Lottie had dressed herself without Millie’s assistance. This had taken rather longer than expected and had resulted in one badly fastened hook at the back of her gown, but there were moments in a woman’s life when she must not summon her maid, and fleeing the country with an unmarried gentleman after a fatal hunting accident seemed very much among them.
She stood now in the middle of her bedchamber and stared at the little valise upon the counterpane, counting down the minutes until Jasper’s arrival at midnight. Three sheets of paper lay crumpled in the hearth, accusing her.
Dear Mamahad been impossible.
Dear Papaworse.
Dear Marihad become wet at the edges before she had written more than two lines.
In the end she had written nothing, which was cowardly, selfish, and perhaps the only course that did not require her to split her heart neatly in two. They would come to understand her choice in time.
Midnight approached, and Jasper would come soon. At the thought, something wild and bright stirred in her chest. America! Or the devil’s own doorstep, with rooms sent ahead. She pressed her fingers to her mouth, not quite smiling.
“No cages,” she whispered.
The words had scarcely left her mouth when the scream came. It was a howl that tore through the house with such force that Lottie’s blood seemed to stop.
For one horrible instant, she thought she was back in the wood. Marchmont falling, and that high, dreadful cry following him down.
But she knew that voice—it was her mother’s. Lottie was moving before thought returned. She flung open her door.
Another cry came from the chamber opposite, followed by a heavy thud, then Lady Tolliver’s voice, cracked beyond all dignity. “Help! Oh God, help me!”
Lottie struck the opposite door with both hands. “Mama! Mama, open the door!”
Other doors began to open with guests peering out in concern. Servants came hurrying from the back stairs, caps askew, coats thrown over nightshirts. Morleigh appeared in the hall with a candle in hand.
“Mama,” Lottie said, and struck the door once more. “Mama!”
At last, there was a fumbling scrape of the key turning, and Lady Tolliver opened the door. Her cap had slipped sideways and her face was bloodless. “He fell,” she wailed. “Your father—he said there was pain, and then he fell.”
Chapter 41
“Summon the physician at once,” Jasper heard as he ran towards the upper passage. Whose voice was that? Morleigh’s? “Now. Wake the stables. Send the fastest rider.”
As he reached the landing, he saw a footman barking orders. “You heard His Grace. Dr Bell first, and if he is not at home, fetch Mr Partridge from the village. Go!”
Later, Jasper could not have said what he imagined upon hearing that first cry, only that every horror presented itself at once. Had Charlotte been discovered and dragged forcibly from her room? Had she tried the window and fallen? Had that cursed pistol gone off? Had she, in some sudden, dreadful revulsion of their plan, decided that even escape was only another form of control? Was she already dead? The thought struck him with such force that he nearly missed the last step.
He loved her. Good God, he loved her.
Loved her as one loves the thing that may yet destroy one; loved her as one loves breath after nearly drowning; loved herwith such terror that by the time he reached the upper passage, he was half-mad with it.
Doors were opening everywhere.
“What has happened?” someone whispered.
Their hostess, Lady Malverne emerged from onto the landing with admirable composure. “Back inside, if you please,” she said at once. “There is nothing to be gained by crowding the passage. Mrs Dorling, your candle is dripping upon the carpet. Sir John, kindly put on a coat before you alarm the maids.”
Jasper scarcely heard her. He saw only the Tollivers’ chamber door standing open across from Charlotte’s room.
When his gaze found Charlotte—pale, dressed for travel, eyes enormous, alive—the relief hit him so hard he nearly staggered.
She ran to him without thought, crashing into his arms, which closed around her before he had any time to think of propriety, witnesses, America, ruin, or the duke who would murder him before breakfast. She was shaking so violently that all other considerations fell away.
“It’s Papa,” she said.
He looked over her head and saw the room beyond, where Lord Tolliver lay on the floor beside the bed, his nightshirt open at the throat. The Duke of Morleigh knelt beside him with his usual steadiness, issuing orders without once raising his voice.
