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

an alliance to counter the power of the Pelhams, currently riding high in Parliament. Power, and with it, even more money.

He fixed her with a hard stare, not one that indicated any kind of compassion, but one that demanded her compliance. She was used to that look. “How could you have done that to him? Now you’ve ruined everything.” He leaned closer, his mottled complexion and bloodshot eyes filling her vision. “You should have come to me. As soon as you were with child, I could have kept him away from you. Two or three nights like that, and you could have done with him.”

“Maybe,” she snapped, “you should have told me beforehand. At least then I’d have been prepared for the horrors of my wedding night.”

He struck the arm of his chair, a hard blow that would have cracked the limb of one of the fashionable French chairs in the drawing room below.

Juliana suppressed her wince.

“I never took you for a fool, daughter.”

“I didn’t kill him.” As she spoke the words aloud, she felt the rightness of what she was saying. Doubts were setting in—how could they not? But she did not remember driving the dagger between his ribs. In fact, she did not remember anything of the later part of last night. Exhaustion and shock, most likely.

Her father straightened and shook the lace ruffles at his wrists. Typical of him to dress elaborately in the middle of this disturbance. Appearances must be maintained, after all. “Keep saying that. It will give us time. I am still considering how to handle this.”

How to handle the murder of her husband? She had not done it, but somebody had. Godfrey had not stabbed himself. Even she, behind her glass wall of non-emotion, couldn’t have killed him without some remnant of memory remaining.

Someone outside the house shouted. Not the usual call of a street seller, but a voice raised in anger. She did not flinch. She had taught herself not to.

The earl grunted. “They are gathering.”

“Who?”

“The mob. Word is all around London that a bride stabbed her husband on their wedding night. The print shops will be full of it, and so will the gossip sheets.” He sighed. “They’re always keen for a show, and the next hanging day isn’t for another week.”

The first arrow pierced her invisible shield. She could be one of the people on display Thursday next. She would feel the rope slide around her neck and gasp as it tightened. The unbearable moments as the crowd bayed before the planks gave way before her for that sickening drop.

She’d never seen it, although she’d read about it. Some gossip sheets thrived on the lurid descriptions of murder and its consequences.

No tears came, even now. This was her life they were playing with. Her very existence. She couldn’t afford the luxury of feeling sorry for herself.

No more would she be the passive doll everyone used however they wanted.

She would not let it happen. She would fight every inch of the way.

Chapter Five

Ash went home and changed before going to the West End. He found the dark blue wool coat with silver buttons that Amelia had made him buy this season. Fortunately, the navy waistcoat he already had on matched well enough, so he could set forth with confidence that he would not be turned away at the earl’s door. After all, he had nothing but Fielding’s letter to recommend him.

On his way out of the house, his butler Baynon thrust a hat into his hand, not his everyday one, but the silver-braided Sunday hat. Sighing, Ash clapped it on his head. Needs must when the devil drives, as they said. The braid and the coat would mark him out as somebody different. Rich, even. He preferred to pass unnoticed in the streets.

He recalled what little he knew about the families involved as he hailed a cab and climbed into the noxious interior, ignoring the stink of onions left by the previous occupant.

Both families in this affair were wealthy and influential, both full of their own self-importance. One was in danger of dying out, only the daughter keeping the family expectations alive. The earl had greased a number of palms to gain the “understanding,” but with the woman accused of murder, all his hard work would be in vain.

The Uppinghams were venal and overblessed with sons. Two of the boys holding titles would be a coup for them. One that would not happen now. The newly made widow was nothing but a pawn, but try as he might, Ash could not remember any more about her. He only had what Fielding had told him.

He kept as far away from the aristocracy’s privileged arses as he could. They didn’t need him, and he certainly reciprocated the sentiment. However, to help deter a destructive riot he would swallow his pride and try to contain the problem.

The woman would be protected at Bow Street. The Fieldings had secure rooms where an exalted prisoner could be detained, if necessary. After her trial and conviction, Lady Uppingham would spend the short time she had left in the condemned cell at Newgate.

He would go to the marquess’s house first, and walk the short distance to the earl’s house after. He wanted to see the scene of the crime before the servants got to work and cleaned it up.

The carriage lurched as they swung around a corner. He caught the papers before they slipped off his lap. These vehicles seemed to survive far longer than they should, until the suspension completely gave way. He’d seen cabs in pieces in the street, but thankfully if any injuries had ensued, the victims had already been carried away.

“I can’t go any further, guv,” the cab driver shouted down to him as they swung, or rather lurched, into Hanover Street. The gracious houses glared at Ash, the interloper. He glared back. A few people lingered here, more than usual in this exclusive area of London. Something glinted on the lapel of