Devil in My Arms (23 page)

Townsend wasted no time in fetching himself a cup of tea and some biscuits from the tray.

“She may have been,” Hil answered after Townsend sat back down. “She took a roundabout way of getting to me, afraid Enderby was having the house watched and someone might be following her.”

“He do that sort of thing?” Townsend asked, taking a bite.

Roger nodded. “Yes. Some ruffians came here several times looking for her during the initial three months of her disappearance, before she arrived.”

Townsend finished his tea and biscuits as they all waited. When he was done, he fastidiously wiped his hands clean. “Now then,” he said with a sigh, “where shall we start?”

Hil’s hope that Townsend could help was sadly deflated by his question. “I was hoping you’d have some idea,” he said.

“First we find that body,” Wiley said impatiently, standing up and glaring at all of them. “While you’ve been sitting on your arses, I’ve sent a man to find out where Eleanor who isn’t Eleanor is buried. He’s to dig her up and bring her here.”

“What?” Lyttle asked, his face horrified. “Why?”

“Because you bring that body out during the trial and let the jury see it don’t look nothing like her,” Wiley argued. “That is, if it still looks like a person. And the sight of a dead body will paint Enderby the murderer, not her.”

Roger stared at him wide-eyed. “You are bloody brilliant,” he said slowly.

Wiley nodded with a satisfied expression. “Thanks. Next, we find that watchman. If he’s seeing Eleanor in the dark in disguise and he’s able to describe her perfectly?
Either he’s been paid off and coached, or I bet he saw the real murderer and didn’t realize it.” He shrugged. “You see a person hiding their identity, you automatically think they’re guilty of something. Let’s find out what else he saw.”

Hil was so relieved that Wiley was still thinking straight he nearly kissed the man. “Yes, brilliant,” he said. “Wiley, fetch the watchman, bring him to my house.” He turned to Roger. “We’ll meet there from now on to discuss developments. I don’t want to upset Mrs. Templeton any more than she already is.” He turned to Wiley. “Tell me what to do.”

Wiley didn’t blink twice at the reversal in their roles. “Think long and hard about who might want to hurt you,” Wiley said seriously. “This may not be about Enderby or Eleanor. It might very well be about you.”

Hil was mortally embarrassed he hadn’t thought of that first. “But I’ve years of inquiries to sift through,” he said, overwhelmed at the task. “Find out where the parties are now, what became of the culprits, if any. Even cases that I couldn’t solve.”

“Exactly,” Wiley said. “If you’re the target, Hil, they knew just where to hit you.”

“Someone needs to go round to Newgate and fetch Mrs. Fairchild,” Townsend said. He pulled a letter from his pocket. “Her reprieve from our mutual friend. She is to be released into the custody of Mr. Templeton here.” He stood up after Roger grabbed the note from his hand. “And I suggest you two”—he pointed at Roger and Lyttle—“start strategizing. You’ve only a few days to figure this out. Have you a solicitor?”

“Yes,” Lyttle said. “He’s meeting us here in half an hour.”

“Good,” Townsend said. “Then all the documents will be in proper order. Now, I shall go and inquire myself at The Bull and Mouth about what exactly happened. The report was a little vague. Not sure how long he’d been dead before they reported it.”

Hil felt a rush of gratitude for all of them. “Thank you,” he said quietly. “I am off my game, I’m afraid. The most important case of my life, and I’m turning in circles.”

“Well you better get back on the straight and narrow,” Townsend warned as he adjusted his hat. “The public expects Sir Hilary St. John to solve this case. That’s why they’re all abuzz about it. The great investigator trying to save his lady’s life.” He looked at Hil. “They don’t care which way it goes, St. John. They’ll cheer if you save her, and they’ll gloat at your tears when she hangs.”

Chapter Eighteen

Hil looked out the window of the gaol keeper’s lodgings and saw a woman being escorted across the press yard; she wore the prison dress with a blue apron and bib. She looked very small and very vulnerable out there. He quickly walked to the door and threw it open. Eleanor saw him immediately. Her steps quickened and the gaoler had to race to keep up with her.

“Hilary!” she cried when she reached the door. She threw herself in his arms and the gaoler let go of her.

“Who are you, sir?” he asked, looking sharply at Roger.

“I am Mr. Roger Templeton, Mrs. Fairchild’s cousin, and this is Sir Hilary St. John,” Roger told him.

“Her fiancé,” Hil supplied. At his remark, Eleanor held him tighter. “I have a letter from the king remanding Mrs. Fairchild into the custody of her cousin, Mr. Templeton. We will wait here with Mrs. Fairchild until arrangements can be made, if that meets with your approval.”

The gaoler grumbled as he looked between Hil and Roger. “Fine. Didn’t relish sharing my quarters with a murderess. As soon as I have a look at the letter, she can go.”

“I am not a murderess,” Eleanor mumbled into Hil’s jacket. Her voice was rough, as if she’d been crying.

“They all say that, missus,” the gaoler said, not unkindly, as he perused the letter. “You’ll find me in my office in the back where you have some papers to sign.” He left Eleanor to their care as he ambled down the hall.

“Darling,” Hil whispered to her. “Are you all right?”

“This is the most awful place on earth,” she whispered, her face still buried in his jacket. “No windows.”

“No windows,” Hil echoed, rubbing his hand up and down her back in what he hoped was a soothing manner. “There are lots of windows in Manchester Square. We have opened them all.”

“I want my open windows at Number Five, Saville Street,” she told him, finally lifting her face so she could look at him. Her eyes were puffy and red, as was the end of her nose, and she sniffed. Her cheeks were tearstained, dark streaks of dirt smeared across them from wiping her tears with her dirty hands. She broke his heart and mended it in one heartbeat. Just holding her again cleared his mind and soothed his soul.

“Then you shall have them,” he told her, kissing her brow. He kissed each swollen eyelid, and then her lips. Her lips were trembling, as was the rest of her.

“Take me home,” she whispered. She put her cheek to his chest and looked at Roger. “How is Harry?”

“Despondent,” Roger said. He walked over and grabbed Eleanor’s hand, kissing it. “I’m sorry. We’ll get you out of this mess, I swear.”

“I’m quite messy these days,” she said with a desperate little laugh. “You’ve been trying to clean up after me for the past year.”

“And I’ll do it for a hundred more,” Roger said staunchly. “That’s what family is for.”

Eleanor clutched his hand. “I … I want to go to Hilary’s. Can I do that? I know Harry wants to see me, but she can come there?”

“Yes,” Roger said. “Wherever you want to go. I’ll bring Harry right away after we get you settled. We shall bring your things.”

“Thank you,” Hil said, his heart full to bursting at her desire to be with him right now. It would help tremendously in the planning of an escape, as well, should she be convicted.

As they left the prison, Eleanor looked neither right nor left, just followed Roger, still wrapped under Hil’s arm at his side. He was glad he held her tightly when they emerged. A crowd had gathered, though how they knew he and Roger were here to get Eleanor he didn’t know.

“Will you wear black to the trial?” someone called out.

“Murderess!” several people cried. Eleanor shuddered.

“Over here, Sir Hilary,” an unfamiliar voice shouted. He looked over to see a man sketching the scene madly.
Damn
. They’d be on broadsheets before the day was over.

The crowd began to edge closer as they neared the carriage, and Roger pushed his
way through, earning a shove or two himself. Eleanor buried her face in Hil’s jacket again, clutching the material in her fists. Hil used his long walking stick to keep the crowd away from them.

“She’s going to hang!” a man’s shrill voice called out from the back of the crowd. “You can’t save her!” There was something about the voice that made Hil jerk his head around to try to find the owner, but to no avail. The crowd was closing in and jostling them, and he couldn’t make out who it had been amid the clamor.

“Get her in the carriage!” Roger called out, pushing the crowd back. He had to dodge a fist, and several people in the crowd fell. Hil used the opportunity to shove Eleanor into the carriage and grab Roger, dragging him in behind them. He shut the door on several fingers grasping at it. There were a few harsh cries and he opened it a crack to allow them to pull their hands back. “Go!” he yelled, banging on the roof of the carriage with his walking stick.

The carriage jerked and took off with a cry from the driver to clear the way. Outside the windows they could see the crowd scatter, some throwing rocks after them.

“How did they find out?” Roger said angrily, out of breath and disheveled in the seat across from them.

“Someone must have leaked information about the king’s note,” Hil said, his anger simmering just below the surface. Eleanor was still huddled against him, shaking. “Clearly someone from Windsor,” he continued. He rubbed his hand vigorously up and down Eleanor’s arm to warm her. “The crowd wouldn’t have had time to gather here in these numbers if someone from the prison informed them.”

“Why?” Eleanor asked. “Why would they do that? And why should anyone care?”

“You are a sensation, my dear,” Hil said gently. “And I’m afraid your association with me has prompted a great deal of the attention this case is receiving. My detection skills are being put to the test. The public expects—nay, demands—that I solve this case. I must either find you guilty, and break my own heart, or find the truly guilty party and rescue you.”

“Oh, Hilary,” she said miserably, “I’m so sorry to have put you in this untenable position. Your reputation must be in shreds because of me.”

“My reputation be damned,” he said with a smile. “I find it rather liberating to say that, actually.” He gently nudged her under the chin with his knuckle. “Don’t worry, darling. I shall still be the brilliant rakehell detective when all is said and done. And you shall be the infamous lady at my side.”

Eleanor laughed, as he’d hoped she would. “Infamous, indeed,” she said. “So much for maintaining a low profile and leading an unassuming double life.”

* * *

Roger dropped them off and stayed just long enough to check in with Wiley and see if there were any new developments. There weren’t. Wiley had some friends out looking for the watchman who saw Eleanor, and Townsend had not returned. His butler, James, had procured the daily newssheets, and several broadsheets and pamphlets about Eleanor’s arrest for them, but Hil waved them away. “Later,” he said. He led Eleanor by the hand to the stairs. “Mrs. Fairchild needs a bath. Take care of that immediately, please. And when her belongings arrive from Mr. Templeton’s, let us know.”

“Yes, sir,” James said, not blinking an eye at the news that Eleanor was staying.

Hil paused at the bottom of the steps. “Have I lost any staff today, James?” he asked, wondering if any of them had left rather than be associated with Hil and the whole sordid affair.

“No, sir,” James replied evenly.

Hil felt an inordinate amount of pride at that. He trusted his staff, not without cause, and they trusted him in return. He had a great many people to thank for their support when this was over. “Thank them for me, James,” he said.

“Yes, sir. I’ll see to madam’s bath, now.” James turned and left the entry.

Eleanor tugged on his hand. “Help me out of these dreadful clothes,” she said. “You’re right. I need a bath, a nap, and you. Not specifically in that order.”

“Well, all right,” Hil said, letting her take the lead. “I can provide all three. Not necessarily in that order.”

“Are you going to figure this out, Hilary?” she asked calmly, not looking at him as she climbed the stairs in front of him.

“Yes.”

“Good,” she said, her voice firm and resolute. “Now, take me to bed.”

* * *

Eleanor had herself under control by the time they reached Hilary’s bedroom. She was no longer shaking and she could think straight. The first thing she noticed was that he’d left the window open. And then it all fell apart and she spun to face him. Before she said a word she was in his arms and he was kissing her.

She kissed him back, desperate for the taste and feel of him. He was so familiar and wonderful and exciting and alive, and she clung to him. With unsteady hands she held the back of his head and whimpered at how good his smooth, cool hair felt against her palms and fingers.

He undid the apron she wore with a hard jerk on the tie at her back, and then he ripped it off her arms. The hated, scratchy dress followed. She wore only one undergarment, a rough, homespun petticoat, and he pulled that off, too. She kicked off her shoes, and then helped him to undress. He ripped open his coat, buttons flying, and tried to kiss her and pull it off at the same time. She attempted to help, shoving the sleeves down his arms. His cravat and shoes were given the same haphazard treatment. But he couldn’t wait to undress completely, and neither could she. Kissing her and pushing her back on the bed, he simply undid the fall on the front on his trousers. She adjusted and wrapped her legs around his waist, not even allowing him to climb completely onto the bed. He didn’t seem to care. He kept kissing her and kissing her, one moment roughly, and with infinite tenderness the next. Then he was pushing inside her and she threw her head back and bit her lip to keep from crying out.

“God, Eleanor,” he said with a groan. “I’ve missed you, so very much.”

“Yes, yes,” was all she could say, holding him tightly, barely giving him room to move within her. She wanted to remember this, remember how he felt—heavy and divine—and how he smelled like lavender and leather and horses. She put her hands on either side of his head and held his mouth on hers, devouring him. His beard was rougher than usual, as if he hadn’t shaved today. She pushed up and he reciprocated, the slight
friction they created while held so tightly in one another’s arms creating a short, sharp burst of pleasure with each thrust.