Alyssa Everett (18 page)

All four of them, the Leonards’ three servants and Mr. Dawson, ignored me. With flinty determination they hauled me back to a drab, cheerless room and up onto the raised platform at one end, where iron railings enclosed a padded bench. Apparently this was the dock, for I was summarily dragged up to the enclosure and shoved inside. A jailer with a ring of keys hanging from his hip had been leaning with a look of boredom against the outer rail, but as I stumbled in to join the grubby street urchin and the two lightskirts already inside, he eyed me with undisguised curiosity.

He wasn’t the only curious spectator. On the same raised platform as the dock stood the witness box, and beyond it, the magistrates’ desk. In the lower part of the rooms, however, members of the general public stood gawking at those of us awaiting justice. Seeing so many eyes turned my way, I was momentarily startled into silence, too shocked by the scrutiny even to fashion another protest.

The most important pair of eyes in the courtroom, of course, belonged to the magistrate. He sat behind his battered desk, a clerk at his elbow. He wasn’t even the chief magistrate—I knew from the papers that was a new appointee, a man named Sir Robert Baker—but at that moment, he held my fate in his hands.

The magistrate had been in the process of questioning the lightskirts when I arrived. After finishing his examination, he acquitted both women for want of evidence—an encouraging sign, I hoped. I assumed I’d have to wait my turn behind the street urchin, but whether due to the gravity of the charge or to my rank or both, the court addressed my case next.

The magistrate looked me up and down. “I know you, don’t I? Have you been before this court before?”

I drew myself up stiffly. “Certainly not.”

The clerk consulted a piece of paper handed to him by Mr. Dawson. “He’s the Marquess of Beningbrough. He’s here to answer to a charge of homicide.”

“Homicide!” said the magistrate.

Mr. Dawson had taken his place in the witness box. “Yes, your worship. One murder happened scarcely an hour ago, and he remains a suspect in an earlier death which occurred at the same location.”

I lunged to the dock rail. “I haven’t killed anyone, and that other death was ruled an accident.”

At my outburst, the jailer guarding the dock stirred from his torpor. “Quiet, you.” Remembering to whom he was speaking, he added uncertainly, “I mean—my lord.”

“You’ll have your turn to speak in a moment, Lord Beningbrough,” the magistrate told me. He looked at Mr. Dawson. “I take it you were a witness to the events?”

“I was.” While the magistrate’s clerk scribbled furiously, Mr. Dawson proceeded to relate how he’d been on his way to Lord Woodford’s house to settle the final details relating to Sam Garvey’s burial. Passing before Leonard House, he’d spotted me outside the servants’ entrance, bent over Harriman’s lifeless body.

“And did you actually see the accused strike down the dead man?” asked the magistrate.

Finally, someone had thought to ask the all-important question. “Of course he didn’t!” I burst out.

The magistrate cast a stern look in my direction. “Lord Beningbrough, do contain yourself. You’ll have your say once I’ve heard from this witness.”

“’E don’t take kindly to speaking out o’ turn,” whispered the street urchin sharing the dock with me, his sage air clearly the fruit of prior experience. “I’d stubble it if I wuz you.”

How had this happened to me? Only an hour before, Barbara had been in my arms, soft and eager and like a taste of heaven, and now I was in a shabby courtroom, accused of murder. I’d always resented my father for bringing our family the worst kind of notoriety, but even he had never been dragged bodily before a magistrate, charged with a felony. I could still picture Barbara’s horrified face as her family’s servants had hauled me away.

Only one hope remained to me, that the magistrate would dismiss the case. Though my father’s peerage entitled him to the privilege of a trial in the Lords, I was only a marquess by courtesy, and thus technically a commoner until I inherited the dukedom. If the court accepted Mr. Dawson’s version of the events, I’d be clapped in irons and led off to prison like an ordinary criminal. What if a jury believed me guilty? Murder was a hanging offense.

Meanwhile, the real murderer was still on the loose and could strike again at any time. I already knew from the peephole in Barbara’s room and the eye at the window today that the killer was watching her. She could be his next target.

“I didn’t actually see the fatal blow fall,” Mr. Dawson said, “but I caught the accused in the act of attempting to conceal the body.”

I surged to the rail again. “I wasn’t concealing the body, I was trying to discover his identity!”

I’d hoped my explanation might carry some weight with the magistrate, but he peered severely down his nose at me. “I’ve already warned you about these interruptions, Lord Beningbrough.”

“You heard his worship,” the jailer said. “Er, my lord.”

I gritted my teeth and struggled to keep silent. It wasn’t easy. There could be no question of bail in a murder case. How could I find the real killer, or keep Barbara safe, while locked in a prison cell? How could I prove my own innocence?

“Might the accused have been merely determining the dead man’s identity, as he claims?” the magistrate asked Mr. Dawson.

The clerk scribbled furiously.

Mr. Dawson’s forehead wrinkled. “It’s true enough he was rifling the victim’s pockets. But the victim’s body was still warm to the touch, and the accused seemed not all fazed by dealing with a dead body.”

“Yet you didn’t actually see Lord Beningbrough strike down the victim.”

“No, your worship.”

Before I could breathe a sigh of relief, however, Mr. Dawson pressed on. “But there are other circumstances pointing to his guilt. Alongside the body in the first death, the one ruled an accident, I noted a blunt instrument which might have been used as a murder weapon, and the second victim died of a similar blow to the head. I now believe the coroner’s verdict in the first case was in error. Lord Beningbrough was present at Leonard House on the date of both deaths, and a witness testified at the inquest that his lordship had a personal relationship with the first victim. He’s of a size and strength to have dispatched both men with a single blow. Moreover, the accused is widely known for his hot temper.”

“Hot temper?” I spluttered. “Oh, come now. This is ridiculous!”

I realized at once I’d made a tactical error.
Ridiculous
is not a word dear to any magistrate’s heart, at least not when applied to the legal proceedings in his charge, and throwing it about only lent credence to Mr. Dawson’s assessment of my character. The magistrate pursed his lips in an expression of annoyance.

I struggled to contain my frustration. “Forgive me, but I hardly see how Mr. Dawson is qualified to offer an opinion on my temper. We’re scarcely acquainted.”

The magistrate reflected a moment. “Lord Beningbrough, do you know a gentleman by the name of Henry Rigsby?”

“Rigsby?” I couldn’t think what
he
had to do with the case. At Eton, Rigsby had been my first and most gleeful tormentor, two years my senior and never scrupling to take advantage of the greater size those years conferred. I could still hear his crowing voice taunting, “Your father is a bugger.” At least I’d obtained some measure of satisfaction in recent years, since my last brush with Rigsby had involved thrashing him in a fistfight after he’d mouthed the word
princess
at me outside the Albion coffeehouse. I’d broken his nose with my first punch. “As a matter of fact, I do. I—”

“Henry Rigsby is my nephew,” the magistrate said. “This court is well acquainted with your temper, Lord Beningbrough.”

I knew then and there that the magistrate had no intention of dismissing the charges against me.

Chapter Seventeen

Barbara

We arrived too late. The court was in recess, and when the four of us—the duke, the barrister the duke had conjured up as if by magic, Cliburne and I—mobbed the magistrate’s clerk to inquire about Ben’s hearing, the clerk simply shook his head and read the verdict from a sheet of paper. “Held to answer.”

I didn’t understand. Held to answer to a murder charge? Neither Cliburne nor I had even had an opportunity to speak on Ben’s behalf. How could the magistrate have decided so quickly that Ben belonged in prison?

“We mustn’t let it worry us unduly,” said Sir Francis Ames, KC, the gaunt, gray-haired barrister the duke had retained. “These committal proceedings require a much lower standard of proof than a jury trial. It’s no indication Lord Beningbrough will be found guilty.”

“And Ben was without benefit of counsel.” The duke spoke in a bracing tone, though I’d seen the troubled look that had crossed his face at the clerk’s news. “Sir Francis here is the very best.”

“Yes, and remember how well things turned out for me at the inquest,” Cliburne pointed out for the second time.

I forced a smile and nodded, but only because they all seemed so determined to pretend we had no cause for concern.

Unfortunately, it was impossible to completely dispel the air of gloom. Sir Francis sighed and shook his head. “I can’t think why the magistrate didn’t suspend the proceedings, at least until Lord Beningbrough could secure counsel.”

“I know why,” piped a fluting voice behind me, only the words were spoken in such a strong Cockney accent, they came out sounding more like
Oy knaow woy
. We turned as one to find a raggedly dressed boy of no more than eight or nine, thin and dirty and with a shock of brown hair hanging in his eyes.

“Do you really know?” I stooped down to peer encouragingly into the soot-streaked little face. “We’re interested in what happened to a gentleman who was brought here—tall, not quite thirty years old, with dark hair and—”

“Oy know the cove you mean, miss. A bang-up swell wif a rum phizz like this ’ere gen’lman’s.” The boy gestured with a tilt of his head at the duke. “Markis o’ Beningbrough, ’e sez, and a lot more beside.”

“A lot more beside?”

The boy nodded. “Oy warned ’im, miss, but ’e wouldn’t keep ’is gob shut. Well, that’s a mistake, innit? ’E got more and more peppery, ’til finally the beak tells ’im ’e needs to mind ’is manners and packs ’im off to the Whit.”

Cliburne’s brow furrowed in puzzlement. “The Whit?”

“Newgate,” our informant translated succinctly. “Charged wif two murders, ’e was, one today and one afore that.”

I gasped. “
Two
murders!”

The duke’s expression looked even graver than before. “Thank you, young man. You’ve been most helpful.” He tossed the boy a half guinea—the sum brought a look of stunned gratitude to the child’s face—before turning back to Sir Francis. “Newgate. I feared that quick temper of Ben’s would land him in trouble one day.”

I was too shaken by the way events were spinning out of control to offer any words of comfort. So now Ben was charged not just with Mr. Harriman’s murder, but with Sam Garvey’s as well? If only we hadn’t arrived too late to speak on Ben’s behalf... And where was John Mainsforth? He knew Ben had left the house only a short time before Mr. Dawson happened on the scene. Why hadn’t Mr. Mainsforth come here to testify while Cliburne and I were meeting with the duke?

But I knew the answer. Why should Mr. Mainsforth wish to clear his cousin when Ben made the perfect scapegoat? Unfortunately, when I’d told the duke my suspicions about his nephew, he had merely nodded without comment, a certain reticence in his manner suggesting he wasn’t entirely convinced.

Just then I spotted a familiar face in the courtroom. Frye, my family’s footman, stood amid the crowd of spectators, his eyes fixed on me.

Frye! How could I have forgotten about him? He’d been among the servants Mr. Dawson had enlisted to aid in Ben’s arrest. Perhaps he could shed some light on what had happened here. “Excuse me a moment, would you?” I said to the gentlemen with me, and slipped away to have a word with my footman.

As soon as Frye spied my approach, he smiled apologetically. “I’m sorry I haven’t returned to my post yet, my lady. I was about to leave when I saw you come in. I thought it best to see whether you required anything first.”

To judge from Frye’s looks, Ben must have put up quite a struggle. Frye’s livery was rumpled, with one sleeve torn at the shoulder, two buttons missing from his coat, and a strip of gold braid dangling by a thread. Still, I took no satisfaction in his battle-scarred appearance. It wasn’t his fault Ben had been arrested. He’d merely been following orders.

“It’s all right, Frye. I’m relieved to find you here. At least you can tell me what happened. Did you explain to the magistrate how little time Beningbrough would have had to attack the dead man?”

Frye’s brow knitted. “What?”

He wasn’t usually so obtuse. “Back home, you were stationed at the front door just before Lord Beningbrough’s arrest, weren’t you? You must have seen him rush out of the house. Did you tell the magistrate how only a minute or two passed before Mr. Dawson called out for his arrest?”

Frye looked down and mumbled, “I wasn’t asked to testify, my lady.”

I threw a glare in the direction of the magistrate’s vacant desk. “Well, we’ll just see about that! Not allowed to testify? What kind of courtroom—”

“Not
asked
to testify, my lady. And if I had been, I’d have had to tell the truth in any case.”

That brought me up short. “What do you mean, you’d have had to tell the truth? It happened just as I said. Lord Beningbrough left the morning room only a minute or two before his arrest.”

Frye avoided my gaze. “I hardly noticed how much time went by, my lady. I was at my post, admitting Mr. Mainsforth, when Lord Beningbrough went charging out, grim as death...”

That was hardly promising, but I persisted. “At least you could’ve testified Mr. Mainsforth had only recently arrived, and might have dispatched the victim himself before knocking on our door. How did he look when you admitted him—rumpled? Furtive?”

“No, my lady, there was naught amiss with Mr. Mainsforth. It was only after Lord Beningbrough went out...” Frye shook his head. “Well, never mind. I was probably only imagining it.”

“Out with it, Frye. This is no time to stand on ceremony. If you have information that could bear on Lord Beningbrough’s case, you must say so.”

“It’s nothing, my lady, except Lord Beningbrough did have that strange look in his eye...” When I skewered Frye with a look of my own, he said, “The truth is, not long after I closed the door behind his lordship, I heard a commotion outside.”

“A commotion—
after
Lord Beningbrough went out?”

Frye nodded. “An awful scuffle, my lady, or so it seemed to me. Quick but violent. Though, as I say, it may be that I was only imagining it, for that’s what I thought at the time. I even said to myself, ‘Frye, that’s just your suspicious nature talking.’ You see, my lady, I’ve never quite trusted Lord Beningbrough, not since I first heard those shameful rumors about him.”

“You mean about his father.”

He shook his head. “No, my lady. I mean about Lord Beningbrough, and how he’s ruined more than one innocent young lady.”

I was too shocked to hide my dismay. “That sounds like vulgar gossip.”

“I’m sorry, my lady. You’re right, of course. True or not, it isn’t my place to repeat it, or to judge my betters either. It’s only what I’ve heard.”

“Heard where?”

“Different places, my lady. From other servants, like Lord Cliburne’s man. I figure he would know. And I’ve heard talk in taverns and from tradesmen as well.”

Ben, a libertine? Could it be true? It would explain that dreadful caricature in the paper, insinuating that Ben had inherited his father’s morals and that I was his hapless dupe. Ben himself had told me he’d been with a good many girls. What if the freedoms I’d permitted earlier meant nothing more to him than—

I caught myself. What was I doing? This wasn’t the time to doubt Ben or give in to my fears. I could worry later. Right now, a murderer remained on the loose, and Ben faced the possibility of execution.

I drew myself up and did my best to look disapproving. “No matter how composed Mr. Mainsforth may have looked when you admitted him today, Frye, I’m convinced he’s the real killer.”

Sir Francis James strolled up to join us. “What’s that, Lady Barbara?”

I’d nearly forgotten Sir Francis. As Ben’s legal counsel, he was just the man to take my suspicions seriously. Careful not to reveal the potentially ruinous details of the blackmail plot and Helen’s part in the business, I told him, “There must be a way we can prove who really committed these murders. I have a piece of evidence, one Mr. Dawson doesn’t know about.”

“What kind of evidence?” the barrister asked with a gleam of interest, as beside him, Frye’s eyes grew round.

“A notebook that belonged to Sam Garvey, the first victim. On the night he was murdered—”

“I thought that was an accident,” Frye broke in.

“I believe he was murdered,” I told Sir Francis, giving Frye an admonishing look, “and so does Lord Beningbrough. Sam Garvey’s last entry in the notebook reads
Meet with M
. Don’t you see?
Mainsforth
starts with
M.
Sam must have had an appointment that night to meet with John Mainsforth.”

Sir Francis nodded pensively. “One can’t be sure of the identification at this point, of course, but the entry could be significant. Might I see this notebook for myself, Lady Barbara?”

“Yes, of course. I’m eager to help in any way I can. It’s at Leonard House, in my room there.”

“I’ll send a messenger for it.” Bowing, Sir Francis left to confer with the duke.

He’d no sooner gone than Frye gave me an anxious look. “Your pardon, my lady. I’m sure you know better than me...”

“Yes, Frye?”

“Again, it’s not my place, but...” Hesitantly, he suggested, “Have you never thought that ‘Meet with M’ could mean ‘Meet with Marquess’?”

My stomach lurched as if the bottom had dropped out of it. “What?”

“That’s his lordship’s title, isn’t it, my lady? Marquess of Beningbrough. Mightn’t Sam Garvey have been planning to meet with the marquess?”

“Of course not.” Helen had made up the rumored connection between Ben and Sam Garvey out of whole cloth. She’d told me so herself. Yet despite my swift denial, I suddenly wished I’d never mentioned the notebook. If even Frye supposed that
Meet with M
referred to Ben, who could say a jury wouldn’t draw the same conclusion?

“I’m sorry, my lady.” Frye’s voice was so pitying, it sounded almost loverlike. “I’ve upset you, I can see. But from what I’ve heard, you wouldn’t be the first young lady to develop feelings for the likes of Lord Beningbrough, and it fair makes me sick to think any man would deceive you.”

“Thank you,” I said dully, too shaken even to come to Ben’s defense.

“I mean it, my lady. None of the Quality has ever been as kind to me as you have. Even before that time I broke her ladyship’s Egyptian statue and you took the blame yourself, I knew you were special. There’s nothing I wouldn’t do for you.
Nothing.
” His hazel eyes fairly burned with sincerity.

“That’s...commendable.” After a few more absent commonplaces, I drifted back toward Cliburne and the duke. It wasn’t that I didn’t appreciate Frye’s loyalty. One couldn’t ask for a more devoted servant. But I’d come to him hoping for some measure of reassurance, and the things he’d said had left me more in doubt than ever.

Ben

I spread my arms in a gesture of welcome, a smile pasted on my face. “Come in, come in. It’s not the Royal Pavilion, I grant you, but it’s comfortable enough.”

The hearty tone and the smile were for my mother’s benefit. She stood on the threshold of my prison cell, clutching my father’s arm, gaping in evident horror. Her eyes were red rimmed, and she was so pale I feared she might faint at any moment. She
had
fainted, I’d learned from Sir Francis, when my father broke the news of my arrest. I wished for her sake that she hadn’t just had to make the long walk through innumerable gates and dank, foul-smelling passages to my cell, a prison guard in attendance all the way.

“Don’t look so alarmed, Mama,” I said as my father ushered her inside and the turnkey locked the heavy door behind them. “I’m perfectly well, as you can see for yourself.”

“Yes, he’s as hale as ever, Margaret,” my father said.

But I could imagine how she must feel, seeing the inside of Newgate for the first time. It was a grim place of rough black stone and iron bars, made even less habitable by the constant din of lament and the reek of unwashed bodies. At least I was one of the lucky ones, a privileged class of inmate thanks both to my rank and to my current status as untried suspect rather than convicted felon. Most of Newgate’s prisoners were shackled and crowded together in rough wards, while I had my own cell with a grated window, a cot, candles and even a modicum of privacy, since mine was the last cell off the passageway.

“Oh, Benny,” my mother burst out as soon as the guard’s footsteps shuffled away. “You look dreadful! You’re so thin and pale, and they won’t even let Hawkins attend you to give you a decent shave. And this awful place...!”

“It’s not so bad, Mama. I have books to read, and I’m allowed visitors. Sir Francis Ames was here just this morning.”

“But this cell—so small and dark, and not even a fire to warm you! You’ll take your death of chill, I know you will.”

“He’ll be fine, Margaret,” my father said. “You can’t really believe he’s grown thinner and paler in the space of just twenty-four hours. There’s little I can do about the fire, but I’ll arrange for one of the turnkeys to bring him tea this evening.”

“It’s quite a large cell, really,” I told her. “At least by Newgate standards. The best to be had. They moved another man out to make room for me, so there’s something to be said for being a duke’s son.”