The Scoundrel Takes a Bride: A Regency Rogues Novel (33 page)

There appeared to be only a handful of patients in this wing. Nicholas scanned the
hall as Michael bent over and looked through the eyehole into Maggie Pemble’s room.
Was it something good, or something bad that had earned these incurables rooms instead
of cells? After walking the gauntlet past Wild Willy and the other madmen under the
short orderly’s care, Nicholas wasn’t sure that he wanted to know.

Michael reached for his keys and picked through the collection until he found the
one he was looking for. Placing it in the lock, he turned it ’round until the lock
clicked open. “Let me go in first and explain things to her. She’s sure to be confused
after so many years without visitors,” he told the small group before pulling the
key out and opening the door.

“Maggie Pemble, you are a sight for sore eyes,” he exclaimed before going in and closing
the door behind him.

“I believe those patients—back there,” Singh pointed to where they’d just been, “I
believe they would benefit from a more peaceful setting.”

Nicholas looked at his friend. Singh’s usual air of calm and serenity had vanished,
a haunted quality now in his eyes. “I believe you would benefit from the same, my
friend.”

“It is true enough, sahib. I have heard stories of the
institutions in India. Still I could not have imagined anything such as Mr. Wild Willy
and the others in their cells.”

Nicholas agreed with Singh. He himself had spent time in arguably some of the most
depraved and corrupt places in England and abroad, and nothing had shaken his nerves
quite like Bedlam.

At least, not to date, anyway. Who knew what waited for them behind Maggie Pemble’s
door?

“I will pray for them,” Singh said resolutely, which seemed to lessen the worry creasing
his tanned forehead.

“As will we all,” Sophia put in, looking kindly at Singh.

The door opened and Michael reappeared. “Sorry for the wait. Maggie needed a few minutes
to freshen up.”

He stepped back and beckoned them inside. Singh went first, with Sophia following
closely behind, then Nicholas.

The light in the room was of a different quality than what they’d seen in the rest
of the hospital. The flames of beeswax candles and natural brightness from the large
barred windows cast a pleasant glow, soft and soothing, across the small but comfortably
situated room.

“Don’t be shy, you three,” a shaky feminine voice called out.

Nicholas looked past the single bed and washstand to a small parlor of sorts. A large
Sheridan chair upholstered in velvet stood with its back to them, a curled tuft of
white hair visible just above the top.

“Go on and make yourselves comfortable,” Michael said. “Maggie has requested tea.
I’ll see what can be done.” Then he left the room, closing the door and locking it
behind him.

Sophia moved to approach Miss Pemble first and Nicholas stopped her. He held up his
hand and pointed silently at himself and Singh.

She glared, but relented, allowing Nicholas to walk forward. She waited for Singh
to follow him before she herself moved.

Nicholas rounded the chair to stand in front of the woman—somewhat relieved to find
she was just that, a woman. She was tall and slightly softer in areas where she most
likely had not been in her youth. Fine, sharp cheekbones could still be seen beneath
the wrinkled skin with its hasty application of powder and rouge.

She had been beautiful in her time, but the years of living in Bedlam had left their
mark. Her faint blue eyes were dull and her smile faded to a shadow of what it surely
once was.

“Miss Pemble, may I introduce myself. I am Christopher Felton, of Hertfordshire. This
is Dr. Pamuk,” Nicholas explained, purposely speaking in a slow, steady tone, “and
that’s my wife, Miriam Felton.”

“And which one of you is my relation?” she asked, leaning slightly forward and squinting
to see Nicholas better.

Sophia stepped forward and curtsied. “I am, Miss Pemble. Your sister Rosamund was
my mother.”

Miss Pemble gestured for Sophia to come closer. “Is that so?” She plucked a small
pair of silver-rimmed spectacles from a table near her chair and held them up to her
eyes. “You do look very much like Rosie. I was not aware that she’d had any children.”

“Just me—and I was born some time after you’d left for London,” Sophia explained.

Miss Pemble appeared to consider Sophia’s words while she returned her glasses to
the table and settled back into her chair once again. “We’d thought her barren. What
is life without surprises, I suppose. Come, sit down.”

Nicholas waited while Sophia chose a chair directly
opposite the woman, then took a seat near a cheery fireplace and watched Singh claim
the final chair.

“Now, I’m afraid I have very little time before I must prepare for my seven o’clock
performance,” Miss Pemble said apologetically. “I would have requested that my understudy
appear in my place if I knew you were coming, but there is no time to do so now.”

Nicholas nodded in understanding, wondering why Michael had failed to tell them of
the woman’s delusion. “You continue to perform, then?”

“Oh yes, young man. I could never give up the stage,” Miss Pemble replied dramatically.
“It is who I am, after all.”

A key connected with the lock and Michael pushed the door open, a tea tray in his
right hand. He set it down on a low table situated in front of Miss Pemble, then left.

“May I pour, aunt?” Sophia asked.

The woman nodded happily and gazed at Sophia with fondness. “So like your mother …”
she remarked, failing to give any particulars.

Nicholas watched Miss Pemble as her smile suddenly drooped into a sad frown and tears
trembled on her lashes. “Rosamund was such a lovely girl.”

The abrupt shift in emotions demonstrated the very fragile nature of Miss Pemble’s
state—and made Nicholas nervous.

“And the play you’re in this evening? Would it be
Dido Queen of Carthage
?” Nicholas asked, anxious to secure the information they required before the woman
forgot all about them.

Miss Pemble’s eyes burned with anger and she let out a disgusted huff. “That is a
play I’ve sworn never to act in again!”

Sophia handed a cup and saucer to the elderly woman
and returned to the tray. “Why ever not? I have heard such praise for the story.”

“Well, that might be,” the older woman countered, pausing to take a sip of her tea.
“But did you know a woman was murdered because of that play? And—if you can even begin
to believe—a dastardly fellow attempted to have me committed to a mental hospital
when I told the truth of it. The nerve!”

Nicholas accepted a cup and saucer from Sophia, balancing them in both hands. “That
sounds even more interesting than the plot of the play. Would you mind telling us
the whole story?”

“Real life is often more exciting than fiction—at least for actors,” Miss Pemble replied,
taking a second drink of tea. “Now, let me think … The year was 1798. We’d been invited
to perform in Sussex at a house party given by …”

She took a third sip and squinted. “By a peer of the realm. I’m afraid his name escapes
me at the moment. When we arrived at the manor house, we were told the host had requested
that some of the guests be allowed to participate in the play. Of course I thought
such a request was completely outrageous. Still, one does not say no to a lord.”

Miss Pemble looked at Sophia in particular. “I am sure that Rosamund taught you such,
yes?”

“Of course, aunt,” Sophia agreed, slowly stirring some sugar into her teacup. “You
had no choice. And the play moved forward, with partygoers amongst the ranks of the
actors?”

The woman’s outrage burned anew. “Precisely. We had no more than three days to assemble
our set, rehearse, and attempt to bring them into line. It was madness. Somehow we
managed it—that is until the afternoon before the play.”

“Is that when someone was murdered?” Sophia asked, her tone slightly tipped in urgency.

“Murdered?” Miss Pemble repeated, finishing her tea and holding it out for Sophia
to refill. “Oh yes, that’s right. The lady of the house was found in the nursery—I
will spare you the gruesome details. But I saw the man who committed the crime … and
the man who paid him to do it. I’d overheard them talking in the stables the day before
the lady was killed. I was resting in the hayloft after a particularly strenuous assignation
with one of the stable hands. The two men entered and began to review a plan of sorts;
I was somewhat sleepy and am afraid I did not pay as much attention as I should have.
Neither of them uttered the words ‘murder’ or ‘kill.’ Still, it was plain that they
meant some measure of harm. I spoke with the troupe leader as well as the housekeeper,
but without a name for either man, there was little that could be done.”

Sophia set the woman’s cup down quickly then reached for her reticule. “Was one this
man?” she asked, pulling the sketch from her bag and showing it to Miss Pemble.

“The very one!” the woman exclaimed, clapping her hands together. “You are clever,
just like your mother.”

Nicholas set his untouched tea on the tray. “And you cannot remember his name?”

The imitation French Empire clock on the mantel struck three. “I am sorry but you
really must go,” Miss Pemble replied, struggling to stand.

“His name, aunt,” Sophia urged, stuffing the sketch back inside her reticule and going
to Miss Pemble’s aid.

The older woman accepted Sophia’s arm and allowed her to help her up. “Whose name?”

“The man in the sketch.”

“Oh yes, that man,” she answered, pulling Sophia toward the door. “He was just in
the paper last week; or perhaps last month. I cannot remember his name now.
I will think on it and have it for you when you call tomorrow.”

Nicholas rose and stalked after the women, with Singh close behind. “We cannot come
back tomorrow, Miss Pemble. It is impossible.”

“What do you mean?” she asked, turning on her heels with lightning speed. “You cannot
deny me the company of my one and only relation. She is my niece,” Miss Pemble wailed,
her arms beginning to flail about as though she were drowning. “And I was going to
order a special afternoon performance—just for you. Do you think my director would
do that for just anyone?”

Her voice grew louder, the blood rushing to her face from the effort. Her eyes widened,
gleaming with anger. “The answer is no! And now look what you’ve done. I should be
resting my voice and reviewing my lines. Instead you’ve upset me greatly.”

Nicholas shifted, inserting his broad bulk between Sophia and Miss Pemble. “I did
not mean to upset you,” he assured the distraught woman in a soothing voice. The sound
of someone working the lock outside eased his frayed nerves. “We will come tomorrow.
I promise.”

Michael pushed the door open and entered the room, his twisted grin focused on Miss
Pemble. “Come now, Maggie. Do calm yourself. You’ve a performance this evening and
we can’t have you losing your voice. Say good-bye to your visitors.”

Miss Pemble stopped flailing her arms and quieted at the sound of Michael’s voice.
“Until tomorrow,” she said to the three, her brain clearly addled from the outburst.
And then she bowed an elegant, actorly curtsy that made her erratic behavior seem
that much more surreal.

“Wait for me in the hall,” Michael ordered them calmly.

Nicholas gently pushed Sophia through the open
door. He gestured for Singh to go next, then followed, stepping over the threshold.

“Do you know, Michael, she looks just as my dear sister Rosamund did at her age. Such
a pretty girl, she was. But I had all the talent …”

Nicholas pushed the door closed and prayed for the strength to return again tomorrow.

“Thank you, Jamie. That will be all.”

The orderly bowed and backed out of the room, closing the door behind him and locking
it.

The Bishop held his candelabra aloft, illuminating the room. And, more specifically,
the elderly woman asleep in the narrow iron bed.

He crossed to her, not relishing the task before him. But business was business. And
Maggie Pemble threatened his livelihood simply by being alive and occasionally lucid.

Quietly setting the candelabra on a small side table, he sat next to Maggie on the
mattress.

She had aged considerably since he’d last seen her. No more than fifteen or twenty
years his senior, the faded actress looked more like thirty or forty years older than
he. Her hair had gone completely white and her skin looked as though someone had taken
a piece of parchment, crumpled it in their fist, then smoothed it out again, leaving
a web of fine wrinkles.

The Bishop watched her sleep and felt a sick sense of nostalgia. Maggie Pemble had
been bold enough to attempt blackmail, going so far as to offer him her body if he
exposed the man who had killed Lady Afton. They would be partners, he and Maggie.
She’d painted a pretty picture of what they could do with the money
they’d receive once the man responsible for the murder was dangling on their hook.