peter Rosing was attempting to compromise and force into marriage against my will. I am here”—she turned to acknowledge Hadleigh, but she would not look at him, for fear she would not be able to withstand the hatred in his eyes—“to refute each and every one of the charges laid by the Marquess of Hadleigh.”

Hadleigh’s response was as instant as it was vicious. “You can’t believe her. Look at her—she’s in love with him. She’d take his part, the little slut.”

The room gasped around her, but she would not let it stop her. “That is the second young woman you have declared a slut”—she could not stop her voice from choking over the word—“this evening, my lord. One might think you thought all women to be such, when that is not in fact the case.”

“You can’t believe a word she says.”

No one refuted Hadleigh’s accusation. But neither did anyone give it credence.

“Why not, my lord? Why is my word as the daughter of a peer any less valuable than yours? Because it is not what you want these good people to hear?” Claire pressed her whisper-slight advantage. “But I should like to speak to my Lord Bennet, who presides here, and not to the marquess. It is Lord Bennet who must weigh the evidence and the charges, and he from whom I seek permission to speak as the daughter of a peer, and as a victim of Lord Peter Rosing.”

The magistrate bestirred himself to rise. “Yes, of course. I am obliged.”

“Thank you, sir. And my statement is this—that it was Lord Peter Rosing who was guilty of assaulting me. It was Lord Peter Rosing who pulled me by the arm from the dance floor and down the length of the Dowager Duchess of Fenmore’s garden in Richmond and pushed my face into the brick wall of the boathouse.” She turned her cheek so Lord Bennet might see. “Lord Peter Rosing assaulted me, and would have…”

Claire took a deep breath. It had not happened. It was well and truly over.

“He would have continued, if the Duke of Fenmore had not come to save me.”

Her mother came to her side, and put her arm around her, but did not say anything. Lord Bennet looked from her to Hadleigh, who pulled back his lips in a sneer that told her he was about to speak.

She preempted him. “The Marquess of Hadleigh will counter this by dragging my name, and that of my father, through the muck. He will say I am a flirt and worse, much worse. But all will be lies in the service of all his other lies. The Duke of Fenmore is guilty of nothing more than defending my honor, and there is no charge against that.”

The Marquess of Hadleigh edged slightly back, and tried an entirely new gambit. “The accused can’t lay evidence against another man while he is under a charge.”

“Am I in custody, Lord Bennet?” Tanner asked quietly. “Are you going to recommend I be bound over for trial?”

“If the Duke of Fenmore cannot lay evidence, then I will.” The Earl Sanderson spoke. “I will lay all of this evidence against the Marquess of Hadleigh, and I will bear witness to the fact that the marquess’s son assaulted my daughter with the express purpose of ruining her and forcing her into marriage.”

Tanner faced the magistrate. “What is it to be, my lord?” Tanner prided himself on not holding his breath. But he almost did when Lady Claire Jellicoe reached out to take his hand.

“I find no evidence except hearsay laid against the Duke of Fenmore. But I will see the Marquess of Hadleigh taken up for a charge of murder.”

*   *   *

They came out of the villa into a fine drizzling rain that was soft against her skin. The night seemed even newer and more different than it had last night, newer and fresher, splashed and washed silver white in the light rain.

Hadleigh had been taken quickly. Tanner and Jack Denman had seen to that. It was over. And it was just beginning.

Her father and mother hovered nearby with the dowager, leaving Claire to speak to Fenmore privately.

“Why did you come?” was all Tanner said to her.

“Why did you stay?” she asked instead.

Tanner took a deep breath. “Because when you run all your life, you get tired. And you learn to stop and face your accusers, or whatever it is that’s chasing you. You learn to face them all down. I wanted to face them all down for you.”

“Ah. Poor lamb. The reason
I
came is because you stayed, and I felt we had not settled satisfactorily between us, you and I, about whether you are, or are not going to make me your wife?”

That slow, wicked smile began to curve across one side of his face. “I rather thought I did so this night, Claire.”

Claire could feel heat singe her cheeks from the warm rasp of his voice along her skin. “Properly.”

“Did I not do it properly?”

Another huge surge of warmth insinuated itself deep into her belly as his smile slowly curved along his lovely, wickedly carnal mouth. “I welcome another chance to do it properly,” he added. “You know you have only to command me, and I will—”

“Stop it. You know what I mean.”

“After what transpired between us tonight, I consider you my wife. And that is an end to it.”

“That, Your Grace, is only a beginning. My father stands ready nearby. So as I see it, you have two choices. You can either arm yourself—which I should not like to see, since you are both excellent shots, and I love you both—or you can perform some one of your feats of back-alley magic and conjure up a parson. But choose. Now.”