Chapter 29
May 18, 1814
“Now then, Mr. Standish, may I offer you a cup of tea?” Natalya inquired as she led him into the north parlor. Perching on the edge of the Chippendale settee, she gestured toward a nearby wing chair, hoping that her visitor would take the hint. Instead he sat beside her and lifted his quizzing-glass.
“No need to bother the servants, Miss Beauvisage. I’d be happier with a bit of brandy, and don’t mind pouring it myself. Why don’t I get you a sherry?” Without waiting for her assent, he went to the cellaret and availed himself of its contents, returning moments later with two generously filled glasses. “Ah, this looks delicious after that tedious ride from Philadelphia. To your health, my dear!”
Natalya eyed the goblet of sherry dubiously, but she wanted to get through this as amicably as possible. She touched the rim of her glass to his, took a sip, and then ventured, “I understand that you knew the Earl of Hartford’s son in England.”
David nearly choked. “Who told you that?”
“My maid, Charlotte, whom you met in the bookshop yesterday. When she gave me your note, she recommended you highly, and said she knew of you when she was employed by the earl.”
“Oh!” Silently damning Francesca for not informing him of her detailed scheming, he managed to regain his composure. “Yes, I am acquainted with the family. David St. James was an excellent fellow.”
“I know his brother, Grey,” she confided. “What a tragedy David’s death must have been.”
“Alas, how true!” Shaking his head, David drank liberally from his glass. “He was by far the more worthy of the two sons, if I may say so. Don’t suppose that Grey wasted a moment grieving for him.”
“Oh, no, I think you’re wrong. I believe that he was more affected by the loss than even he knows, and he has told me that he would change his relationship with his brother if he could go back.”
Her visitor looked pained for an instant, then squinted at her through his quizzing-glass. “Indeed? It doesn’t signify in the least now, though, does it? And I didn’t come out here to discuss a lot of English nobles. I came to acquaint myself with you, dear lady. Has anyone told you how beautiful you are? One imagines that a female author will be plain and all too maidenly, but you’re nothing like that....”
When Mr. Standish moved to narrow the space between them, Natalya felt a sudden wave of panic. All her instincts told her that her admirer was about to become inappropriately ardent. She began to hope that Charlotte would recover from her indigestion and burst clumsily into the room to rescue her.
* * *
When Francesca heard Grey’s step on the stairs, she stood behind her bedchamber door and waited for him to knock.
“Francesca,” he called in demanding tones. “Why the devil has your butler sent me up here? Come downstairs and we’ll conduct this interview in your parlor.”
“Grey, dear, just join me inside for a moment, then we can go downstairs,” she replied. “I have the jewels here, and would rather not show them to the servants.”
He stood for a moment, considering, then sighed and opened the door. Striding into the spacious room, he looked around for Francesca. “For God’s sake—”
Quickly and quietly she closed the door, locked it, and slid the key underneath it to the hallway. Grey whirled around in time to see her straightening. Clad only in her Chinese silk wrapper, her hair flowing loose over her shoulders, she met his flinty stare with fiery emerald eyes. “Darling,” she murmured, with a secret smile, “you’re late.”
“What the devil are you up to this time?”
“I think it’s time that you and I forget what has happened these past two years. Let us return to the way it was between us.” Her voice and expression were seductively feline. “I know you haven’t forgotten. How could you?”
Grey was standing conveniently near the bed, taut and handsome in a dark blue coat, white cravat, snug buckskin breeches, and riding boots. Her eyes devoured him as she walked to the side of the bed.
“You must be mad,” Grey muttered impatiently. “Just give me the jewels, Francesca.”
She stared at his hand, which was gripping the bedpost in anger. A scar stood out across it, white in contrast to his bronzed skin. She sensed the tight rein Grey held on his dangerous temper, and this excited her beyond measure. Shrugging, she let the wrapper fall to the floor in a liquid, silken pool, then lay back naked across the bed like an artist’s model. “Remember, Grey?” she taunted hoarsely, stretching her arms over her head, conscious of the way her breasts stood up and her belly flattened. “Take me again. No one could ever love me as you did. I’ll do anything you want, anything....”
As Francesca opened her thighs and lifted her hips toward him, Grey knew a nearly overpowering urge to wrap his hands around her neck and tighten his grip until she could no longer breathe, move, smile, whisper, or plot evil against another human being.
“You have completely taken leave of your senses.” His tone was deadly and a muscle moved in his jaw.
“On the contrary, darling,” Francesca purred, caressing herself. “As you can plainly see, and are intimately aware, I am quite myself... perfect in every way.”
He reached down, scooped up the silk wrapper, and threw it over her. “Get the hell up and give me my mother’s jewels, damn you! I wouldn’t touch you if you were the last woman on earth, so spare yourself the effort.”
Her eyes hardened as she rose slowly to a sitting position. “It’s that insipid little spinster, isn’t it? Has she deluded you into thinking that you can be faithful to one woman?” Harsh laughter broke from her, filling the bedchamber like poison. “Believe me, darling, it’s not in your nature. She’ll never be able to satisfy you the way I can, and you’re a fool to give up the chance to take me back. Can’t you see, we’re perfectly suited. We’re alike, you and I—hard-hearted and in love only with pleasure. Oh, you may think you’ve changed, but I know better. Men like you never change! It’s in your blood, my wild devil, and a conventional marriage would bore you to tears and eventually drive you mad. I’m the only woman, the only woman—”
Grey gripped her arm with such force that she gasped in pain. “That’s quite enough. You’re the one who’s mad.” His voice lowered to a menacing tone. “Give over the jewels, madame.”
Francesca began to laugh again, this time maniacally, straining upward so that their faces were inches apart. “What if I said that you would have to earn them first?”
“Nothing on this earth could induce me to touch you in the manner you suggest.”
“Well, nothing on this earth could induce me to part with my jewels,” she spat. “Did you really imagine that I would be so foolish as to keep them in this house? If so, my dear husband, you woefully underestimate me!”
A vein pulsed in his forehead as he released her and turned to look around the bedchamber. Raking a hand through his hair, he realized that it would be pointless to search for the jewels. She was right; they would certainly not be anywhere he would think to look. And his disgust with Francesca was so overpowering that he couldn’t bear to spend another minute here. Without a backward glance, he strode to the door, turned the knob, and found it locked.
“Oh, dear,” she cooed from the bed, “I’ve locked it and lost the key.”
Realizing that he would surely murder her if he remained another moment, Grey stepped back, pretended the paneled door was Francesca, and brought his booted foot against it with deadly force. It splintered, the lock broke, and he took his leave.
* * *
When she heard the front door slam, Francesca flew off the bed in a rage, grabbed an exquisite Sevres vase that David had given her for her birthday, and threw it against the wall. As it smashed into a million pieces, she uttered a long, primitive scream.
Why? Why was it that she, who had never been denied anything in her life, was now frustrated at every turn?
Calming herself took an act of will, but at last Francesca was able to consider her situation dispassionately. She sat at her dressing table and stared at herself in the mirror, pondering what was to be done about Grey... and her own future.
Soon the answer came to her, and she smiled at her own brilliance. If she could not regain her place as Grey’s wife, she would see him dead. Then she could marry David, and they would return to England together. David would be heir to the earldom, Grey would be out of the way, and before long that nasty old earl would die and all the Hartford estates and holdings would belong to her.
Of course, it would mean killing that silly authoress, too, but that didn’t bother her in the least. David was already with her. Francesca would join them, wait for Grey to walk into her trap, and all her problems would be solved by day’s end.
Throwing on her wrapper, she went into the hallway to call for her carriage, then ran back to her dressing room and selected a gown of blood-red velvet. Perfect, thought Francesca, feeling utterly and deliciously mad; the evening promised to be thrilling beyond belief. Slipping her feet into white kid slippers and rushing toward the door, she gave one fleeting thought to Grey, who might just be persuaded to beg her pardon before he died.
* * *
As he walked from Francesca’s house to his own on Spruce Street, Grey couldn’t wipe the memory of her eyes from his mind. When he had married her in London, she had been provocative and even wicked at times, but something had happened to her since then. Was it possible that she actually had tripped over the brink into true madness? And, if so, what did that mean to him? Of course, he could more easily obtain a divorce, which required an act of Parliament, but did his involvement end there? He saw her again, naked, laughing crazily, taunting him, and realized that Francesca was fully capable of attempting to harm him or someone else. Was there some way of returning her to her father in England, of having her confined?
Deep in thought, Grey scarcely noticed the carriage in front of his house. Fedbusk met him at the door, clearly disgruntled.
“Your supper’s ready, sir.”
“Good. I’m ravenous,” Grey replied, and started past him toward his study, where he usually took his meals when alone.
“I tried to tell ’em that you wouldn’t have time,” Fedbusk grumbled, following him, “but they said they’d wait anyway.”
“What are you prattling about?” Preoccupied and hungry, Grey had no patience for Fedbusk’s cryptic mutterings.
“Them, sir,” he said, pointing toward the parlor. “Somebody Gladstone and a girl.”
Suddenly feeling as if he were suffocating in the warm May evening, Grey stripped off his coat and strode into the parlor to discover the identities of his uninvited guests. Whoever they were, he fully intended to send them away. The stocky, sandy-haired man who stood when he entered the room looked vaguely familiar, but then Grey’s eyes fell on Kristin Beauvisage and he bit back the curt greeting.
“Ah, Miss Beauvisage, how nice of you to drop by.” Forcing a smile, he crossed the parlor and was introduced to Hollis. “On any other evening, I would consider it an honor to sit down and visit with you both, but I’m afraid you’ve come at rather an awkward time. I do hope you won’t think me unforgivably rude if I—”
“Mr. St. James,” Kristin broke in, “are you on your way to Belle Maison?”
“Eventually. I have some matters to attend to first.”
“I know this will sound preposterous, and perhaps Hollis is right when he says that I am being overanxious, but there is a man visiting my sister, and—”
Grey’s jaw hardened and his eyes grew steely. “What man?”
“He’s English; an admirer of Natalya’s book, he says. I’m sure he’s perfectly harmless, but I just had an odd feeling about him, and I felt that I couldn’t enjoy the theater tonight unless I made you aware—”
“What does he look like?” Grey interrupted.
“He was rather slight, and older. He has thinning gray hair...”
“Spectacles?”
“No, a quizzing-glass, but now that you mention it, I wouldn’t be surprised if he normally does wear them, because he was squinting.”
Grey forced a smile. “As you say, there’s probably nothing to worry about, but if it will make you feel better, I’ll ride out now and make certain this fellow isn’t attempting to compromise your sister’s virtue.”
“He hardly seems capable of that”—Kristin laughed as they walked toward the door—“but I appreciate your understanding. I do hope you don’t think I’m terribly silly for bothering you.”
“Nothing could be farther from the truth!” Still wearing his most charming smile, Grey led them to the front door and bade them good night.
When Fedbusk trundled back into the stair hall to remind his master that supper would soon be inedible, he stopped short at the sight of Grey’s stormy expression. “You look like the devil himself, sir, and I doubt that a cold supper will do much to cheer you up.”
“Get me my coat!” Grey shouted. “And be quick about it!”
* * *
Overcome by an attack of conscience and curiosity, Charlotte Timkins crept into the house through the servants’ entrance and stood in the darkened hallway, listening.
For the past hour she had lain on her bed, thinking alternately about Lady Altburne and Natalya Beauvisage. Money, titles, and promises were all well and good, but there was something about her ladyship that didn’t set right. And Miss Beauvisage, for all her independent ways, was kind and genuine. Charlotte felt truly guilty when she remembered her mistress’s face, concerned and sympathetic, after she’d lied to her about being ill.
Now, in the back of the house, she wondered what she should do. If she disobeyed her ladyship’s instructions, she would surely be punished somehow. The truth about her spying and the money she’d taken would come out, and then Miss Beauvisage wouldn’t want her, either. And yet how could she betray someone who was so honest and good? It was a terrible dilemma.
Muted voices drifted to her from the north parlor. Charlotte tiptoed toward the stair hall, somehow managing not to trip or break anything on her way.
“Mr. Standish, I really must ask you to leave now,” Natalya was saying, a note of alarm in her voice. “I must insist. Do not touch me again, sir!”
“You’re old enough to know about the pleasures of the flesh,” a man’s voice replied loudly. “And I can teach you things you never dreamed of, my beauty.”
“Loose me or I shall scream!”
He laughed. “But there’s no one to hear, is there? The servants are all eating supper, and your parents are away.”
“How do you know about my parents?” Natalya’s voice rose with real panic. “Who are you? What do you want with me?”
Charlotte froze, beads of perspiration breaking out on her forehead as she waited in vain for the man’s response. There were sounds of a struggle, followed by a thump, as if bodies had toppled onto the floor. Her heart pounding in her ears, she peered into the shadowy room and saw a man in a frock coat and brown pantaloons lying on top of her mistress on the beautiful English rug in front of the settee. His hand covered her mouth, but Charlotte could hear Natalya’s muffled cries mingled with the man’s muttered replies.
Tears of sympathy for her poor mistress pricked her eyes. Without thinking, she picked up a brass candlestick from the nearby Pembroke table, crept soundlessly toward the figures struggling on the carpet, and struck the man on the back of the head. He fell forward without a sound, and Natalya pushed him away, weeping.
Charlotte was staring, her eyes like saucers, at the evil visitor who lay prostrate before her. “A ghost! God save us all, it’s a ghost!”
As she shrank back against the settee, Natalya managed to whisper, “What? Who is he? Tell me, Charlotte!”
“Mistress, it’s the Earl of Hartford’s second son, David St. James!”
“But, it can’t be! He’s been dead for two years!”
He had begun to stir, and Charlotte jumped backward in terror. “He’s a ghost, that’s what!”
A voice spoke from the stair hall, high-pitched with wicked amusement. “Hardly, you silly twit.”
Natalya whirled around to behold Francesca St. James standing in the arched doorway. Clad in a gown of blood red velvet with a black mantelet, her auburn tresses flowing around her shoulders in wild disarray, she was pointing a pistol at them. Somehow Natalya marshaled the wits and strength to stand and meet her venomous gaze.
“Madame, I must ask you to put away that weapon and leave my house.”
Francesca threw back her head and laughed. “My dear Miss Bluestocking, has no one taught you that the person holding the weapon issues the orders? I must ask you and your loyal servant to stand against this wall.” When the women did not immediately obey, her face twisted with fury. “Do as I say—now!”
Putting an arm around the trembling Charlotte, Natalya obeyed. Her gown was torn at the shoulder, the lawn tucker crumpled and forgotten under the settee, and her hair was tumbling down in loose curls, but she lifted her head proudly and returned Francesca’s stare.
“I say,” David groaned, sitting up and rubbing the back of his head. “I’ve a cursed big lump coming on.”
“Stop blubbering, you bloody fool. Get up and help me,” Francesca snapped. When David had struggled to his feet and crossed to her side, weaving slightly, she said, “My reticule is inside the front door. There’s a knife in it. Cut strips from the draperies so that we can bind their hands and feet.”
“What do you mean to do?” David inquired.
“I just told you!” she spat.
“But, why? You aren’t going to harm them, surely?”
“Of course, you idiot! I’ve seen your insufferable brother, and it’s plain that the only solution is to do away with him, which means doing away with his lover as well. I’ve no doubt that he has kept her informed of my existence in Philadelphia and the bad blood between us, so—”
“You want to kill Grey?” he repeated blankly.
“Don’t look so shocked! If you had the wits God gave a stoat, you would see that it is the only solution. You needn’t pretend you haven’t hated him all your life, and now we shall both be rid of him. The title will be yours, darling, we shall be married, and we can return to England. I’ll say I discovered you wandering about in France suffering from memory loss. Isn’t it perfect?”
David felt numb as he stared into her burning eyes. “Well, yes, I suppose so.”
“You were the man she ran away with,” Natalya whispered incredulously. “You faked your death in battle and stole your own brother’s wife!”
“Do not speak again or I shall shoot you immediately,” Francesca said in tones of ice.
Having retrieved the evil-looking knife from Francesca’s reticule, David set about slicing strips from the silk draperies. The light was fading quickly and Francesca urged him on, then handed him the pistol as she bound Natalya’s and Charlotte’s wrists.
“Now what do you intend to do?” David asked, watching her in confusion. “You don’t mean just to shoot them in cold blood, do you?”
“Imbecile!” She threw him an irritated glance over one shoulder, then gagged Natalya and Charlotte with strips of silk. “We shall wait for Grey. I know my beloved husband, and I feel certain that he’ll come rushing out here tonight to cleanse himself of the memory of our earlier encounter. My effect on him was undeniable. He was clearly aroused, but seems to have temporarily developed a conscience. No doubt he’ll believe that a visit with his little spinster will absolve him of all his wicked thoughts.” Francesca pushed Charlotte down to the floor and began to tie her ankles together. “We’ll wait for him to walk into our trap, tie him up as well, and then let him watch his lover die first....”
David was listening in horrified fascination when Francesca’s head snapped up. “What’s wrong?” he asked.
“Listen!” she hissed, scrambling to her feet, the knife clutched in one hand.
Natalya’s heart gave a painful wrench as she recognized the sound of hoofbeats on the drive. Please God, she prayed, don’t let it be Grey. Don’t let it end for us this way! Francesca had forgotten to bind her ankles, and she wondered if there was anything she could do. The silk that bound her wrists had been made into draperies by Caro at least twenty years ago, and she had threatened to replace them because of age even before Natalya went to France. Now, as she tugged and pulled her wrists apart, Natalya felt the fabric begin to tear.
A sharp knock sounded at the front door, followed by Grey’s achingly beloved voice. “Natalya? Is anyone at home?”
Smiling, Francesca whispered to David, then slipped into the stair hall and stood behind the door, just as she had earlier in her own bedchamber. Grey knocked again, then tried the door, opened it, and stepped into yet another trap.
Instantly Francesca was behind him, the blade of her knife pressed between his shoulder blades. “Lift your hands up for me, darling, unless you want your lover to die,” she purred.
All the muscles in his lean body tightened, but Grey remained silent and did as she bade him. The point of the knife cut into his coat, nudging him forward into the dimly lit north parlor. “Damn you,” he breathed when he glimpsed Natalya, gagged and bound beside Charlotte on the floor.
Then David St. James stepped out of the shadow, shaking visibly as he pointed the pistol at his brother.
Lifting his eyebrows, Grey remarked with pointed irony. “Ah, there you are, David. Not dead at all, I perceive, but come to rescue me. How can I convey my gratitude?”
“Hold that pistol steady, you dolt,” Francesca commanded her lover, who had begun to sweat profusely under Grey’s cool gaze. “Pull back the hammer and shoot Miss Beauvisage instantly if she makes a suspicious move.” Still gripping the knife, she reached for the remaining strips of silk and prepared to tie her husband’s wrists behind his back.
Natalya fought an urge to weep in the face of Grey’s bravado and the fate that loomed before them both. Then she heard it: a tiny, familiar click in the paneled wall. Grey winked at her as relief flooded her body.
In the next instant, a panel in the wall sprang open and Fedbusk and Speed burst into the parlor, brandishing pistols. Their color was high, and they wore reckless grins.
“Don’t none of you move!” Fedbusk commanded, his feet spread as if he were back on the Rover’s quarterdeck. “Now then, wench,” he drawled, staring at Francesca, “I never did like you, and I’ve always wished I could say so to your face! Take that knife from ’is lordship’s back and toss it across the floor toward us.”
“Go to the devil,” she snarled, then turned her eyes up on the quaking David. “Shoot Grey! Shoot him now! Don’t let him win again!”
David’s finger hooked around the trigger as he sobbed, “I cannot. He is my brother!” When he drew it back, the pistol exploded, and Francesca stared down in stunned disbelief as a crimson stain blossomed and blended with the blood red violet of her bodice.
Horrified, Natalya watched as Grey’s wife tumbled to the floor at her feet and lay motionless. Fedbusk and Speed ran up behind David and were divesting him of his weapon just as Natalya ripped free of the rotting silk that bound her wrists and scrambled to her feet. She could hear Charlotte making incoherent whimpering sounds behind her gag, and she helped the young maid up, trying to move her away from the dead woman.
David St. James was sobbing, clinging to his brother. “Hold on, old man,” Grey said in a voice rough with tenderness. “I must see to the ladies.”
Sagging limply against Natalya, Charlotte glimpsed a movement over her mistress’s shoulder. It was Francesca. Smeared with blood, she was reaching up, wild-eyed, clambering to her knees, the knife in one hand, her other fingers transformed into scarlet-streaked claws that grasped Natalya’s white muslin skirts, pulling with inhuman strength.
Caught off-balance, Natalya staggered backward. Grey dashed toward her from across the parlor, but the blade was already slashing into Natalya’s gown. Charlotte, her wrists still bound, threw herself past her mistress and drove Francesca back.
Emitting one last shriek, Francesca toppled onto her own knife and died at last.