Cheryl Holt (35 page)

Nicholas bristled but tamped down his fury. He had to reason with Alex, had to make him grasp how perverse he was being. No harm had been done. Everyone involved was a bit bruised, but alive and carrying on. What was to be gained by harping?

“Look,” he said, “if it’s about that woman, Ellen Drake—”

“Her name is Ellen Marshall, and if you ever mention her again, I shall cut out your tongue, stuff it down your throat, then watch with joy as you strangle on it. In case you haven’t noticed”—he stepped closer, as if he might
begin the bloodletting at any moment—“there’s no law in this facility. I can do whatever I wish to you and get away with it.”

Nicholas recoiled. From Alex’s livid frown it was clear he wasn’t bluffing, that he might initiate a heinous attack. Perhaps he’d had feelings for the little harlot, after all. Who would have guessed?

Alex whirled away, and Nicholas was terrified. What if Alex went and never came back? What if—as he’d threatened—he left Nicholas to rot?

“Tell me about Lydia,” he begged in a rush. “What is it I would be required to do?”

Alex stopped—thank God!—and spun around.

“You’ll marry her. Right here. Right now.”

“Now?”

“She’s waiting outside with the vicar. Once you’re wed, you’ll travel to her house in Southampton. You’ll reside there—with her—and you’ll never show your sorry face in London again.”

“And if I refuse?”

“Then you’ll remain in this cell till you draw your last breath, which is more than you deserve. I should have had you hanged.”

“Why didn’t you?”

“Because I want it over. Ellen and her brother have suffered enough because of us. I won’t put them through further anguish.”

Ellen! Ellen! Ellen!
He was so sick of her! Why should she be more important than everybody else? “I need a few days to consider. How about if we go home, and I’ll clean up, and I’ll—”

“No. This is a one-time offer. You may accept it or reject it, but I must have your answer immediately.”

Nicholas fumed and stewed, having no doubt as to what his reply would be. There wasn’t any other option. He’d have to marry Lydia, but he’d never known a woman he couldn’t manipulate, his mother being the prime example.

Yes, he’d marry Lydia. He’d journey to Southampton, spend a week or two acting repentant; then he’d hightail it for London and Suzette.

“I suppose you’ve told her the entire sordid story.”

“Yes.”

“Then why is she amenable?”

“I haven’t the vaguest idea.”

Nicholas knew why: Lydia was smitten. The old crone always had been, and he chuckled to himself. If she was so besotted, it would be that much easier to control her.

“I’ll do it.” He nodded, more confident by the second. “You may bring her in.”

“First, you must sign these papers.” Alex retrieved some documents from his satchel and laid them, a pen, and a jar of ink on the desk.

“What are they?”

“You’re relinquishing your ownership of New Haven.”

It was his only legacy from his father, his only source of legitimate income. He couldn’t surrender it! No one could make him!

“Like hell I am.”

“You’re giving it to James Drake,” Alex declared, a cold gleam in his eye. “As reparation. We can never fully compensate him, but it’s a start.”

“I’d rather die in here.”

“As I said, Nick: It’s your choice.”

They engaged in a staring match. Finally, Nicholas
grabbed the pen and scrawled his name at the bottom.

“A wise decision,” Alex jeered.

“Shut up.”

“By the way,” Alex added, “I can see how your devious mind is spinning, conjuring up schemes to thwart me. You should understand that I never intend to speak with you again. Lydia has vowed that she’ll be responsible for you, but if 1 learn that you’ve sneaked away, that you’ve come to London to visit that witch Suzette DuBois—or if you approach my wife or her brother—all bets are off. I shall have you tried and executed for attempted murder.”

“Murder!”

Alex patted the satchel. “I have all the statements. My solicitor has copies. So think twice, little brother. Think twice.”

He went to the door and shouted to a guard through the small hole. Shortly, the key grated in the lock, and Lydia waddled in, the vicar trudging behind. There was a glee about her that sent a frisson of fear down Nicholas’s spine. He rippled with dismay.

“Hello, Nicky,” she said. “Fancy meeting you here.”

Suzette sat at her dressing table, listening as people filed out of the theater, and she scowled at her reflection in the mirror.

Where was Nick?

He’d bought the house, had given her the keys; then he’d disappeared. She’d moved in, had hired servants, had purchased furniture and a new wardrobe, but she hadn’t seen him. There’d been peculiar rumors about Nick landing himself in a hideous predicament, but none of
her acquaintances could verify if they were true, and with each passing day she was growing more anxious.

The previous afternoon, a merchant had stopped by to inquire about a receipt she’d signed. He couldn’t locate Nick, and his request for payment—delivered to Nick at his brother’s mansion—had been returned unpaid. The merchant wanted his money, but it was an exorbitant amount, and Suzette hadn’t the funds to square the debt.

In fact, she didn’t have any cash. Nick was to have set up an account, but he hadn’t.

Where was the blasted oaf?

Footsteps sounded in the hall and halted outside her room. There was some murmuring; then the door was opened without anyone knocking. In a temper over the discourtesy, Suzette whipped around and found herself face-to-face with Nick’s fiancée.

The dismal woman had to have a reason for coming—a reason that included Nick—and whatever it was, she was in for a surprise. It was obvious that she was used to bullying others and, from her forbidding expression, she assumed she could push Suzette into a frightened swoon.

Well, Suzette was no wilting violet, and she wasn’t about to scurry away.

“Who the hell are you?” Suzette demanded, seizing the initiative. “You’ve barged in without invitation! Have you any notion of who I am? Be gone at once, or I shall call for the stage manager and have you thrown out.”

The woman didn’t answer Suzette’s taunt. Instead, she glanced over her shoulder at two burly men who’d accompanied her.

“That’s her.” She pointed a condemning finger at Suzette.

“Are you sure, Miss Burton?” one of the men queried; then he corrected himself. “Ah, I mean Mrs. Marshall.”

“Yes, I’m
Mrs
. Marshall now, and don’t you forget it. And I’m positive it’s her. I have no doubt.”

A quiver of alarm slithered down Suzette’s spine, but she shook it away. The fat cow! Suzette wasn’t about to be intimidated.

“Mrs. Marshall, is it?” Suzette sneered. “You may have married my dear friend Nicholas, but if you presume you have the right to—”

Suzette’s comment was cut off when Marshall strutted in as if she owned the place. The two men followed, and suddenly the space was much too crowded.

“Of all the nerve!” Suzette blustered.

“Be silent, you impertinent hussy!” Mrs. Marshall barked.

“How dare you berate me!”

Marshall looked at the men. “As I explained, my husband and I had been in the country for several weeks, but imagine my shock when I returned, only to discover that this . . . this”—she gestured at Suzette—“interloper had been camping out in our house.”

“Your
house? That house is mine.”

“She’d been apprised that we were away, so she must have thought she could take advantage without consequence. Have you ever heard of such gall?”

“You are completely deranged,” Suzette said.

“Am I?” Marshall motioned toward Suzette’s dressing table and urged one of her minions toward it. “There’s her jewelry box. Why don’t you have a peek inside?”

“I won’t allow you to snoop through my things!” Suzette declared. “Get out. All of you.”

“You have enough problems as it is,” the lead man advised. “Don’t make it any worse by resisting.”

He marched over, lifted the lid on the box, and, to Suzette’s horror, he extracted numerous gem-laden necklaces, rings, and bracelets that she’d never seen before. He held them up like a prize.

“My . . . my . . .” Marshall mused. “Who would have guessed that such a pretty, pretty girl was naught but a common thief.”

“Thief!” Suzette huffed.

The other man retrieved a length of rope from his coat. He stalked toward her, apparently intending to bind Suzette’s hands.

“What are you doing?” Suzette eased away, wondering if she could reach the hall and race off before he grabbed her.

“You’re in a peck of trouble, Miss DuBois.”

“Are you claiming I stole that jewelry?”

“Not
claiming
, miss,” the man said. “Mrs. Marshall has sworn out an affidavit, and these items are hard evidence against you.”

“But they’re not mine! I have no clue how they came to be there.”

“A likely story,” Marshall derided, and she nodded at Suzette. “Seize her.”

Both men lunged, and though Suzette fought and kicked, she was no match for their superior strength. In a thrice, they had her shackled, the rope digging into her wrists.

“I haven’t done anything!” Suzette bellowed. “The old hag is simply jealous. Her husband doesn’t love her! He loves me! He always has. I’m his mistress! She’s trying to be rid of me.”

“Please, Miss DuBois,” one of them counseled, “there’s no cause to insult Mrs. Marshall.”

“When I get out of this, I’ll do more than
insult
her. I’ll kill her.”

“An interesting wish, Miss DuBois,” Marshall stated, “but you shouldn’t count on being released any time soon. Those jewels are incredibly valuable, so you’ll probably be transported to the penal colonies. You might even be hanged. This is the type of situation with which my husband is intimately familiar. He could tell you all about it.”

“Where is Nick?” Suzette challenged. “I must talk with him!”

“With Nick?” Marshall snorted out an evil laugh. “I’m afraid you can’t. Hasn’t anyone told you? He’s gone mad as a hatter.”

Suzette ceased her struggling. “What did you say?”

“Nicky’s crazed as a bedbug. His brother had him committed to Bedlam.”

“I don’t believe you,” Suzette raged.

“It’s true, though authority over him has been relinquished to me.
I
am Nicky’s guardian, so you shouldn’t plan on seeing him ever again.” She waved toward the exit. “Take her away.”

The two men hauled her out, and though she screamed for help and her coworkers gawked with dismay, not a person leapt to her aid. She was dragged to the alley and tossed in a carriage unimpeded. With her arms trussed, she couldn’t ward off the fall, and she hit the floor with a thud. The door slammed shut, the driver clicked the reins, the horses pulled away, and she was swallowed up by the busy street, vanishing as quickly and easily as if she’d never been there, at all.

“You’ll never be invited to Christmas dinner,” Lydia cackled.

Nicholas stopped chewing and glared at her. After residing with her for eighteen torturous days, he hadn’t learned how to fully ignore her. She was insane—he’d been forced to accept the fact—and the depth of her lunacy was startling. She entered his bedchamber at all hours, would wake him and order him to perform his marital obligations. Dread and loathing were making him ill.

He had to flee, without delay, but he had no funds, and it was clear that no nuptial stipend would be granted.

He’d been swindled by her, but he couldn’t deduce how it had occurred. With his being so desperate to quit the asylum, he’d signed the marriage contract without reading it. He should have been able to trust Alex. He wouldn’t have countenanced Nick’s being destitute and totally dependent on Lydia. But had Alex known? Or had it been Lydia’s deceit?

Nick would put nothing past her, had to constantly be on guard, and the strain was unbearable. He’d tried to escape, but the sole occasion he’d sneaked to the stables and demanded a horse the groom had refused to give him one. Then the impertinent boy had tattled to Lydia, and before Nicholas could react, he’d been locked in his room like a misbehaving child.

“About what are you blathering?” He glanced over to where she was perusing a letter.

“Rebecca’s gone and wed Mr. James Drake. You remember him, don’t you? He’s Ellen Drake’s brother, the man whose life you ruined.”

He was aghast. Would the Drakes plague him forever? Why couldn’t the accursed criminal have stayed in Australia where he belonged? Instead, he was prancing about England! Marrying his betters! Flaunting his freedom! If Nicholas had plotted more carefully, the man would have been executed and none of the uproar would have transpired.

“They’ve moved to your estate,” she added, “the one your beloved mama insisted you have. What was it called? New Haven?”

“Why would you presume I give a bloody damn about that paltry farm?”

He couldn’t let her discern how much the property had meant to him. She had a penchant for cruelty, and if she had any notion that he’d enjoyed his ownership, she’d flay him with the knowledge.

“Anyway, I was saying that you shouldn’t plan on visiting them over the holidays.”