Demon of Mine (12 page)

“
Damon has a fiancé?”
Elsie’s mouth dried rapidly, until she almost expected her tongue
to crackle like old parchment. Her stomach plummeted, and the
sudden shakiness in her limbs made her glad she hadn’t risen from
bed.

There was a hint of pity in Jenny’s
voice. “You didn’t know? I thought for sure that the servants at
Hertfordshire would be gossiping about it. I suppose they must have
forgotten in all the excitement of the trial.”

Elsie lay propped against her pillows
with her hands knotted in her lap. She’d felt the color drain out
of her face and knew she must look pale. The smart thing to do
would be to feign innocent interest in Damon’s beautiful fiancé for
the sake of avoiding another lecture from Jenny, but Elsie couldn’t
bring herself to do anything other than lie there, feeling vaguely
ill. It was stupid, of course. How could she possibly be jealous of
a woman she’d never met because of a man she had absolutely no
claim to? Never in a thousand years would one of England’s
wealthiest heirs be betrothed to a housemaid he’d rescued from the
filthy factory slums. A sensitive boy could have just as easily
taken pity on a stray cat as a pauper’s orphan. So why did it come
as a surprise to hear that he was engaged to a suitable
woman?

Jenny’s voice was cautiously wary.
“You and Damon… Did you steer clear of him while at Hertfordshire,
as I warned you to?”

Elsie said nothing.

“
Oh Elsie, tell me you
did!” Jenny pulled Elsie’s hands from her lap and forced her own
between them, squeezing tightly. “Please tell me you haven’t become
involved with Damon.”

“
I haven’t. Truly.” The
answer came automatically to Elsie’s lips, and she was unsure of
whether or not it was a lie. While she hadn’t gone to bed with
Damon, they’d shared a greater sort of intimacy – something more
than simple lust and curiosity. For Heaven’s sake, he’d tasted her
blood! To say that she’d been ‘involved’ with him was an
understatement, to say the least, but not in the way Jenny
assumed.

Jenny breathed a sigh of relief. “I’m
sorry. I thought… The look on your face…” She was clearly anxious
to avoid another fiasco like the one their last conversation had
ended in.

“
I’m surprised, is all. The
servants at Hertfordshire gossip a great deal, and I hadn’t heard
them breathe a word of it.”

“
Yes, well, the
trial—”

“
Of course.”

The door swung open, mercifully
interrupting the awkward silence that had sprung up between the two
maids. Elsie’s sigh of relief quickly turned to a barely-stifled
groan when she saw who had entered.

Even with her poor vision, she could
make out the short, rotund shape of Mrs. Remington’s preferred
physician. She managed a polite greeting, pretending that the mere
sight of the man didn’t make her want to climb out one of the
windows. Pulling her hands from Jenny’s, she awaited the inevitable
bleeding. It came soon enough, along with a slew of questions about
her recent episodes and vision problems. Jenny gasped when the
physician rolled up Elsie’s sleeve. “Where on earth did those marks
on your wrist come from?”

Elsie grimaced as the physician lanced
into the tender skin in the crook of her arm, releasing a stream of
blood. “I’m not sure. I only know that I sustained the wounds as I
fell, during one of my attacks. They were there when I
woke.”

“
They look ghastly. Do they
hurt much?”

Did they really look that bad? Elsie
squinted at the pinpricks, dark with dried blood, and cursed
herself for not asking the physician to bleed her other arm
instead. She’d forgotten about the wounds, and her explanation was
a lame one. “No. I forgot they were there, to tell the truth.” She
clenched her hand, hiding the tiny puncture mark on her fingertip.
“I’m so glad you came, Jenny. But won’t you be in trouble if you
don’t get back to your duties?”

“
Not at all. Mrs. Remington
said that I might stay by your side and tend to your needs until
you leave for the trial.”

“
How kind of her.” A part
of Elsie was glad. Another part of her dreaded having to show a
brave face to her friend, pretending that the news of Damon’s
engagement was nothing more than an interesting bit of
gossip.

****

Elsie fought to suppress a wave of
nervousness as the carriage rolled to a stop. Having determined
that Elsie would need a guide to navigate the courthouse without
embarrassing or hurting herself, Mrs. Remington had assigned Jenny
to the task. Elsie let her friend help her out of the carriage,
gripping her arm as she climbed out of the cab to stand in front of
the sizeable edifice that was the Central Criminal Court of
England. Old Bailey, the servants had called it when they’d
gossiped about Damon’s impending trial. The term seemed too casual,
too friendly and familiar for this foreboding structure. Inside,
Damon’s fate would be determined, and Elsie would play a role in
reaching – or missing – justice. Everything passed in a blur of
flapping tail coats, rustling skirts and excited voices until
somehow they were inside the court room, and a clerk began the
session by reading Damon’s sentence.

The word murder rang throughout the
overly warm, crowded courtroom, silencing the buzzing remnants of
conversation that had persisted until then. The crime levied
against Damon was apparently grave enough to convince the
chatterers that their silence would be rewarded with riveting
drama. Griffith’s lawyer spoke first, his voice ringing with a
level of pomposity achieved only by those who know they are at the
center of attention in a matter that has monopolized an entire
city’s gossip mills. As everyone listened in a dead hush, he
painted a story of debt and flaring tempers that ultimately ended
in a murderous rage.

It was completely ridiculous, of
course. Why would Damon Remington, one of the richest heirs in
London, kill a man over a gambling debt that amounted to a few mere
pence when compared to his own wealth? While contemplating the
persecutor’s ludicrous case, Elsie blinked at a figure announced as
the constable who’d been summoned to the site of the
murder.

“
Near three in the morning
on the second of August, I was summoned to an alley just outside
Green’s gentlemen’s club, which is well known by Londoners. Some
patrons from the club said that there had been murder done, and I
found Lord Griffith dead sure enough, run through the gut with a
blade and still warm. The accused, Damon Remington, was not there,
but half a dozen men swore to me that they’d seen him go outside
with Griffith not fifteen minutes before, and that he’d looked
angry.”

The younger Lord Griffith
spoke next. Though Elsie couldn’t make out his face, she could
remember it fairly well from a time she’d seen him at a Remington
party years ago. She pictured his square jaw, slight double chin
and watery blue eyes as his bitter voice filled the courtroom. As
butterflies burst into anxious flight inside her stomach at the
thought of giving her own testimony, she wondered whether his
passion was genuine or a clever bit of acting. The
haute ton
were adept at
insincerity and even treachery. No one knew that better than the
servants of the wealthy, who labored quietly in the background,
witnessing happenings that would never be tolerated within their
own ranks.

“
Mr. Remington murdered my
brother,” Griffith declared boldly. “It is well known among the
gentlemen of Green’s that my brother owed
Mr
. Remington” – he sneered as he
emphasized Damon’s lack of a noble title – “a certain sum of money.
Fifty pounds, to be exact – a gaming debt accrued while playing
cards.”

A hushed buzz swept through the
assembled crowd. Not paying one’s gambling debts was considered the
height of ungentlemanly behavior. Most lords would rather have the
coats taken off their backs than to heap such indignity upon
themselves.

“
Mr. Remington is a
foul-tempered man,” Griffith continued, “and he became incensed
when my brother failed to pay immediately. They had some words and
left the club abruptly. Mr. Remington murdered my brother in a
rage.”

“
Did you witness the
murder?” Mr. Hastings demanded.

“
No,” Griffith admitted
begrudgingly, “but I know it was Damon Remington who killed my
brother, just the same.”

Three men followed Griffith, each
members of Green’s. They testified, with varying degrees of
enthusiasm, to having witnessed Damon and Lord Griffith leaving the
club together.

Where were the other three men the
constable had claimed had told him they’d seen the two leave
together? Had they been too afraid of the Remingtons to agree to
testify at the trial, or simply unwilling to lie? Perhaps a
combination of both. Anger boiled in the pit of Elsie’s stomach as
she listened to each of Griffith’s three witnesses lie under oath.
It was impossible that Damon had left with Lord Griffith, because
by a quarter ‘till three in the morning, he’d been in his own bed
in Hertfordshire.

Elsie was almost surprised when it
came time for Damon to begin his defense. Griffith’s persecution
had been shoddy at best. Was that really all he had? It couldn’t
possibly be enough to convict Damon. Her heart wanted to soar, but
gnawing suspicion tethered it down. Only a complete idiot would
have brought this case before the court with such weak,
circumstantial accusations. No one had even pretended to have seen
the murder. There had to be something more, and yet, Damon was
already explaining his innocence.

“
It is true that Lord
Griffith owed me about fifty pounds in gaming debts. Frankly, the
sum is paltry in comparison to my wealth. To have murdered him over
it would have been absolutely meaningless. The only thing he
incurred by failing to pay his debt was a certain amount of ill
repute. I was not overly concerned with his tardiness, and I
certainly didn’t kill him.”

Elsie waited raptly, her heart in her
throat, as Damon paused to let the truth sink in. When he
continued, his voice was as admirably calm as ever – as soft as
velvet and as strong as steel. He sounded like a man who was
confident in his innocence and in the jury’s decision to render an
accurate verdict. It was no wonder, really, after Griffith’s lame
accusations. But did Damon fret inwardly, just as she did, over his
accuser’s weak case? If he did, he didn’t let it show.

“
By three in the morning, I
had already arrived at my country estate in Hertfordshire,” Damon
concluded.

Elsie’s chest tightened as she
contemplated the testimony she’d surely be giving any minute now.
She hardly heard Griffith’s lawyer fire off a question, something
about a carriage.

Damon’s irresistible voice pulled her
from her nervous thoughts and infused her with a little braveness.
“I rode alone,” he said, “as I often do when I visit the city. I
spent a little time at Green’s much earlier that night, but by
eleven I had already gone. I have a witness with me now who can
testify that I was indeed home by three – a member of my household
staff.”

Chapter 7

Though the faces in the courtroom were
little more than flesh-colored blurs to Elsie, she felt their
stares settle on her as the judge bid her to speak. Working her
tongue against her palate in an effort to muster some moisture into
her dry mouth, she was sworn to honesty. Jenny, who was still
gripping her arm, gave her a light squeeze as she willed herself
not to ruin the testimony she’d practiced so carefully. “I am a
housemaid at Mr. Remington’s Hertfordshire estate,” she began, and
was pleasantly surprised at the steadiness of her voice. “I was
awake about half an hour before three on the night of Lord
Griffith’s murder, and I encountered my employer as I exited the
library, which is adjacent to his bedchamber.”

The courtroom buzzed with quiet
chatter. She could just barely hear the occasional ribald
suggestion as to why she’d been lingering near Damon’s quarters at
such an hour. Her cheeks flamed, and for the first time, she was
glad she couldn’t see the faces that were all surely turned in her
direction. Her stomach clenched as the question she’d expected
came.

“
And why would a housemaid
be awake and lurking near her employer’s bedchamber at half past
two in the morning? Oughtn’t you to have been asleep in the
servants’ quarters?”

“
I never meant to be.” She
held her chin steady, refusing to let it drop. “I am prone to an
illness which strikes me in fits, often rendering me unconscious.
While dusting that evening I had fallen so in the library, and
there I remained until I awoke at half past two. When I came to, I
saw Mr. Remington passing through the corridor outside, on his way
to his bedchamber.”

“
That is a remarkably
convenient explanation.” Elsie didn’t need to see Griffith’s
lawyer’s face clearly to detect his contempt – it was more than
evident in his tone.

Mr. Hastings responded at once,
mercifully saving Elsie from the necessity of mustering a reply. “I
have with me a Dr. Phineas Stallings, one of the finest physicians
in London. My client’s servant is his patient, and he is fully
prepared to confirm the unfortunate symptoms of her
illness.”

The doctor was sworn in and afterward
promptly described Elsie’s episodes, assuring the court that her
story was perfectly within the realm of possibility. Though she
couldn’t see it, Elsie could imagine a dour look on the face of
Griffith’s temporarily quelled lawyer.