The Worldly Widow (47 page)

The sound of his soft, sardonic laughter shocked even the constable and his clerk. Annabelle heard it, and closed her eyes. After a moment, she went as limp as a rag doll.

"I warned you that I would teach you a lesson,
"
said Dalmar.

Complete silence reigned in that small room.

He turned his back on her. "Take her away,
"
he said.

Like a rolled up carpet, Annabelle was hoisted under the arms of the two officers of the law. Ever afterward, she would shudder when she remembered that scene as they carted her down the stairs and out the front entrance. She opened her eyes briefly then shut them again as she met the shocked stares of her employees. She wished then that she were dead.

The short carriage ride to Bow
Street was made in a matter of minutes. She offered no resistance when she was dragged to her feet. On entering the premises, she kept her head down and her eyes averted. But no one in that noisy crush of people paid her any attention. She was deposited in an airless room with a small barred window, its only articles a dirty cot, a broken-down chair, and a chamberpot.

"Think yourself lucky, miss! The public cells are downstairs,
"
said the constable. "You
'
re getting special treatment, you are.
"

She was scarcely aware when the gag was removed and her wrists freed of the iron manacles. Nor did it register when the constable turned the key in the lock of the door.

Disoriented, in shock, she stood motionless in the center of the room. It was the cold which finally got a response from her. She had no cloak and the room was unheated. Removing a
filthy blanket from the bed without even looking at it, she draped it over her shoulders and sank down onto the chair. For the next three hours, she scarcely moved a muscle. But behind her vacant expression, her thoughts were frantic.

"
H
ow did it go, then?
"
John Falconer regarded his older brother with raised eyebrows.

Dalmar shrugged out of his greatcoat and flung himself down on a wing chair. "Not as I expected,
"
he said grimly. "I don
'
t think I
'
ll go near her for a few hours yet. By that time, perhaps her temper will have cooled. I take it Ransome is still out?
"

"I haven
'
t heard him come in.
"

"He wasn
'
t too pleased with the outing, I take it?
"

Falconer grinned. "He had no objection to taking Mrs. Pendleton and her niece for a spin. But I think he was wishing Harry, Lady Jocelyn, at Jericho.
"

"Yes, well, I didn
'
t wish to alarm the ladies when the house was being searched. They were better out of it. God, I need a drink!
"

"It
'
s only eleven o
'
clock in the morning,
"
objected Falconer. "What
'
s brought this on?
"

The Earl strode to a massive Jacobean sideboard. He opened the door at one end and withdrew a bottle of brandy and two glasses. "Join me?
"

"Thank you, no.
"

"I bungled it.
"

"What? Didn
'
t you find what you were looking for?
"

"Oh yes. But it
'
s Annabelle I
'
m thinking of. She
'
ll never forgive me. God, I
'
ll never forgive myself! It finally happened, you see.
"

Alarmed more by his brother
'
s haggard expression than the terse words, Falconer threw down the letter he had been perusing.

"Good God, David! Don
'
t keep me in suspense. What finally happened?
"

"I lost my temper. I manhandled her.
"

"You beat her?
"
asked Falconer incredulously.

A shudder passed over the Earl
'
s tall frame.
"
Thank God, no! It didn
'
t come to that!
"

He bolted the drink in his hand arid poured himself another. For a long moment he stared down at the amber liquid in the glass he was holding. "I
'
m my father
'
s son, after all, it seems,
"
he said. "Blood will out, so they say. If I ever doubted it, what happened this morning has brought me to my senses.
"

"What rot! David, how can you
think
such a thing? You
'
re nothing like the man we called Father. He was a bully, a wife beater, a cruel, unfeeling monster.
"

Impatiently, Dalmar cut in,
"Words which Annabelle would not hesitate to apply to me.
"

He slumped into a chair beside the hearth and stretched out his long legs to rest his booted feet against the brass fender.

Falconer studied the dejected droop of Dalmar
'
s shoulders, the compressed lips, the shuttered expression. Very softly, he asked, "What happened, David?
"

"Leave it!
"

"But…"

"It
'
s over! For God
'
s sake, just leave it alone, can
'
t you?
"
The rough, almost despairing words effectively silenced the younger man. Falconer knew his brother too well to try to force his confidence. The disparity in their ages as much as the circumstances of their wretched childhood had shaped their relationship. A younger sibling did not encroach upon the privacy the elder wished to maintain, particularly if that elder was Dalmar.

Lost in thought, Falconer gazed absently at the intricate leaf design on the white marble mantel.
It
'
s over.
The words held the ring of finality.

"Do you mean the marriage won
'
t take place?
"
he asked, voicing the thought which had crossed his mind.

"That
'
s precisely what I mean. What
'
s this?
"
Dalmar stretched over the arm of his chair and picked up a packet which lay on a low walnut side table.

Recovering slowly from the shock of Dalmar
'
s words, Falconer stared blankly at the envelope as his brother tore it open.

"It
'
s from the British Embassy, from Somerset, in Paris.
When did it arrive?
"
Dalmar quickly scanned the contents.

"What? Oh, this morning, when you were out. Is it important?
"

Dalmar crumpled the single sheet in his fist and tossed it into the grate. "No. It
'
s not important—only congratulations on my forthcoming marriage. Not even a word about those wretched diaries.
"

Silence descended, and the eyes of both men were drawn to the grate as flames licked round the crumpled letter till it turned to white ash.

"At least I got the diaries,
"
said Dalmar finally. "I
'
ll send them to Somerset through diplomatic channels.
"

"I never did understand why they were such an issue with you. Would it have mattered so very much if Annabelle had published them?
"

Dalmar did not answer immediately. He clasped both hands behind his neck and stretched to ease the tension across his shoulder blades. "Who
'
s to say?
"
he observed at length. "I thought so. You forget, Monique Dupres was murdered. At the time there was a suspicion that her death and the diaries were linked. It was possible that Annabelle stood in some danger.
"

"But correct me if I
'
m wrong—you never did tell Annabelle about the French girl
'
s murder?
"

"No. Not until today.
"
He became lost in thought. A look o
f revulsion crossed his face. "Oh
God, I wish
…
"
His voice faded. "No,
"
he went on, coming to himself. "I never did get around to telling her about the French girl
'
s death. At the beginning, as I said, Annabelle was under suspicion, and Somerset—well, you know how devious he is—he constrained me to silence. There was a chance that the murderer might give himself away.
"

"D
'
you mean, laying a trap?
"

"Something of the sort. In retrospect it seems ludicrous. Annabelle isn
'
t a murderess, and no one has made a move to take the diaries away from her, in spite of what she said.
"
Observing the question in the younger man
'
s eyes, Dalmar explained, "This afternoon, she swore they had been stolen. But I found them in Greek Street.
"

Falconer
'
s fingers played idly with the folds of his white
linen cravat. The speculative look he leveled at his brother was carefully shielded by the sweep of his lashes. "Then my question still stands,
"
he said. "Why have you taken such extreme measures to stop publication of the diaries?
"

Dalmar shrugged eloquently. "For the usual reasons, I suppose. There is the matter of public opinion. Then again, I don
'
t doubt that Annabelle will be served with a rash of lawsuits. And yes, I admit, I don
'
t fancy the embarrassment of having myself portrayed in the lurid pages of such a travesty of literature.
"

"I thought you didn
'
t give a brass button for public opinion?
"

"Yes, well
that
was before I thought I was to be married.
"
There was a brief silence before Dalmar went on, as if speaking to himself, "But you didn
'
t ask the important question.
"

"Which is?
"

"Mmm? Oh,
Will Annabelle ever forgive me?
I think I frightened her out of her wits.
"

"Why
did
you lose your temper, David?
"

Stirred from his lethargy, Dalmar exclaimed. "Dash it all, John! Do you never give up?
"

"No,
"
answered Falconer, with more confidence than he was feeling. "It
'
s a Falconer failing. Runs in the family, you know.
"

By degrees Dalmar
'
s grim expression relaxed. He chuckled.
"
Touché
,
halfling! When did you get to be so perceptive?
"

A cushion hit him square in the chest. "Halfling, is it?
"
demanded Falconer. He pulled awkwardly to his feet and launched himself at the Earl.

Without a second thought for impeccable Weston tailoring, or for the delicate Sevres porcelain ornaments balanced precariously on the Sheraton tables nearby, they wrestled each other to the floor, hooting and howling like two schoolboys who had been let out of the schoolroom.

On the other side of the library door, lackeys eagerly stood in line for a turn to peek through the keyhole, till the Earl
'
s majordomo spoiled their sport. Old Raggett scattered them with the mere raising of one bushy gray eyebrow. When the
coast was clear he put his ear to the door. He recognized the sounds. It was either a slaughterhouse or boys at play, but certainly nothing to be alarmed about. Fleetingly, he thought of the old lord, the present Earl
'
s uncle. A new era had begun in the house in Cavendish Square. Somehow he knew the old boy would be smiling.

Dalmar was far from certain that the new era he had hoped for was due to be ushered in. In point of fact, he was certain that his conduct had put him beyond the pale. Misgivings and self-doubt plagued him. It was not so much his high-handed ordering of events to suit his purpose which troubled him. He could not be sorry that he had wrested the diaries from Annabelle. But the vicious, uncontrollable rage which her open defiance and barbed tongue had unleashed in him was unforgivable. The same rage had once incited him to turn on his own father—with lethal results. That very morning he had turned on Annabelle. Now, his rage spent, he felt only despair. With bitter self-reproach, he railed at himself for bringing all his hopes to nothing. And yet it seemed he was powerless to change.
Like father, like son.
The thought drummed in his brain, tormenting him beyond endurance.