Chapter 20 #2
Lady Matthew did not move. Her hands balled at her sides, knuckles white, the contempt in her eyes a blade aimed straight at her husband. “You are a blackguard. I will see that you pay for this.”
Lord Matthew’s show of injured surprise was almost comical as he lowered his arms. “It is merely a misunderstanding—”
The sentence died on his lips. From down the corridor came the crisp, unmistakable click of pistols being cocked.
“Well, look who has come to die,” a woman’s voice taunted.
Charlotte turned her head sharply at the sound of footsteps and froze.
The white-haired woman who had once visited her cell stood at the far end of the corridor, her pale features illuminated by the dim torchlight.
This time, there was no veneer of civility.
A pistol gleamed in her hand, and beside her, her son, Roger, mirrored the action, his weapon raised and aimed directly at them.
Luca instinctively extended his arm in front of her. “Charlotte, get behind us.”
“No.”
Her own voice startled her with its strength. She was done cowering. She stepped forward, shoulders squared. “I will not hide. Not anymore.”
The woman’s lips curved into a chilling smile. “How brave. Or perhaps foolish. Tell me, Miss Winslow, do you really think your defiance will save you?”
Charlotte met her gaze steadily. “What is it you want from us?”
The woman’s smile grew. “Isn’t it obvious? We want you to die.”
Alcott shifted slightly, his voice hard. “You’re outnumbered, and you only have two shots between you.”
“That is more than enough,” the woman replied, aiming squarely at Charlotte’s chest. “If anyone moves closer, I will put a bullet through Miss Winslow’s heart. Now, everyone place your pistols on the ground.”
When no one moved, Roger shouted, “Do it now!”
Luca and Alistair leaned down and placed their pistols onto the ground in front of them.
As Luca straightened, he said, “Enough of this, Miss Dawlish. You have lost.”
Miss Dawlish arched a brow. “Lost? I hardly think so. After all, I am the one holding the pistol.”
“You may hold the pistol,” Luca replied, “but we hold the truth. We know everything about The Chelmsford Asylum, about the women who never left this place. If anything happens to me, my employees are under strict orders to publish every detail. You, your son, and the Duke of Brackenford will all be ruined.”
Miss Dawlish laughed—a sound both cold and shrill. “Ruined? Oh, Lord Luca, you put far too much faith in public opinion. The Duke of Brackenford has weathered worse storms and come out unscathed.”
“Does he know what you do here?” Luca pressed.
Miss Dawlish’s chin lifted. “He’s a wise man. He doesn’t ask questions he doesn’t wish to have answered,” she said. “Besides, what we do here is a tender mercy.”
“To whom?” Luca’s voice was incredulous. “You bring women here under false pretenses of madness and you kill them.”
The woman’s shrug was almost bored. “And we are paid handsomely for it.”
Charlotte’s voice trembled with restrained fury. “How many women, Miss Dawlish? How many lives have you stolen?”
“I’ve lost count,” Miss Dawlish replied. “But you would be surprised how few people notice when a woman disappears. A husband signs a paper, a family turns away, and the world continues on as if she never existed.”
Charlotte’s stomach twisted. “So you admit you killed the Duchess of Brackenford and Lady Coldwyck?”
“I admit nothing,” Miss Dawlish replied, her eyes gleaming with sick amusement. “But yes, those deaths were quite lucrative. And unlike most of our clients, their families paid handsomely to keep things quiet. I still receive residual payments for those ladies.”
“You are vile,” Charlotte spat.
Miss Dawlish laughed. “Oh, I cannot take all the credit. My son assists me in all things.”
Roger gave a theatrical bow. “It’s a family enterprise. Mother taught me everything I know.”
Charlotte’s hands curled into fists. “You will pay for what you have done. Every one of you.”
Miss Dawlish’s grin vanished, replaced by an icy glare. “And who will make us pay? You?” She stepped closer, her voice dropping to a hiss. “You will be dead before the hour is out.”
She flicked her pistol towards Mr. Bancroft and continued. “Open the cell door.”
Mr. Bancroft hesitated only a moment before obeying, the iron door screeching open in protest.
Miss Dawlish gestured with the pistol. “Inside. All of you. Now.”
No one moved.
She sighed impatiently. “Must I truly shoot one of you to prove I mean what I say?”
From the back of the group, Rupert’s voice carried, calm but cutting. “May I offer a suggestion before you do something you’ll regret?”
“And what might that be?” Miss Dawlish asked.
Rupert stepped forward. “Surrender. Now. It would be in your best interests.”
Miss Dawlish threw back her head and laughed. “Oh, I like you, sir. You have a certain… charm. Perhaps I shall let you die last.”
“You’ve been so busy pointing your pistols at us, you failed to notice one small detail,” Rupert said.
Miss Dawlish’s smile faltered. “And what is that?”
“That we didn’t come alone.”
Her gaze darted over her shoulder, confusion flickering for the first time. “What do you mean—who came with you?”
A low creak echoed from the corridor behind her. Footsteps. Then another voice—firm, unfamiliar, and female—rang out.