The Dark One (12 page)

Exhaustion claimed her. She'd sobbed out her strength for poor Lydia, and now Rosalind closed her eyes and allowed Armond to hold her. He gently stroked her hair, and the action lulled her into closing her eyes. She didn't want to think about tomorrow. About the battle that would soon rage when Armond tried to take her from beneath Franklin's roof and from his cruel control. Tomorrow would come soon enough.

Dawn had just begun to streak the sky when Armond crept from Rosalind's bed and pulled his still damp shirt over his head. He stared at her as he dressed. She slept on her side, her hands beneath her cheek. Her hair was a riotous tangle of dark curls, her full lips slightly parted. He couldn't believe he'd spent the whole night just holding her when what he really wanted to do was make love to her.

He'd heard Chapman come in at some ridiculous hour and would have gone to confront the man if gossip wouldn't put him in the man's home at an unusual hour, coming from the man's stepsister's room, no less. Rosalind had been through enough.

Armond wouldn't ruin her reputation, though that had been her exact plan the night she approached him at the Greenleys' ball. He realized now how desperate she must have felt to do something so out of her character. He hated Chapman all the more for forcing her into taking drastic measures.

Armond's plan was to clean up once he arrived home, then, as soon as the hour was suitable, pay the dowager a call and enlist her aid in seeing Rosalind removed from Chapman's guardianship. Dressed, he started toward the balcony doors.

Rosalind stirred. He walked back to the bed and waited until she'd settled back to sleep. Something inside of him twisted while he stood over her. Something unfamiliar. Protectiveness he had never felt for any woman. He bent down and lightly kissed her on the cheek, then forced himself away from her.

Once on the balcony, he glanced around and, seeing no one had yet begun to stir outside the townhome or in the carriage house, climbed down the trellis. He'd almost made it to his stable when he noticed something odd. His grooms all stood outside talking, their breaths steaming on the early morning air. Henry, a lad who'd been with Armond for a good year or so, saw him before he reached the stable. The lad's eyes rounded, and he motioned Armond to stay back.

Armond drew up. Two men emerged from the stable. Armond recognized them immediately. They were the inspectors who'd questioned him the night Bess O'Conner had died in his stable. The hair rose on the back of his neck. One man glanced in his direction.

“There he is!” he shouted. “Do not try to run, Lord Wulf!”

Why would he run? But he knew the answer. He smelled the blood. He didn't run. Instead, he moved toward the men.

“Lord Wulf,” the inspector said once he reached the group. “You are under arrest for murder.”

Armond walked past the man and into the stable. There on the ground lay a woman, bruised, dead. The paint on her cheeks and lips and her manner of dress told him she was a prostitute, the same as Bess O'Conner had been.

“I see his shirt's damp,” one inspector said to the other. “Tried to wash the blood out of it, I'm guessing.”

“Lord Wulf, do you have anyone who can say where you've been all night this time?”

The second man's question was sarcastic. He'd never felt that either inspector had believed he wasn't responsible for the last murder. Either him or one of his brothers. Armond did have someone who could say where he'd been all night. But of course he couldn't name her. Not without totally ruining her.

“No,” he answered.

“Then you'll want to come along with us.”

A man appeared on either side of him and forcefully took his arms.

“Henry, have Hawkins bring me a fresh change of clothing to the inspector's home,” Armond said. “The rest of you see to the horses once . . . once the lady has been removed.”

He left with the inspectors, wondering if he'd ever see his home again, or anything besides a hangman's noose or the gray walls of Newgate.

Rosalind was surprised to see Franklin at late breakfast. He usually slept most of the day due to the hours he kept. Mary could hardly serve without breaking down to weep, and on several occasions Rosalind had joined her. Franklin, she noted, did not even look as if anything untoward had happened in his home the previous night. In fact, he looked uncharacteristically cheerful.

“I have news of our neighbor,” he said, methodically buttering a scone. “It seems Lord Wulf was arrested this morning for murder. They found another dead woman in his stable.”

At first, Franklin's words would not register. Rosalind stared across the table at him, a fork poised halfway to her lips.

“Seems he had no one to help him cover his crime this time. No one saw him in the clubs last night, myself included. The stable hands all said nothing was amiss
up until around midnight, when they finished a round of cards and went home. Seems the one left in charge for the night had drunken himself into a stupor and heard nothing.”

“He's not guilty,” Rosalind whispered.

Franklin paused while buttering to glance across the table at her. “How could you possibly know that? Because he's handsome? Because you fancy him? Because you wish it to be true?” He laughed before he finally took a bite of his breakfast. “All the wishes in the world won't save his neck this time. I can't say I'm sorry to see him go. Perhaps I can fetch a higher price for the house now, should I decide to sell . . . that is, after my dear mother is gone.”

Rosalind was glad she hadn't eaten anything yet, for she felt certain it would come back up. Another murder had taken place. Another dead woman found in Armond's stable. Rosalind tried to remember when he'd left her bed and was certain it was early this morning. He couldn't have killed the woman. He'd been with her all night. Only he had not said he'd been with her, she realized.

“Excuse me,” she said, then placed her napkin on the table and rose. “I'm going back up to my room. I'm still terribly upset about poor Lydia.”

“You know . . .” Franklin paused again before he took a bite of his scone. “I'm not positive that he couldn't have had something to do with her death as well. We both dislike one another. Wouldn't put it past him to leave her dangling there among the rafters as a cruel joke.”

“God save us,” Mary muttered.

Rosalind hurried from the room. She rushed up the stairs, entered her bedroom, and automatically threw the bolt home. Then she sank to the floor, too stunned to move. Why hadn't Armond told the authorities where he'd been all night? To save her reputation? Good lord, the man had
more honor than all the ton gentlemen put together. She was sick.

Sick that he would sacrifice himself for her reputation. A reputation she would have ruined herself at the Greenleys' ball if he hadn't proved so damned honorable that night, as well.

She could not let it stand. She would not. She also couldn't go to Franklin with the truth. He'd never allow her to ruin herself for Armond Wulf. He'd probably beat her half to death for admitting she'd allowed Armond into her bedroom, not once but twice now. But what could she do? Franklin had never given her free rein to go gallivanting around London on her own.

Rosalind gathered her strength. For the past three months her stepbrother had controlled her, had weakened her will with threats and abuse, and had stolen most of her spirit. She would not allow him to continue. Armond had given her hope last night. Hope of escape. Now she must do the same for him.

Rising, Rosalind walked to her balcony, opened the doors, and went outside. She eyed the vine-covered trellis that stood next to the balcony. Armond had told her it was not so difficult to climb, not if a man was determined. Not if a woman was determined as well, she decided. Rosalind went to the railing, hiked up her skirts, and carefully placed one leg over, then reached for the trellis.

Her arm still ached where Franklin had been rough with her, but she bit her lip and grabbed onto the trellis. She eased herself off the balcony. Then she started the climb down. It was no easy task, despite what Armond had told her. But then, Armond hadn't had to manage it in a gown and two petticoats.

Once she reached the ground, Rosalind flattened herself against the house and glanced around. No one was
about. Franklin would still be eating his breakfast. She didn't believe that she could march into the carriage house and order his meager staff about. She must enlist aid else-where. She glanced across the yard toward Armond's property. Hawkins, his manservant, might help her. Surely he would if she said she had information that would free Armond. At least she prayed that he would.

Armond had been questioned by the inspectors for several hours. He'd been asked the same questions over and over, to which he gave the same answers. He was alone last night, and no, he wasn't guilty of the woman's death, and again no, he had no witnesses to attest to the fact. He was surprised he hadn't already been hauled off to Newgate, but it seemed that even a Wulf, because of his titles and wealth, received special treatment concerning the matter of murder.

A soft rap sounded upon the door, and one of the inspectors rose and answered it. Her scent found him before she actually entered. Armond sat up straight in the chair he'd been slumping in. What in the hell was Rosalind doing here?

Words were exchanged and he could have easily deciphered them with his abnormal hearing, but he was too stunned that she'd come to try. She swept into the room a moment later.

“This lady has information regarding Lord Wulf,” one inspector said to the other. “Seems she knows about his whereabouts last evening.”

“Don't, Rosalind,” Armond commanded quietly.

She straightened her shoulders and ignored him.

“And you are?” the seated inspector questioned.

“Lady Rosalind Rutherford, the late Duke of Montrose's daughter and Lord Wulf's neighbor.”

The inspector's brows lifted. “So, you might have seen something last night, say from one of your windows?”

“No,” Rosalind admitted. “I saw nothing, but I do know where Lord Wulf was for the entire night.”

“Rosalind,” Armond warned again, “think about what you are doing.”

“Please keep quiet while Lady Rosalind is speaking,” one of the inspectors said to Armond. “Otherwise we'll have you removed until the lady has left.”

“She's lying,” he informed the inspectors.

Each cast him a dark look. “How do you know she's lying when she hasn't even told us anything yet?” one of the men asked.

“I have a feeling I know what she's going to say,” Armond answered. “I hope I'm wrong,” he stressed, staring at Rosalind.

She wouldn't look at him in turn.

“Lady Rosalind, you say you know where Lord Wulf was last evening,” the inspector prompted. “If you did not see him from your window, or your property, how do you know where he was?”

Her gaze slid toward Armond, then quickly back to the inspector. “I know because he was with me,” she answered. Her cheeks flushed a pretty shade of pink. “In my bedroom,” she specified. “In my bed.”

Armond might have enjoyed watching both men's mouths drop open if not for the seriousness of the situation. She would ruin herself with her admissions. Ruin herself beyond even his help.

“You are willing to swear to that, Lady Rosalind?” one man finally recovered. “Even though by your doing so the admission will undoubtedly, well, it will cause talk among society that your character is, well—”

“I'll be ruined,” Rosalind provided for the man. “Yes,
I am aware of the consequences, Inspector. But I cannot allow an innocent man to be charged with a crime he did not commit. It is my duty to come forward, is it not?”

“Might I have a word with the lady, alone?” Armond asked. He had to make Rosalind withdraw her admission. He had to make her understand that if she so publicly ruined herself, even the dowager couldn't help her. That would leave her at the mercy of her stepbrother and, no doubt, his raging temper over what she had done.

“Lord Wulf, until we get this matter settled it would be very foolish on our part to leave a suspected woman-killer alone with Lady Rosalind,” one man said with a snort.

“I would be perfectly safe,” Rosalind assured the man. “Because Lord Wulf is not a killer. He has . . . he has been to my room on more than one occasion.”

“Then you are, ah, lovers, Lady Rosalind?”

Again her cheeks turned pink. “So it would seem,” she answered.

Armond felt like howling. No, he didn't want to pay, and probably pay with his life, for murdering two women whom he'd never met, but he knew where this was leading, saw the only choices Rosalind had left him, and he wasn't sure Newgate and swinging from a rope by the neck weren't safer options. He had made a vow. Rosalind had just forced him to break it.

“And you will swear to this in writing?” the inspector pressed.

She raised her chin. “Yes, I will.”

The inspector who was seated puffed up his cheeks and blew air out of them. He steadied a cold look upon Armond. “Lord Wulf, it seems women keep showing up dead on your property, and you keep having alibis that allow you to go free of the crimes.”

“Someone is obviously trying to incriminate me,” he remarked calmly, although he did not feel calm inside.
“When I leave here, it will become my greatest passion to discover who, and why.”

“Ours, as well,” the man assured him before turning back to Rosalind. “Which house do you occupy, Lady Rosalind? And you will be required to write out a sworn statement that Lord Wulf was with you all night on the evening of the murder.”

“I live with my stepmother and stepbrother,” Rosalind answered. “Franklin Chapman.”

The inspector had been gathering paper and ink but glanced up abruptly. “Chapman? Seems another woman died last night, and at your very residence. The constable is obligated to inform us of these matters, although he said it appeared as if the woman had hung herself.”