Vice and Virtue (23 page)

The assault of the daylight made her blink. Richard had set off at a smart pace, but she could not match it. He turned back, his face full of apology. “You are weary, I know … forgive me.” Then he brightened. “I am in haste to return to Edward. But you know, Aurora, I have somewhere else to go today, have I not?”

She did not know. At least, she could not remember. She shook her head.

“I am going to Dacre Street,” he reminded her. “To deliver your letters to your mother and sisters.”

“Oh, Richard!” She clutched his arm. “Pray God this may be the last time we must deceive them!”

Edward slept for a long time.

The afternoon became the evening, and the candles were lit, and still he did not stir. Aurora kept vigil beside the bed, every so often reaching out to lay her hand lightly upon his forehead. She was near sleep herself, and her left arm was too painful to move. But each time her chin dropped, the vision of a tall, fair-haired, blue-eyed man flailing his murderous sword jerked her awake.

She looked at her husband. His face was turned three-quarters from her, towards the window, his hair sticking up at the crown. But even in sleep he did not look untroubled. It was not yet over; peace had not come.

St Paul’s Church clock struck nine o’clock, and as Aurora watched Edward in the candlelight, he awoke. He looked blankly at the window of the inn room with its shabby drapes and half-open shutters. Then he turned to Aurora, and his eyes cleared.

She reached over and felt his brow. It was cool.

“I am hungry,” he announced.

“Then I will order some supper.” She rose. “Richard will be returned from Westminster by now. Shall I ask him to join us?”

“Of course.”

He put out his hand. “Thank you, my dearest Aurora.”

Her heart filled with such a rush she felt her eyes prickle. She blinked. “I will bring him.”

She descended the stairs, cradling her arm, and hailed an apron-clad boy who was trudging across the flagstones with a tray of glasses. “Will you bring soup and bread, and some wine, to Mr Hoggart’s room?”

The parlour of the inn was good-sized, well lit and crowded. Aurora was met by the sound of chattering voices and the fragrance of roasted meat. It seemed a very long time since she had eaten.

“What news?” asked Richard, half rising from his seat in the inglenook.

“He has no fever,” replied Aurora, gesturing for him to sit and sliding in beside him. “He requests food, and your company.”

Richard’s eyes closed in a brief moment of gratitude to God. “But he remains ignorant of Deede’s confession, and his true parentage, does he not?” he asked.

Aurora nodded. She had thought of little else during her vigil. “I am resolved to tell him myself, as soon as he has partaken of some food.”

“And you are adamant Josiah Deede is innocent?”

“Yes,” she replied with conviction. “I have been thinking about it. The murder was planned and executed by Joe and Celia. Joe must have exerted force over their victim, while she administered the poison. Her protestations of her brother’s innocence, and her declaration that she knew nothing of Honoria, were false. Celia Deede is an accomplished deceiver, even of her own father.”

Richard pondered in silence. Aurora glanced at him; the lines of his face were drawn ever more sharply, and his whole frame drooped as he sat on the narrow bench. The man was exhausted.

“Richard,” she said gently, “you must rest. When you have seen Edward, return to Hartford House and sleep. You have done everything you can. I am Edward’s wife. I will take care of him.”

Richard sighed, looked at her for a moment and nodded. “Very well. But you must allow me to do one more thing.”

“What is that?”

“I will arrange with the innkeeper for Mr Drayton to stay in Mr Hoggart’s room for as long as he needs, and for Miss Drayton to have her own room. I will settle the charges. And Edward cannot walk far, so I will leave my carriage here at the inn for you to use.”

Aurora pressed his hand. “I thank you from my heart. But …” – she felt her colour rise – “I do not think I will have need of the other room. I mean, I must keep watch over Edward.”

“Of course,” said Richard solemnly.

“Now, let us go to him,” said Aurora, avoiding his gaze. “And on the way, you can tell me how you found them all at Dacre Street.”

“They are quite well,” he told her as they quitted the parlour. “Flora and Eleanora were full of questions, especially about the injury to my head, but your mother had the good sense to discourage them. Kindly, of course.”

They are quite well, thought Aurora. Quite well in their ignorance, for now. She shrank from the thought of the battalion of questions she would face when she was at last able to tell them the truth. “Thank you,” she said. “You know, Richard, it is a strange thing. When I lived at Dacre Street I felt as if I were in a prison made of gossip and petticoats. I longed for … adventure, I suppose. But since I have left the place, my thoughts of it have grown fonder with each passing day.” They had reached the chamber door. Aurora put her hand on the latch. “Am I a shallow, changeable girl, do you think?”

Richard’s eyes smiled, though his face remained grave. “You are a girl who loves her family. And who has, perhaps, had enough of adventure?”

“Perhaps,” said Aurora, opening the door. “For the time being.”

Edward’s eyes were closed, but he was not asleep. Watching his friend’s face keenly, Richard went to the bedside. “Thank God,” he said, and knelt.

Edward opened his eyes and smiled thinly in acknowledgement. “Have you come to take supper with us, Richard?” he asked.

“I thank you, but I am come to bid you farewell,” replied Richard, rising to his feet. “I must return to Hartford House. Though with God’s grace we will all be together again in happier circumstances before long.”

“Amen,” said Edward. “I cannot embrace you, Richard, but be assured you have my humblest gratitude, from my heart.”

“And mine,” added Aurora.

Richard nodded. Surreptitiously, he drew out the phial of arsenic and the folded paper from the apothecary, and passed them to Aurora. “I will leave these in your safekeeping,” he murmured.

Aurora secreted them in her skirt pocket, into which her mother had sewn buttons and buttonholes, as a precaution against pickpockets. When Richard proffered his hand, she shook it warmly. “God speed.”

With a final look at Edward, Richard pulled the door open and left the room, his footsteps thudding quickly on the stairs.

“I could not embrace Richard, and I cannot embrace you,” said Edward ruefully.

Smiling, Aurora gently touched his hand. “You may embrace whomever you wish when you are recovered.”

There was a knock. It was the serving-boy, bearing a laden tray. “Set it down on the table,” instructed Aurora. “And will you ask the chambermaid to bring a pallet, and pillow and blankets?” Fumbling in her pocket for coins, her fingers touched the cold glass of the phial. She wondered if, by now, Celia had missed it.

The boy bowed and disappeared. Taking one of the bowls of soup and a piece of bread, Aurora went to her seat beside the bed. “Edward, I have brought food.”

He had not the strength to sit up, so Aurora placed her good arm behind his shoulders and raised him far enough to enable her to place soup-soaked bread in his mouth. The taste of the food gradually improved his demeanour. Aurora watched with relief as he chewed and swallowed with increasing appetite, and colour returned faintly to his cheeks.

By the time she set to her own bowl, the soup was cool, but she devoured it and wiped the bowl with her bread. She made Edward as comfortable as she could against the pillows, then poured two glasses of wine. She sat beside him and took his hand. “There is news I must tell you,” she ventured, watching his face. “It is of great import.”

Edward frowned. “What day is it today?”

“It is Tuesday.”

“Tuesday,” he repeated. “The same day that I killed Joe Deede, or another Tuesday?”

Aurora caressed his hand. “The same day. It is evening. You have slept for many hours and lost track of time. But yes, early this morning you went to fight a duel but were obliged to defend yourself against an assassin.”

He nodded, still unsure. “This morning?”

“Yes, this morning.” She paused, allowing him to absorb this. Then she tightened her grasp on his hand a little, and steadied her nerve. “Edward, did you hear what Joe Deede said as he died?”

His eyes settled upon her face with a questioning look. “Did he say … a woman’s name? Or was that my imagination?”

“It was not your imagination. He said the name ‘Honoria’.”

“Ah.” His gaze left her face and roamed restlessly around the room. “Honoria.”

Aurora wished she could leave him to sleep in peace. But though her heart quailed, she knew that no more time should pass without his hearing the truth. “Edward,” she began, “I did not know then of whom Joe was speaking. I had never heard of Honoria, any more than you have. But a great deal has happened while you were asleep. I went to Mill Street, and I have found out who Honoria is. Or
was
, as she is no longer living.”

Edward heard the shortening of her breath. His eyes fixed upon hers. “And who was she?”

“She was your mother,” said Aurora.

His gaze remained upon her face. She watched as surprise, bewilderment, questioning, distrust and, finally, understanding of a sort came in turn to his eyes.

“My
real
mother?” he asked warily.

Aurora nodded. “The woman you knew as your mother, Elizabeth, and the man you knew as your father, Henry, adopted you at birth and brought you up as theirs,” she explained. “But your real parents are Honoria, who was a mistress of King Charles, and her lover …”

She felt his hand grip hers, and he tried to raise himself off the pillows.
“Josiah Deede!”
he finished for her in astonishment. “It cannot be! That murderer cannot be my father!”

“Fear not,” Aurora assured him warmly. “Josiah is
not
a murderer. He is as great a victim of his children’s villainy as you are.”

The colour had gone from Edward’s face. Aurora could not imagine how her story must be affecting him. The physical discomfort in his shoulder must be as nothing to the distress in his heart. But as she watched his face, she saw understanding trickle across it. “So Joe Deede …”

Aurora nodded. “… was the blackmailer. And he was your father’s murderer. Or at least, he was complicit in his murder.” She leaned forward, ready to soothe him lest he become agitated. “Edward, there is more.”

He stared at her, his face as still as a mask.

“Celia denied to her father’s face that Joe could be guilty of any wrongdoing,” she continued. “She defended him vehemently, and she also denied that she herself knew about Honoria. But she was lying, Edward! I am sure of it. She was trying to protect herself, now that Joe is dead. But the truth is that she and Joe had assumed – wrongly, in fact – that if the truth were discovered, their inheritance would be passed to you. Then, if you should die, to me.”

She paused. The only sounds were of the ticking of the clock in the corner of the room, and Edward’s shallow breathing. He was listening intently. Aurora felt in her pocket for the phial of arsenic. “A few minutes after I was shown upstairs,” she continued, “tea was brought, but before Celia could serve it, Josiah told me that he had made provision for you in his will, though most of his fortune was to be left to his children.
I am convinced Celia had no knowledge of this until that moment
. Then Josiah collapsed, overcome, and the tea was abandoned anyway. But when Celia rushed to help him, she dropped this.”

She took out the little glass phial and the apothecary’s note. As Edward read the paper, every muscle in his face stiffened.

“I was about to give it back to her,” added Aurora gently, “but decided I had better keep it.”

Edward sank back against the pillows. “Good God, Aurora!” he said, his voice full of disbelief, sorrow and grief. “How everything now becomes clear!”

“Celia was Joe’s accomplice,” continued Aurora. “He must have confided in her when he found the document Josiah told me about today, which he and Henry Francis signed upon your adoption. Joe used it first to extort money from Josiah, and then to gain a fortune that was not his own. Now all that is left is to see that Celia is tried for the murder.” She held up the phial. “She thinks she has got away with it, but she is mistaken.”

He gripped her hand. “You cannot go back there alone!”

“I have no intention of doing so. I will go with representatives of the law and have her arrested.”

“No!” His face was stricken. “She will hang!”

“Yes, she will.” Suddenly, Aurora understood. “Oh, Edward … she is your sister!”

“If she hangs,” he said faintly, as if struggling to get the words out, “my family will be for ever disgraced, and my father – my blood father, Josiah Deede – ruined. Even the return of my fortune will not compensate for such misery. I cannot inflict it.”

Aurora was dismayed. “But what of the honour of your
adoptive
family, which you have laboured to defend – even to the point of fighting a duel!” she protested. “That will surely only be preserved if the murderer is exposed?”

“The murderer,” said Edward steadily, “is dead.”

So he wished to let the dead bury the dead. Josiah Deede would remain innocent of his daughter’s complicity in his son’s crimes. Edward’s fortune would be returned, and Celia, still a rich woman, would marry an equally rich man of the Roman faith and remain unpunished for the rest of her life. Aurora strove to understand her husband’s wishes. “You are magnanimous,” she said.

When she looked at him, she saw that tears shone in his eyes. “I am not, I fear,” he told her. “But neither am I vindictive. I wished for revenge, and now, I think you will agree, I have exacted a revenge more complete than I could ever have envisaged.”

Aurora considered. “I still believe Celia should be punished.”

“She has already been sorely tried by the death of her beloved brother,” he reminded her. “Further punishment we may leave, I think, to God.”