She quivered with revulsion.
“You’re not really a beauty but you’ll do. I think I shall
keep you here a couple of days, while David is gone. I shall make sure the
infection is well set.”
“But Isabella won’t allow you to do this.”
He cocked his head. “Won’t she?”
“No, she won’t.”
“Ha! It was her idea to lure you here and for me to infect
you.”
Jeanne shook her head. “No, no, no, that can’t be true.”
“But it is. I told you, I am no strategist, I am an
opportunist. But Isabella is a wonderful strategist, among other things. She
knows David cares for you. She knows the depth of his feeling probably better
than he does himself. She’s like that. He longs to wed you and this she cannot
allow to happen. If you give him a son, her son will never be duke.”
Isabella had worked to gain her trust, to provoke her
sympathy. She’d known her very well in order to do that. But she hadn’t come to
realize how deeply Jeanne feared the mentally unstable or she would have known
that Jeanne would never have come here today to talk with Thérèse without
carrying a weapon.
A small knife.
Safely sheathed and tucked up her sleeve. She turned toward
the window and saw the large tree, its branches swaying slightly in the breeze.
The window was just large enough, she might be able to squeeze through it. She
ran.
The sound of his boots thundered on the floor behind her. It
almost matched the cadence of her heartbeat.
He caught her before she could reach the window.
He dragged her head back. Her neck muscles pulled tight like
violin strings and then he was pulling her across the room to a narrow bed that
was pushed against the far wall. Her feet bumped along the floor.
Involuntarily, she screamed with all her might.
No, keep your wits.
She fought back against the panic that clawing inside her
skin. The knife. She slid it down her arm, the way she’d taught herself.
She turned back and reached up, one deliberate if desperate
arc, and slid the blade along his vulnerable neck. At the sensation of the
sharp blade slicing along flesh, a quivering nausea gripped her.
He jerked back and his grip slackened.
Blood gushed from the slash mark. So much it seemed. Stunned
at what she had done, she remained frozen.
He put his hand to his neck then pulled it away and looked
at the blood. He gave a small, miserable sounding moan. “God…blood!”
His eyes jerked back and forth, as though he were giddy. He
fell backwards, releasing her. His head hit the footboard of the bed with a
hollow thud.
He had fainted from the sight of his own blood.
She ran to the door, flung it open, and flew down the
corridor to the top of the stairs. She was leaving this house of insanity.
She ran right into Isabella. The older woman’s face wrinkled
with what appeared to be concern. She couldn’t be in collusion with Toovey. To
think so was simply too incredible.
“Toovey was in there—he’s gone insane,” Jeanne managed to
say.
But then, Isabella lunged at her.
Jeanne stepped back, gripped the knife in her hand, and
lifted it. “Don’t come near me.”
“You little gutter slut! How dare you threaten me?”
Isabella’s eyes shone wildly.
The eyes of a madwoman. A house full of insanity. The only
way Jeanne stood a chance of leaving here alive was to fell them, one by one.
Fear fueled her blood.
With a cry, she charged forward with a deadly,
self-protective instinct.
Isabella’s eyes widened, and her face turned alabaster. She
jumped back and lifted her hands. “Please, mercy!”
The terror in the other woman’s eyes froze Jeanne. She
stepped back, shaking all over at the realization that of what she’d almost
done. What she’d almost become. Red caught her eye. Her gloves splattered with
Toovey’s blood.
“Don’t show her any mercy. She deserves none.”
Jeanne jerked her head to the left. Thérèse stood there,
light from the vestibule window shining through her thin nightdress, revealing
the emaciation of her petite frame. Her illness. Her nearness to death.
In her shaking hand, she held a small pistol.
“Wherever did you get that?” gasped Isabella
“I have had it a very long time. Since I first knew I was
ill, since I first knew what I would become. You want to hurt David.”
“I don’t want to hurt David. I want to
help
him, to save him from making a dreadful mistake.”
“You want to commit her to same hell I am consigned to, just
so David cannot get an heir of her body. You have tried to make my life more of
a hell than it already is.”
“You little harlot! You were always a selfish, unprincipled
tramp. You’ve been ungrateful for the things I have done. All my sacrifice.”
“You’re evil. One less evil person in this world can only be
a good thing. I hurt David deeply, and though no fault of my own, I have kept
on hurting him, making his life harder than it ought to be. But I can commit
one final act of love before I die.” Therese’s features became a hard,
deliberate mask. Her hand steadied and she aimed.
A spark. A flash.
Bang!
The sound resonated deep in Jeanne’s bones.
And kept on vibrating.
She whirled to look. There was a hole in Isabella’s
forehead. A brilliant red splash marred the white wall. Shock made Jeanne’s
legs weak. With effort she locked them. She glanced back at Thérèse. The
madwoman had dropped the pistol and knelt on the floor. Tears streamed down her
cheeks. “I have murdered my sister. My own flesh.”
“You were protecting me.”
“They will hang me. I cannot wait.”
“Thérèse…what have you done?” Toovey was at Thérèse’s side.
“I have seen justice done. I have protected my protector.”
“This wasn’t about you. It had nothing to do with you.”
“I had to do it.” Thérèse touched Toovey’s face. “Charles,
do you understand?”
“No.” He sobbed the word. “You didn’t need him. I would have
kept you safe. Always.”
He was gripping a handkerchief to his throat. It was soaked
with bright scarlet blood. Jeanne knew it was a surface wound. Her knife had
not gone that deep. Yet it looked horrific. He was clearly avoiding looking at
Isabella.
“We’ll call a physician for you, Lord Toovey.” Jeanne spoke
in a calm tone. Calm with an edge of authority. She didn’t recognize her own
voice. She didn’t even know where it came from. “I am sure David must know a
way this can be kept quiet, if you agree that you’re no longer sane. That you
must be confined for your own personal safety. For the safety of others.”
He looked up at her with eyes full of malice. “There’s a
dead noblewoman lying here. That can’t be hushed up.”
Thérèse caressed Toovey’s cheek. “It is all right, my
darling boy, I knew the price when I made my decision.”
He shook his head, slow and purposeful. “No, no, no.” He
stood. “You shall not pay the price. Let the Whitechapel whore take the blame.
She shot Isabella, not you.”
He came at Jeanne.
Jeanne wielded the knife. “I am not afraid to use this!”
He touched his neck and laughed. “Are you going to slice at
me again?”
Jeanne walked backwards until her back hit the wall. “I am
warning you.” She felt behind her and moved along the wall. “I’ll stab it in
your heart!”
“You vicious little common whore. How dare you threaten me?”
Her foot slid down. She’d reached the stairs. She took a
quick glance down and put her foot on the first step.
He was leery of her knife for he kept his gaze riveted on it
as he moved slowly toward her.
She kept going down the stairs, sideways, like a crab in
slow motion. The humor of that registered in some part of her mind that was
simply observing the situation. Always observing, even in a moment like this.
Toovey was gaining.
Her heartbeat increased, desperate energy charged her legs. She
couldn’t help moving faster. Her ankle twisted and her feet crossed over each
other. The stairs seemed to be rushing up to meet her. As she threw out her
hands to brace herself, the knife flew and went tumbling down. Her hands
landed, hard, on the step. But she kept on tumbling, just as the knife had. She
saw the polished marble entryway gleaming in the sunlight.
Clunk!
Her forehead made hard contact with the floor.
White shards of pain exploded inside her skull. Her teeth
jammed together. She couldn’t see for a moment. Couldn’t move.
She was caught, lying there, halfway off the stairs.
Something locked about her ankle.
“I have you now.” Toovey’s voice was quiet, calm.
She kicked her legs. Howled with rage.
He took both ankles. Her skirts fell back, exposing her
limbs. He parted her legs.
“This is as good a place as any to do the deed,” he said.
“No, no! Don’t do this!” a faint voice cried out from above
his head.
Jeanne’s vision was slowly returning. She saw the ghostly
white image of Thérèse at the top of the stairs, still crawling, as though her
body was too weak to stand or move very fast. The act of shooting Isabella had
apparently drained the invalid woman of all energy.
“Be silent, Thérèse, I must do this. I will have my revenge
on Hartley. Even you can’t stop me.”
“I’ll hate you forever.” Thérèse sobbed loudly.
Toovey’s grip slacked. He seemed to slump. “Try to
understand
my
position for a change,
my darling.”
Jeanne kicked harder, more wildly. Her foot broke free. Her
next kick hit his face and propelled her backwards, all the way off the stairs.
He still had one of her legs in his grip. He held firm as
his other hand touched the rising red swell on his face. “You bitch! Now you’ll
pay!”
Jeanne took a ragged, panting breath. Glinting metal caught
her eye. She glanced to the right. There was her knife. She reached for it. Her
fingertips just barely tickled its surface. She tried to inch nearer.
His hold prevented it.
She tried to stretch her legs, her body, her arm. Her
fingertips made direct contact with the handle. One more stretch—
Toovey yanked her closer toward him and away from the knife.
“Let’s have this over with. It isn’t as though I find you all that appealing.”
He took possession of her both her legs again then came down over her, pinning
her with his larger, stronger body.
Dread sank in Jeanne’s guts, desperation made her try to sit
halfway up. The scene before her swirled. Dizziness overcame her, a nauseating,
crushing pain in her skull. She was forced to lie back.
She knew with all her being that she wanted to be David’s
wife. She would do anything to be what he needed. She wanted to share his life.
She wanted bear his children. But if Toovey did this…
“I’ll have double the revenge now. They’ll sentence you to
hang for Isabella’s murder. But the mighty Duke of Hartley will be able to
influence them to commute the sentence. You’ll be sent to Australia, that
savage land, and he will know that you will suffer all the agony and indignity
of the pox in a place where he cannot help you or lessen your suffering in any
way.”
He tore at his clothes, breaking the threads that held the
buttons on his outer fall. They popped and fell about the floor.
“But then a fuck’s a fuck, isn’t it, Miss Darling of
Wentworth Street?”
Revulsion shuddered through her whole body. She couldn’t
hold back a miserable moan. It was happening. There was nothing she could do.
A rasp, like metal against metal sounded. The front door
swung open and more light flooded the foot of the stairs.
She let her head fall back weakly and registered the tall
figure in a dark greatcoat.
“David…” She rolled her head on the marble floor for she
feared she was hallucinating.
A sound of boots. A shadow passed over her. Toovey’s weight lifted
off her. A dull thud sounded. She managed to lift her head in time to see David
push Toovey to the wall.
“I’ll break your fucking neck!”
“Don’t…” She fell back to the floor. Her head hit with a
bounce and pain electrified her skull like lightning. “Don’t David, it’s not
worth…he’s gone insane. He has the syphilis.”
Everything went black.
Chapter Thirteen
She was in a huge, scary forest. A yellow green miasma of
churning nausea and agonizing pain lay on the path behind her. She had
struggled to make her way through every clinging branch and jabbing, jagged
stone. She had kept falling to her knees and retching on the ground. She tried
to arise. Hands held her down. Ruthlessly. Relentlessly. She hadn’t even been
able to see. But now she was coming out into the brilliant sunshine. The dirt
was soft, warm powder under her feet, soothing all those aches and cuts. She
could smile.
Her eyes fluttered open.
David looked down at her. His face was ashen and he was
unshaved. Were they back in those first days in her garret? Was he ill?
“My love.”
My love. My love. My
love.
The words echoed in her mind.
The bright sunlight made her eyes hurt. She shielded them
with her hand at her forehead and wriggled her toes in the cushiony, damp
grass. A soft, girlish giggle carried on the breeze. She looked up. Thérèse
stood there, still petite and slender but healthy with roses in her cheeks and
a wreath of daisies on her head.
“You’re going to marry me, just as soon as you’re well and
able.” David’s voice was part of her dream.
Yes, she did dream of wedding him. Even if it couldn’t
really happen.
A touch on her arm. Papa was at her side—his gaze was so
kind. He handed her a bunch of pretty violets. She put them to her nose and
inhaled the haunting scent.
“Braid them into your hair. For your wedding day,” Papa
said, the wrinkles by his eyes making deep crinkles as he smiled.