Suzanne Robinson (29 page)

“Did they go in your carriage?”

“We’re going to crash,” the countess whined, her eyes closed.

“Answer me. I can drive with one hand and shoot your fingers off with the other.”

“Yes, yes they took my carriage.”

That meant they would try to blend in with the traffic along Oxford Street, probably until they got past Cheapside. But what if they took Regent Street south? No, Oxford was the more direct route, and they wouldn’t want to waste time. They knew she would bring the police after them and that their only chance was to kill Cheyne and vanish. That way the countess could deny everything, and with no witnesses, it would be a case of Mattie’s word against hers. Mattie jerked the wheel to avoid an empty freight wagon, and Rose Marie screamed again.

“Shut up. I’m trying to concentrate.”

“We’ll be killed!”

“If they hurt Cheyne, I’ll kill you myself.”

They passed Totenham Court Road and veered
around a town coach, then a brougham. Mattie’s heart screamed with frustration as she pulled the brake to avoid crashing into a knot of vehicles in the middle of the road. London traffic. She eyed the curb and released the brake. Bumping onto the sidewalk, she sent pedestrians fleeing as she rounded the obstacle. In seconds she was in the street again and joining a line of carriages and carts. She wanted to howl when it stopped. Then she spotted two men clinging to the back of a carriage like footmen. Only they weren’t in livery. One of them turned.

“Insect Eyes!”

“You are mad,” the countess said as she tugged at her bonds.

Ignoring her, Mattie pulled the brake, grabbed the revolver and sprang out of the Panhard. Oblivious to the cries of coachmen and cab drivers, she left the motorcar sitting in the middle of the road and ran silently down the line of vehicles. She was on the ruffians just as Insect Eyes noticed her. Mattie stopped, fired her gun in the air, and then pointed it at him.

“Run, unless you want the next bullet.”

They ran. So did the driver. Mattie went to the door of the carriage and pointed the gun again.

“Come out of there, Gamp.”

“You go away or I’ll do for your young laddie here! He’s still sleeping, and it’ll be easy.”

“Touch him, and I’ll shoot you where it’ll hurt most,” Mattie growled.

Gamp stuck his head out the carriage window.
“I got me gun aimed at him right now, missy, so you just—”

Gamp screamed and disappeared. Mattie ran to the carriage, but dodged sideways when the ruffian shot out of the vehicle, propelled by Cheyne’s boot. Gamp fell on the road and scrambled to his feet. He snatched Mattie’s gun and brought it up, preparing to fire it in her face.

As Gamp aimed the revolver, Cheyne caught him by the back of his collar. He swung him around and delivered a powerful punch to the man’s jaw. Tearing the gun from Gamp’s hand, he followed with a jab to his gut. Gamp plummeted to his knees. Another blow to his jaw knocked him out at Cheyne’s feet. At that moment a policeman arrived, and Superintendent Balfour.

Breathing hard, Cheyne handed the gun to Balfour. He looked at Mattie, who was incoherent with relief; he glanced at the countess in the motorcar down the street. “I guess that infernal machine is good for something.”

Suddenly the city erupted with the peal of bells, fireworks, and cannon shots. The people in the streets began to cheer. Big Ben tolled in the twentieth century, and Mattie burst into tears and threw herself in Cheyne’s arms. He hugged her tightly and buried his face in her wild hair. She listened to his soft voice reassuring her, but her body was reacting to the events of the past few hours. With hundreds of people around them, she clung to Cheyne. Her knees wobbled, she trembled all over, and she couldn’t
stop sobbing. Cheyne lifted her in his arms and kissed her through her tears. Mattie felt her trembling subside as he kissed her.

Cheyne lifted his head and smiled at her. “Happy new century, my love.”

Mattie buried her head in the crook of his neck, and he lifted her into the carriage. Climbing in after her, he held her until her sobbing ebbed. Balfour stuck his head in the carriage and demanded an explanation. Murmuring reassurance to her gently, Cheyne left to deal with his friend.

Someone shoved a glass of water in her hands, and she gulped it down. She sank back against the seat, her eyes closed. The din around her faded for a while as she lapsed into a dazed stupor. The only thing she’d ever killed with a gun was a rattlesnake, but she’d been prepared to drill holes in Rose Marie Seton, body part by body part, rather than let Cheyne die.

Cheyne reappeared, climbing into the carriage. He held her close, rapped on the ceiling, and ordered the coachman to drive to Spencer House.

“We’ve got a police constable for a driver,” he said. “Balfour is taking Rose Marie to the Old Bailey and he’s arranged for your motorcar to be driven back to Spencer House.”

Mattie gave him a watery smile, then sobbed. Cheyne pulled her into his lap and stroked her hair.

“What’s this? Mattie Bright, frontier markswoman, in tears?”

“Land sakes, I hate this,” she said between sobs. “I
can do almost anything in a crisis, but afterward I’m a mess.” She dabbed her eyes with the hem of her skirt and sniffed. “If you kiss me, I won’t be able to cry.”

Cheyne kept her from crying all the way home. To her relief, he dealt with her mother as efficiently as he had Gamp and the police. Narcissa helped her to her room and ordered a bath and a toddy. She almost fell asleep drinking the milk laced with brandy and something more powerful. Her eyes were closed by the time she crawled between her bedcovers, and by the time her head was on the pillow she slept.

 
21
 

The Painted Room at Spencer House was one of the most famous neoclassical structures in Europe. White Corinthian columns and pilasters separated the spaces, each gilded to match the frieze of rose wreaths and garlands of flowers above them. A quiet green served as the background for exquisite paintings celebrating love and marriage. The frieze at the chimneypiece copied an ancient Roman painting, the
Aldobrandini Wedding
, while a circular grisaille panel depicted a Greek wedding once found on the Acropolis.

The ache in his head having dulled, Cheyne paced across the floorboards while he waited for the butler to tell Mattie he was here. He sank onto an eighteenth-century chair upholstered in green silk a shade lighter than the walls, then rose and paced to a window. He stared out at nothing in particular and wondered how he’d survived the past twenty-four-hours.
Oh, not the abduction. How had he survived Mattie’s rash conduct, her irresponsible disregard of her own safety?

“God, where did she get that revolver?” he asked himself, not for the first time.

She couldn’t go on behaving so madly; his sanity depended upon making her see that she couldn’t take such risks. This was all part of the same difficulty—Mattie must see that he, as her future husband, should be the one whose judgment and wisdom guided her. He loved her; he was, after all, older and more experienced in the world.

He would approach the subject with subtlety and lead her to see the overwhelming sense of his position on the matter. Subtlety was essential, however, or she’d balk and lose her temper. God knew he’d had enough of fighting for a long while.

But first he had to do something he’d been avoiding for too long. He had to tell her the truth about his birth. She’d accepted him without knowing about his real father; he wouldn’t allow her to go through with the marriage without revealing the stain on his heritage.

Cheyne was gazing at a circular panel depicting sacrifices to Cupid when Mattie came in. She was wearing a simple black skirt and white blouse, and she’d gathered her hair at the back of her neck in a ribbon. She stood for a moment looking at him with uncertainty, but Cheyne was already grinning at her foolishly.

He opened his arms, and she flew into them. He
swung her around, set her on the floor, and kissed her. It was a while before they broke off, each flushed and reluctant to speak. Cheyne cleared his throat and set her from him.

“You’re better this morning.”

She squeezed his hands and smiled. “Now that you’re here, honey.”

“Is that what you’re going to call me? Honey?”

She nodded. “When we’re getting along.”

“And when we’re not?”

“Don’t know.”

“Given your unique vocabulary, I shudder to imagine.”

“Tell me what you’ve found out,” she said, leading him to a sofa.

He sat beside her and began. “I visited our friend the countess at the Old Bailey last night while Superintendent Balfour was taking her statement.” He picked up Mattie’s hand and kissed it, gazing into her frank, dark eyes. “We were all deceived, my love. Somehow she concealed a festering resentment of us, everyone in Society.”

“I don’t understand,” Mattie said. “I know she wasn’t of high birth, but neither am I.”

“But you’re an American. Believe me, it makes a difference. You Americans derive your sense of worth from what you do more than who your family was. In England birth is everything. Ask Wynkin, and I’m sure he’ll tell you he knows his place. He’d be the first to tell you if you forgot yours, too. And
poor Rose Marie was born the daughter of a tobacconist in Cheapside.”

“But she seemed so content.”

“She was when she married the Earl of Ixworth at sixteen, but twenty years of snubs, sneers, and insults poured acid into her character. It’s frightening, Mattie. I think she remembers every condescending look, every invitation omitted, every sly remark she’s overheard.”

“Land sakes,” Mattie breathed. “I knew she was still trying to get herself accepted into the highest circles, but to dwell on such things seems, well … isn’t she a bit touched?”

“Unbalanced, yes. You should have seen her.” Cheyne began to describe the scene. “They took her to Scotland Yard and put her in a room reserved for prisoners of high station. After I related what happened to one of the officers I was allowed to see her briefly.”

He’d opened the door slowly, still dazed by the idea that a lady of Society, however tenuously accepted, was the blackmailer. When he came in, Rose Marie whipped around to confront him, and Cheyne was startled into silence at the sight of her. Rose Marie’s hair was matted in places and had fallen from its perch high on her head. Pins and cushions used to make it stand out from her head were caught in its tangles. Her gown of royal blue damask and gold mousseline de soie was soiled and the hem torn where she’d stepped on it.

He opened his mouth, but she backed into a corner pointed a finger and hissed at him in an East End accent he’d never heard before. “You sorry sod. Ruined everything, you did. You and your filthy-cheap little heiress.”

“Rose Marie, why have you done this?”

“Why? Why, he asks.” Her eyes narrowed to glinting slits. Then put her hands on her hips and began to pace, eyeing him all the while. “Never good enough for them, was I? Couldn’t make meself into a lady long as they remembered me origins, could I? You know how hard I tried? For years. Years, and years! But it didn’t do no good. All I got was nasty remarks and slights and insults. Did you ever make a call and have every lady in the parlor excuse herself and hurry away like you was a plague carrier? No, I didn’t think so.”

“But you drove Juliet Warrender and the others to their deaths,” Cheyne said quietly.

“Weak, that’s what they was. What was a bit o’ tin to them? They could spare it. Serves them right for pretending to be so high and refined when they was just as common as me. Gawd, what hypocrites.”

Rose Marie came to a sudden halt nearby and stared at him, her head cocked. “All them years of suffering, I kept silent. Ixworth left me with nothin’ but debts. I thought, let them give it to me. Teach ’em to be charitable.” Her voice rose to a harrowing bellow. “I hate them! It eats at me, like a parasite in me gut, and nothing helps but getting even.”

“So you evened the score.”

Rose Marie smiled at this, and the smile turned into a chuckle, then a laugh that burst the confines of control. She laughed so hard she doubled over. Cheyne shook his head and left as Rose Marie’s laughter turned to shrieks.

He sighed and smiled sadly at Mattie. “That’s the last I saw of her. They called a physician.”

“How terrible,” Mattie said. “The poor thing should have gone somewhere where she was better received instead of staying here.”

“Perhaps, but when the earl died, his estate went to a nephew, and her dower wasn’t enough for the manner in which she’d lived. So the blackmail served two purposes. Lately, though, she must have been losing control, deteriorating in her judgment, because she began asking for larger and larger sums. Finally she drove several of her victims to destruction, and that was her downfall.”

Mattie shook her head. “To allow rejection to eat at you and govern your whole being …”

“At least we’ve stopped her, and I bring Superintendent Balfour’s thanks for your help.”

“Tell him he’s welcome,” Mattie said.

Cheyne felt his hands grow cold. The time had come for the truth. With an effort he dragged his gaze from her slender neck and the delicate line of her jaw.