A Debt Paid (Clean and Wholesome Regency Romance): Dorothy (The Stainton Sisters Book 2)

Chapter 15

Marcus frownedat the sight of Dorothy’s hands resting on the filthy jacket covering the shoulders of a grimy-faced orphan. Unpleasant and very earthy odors swirled around them.

Then the child tilted her head back and looked up at him.

One blue eye and one amber sparkled in the lamplight of the hallway. Light-headed with relief, he opened his mouth, but he could find no words.

The child abruptly turned and buried her face in Dorothy’s skirt.

“Cynthia!” he ground out at last. He held out a hand, but the child clung even more tightly to Dorothy, flashing a single glance at him. “Cynthia,” he said more gently. “I am your uncle—Uncle Marcus. Do you not recognize me?”

Grace looped one arm around Dorothy’s neck and placed the other next to Dorothy’s hand on the child’s shoulder. “I am sorry,” she said in a soft voice. “She is shy and has had a terrible shock. We all have.”

“But why fear me?” He studied the child’s stiff back. Getting down on one knee, he tried to pry her away from Dorothy to face him. She turned, but kept hold of Dorothy’s wide skirt and used it as a curtain to hide behind. Only her oddly colored eyes peered at him above the heavy fabric. “Why did you not come to me? Or go to the Watch? Why did you run away?”

Dorothy and Grace exchanged glances. Dorothy cleared her throat and flushed. “We asked her—you must give her time. She has been desperately afraid—you must be patient.”

“But surely she knew,” Marcus said in a strained voice. “She must have known I would never hurt her, that I would protect her from whatever she feared.”

“You must be patient.” Dorothy gazed at him imploringly. “She witnessed what happened.” Dorothy’s voice fell, straining and stumbling over the words and terrible images they evoked. “Cyril strangled her mother and then saw her—that is, he saw Cynthia and grabbed her. He threw her into the river. Only the sheerest bit of luck kept her from drowning. She could swim, you know.”

“I know—I was the one who taught her.” Marcus’s chest burned with anguish as he stared at the child.

She leaned against Dorothy, her face hidden in Dorothy’s skirt.

Dorothy gave the girl’s delicate shoulder a gentle squeeze. “Somehow, she made it to shore, but I imagine she was in shock and hardly knew what to do. Well, what would you have done? She didn’t know why he killed her parents, didn’t know if anyone would believe her, so she did the best she could.”

Marcus raked a hand through his hair, his gaze roving over the child. He ached with anguished tension. “If she’d only gone to the local constable, I’d have come for her.”

“She thought no one would believe her,” Dorothy repeated. She reached over to give his forearm a sympathetic squeeze.

His mouth twisted bitterly. “With good reason, I suppose. She always did like to make up a good story and embellish it with the most outlandish details. I suppose she thought no one would believe her this time, either.” He knelt again and gently touched her shoulder. “Though I assure you, we would have. I would have.”

Cynthia jerked her shoulder away.

A sense of loss enveloped him. She didn’t trust him, even now. With a sigh, he stood.

“Give her time—please!” Dorothy said.

“Of course.” His voice was cool. Distant. His emotions were well under control now, despite his wife’s concerned glances.

After a moment, Dorothy looked around at the other strained, white faces. Her aunt and cousins were huddled together by the dining room door. Mary and the girls were sobbing hopelessly while Stephen kept blinking and swallowing, his mouth trembling.

“I…” Dorothy cleared her throat. “We must send for the authorities—but what are we to say?” Her gaze went to her uncle’s body, crumpled on the marble floor. She blanched. “Must we say what happened?” She gazed at Marcus. “Must we say he was a murderer? Or that he killed himself?”

A loud moan broke from Mary.

“I am afraid it is rather obvious,” Gaunt said, studying her with sympathy.

“Couldn’t he have been cleaning the pistol?” Dorothy asked quickly.

“In the hallway?” Marcus’s voice was all bitter, sharp edges.

Dorothy’s chin rose. “He fell, then. Slipped on the marble while he was carrying the pistol. His grip tightened—as it would, would it not? And it went off as he was falling.”

“I am sorry, Lady Arundell.” Gaunt shook his head. “But there remains the open inquiry into the deaths of the previous Lord Arundell and his wife.”

“What of it?” She stared at him. “There must be dozens of open inquires and unsolved cases. We know it is no longer a mystery. That is all that matters, is it not? What can be gained from besmirching my uncle’s name and reputation? He had children.” She gestured to her aunt and cousins. “What are they to do? The children of a murderer? What possible good can come from ruining their lives, too?”

“Justice,” Marcus grunted.

“Justice?” Dorothy’s gaze flew to his face. “Where is the justice in that? My uncle has already paid for his misdeeds—he is dead. You can not ask for more than that.”

“He died for his own convenience—not for the sake of justice,” Marcus pointed out cynically. He thrust his hand through his hair again and studied her with unreadable eyes.

“Maybe so, but you cannot—no one can—blame my aunt. Or my cousins. They are not at fault. They had nothing to do with this.”

His gaze drifted from her face to the remnants of the Polkinghorne family. They were a miserable lot. Pity flickered within him, riding on a sense of resignation. What good had come from any of this?

Other than finding Cynthia. And she wanted nothing more to do with him, despite his efforts on her behalf.

Finally, he shrugged. “As you wish, Lady Arundell.” His formal use of her new title set her on his side, at least.

The matter was settled, but at what cost?