The Wedding Night Affair--An Historical Mystery by L.C. Sharp (i have read the book .TXT) 📗

muscles stiffened with the effort. Then he turned her arm around and studied the underside of her wrist. “Did he do this?”

She nodded. He let loose a foul word under his breath. “Are there any more marks?”

She nodded.

He released her and she laid her hand on her lap. “I do not want to give you false expectations,” he said.

“Tell me.” She injected command into her voice, the one that usually made servants jump to obey.

It did not have that effect on him. “How did you feel when you awoke?”

She recalled that part vividly. “Confused, still tired, strange. My throat was dry. I had a headache, but that was nothing compared to my other hurts. Not myself.” But she was not, was she? “I did not move at first, considered slipping out of bed before he could hurt me again, and then when I did...” She let the sentence trail off but the vision of that knife embedded in her husband’s chest would invade her dreams, living and waking, as long as she lived.

He sprang to his feet. “We have little time to waste.”

“We?”

He turned at the door and gave her a brisk nod. “Yes, we.”

She had found an ally. She’d never had one of those before.

He stood and bowed, a brief, polite obeisance, nothing more. “I will leave you now. I have work to do. I will speak to Mr. Fielding on the advisability of leaving you here under your father’s cognizance, rather than taking you to his house.”

Yes, she would be better here. She supposed, at least. “Thank you.”

He left the room as quickly as he’d entered and with as little fuss.

Juliana bathed her face. The cold water in her washstand cooled her hot cheeks and soothed her eyes, which were now as sore as the rest of her body. She dared not imagine she could escape from this mess, although Sir Edmund had given her pause for thought. Even if she was convicted of killing Godfrey, she might not die for it.

The noises from outside had increased while she had been speaking to Sir Edmund. Even though her room faced the back of the house, the sound was clear, as it should not be. There must have been more than fifty people outside by now, perhaps twice as many.

A crash from downstairs made her spin around, sending her stomach churning, followed by the sound of glass shattering. Before she had time to process what was happening, the shouts grew louder. “Where is the witch?” and cries of “Murderess!” rent the air.

They were in the house, coming up the stairs.

Would it be better to let the mob tear her to pieces? Would it hurt more than hanging, or what her husband had done to her last night? The lifeline Sir Edmund had given her was slender indeed. It might only prolong her agony, give her another few months of life and nothing else.

When the jib door burst open, she thought her end had come, but instead Sir Edmund Ashendon hurtled in, dragging her maid behind him. “Get your clothes off, both of you,” he snapped, then turned to Juliana. “I’m taking you out of here, my lady. The mob can smell blood and you are no longer safe here. But if you walk out with a gown this fine, they will know you at once.”

While Wood gazed at him, openmouthed, Juliana understood immediately. She fumbled at the hooks and pins at the front of her gown, thanking her lucky stars she had not allowed her maid to array her in hoops and paint her face. She stripped the lace cap from her head—far too good for the likes of her, or the person she was about to become.

He spoke to the maid. “You will stay here with the other servants. Leave these things if you can find something else to wear. But her ladyship cannot leave this house in those clothes. They’ll be on her in a second.”

Reluctantly, her hands slow, Wood took off her jacket and plain linen fichu, then loosened the strings of her dark red skirt. It would be too short for Juliana, but perhaps, since maids kept their skirts short, that would serve.

In five minutes, her gown lay on the floor and she was climbing into the skirt, pulling the drawstring tight, then shrugging into the jacket and wrapping the fichu around her neck. “Shoes,” she demanded.

She forced them on her feet. Too small for her, but she could manage.

The crashes from below were getting closer. They must have stopped to smash the porcelain in her mother’s display cabinet downstairs. Her mother collected fine china, but she’d probably have to start again, judging from the sounds emerging up the stairs. They’d be here any minute.

She should have been concerned for her father, but she was not. He would survive. He always did.

Fear tingled her nerves, but urged her into action. Now she was faced with reality, she had no intention of ending her days at the mercy of a rabid mob. They would tear her to pieces. Before, when she had nothing to look forward to, when shock had rendered her indifferent, she had thought she did not care. But now she did.

Her father bellowed over the crowd, ordering them to stop. A shot echoed through the hall. The crowd fell silent. Until the shouts began again, louder and closer than before.

Juliana gasped in shock, frozen by the sound of a gun inside the house.

Sir Edmund grabbed her maid by her arms and turned her to face him. “Tell them where we are, and I’ll ensure you suffer for it.”

He didn’t have to outline the punishment, which was as well since they didn’t have much time.

Wood had made no effort to put on Juliana’s clothes and stood there in her petticoats and stays, shock in her eyes.

Then he turned his attention to Juliana again. “The domestics have barricaded themselves into the kitchen area and up in the attics, or so your father’s footman told