The Taste of Innocence (52 page)

Setting a fresh sheet on the blotter before him, he picked up his sharpened quill and opened the ink pot. He dipped the nib; his gaze drifted to the three letters stacked to one side of the blotter and he paused.

Then, lips tightening, he looked down and wrote.

The letters had arrived the day before while he’d been out searching for Jennings. Deeming them less important, he’d let the letters lie; he’d opened them an hour ago when he’d sat down to wait for Jennings.

From three separate, highly regarded London legal offices, each letter had informed him that one of his personal companies—those with Malcolm Sinclair listed as a director—was under investigation by the authorities; each solicitor had been obliged to hand over all documents and records dealing with said company. Three solicitors; three companies. The letters had been dated four days before.

He’d sat for a good ten minutes, staring at the letters, trying to imagine how the authorities had known to investigate those companies. They hadn’t committed any illegal deed, weren’t connected in any way with any of the land companies he’d used to profiteer from the railways…well, except for…

On a sudden, sickening rush he’d seen the single flaw in his magnificent creation—the one thread that connected his personal companies to the land companies. Rereading the details of the letters, he’d found confirmation; one solicitor had written that the authorities were interested in a payment made to a particular land company.

The one link he’d never thought to hide, and someone had thought to search for it.

He’d sat staring across the room as minutes ticked by and the realization that he was facing absolute and utter ruin solidified in his mind. The instant his name cropped up, his reputation as a major investor in the railways would be seen for the connection it was—and once they had his name…it wouldn’t be easy but eventually they’d find evidence enough to hang him.

He’d considered the prospect for a full minute, then had shrugged and refocused on his plan to deal with the current situation. In light of that, ruination was immaterial.

He wrote steadily for some time.

Then Jennings stirred; laying aside his pen, Malcolm rose and rounded the desk. Grasping Jennings’s arm, he hauled him upright. “Walk.” He’d left just enough play in the ropes about Jennings’s ankles for him to shuffle along.

Groggy and dazed, Jennings tried to resist, but Malcolm propelled him out of the library, along the corridor, and into the kitchen. The wooden cellar door stood open, propped wide. Seeing it, Jennings panicked and fought to resist, but with Malcolm—taller, heavier, and, as Jennings was discovering, a good deal stronger—behind him, he couldn’t gain sufficient purchase on the slate floor to even slow the approach of the yawning blackness.

Malcolm paused just before the threshold and murmured, “If you stop struggling and descend the stairs yourself, I won’t have to hurl you down them.”

Jennings hesitated, still tense but unable to do anything to save himself, then the fight went out of him. He nodded and carefully edged his foot forward.

Malcolm grabbed the lantern he’d left waiting, already lit, and followed, one hand wrapped about one of Jennings’s arms more to steady the man as he lurched down the stairs than to restrain him.

He was already well and truly restrained.

Once in the cellar, Malcolm pointed Jennings toward a stool set against a supporting column. Jennings shuffled over and collapsed onto the stool; before he knew what was happening, Malcolm looped another rope around his chest and tied it off on the other side of the rough-hewn column.

Returning to where Jennings could see him, he considered the man, then turned for the stairs.

“Hmm?”

Glancing back, raising the lantern, Malcolm met Jennings’s eyes. “Why?”

When Jennings nodded, he hesitated, then said, “Because unexpectedly—and extremely belatedly—I appear to have developed a conscience.” He paused, then, brows rising, amended, “Or perhaps I finally realized I possessed one, and why—realized what I was supposed to do with it.”

His lips twisted wryly. “You want to know what I’m going to do?” Jennings nodded. “I suppose, given we’ve been playing these games, you and I, for nearly seventeen years, I owe you that much.”

Briefly, Malcolm outlined his plan. “While I’m perfectly prepared to bear full responsibility for all I’ve done, I will not accept responsibility for your actions. While the ideas were mine, all the active decisions were yours. You’ve not at any time over the last fifteen and more years been operating under my direct orders—I long ago left you to your own devices, your own initiative.”

He paused, then said, “Do you remember Mrs. Edith Balmain?”

He waited until a spark of recognition lit Jennings’s dulled eyes. “Yes, that’s right—back at the very beginning, our scheme with Lowther. On Lowther’s demise, Mrs. Balmain was kind enough to give me some advice—she warned me to keep my thoughts, my schemes, to myself.” He studied Jennings, then murmured, “Would, for both our sakes, that I’d listened.”

He lowered the lantern; in the dimness he looked at Jennings one last time. “They’ll come for you tomorrow, before evening I’d imagine. I’d advise you to throw yourself on the court’s mercy.”

Turning, Malcolm made his way to the bottom of the cellar stairs. A series of mumbles had him glancing back. “What about me?”

Jennings nodded emphatically.

Malcolm smiled, perfectly sincerely. “By the time they come for me, I’ll be gone.”

20

With Sarah, Barnaby, and Gabriel, Charlie headed south at little more than an ambling walk. Gabriel was the freshest; he held his mount back beside Barnaby’s and kept a careful eye on the rest of them as they let their mounts carry them home.

When they reached the Park’s stable, Croker and one of his lads were waiting to take the horses and let them stumble up to the house. The startled looks on the men’s faces confirmed just how filthy and bedraggled they were.

Gabriel remained mounted. He paced alongside them as they slowly made their way out of the stable yard.

Sarah looked up at him. “It’s so late—dawn can’t be that far off. Won’t you stay the night here? It’s miles to Casleigh.”

Gabriel smiled and shook his head. “It may be late, but Alathea won’t sleep until I return and report that all is well—or as well as can be expected.”

Beside Sarah, Charlie snorted. “Meaning you promised her you would in order to get her to leave in the carriage with the children.”

Gabriel chuckled. “Your understanding of the married state is clearly improving.”

Charlie humphed; he, Sarah, and Barnaby halted in the drive and waved Gabriel off. Atop his huge hunter, his dark figure was quickly swallowed up by the shadows as he headed farther south. Lowering their arms, the three of them walked slowly, one foot in front of the other, across the lawn to the side door.

Crisp and Figgs were waiting to receive them—with warmth, reassurances, and glasses of spiced wine that Figgs insisted they drink. Unable to summon strength enough to argue, they meekly did as they were told while Figgs and Crisp, both plainly struggling to subdue the urge to comment and fuss over their appalling state, reported on the arrangements made in their absence.

“We’ve put the babes in the old schoolroom,” Figgs said. “Miss Quince and Mrs. Carter are in the rooms off it, and we’ve accommodated Mr. Kennett in the main servants’ wing. They’re all settled in, poor dears—quite exhausted they were—and one of the maids is keeping watch over the babes for the rest of the night.”

Draining his glass of wine, Barnaby returned it to Crisp’s tray. He nodded to Charlie and Sarah. “I’ll see you at breakfast tomorrow. We’ll have to think what’s the best way forward.”

Crisp assured Barnaby that hot water would be dispatched immediately to his room and sent a hovering footman to attend to it.

“Now my lord, my lady.” Crisp turned back to Sarah and Charlie. “A hot bath is being prepared in your chambers as we speak. If there’s anything further you need, any assistance—”

“Thank you, Crisp, Figgs.” Sarah summoned strength enough to take charge; she had a strong suspicion that if she didn’t, she and Charlie would be treated as the children both Crisp and Figgs still remembered them as. “Your arrangements have been exemplary—we knew we could count on you. His lordship and I will manage admirably.”

She took the empty glass from Charlie’s slack fingers and replaced it with hers on Crisp’s tray. “Now—is Gwen waiting for me?”

“Indeed, ma’am,” Crisp replied. “She’s supervising the filling of your bath.”

“In that case, I believe his lordship and I have all we require.” She linked her arm with Charlie’s; he’d been careful to keep his back away from Crisp and Figgs throughout. “We’ll see you in the morning—breakfast at ten, please.”

“Indeed, ma’am.” Crisp bowed. Figgs bobbed a curtsy.

“Thank you both,” Charlie said, nodding in dismissal.

He yielded to Sarah’s push on his arm and turned with her, moving toward the main staircase and their apartments beyond.

Horrified gasps erupted from behind them.

“My lord! Your coat—” came from Crisp

“You’ve been burned!” Figgs all but shrieked.

With a small resigned sigh, Sarah halted and turned back—stopping Figgs’s and Crisp’s instinctive rush toward them. “It’s not as bad as it appears. Doctor Caliburn took a look at it and gave me some salve.” She flourished a pot she’d pulled from her pocket. “He instructed me in what to do. Now if you please, we really should retire so I can tend his lordship’s wounds.”

Watching the performance over his shoulder, Charlie capped it with a distant nod, then faced forward again and, arm in arm with Sarah, continued on.

When they were on the stairs and out of earshot, he leaned closer and murmured, “I had wondered how on earth we would manage to get free—in terms of fussing, Crisp and Figgs have always been able to give Serena and even Alathea lessons.” He glanced down at her face. “Thank you for saving me.”

Sarah humphed. “As your injuries were sustained while you were saving me, it seemed only fair.”

Charlie chuckled weakly. “But I had to save you because you’d already saved me, remember?”

“But you were on the ground needing to be saved only because you’d climbed into the attic to save the babies and Quince.” They’d reached the doors to their apartments. Sarah paused and looked into his face; smiling softly, she raised a hand to his cheek. “Each of us did our part in saving something to night, but you most of all.” Stretching up, she touched her lips to his. “Thank you.”

He looked down into her eyes and returned her gentle smile. “It was…” He hesitated, then said, “Both my duty and my plea sure.”

He opened the door and they went in, crossed the foyer and entered their bedchamber.

Sarah went straight to the adjoining bathing chamber, checked that they had all they might require, then dismissed Gwen, sending her to her bed.

Then she returned to the bedchamber, where Charlie was twisting in front of the cheval glass, trying to see his back. “Come in here—no, don’t try to take your coat off yet.”

She bullied him into the bathing room and made him sit on a stool close by a sideboard with a basin atop it. A sponge lay in the warm water in the basin; she squeezed it out, then applied it to the burned areas on his back.

Pressing gently, she dampened each burned spot, then moved to the next. Charlie sat still, slumped, feeling tiredness drag at his limbs. “Did Caliburn examine my wound?”

“He looked at it when I asked him to—you wouldn’t have noticed. He didn’t need to examine it closely—he’d seen what had happened. Your coat’s burned through and your waistcoat as well, but while the shirt got burned—it’s turned brown and flaked away—the skin beneath is scorched rather than burned.”

“Because you got that log off my back so quickly.”

“Hmm.”

He got the impression she was concentrating, that he wasn’t supposed to distract her with talk; perhaps, as Gabriel had said, his understanding of the married state was improving.

His lips quirked, then lifted. His wandering mind registered that after all that had passed during the long night, to be able to smile—easily, with a gentle happiness that warmed his heart—was a singular blessing.

Another gift he owed to her.

She finished her dampening, then urged him to his feet and helped him ease coat and waistcoat off together. He took his coat and held it up to inspect the damage, then she filched it from his fingers and dropped it on the floor.

“Shirt next.” She helped him with the buttons, but stopped him before he could try to shrug it off, making him wait while she dampened the burned areas again before he did.

Standing behind him, she helped, eventually drawing the shirt down his arms and away; before he could turn, she sent it to join his coat and prodded lightly on the back of his shoulders. “The bath next—that’s what Doctor Caliburn ordered. Then I have to smooth the salve on.”

He had no real argument with the doctor’s orders, only with the manner in which she believed they should be followed. He dutifully sat and pulled off his boots, letting her help, then stood again and stripped off his breeches.