Chapter 14
The front door burst open.Still in the grip of shock, Dorothy let out a sharp scream. She stepped back, bumping into someone who squealed into her ear. Before she could stop herself, she yelped again even as she realized it was her sister behind her. Grace put a hand on Dorothy’s arm and gently pushed her forward.
A tall, dark man ran into the hallway, followed by another man. A very short, very round man, dressed in the most violent yellow-and-brown checked jacket and trousers that she had ever seen.
“What, what, what?” The plump man moved lightly on the balls of his feet, edging around the taller man who Dorothy finally recognized as Mr. Gaunt. The stranger’s round hazel eyes widened, and he backed until he hit a narrow table against the wall. A letter fluttered to the marble floor. All the while, he continued to murmur his incessant, “What, what, what…?” Bending awkwardly, he picked up the letter. His plump hands fluttered before his left gripped the edge of the table and his right gripped the letter. “What, what, what?” he repeated, parrot-like, apparently incapable of speaking coherently.
“Lord Arundell!” Mr. Gaunt exclaimed, coming to an abrupt halt. His gaze locked on the crumpled body in the center of the hallway. He glanced at Marcus before he looked quickly around, catching Dorothy’s gaze. “I heard a shot—what has happened?” He focused on Marcus again. “Are you injured, my lord?”
Marcus took a step forward, his face as white as parchment. “No,” he answered abruptly before turning to Dorothy.
Before she could move, he pulled her into his arms, cradled the back of her head and pressed her face into his neck, knocking her bonnet askew. Almost strangled by the ribbon, she clutched him, not caring about anything except the feel of his arms around her. For the first time in what seemed like hours, she felt safe. The deep thud of his heart pounded against her cheek. She relaxed into the warmth and strength enveloping her, breathing deeply and trying to control her trembling when she exhaled.
The pattering of feet and swish of silken skirts made her glance around his shoulder.
With a moan, Aunt Mary rushed forward. Her hands covered her mouth, and her knees bent as if to kneel beside her husband. She wavered. A small screech escaped her before she lowered her face into her hands and backed away, unable to bring herself to step into the pool of blood surrounding her husband.
Shaking, Dorothy buried her face again in Marcus’s shoulder. How could he? What would they do now? What would Aunt Mary do? Their poor cousins… Her thoughts whirled, useless as dead leaves rattling in a cold autumn breeze. She ought to go to her, ought to offer her aunt some support, but she couldn’t leave Marcus’s secure embrace.
“What has happened?” Mr. Gaunt asked as he knelt on one knee to place his handkerchief over Cyril’s devastated head.
Though Marcus kept an arm around her, he turned with a reluctance she could feel in the tightening of his muscles. “He shot himself.” His terse words sounded harsh.
“What choice did he have?” Aunt Mary cried, lifting her head out of her hands to glare at Marcus. “What choice did you give him? You ruined him—ruined us all!” She pointed at Dorothy. “And you! This is your fault! I should never have allowed him to bring you here—give you Cecilia’s room—none of that was my doing!”
Dorothy shuddered and felt Marcus’s arm tighten around her. She didn’t want to think about her uncle or his unnatural feelings.
Her hands gripped her husband’s lapels as a deep welling of emotion shook her breath. He was the one she wanted to think about. She loved him so much she ached with the feeling. Whatever he felt for her, it couldn’t change the strength of the bond she experienced now, drawing them together in the midst of this horror.
“He made his decision,” Marcus ground out. His voice rumbled in his chest.
A sob wracked Aunt Mary. She shook her head before burying her face in her hands once more. Another quick patter of feet sounded before Cecilia and Jane ran out of the dining room and threw themselves at their mother. The three women clutched each other, wailing, while Stephen entered the hallway. He stood, pale-faced, gripping the edge of the dining room door.
“What, what, what?” the portly man babbled again. “I say, what has happened here?”
Marcus released Dorothy and pushed her gently away, although he kept a warm hand resting in the middle of her back. “Eburne—what are you doing here?”
“What, wh—” He clamped his mouth shut, stopping with an effort. Shaking himself like a dog coming out of a pond, he cleared his throat. The letter in his right hand protested crisply as his fingers tightened around it. “Thought I—” Mouth drooping unhappily, he waved at Cyril’s body. “Well, when Mr. Gaunt asked me, I had to admit it.” He broke off and lifted his hands, palms up. Creases formed on his round face as he caught sight of the letter. He frowned and smoothed it out before glancing up. His eyes widened as if hearing his words echo in his mind. His little, plump hands fluttered again, waving the letter through the air. “No, no, no—not admit. I had always feared this, you see. He was so angry—always so angry. Couldn’t see she was simply amusing herself. Eleanor was a sweet woman, of course, but she did enjoy her little amusements. One, of course, understands these things. Though he…not good. Not good at all. And the little child—such a tragedy.” He straightened and tried to tug his waistcoat down over his rotund belly, but the letter frustrated him. Walking lightly for such a plump man, he edged over to Dorothy, shoved the letter into her hand, and squared his plump shoulders. An almost noble expression gripped his face, his hazel eyes serious. “I had no proof—just suspicion—but I could not allow this to continue. Not when Mr. Gaunt explained your search for the child.” He sighed. “I hoped… I thought if I confronted him, he would finally admit the truth.”
“A bit late,” Marcus commented in cutting tones.
“Marcus,” Dorothy protested, glancing up at Marcus’s hard face.
Mr. Eburne had tried. He was obviously not made of the sternest stuff, but he had come, after all, striving to do the right thing.
Mr. Eburne flushed and moved crab-wise away from them, back toward the door. Droplets of perspiration ran down the sides of his face. “I apologize, my lord.” He gave a bow. An odd creaking sound revealed that his particularly upright posture might be due to the presence of a corset.
“Mr. Eburne has been in Germany for the last few months, my lord,” Gaunt said.
“Yes, yes, yes! Germany!” Eburne nodded, his double chin wobbling. “Just returned last week. So sorry, my lord. Thought they’d have him by now—or whoever did the dastardly deed—what?” His rising tone of voice turned what should have been a statement into a question.
He gazed at Marcus hopefully, blinking and tugging at his waistcoat which had a tendency to ride up, exposing several inches of the white linen shirt beneath it.
For some reason, Dorothy like him. She gave him a timid smile which he returned with evident relief.
The scrape of a shoe behind her caught Dorothy’s attention. She absently stuffed the letter into her pocket and turned to catch Grace’s wrist.
Dorothy dragged her sister forward. “Though we have not been properly introduced, I must thank you for your concern, Mr. Eburne.” She smiled again and bit the corner of her lower lip when it trembled. It was such a terrible moment, but… She tugged harder on Grace, forcing her to walk in front of her.
And since her sister’s arm was still around the child’s shoulders, the movement brought the child into view, as well.
Dorothy stepped away from Marcus, rested her hands on the child’s thin shoulders, and turned the urchin to face him.