Chapter Two
Adelaide squirmed beneath the disdainful gazes of her family. Henrietta’s cold eyes spoke long before her lips ever moved.
“If you were not so naturally reckless and improper, one might think you ruined this night on purpose,” she said.
“But intention is immaterial. I planned this ball for months and took painstaking care with the preparations and guest list. And you, with your impeccable penchant for finding trouble and getting caught, destroyed it all. The ball should still be taking place now, but your little scandal forced me to send everyone away early. How do you think that will reflect on the next ball I try to host?”
Adelaide winced.
“I did not mean to cause you any trouble,” she said, but her eldest sister held up her hand forcefully.
“Your intentions are of no consequence,” she hissed again with considerably more venom. “You have effectively ruined your entire family with your scandalous nature. Your only hope will be a marriage offer from that man, and even that shall not erase the memory of what everyone knows they saw.”
Adelaide shook her head, glancing at her father in search of comfort. But the viscount shrugged sadly, averting his gaze from that of his youngest daughter.
“There was no sign of him as the guests departed,” he said fretfully. “I believe we can forget extracting a marriage proposal from him.”
Adelaide might have formed a thought in defense of herself about how she was not guilty of the sin of which everyone accused her. However, her mother’s ear-piercing shriek silenced her mind, and the mouths of the rest of her family.
“Your reputation is in ruins, Adelaide,” the viscountess howled, sobbing. “Do you not understand the implications of this horrific incident?”
Adelaide shook her head, desperate to erase the looks of disappointment, horror, and disapproval from the faces of the people she loved most. But as the clock struck midnight, each chime resounded like a heavy footfall upon the staircase of her social standing, echoing her descent from grace.
She had done nothing wrong, but that was not what anyone else saw.
It was not fair, to be sure. But it was reality, nonetheless.
She had been deemed tainted and ruined. And once the gossip hit the streets of London the following day, the judgment would follow her for the rest of her days.
***
Marcus Lockhart stalked through the dark corridors of his Bath estate as rain lashed against the windows.
His shoulders were tense and rigid as he battled another wave of horrific dizziness.
The lightheaded feeling compelled him to lean against the wall to avoid succumbing to the chill of the stone floor.
He cursed whatever weakness plagued him that kept overtaking him in such a manner.
It was during such bouts that his mind could not simultaneously keep him from showing his physical weakness and lock out memories of the most fatal night of his life…
Lochville Manor is blanketed by steadily falling snow. It has been a picturesque winter’s day and, but for the dreadful cold, has been quite lovely. Until it is time for supper, when Marcus notices something disquieting.
“Where is Charlotte?” he asks as a maid rush past him.
It is not until he looks into the maid’s eyes that he sees she is not merely hurrying to help serve the meal, but she is in a panic.
“Lady Charlotte has not yet come down, Your Grace,” she says, glancing toward Charlotte’s empty seat.
Marcus frowns, shaking his head dismissively.
“Perhaps she is merely taking a little longer dressing for dinner,” he says.
The maid shakes her head, her eyes growing more worried as she shifts nervously on her feet.
“She has not been downstairs all day,” she says. “In fact, she has not been in her chambers all day, as far as anyone knows.”
Marcus’s brow furrows. The ward his father had taken in when she was just sixteen is now his charge, having grown to be more like his second sister than another of his ducal duties.
He wants to assure the maid that there has been a misunderstanding, that Charlotte simply made plans to be out late, and the servants forgot.
But he cannot recall any mention from her of any plans for that day or evening.
And as he looks from the worried maid to the empty seat, a cold bead of dread begins to form in his stomach.
“Then we shall search for her,” he says. “She will be found here someplace. I am sure she just lost track of time in the library or the gardens.”
The maid’s dubious expression tells him that the servants have already searched the house. But he is sure that they simply passed by her without noticing. They must be mistaken in believing that she has not been seen all day.
When he receives confirmation that the servants have searched every room in the mansion, Marcus swallowed his own panic.
He turns to the servants, who were waiting in two neat lines for their next orders.
“This line of you is to come with me,” he orders, pointing to the line to his right. “The other line is to search for a note or any sign of her whereabouts. Remain calm and search thoroughly. Blind panic will cause you to miss something. She will be found, so rest easy.”
The servants all bow and curtsey, respectively, before splitting off to carry out their master’s orders.
Marcus leads the servants he requested to follow him out the front door, directing them in pairs of two in different directions around the grounds.
He himself treks through the gardens, recalling how she loves the roses in every color and enjoys spending time out there.
But would she ever stay out so late? He wonders as his dread builds.
There is no sign of her anywhere in the maze of flower bushes, on any marble bench or at any of the cherub statues therein.
His breath fogs the cold air around him and he shivers, pulling his black coat around him tightly.
He is aware that if she remains outdoors for much longer, she is likely to fall ill.
The snow crunches beneath his black boots. Where could she be?
His question is answered as he breaks into the open strip of snow that separates the gardens from the woods behind the estate.
The moon is brilliant in the sky, providing enough light to illuminate a blue pool spread across the white landscape.
His footsteps are slow and his heartbeat rapid as he approaches and a sickening realization dawn on him.
“Charlotte,” he yells, rushing to her side.
The blue on the snow is her gown, which is spread around her like an impossibly vibrant pool of water on which she is floating.
He reaches to lift her torso into his lap and touches something cold and sticky.
He looks at his fingers and sees blood, now congealed and freezing, coating them.
He looks down and notices that he has dropped to his knees in the blood puddle which has circled the upper half of her body.
His face pales and he shakes his ward firmly, as though merely waking her from a deep sleep.
“Charlotte, wake up,” he says, the shrill urgency of his voice piercing the quiet stillness of the night. “Charlotte, can you hear me?”
He is aware of what he shall discover, as he reacts as though he no longer resides within his own corporeal form.
Nevertheless, he inclines his head to press his ear against her breast, whilst gently placing two fingers upon the delicate skin within her wrist. Her skin is cold, so cold that it burns his own frozen hands.
He holds his breath as he listens for hers and feels for any signs of a heartbeat.
There is none, of course, and he begins panting.
“No,” he screams, looking around for any evidence as to what could have caused the young lady’s death.
There is nothing that indicated an animal attack, a struggle or even some mysterious accident to which Charlotte could have succumbed.
There is nothing, in fact, save for his own footprints marring the snow and the blood around her, which is now sticking to his breeches. “Charlotte, no.”
The servants come running, no doubt hearing his anguished cries.
They approach slowly, exchanging worried glances as they study the scene.
A gasp of horror floats from the cluster of servants and Marcus sees a maid pointing at him with accusing eyes.
He wants to try to explain his discovery of Charlotte’s body.
But no words will come, and he stares helplessly as the servants scatter and begin shouting for help.
The following morning is no less forgiving.
News of Charlotte’s mysterious death has been declared a murder, and according to the gossip column of London’s newspaper, he has been dubbed the main suspect.
His infamous temper precedes him within the rumors of the ton, and since people believe that he made advances toward Charlotte which she rejected, they also believe that to be motive for him to kill her.
He had never made any advances toward Charlotte; she was as much a sister to him as Edith was, as far as he was concerned.
He loved her dearly, but only as a sibling and his ward.
But as he was discovered suspiciously alone with her, without clear evidence that anyone or anything else had ever been there, his own peers now believe him to be a murderer.
He stopped reading the newspaper and tossed it aside just as the words “The Murderous Beast,” caught his eye…
***
Marcus shook his head firmly, causing the world to spin more fiercely around him. He closed his eyes, relying on the feel of the corridor walls to guide him to his study. He had just reached the cabinet where he kept his spirits when there was a soft knock on the door.
“Marcus?” Viscount Thomas Radcliffe, Marcus’s dearest friend and trusted business partner, called softly from the doorway. “Are you all right?”
Marcus fetched a decanter of brandy from the cabinet and two glasses, turning back to his desk and placing the items unsteadily onto its polished black surface.
He said nothing, noting the concern on his friend’s face as he watched the trembling of Marcus’s hands and, undoubtedly, the snow-whiteness of his complexion.
“You may go, Thomas,” he snarled, pouring two drinks despite his fierce order.
Thomas ignored Marcus, knowing perfectly well that Marcus’s harshness stemmed from guilt and pain, not from anger with his friend.
“Of course, I may,” he said, reaching for one of the glasses with a gentle smile. “But I choose to stay.”
Edith Lockhart paused in the doorway of her brother’s study, holding her breath as she observed Thomas Radcliffe tending to her brother, whose imposing figure was silhouetted against the storm-darkened windows.
“Are you feeling unwell again?” Lord Radcliffe asked as he sat in the chair across from Marcus.
Her brother uttered a low, deep growl, glaring weakly at his friend. “I am fine, Thomas,” he said as he lifted his drink to his lips. The glass trembled so violently in his hand that the liquid began to splash out.
Lord Radcliffe leapt immediately from his chair, hurrying to Marcus’s side to steady the drink and help him sip it.
“I can see just how well you are,” he said with a sad smile. “However, it would make me feel a great deal better if you let me sit with you for a while.”
Marcus cursed under his breath and shook his head, but he did not persist in trying to send his friend away. Edith remained unnoticed in the doorway until the viscount stepped aside to place Marcus’s drink beside him, clearing her brother’s view of the door.
“Edith, please,” Marcus began, waving weakly with a shaky hand. “You need not worry yourself about me. I will be fine after a drink and a little rest.”
Edith bit her lip, paying no more heed to her brother’s effort to force her to leave than the viscount had.
“I came to see if you need me to send for something,” she said softly. She tried to hide her concern for her brother, just as he tried to hide the severity of his condition. However, from the scowl on the duke’s face, she was equally as unsuccessful.
“I detest people fawning over me,” he snapped, glancing sharply at where both she and Lord Radcliffe stood, watching him as though he might collapse at any moment.
“I shall relax much faster if the two of you are not hovering over me as though I am an infant. I can send for something myself if I need anything, Sister.”
Edith glanced at the viscount just as he looked toward her.
His light brown eyes, filled with the same worry and fear that filled her own heart, met hers and held her gaze for a breathtaking moment.
Her heart fluttered at the sight of the pure, genuine love Lord Radcliffe clearly felt for her brother.
Marcus was the most important man in the world to Edith, and seeing the kindness of the viscount as he continued trying to help Marcus gave her a glimpse into the sincerity of his heart.
He was handsome, she had thought so for years.
But seeing how well he treated Marcus and how concerned he was for his friend’s health; it was as though she was seeing him for the first time.
“Pray, cease this hovering,” Marcus snarled again, his voice carrying less conviction than the first time.
Edith slowly reached out and put a hand on his shoulder, giving him the best smile, she could muster.
She was not afraid of her brother’s temper, as she knew it was all merely a ruse.
Behind that false anger was genuine fear, and that was what frightened her.
It was clear that Marcus was growing worried about his illness, which fed her own concern.
She could not admit it to herself, but as she watched her brother grow sicker and weaker, she could not help wondering if he would survive whatever malady was stripping him of his health and strength.
She knew that it was serious; the gravity of her brother’s situation growing more apparent with each episode he succumbed to.
If this affliction continued to sap his strength as it had thus far, it would not be long before he was confined to his bedchamber.
And how long after that would it be before it claimed his life?