Devil in My Arms (32 page)

“What was the purpose of your visit to Sir Hilary the night of April fourth?”

Eleanor hesitated. This was airing her personal feelings in a public forum, and she
was embarrassed. The name she’d put to her feelings was new, and it seemed a sacrilege to discuss her love of Hilary here, one of the most profane places she had ever been. “I went to say good-bye.”

“Why?” She glared at Roger but he merely stared at her, silently ordering her to answer the question.

“Because I had fallen in love with him, and didn’t wish to leave London without telling him so,” she confessed, her head hanging down, not meeting anyone’s eyes. “It was thoughtless of me and unfair to both of us. I couldn’t marry. I was living a fictional life, turning a blind eye to the inevitable result. Perhaps it would have been better to leave without reconciling after our argument, but I have learned to be selfish over the last year, and couldn’t bear to leave without seeing him again.”

“Why leave at all?” Roger asked quizzically. “With your family here to protect you, friends to stand up for you, surely there was no need.”

Eleanor stared at him in genuine confusion. “You know that’s not true. He was legally my husband. He would have gone to the authorities and dragged me back to Derbyshire and locked me up again, and no one could have done a thing. The law was on his side.”

Many of the women in the gallery were shouting their agreement and support. Eleanor could hear Harry’s voice among them. Sir Robert quieted them all with a stern glance.

“And to keep that from happening, you were going to run again, just as you had before,” Roger said. “You didn’t kill Enderby the first time, and you didn’t do it this time, either.” He turned to the jury. “Eleanor Enderby, despite her unhappiness, despite her turbulent and often violent history with the deceased, had never, by her word and the testimony of witnesses, raised a hand against her husband. She was a woman on the run, yes, but running was what she knew, and what she was ready to do again. Not murder. Not kill.” He shook his head and turned back to Eleanor. “Thank you, Mrs. Enderby.”

“Mr. Burns?” Sir Robert asked, indicating Eleanor.

Mr. Burns slowly stood and faced Eleanor. “Since we are rife with speculation today, Mrs. Enderby, let us do a bit more. What is the one thing that could have happened that would make your life easier? No more running, the freedom to marry Sir Hilary,
perhaps even reclaim your real name?”

Eleanor didn’t hesitate. She knew what he wanted and was loath to give it to him, but to prevaricate would diminish her earlier testimony in the eyes of the jury. “The death of Jacob Enderby,” she replied.

Mr. Burns smiled. “Thank you. No more questions.”

Sir Robert turned to the jury. “There will be no more witnesses. You will be given the time to deliberate. But keep in mind that the prisoner must have been proven guilty of the crime with which she was charged, which is the murder of Mr. Jacob Enderby. The facts in the case are murky. She has admitted to deserting her husband, assuming a false identity, and engaging in an adulterous affair, all of which are questionable acts, but not at issue here. Your job is to determine if any of that is relevant to the charge, the murder of Mr. Jacob Enderby.”

Sir Robert paused and sighed audibly. “While it was against my better judgment initially to spend more time on what appeared to be a clear-cut case, I am now thankful that Mrs. Enderby’s counsel forced us to examine the facts more closely. I can only hope that you, the jury, will spend whatever time is needed to see that justice is carried out here today.”

Eleanor closed her eyes and prayed for the same thing.

* * *

Hil was surprised when the jury returned in less than an hour. He’d expected them to take their time with a verdict, at least make a show of it, one way or the other. He was gripping the rail so tightly his knuckles were white. Beside him, Harry was shaking and looked white as a ghost. She was leaning heavily on Alasdair and Julianna. Hil had never appreciated his old friends as much as he did now. The Sharps, Lyttle, even the Earl of Throckton and his sister Lady Anne were here to support Hil and Eleanor, a fact that the newssheets had picked up on immediately. He owed them all.

Eleanor stood alone in the dock, separate from her family and friends, a place that ought to shame her, but instead she looked proud and strong standing there, the embodiment of innocence, at least to his eyes. That is, until she turned and met his gaze
and he saw the terror that lurked there. It took every ounce of strength he had not to vault over the railing again and run to her.

The jury looked quite solemn as the bailiff came over and whispered in the magistrate’s ear. Sir Robert turned to the crowd. “Because Mrs. Enderby could not be placed at the scene of the crime and was never actually seen arguing with or threatening Mr. Enderby,” he said, “the jury finds her not guilty.”

There was a roar of approval from the gallery, but Hil heard one particular discordant note, a voice crying out an anguished “No!” He turned in time to see a young man lean over the rail and point at Eleanor. Then a woman screamed and the crowd tried to rush away from him, and Hil realized it was a gun pointing at her, not his hand.

“Eleanor,” he shouted. “Watch out!”

She didn’t ask for an explanation. She dropped to her knees and covered her head. The shot rang out, and Hil could see chips of wood from the rail around the prisoner’s dock fly up into the air. He was shoving at the crowd, trying to get to the man. “Weekes!” he yelled, and the young man turned hate-filled eyes to him, a look of panic flashing across his face when he realized he’d been recognized. The bailiff was almost upon him then, and instead of trying to get away, he vaulted over the rail and ran toward the guard. He threw his spent weapon in the guard’s face, a glancing blow that nonetheless caused the man to drop to his knees. Then he kept going—right up to Eleanor in the prisoner’s dock. He swung around the side with a hand tightly gripping the wooden spindles surrounding the dock, and leaped up the short steps. Once he was there with Eleanor, he grabbed her up off the floor and spun to face Hil. He held a knife to her throat.

“Not another step!” he screamed. “I’ll kill her.”

Hil froze, trapped on the other side of the rail, still in the gallery. The thundering of his heart in his ears was deafening. The shouts and screams around him faded as Eleanor and her attacker became his only focus. Wiley had gone over the rail shortly after Weekes, but he hadn’t gotten far. He froze as well.

“Let her go,” Roger demanded. “You cannot hope to escape under these circumstances.”

“I don’t want to escape,” Weekes spit out. “I want the bitch dead. I want him to pay.” He indicated Hil with a jerk of his head.

The crowd had realized now that Weekes no longer had a gun. They were crowding in again at Hil’s back, eager to see Eleanor’s blood spilled today, though they had been cheering at the not guilty verdict just a few moments ago.

“How dare you defame this court,” Sir Robert bellowed from the bench. “Unhand her at once.”

“Defame?” Weekes cried out. There was an edge of madness in his voice. “You did that, you and all the ones like you who transported my father. The lot of you can rot in hell with her.”

“Who was your father?” Hil called out desperately, feigning confusion. “If this is about him, shouldn’t we know his name?”

Eleanor was struggling with Weekes, kicking and twisting in his arms, her efforts impeded by the shackles she still wore. He shook her, never moving the knife, and she cried out, jerking her hand up to her neck. When she pulled it away there was a smear of blood running down her neck onto her dress.

“My father,” Weekes called out, “was an innocent man. But you accused him and this court accepted your word. He never stole from his employer, not one shilling, do you hear me? But you had him transported, leaving my mother alone and penniless. You ruined the lives of two good, innocent people. And I wanted you to see how that felt.” He grabbed Eleanor by the chin, jerking her head to the side so that Hil got a good look at the knife pressing into her throat. Eleanor was crying, clawing at his hands, but Weekes wouldn’t let go. “I wanted you to see someone you loved wrongly convicted of a crime they didn’t commit. As soon as I read about the two of you, I knew I’d found the perfect way to get my revenge.” Eleanor slipped as she struggled and the knife dug into her neck, cutting her again and the crowd gasped as several people shouted. Hil couldn’t discern their words; he didn’t care. Nothing mattered but Eleanor.

Weekes laughed. “I can see it in your face. You’re pathetic. The great Sir Hilary St. John. You thought you’d done it. You bought this jury and this judge, and you thought you’d saved her. And now you’re realizing there isn’t a thing you can do to save her. You are powerless. It’s a miserable, gut-wrenching feeling, isn’t it? Now you know! Now you know how all those people felt as they watched you ruin their lives and destroy their families. And it’s a feeling you’ll never forget.” Weekes shoved Eleanor down and she
fell to her knees on the floor with a hard crack, unable to break her fall with her hands because of the knife against her throat. “You’ll see me slitting her throat in your dreams for the rest of your days.”

Hil could see his intent, and he jumped over the rail, knowing that whether he moved or not, Weekes was going to kill her. But he might get there in time. He had to get to her. Suddenly a shot rang out. There were screams from the crowd and Hil jerked to a stop, confused, his horrified gaze on Eleanor, waiting for her to fall. But it was Weekes who fell. He toppled over Eleanor and she shrieked, scrambling to get out from under him, encumbered by the shackles. Hil moved again, running to her, and he reached up the steps and grabbed the back of Weekes’s coat, tossing him aside to grab Eleanor and yank her out of the dock. She tumbled down the steps and crashed into him, nearly sending them both to the ground. She was panting and backing away, trying to get as far from Weekes as possible.

“He’s dead!” Wiley shouted from the dock. He pointed behind Hil. “Lavender.”

Hil turned and saw the Bow Street runner standing on the balcony of the upper level, his gun still pointed at Weekes. At Wiley’s shout he lowered the gun and Eleanor collapsed against Hil.

“They all know now,” Hil told her, wrapping her in his arms and sinking to the floor with her. “They know for a fact you didn’t do it.”

She laughed weakly. “I would have settled for a verdict of not guilty.”

Chapter Twenty-Eight

“Mrs. St. John,” Hilary said, entering her boudoir. “I have seen the last of our guests out.”

She smiled at him in the mirror, still brushing her hair. “Have you? Good, seeing as how they were your Bow Street friends and quite intoxicated.”

“I am not intoxicated, except by your beauty,” Hilary said dramatically, bowing before her and waving his hand as if he held a large, plumed hat. He stumbled a little, and cleared his throat as he righted himself.

“Are you?” she said with a laugh. “I do seem to have overset your balance.”

“Completely,” he said with a lopsided grin. She’d never seen him like this. It was rather amusing. “They just wanted to come and see the new house and celebrate a little.”

“It’s been months. When are you all going to stop congratulating yourselves?”

“Never,” he said. He slid up behind her chair and leaned over, resting his chin on her shoulder. “Such beauty deserves unending celebration.”

“I see,” she said wryly. “So that’s the excuse you’re going to use for the next fifty years when you feel like lifting a cup with your cronies?”

“You have been learning cant from Wiley,” he said, disgusted. “I seek out criminals and their cronies, I do not have them myself.”

“That’s what you think,” she mumbled under her breath. “Of course not, Mr. St. John,” she said sweetly.

He closed his eyes and breathed a deep sigh of contentment. “How I love to hear you say that, Mrs. St. John.”

She turned then and kneeled on the chair backwards, facing him. He was still taller than her. She began to undo his cravat. “Do you, Mr. St. John?” she asked. “Well, I like to say it, so have no fear. We didn’t have to move, you know. I loved Number Five Saville Street.”

“We needed bigger lodgings,” he told her with a little exasperation. They’d discussed this numerous times. “You needed your own space in the house. Between my inquiries and my scientific experiments, there was no room for you at Saville Street.” He
cupped her face. “A new beginning deserved a new location.”

“You’re right,” she agreed. She secretly loved their new house in Marylebone on Baker Street, not far from Harry and Roger. But she felt a twinge of guilt over the move, even though Hilary had been the one to suggest it.

“Besides, Wiley had taken over most of Saville Street already, with his tailored finery and his gang of informers. May he enjoy his new bachelor lodgings there.” Hil tipped his imaginary hat.

Eleanor frowned. “Are you sure he can afford the rent you’re charging? Perhaps you should lower it.”

Hil snorted. “Don’t be ridiculous. He’s earning a fine income on the rewards he earns from Bow Street and the other officers around London. And now he’s learned how to work the stock exchange, the English economy will never be the same.” He tilted his head back so she could get the cravat off. “Are you going to take advantage of me?” he asked hopefully.

“Absolutely,” she said briskly. “Beauty like yours deserves endless celebrating.”

“Wait,” he said, frowning down at her. “Didn’t I say that?”

“Mm-hmm,” she told him. “It deserved repeating.”

“It does,” he agreed. “O my love’s like a red, red rose,” he sang, “that’s newly sprung in June; O my love’s like the melody that’s sweetly played in tune. As fair art thou, my bonnie lass, as deep in love am I, and I will love thee still my dear, till a’ the seas gang dry.” He pulled her up from the chair and spun her around. Eleanor laughed with delight.

“Till a’ the seas gang dry my dear,” she sang back, “and the rocks melt wi’ the sun. I will love thee still, my dear, while the sands of life shall run.”