Romance: Detective Romance: A Vicious Affair (Victorian Regency Intrigue 19th England Romance) (Historical Mystery Detective Romance) (19 page)

“Yes, daughter, sweet
daughter
. If your husband were to lose his title, his castle, his income, his prestige – if he were to lose his handsomeness, and become crippled – would you stay with him? Would you still want to be with him?”

Lyla did not answer hastily. She delved into her mind and considered it seriously. She imagined Thornton without arms or legs, his
face
burnt, his position taken. She imagined him staying in some boarding house, alone, waiting for her. She was at a road. Left: home to Mother and Father. Right: to her ruined husband. She walked right. Of course, she walked right. She could not leave him alone.

“I would stay with him,” Lyla said. “Yes, I am quite sure of it.”

“That is love,” Mother said. “That is my definition of love, anyhow.”

They walked further in silence and were presently joined by Thornton and Father, who had been smoking in the drawing room. “By Jove!” Father exclaimed when he reached the women. “I’ve just been fleeced by a
duke
!”

“Clifford!” Mother cast an anxious look at Thornton.

Father nodded. “Apologies, Your Grace. I spoke out of turn.”

“Fleeced!” Thornton laughed, patting Father on the back. “You were bested.”

“Bested! Ha!”

Mother watched Thornton, saw that the two of them were jesting, and then relaxed.

Father and Mother made a couple, and Lyla and Thornton made another, walking behind them. “It is going well,” Thornton whispered.

“You and Father seem to be fast friends.”

“He is
a sporting
man,” Thornton agreed. “We played at cards.
An awfully
bad habit. I must make a small gift for him: a reimbursement of sorts.”

“Yes, but pray do not make it obvious. Father will be offended.”

Thornton nodded. At length, he said: “My lady, may I take your hand? Without the glove?”

Lyla looked down at her gloved hand and tried to push away the dread she was already beginning to feel at the prospect of holding a man’s hand. But the man was her husband, and he was kind, and he trusted her. And yes,
yes
, she trusted him. She removed the glove and offered her hand. He clasped it with his hands, sheltering them, and smiled
deeply
at her.

His sky-blue eyes
sparked
with life, and for the first time in a long time, Lyla felt completely safe.

*****

They were sitting in the library when Lyla finally told Thornton what had transpired that day. He listened attentively, never interrupted her, and only moved to touch her hand every so often. His face was impassive, and the only movement in the room was a single shard of light that illumed the books, and occasionally disappeared with the passage of a cloud.

*****

“You are so timid, like a tiny little stick. Yes,
an utter
stick. I wonder if you would snap. Would you?”

“That is a strange thing to say, my—”

He fell upon her like a wolf. Lyla had never been in the presence of such violence, much less the target of it. Pain assailed each part of her body, and she felt utterly trapped. The weight of his body pinned her to the floor. He was breathing heavily. Thick breath engulfed her, invaded her nose and mouth. She coughed, stifled, but the smell would not dissipate.

Then – it happened.

She left her body when it
was happening
. It was too painful to remain within. She floated up, up, above the gardens and looked down from above. The man was an animal. He took what he wanted, and when
he
was done, he didn’t even have the decency to look ashamed. He rolled aside and
laughed
, and then began dressing
himself
slowly.

Lyla was shaking. She descended and once again inhabited her body, which felt weak and rickety, as though her bones might collapse. Pain stabbed all over. She looked down at herself. She was a mess. Her dress was torn. She patted it down, moved it around, to cover the area, and then looked across at the man, at
him
, at the Devil.

“Well,” he said, as he pulled his shirt over his head, “you are no stick after all. You didn’t snap.”

Lyla didn’t say a thing. This was the part all the stories about her got wrong. They thought that she and he were having an affair, and there had been an argument, and she had pushed him into the flowerbed where he cracked his head against the rock. But that was not what happened. The man had ingested some kind of toxin, something to alter his mood, but suddenly it began to
alter
his body, too.

He keeled over, vomited, and stumbled forward. He looked lost, with his arm extended, pointing at nothing, and then he fell to his side. His head
crack
ed
upon
the rocks, and blood pooled, and Lyla was left standing there like a child stranded in a crowd of strangers. The cracking of his head must have been loud, for presently the main bulk of the guests were standing as spectators, peering at Lyla in her state of undress. Some were laughing, some were sneering, and then they spied the corpse. Some started screaming.

Monica and Marie were in the crowd. Marie was
screaming
; Monica was sneering.

Lyla remembered little after that. She must’ve fainted. She awoke at home, her home, with Mother sitting at the end of the bed. She receded into herself. She heard Mother’s words, but nothing else. The word
trial
was mentioned, over and over, and
killer
.

No, Mother,
Lyla wanted to say.
I am not the Devil. He is
.

But the words wouldn’t come.

*****

Thornton sensed that she was tired after this. He helped her to her feet and escorted her to a bedroom. It took Lyla a moment to realize that it was not her
bedroom
. Her heart began to beat, but then Thornton laid her down and looked into her eyes. “Not that,” he said. “I will sleep on the chair. I only wanted you close. That – what happened – I – there are no – I am so, so sorry, Lyla. So very sorry. Not just that it happened, but for those first months of our marriage, where I shunned you. It was wrong of me. Can you ever forgive me?”

“I already have,” Lyla said sleepily. She felt as though a parasite had just been pulled from her being. Her chest felt lighter. She could breathe easier. And the dark eyes laughing behind the icy wall were no longer so intimidating. She rolled onto her side and closed her eyes. Soon, she was sleeping.

She woke late when the room was pitch-dark. Thornton snored softly from the chair. His chin rested
upon
his chest. Lyla sat up in bed and rubbed her eyes. It wasn’t there: the darkness. The
darkness
was leaving. It was almost supernatural. The pain was still there, and the regret, but the
darkness
was leaving her. The darkness that told her
she
was wicked,
she
was in the wrong, was departing. In its place was a conviction that she had been wronged, and she was a victim.
He was right about one thing. I will not snap. I will not break.

Softly, she walked across the room to where Thornton slept. She leaned down and kissed him
upon
the forehead, where he had kissed her. She was about to turn back to bed when he touched her hand. “It is morning?” he said, his lips just barely visible in the
moonlit
room.

“Not even close,” Lyla said.

“Are you okay?”

Okay?
“I am better,” Lyla said. “Because of you, Thornton, I am better. I am not healed. But I think I
can
be
healed
.”

“Good,” Thornton said. “I love you.”

It was said matter-of-factly, as though he said it all the time.

Lyla kissed his forehead again. “I love you, too.”

I would like to dispel the myth that I, Sarah Archer, the daughter of what is usually referred to as a “minor family,” am in any way inferior to my peers. This is commonly muttered amongst the lords when they see how I interact with the “common folk.” That I do not spit in their direction is considered a slight against the most privileged of society. That I, in fact, do not flinch at the idea of sharing the same air space is positively scandalous. Perhaps this is why at the age of twenty-three I was not yet married.

I first saw Francis Seymour in London in 1676. To say I was immediately captivated and intrigued and astonished and beguiled by him would of course be unseemly and yet it is the truth. It was not a planned meeting, and, indeed, no words were exchanged between us, I being in town for a meeting with friends, and he being in town for reasons unknown to me.

We passed mere inches of each other on a thoroughfare not far from Westminster. He carried himself differently to the dukes I had seen before. His arms were by his sides, like a fighting man, and his steps were not ladylike in the slightest, but heavy and probably “uncouth.” He wore dress far beneath his economic powers, with only the slightest frill and flare adorning his jacket and breeches and boots.

As soon as we passed, I asked my maidservant who the man was, and, she being a surprisingly well-informed source of information of that kind, she told me that he was Francis Seymour, and had recently come into his dukedom in Somerset. I admit my heart was beating fearfully quickly; I thought it may break out of my bodice. There, I have said two unrespectable things in the space of a few words! This will cause quite a stir if it is even found, I am sure. Perhaps I will arrange for it to be published after my death, but that is morbid and a concern for another time.

Being thus informed about this man, to whom I felt a pull altogether astounding and perplexing to me, I decided without hesitation that I must see him again. This impulsive and unflinching behavior has, on several occasions, caused men to refer to me as “no kind of woman at all.” Several courtships have met swift ends because of it. Hoping that this mysterious man would not be the same, I set in course motions for my arrival at Berry Pomeroy Castle, under the guise of a social visit to coincide with the fayre.

“Are you sure you want to go all that way for a fayre, daughter?” Father asked, in that timid and slightly reproachful way of his.

“Father, I am positively suffocating. My sisters are all off having children or visiting abroad – they are all, in short, engaged in some kind of adventure – and I believe I am entitled to a little adventure of my own. You need not worry. I will keep the breech-wearing and pipe-smoking to a minimum.”

“Sarah!” Father exclaimed, but there was a smile behind his beard, which he grew despite criticism. We were both out of sorts, Father and
I
.

Charlotte came to my chambers soon later, with a knock on the door. I bid her
to enter
and she fluttered into the room like a rose petal
blown
in the wind. “Sarah!” she cried, holding my hands. “He said yes, didn’t he? We’re going to the fayre! Oh, do you think it will be wonderful? I bet it will be wonderful!”

I admit I was taken up with the girl’s enthusiasm, and we talked at length about how wonderful it would be. It was truly an event for her, and it warmed me to see her so moved. My own sisters having long since moved away, and my brother away making his fortune in London, Charlotte was like family to me.

That night I could not sleep for thinking of the fayre, a mere three months away. Guilt broiled within me, warring with the excitement. I was behaving, after all, in a cunning and “unwomanly” way.

But we women are so often the pawns. I thought it was
time
we played the chess master for once.

*****

Having been acquainted with castles since a young age, I was not befuddled at the sight of Berry Pomeroy, though I had to admit it was grand and beautiful. The three months had passed in much the same way as the three months before; I have often wondered if my obsession with the duke would have been so intense had not those months elapsed since our accidental and secret meeting.

We arrived just when the tents and festivities were being erected outside the castle. Jugglers and mummers milled around the tents, waiting for their chance to shine. That the duke allowed this fayre to be held on his land was another sign to me that he was a man unlike others. To be sure I talked among the mummers and jugglers and common folk for quite some time, with the intention of firstly enjoying their conversation, as they had none of the sickening tightness of lip and sternness of face that is so common among our class, and secondly to see if I could learn aught about the mysterious duke. No man there would hear of his name being spoken of in any by a flattering
light
[PE1]
. My instincts thus reaffirmed, I prepared for my formal introduction to him.

We were welcomed into the main hall, in which several lords and ladies stood in tight circles, clutching their chalices and talking softly to one another. I was accustomed to being stared at as a member of that dying family Archer, and so it did not overly bother me. Presently Duke Francis Seymour walked through the crowds and stood before me.

“My lady,” he said, bowing before me. His eyes were pale blue like ice and his face was kind and strong. He took my hand in his and, before everybody in the room, brought it to his lips. “It is a pleasure to meet you,” he murmured softly, the warmth of his kiss still upon my hand.

I confess I was at first stunned by this display. I had never met this man and had no thought of his ever showing me any affection. I almost wrapped my tongue upon itself in trying to reply, but then I recovered some of my poise and smiled at him, as charmingly as I was able. “It is a pleasure to meet you,” I replied, withdrawing my hand.

“Meet me later, in the gardens,” he whispered, so only I could hear.

I should have been outraged by such a proposition. It is notsomething that a lady should agree to, and I am sure my peers will think me incredibly dishonorable for entertaining such a sordid idea. But the duke’s voice did not allow for hesitation, and I admit I was beyond curious at this point. I gave him the slightest of nods, at which point he began to talk with other guests, leaving me shocked,excited and leaving me broiling with feeling.

*****

The word “later” being somewhat ambiguous, the first task handed to me was trying to work out what time, exactly, Francis wanted me to arrive at the gardens. There was no way to know for definite, so, wishing not to appear over keen, but also wishing not to miss him entirely, I waited until the sun had reached its noonday peek and began to descend for two hours before casually mentioning to Charlotte that I wished to stroll the gardens. She was taken up with the jollity of the fayre, and I bid her stay and enjoy herself. Thanking me, she freed me and allowed me to walk unescorted to the gardens.

I knew what I was doing was wrong and socially unacceptable, and yet I couldn’t forget this man. It is no way for a woman to behave, it is true, and yet I couldn’t just walk away and pretend that I had never seen him. I felt as though there was an affinity between us; I felt as though his ice-blue eyes saw past whatever element it was that men seemed to find so repugnant
in
me. Other men, after talking to me for a few minutes, would often make some excuse and flee to some quieter girl. Perhaps this had something to do with my habit of reading “unwomanly” literature, or my penchant for walking alone on the grounds around my father’s home. Whatever it was, I have been called intimidating by men, and now I take that as a compliment.

I did not think it likely, however, that I would intimidate the duke. He had a fine, muscular build, and his jacket and breeches were tight to accentuate his form. His face was strong and kind, with a solidity that was only heightened by his ice-blue eyes. He had the overall appearance of a wind-besieged mountain range, wild and dangerous and strong. I was more than intrigued. I was enthralled.

The main festivities having begun at the fayre, the garden was empty apart from one or two wanderers who presently made their way to the far end and disappeared in a sea of blues and reds and pinks and purples. I sat in a shadowed corner, fanning myself, partly because of the heat, and partly as a mummery to anyone who wished to spy upon me. How could they object to a lady taking a break from the heat? Looking around anxiously, I thought I caught sight of the duke many times only to be disappointed. Flowers that drooped and flowers that stood proud at every disturbance, had me craning my neck to see the duke, who was, I was sure, the man who had caused them to rustle. But there must have been some critters in there, for he was not there.

After ten minutes, I was about to leave. Color had risen in my cheeks and I felt distinctly ill, like someone had just fed me some nasty toxin. Perhaps the duke was toying with me, I thought, and perhaps he had told the partygoers that he has tricked me into waiting for him in the garden. If that is the case, I will be ruined and so will father. There will be no coming back from this. “How could I be so foolish?” I whispered fiercely. “How could I be such a fool? There will be consequences for this! Brutal consequences! All hell will be unleashed! Father will never be able to show his face again! Ah, what have I done?”

I almost began to weep, which further heightened my anxiety. I hate to weep, hate to appear like those heroines in popular fiction who are rendered incapacitated by tears. Somehow, I managed to hold the tears away, to firm myself up, and was about to stand and make a swift exit from the grounds when there was yet another rustling amongst the rainbow-colored flowers. Despite myself, I turned, and saw the duke walking confidently toward me.

My heart gave a skip, leap, and jump within my chest. I forced myself to retake my seat, lest it
appear
that I was eager to see him, which I was, but which would be silly to show him. He looked around and, upon seeing me, smiled and strolled over to the bench on which I sat.

“My lady,” he said. “May I sit?”

“Of course,” I said.

He sat closer to me than was strictly proper, with his thigh touching mine. I had never been so close to a man, and especially not so close to a man which provoked such feelings within me. He shifted his leg, with the express purpose, I believe, of rubbing my thigh with his. I blushed but I did not move away. The sensation was warm and pleasant, and it was not outwardly ignoble. To any spectator, we were just two people sitting upon a bench.

“I have seen you, in London,” the duke said.

I had to bite my lip to stop from screaming.

He observed me for a moment, and then went on: “It was a while back. I was in town for some boring business or another. You were with your maidservant, the woman who accompanied you today, I believe. I cannot say precisely why I was so taken with you the first moment I saw you, Miss Archer, except that you have a face not at all rose- or doll-like. You have the face of a strong woman who is not at all confined by the archaic ideas of our ancestors. I believe that a countenance can tell much. Furthermore, I believe that yours speaks of a spark of intellect usually quashed in a woman. Am I correct? Do you read, Miss Archer?”

I wished to take a moment to recompose myself, but the idea of fleeing this meeting was unacceptable to me. Here was a man who not only recognized that I was unlike my peers, but seemed to respect it! This was a strange development in my own perception of the human condition, as I long ago had concluded that all men, at heart, would rather see a woman dashed upon the rocks who read any kind of serious book. And yet here was the duke, asking me if I read books, and with a hint of pride in his tone!

“I have taught myself Greek and Latin and read the few classics father has managed to procure for me. I also read the natural arts and history. These are all unwomanly subjects and if you were to tell on me, I would be absolutely ruined.”

“I will not tell on you,” the duke said, and turned to me. He looked down from my face to my neck, and then further down, in the most dishonorable way. His eyes romped over my body, but I did not stop him. Then they returned to my face. “You are a beautiful woman, in both mind and appearance. My lady, I wish to hold your hand.”

“Here?” I said, uneasily. If somebody spied us holding hands, we would be more or less engaged, unless an outrage was to be caused.

“Here,” the duke said carelessly. “I wish to feel your hand in mine.”

He held his hand out. I looked at it for a few moments, heart thundering now in my chest. I knew it was wrong and yet I wanted very badly to have my hand in his. “I will hold your hand,” she said. “But we must be sure to retract them quickly if somebody ventures into the garden.”

He nodded and then took my hand in his, placing both hands upon my thigh. This was the zenith of improper behavior. I was aware of that then and I am aware of it now. Yet I was disinclined to take my hand away because the warmth and the closeness were intoxicating. We said nothing for a few minutes, just sat there and shared each other’s warmth, and then he turned and faced me with ice-blue eyes that seemed to look into me. To say that they looked into my soul would sound melodramatic. However, that is what it felt like at the time.