Always True to Her (Emerson Book 2) (23 page)

“You have disgraced us all, Irene,” said her father,
from the doorway. “I could not believe what you’d done when Mama told me.
You’ll cost me a pretty penny to marry you off once we send Emerson on his
way. But it’ll be worth it to be rid of you.”

“Father,” said Irene. “You cannot mean this.”

“I do. You’re no daughter to me anymore.”

The dowager turned to James. “What say you? I’ll
write out the contract now. We’ll have it ratified by our solicitor and
yours. You could be on the next ship to America.”

“I think we’d insist on it,” said the viscount.

“Very well,” said James as he moved away from Irene.
“I shall dictate the statement. Are you ready?”

The dowager smiled, then moved past Irene in
triumph. She removed a sheet of expensive parchment from the desk, then pulled
out the viscount’s silver pen. “I am ready when you are.”

“Very good. Then start ‘I, the Dowager Viscountess
Ainsworth, do hereby swear that I am an evil bitch who has done an incredible
injustice to my beautiful, honorable loyal granddaughter.’ The viscount can
write his own letter where he admits to being ‘an abominable father not worthy
of the treasure he has in his daughter.’ You’ve stopped writing, my lady. Was
I going too fast? I’ll be more than happy to repeat any of it.”

He turned to Irene. “My love, as you know, I have
no farm. No money. I am indebted to you and my brothers financially. And I
am indebted to you emotionally, as well. Please marry me. I am begging you.
I am ashamed that I cannot give you the life you deserve but I simply cannot be
without you.”

Tears streamed down Irene’s face. “But you must do
what is right for Anna. If they really will give you the money…”

“That would only give me a full purse and an empty
heart. And I am thinking of Anna, as well as myself. I am giving her a mother
who will love her as I do.”

“I do, James. I love her and you. I could not love
anyone as much.”

“What about any other children we may have?” He
grinned at her.

“I believe I shall have enough love for everyone.”

They kissed.

“Have a care for your father!” demanded the
dowager. “This could kill him.”

But one look at the viscount told Irene that if anything
killed him, it would be the rage that he was just barely suppressing.

“I hope that does not happen,” said Irene. “But it
doesn’t change my decision.”

“If you walk out of this house now, you can never
come back,” said the dowager.

“I am walking out of this house.”

“You are no longer my daughter,” said her father.

James pulled Irene closer. “The loss,” he said to
the viscount and the dowager, “is yours alone.”

“Get out of this house,” said the viscount. “Do not
even bother to pack a bag. Let this whoremonger who consorts with savages
provide for you. Or let him try.”

“We will be rich in love,” said James. “A necessity
your daughter has never known.”

With that, he offered Irene his arm. They left the
house of her birth and she never looked back.

They walked the short distance from Ainsworth’s
house to Layton’s. James was facing a wholly uncertain future. He had no
land, no hopes of a profession. His family had no money. His dear Irene had
only the clothes on her back and those in her valise. Yet, he could not
remember ever feeling this happy and free.

The only thing missing was Anna. But they could
leave for Wiltshire in the morning and they’d be able to give Anna – and the
rest of his family – the good news.

“You look quite pleased, James,” said Irene as she
squeezed his arm.

“I have the love of my life walking next to me. Why
should I not be elated?”

“This did not end the way you were hoping when you
first appeared at my former home a few weeks ago.”

“No, it did not transpire the way I thought it
would. But I could not have imagined a better outcome.”

“Can we leave for Wilshire in the morning? I cannot
wait to see Anna. I hope the others don’t mind having yet another person move
in.”

“I daresay that will be almost as happy as I. But
no one is as happy as I.”

“I don’t know about that. I believe I am even
happier. For now I will have a husband and a daughter.”

They entered Layton’s house, only to hear Simon
Chilcott speaking to Williams in the study.

“I believe the day may get even better when I kick Chilcott
out of this house,” said James, as he kissed Irene, then led her to the study.
“It shan’t take but a moment.”

They found Chilcott drinking more of Nick’s brandy.

“Chilcott,” said James. “I thought I made myself
clear.”

Nick’s cousin held up a placating hand. “Do not
worry. I will leave forthwith. I am only here to do you and your family a
favor. There’s some gossip about your sister, Mrs. Pierce.”

James stilled. “What of her?”

“She’s been arrested for murder. Seems she finally knocked
off that tradesman husband of hers. They’re holding her at Newgate.”

*

Please continue reading for a sneak peek
at Winifred’s book….

Mrs. Winifred Pierce, once known as Lady Winifred,
daughter of the late Earl of Ridgeway, sat huddled in the cold interrogation
room in Newgate prison. They’d brought her straight there instead of stopping
first at Bow Street, as was the norm, especially when the accused was a member
of the
ton.

Her gown was covered in blood. Her hands were
stained with it. Even her fingernails were encrusted with it. Both of her
eyes were blackened, there was a cut on her cheek and her jaw was swollen. The
way she was holding her arm against her mid-section gave every indication that
at least one rib was cracked or broken. She was staring down at the table and
had given little more than one-syllable answers for the three hours she’d been
questioned.

She said she didn’t know what had happened. She’d
found her husband dead in his study, his throat cut. When the butler had
walked in he’d sent for the police. There was no sign of forced entry in the
house. Mr. Pierce had no enemies. And his family had been adamant that only
one person might have motive to kill him: Mrs. Pierce

And that’s what had made Sergeant Ambrose Fisk so
suspicious. When a man is violently murdered in his own home, he has an
enemy. And likely more than one.

From the looks of Mrs. Pierce, there was little doubt
in Fisk’s mind who’d beaten her so severely. She certainly would have motive
to kill her husband. And whether the law said it was right or not, Fisk
figured the bastard had it coming. But the woman before him looked too broken
to have done such as act. Not to mention if those ribs hurt as much as he
imagined they did, she wouldn’t have had the strength to carry out the attack.

He’d been at the crime scene. The late Mr. Pierce
had been a large man, with hands the size of ham hocks. His knuckles had been
scraped and there were scars beneath that. Some abusers kept their violence
hidden so their victims could be paraded about with no one the wiser. But,
obviously, Mr. Pierce hadn’t cared.

As bad as Mrs. Pierce’s injuries were – and they
were bad – Fisk didn’t think they had made the scrapes on Pierce’s knuckles.
He’d fought with someone else recently. Perhaps his killer. Perhaps someone
else entirely. It was worth running that down before they did anything foolish
like arrest Mrs. Pierce.

Unfortunately, it was not his call to make.
Inspector Dunlop was in charge. And if there was a man prone to foolishness,
it was Dennis Dunlop.

Fisk had quite happily served under Inspector Joseph
Stapleton. Inspector Stapleton had even recruited Fisk to the force, when he’d
been biding his time working menial jobs. Fisk had lost a leg in the war and
it had been difficult to find work. But Inspector Stapleton had made him his
sergeant and been a good friend to him. He still was, but he was recently
married and splitting his time between his estate and working as a consultant
to the Home Office.

If Joseph were there, he’d see the inconsistencies
of the circumstances. He’d have doubts about Mrs. Pierce’s guilt. And he
wouldn’t have spent three hours questioning her when it was clear the lady was
only becoming weaker. He’d get her a surgeon for no other reason than it
tended to ingratiate a suspect to you.

But Joseph wasn’t there.

Fisk continued to observe from a darkened corner. A
constable came in to speak to Dunlop.

“A toff is demanding to see her. A Lord James
Emerson.”

Mrs. Pierce looked up and for the first time seemed
almost hopeful.

“What the devil is his interest in the case?” asked
Dunlop.

“Says ‘e’s her brother.”

Mrs. Pierce nodded her head. It looked like it took
a great deal of effort to do so. “May I see him?”

Dunlop looked at her for a moment, then he turned to
the darkened glass behind him where others often watched the interrogations.
Fisk wasn’t sure who was back there, since the door had already been closed
when he’d arrived. There was a slat in the wall where they could hear what was
happening, but there had been no sound from that room. Now there came one
knock on the glass.

That meant no.

“You can’t see no one, Mrs. Pierce,” said Dunlop.

“When can I go home?”

This time Dunlop walked over to the glass and put
his ear against the slat, listening. Whatever was said made him pause. He
whispered something back, then listened again. He nodded and returned.

“You can’t go home. We’re holding you tonight.
Here at Newgate.”

“What?” Fisk rose from his seat. It was highly
irregular to hold anyone but the most hardened criminals in Newgate awaiting
arraignment. They rarely held peers and Fisk couldn’t remember the last time
they’d held a female suspect who was a member of the
ton
. It wasn’t
that toffs didn’t commit crimes. It was that they had powerful friends who
could make life difficult for the police. It was usually only when the
evidence was irrefutable that such measures were taken.

“Why not release her into the custody of Lord James?”
asked Fisk.

“And have him spirit her out of the country?
Absolutely not,” said Dunlop.

“But it ain’t safe for a lady to be in Newgate
overnight. You know that.” If one of the other prisoners didn’t kill her for
her gown – bloodstained or not, it was worth money – she was likely to be
assaulted by one or more of the guards.

Something very odd was going on. And it didn’t sit
well with Fisk.

“Last I checked this wasn’t none of your concern,”
said Dunlop. “I’m not your precious Stapleton here to listen to your theories.
You’re the sergeant and you’ll do what you’re told. And I’m telling you to
leave.”

One of the constables came in to collect Mrs. Pierce
for processing. Fisk reckoned he had upwards of an hour until she was taken to
a cell, maybe more.

Dunlop left the room and Fisk waited five minutes to
make his exit. As he suspected, the door to the observation room was open and
three toffs were in there with one of the magistrates. Two men and a woman.
But he didn’t recognize any of them.

Fisk walked through the dank corridor until he found
a friendly face, a junior constable who’d also come up under Stapleton.

“How’d you like a smoke?” asked Fisk.

“Yer a lifesaver, sergeant.”

Fisk handed him a cigarette he’d rolled earlier that
day. Though he didn’t smoke himself, he’d learned long ago that tobacco
loosened more tongues than liquor, and more reliably, as well.

“Who are the toffs?” he said, motioning to the
observation room.

“Kin of the deceased. They hate the widow. Says
she deserves to hang or worse.”

“Worse?”

The constable shrugged. “Just what I heard some of
the fellows talkin’ ‘bout. Didn’t hear it meself. But they certainly seem to
hate her.”

“Is there a lot of blunt at stake?”

“Too early to tell. You never know from
appearances, but I reckon there’s got to be some blunt to get them that upset
at the widow if she’s in line to inherit. Gotta get back to work. Thanks for
the smoke.”

Well that was that.
Fisk wasted no time in getting out of the dingy maze of Newgate. He’d become
adept at moving with speed despite his wooden leg. If Stapleton had been in
town, he would have appealed to him. But with him in the country, there was
only one place to turn.

He had to ask a favor from someone very powerful.

He hailed a cab and gave him an address in Mayfair,
telling him to hurry. After a seeming eternity, he arrived. He ran up the
steps to the imposing manor and rapped on the door.

Moments later, the butler opened it.

“Sergeant Fisk,” the man said. “Welcome.”

“I hate to bother him, but it’s urgent. Might be a
matter of life or death.”

The butler evaluated the situation in the blink of
an eye, then instead of telling Fisk to wait there while he was announced, he simply
said “Follow me, sergeant.”

Fisk followed the butler upstairs, then
surprisingly, into the family wing. The butler knocked on a door, then called
within.

“Your grace, Sergeant Fisk is with me. He is on a
matter of urgency, possibly life and death. He requests an audience.”

After a moment, Fisk heard a deep voice on the other
side of the door.

“I shall be ready directly. Just one moment,
please.”

Fisk waited, hoping he’d taken the best course of
action in coming here. For if he had to start over, it would only delay
matters. Finally, the voice on the other side bade them entrance.

The door to the Duke of Lynwood’s dressing room opened.
The duke was there, impeccably attired. Only three things indicated he had
been interrupted while in the midst of something else. One was that his color
was heightened. The second was that he was standing behind a chair. The third
was that the Duchess of Lynwood was flustered. Her hair was mussed, her
petticoats were showing on the right side and she looked like she’d been
thoroughly tupped.

Which Fisk was certain she had been.

“Yer grace, yer grace,” he said, bowing to them
both. “I am so sorry to interrupt you, but I fear Lady Winifred Pierce will
lose her life this night in Newgate if I don’t have your assistance.”

The duchess said “Oh, dear” and looked at her
husband.

The Duke of Lynwood said, “I am at your service, Sergeant.
Tell me how I can help.”