The Romantic (34 page)

“The assistant warden fears a dramatic escape, so he put them on me when he brought me here.”

That was a relief. She did not want to picture him shackled day and night.

“I know you did not do this, Julian. I wish you had not created this deception.”

“There is no deception. Every bit of evidence they have is true. I created nothing.”

“Then you must deny it.”

“I have. They think they have enough, however.”

Yes, they did. That was all that would matter. Content they had their killer, they would not look further. Wasn’t that what had happened with her? Julian had saved her simply by giving them someone else to take her place.

“Julian, you did not do this. And I did not do this. But someone did.”

“I doubt that you and I are the only ones who knew what he was, Pen. There may have been dozens of people who wanted him dead.”

Dozens who wanted it, but not dozens who could do it.

The anger that had been growing formed into a cold determination in her heart.

Somewhere a man was sleeping in his bed while Julian languished in prison. The real murderer walked the streets freely, secure that another would take his place on the gallows.

She embraced Julian tighter, soaking in the human
warmth that would have to sustain her for days. Her contentment did not only come from hearing his heart beat and feeling him breathe, however. A very calm and firm resolve had claimed her.

She knew what she had to do. It was time for her to be the one to lift sword and shield.

chapter
25

I
am asking all of you to help me,” Pen said.

She sat in her drawing room, wearing the dull black gown required by her mourning. She had finally returned to her own house the day before, after leaving Julian.

Her dearest friends circled her.

“Tell us what is required,” Sophia said. “We are at your command.”

“It is not a pleasant duty, I am afraid. You may choose to refuse.”

“I doubt that,” Fleur said.

“If you do refuse, I will understand. The earl is gone, after all. He cannot defend himself. I only consider this because of Julian.”

“He could not defend such things even if he lived, so stop being so kind,” Charlotte said. She alone already knew the purpose of the meeting.

Pen had discussed it with her yesterday once they were alone. Charlotte’s reaction had been extreme, loud, and
full of the kind of language a lady was never supposed to utter.

“I think it would help Julian if it were known why I left Glasbury. Mr. Knightridge agrees,” Pen explained. “When ladies intimate they would like the particulars, perhaps all of you should satisfy them. Especially you, Sophia. The very best ears visit you.”

“If a duchess’s gossip can help you, I will fill those ears. Just tell me what to say.”

That was the hard part. It had helped to practice with Charlotte. Still, describing those terrible experiences, admitting her cowardice about Cleo, would be hard. Her heart shrank from the idea of the whole world knowing.

These were her friends, however. She had no need to worry about their reaction. And if it would help Julian—

“I learned within the first year of my marriage that Glasbury had expectations of a wife that were not normal or honorable.”

She told them what she meant. She revealed more than she had ever told Julian. For fifteen minutes she gave words to memories that could still make her cringe.

Fleur’s mouth fell open by the third sentence and never closed again. Sophia appeared in shock and Diane close to tears. Biancas expression turned to stone.

She did not have to spell out her suspicions about Cleo s death. She could see them jump to the same conclusions as soon as they heard about it. Bianca noted aloud how that death matched the timing of the earl’s attempts to make her return.

Charlotte noted their reactions with furious satisfaction. “It is a wonder you did not kill him, Pen.”

Bianca tapped her fingers thoughtfully on the rose damask cloth covering the sofa where she sat. “If this is known, there will be many who think Julian should have killed him, too. I assume Mr. Knightridge anticipates that.”

“I think he does,” Pen said.

“So there will be two trials. One in the courtroom, and one in London’s drawing rooms and coffee shops,” Fleur said. “My own experience is that the latter can influence the former.”

“Was it Mr. Knightridge’s idea to reveal this, Pen?” Diane asked. “If so, he is quite brilliant in comprehending the ways of the world.”

“It was Pen’s own idea,” Charl said. “And Knightridge’s brilliance is much shadowed by his arrogance, if you ask me.”

Bianca chuckled. “And if anyone doesn’t ask, you will tell them anyway.”

“Will you do it?” Pen asked. “Can you? It is so sordid and dreadful that—”

“Of course we can,” Bianca said. “Each in her own way. Not all of the particulars need to be given. Imaginations will fill in the gaps. I daresay there are those who suspected his tastes in such things, and who will now remember their misgivings. Discretion will be thrown to the winds, especially among the men when they are alone.”

Pen gazed down at her hands. “I am not without my own misgivings, I will confess.”

“You sacrificed yourself to discretion for years, dear
friend,” Diane said. “You protected his reputation during his life, at great cost to yourself. After what you have said about that child he misused, I for one do not care if his name is ruined now.”

“We are going to do this whether you give permission or not,” Charl said. “I certainly am.”

“Chin high, Pen.”

Laclere muttered the reminder as he handed her out of the coach in Hyde Park.

She smoothed the black bombazine over her petticoats and stiffened her spine. Already heads were turning in her direction. A carriage slowed as it passed so its occupants could stare.

Dante offered her his arm. Laclere flanked her other side. The light wind fluttered the ribbons of her bonnet around her face as they strolled.

It had been only two days since she met with her friends, but she suspected that many of the people who noticed her arrival in the park had already heard about her marriage.

Her brothers obviously had. She could tell they knew. Savage fires burned in their eyes whenever Glasbury was mentioned.

“I have been the topic of gossip before, of course,” she said. “It is a bit different to be outright notorious, but not too disconcerting.”

Dante patted her arm. “This is hardest the first time, darling. But you cannot hide, and must brave it out. It is the only way.”

She had never intended on hiding. If her brothers had not come for her today, she would have sent for them.

“Adrian has ridden to Blackburn,” Laclere said. “Sophia told him about that abduction. He intends to see if he can bring Jones back to London.”

“I doubt Mr. Jones will admit to killing Cleo.”

“In the least, Adrian will clarify that it was you who was abducted, at the earl’s command.”

“That may only convince the judge that Julian had more cause to kill Glasbury,” Pen said.

“We will let Knightridge decide whether or how to use it. I fear the judge may already have sufficient cause to condemn Julian. If it can be cast as defense of a woman imperiled, it may be worth the risk.”

“Will you be going to the trial, Pen?” Dante asked.

The schedule had been posted. Julian would be tried in two days. Time had become distorted again, this time running fast, with frightening speed. Running out.

“Of course I am going. It is too late to pretend he is not my lover. We will face this together.”

Crowds milled in the streets outside the Old Bailey. Hawkers congregated to profit from the trial’s notoriety.

As Dante’s carriage rolled to a stop, a boy rushed up to offer a broadside containing a lurid description of the crime. Dante’s reaction was so icy that the child blushed and ran off to find other customers.

Pen stepped out. Dante’s carriage had not been recognized, but her mourning attire drew attention. The crowd jelled into one mass that began closing on them.

“Quickly, Pen.” Dante took her arm and hurried her into the building.

The courtroom was packed. Her arrival in the gallery caused a great stir. The gaping faces struck her as so many challenges. On impulse, she reached up and folded the veil back from her face.

“They all know who I am,” she said to Dante. “This veil is ridiculous. Let them look and enjoy the entertainment for all it is worth.”

Dante had sent servants ahead to save seats. He squeezed Pen through the crowd and got her to them. Soon other bodies were leaving and being replaced around her. Laclere came with Bianca and Fleur, and the St. Johns and Charlotte followed.

A new commotion drew attention away from their group. Pen turned. A little aisle formed, and a short woman of regal stature walked along it, wearing a stunning apple green dress, a yellow shawl, and a flamboyant hat with two huge plumes.

The Duchess of Everdon had come, and was making sure everyone knew it.

Sophia took a place right next to Pen and smiled impishly. “Do you think the wags will report that I am overdressed for a trial?”

“Of course not. Your taste is always above reproach.”

Sophia’s smile indicated she knew her taste was not celebrated. “I thought I would give them a good show. The hat will also make it easier for Julian to find us. Before Adrian went to Blackburn, he told me to be sure to sit beside you today.”

The true show was that a duchess had come at all. The glaring eyes and buzzing whispers had not touched Pen’s composure, but the kindness of her friends now did.

“I doubt the accused has ever had such impressive supporters,” Pen said.

“I think there have been a few cases of treason where we were surpassed,” Sophia said. “It appears they are preparing to begin his trial.” She took Pen’s hand. “Courage, now.”

Pen had to admit that Mr. Knightridge made an impressive counsel. With his commanding height and spotless wig and gown, he made the judge appear shrunken and old. With cool wit and insinuating tones, he questioned the witnesses in ways that entertained the crowd and also revealed ambiguities in their information.

Julian proved unhelpful to his own case. His reserve looked arrogant today, even cold. His lack of emotion as he gave his story had mouths pursing.

Pen’s heart broke as she watched him holding onto his dignity despite being an animal on display. She imagined what a torture it must be for him to be pilloried in this public arena. He did not even proclaim his innocence very forcefully.

She knew why. He did not want them looking elsewhere. He did not want them turning back to her.

He had noticed her as soon as he entered, but he never looked at her after that. She sat through it all, face stoic but heart bleeding. She watched the evidence laid down against him, and felt him slipping from her embrace forever.

The prosecutor walked toward Julian with some papers in his hand. “You hated the earl, didn’t you, sir? You wished him dead, in fact. This document is in your hand.

In it you plan Glasbury’s death. There are several of these, written over the years. Let me read them for you.”

He read them. They sounded like diary entries. In each one Julian revealed his darker passions and anger, and described the earl’s death at his hand.

The courtroom hushed. Pen’s heart pounded. Julian remained expressionless. She glanced at the faces in the gallery and saw how they looked at him. They saw a sinister man, not a good and quiet one.

Even her friends appeared astonished by the storm that thundered within the words being read. Laclere in particular turned ashen-faced, as if he knew that those pages would seal Julian’s fate.

Satisfied with the effect he had produced, the prosecutor left the stage.

Knightridge rose with a deep frown. He reached out his hand for the pages and the prosecutor gave them over.

“They are dated. The dates’ ink appears the same as that of the prose, so we can assume they were dated when written. Two of these are ten years old, and a third five years. And wait, this one here is—excuse me, it is hard to read—it looks like it was the first, and was written fifteen years ago.” He struck a dramatic pose with his hands on his hips. “Sir, for a man bent on murder, you damn well take your time getting around to it.”

Laughter broke out.

Even Julian smiled. “Perhaps I do not plot as well as I plod.”

The audience roared.

“Indeed, perhaps you do not. I suggest that you do not
plot at all.” He waved the pages and his voice boomed. “These are the words of a man incensed. Furious. I suggest that they are the outpourings of a soul that was tortured by a secret that burned, and the release of these writings was all that the bonds of honor permitted you. Indeed, sir, I do not think you have told this jury all there is to know about this case.”

Julian said nothing.

“Honor still binds you. I put some questions to you, however, that do not require any dishonor, I assure you. You have served these years as the solicitor of the Viscount Laclere’s family, have you not?”