Chapter 8
8
CHAPTER 8
“ H is name was Roger Rushton, and I murdered him.”
Cassandra held her breath and studied the faces of the other two people in the room. Captain El, now the Duchess of Chelmsford, evinced sadness and resignation, but no real shock. Archer Colwyn, Bow Street’s most lauded and notorious Runner, showed even less emotion. He closed his ever-present notebook and leaned back in the chair next to her in front of the duchess’s desk.
“Would you care to elaborate on that piece of information, Missus Collins?” Mister Colwyn glanced around the opulent office. His gaze paused at the spot where the hidden inset door behind the desk lay and then at the door into the room. Cassandra had already sworn the two of them to secrecy and begged them not to breathe a word of what she said to Lord Framlingwood. She assured them she would tell him in her own time.
“I assure you nothing said in this room will go beyond this room,” Her Grace said. “I have not lasted this long in my various occupations without learning a thing or two about keeping my secrets beyond the hearing of others.”
“Very well.” To Cassandra’s surprise, Mister Colwyn reached across and squeezed her hand. “Tell us what happened.”
“I hardly know what to say. I haven’t spoken of this in six years.” She swallowed hard at the memories creeping into her mind like spiders across a neglected attic floor.
“I can only assume you are speaking now because of the current situation in which we all find ourselves. Tell me anything you believe will be of help.” He nodded for her to continue.
“I know you are the earl’s friend, but you are also a Runner.” Telling him and the duchess the truth seemed like the right move after her encounter with Langford and her hasty carriage ride to Goodrum’s once they had both answered her missives. She hadn’t thought this through, and the possibilities that tightened around her throat were every bit as frightening as Cecil Langford’s decrepit talons.
“Tell me,” Mister Colwyn said evenly. “We’ll burn out bridges when we must, not a moment before necessary. Yes? Not to mention, if I attempt to arrest you, Her Grace will arrange for me to take a one-way swim in the Thames.”
The duchess smiled. “Nothing so dire as that. Percy has asked me to cut back on murder and mayhem for a while.”
The Runner snorted, but then turned solemn once more.
“I was eighteen when my husband died. His ship was berthed in Jamaica. I had no money, no family, and nowhere to go. I took a job as housekeeper to a sugar plantation owner named Roger Rushton. I was told he was a connection of a titled family here in England, but I never knew for certain.”
Mister Colwyn opened his notebook and scribbled a note.
“He was a cruel man. A drunkard who left the running of the plantation to others. He took advantage of the female slaves.” She didn’t bother to repress the shudder that ran through her. “I did my best to keep the number of women in service in the house to a very few, and I tried to supervise their work in person. But at night…” She blinked against the sting of tears. The sounds she’d heard from her locked rooms would haunt her to her dying day.
“How long did you work for him?” he asked.
“Two years, until that night.” She fisted her hands in her skirts and sat up straight. She did not look at either of them, but at the painting of a ship in the midst of a terrifying storm on the wall behind the duchess. The painting was so real she could hear the roar of the wind and the thundering of the rain. “He’d had his eye on a young girl for months. Her mother was one of the house slaves, but she died of the same fever that took my husband. We all looked out for Bathsheba. I tried…I tried to keep her out of his way.” She shook her head. If it were done when 'tis done, then 'twere well it were done quickly.
“I heard weeping. I never would have left my bed, picked up my lamp, and gone wandering about that house otherwise. The sound was coming from the library. W-when I opened the door, I saw him bent over her, running his disgusting hands over her twelve-year-old body. He’d ripped her clothes off and gagged her with his neckcloth.”
“Cassandra,” the duchess said softly.
“I cannot truly remember what happened next. I only know that when I came to my senses my face was battered, Bathsheba was clinging to me, hysterical, and Roger Rushton lay dead on the library floor, beaten to death with the fire iron in my hand.”
Mister Colwyn offered her a handkerchief. Until that moment, she didn’t realize tears had begun to run down her face. She blotted at them aimlessly. “One of the men who worked in the stables hid us in a cart and brought us to the ship of a lady captain known to transport escaped slaves to England.”
The duchess inclined her head. “I knew nothing of the murder or the circumstances of them needing to flee,” she said. “I am quite certain you have investigated the earl’s staff well enough to know the rest of Cassandra’s story.”
“Was there ever any news of this Rushton’s death reported here in England?”
Cassandra considered his question. “No, there was not. I searched the news sheets for over a year. I had forgotten that. Had he been connected to a peer…”
“His death would have been mentioned, especially as he was murdered. The broadsheets love a good murder, especially of someone connected to the aristocracy.” Mister Colwyn made another note in his notebook. “Where is Bathsheba now?” He addressed his question to the duchess, since she was well known for seeing to the education and training of those she’d saved.
“I have not heard from her for these last two years. She was apprenticed to a modiste friend of mine who found her to be hard-working and quite talented. Bathsheba moved on to a more exclusive shop in Mayfair, but I do not know which one.” She wrote something on a scrap of parchment and handed the note to the Runner. “This is the name and address of the modiste who trained her.”
“She did nothing wrong,” Cassandra said vehemently. “Please don’t drag her into this.”
“I have no intention of doing so,” Mister Colwyn assured her. “But have you considered she may know something about this Rushton’s family or perhaps who might be bent on avenging his death?”
Cassandra took a breath. She had trusted Captain El with her life. She wanted to trust the earl’s old friend as well. “She may know something. Her name is Bathsheba Rushton for a reason. Roger Rushton was her father.” She forced herself to swallow against the rising of her gorge. Simply saying the word filled her with disgust.
“Christ,” Mister Colwyn muttered. The three of them remained silent as the mantel clock ticked away the minutes.
“What do you intend to do with this information?” Captain El asked.
Cassandra sent up a tiny prayer of thanks. She’d wanted to ask from the moment she’d confessed to murder. When she’d come into the duchess’s office at Goodrum’s she’d not thought what came next. She’d no idea what she would do once she’d finally told the truth, that she was the reason they were all in danger. Had she suspected her sin was the one the blackmailer spoke of in that first letter? Perhaps. The other Grosvenor Street ladies had their secrets as well, some they had shared with her, and some they had not.
Now she knew, and she was ashamed, afraid, and uncertain what to do next. That is until now. Now she knew what she had to do. She needed time, just a little. She had to make things right.
“I will do what I have to do,” Mister Colwyn said. “To discover who hired Elias Shell, who had him killed, and who is so bent on avenging the death of a fiend that they would suborn murder, blackmail, kidnapping, and God knows what else.” He stood and gazed down at Cassandra. “And I will do all I can to keep you and Miss Bathsheba Rushton out of it.” He offered the duchess a bow and strode to the door. “You will send to me if you remember anything else of import, Mrs. Collins?”
“My name is Rebecca Simmons,” Cassandra replied. “Or at least it was.”
“I have known that almost from the start of this adventure,” he said with a half-smile. “I suggest you continue as Cassandra Collins. Suits you far better.”
“You’re going to run, aren’t you?” Captain El said once the door closed behind Mister Colwyn.
“Will you help me?”
“Of course I will. But tell me, Cassandra, what do you intend to do about the woman who wants you dead and is willing to hurt those you love to ensure your fate?”
“I have a plan,” Cassandra replied, and a sense of chilling calm washed over her.
She had a plan. The duchess had not said a word against that plan, but she didn’t have to do so. The sea captain and notorious force of nature conveyed more with her silences and her penetrating gaze than the greatest orator in Parliament. Only her devotion to the idea that women should be masters of their own destinies had kept the Duchess of Chelmsford from going to Derek at once. As things were, she had promised Cassandra that the earl would hear nothing of her past deeds or future plans from her.
She spent the carriage ride from Goodrum’s back to Number Five convincing herself he would not care. He would notice nothing amiss because that was his way. He would not know her plans until they were a fait accompli. The Earl of Framlingwood would finally move on with his life.
She allowed John Coachman to hand her down at the front of Number Five. Night had fallen, and the street was empty due to the bone-chilling cold and the flurries of snow already falling to coat the ground with a cover of white. She stepped into the foyer and removed her bonnet which she hung on the ornate stand in the corner. She brushed the snow from her pelisse and then shrugged out of the garment only to have Tall Rutherford come from the bottom of the stairs to take the heavy wool piece from her hands.
“Trouble above stairs,” he said and looked over his shoulder to the first-floor landing. “Himself called a meeting of the husbands an hour past, and the ladies have gathered in Miss Lily’s drawing room, likely to plot the earl’s end.” He grinned, but Cassandra did not know whether he was in jest or not.
“Missus Barker-Finch, Rutherford. She is Missus Barker-Finch now.” Cassandra started up the stairs with Tall Rutherford close behind her.
“What she is, Missus Collins, is ready to tear a strip off his lordship for interfering with Lady Camilla’s plans.”
“I will see what I can do, but I make no promises. His lordship is beyond stubborn on this matter.”
“He is beyond stubborn on most matters,” Tall Rutherford muttered.
She stopped halfway up the stairs and turned to the footman. “That other matter.” She paused, uncertain as to how to go on. “Has it been settled without his lordship…”
“Done and dusted, missus. War Dyer doesn’t do things any other way. That one’ll be on his way to China in a few hours. ’Spect he’ll lose his position when he doesn’t show up to work for the rest of his life.”
Cassandra clasped the footman’s arm and raised on her toes to kiss his cheek. “Thank you, Rutherford. For everything.”
“Go on with you, missus.” He blushed bright red. They continued up the stairs. Cassandra steadied herself to face Derek now that she had set things in motion that would change her life forever. Only a few more days, perhaps a week. A week in which to live a lifetime. With him.
She and Rutherford exchanged a look at the sound of raised voices from the drawing room. The footman stopped at the head of the wide corridor. “Crying craven?” she asked.
“With those gents? Absolutely. Good luck, Missus Collins.”
“You’ll ask a favor of the Four Horsemen, but won’t break up a brawl between a band of gentlemen?” She strode to the drawing room doors.
“The Four Horsemen don’t have wives that will murder me in me sleep if I put a scratch on their husbands.” He gave her a salute and headed back down the stairs.
Cassandra grasped the two door latches and drew in a long, slow breath. Lily Venable was not the only actress on Grosvenor Street. “Gentlemen,” she announced, as she opened the doors and marched into the room. “You are disturbing the servants with this rather loud meeting. Is there something amiss?”
Chairs scraped, and boots shuffled whilst they all leapt to their feet. She met Derek’s gaze and smiled as she dipped into a curtsy. “Are you gentlemen aware your wives have convened in Number Four and may have, in fact, been listening in on this meeting by way of the servants’ passages?” Obadiah, Mister Norcross, Doctor Douglas, and Mister Barker-Finch stilled very much like a covey of partridges on first hearing the tread of hunters’ feet.
“Just as well, Missus Collins,” Obadiah said, and tossed a glare at the earl. “This conversation is over.” The other men nodded their assent.
“I realize they are your wives now and your responsibility, but this situation requires far more caution than I think any of you realize.”
“That’s right, your lordship,” Doctor Douglas said. “They’re our wives, not birds in your gilded cages any longer. These women are more than a match for any man. Something you would know had you attended more than their physical beauty.”
“They’re more than a match for any of you,” Derek said. “They’ve convinced you to allow them to put their lives in danger, and for what?”
“For each other,” Mister Barker-Finch snapped. “And for you. For some reason, their loyalty to you is undimmed despite being married to us. You would do well to appreciate that rather than insult our ability to keep them safe.”
“When did I ever do that?” Derek demanded.
Cassandra did not see this ending well for any of them. She stepped between the husbands and Derek.
“You did so the moment you called this meeting in the hope we would lock our wives in their chambers until this entire debacle is over,” Mister Norcross said. “If you want them locked in their chambers, I suggest you do so yourself.”
“But do allow us to know when you intend to make the attempt,” Obadiah said with a wicked smile. “I, for one, would love to watch. Good night, Missus Collins. My lord.” He and the other gentlemen made their bows and left the room, chuckling loudly.
“Did you truly think they would agree to your request?” Cassandra said as she settled into the chair across from him.
“I suspected you would run me to ground this afternoon to dissuade me from even trying. I should be grateful you had errands to run that kept you busy instead. Thank you taking the carriage and for allowing two of the Rutherfords to accompany you.”
“Of course.” She winced inwardly at his acceptance of the lie. Yes, she had gone in the carriage with two of the Rutherfords in tow, but her only errand had been to confess to murder. She despised keeping secrets from him, but she knew all too well what his reaction might be. She did not need him prowling about London in search of anyone named Rushton. As Young Rutherford would say, she’d wager a monkey that is precisely what Derek would do.
“Will you come to my chamber tonight after dinner?” he asked, his voice suddenly rough and dark. He gazed at her from hooded eyes.
Good . She might distract him from trying to thwart the plans his friends had formed to try and find the person so intent on making a murderess pay. Even if only for a night, he’d be hers, and he would be safe. “Not a soul will be stirring on the second floor save perhaps a few mice. More private than your rooms, perhaps?”
“I’ll have you know Titania has free rein of all five houses thanks to the servants’ passages and staircases. She would be highly insulted if you accused her of being unable to keep these houses free of vermin.”
At the mere mention of Lily’s cat, Derek smiled. Just as suddenly he frowned a bit in consternation. “I cannot believe I didn’t know all these years.” He shook his head. “They all knew each other, visited each other. They had teas and salons, no less. What a fool you must think me.”
“You are no fool, Derek. You simply don’t pay attention to the right things. I think that is perhaps your only flaw.” She stood and settled on the arm of his chair. He leaned his head against her hip, and she stroked his hair.
“And here I thought you found me flawless,” he murmured.
“Only in the carnal arts, my lord.” He stilled and raised his head to study her face.
“Speaking of carnal arts, did they, my mistresses, ever discuss…I mean, did you ever hear them speak of…Bloody hell.” He scrubbed his hands over his face. She bent down and kissed him hard, then nipped at his bottom lip before she rose and walked toward the drawing room doors.
“How do you think I learned how to please you in bed?” She gave him a heated, brazen perusal and quit the room. Only later, once she’d returned to her rooms and sat on the bed where he’d first loved her did she weep for all she was about to lose.