Page 62 of The Blind Duke's Ward
“A passing fancy. Miss Carlisle is family,” Nathan said. “You have shown yourselves to be resolute men. Responsible for the death of a man. I will not trifle with such men.”
“Two men,” Stamford said as Marshall put a pen into Nathan’s hands.
“Two men? Ah, yes. The Earl of Kirkby and the solicitor who was the manager of his estates.”
“And it could be three if you do not sign,” Dunkeswick said with a touch of exasperation.
Nathan scrawled on the paper, uncaring where the pen fell.
“There. Now, for your part of the bargain?”
He heard Stamford chuckle and heard a satisfied sigh from Dunkeswick. Marshall quietly handed a taper to Nathan. It had already been lit by the lamp. The butler had handed him the unlit end but Nathan could feel how far down the small flame had already burned.
“She is being held at a house in Tadcaster. Number 7, York Street. There is no one else there. She is tied up in the attic.”
“You rogues!” Harper roared, emerging from his hiding place behind the room’s thick curtains. “I should kill the both of you.”
Nathan heard Stamford scramble for the pistol, but he had thrown it at Harper’s hidden feet. He heard Stamford’s sharp intake of breath and knew that Harper had snatched up the pistol.
“Richard, do not waste time on this reprobate, go and recover your betrothed,” Nathan said.
“Aye, I will.”
There came the sound of a blow and a grunt. Nathan heard Harper stalking from the room.
“He broke my nose. Brother, he…!” Stamford said in a curiously muffled voice.
“I told you to keep your mouth shut,” Dunkeswick said calmly.
Then, Nathan touched the end of the taper to the document that he had just signed, which Dunkeswick now held. He yelled and the smell of burning paper was suddenly thick.
“Gentlemen! Have you heard enough?” Nathan called out.
There came the sound of a door opening and several men entering the room. The sound of steel being drawn from a sheath was distinct and came from several sources. At least two pistols were cocked.
“An admission of murder. Witnessed by two decorated war heroes. One of which is a Duke. Plenty, Your Grace.”
That was the voice of Edmund Carter, Colonel of the Yorkshire Heavy Cavalry who were stationed at the barracks in York. And who was acquainted with Nathan from Spain. They knew each other’s deeds in that war and respected each other. The other men were cavalry troopers under Carter’s command.
“Whatever else the Crown needs to see these two hang, my men will bear witness that it was spoken,” Carter said grimly.
“Capital,” Nathan replied equally. “My dear Dunkeswick. Your brother and you have just had your first taste of life as a blind man. How unfortunate for you that you are so new to the affliction. Otherwise, you would have heard the sound of several armed men behind that door. Perhaps you would have been more circumspect with your words. As it is, I fear that your own testimonies have hung you.”
CHAPTERTHIRTY-EIGHT
Aball had been arranged. The great and the good of the county were to attend the debut of Miss Emily Carlisle. Gemma stood before the full-length dress mirror and marveled at her own appearance. Next to her was another young woman, a year younger than her. They had met a week before and become fast friends, united by their experiences and the rather bizarre fact that Gemma had spent a day and a night pretending to be the other woman.
Emily Carlisle wore blue and white. Gemma wore bronze and cream. Both looked radiantly beautiful and could not help but smile whenever they looked at one another. Charlotte sat behind them, her work helping them prepare for the ball finally complete. She smiled happily, looking from the woman she had been employed to be ladies' maid for and the woman who was now her mistress.
“Charlotte, you have surpassed yourself,” Gemma said. “I did not know I could look so…so…”
“Like a princess?” Emily suggested.
She had a round face with a button nose and pouting lips. Her hair was a fair, shading gold, and her skin was pure and white. Her eyes shone a bright blue. Despite her abduction and imprisonment, she had a laughing face and a refusal to accept despair or despondency.
“Is there a word for that?” Gemma wondered aloud.
“Princess-ish,” Charlotte suggested.