People have a hard time letting go of their suffering. Out of a fear of the unknown, they prefer suffering that is familiar.
Thích Nhất Hạnh
ePub
A4Chapter 25
In which we learn what happened, a mere ten minutes earlier.
Had it been an hour? Surely it had been an hour.
Lucy took a deep breath and tried to calm her racing nerves. Why hadn’t anyone thought to install a clock in the washroom? Shouldn’t someone have realized that eventually someone would find herself tied to the water closet and might wish to know the hour?
Really, it was just a matter of time.
Lucy drummed the fingers of her right hand against the floor. Quickly, quickly, index to pinky, index to pinky. Her left hand was tied so that the pads of her fingers faced up, so she flexed, then bent, then flexed, then bent, then—
“Eeeeeuuuuuhhh!”
Lucy groaned with frustration.
Groaned? Grunted.
Groanted.
It should have been a word.
Surely it had been an hour. It must have been an hour.
And then…
Footsteps.
Lucy jerked to attention, glaring at the door. She was furious. And hopeful. And terrified. And nervous. And—
Good God, she wasn’t meant to possess this many simultaneous emotions. One at a time was all she could manage. Maybe two.
The knob turned and the door jerked backward, and—
Jerked? Lucy had about one second to sense the wrongness of this. Gregory wouldn’t jerk the door open. He would have—
“Uncle Robert?”
“You,” he said, his voice low and furious.
“I—”
“You little whore,” he bit off.
Lucy flinched. She knew he held no great affection for her, but still, it hurt.
“You don’t understand,” she blurted out, because she had no idea what she should say, and she refused—she absolutely refused to say, “I’m sorry.”
She was done with apologizing. Done.
“Oh, really?” he spat out, crouching down to her level. “Just what don’t I understand? The part about your fleeing your wedding?”
“I didn’t flee,” she shot back. “I was abducted! Or didn’t you notice that I am tied to the water closet?”
His eyes narrowed menacingly. And Lucy began to feel scared.
She shrank back, her breath growing shallow. She had long feared her uncle—the ice of his temper, the cold, flat stare of his disdain.
But she had never felt frightened.
“Where is he?” her uncle demanded.
Lucy did not pretend to misunderstand. “I don’t know.”
“Tell me!”
“I don’t know!” she protested. “Do you think he would have tied me up if he trusted me?”
Her uncle stood and cursed. “It doesn’t make sense.”
“What do you mean?” Lucy asked carefully. She wasn’t sure what was going on, and she wasn’t sure just whose wife she would be, at the end of the proverbial day, but she was fairly certain that she ought to stall for time.
And reveal nothing. Nothing of import.
“This! You!” her uncle spat out. “Why would he abduct you and leave you here, in Fennsworth House?”
“Well,” Lucy said slowly. “I don’t think he could have got me out without someone seeing.”
“He couldn’t have got into the party without someone seeing, either.”
“I’m not sure what you mean.”
“How,” her uncle demanded, leaning down and putting his face far too close to hers, “did he grab you without your consent?”
Lucy let out a short puff of a breath. The truth was easy. And innocuous. “I went to my room to lie down,” she said. “He was waiting for me there.”
“He knew which room was yours?”
She swallowed. “Apparently.”
Her uncle stared at her for an uncomfortably long moment. “People have begun to notice your absence,” he muttered.
Lucy said nothing.
“It can’t be helped, though.”
She blinked. What was he talking about?
He shook his head. “It’s the only way.”
“I—I beg your pardon?” And then she realized—he wasn’t talking to her. He was talking to himself.
“Uncle Robert?” she whispered.
But he was already slicing through her bindings.
Slicing? Slicing? Why did he have a knife?
“Let’s go,” he grunted.
“Back to the party?”
He let out a grim chuckle. “You’d like that, wouldn’t you?”
Panic began to rise in her chest. “Where are you taking me?”
He yanked her to her feet, one of his arms wrapped viselike around her. “To your husband.”
She managed to twist just far enough to look at his face. “My—Lord Haselby?”
“Have you another husband?”
“But isn’t he at the party?”
“Stop asking so many questions.”
She looked frantically about. “But where are you taking me?”
“You are not going to ruin this for me,” he hissed. “Do you understand?”
“No,” she pleaded. Because she didn’t. She no longer understood anything.
He yanked her hard against him. “I want you to listen to me, because I will say this only once.”
She nodded. She wasn’t facing him, but she knew he could feel her head move against his chest.
“This marriage will go forward,” he said, his voice deadly and low. “And I will personally see to it that it is consummated tonight.”
“What?”
“Don’t argue with me.”
“But—” She dug her heels in as he started to drag her to the door.
“For God’s sake, don’t fight me,” he muttered. “It’s nothing that you wouldn’t have had to do, anyway. The only difference is that you will have an audience.”
“An audience?”
“Indelicate, but I will have my proof.”
She began to struggle in earnest, managing to free one arm long enough to swing wildly through the air. He quickly restrained her, but his momentary shift in posture allowed her to kick him hard in the shins.
“God damn it,” he muttered, wrenching her close. “Cease!”
She kicked out again, knocking over an empty chamber pot.
“Stop it!” He jammed something against her ribs. “Now!”
Lucy stilled instantly. “Is that a knife?” she whispered.
“Remember this,” he said, his words hot and ugly against her ear. “I cannot kill you, but I can cause you great pain.”
She swallowed a sob. “I am your niece.”
“I don’t care.”
She swallowed and asked, her voice quiet, “Did you ever?”
He nudged her toward the door. “Care?”
She nodded.
For a moment there was silence, and Lucy was left with no means to interpret it. She could not see her uncle’s face, could sense no change in his stance. She could do nothing but stare at the door, at his hand as he reached for the knob.
And then he said, “No.”
She had her answer, then.
“You were a duty,” he clarified. “One I fulfilled, and one I am pleased to discharge. Now come with me, and don’t say a word.”
Lucy nodded. His knife was pressing ever harder against her ribs and already she had heard a soft crunching sound as it poked through the stiff fabric of her bodice.
She let him move her along the corridor and down the stairs. Gregory was here, she kept telling herself. He was here, and he would find her. Fennsworth House was large, but it was not massive. There were only so many places her uncle could stash her.
And there were hundreds of guests on the ground floor.
And Lord Haselby—surely he would not consent to such a scheme.
There were at least a dozen reasons her uncle would not succeed in this.
A dozen. Twelve. Maybe more. And she needed only one—just one to foil his plot.
But this was of little comfort when he stopped and yanked a blindfold over her eyes.
And even less when he threw her into a room and tied her up.
“I will be back,” he bit off, leaving her on her bottom in a corner, bound hand and foot.
She heard his footsteps move across the room, and then it burst from her lips—a single word, the only word that mattered—
“Why?”
His footsteps stopped.
“Why, Uncle Robert?”
This couldn’t be just about the family honor. Hadn’t she already proved herself on that score? Shouldn’t he trust her for that?
“Why?” she asked again, praying he had a conscience. Surely he couldn’t have looked after her and Richard for so many years without some sense of right and wrong.
“You know why,” he finally said, but she knew that he was lying. He had waited far too long before answering.
“Go, then,” she said bitterly. There was no point in stalling him. It would be far better if Gregory found her alone.
But he didn’t move. And even through her blindfold she could feel his suspicion.
“What are you waiting for?” she cried out.
“I’m not sure,” he said slowly. And then she heard him turn.
His footsteps drew closer.
Slowly.
Slowly…
And then—
“Where is she?” Hermione gasped.
Gregory strode into the small room, his eyes taking in everything—the cut bindings, the overturned chamber pot. “Someone took her,” he said grimly.
“Her uncle?”
“Or Davenport. They are the only two with reason to—” He shook his head. “No, they cannot do her harm. They need the marriage to be legal and binding. And long-standing. Davenport wants an heir off Lucy.”
Hermione nodded.
Gregory turned to her. “You know the house. Where could she be?”
Hermione was shaking her head. “I don’t know. I don’t know. If it’s her uncle—”
“Assume it’s her uncle,” Gregory ordered. He wasn’t sure that Davenport was agile enough to abduct Lucy, and besides that, if what Haselby had said about his father was true, then Robert Abernathy was the man with secrets.
He was the man with something to lose.
“His study,” Hermione whispered. “He is always in his study.”
“Where is it?”
“On the ground floor. It looks out the back.”
“He wouldn’t risk it,” Gregory said. “Too close to the ballroom.”
“Then his bedchamber. If he means to avoid the public rooms, then that is where he would take her. That or her own chamber.”
Gregory took her arm and preceded her out the door. They made their way down one flight of stairs, pausing before opening the door that led from the servants’ stairs to the second floor landing.
“Point out his door to me,” he said, “and then go.”
“I’m not—”
“Find your husband,” he ordered. “Bring him back.”
Hermione looked conflicted, but she nodded and did as he asked.
“Go,” he said, once he knew where to go. “Quickly.”
She ran down the stairs as Gregory crept along the hall. He reached the door Hermione had indicated and carefully pressed his ear to it.
“What are you waiting for?”
It was Lucy. Muffled through the heavy wood door, but it was she.
“I don’t know,” came a male voice, and Gregory realized that he could not identify it. He’d had few conversations with Lord Davenport and none with her uncle. He had no idea who was holding her hostage.
He held his breath and slowly turned the knob.
With his left hand.
With his right hand he pulled out his gun.
God help them all if he had to use it.
He managed to get the door open a crack—just enough to peer in without being noticed.
His heart stopped.
Lucy was bound and blindfolded, huddled in the far corner of the room. Her uncle was standing in front of her, a gun pointed between her eyes.
“What are you up to?” he asked her, his voice chilling in its softness.
Lucy did not say anything, but her chin shook, as if she was trying too hard to hold her head steady.
“Why do you wish for me to leave?” her uncle demanded.
“I don’t know.”
“Tell me.” He lunged forward, jamming his gun between her ribs. And then, when she did not answer quickly enough, he yanked up her blindfold, leaving them nose to nose. “Tell me!”
“Because I can’t bear the waiting,” she whispered, her voice quivering. “Because—”
Gregory stepped quietly into the room and pointed his gun at the center of Robert Abernathy’s back. “Release her.”
Lucy’s uncle froze.
Gregory’s hand tightened around the trigger. “Release Lucy and step slowly away.”
“I don’t think so,” Abernathy said, and he turned just enough so that Gregory could see that his gun was now resting against Lucy’s temple.
Somehow, Gregory held steady. He would never know how, but his arm held firm. His hand did not quiver.
“Drop your gun,” her uncle ordered.
Gregory did not move. His eyes flicked to Lucy, then back to her uncle. Would he hurt her? Could he? Gregory still wasn’t certain just why, precisely, Robert Abernathy needed Lucy to marry Haselby, but it was clear that he did.
Which meant that he could not kill her.
Gregory gritted his teeth and tightened his finger on the trigger. “Release Lucy,” he said, his voice low, strong, and steady.
“Drop your gun!” Abernathy roared, and a horrible, choking sound flew from Lucy’s mouth as one of his arms jammed up and under her ribs.
Good God, he was mad. His eyes were wild, darting around the room, and his hand—the one with the gun—was shaking.
He would shoot her. Gregory realized that in one sickening flash. Whatever Robert Abernathy had done—he thought he had nothing left to lose. And he would not care whom he brought down with him.
Gregory began to bend at his knees, never taking his eyes off Lucy’s uncle.
“Don’t do it,” Lucy cried out. “He won’t hurt me. He can’t.”
“Oh, I can,” her uncle replied, and he smiled.
Gregory’s blood ran cold. He would try—dear God, he would try with everything he had to make sure that they both came through this alive and unhurt, but if there was a choice—if only one of them was to walk out the door…
It would be Lucy.
This, he realized, was love. It was that sense of rightness, yes. And it was the passion, too, and the lovely knowledge that he could happily wake up next to her for the rest of his life.
But it was more than all that. It was this feeling, this knowledge, this certainty that he would give his life for her. There was no question. No hesitation. If he dropped his gun, Robert Abernathy would surely shoot him.
But Lucy would live.
Gregory lowered himself into a crouch. “Don’t hurt her,” he said softly.
“Don’t let go!” Lucy cried out. “He won’t—”
“Shut up!” her uncle snapped, and the barrel of his gun pressed even harder against her.
“Not another word, Lucy,” Gregory warned. He still wasn’t sure how the hell he was going to get out of this, but he knew that the key was to keep Robert Abernathy as calm and as sane as possible.
Lucy’s lips parted, but then their eyes met…
And she closed them.
She trusted him. Dear God, she trusted him to keep her safe, to keep them both safe, and he felt like a fraud, because all he was doing was stalling for time, keeping all the bullets in all the guns until someone else arrived.
“I won’t hurt you, Abernathy,” Gregory said.
“Then drop the gun.”
He kept his arm outstretched, the gun now positioned sideways so he could lay it down.
But he did not let go.
And he did not take his eyes off Robert Abernathy’s face as he asked, “Why do you need her to marry Lord Haselby?”
“She didn’t tell you?” he sneered.
“She told me what you told her.”
Lucy’s uncle began to shake.
“I spoke with Lord Fennsworth,” Gregory said quietly. “He was somewhat surprised by your characterization of his father.”
Lucy’s uncle did not respond, but his throat moved, his Adam’s apple shifting up and down in a convulsive swallow.
“In fact,” Gregory continued, “he was quite convinced that you must be in error.” He kept his voice smooth, even. Unmocking. He spoke as if at a dinner party. He did not wish to provoke; he only wished to converse.
“Richard knows nothing,” Lucy’s uncle replied.
“I spoke with Lord Haselby as well,” Gregory said. “He was also surprised. He did not realize that his father had been blackmailing you.”
Lucy’s uncle glared at him.
“He is speaking with him now,” Gregory said softly.
No one spoke. No one moved. Gregory’s muscles were screaming. He had been in his crouch for several minutes, balancing on the balls of his feet. His arm, still outstretched, still holding the gun sideways but steady, felt like it was on fire.
He looked at the gun.
He looked at Lucy.
She was shaking her head. Slowly, and with small motions. Her lips made no sound, but he could easily make out her words.
Go.
And please.
Amazingly, Gregory felt himself smile. He shook his head, and he whispered, “Never.”
“What did you say?” Abernathy demanded.
Gregory said the only thing that came to mind. “I love your niece.”
Abernathy looked at him as if he’d gone mad. “I don’t care.”
Gregory took a gamble. “I love her enough to keep your secrets.”
Robert Abernathy blanched. He went absolutely bloodless, and utterly still.
“It was you,” Gregory said softly.
Lucy twisted. “Uncle Robert?”
“Shut up,” he snapped.
“Did you lie to me?” she asked, and her voice sounded almost wounded. “Did you?”
“Lucy, don’t,” Gregory said.
But she was already shaking her head. “It wasn’t my father, was it? It was you. Lord Davenport was blackmailing you for your own misdeeds.”
Her uncle said nothing, but they all saw the truth in his eyes.
“Oh, Uncle Robert,” she whispered sadly, “how could you?”
“I had nothing,” he hissed. “Nothing. Just your father’s droppings and leftovers.”
Lucy turned ashen. “Did you kill him?”
“No,” her uncle replied. Nothing else. Just no.
“Please,” she said, her voice small and pained. “Do not lie to me. Not about this.”
Her uncle let out an aggravated breath and said, “I know only what the authorities told me. He was found near a gambling hell, shot in the chest and robbed of all of his valuables.”
Lucy watched him for a moment, and then, her eyes brimming with tears, gave a little nod.
Gregory rose slowly to his feet. “It is over, Abernathy,” he said. “Haselby knows, as does Fennsworth. You cannot force Lucy to do your bidding.”
Lucy’s uncle gripped her more tightly. “I can use her to get away.”
“Indeed you can. By letting her go.”
Abernathy laughed at that. It was a bitter, caustic sound.
“We have nothing to gain by exposing you,” Gregory said carefully. “Better to allow you to quietly leave the country.”
“It will never be quiet,” Lucy’s uncle mocked. “If she does not marry that freakish fop, Davenport will shout it from here to Scotland. And the family will be ruined.”
“No.” Gregory shook his head. “They won’t. You were never the earl. You were never their father. There will be a scandal; that cannot be avoided. But Lucy’s brother will not lose his title, and it will all blow over when people begin to recall that they’d never quite liked you.”
In the blink of an eye, Lucy’s uncle moved the gun from her belly to her neck. “You watch what you say,” he snapped.
Gregory blanched and took a step back.
And then they all heard it.
A thunder of footsteps. Moving quickly down the hall.
“Put the gun down,” Gregory said. “You have only a moment before—”
The doorway filled with people. Richard, Haselby, Davenport, Hermione—they all dashed in, unaware of the deadly confrontation taking place.
Lucy’s uncle jumped back, wildly pointing his gun at the lot of them. “Stay away,” he yelled. “Get out! All of you!” His eyes flashed like those of a cornered animal, and his arm waved back and forth, leaving no one untargeted.
But Richard stepped forward. “You bastard,” he hissed. “I will see you in—”
A gun fired.
Gregory watched in horror as Lucy fell to the ground. A guttural cry ripped from his throat; his own gun rose.
He aimed.
He fired.
And for the first time in his life, he hit his mark.
Well, almost.
Lucy’s uncle was not a large man, but nonetheless, when he landed on top of her, it hurt. The air was forced completely from her lungs, leaving her gasping and choking, her eyes squeezed shut from the pain.
“Lucy!”
It was Gregory, tearing her uncle from atop her.
“Where are you hurt?” he demanded, and his hands were everywhere, frantic in their motions as he searched for a wound.
“I didn’t—” She fought for breath. “He didn’t—” She managed to look at her chest. It was covered with blood. “Oh my heavens.”
“I can’t find it,” Gregory said. He took her chin, positioning her face so that she was looking directly into his eyes.
And she almost didn’t recognize him.
His eyes…his beautiful hazel eyes…they looked lost, nearly empty. And it almost seemed to take away whatever it was that made him…him.
“Lucy,” he said, his voice hoarse with emotion, “please. Speak to me.”
“I’m not hurt,” she finally got out.
His hands froze. “The blood.”
“It’s not mine.” She looked up at him and brought her hand to his cheek. He was shaking. Oh dear God, he was shaking. She had never seen him thus, never imagined he could be brought to this point.
The look in his eyes—She realized it now. It had been terror.
“I’m not hurt,” she whispered. “Please…don’t…it’s all right, darling.” She didn’t know what she was saying; she only wanted to comfort him.
His breath was ragged, and when he spoke, his words were broken, unfinished. “I thought I’d—I don’t know what I thought.”
Something wet touched her finger, and she brushed it gently away. “It’s over now,” she said. “It’s over now, and—”
And suddenly she became aware of the rest of the people in the room. “Well, I think it’s over,” she said hesitantly, pushing herself into a seated position. Was her uncle dead? She knew he’d been shot. By Gregory or Richard, she did not know which. Both had fired their weapons.
But Uncle Robert had not been mortally wounded. He had pulled himself to the side of the room and was propped up against the wall, clutching his shoulder and staring ahead with a defeated expression.
Lucy scowled at him. “You’re lucky he’s not a better shot.”
Gregory made a rather strange, snorting sound.
Over in the corner, Richard and Hermione were clutching each other, but they both appeared unharmed. Lord Davenport was bellowing about something, she wasn’t sure what, and Lord Haselby—good God, her husband—was leaning idly against the doorjamb, watching the scene.
He caught her eye and smiled. Just a bit. No teeth, of course; he never smiled quite so broadly.
“I’m sorry,” she said.
“Don’t be.”
Gregory rose to his knees beside her, one arm draped protectively over her shoulder. Haselby viewed the tableau with patent amusement, and perhaps just a touch of pleasure as well.
“Do you still desire that annulment?” he asked.
Lucy nodded.
“I’ll have the papers drawn up tomorrow.”
“Are you certain?” Lucy asked, concerned. He was a lovely man, really. She didn’t want his reputation to suffer.
“Lucy!”
She turned quickly to Gregory. “Sorry. I didn’t mean—I just—”
Haselby gave her a wave. “Please, don’t trouble yourself. It was the best thing that could possibly have happened. Shootings, blackmail, treason…No one will ever look to me as the cause of the annulment now.”
“Oh. Well, that’s good,” Lucy said brightly. She rose to her feet because, well, it seemed only polite, given how generous he was being. “But do you still wish for a wife? Because I could help you find one, once I’m settled, that is.”
Gregory’s eyes practically rolled back in his head. “Good God, Lucy.”
She watched as he stood. “I feel I must make this right. He thought he was getting a wife. In a way, it’s not precisely fair.”
Gregory closed his eyes for a long moment. “It is a good thing I love you so well,” he said wearily, “because otherwise, I should have to fit you with a muzzle.”
Lucy’s mouth fell open. “Gregory!” And then, “Hermione!”
“Sorry!” Hermione said, one hand still clapped over her mouth to muffle her laughter. “But you are well-matched.”
Haselby strolled into the room and handed her uncle a handkerchief. “You’ll want to staunch that,” he murmured. He turned back to Lucy. “I don’t really want a wife, as I’m sure you’re aware, but I suppose I must find some way to procreate or the title’ll go to my odious cousin. Which would be a shame, really. The House of Lords would surely elect to disband if ever he decided to take up his seat.”
Lucy just looked at him and blinked.
Haselby smiled. “So, yes, I should be grateful if you found someone suitable.”
“Of course,” she murmured.
“You’ll need my approval, too,” Lord Davenport blustered, marching forward.
Gregory turned to him with unveiled disgust. “You,” he bit off, “may shut up. Immediately.”
Davenport drew back in a huff. “Do you have any idea to whom you are speaking, you little whelp?”
Gregory’s eyes narrowed and he rose to his feet. “To a man in a very precarious position.”
“I beg your pardon.”
“You will cease your blackmail immediately,” Gregory said sharply.
Lord Davenport jerked his head toward Lucy’s uncle. “He was a traitor!”
“And you chose not to turn him in,” Gregory snapped, “which I would imagine the king would find equally reprehensible.”
Lord Davenport staggered back as if struck.
Gregory rose to his feet, pulling Lucy up along with him. “You,” he said to Lucy’s uncle, “will leave the country. Tomorrow. Don’t return.”
“I shall pay his passage,” Richard bit off. “No more.”
“You are more generous than I would have been,” Gregory muttered.
“I want him gone,” Richard said in a tight voice. “If I can hasten his departure, I am happy to bear the expense.”
Gregory turned to Lord Davenport. “You will never breathe a word of this. Do you understand?”
“And you,” Gregory said, turning to Haselby. “Thank you.”
Haselby acknowledged him with a gracious nod. “I can’t help it. I’m a romantic.” He shrugged. “It does get one in trouble from time to time, but we can’t change our nature, can we?”
Gregory let his head shake slowly from side to side as a wide smile began to spread across his face.
“You have no idea,” he murmured, taking Lucy’s hand. He couldn’t quite bear to be separated from her just then, even by a few inches.
Their fingers twined, and he looked down at her. Her eyes were shining with love, and Gregory had the most overwhelming, absurd desire to laugh. Just because he could.
Just because he loved her.
But then he noticed that her lips were tightening, too. Around the corners, stifling her own laughter.
And right there, in front of the oddest assortment of witnesses, he swept her into his arms and kissed her with every last drop of his hopelessly romantic soul.
Eventually—very eventually—Lord Haselby cleared his throat.
Hermione pretended to look away, and Richard said, “About that wedding…”
With great reluctance, Gregory pulled away. He looked to the left. He looked to the right. He looked back at Lucy.
And he kissed her again.
Because, really, it had been a long day.
And he deserved a little indulgence.
And God only knew how long it would be before he could actually marry her.
But mostly, he kissed her because…
Because…
He smiled, taking her head in his hands and letting his nose rest against hers. “I love you, you know.”
She smiled back. “I know.”
And he finally realized why he was going to kiss her again.
Just because.
