The Last Wicked Scoundrel (13 page)

“So no one would question my sending my devoted wife to an insane asylum. My wife who loses things and finds them, who believes in spirits.” He grabbed the arms of the chair and lowered himself until he was hovering an inch from her nose. “I enjoyed watching you panic, although I must confess that you didn’t break as quickly as I thought you would.”

“You watched the séance last night, didn’t you? And afterward. That’s how you knew where to find your rings.”

He grinned. “I almost answered the lady’s summons, but better not to let others know I was about—not just yet anyway.”

“Why do this?”

“To punish you and Catherine. Maybe she’ll even go mad with guilt, thinking of you spending the rest of your life among the truly insane.”

“If you want to be rid of me, simply divorce me.”

“Where’s the fun in that?”

“Why not kill me then as you did your other wives?”

A corner of his mouth hitched up sinisterly. “You can’t prove I killed them.”

“But you did, didn’t you? No one is going to believe a madwoman, so why not tell me? Maybe knowing I was married to a murderer will be enough to send me over the edge.”

He released something between a grunt and a laugh. “I’d almost think you’d acquired some spunk while I was gone. That would be a shame as it would mean your permanent demise.”

It bothered her that he would think she would break so easily. But if she’d been tougher before, perhaps he would have killed her. “You did kill them then.”

“Of course I did. They were barren. I needed an heir. Divorce is costly, time consuming, and scandalous. Now I have an heir, I’m in no need of a wife, especially one who can’t be trusted. After what I’ve been through, you deserve to suffer a bit. Do you know what it’s like on those prison hulks? I got infested with fleas and lice. Fleas and lice for God’s sake. And a rat actually bit me before I snapped its scrawny little neck.”

His eyes were wide, glittering, and she wondered if perhaps his ordeal had made him mad. Perhaps he was the one who belonged in an asylum.

“They made me work until my hands bled and my back ached. They laughed when I told them I was a duke. Took a lash to me. It was almost two years before I found a way to escape. And all the while I plotted my revenge. Then last night I heard you with
him
, and I realized he would have to be punished as well.”

“You might want to rethink that. He serves the queen.”

“It’ll just look like he ran into a rough lot who beat him to death and left him in the mews.”

She fought back her fear. She would not allow him to hurt William. “No.”

“You can’t stop me. You’ve always been a frightened little bird whose wings were clipped. When I’m done with him, I plan to spend the night getting reacquainted with my wife before sending her off to Bedlam.”

Her stomach roiled as she thought of him touching her, of him wiping away the touch of a man she loved. She did love William, in spite of what he had hidden from her, she loved him. Wasn’t he the one who had insisted Catherine tell her the truth? He’d known she was strong enough to handle it. He knew everything about her, inside and out, and he accepted her as she was.

“Go to hell,” she said and shoved on his chest. The great hulk that was her husband barely moved. He just laughed, laughed as he had when he’d hit her before, when she cried out. She’d learned not to cry out.

A growl echoed around them. Winnie barely had time to register the sight of William charging before he knocked Avendale aside. Both men tumbled to the floor. Still bound, William struggled to stand. Avendale had nothing to hamper his progress. Jumping to his feet, he grabbed William by the shirt front, lifted him slightly, and pounded his fist into his face.

She heard the crack of bone shattering, a sound that had once echoed between her ears as her own bones took the weight of his fists. Jumping from the chair, she grabbed the fireplace poker and smashed it across his back. He spun around. She put all her strength, her weight, her need to stop him in the next swing, catching him across the head, sending him off balance. He landed on his back at the stone edge of the fireplace, his head at an awkward angle, leaning against his gargoyle.

Breathing heavily, she stood, feet spread, poker at the ready to strike him again. But he didn’t move. He just lay there staring at her as though he were surprised that she’d fought back this time.

“Untie me.”

She jerked her gaze over to William as he struggled to sit up, blood gushing from his nose. “Oh, yes, of course.” As she knelt beside him and fumbled with the knots, she kept darting glances over at Avendale. “How did he come to have you?”

“I was in the garden, keeping watch, but I was foolish enough to fall for his trick. Are you hurt?”

“No, not really. He seemed more intent on talking me to death.”

William released a huff that might have been a laugh. When his arms were free, he cradled her face. “You were extraordinarily brave.”

“I never stood up to him before, never fought back. I couldn’t return to living like that. I wouldn’t. But I think I hurt him rather badly.”

“I’ll have a look.”

She watched as William moved over to Avendale. “Be careful,” she warned.

“He won’t hurt me.” He pressed his ear to Avendale’s chest, then gently lifted Avendale’s head. She saw the blood seeping onto the stone.

“Looks as though he took quite a blow. I should get some linens to stanch the bleeding,” she said.

William moved back over to her, folded his hands over her shoulders, and met her gaze. “Winnie, he’s dead.”

W
innie sat in a chair in a corner. After covering Avendale with a sheet, William had sent for Inspector Swindler. She watched as he first studied the door, then crouched down and lifted the sheet to examine Avendale.

“Obviously someone from the streets,” he said.

“He’s the Duke of Avendale,” she corrected.

He looked at her, looked at William, looked at Avendale. “I see a man of the streets, a thief who has no doubt been breaking into your residence and stealing things. My report will indicate that the door has been tampered with by somewhat of an expert.”

She was on the verge of protesting again, when it dawned on her why William had sent for Swindler. “Of course. You’re part of the group that lived with the Earl of Claybourne’s grandfather.”

William took a step toward her. “Winnie, I know you despise me but no good will come from revealing the truth now. Swindler can make all this appear as though he broke in.”

“Are you saying that to protect yourself?”

“No, to protect you from the scandal. Everything about your life with him will become fodder for gossip. Yes, there are those of us who will no doubt suffer because of what we did, but you also have to consider the impact the tale will have on your son.”

She’d never spoken ill of Avendale to his son, had never wanted Whit to know the brute that his father was. He would suffer if the truth came out.

“But I killed him.”

“Not really. You hit him. He fell. The blow to the head killed him, but you had no influence over that. It was an accident.”

“Which is how my report will read,” Swindler said. “With all due respect, Your Grace, no one will question my findings.”

“You can live with this?”

“I can live with justice being served. In my profession, I see a lot of people who are hurt or killed and the culprits aren’t always caught. So I take justice where I can. Your husband treated you poorly, almost killed you, probably would have killed Bill here tonight. He was a man who didn’t feel remorse or regret. I’m not sorry to see him go. As I’m given to understand his two previous wives met with unfortunate accidents. Poetic justice, I say, that he should die from a blow to the head.”

“Is it really? In convincing me to say nothing are you not also striving to protect yourself? I imagine you played some role in his incarceration. You would have had access to the prisons that none of the others had.”

“We all knew the risks, Winnie,” William said. “We were all prepared to live with the results if what we did was ever discovered. Do what you must.”

She thought of how courageous they must have all been to risk so much when only Catherine truly knew her. What was she to them, other than someone the law wouldn’t protect? So they had done what they could to protect her.

She took a deep breath, a long sigh. “He’s wearing my husband’s rings. I’m not certain when he stole them, but they belong to my son, are part of his inheritance.”

Swindler nodded. “I’ll add that to my report. I’ll take the body to the coroner now if you have no objections.”

“I want him buried in the family crypt,” she informed them. “You don’t have to remove the other fellow, but Avendale should rest with his ancestors.”

“I’ll see to that,” William said.

She wasn’t surprised by his offer. He’d been looking out for her longer than she’d known, and he also had the skills to manage the task by himself. “We should see to your injuries,” she said.

“I’m fine.”

“You don’t look fine from here,” Swindler said. “I’ll finish up. You go let the lady tend you.”

It appeared that William was going to object, so she said softly, “Please.”

She couldn’t have been more relieved when he acquiesced.

After taking him to her bedchamber, she sat him at her dressing table. She dipped a cloth into the washbasin, then kneeling before him began to gently wipe away the blood that he’d overlooked when he’d stopped the bleeding with his handkerchief. He grimaced, and she lightened her touch.

“I’m sorry if that hurt,” she said.

“I’ll live. I’m sorry that I didn’t tell you what I suspected when you first told me about the strange happenings. I was hoping I was wrong.”

She gave him a soft smile. “You’d rather I be mad?”

He shook his head. “No, I was hoping for another explanation.”

“I’m relieved that it’s over, that he’s truly gone, and yet I’m melancholy.”

“That’s to be expected I think.”

“If I hadn’t hit him so hard—”

He cradled her face between his palms. “Winnie, make no mistake. He was going to kill me. Bound as I was, I doubt I could have stopped him. In spite of his plans to have you committed, I suspect he would have killed you as well. I heard a bit of your conversation with him. He practically confessed to killing his other wives. You acquired justice not only for you but for them.”

“Will the guilt lessen in time, do you think?”

“I know it will, but it will never completely go away.” He averted his gaze for a moment, a distant expression on his face, and she couldn’t help but believe he was visiting the past. How often had she done the same? She watched as he swallowed. When he brought his gaze back to hers, it was raw, tormented. “Mrs. Ponsby had the right of it. I was responsible for my mother’s death. She was beating me one day, at the top of our stairs, outside for all the world to see. I was huddled, trying to deflect the blows, and I struck out at her, tried to kick her. I’m unclear as to exactly how it happened, but our legs got tangled, she lost her balance, fell backward through the railing and landed in the street. Broke her neck.”

She squeezed his hands. “Oh my God, my love, you can’t blame yourself for what happened.”

“I don’t think I fully understood that until tonight when I saw you strike out at Avendale. You didn’t mean to kill him, Winnie, just as I didn’t mean to kill my mother. I’ve spent a good deal of my life striving to make amends for something that wasn’t my fault. You are equally blameless in tonight’s tragedy.”

“Yes, but—” Somehow her situation felt different, but was it really?

“I think that’s why my father left me that night,” William continued. “When I gazed over the landing at my mother, I saw my father standing there, looking up at me. I think he might have feared that I was going to be like her, a brute. So he moved on.”

How could his father have left him? How could he have believed for a single moment that William would turn out like his mother? It never crossed Winnie’s mind that Whit would grow up to be anything except a good, honorable man.

“Although I never met him, I don’t much like your father,” she said. “That he would leave a child to fend for himself.”

“But his actions resulted in my life taking a turn that led me here. I love you, Winnie. I have for three years now, but I held my affections at bay, because I didn’t think you’d approve of what we’d done and that you would despise me for my role in it. But then I kissed you in the garden and all of that hardly seemed to matter anymore.”

It didn’t matter. They had tried to protect her because she hadn’t been strong enough to protect herself. But that night and all the days that followed changed her. She would never again believe she deserved anything other than the best. She had no doubt that the man before her was the absolute best. She gave him a small smile.

“Well, I am truly a widow now.”

He grinned at her. “So you are.”

Six Months Later

W
innie thought a wedding was a fine way to begin the year, and so she was quite excited when the first week of January was finally upon them and she was studying her reflection in a mirror. She had sold the house in London—too many ghosts there—and moved into a modest home that William had purchased. That afternoon, he would officially take up residence here with her and Whit, although many a previous night he, scoundrel that he was, would sneak in and join her in bed or sit with her before a fire and they would talk into the wee hours of the morning. She loved every moment she spent in his company.

William had been quite attentive the past several months as she struggled to reconcile all that had happened and came to terms with it. Avendale’s death often haunted her. Sometimes she awoke in a cold sweat, certain he’d arisen from the dead determined to reclaim her, but William was always there to comfort and assure her it was not so. He was gone, truly gone this time, and would never again hurt her.

She came to accept that Catherine had sought to protect her as best she could. Winnie dealt with some guilt over placing her friend in a position where she was willing to sell her soul in order to prevent Winnie from suffering at her husband’s hands. All she could remember during those long years was feeling helpless and not knowing where to turn.