Chapter 16
Gyspy was earning the expensive oat blend and grooming regime Rem ordered especially for him today. He had raced straight to Arberley’s residence, hoping the indolent man was at home. Arberley could have easily lived in the Mayfair neighborhood that boasted the majority of the ton’s aristocracy, but chose instead to live in a converted townhome situated right next to Jackson’s boxing establishment, Rem assumed because it made him feel somehow more dominant than other dandies. The man was actually rather good at boxing, truth be told, but Rem had taken primal satisfaction in laying him out the last time they had been in the same room. He wasn’t sure what his reception would be, but he needed answers nonetheless, and he wasn’t above punching the man again to get them. There wasn’t a lot he had to go on at this point, and, knowing Trent Arberley as he did, he hadn’t discounted the possibility that he was neck deep in this mess. And if he was, Rem would finish what he started the other night.
“Ah, Rothstone. To what do I owe the pleasure?” Arberley drawled, meandering into the parlor room Rem had been shown to with a glass of spirits in hand. He was wearing a padded satin robe of scarlet that contrasted strikingly with his blonde mane and seemed completely at ease. Rem knew better. The man had always carefully cultivated a façade of ennui which Rem found irritating in the extreme. All the same, it was a good sign he didn’t seem inclined to resort to retaliation for the events of the auction night. The man’s nose and right eye had a purple and green splotch spread across them rather conspicuously.
“I won’t apologize for hitting you. You deserved it,” Rem told him matter-of-factly coming to his feet.
Arberley waved his drink through the air. “No need. Did me a favor, really. The ladies are quite sympathetic.” He smiled lazily, coming to sit on the arm of a nearby chair.
Rem mentally rolled his eyes. He should have expected the denial of anything that made him look weak.
“Right. Well, I’ve come for some information. I would appreciate your insight.” He played with the ruby chip in his palm, studying the expressions pass over Arberley’s face. All he saw was surprise and smugness, not an unusual combination for him.
Arberley took a sip of his drink. “That’s different. We’ve never really cared for one another, have we?”
“Well, you’re a self-aggrandizing prick. I’m a bit more practical,” Rem told him with a tight-lipped smile.
Arberley grinned. “You tend toward self-flagellation. I just allow myself to bask in the privileges this life affords me. There’s nothing to be gained from a false sense of righteousness or humility.”
Rem raised a brow. “Do you ever think some people are genuinely humble or righteous?”
Arberley frowned and simply said, “No.”
Rem shook his head. Some people would never change. But time was of the essence, and he hadn’t any more to dink around in conversation with this cur. He came toward Arberley and held out the ruby, dropping it in the other man’s hand. It was time to lay his cards on the table. Watching for any reaction on Arberley’s face, he said, “I know of your fondness for the gems. Is there any way to tell what this was used for or who made it?”
Arberley examined the gem, and then smirked. “I’ll do better than that. I can tell you who owned it.”
Rem’s heart skipped. “Tell me.” Arberley’s answer hadn’t been cloaked in defensiveness or guile. The gem most likely wasn’t his own if he was readily admitting to knowing to whom in belonged.
Looking down at the blood-red stone again, his blonde hair glinted in the afternoon light filtering through the windows. He looked up at Rem again, a calculating light in his eye. “Why do you want to know?”
Arberley didn’t seem to be protecting himself, but Rem still didn’t trust the man. “It’s a private matter.”
Arberley’s eyes narrowed. “Then so is the owner’s identity.” He tossed the gem in the air, caught it, and crossed his arms.
Rem took a step back and ground his teeth. He knew he would have to reveal more than he wanted about the situation, but if he could keep Laura out of it, he would. And although Arberley was most certainly a snake, it appeared he hadn’t any knowledge of the ruby’s significance. “It concerns a murder.”
This time, Arberley’s brows rose in genuine shock. “Really? A murder, you say.”
“Yes. And the owner of that ruby is most assuredly involved, on one side or the other.”
Rem could see Arberley’s mind turning this over. Rem said a quick prayer that the man would feel inclined to tell the truth, or else Rem would be at sea in this mystery. Finally, he looked Rem in the eye and spoke. “I can’t claim to know whose hands it ended up in, but this was a gift. The particular faceting on this beauty was commissioned for a jeweled dagger.”
Rem leaned back on the edge of the settee. The stone made sense. If it was set into the handle or blade of a dagger, it had likely come off during the assault in the orangery. “Who commissioned it?”
Arberley smiled. “I did.”
Blinking, Rem processed this. “You freely admit it, so I assume you don’t know what was done with it.”
“You are correct, more’s the pity. I gave it as a congratulatory gift to a friend upon the acquisition of a new mistress last summer. Quite stunning, all long limbs and lush…well, you get it. Interestingly enough, she was for sale at Diamante’s much like your…little dove was the other night.”
Rem could tell Arberley was taking pleasure in the revelation. He kept his mouth shut with great effort, not reacting visibly to the other man’s goad. The vivid splash of color across the other man’s nasal bridge was would have to be satisfaction enough for the moment.
Arberley continued after it was clear Rem wasn’t rising to the bait. He took another drink of what Rem could now smell was scotch. “My friend and I had both been pursuing her for some time, but he outbid me that night, so I sent him the dagger as a nod to his victory. He has sent similar gifts in the past, and a little tradition of sorts began.”
Rem nodded, his entire body on edge. “And who is this friend?”
Arberley shifted on the couch. “Now that is even more interesting. The irony really shouldn’t be downplayed here, because the man you’re looking for has reportedly been pursuing another lady of interest.” He paused. “Interest to you, that is.”
Rem straightened. “What do you mean?” he demanded.
“Your scandalous little thing, what was her name?” Arberley’s eyes lit with elation at Rem’s stiff posture. “Parrington. Laura Parrington.”
“No,” Rem whispered, his vision blurring.
“Yes, he’s been wrapping her around his finger for weeks. The ol’ boy was boasting to me the other day that he would have her in the bag by month’s end.”
He forced his eyes to focus on Arberley’s pale face.
“Why would you give up your friend?” Rem asked in suspicion. He couldn’t afford to be sent on a wild goose chase now if Arberley was protecting someone else.
Arberley shrugged. “I have no loyalty to the man. He’s a good sort to indulge in certain proclivities with, but neither of us is the sort to develop some sort of plebian bond over them. But for having won the gel with the fortune you paid, you don’t seem to have a very good hold on her,” Arberley said curiously.
Rem stepped toward Arberley. “No one owns another human being, no matter what some rubbish contract says. She is her own woman and always will be.”
“How…enlightened,” he said with a small smile. He rose from his perch and went to the humidor sitting on the mantle. Plucking a cigar from the ruby-inlaid box, he sliced the end quickly and lit it. “Personally, I prefer my women a bit more subservient, but there is something about her that calls, isn’t there? To be the one to tame such a spirit?”
Rem shook his head, knowing that someone like Trent Arberley would never understand. “I don’t want to tame her,” Rem replied. “There is nothing to be gained in crushing something lovely and wild.”
“I have to disagree with you there, but to each their own,” he commented cheerfully, taking a draught on the cigar. He paused after blowing out the smoke and said thoughtfully, “I believe my friend feels similarly. He and I share an affinity for beautiful things that beg to be broken. I would assume he labors under the same intention with the Parrington girl.” Arberley watched Rem’s reaction with interest through golden lashes.
Rem was careful not to show his reaction, but the urgency he felt was quickly turning to panic. He needed to keep her away from whoever this was at all costs. Understanding this mess was the only way to ensure she would be safe, for Laura was never one to bow to his wishes without reason. He crossed his arms. “What use does he have for Laura if he already has a mistress that’s, as you say, ‘broken in?’” The words left a bad taste in his mouth.
Arberley’s mouth twisted. “Now that is a tale I’d rather not tell.”
Rem looked him in the eye. “Yet you will for me,” he said in ducal tones.
The other man rolled his eyes and snuffed out his cigar into an ashtray on the end table of the settee. “Very well, although if anyone asks, you did not hear it from me.”
Rem nodded once.
Arberley sighed and slumped down onto the couch, uncharacteristically deflated. “As I said before, Madeline Yarrow was a singular prize. Everyone wanted her. I’m actually surprised my friend had the blunt to win the auction, so high was the betting for her company. She was the bastard daughter of a famous opera dancer and some Earl or other. Looked like she was built for sin, but smiled like an angel. There was this aura of innocence about her that even someone like me could see wasn’t a façade.” His eyes were clouded with memory. “Which made her perfect for someone like him. He told me of the pleasure he took in corrupting her pure little body. Turned out to be a virgin just like she was advertised after all. Isn’t that something?”
He didn’t seem to want an answer, so Rem said nothing.
“He was quite happy with her for a year, so far as I could tell. Could barely get him to come out as the months went on, as he preferred to stay closeted away with her at his estate. But when the year mark came and her contract was up, she left him. I don’t know her reasons, but it wasn’t to get out of the business. She went straight into the arms of another titled whelp in our circle.”
“Who was it?” Rem asked.
Arberley waved the question away and took a sip of scotch before continuing. “The way he told it at the time, she begged him to take her in, begged for protection. But their arrangement didn’t last long. Around four months, I think.”
Rem frowned. “Why?”
Arberley looked at Remington, a heaviness in his gaze. “She died. It was Christmas time. I remember some young buck mentioning it to me at a Yuletide festival at the Royal Menagerie a few days after it happened. The details aren’t public knowledge, but I do know that her most recent protector didn’t exactly mourn her afterwards. He wouldn’t speak of it, but he wasn’t sad. He seemed….angry.” The man affected another shrug. “But what do I know of these things? The closest person to ever die on me was my father, and I didn’t mourn his loss one bit.” He smiled wryly, holding up his snifter in an irreverent salute.
That explained a lot, Rem thought. Arberley’s demeanor was more than likely a byproduct of a distant or difficult-to-please father. Rem knew the type. He had seen his closest friend, Con, grow up with one and knew the extent to which it could devastate a young man’s psyche.
But he couldn’t see how all of this fit together. Arberley’s friend, Rem was certain, was pursuing Laura because of her connection to the picture plate that resided in his pocket. The man must have realized Laura could have evidence of the act and took action to make sure she didn’t share it with anyone. The killer couldn’t know exactly what was in the picture plate or how it worked. He himself hadn’t known until Laura had explained it. For all Rem knew at the moment, the man could have been in the room with them both during that first, fateful meeting.
The thought of someone watching their kiss made his skin crawl. That was between Laura and himself. Whoever he was would pay for that and all the other transgressions he had committed since.
The horsemen he had drug from the path at Honeymoore that fiery night weighed on him. If it weren’t for his need to have Laura in his arms the night of the ball, perhaps they wouldn’t be dead. God only knew what would have happened to Laura if he hadn’t been there, however. A small, gently-bred woman alone in the dark with a man who was willing to take a life… The hairs on his nape stood.
Rem mulled over the revelation of Ms. Yarrow’s death. The timeline of her death didn’t fit with what had happened in the orangery, as that had happened at the end of April, so the hand in the photo plate could not have been hers. She had been two men’s paramour in a short time and had died suddenly. Perhaps a lover’s triangle gone wrong? Or one man killing her in jealousy over her relationship with the other?
Could Arberley’s friend have been so overwrought at the thought of Madeline with someone else that he killed her and her lover both?
That seemed the likeliest scenario, given the narrow set of facts he’d been given. Yet questions still remained.
“Who was Madeline’s second lover?”
Arberley didn’t immediately answer, frowning down at the ruby he held between thumb and forefinger. Rem sensed that the man was coming to realize the ramifications of the answer to that question. He turned the ruby over and over with his nimble fingers in silence.
Rem came to sit directly across from him. He hadn’t time to waste. “Who was it, Arberley?”
The man’s ice-blue eyes came up to meet Rem’s, a rare measure of fear in them. He gulped. “Daniel. Daniel Craigerton had possession of her last.”
Rem sucked in a breath. Of course.
The man’s death had been as mysterious as it was unexpected. He hadn’t even considered he was the victim, as Craigerton’s body had been found only a month ago, but that didn’t mean the man hadn’t been dead for longer. He had been dead since April twenty-eighth, to be exact- the night of the ball. Rem took a deep breath. “You understand what this means?”
Arberley nodded, his usual bravado and affectations gone. He rubbed a hand over his face, the lines and veins wrought by debauchery standing out in relief to paint him older than his twenty-some years.
Rem leaned forward. One thing still remained; “Who did you give the dagger to? Who won Madeline Yarrow at the auction?”
Arberley began to shake his head. “Rothstone, you must understand. I don’t want any involvement in this. I might play with a rough bunch, but I don’t believe…That is, I hadn’t thought any of us capable of what you’re suggesting. Murdering a peer of realm over a whore? It’s just not done!”
Rem’s lips pursed. “It has been done. You know it as well as I. There’s no question that the owner of that ruby killed Daniel Craigerton, most likely over Madeline Yarrow.”
Arberley continued to shake his head. “If I had known…”
“Did you?” Rem asked pointedly. Arberley had been in possession of many of the facts this whole time. It wouldn’t have been impossible to draw conclusions.
Arberley looked up at Rem, eyes wide. “I swear to you, I did not. I’ve spent time with him since.” He held out his hands in supplication. “Why would I have been alone with a murderer if I had known?”
“You’ve always been known as someone who has to compete against everyone else, like there’s some cosmic game afoot.” Rem said, trying to keep the disdain from his voice. “Perhaps having a murderer for a friend or having a secret like that made you feel powerful- like you had something over the rest of us.”
Arberley closed his eyes. “You’re not wrong. Something like that might have appealed to me at one point.” He opened them and trained his glare on Rem. “But I value my life far more than carrying around such a burden.”
Rem nodded. He believed him, for he had always suspected that beneath the man’s swagger lay simple cowardice. “Then I suggest you tell me who it is because I don’t think either of us wants a man capable of that running loose, friend or no.
The settee creaked beneath Arberley as he straightened. He hung his head for a moment, and then tossed back the rest of the scotch in his glass. After he had chased the fire from the beverage with a final swallow, Arberley said flatly, “Fennimore. Grayson Fennimore.”
Sweat ran in a rivulet down Laura’s back, causing goosebumps to rise on her arms. In her short life thus far, she had never felt terror of the sort that now racked her body. Even crashing towards the ground in a flame-lit balloon had not produced the raw, nauseating fear playing havoc with her mind as she sat in the oppressive gray room, waiting.
After Grayson had made his pronouncement, he had left the room, promising to be back soon. He had left her tied to the chair with rough rope that cut into her wrists and ankles. She had tried to wriggle out of the bonds, but he had been thorough in making sure her slim extremities couldn’t budge or twist. She had yelled for help, screamed until her throat was raw, and struggled against her bonds until her wrists began to bleed.
No one came except a maid that did not make eye contact as she methodically built a fire in the dusty hearth. Laura had tried to speak to her, begging her to have mercy and let her go, but there was no response whatsoever. After it was clear the fire would take, she had left the room as silently as she had come, as if Laura didn’t exist at all. She came back a few minutes later to fill the hip bath with water to its rim, for what purpose Laura couldn’t fathom. Ten minutes had gone by without a sound and they were the worst minutes of her life.
Until he came back.
Fennimore strolled into the room with a wooden chest about the size of her torso. He clunked the thing down on the bedside table and then went to the fireplace to stoke the flames. He then turned towards her. “How are you feeling?” he asked, staring intently at her features.
She wasn’t sure if answering him or not was better. Her fear might be exactly what he enjoyed, so she stayed silent.
He didn’t give her the option. Walking over to her, he grabbed her chin and forced her to look up at him. “I asked you how you feel. You will answer me, and end each statement with “Master Grayson. Do you understand?”
Laura glared up at him. She was done trying to reason with this man. “You can go to Hell….Master Grayson.”
Grayson stepped back and sighed, releasing her face. “You know, it’s never fun if they give in straight off anyways” he commented. “So I’m glad you’re giving us a chance to test some of your limits, Laura.”
She attempted a bored tone. “I will tell you that my limit for tolerating imbecilic mad men has been reached.”
He only smiled. “Teaching you respect is going to be fun. For me, that is. I have a feeling you are not one of those women who take pleasure in debasement.” He went to the chest and opened it. Laura had a feeling she wouldn’t like what was inside. “There are those who do, you know. My Madeline was perfect. So obedient, but never lacking in spirit. She understood the sport of it, you see. The give and take. It’s an art, knowing just how far too push someone until they give in. I never tired of our games.”
He took out a palm-sized object that was shaped like a letter C. As he brought it closer, she could see that it was made of metal and had a screw with a sharp point coming through the bottom of the C, while the other end was disc-shaped. She tried not to think about what it was used for, but possibilities flashed through her mind, kicking her heart into faster rhythm.
“Who is Madeline? What happened to her?” she asked. If she was going to die in this place with this man, she might as well know what in blazes was going on.
Fennimore stopped, and for the first time since entering the room, he looked unsure of himself- lost. His mouth hung open for a brief moment, eyes unfocused. Finally, he blinked. “What happened to her is not your concern.” Reaching the chair, he knelt down in front of her and began to twist the screw within the device. The C’s ends drew closer together.
As she watched him raise the device towards the right arm of the chair, Laura realized with horror what the device was- a clamp that, when adjusted, would slowly screw the wickedly pointed end into a person’s flesh with excruciating precision. Her throat closed, air coming in labored breaths into her panicked lungs. “You-you can’t mean to use that on me.”
Grayson smiled and looked at her wide eyes, pausing in his movement. “You look lovely right now, you know. Fear gives things beauty. Fear lays bare the nature of everything, reducing it to its essence, to the very thing that makes it beautiful- the temporal nature of the body.” He stroked a finger down the column of her throat. She jerked away, but he paid the movement no notice. “When threatened, both human and animal will react in pure instinct to preserve the fragile state of its existence. Most women, I’ve learned over time, go through stages of conflicting instincts during times of fear and pain. Right now, you are warring between panic and logic, still hoping that negotiating will mitigate your need for an adrenaline response. Two parts of your brain are struggling to control your body’s reaction.” A bead of sweat bobbed on the tip of his finger as he touched it to her temple. “You can’t stop the involuntary response of what your brain knows is about to happen. Yet, you also can’t stop the urge to attempt to extricate yourself from the threat by appealing to the source of the threat however you think will be most effective.”
His explanation only served to convince Laura that, number one, he was mad. And number two, she really was in trouble. In fact, there was no reason to think he wasn’t telling her the truth now- She might very well not leave here alive. Her only chance might be to figure out what it was he thought was causing him “trouble.” Perhaps convincing him that he needed her alive to solve his problems would buy her time until someone realized she was missing. Surely someone would come when she didn’t arrive home by this evening?
She could no longer stop her body from shaking as she watched him place the clamp over her hand and under the wooden chair arm. The screw side of the clamp was underneath, but she saw it could came up through a specially drilled hole in the armrest. Cold metal touched the top of her hand, and he tightened the device until she couldn’t raise her hand off the wood at all. Her voice was no longer steady when she asked, “What is it you think I’ve done to you? I can tell you, it was not intentional.”
Grayson methodically adjusted the clamp until he heard her sharp intake of breath at the sensation of the screw reaching her palm. “Ah, there we are.”
Her heart was racing, and she knew panic would soon take over her mental faculties. She also knew she had to keep trying to reason with him, or there was no hope. “You can’t just torture and kill the daughter of an Earl, Grayson. You’ll be hanged.”
He grunted as he rose and dusted off his hands. “Fortunately, there are any number of accidents that can happen in the country. Happens all the time.”
“You can’t think you’ll really get away with staging an accident,” she wheedled.
He laughed. “You’d be surprised what people believe, if a peer of the realm says it happened. Now, let’s have a little chat about things past, shall we?”
She stayed silent. He might be insane, but that didn’t mean that she couldn’t outlive whatever usefulness he thought she had to him. Better to find out what was going on first to know what leverage, if any, she possessed.
Fennimore went to the water basin and dipped his hands in, washing them and then drying them on the towel beside it. He went to lean against the bed post a few feet away, eyes trained on her face. “What do you remember the night of the Rothstone Ball- specifically, during the time you snuck away to the conservatory?”
Laura blinked. What did that have to do with anything? And how did he know about that? “I don’t understand.”
He sighed, more of a growl. “I would prefer we not waste time with inanities. Answer the question.”
The tip of the crew pressing against the center of her palm reminded her of what could happen if she refused to answer. Yet which was worse? Pain now or possibly death later?
“Now, Laura,” he said softly.
The back of her neck tickled as a bead of sweat ran down it. “I-I remember setting up my camera and sitting on the bench. Then Rem- Rothstone, rather- found me.”
“Yes, and you shared a wonderful moment in the moonlight. What else?”
She froze. “You…how do you know that? How do you know any of this?”
He came forward. “It’s not important. Did you see anyone else there? Or anything unusual?” His eyes blazed with the need for her answer.
“I don’t recall,” she said honestly.
Grayson thought for a moment. “What happened to the photo plate you were using that night?”
She knew what had happened to it and in whose possession it was, but she wasn’t going to give that away. “Why?”
He took another step toward her. “Do not make me twist that,” he nodded towards the clamp on her hand.
“I won’t tell you until you explain why it’s so important.”
Fennimore’s smile was predatory. “Part of me was secretly hoping you’d say that.” Closing the distance between them, he knelt down in front of her. “I want you to look at me. Can you do that?”
She couldn’t help it. “Since I’m already looking at you, that’s rather redundant.”
His lips twitched. “So disrespectful. We’ll see how long that lasts.”
He reached under the arm of the chair.
“Wait, wait, wait,” she screeched, but he did not listen.
The screw twisted up into the fleshy pad of her palm, one full rotation. Hot pain reverberated through her hand and up her arm. Laura let out a short scream from the shock of it, scrunching her eyes closed.
“No, open them. Look at me,” Grayson commanded.
Laura shook her head, forcing her brain to separate itself from the sensation there. She wouldn’t give him the satisfaction.
“No? Alright then.” He twisted the screw again, this time two full rotations.
Laura held in her scream with all the willpower she had left. Her teeth ground against one another. She tried to focus on the tightness of her jaw, but perceptions of reality kept intruding. Warm wetness trickled to her wrist and dropped to the floor with a flat sound. The bones on the top of her hand ached from forcing themselves against the clamp. And now cold sweat had risen everywhere on her skin, though the room was now a comfortable temperature with the fire crackling not far away. But everything came down to the white-hot feeling of metal being driven into the sensitive flesh of her palm.
Grayson grabbed her chin. “Look at me.”
She opened her eyes unwillingly.
“That’s better. You do have lovely eyes. Your pupils dilate when experiencing pain or anxiety. Did you know that?”
“Your voice is more painful than anything,” she ground out.
His eyes flashed as he twisted the clamp again.
Laura was proud that she made no discernable sound and kept eye contact as the pain flooded through her hand. The dripping sound grew more frequent.
“Remarkable. I am quite enjoying this,” Fennimore commented. “It’s been some time since I’ve allowed myself to indulge so thoroughly. Since Madeline, in fact.”
“Who is she?” she whispered, trying not to cry. This woman seemed to be at the center of some obsession of his.
Grayson sat back on the floor and popped an elbow on one knee. Laura saw her own blood on this tips of his fingers. He seemed to not notice it or not care. “I suppose there’s no harm in telling you now. I find I’m in the mood to speak of her.” He rubbed his fingers together, spreading her blood between his finger pads. “Madeline was my soulmate. She came into my life at just the right moment to change everything. Every day was full of wonder- new discoveries, new heights of pleasure for both of us. She was so pure… Anything we did, it was like it couldn’t touch her, couldn’t dim her spirit. Every time was like the first, every day new. I have never felt happiness like I did in her presence.” He seemed to drift off into a reverie.
“Sounds wonderful,” Laura said past her gritted teeth.
His eyes snapped back to her. “It was. Until someone I trusted took her from me. He seduced her with false promises of a title and respectability, no doubt. She always did want those things more than anything else. She said it was freedom. I told her no one would make her a peer’s wife, Earl’s bastard or not; It’s just not the way things are done. But she always hoped.” He shifted on the floor, stretching out his leg. How someone could relax while another person sat in pain not five feet away, she didn’t know. He continued, “I knew she couldn’t be happy with that pup, but I never thought….Well, then it didn’t matter.” He gulped, and Laura could see he was genuinely distraught thinking about it.
“Why not?” she asked.
“He killed her,” he said flatly, glittering eyes half-slits in the fading afternoon light coming through the window. Nostrils flared, he clenched his fist, smearing blood over it. His shoulders heaved up and down with emotion. “That bastard-” he choked, looking towards the flames in the hearth, then took a deep breath. “That monster threw her into the street in the dead of winter when he discovered she was with child.” His voice lowered. “My child.”
Laura closed her eyes. “I’m so sorry.”
He continued, almost as if she weren’t there listening. “She sent me a letter asking me to come for her- for her and our baby. When I arrived there two days later, she had already been thrown out the night before. The butler acted as if tossing a pregnant woman into the cold was as necessary as tossing out a chamber pot.”
His lips trembled, and he cleared his throat, forcing them into a hard line. “I retraced her steps, asking every inn and coaching line between here and there. She had tried to make her way to my estate on a public coach, but she didn’t have enough to take her the whole way. The coach dropped her off on the side of the road on the outskirts of a village.”
Grayson’s voice grew soft, and she had to struggle to hear him as he related the rest of the story. “She was found the next morning by a farmer in one of his stables…She- and our child- had frozen to death.” A tear made its way down his cheek unheeded, and his eyes were distant. “I brought her home and buried her here at the estate, where they both should have grown old.”
Laura felt tears of her own that she’d held back before fall. “Grayson…. I had no idea.”
His gaze sharpened, and he seemed to come back to himself. His tone was cold again as he said, “No one did. And no one cared. I put her name in the papers’ obituaries, and notified the press, but not a single person sent condolences or expressed interest in her funeral. When I told that scum Craigerton about what had happened to her because of him, he shrugged.” Fennimore mimicked the gesture. “No words, no regrets. Just a movement of the shoulder was all he could muster for a woman who was worth a thousand of his ilk. For a woman who died for his pride.”
She thought of Madeline, a terrified woman alone in the cold, trying to protect the child growing inside her. Knowing she wouldn’t reach her destination in time… Laura’s lip trembled. “No one deserves that. I’m sorry.”
“No, she didn’t deserve that.” His voice grew hard. “And Craigerton didn’t deserve to draw breath. I tried to forget about the fact that he was still living his filthy life, free of any guilt or consequences, until I couldn’t stand the thought of it anymore. I didn’t plan it. I didn’t even know if I could,” he said candidly. “But I took his life in the Rothstone conservatory with the same knife Madeline and I used to use…” He trailed off, lost in memories.
Laura’s mind reeled as she put it together. She flexed her hand, sending a shot of agony through her nerves. The screw was still buried deep, but the bleeding had slowed a bit. So that was what this whole thing was about. He thought she knew something about that night. She must have walked into the scene of Daniel Craigerton’s murder. Fennimore must have been there the entire time that she and Rem were embracing. The knowledge wasn’t pleasant.
And now that she understood, she knew that she couldn’t reveal where that picture was. Once she did, he would be done with her.
Fennimore’s face was lit on only one side now as the sun’s slant toward the horizon continued and the fire became the brightest point in the room. “I suppose I am a monster too, but I can live with that. What I will not tolerate is being judged by the world for giving justice to my Madeline. The man who killed her doesn’t deserve pity. He doesn’t deserve to be mourned. Madeline wasn’t.”
“I cannot honestly say that I blame you for doing what you did. The man deserved punishment. However, you must see that now you’re harming another innocent woman who did nothing to you.”
“You’re not innocent,” he spat. “Naïve, perhaps, but not innocent. None of you aristocratic women are. You sit prettily and lie through your teeth all day to get what you want. Madeline was real. Honest in everything.”
The fervor is his voice underscored his devotion to a woman who would never return. It made her heart ache, but she couldn’t afford to let her emotions rule her thinking right now. “Maybe she was,” she said gently. “But I haven’t lied to you. Not once.”
He scoffed. “And have you told the truth once?”
She sat up straighter in the chair, her back aching from the forced position. “I wouldn’t be here if what we’ve talked about wasn’t the truth. I have been honest about my feelings for you and for Remington, even though it should have driven you away. Being honest wouldn’t have been advantageous if your suit had been real, would it?”
Laura’s heart pumped as he seemed to consider her words. He cocked his head to the side. “What if you’re just a very good manipulator? I’ve seen it before, especially from women of your station.”
Laura tried to laugh, but the sound was cracked and dry. “The only one who has manipulated this relationship has been you, apparently from the very beginning.”
“I can’t deny that,” he admitted calmly, raising himself to his knees. Chilled fingers touched her cheek and slowly skimmed her lips. His eyes developed a hunger she recognized. “Although I also can’t deny that every moment with you was repellant. I understand the appeal. Mayhap if we had met under different circumstances…I would have enjoyed keeping you as my pet for longer than a few hours.”
His voice held a hypnotic, almost reverent quality. It was almost easy to fall into its cadence and away from the pain in her hand. Almost. Either way, this was her chance to play along. “Mayhap, if you weren’t planning to kill me, I wouldn’t object.”
His breath rushed into her face as he exhaled on a chuckle. He inhaled sharply, scanning her sweat-sheened features. Hand on her neck, he reached behind her and drew her face forward.
There was no trying to fool herself that she wasn’t relieved at the reprieve from more pain that she was already in. She closed her eyes, anticipating the pressure of his lips. Laura knew she couldn’t recoil, but the effort it took to pretend that all she felt was pleasure was almost too much. Ignoring the pain in her hand and the patter of blood that still sounded from the floorboard, she let him press his lips to hers and open them. His tongue slid in, wet against the inside her mouth that was dry from fear. As best she could, she reacted to his movements, eliciting a groan from him. Her heart sped; perhaps he would elect to untie her after all.
Fennimore stroked his other hand down her arm to where her hand was pressed in the vice. Reaching underneath, his fingertips fluttered on her sticky palm, sending shivers up the limb. “Are you ready?” he murmured against her lips.
She didn’t get a chance to respond as he tightened the screw again, forcing it further up into her flesh. He caught her scream in his mouth, forcing her lips to stay open as she rode the waves of pain out.
When her shrieks turned to pants, Grayson broke contact and moved back a few inches to whisper, “That’s a good girl. Sshhh, you’re alright. I’ve got you.” Streaks of dark red were left as he stroked her forearm gently.
His touches were so gentle, she almost thanked him, and that thought alone scared her as nothing else had.
A tear escaped to make its way down her bloodless cheek. It wasn’t the pain; the perversion this man was making of passion made her soul twist in objection. He was truly enjoying every moment of her agony, thinking it somehow bonded her to him. In a way, it did. It made her dependent on his every whim, on pleasing him. She could understand how, in a twisted way, two people might derive meaning or purpose from such a relationship. The dynamic might not be wrong in itself, but this man had carried it to a depraved place of true cruelty. She cried for the pain Madeline must have endured at the hands of Fennimore, but more for the disarray she was sure he had made of her emotions in such a perverse union.
Grayson pulled a piece of damp hair away from her forehead. “You’re doing wonderfully, Laura. Now you just need to tell me what happened to the print you took that night.” He searched her eyes for acquiescence.
Ironically, she had been trying to get ahold of the stupid thing too, and hadn’t been able to. He certainly wasn’t going to get it. “No,” she rasped.
His eyes turned hard. “I see we’re going to have to continue your training. You will learn respect, Laura. You’ve been given far too long a leash by well-meaning imbeciles, but I won’t tolerate that nonsense here.” He rose and walked over to the box on the nightstand. “I think it’s time to introduce you to another tool, since the vice is not enough incentive for one as stubborn as you.”
He removed a long, plain letter opener with a wooden handle encasing the metal on one end. Laura supposed he meant to prod her with it like cattle. She had never felt more sympathy for the beasts. He walked towards her, but didn’t stop, instead going to the fireplace with it. Angling it down into the crackling orange flames, he held it there, as if roasting something on the end of it.
Except he wasn’t going to roast a sausage or piece of cheese. He was going to roast her flesh with it. Laura closed her eyes and tried to stop herself from trembling as the tears came. It was no use. Her teeth chattered, and she accepted the she had no control of her body’s response any longer. She prayed in earnest, begging to be taken from this place before he could use the object in his hand.
“One should never underestimate the versatility of every-day objects,” Fennimore commented, turning the letter opener over to even the application of heat. His voice cut through her haze of terror from far away. “I discovered this particular use for letter openers on a delightful evening with Madeline the winter before last. It was a chilly evening, and the fire in my study was blazing away. I had called Madeline in without any real forethought, so when things became…heated, you might say, inspiration struck. There it was, just lying on the desk, and she was being so cheeky that night. It was beautiful, all the myriad ways we discovered for its use, but my favorite was the addition of heat. It can nip, singe, sear, melt right through your body altogether. I don’t think she’d mind if I let myself use it for nostalgic value on you.”
As he held it up from the flames for examination, the tip of the blade glowed a deep red in the darkness that had been deepening in the room. Laura grew nauseous looking at it. Though she knew it was futile, she began to struggle as he came closer with the implement, straining at her bonds for all she was worth. Her breath came in harsh gasps by the time he reached her.
“Please. Please don’t do this,” she whispered.
He pulled her chair towards the fire, scraping it noisily across the floorboards. Laura gritted her teeth as her hand was jostled. “That’s better. I can see your face now. It’s only fair to understand how you’re feeling throughout the process. Disengaging from your emotions would be robbing myself of half the experience, wouldn’t you agree?”
Squinting at the sudden brightness of the fire, she shook her head, struggling to draw air into her lungs. Her throat was closing in on itself.
Setting the letter opener on the mantel, he ran his hand over the top of her head and began to take the pins from her hair. Thick sections fell down until it all lay in heavy waves against her back. “I’d like to tell you that you can make it stop at any point by simply answering my questions, but I don’t think that would be in the spirit of honesty right now,” he told her. The roots of her hair were damp and stuck from sweat, and so he arranged the tresses around her shoulders himself.
Her scalp tingled in response to his ministrations, and it was tempting to take comfort in the careful movements while everywhere else, her body was taut as a tightrope. His fingertips carefully kneaded her hair into place and ran through the strands to smooth it. The contrast between his intentions and the care he took now was overwhelming to her frayed nerves.
He continued, “So I’ll ask you again in a few minutes, but, for now, I just want to enjoy this with you.” He gave her hair a final caress and then leaned against the fireplace mantel, grabbing the letter opener as he did so. “We’ll start slowly and then work our way up.”
Laura trembled. “Grayson, we could talk. Just talk about anything, anything you want to,” she pleaded.
His smile indicated no sympathy, and he didn’t reply. He placed the tip of the metal to her forearm briefly, causing her to yelp. He moved it away and then patiently watched as the spot developed a pink, shiny welt. Grayson touched it with a fingertip, causing her to wince. He placed the letter opener next to the first mark, but held it longer, causing a sizzling sound on her skin.
Laura didn’t try to hold in her reactions any longer. Nothing mattered but that it stop. She screamed until he lifted the metal up from her skin and saw that the metal had not left anything, but taken the top layer of her skin with it, leaving a small, arrow-shaped, oozing sore. “Stop! Please stop,” she sobbed.
Fennimore leaned down and cupped her face, examining her features. He let go to take a handkerchief out of his vest pocket and gently wipe her cheeks and nose from the results of her cries. “Ask me to stop again, the way I told you.”
Her thoughts were fogged, but she remembered what he’d said earlier. She hesitated, some part of her still unwilling to give him any amount of respect, knowing how he would take pleasure in her capitulation.
Grayson sighed and rose, sticking the blade into the flames again. Turned away from her, she still heard him clearly. “You’re so close, Laura. So close to a greater appreciation of what it means to truly acknowledge your place. It will make you happy to please me. You don’t yet realize how freeing it will be, submitting your will to mine.”
Laura’s teeth chattered, and she blinked to stop a drop of sweat from running into her eye. “Pleasing someone out of fear isn’t real,” she said shakily.
“I would disagree. I’ve had women beg to do anything I wanted, without any threats at all,” he told her, lifting the tool from the fire to examine it.
She looked up at the back of his head with derision. “After you’ve tortured them, perhaps. Doing whatever necessary to avoid pain is still fear. And if it’s done from fear, without a choice, it doesn’t count,” she said firmly. She was tired of his delusional logic. She wanted to upset his entire world and take away any happiness he derived from this. Her voice grew. “I’ll bet your precious Madeline never cared for your stupid games at all. She was just a terrified woman who ran away from you the first change she got.”
Fennimore turned towards her with an expression of such rage, she instinctively shrunk back into the chair. He struck her with the back of his hand, causing lights to dance in front of her eyes.
She shook her head to clear it, but was still unapologetic. He deserved a dose of reality.
His features were twisted with anger as he ground out, “Never speak of my Madeline again.”
She could feel blood start to well in her mouth from his blow. “Or what?” she snarled. Laura imagined she probably looked rather gruesome at the moment. Why not add bloody teeth to the spectacle?
“I think we should find out,” he said. “Did you know that, if heated properly, this blade will melt right through your skin as if it were the softest leather?”
“Leather is skin, you idiot,” she told him. She wasn’t going to play at submission if he was going to hurt her anyways. The satisfaction in making him squirm was worth it if she was going to die anyways.
She would never see Remington Rothstone again.
The thought hit her like a ton of bricks, knocking the air out from her lungs. She was never going to hear his droll, teasing tone or harsh breath in her ear as he kissed his way down her neck. She would never see his dark eyes soften as he drew her close. And she would never feel his body straining against hers again, aching to be part of her and forcing her to choose him.
She would choose him if she could now. When it came down to it- to this, to the end- nothing else really mattered but being with the one person who made everything else worthwhile. Her life was a colorless landscape without him, and she had wasted what little time she’d had left being concerned with what other people thought. What was life without the kind of happiness Rem gave her? She watched Fennimore’s throat work with fury as he raised the glowing letter opener towards her midsection, and she vowed to herself that if she survived this, she would marry Remington with her dying breath.
Fennimore’s eyes blazed with wrath, and spittle escaped the corner of his mouth. “You still think you can speak without consequences. You’re nothing. You’re already dead, and you don’t even know it. Let’s see how brave you are after this,” he jeered, pressing the shining blade into her ribs.
Her flimsy day dress gave way beneath the heat and allowed the metal to slide its way into her skin. She discovered he had been right- it glided through her skin and in between her ribs like an oar into water, the scorching metal sealing her tissues around itself as it went.
The sound she made was inhuman- a noise she couldn’t fathom was coming from her own mouth. The pitch pierced the air and drowned out everything for a brief second. There was a blessed nothingness in the echoing void, as if the sound might be able to hold back the maelstrom of pain that threatened to swallow her.
And then every sensation possible came crashing down, overwhelming her mind with a flood of incomprehensible agony. White-hot pain shredded through her torso, scattering every thought but one:
Anything he wants.