Chapter 33
It was still dark outside when the carriage arrived at Evelyn's home.
“Where do you intend to enter?” Jack asked.
“The back door into the kitchen,” Evelyn said.
“I'll see you there.”
“No! There's no need. I don't want to wake anyone.”
“Don't worry, Evie. I can be stealthy when the need arises. Besides, I want to ensure your safety.”
“Don't be ridiculous. Piccadilly is a good neighborhood.” But even as the words left her mouth, a vivid memory of Hodges bleeding and unconscious in the vestibule and her father bound and gagged in his library sprang to her mind. By the expression on Jack's face, she knew he recalled it as well.
“Very well,” she sighed. “You can walk me to the back door.”
They alighted, and Jack gave instructions to his driver to wait at the corner. As they made their way around the side of the house, the light from the street gas lamps faded and failed to illuminate the gardens. A sliver of moon provided little light.
Evelyn grew thankful for Jack's presence. Landscape familiar in daylight was completely different at night. The shadows of the trees and shrubbery were distorted, exaggerating their size. She had never ventured out this late alone and certainly not in the back of the house in the gardens. Whenever she returned past midnight from a ball or party, she had always had a chaperone, and Mrs. Smith had kept a lamp lit on an end table by the stairs.
Evelyn felt in her reticule for the key. On her fourth try, she managed to unlock the kitchen door.
She stepped inside, and Jack followed. The kitchen was black as pitch.
“Where's the tinderbox?” he asked.
“I don't need one. I know the layout of my own home and can find my way to the main stairs. You should leave now,” she whispered.
“Not yet. I'll see you further.”
She whirled around, trying to make out his features in the darkness. “Now you are acting ridiculous. I'm safe here. I don't want to wake the household, especially my father.”
“It's too late for that, Evelyn,” a deep male voice said.
At the sound of the all-too-familiar voice emanating from the bowels of the kitchen, Evelyn froze. Panic welled in her throat.
“I presume that's you, Lord Lyndale,” Jack said.
There was the sound and flash of a match lighting, and then a glow of a lamp revealed her father in the far corner. He held the lamp high as he approached, his stride stiff and indignant. He halted at a worktable, set the lamp down, and crossed his arms in front of his chest.
Lyndale's face was pale and his brow creased. His clothing was terribly wrinkled, and Evelyn noted it was the same suit he had worn to dinner with the judges. Tufts of sparse, gray hair stood on end as if he had repeatedly ran his fingers through it in agitation.
“I expected better of you both,” Lyndale said.
Evelyn spoke up. “Mr. Harding is not to blame.”
Lyndale's glare turned on his daughter. “You're probably correct. I've indulged you, Evelyn. I admit I was negligent during your childhood. I was immersed in my work, first at Lincoln's Inn and then later at the university. I allowed you unusual freedoms for a female and encouraged your intellectual pursuits. Looking back, I should have remarried and given you a mother figure and a proper Season.”
“That was never important to me, Father.”
“You went to see Randolph Sheldon, didn't you?”
The abrupt change in topic startled her.
“Barnes and Bathwell informed me that a Bow Street magistrate issued a warrant for Randolph's arrest for the murder of Bess Whitfield after he failed to appear for questioning. Christ, witnesses heard the victim's screams and then saw Randolph jump from her window! When were you going to tell me? Here I was thinking Randolph took a sabbatical to mourn the loss of his cousin, when he is wanted for her murder instead. Thank goodness the judges have no idea of your marital notions toward the man. They informed me solely because Randolph is my Fellow.”
“Father, I planned on informing you. I'm sorryâ”
Lyndale cut her off with a curt wave of his hand. He looked to Jack. “I wanted you on Randolph's side, in case he was questioned, but it has gone too far. Are you aware he is in hiding?”
“Yes, my lord.”
“What else?”
“There was a scuffle with a Bow Street Runner and Randolph was injured.”
“Injured?”
“Some broken ribs and a good hit on the head.”
“Does he need a doctor?”
“I'm arranging for one to see him.”
Lyndale sighed wearily. “We must be prepared for the possibility that Randolph is guilty.”
Evelyn was startled. Jack had said the same thing. Yet her instincts still balked against the notion that Randolph was a murderer.
“I asked Jack to take me to Randolph. I needed to see his injuries firsthand,” Evelyn said.
“How did you learn of the confrontation with Bow Street and that Randolph was hurt?” Lyndale asked.
Evelyn's eyes darted nervously back and forth between her father and Jack. How much to confess? “Simon Guthrie delivered the news. He accompanied us tonight.”
Lyndale blinked in surprise. “Guthrie is involved in this as well? He is not my Fellow, but I wonder what his professor would think of this mess.”
Her mind fluttered away in anxiety. “I would hope you would not speak of it and jeopardize Simon's Fellowship.”
Lyndale straightened; the line of his mouth tightened a fraction more. “After learning everything that I have tonight, combined with your unforgivable behavior, I insist this madness cease and Randolph surrender when he is well enough to do so. I never wanted him for you.”
She looked away, unable to meet her father's eyes. “I understand. But I still believe Jack should represent Randolph.”
“Nothing will change in that regard. Go upstairs now, Evelyn. I need to have a word alone with Mr. Harding.”
Grateful and relieved that her father's lecture ceased and that he agreed Jack could continue to aid Randolph, she fled the kitchen.
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Jack watched Evelyn depart before approaching Lord Lyndale.
“I apologize for taking your daughter to see Mr. Sheldon tonight, my lord,” Jack said.
Lyndale turned with a start and strode to a corner cabinet. “Would you like some whiskey, Jack?” he asked over his shoulder.
Jack eyed his mentor warily. He had just been caught alone with his daughter well past midnight without a chaperone in sight and the man was asking him if he wanted a whiskey?
“Whiskey sounds fine,” Jack said.
Lyndale opened the cabinet doors and withdrew a bottle. “Good old Hodges always keeps a bottle in the kitchen.” Reaching farther inside the cabinet, Lyndale pulled out two mismatched glasses, poured a good amount of amber-colored liquor in each, and handed a glass to Jack.
Jack took the whiskey and swallowed a goodly amount. Both men placed their glasses down on the worktable and leaned against it.
“You have feelings for Evelyn,” Lyndale said. It was a statement, not a question.
Jack hesitated, careful with his words. “I would never hurt her.”
“I didn't believe you would. Otherwise, I would insist you leave my house at once and never contact her again. Randolph Sheldon's defense be damned,” Lyndale said, his tone chilly.
Ah, this is the scalding lecture I expected from an outraged father,
Jack thought. “I understand, my lord.”
Lyndale sighed. “I never wanted Randolph Sheldon for Evelyn. Intellectual and bookish, he makes the perfect Fellow for a professor who is too busy with research to give the proper amount of attention to the tedious task of grading student papers. But Randolph is weak at his core. He needs a mother figure, someone to tell him what to do and make all his decisions for him. He is a follower, never a leader.”
Lyndale withdrew his spectacles and rubbed his eyes before continuing. “Evelyn's mother died when she was just a babe, and she learned how to run the household at an early age. I realize I am to blame. She is an invaluable help to me and organizes my library and my life so that I do not have to think of such trifle matters. But I want more for her than to marry and become another man's âmother figure.' Evelyn is strength and responsibility and beauty and brains. I will not live forever. I long to see her find her match and be truly happy, impulsive, and free.”
Jack swallowed. Evelyn had been just that, impulsive and free with her passion moments ago in his carriage. His pulse throbbed just thinking about it.
But he could never tell her father.
“I do believe she is reconsidering her feelings for Randolph,” Jack said.
“Good. Randolph won't make her happy. He will only burden her with more responsibility and trouble.”
Jack nodded. He had felt the same when he had initially taken on Randolph's case.
Lyndale reached for his whiskey. “I may be an old man, but I remember when I first met Evelyn's mother. Logic and reason, be damned.” He took a sip and set the glass down. “It reminds me of the way you look at Evelyn.”
“Pardon?”
“Evelyn was besotted by you when she was a girl. Oh, I had many pupils pass through my chambers at Lincoln's Inn. But she never went out of her way to memorize all those Latin and Greek verbs until you became my pupil. What I'm trying to say is I would encourage a match between you and my daughter.”
Jack was stunned. Did the man suspect what had occurred in the carriage? Or was he like any other father who would insist Jack act honorably? After all, Evelyn had been alone with Jack in the middle of the night and there was no doubt her reputation had been compromisedâwhether her father knew to what extent or not. It didn't matter that no one saw them. In the eyes of society, Lyndale could legitimately claim that his daughter's reputation was tarnished and insist Jack do the right thing. But Lyndale was unusual with the rearing of his daughter.
“I know not to force anything on Evelyn. She can be quite stubborn. She also cares naught for society, rank, or the incessant gossips of the
ton.
But
you
can convince her.”
“I don't know what to say, my lord.”
“I'm guessing marriage was not in your immediate plans. You're ambitious and believe your legal career is your calling card, your purpose in life.”
“Is that wrong?”
“The law is important to a barrister, but it will not comfort you when you are ill, support you when you lose a trial, or celebrate with you when a jury returns a verdict in your favor, and most important of all, it will not love you until you grow old. And if you are to be truly blessed, the law will not give you children to carry on your legacy.”
Jack had never wanted those things. He could handle bad verdicts and victories. He couldn't handle emotional entanglements or the demands of a wife if he needed to work a long day.
“Think about what I said. If she has decided on her own that Randolph Sheldon is not the man she wants to marry, then I am pleased. I see the way you look at each other. I have every right to insist you marry my daughter after tonight. But like any barrister worth his salt, why force the issue when it can be amicably resolved? Besides, could you bear the thought of her marrying another?”
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The killer walked the streets, careful to avoid the light of the gas lamps. He needed to release his roiling emotions before the pain took over.
Too late, he felt the tension build in his skull, like a pair of hammers pounding against each of his temples. He needed privacy, before his body revolted and he spewed his guts on the closest street corner.
Sweat poured down his forehead; his breathing came in ragged gasps. Spotting the first empty alley, he stumbled inside.
Two brick tenements lined each side of the alley. Windows covered thick with grease concealed the view inside. He hated this neighborhood with its dark, dank underworld of crime, prostitution, and poverty. If he had a choice, he would never step foot here.
At a slight sound at the end of the alley, his head snapped around. A pair of brilliant green eyes shone in the dimness. He picked up a stone and threw it at a black, stray cat. The feline hissed, then darted behind a discarded barrel.
He picked up another stone, heavier this time, and repeatedly tossed it in the air and caught it in his fist as he stalked forward.
“Pssss. Little pussy.”
He spotted the tail from behind the barrel, then kicked the barrel aside and hurled the stone at the cat's head. Not even a whimper, and the feline dropped to the ground.