Lord Lucifer Page 12

  “Tell the countess that the lady is indisposed,” Lucas said. “She will see no one.”

  “It won’t work,” Diana rasped. “She’ll rush upstairs—”

  “No, she won’t,” Lucas said firmly. “If I have to stand in the door and carry her downstairs, she will not pass. Not if you don’t want her.”

  “I don’t,” Diana said as she tried to swallow down a black hatred toward the woman who had sacrificed her to an old man. But with every gasp, she remembered how she’d felt on her wedding night when his arthritic hands had touched her. How alone she’d felt in a house where even the servants despised her. And how her mother had visited her every day to “comfort her” when in truth, she had wanted to make sure Diana didn’t cause a scene in her new life. A scene! As if the mistress of the house couldn’t do whatever she damned well pleased in her own home!

  “Perhaps,” Simpson said, “she can be called upon to act as hostess to Lady Beddoe.”

  Diana reeled, and Lucas grabbed her elbow before she fell. “Penelope is here?” she asked. Oscar’s daughter was a shrew if ever there was one.

  “Not as yet, but—”

  “Soon.” Diana looked at the clock. It wasn’t even nine in the morning, and she was overrun. She put her hands to her face. “They’ll come up here. They’ll—”

  “No,” Lucas said firmly. “Simpson, inform the countess that her daughter needs her to keep everyone away. She is understandably upset and not ready to see anyone yet.”

  “Of course—”

  “They won’t listen,” Diana said. Her mother certainly never bowed to any butler.

  “They will because the constable is still here. He’ll want to interview them, I’m sure.”

  Diana’s head snapped up. Of course. He was here investigating Oscar’s murder. Good God, why couldn’t she think?

  Lucas gently guided her to sit in her chair. Back to her seat between fire and window. “Let your mother handle things for now. It’s the least she can do, and she’s well up to the task.”

  True. “I’m not putting my faith in my mother,” she snarled.

  “Then put your faith in me,” he said as he dropped down to face her eye to eye. “Let me have the command of your staff, and I shall see—”

  She laughed, though the sound came out hard. “They already listen to you.”

  “No. They are your people and will always care for you.”

  She wasn’t sure she believed it. She had spent too much time demanding respect for her to believe it was there even when she faltered. But Lucas clearly believed it. And when she looked to Simpson, he gave her a firm nod.

  “You are the head of this household, my lady. There is no other.”

  Except for the one who had poisoned her husband. Except when Penelope reminisced about the times Simpson had indulged her as a child, and he caved to her every whim. Except for—

  “Have faith in them, Diana.”

  She looked into Lucas’s eyes, and the words came out—not exactly easy, but she voiced them, nonetheless. “I will leave it your hands,” she said. She looked down at her fingers. “For now. Until I can catch my breath.”

  Lucas nodded, then turned to Simpson. “You understand what’s to be done? For the first time in her life, the countess is to protect her daughter. She is to see that no one disturbs her ladyship.” Then Lucas straightened. “I will be down in a moment to lend my hand.”

  “Of course, my lord.”

  Diana’s head snapped up, and she saw Lucas jerk in reaction as well. Everyone in this household called him Mr. Lucifer. But he had revealed himself, and Simpson had been in the room. So, of course, the staff now knew his true identity.

  “There’s no need to call me by anything new—” Lucas began, but Diana interrupted him.

  “The news is out. You are Lord Chellam, and it is foolishness to try and hide that.”

  Lucas exhaled. “I’m not trying to hide it. At least not anymore. I didn’t want my sins to land now, as well.”

  She didn’t speak. She didn’t need to. They both knew that there was no avoiding any of what was to come. And suddenly, after that flash flood of anger, now she just felt tired. Not just weary in body, but exhausted from emotions. From relaxing her guard for one night, only to have her entire life destroyed around her. It crippled her.

  “Enough,” Lucas said sharply. “Simpson, I’ll be downstairs in a moment. My lady, I insist that you rest.” And so saying, he scooped her up off her chair.

  She gasped in surprise but did not object. Now of all times, it felt too wonderful to settle into a man’s strong arms as he took care of her. She was not proud of this weakness. She needed to be strong. But for this moment, she allowed herself to rest in his arms.

  “It will be done, my lord,” Simpson said as he bowed himself out of the room. Diana clearly heard him shut the door before his footsteps thunked down the hallway.

  Meanwhile, Lucas was settling her gently on her bed. She didn’t choose her next action. Like so much of the last twenty-four hours, her body acted without consulting her mind. As he set her on the pillow, she wrapped her arms around his neck. She had no thought as to why she did it, except that she didn’t want to lose this moment. When he made to withdraw, she pulled him tighter.

  “I can’t, Diana,” he said. “I want to. God, how I want to, but this is not the time. You’ll hate me afterward.”

  “Never,” she whispered. Even when he had failed to save her from her wedding, she had never hated him.

  He dropped his forehead to hers. “How quickly you forget. You said you hated me not ten minutes ago.”

  “I lied.”

  “I know.” He gently untangled her hands from his neck and drew back. “When this is over,” he said. “When you are safe, then we shall talk again. I have more to offer you now. Even without any money from the title or your estates, I could support us. Not like this, of course. Not with servants tripping over themselves to serve you. But I could keep you well, my lady. And we might be happy.”

  What a pretty picture he painted. Her settled comfortably in a bed while he slew all her dragons. Right then, she wanted it as she wanted her next breath, though she knew the need wouldn’t last.

  He nodded as if he expected as much, though she saw a flash of something in his eyes. Disappointment? Whatever it was, he quickly hid it.

  “We don’t have to speak of this now,” he said. Then he straightened up. “I’ll send your maid—”

  “No,” she said softly. “If you will not remain, I will rest alone.”

  He nodded. “Simpson and I will guard the stairs, and your windows are locked. Not a soul will disturb your rest, my lady.” Then he touched her face. A soft caress down her cheek until his thumb rolled across her lips.

  She felt the tingle of his touch and a desperate yearning inside for more. For him. For everything he offered her.

  She held her breath again, relishing the sensations even as she kept all her thoughts inside her. This was not the time for her to speak. She was much too likely to say something rash. Then he straightened off her bed, bowed to her as the courtliest knight of old, and left her alone in a suddenly cold room.

  Chapter Sixteen

  When he’d been a soldier, everything he did had a purpose. The cleanliness of his body and uniform kept him from disease. Marching kept him fit, developed unity, and had a tradition as old as England. Even sleep allowed him to trust the men who proved over and over again that they had his back just as he had theirs. And his rank instantly gave him a measure of authority that allowed him to serve England and the men who trusted him.

  The minute he came home, all that had been lost. He was back to a life of aimlessness that only stabilized when he found his work at the Lyon’s Den. There he guarded good people against unruly gamblers, and his company became the veterans who worked under him to watch the doors and the women who eked out a living under that roof. That was the real reason he hadn’t gone home to his parents. They weren’t his f
amily anymore, and he refused to go back to the empty life of privilege.

  So it was with some bitterness that he headed downstairs to where Simpson bowed to him and called him “my lord.” He was about to navigate through people who would assume he was another frivolous gentleman filling his time with stupid amusements and none of the serious work of a man: protecting the vulnerable from other people’s sins. It was fortunate that the first person he encountered after Simpson was the one woman with whom he’d wanted frank conversation for twelve years.

  Diana’s mother stood at the base of the stairs with an imperious air.

  “I will see my daughter now!”

  “You will do no such thing,” Lucas snapped, his voice as hard as if he disciplined the rawest recruit.

  “How dare you—”

  “Are you aware that the constable suspects you of murdering Lord Dunnamore?” He didn’t wait for her to process the words but kept dropping facts like sharp rocks tossed at a rat. “He has little evidence beyond your presence here last night. But you were alone with him and had ample time to poison him.”

  “What the devil are you talking about?”

  “Arsenic in his tea, my lady. The very same tea you ordered for his lordship, and the very same tea that killed him.”

  Her eyes widened in horror as she looked at Simpson. “Arsenic?” she gasped. “But why?”

  He didn’t leave Simpson time to answer. “Because, my lady, you sacrificed your daughter to your fears, forcing her to marry Lord Dunnamore because he promised to help manage your finances.”

  “You…you have no right,” she cried.

  “Over the years, you’ve seen to your great embarrassment how badly your daughter is treated by her stepchildren and indeed, by yourself, who preens about town with no thought as to the woman who paid for your fripperies with her freedom.” He gestured with a disdainful flick of his wrist at her very fashionable gown.

  “That’s not true.”

  “It’s not true that you regret it? Well, you should have, my lady. Because the very daughter you claim to be here to support has been miserable for twelve years thanks to your cowardice.” He lifted his chin. “A mother should protect her daughter.”

  The woman shook her head. “She has a husband, status, and money—”

  “The constable thinks that perhaps you regretted your actions and, in a misguided attempt to save your daughter from her fate, poisoned his lordship’s tea with arsenic.”

  “I did no such thing!” she cried.

  “Of course not,” he agreed. “Because you do not have a caring bone in your body for your daughter. You’d never think to help her unless it benefited you somehow.”

  “I was here last night to help her. Do you think I enjoyed sitting with a dying old man all evening while she went to a masquerade?”

  He looked at her, his lips curled in disgust. “And yet you married her to him when she was but a child.”

  That shut her up, and well it should. He could tell from her expression that she knew what she’d done. And perhaps she had regretted actions taken in fear after just being widowed. Even so, he couldn’t forgive her.

  “If you wish to avoid the hangman’s noose, then you will do exactly as I say.”

  “The noose!” She was all but choking on her shock.

  “Yes,” he said as he leaned down to tower over her. “The constable is in the housekeeper’s office conducting interviews. You will go there now and tell him the truth—every single bit of it. How you sacrificed Diana to your fears. How you know that she has been treated to insults and abuse from Oscar’s children. And that you did nothing, absolutely nothing to help her.”

  She opened her mouth to argue, but no words came out. Not a single one, but the glitter of tears shone in her eyes. And into that taut moment, Simpson gestured with a slow movement of his wrist.

  “This way, my lady,” he intoned.

  She started to move. And in that place of vulnerability, he poked her one last time.

  “How did you know?” he asked her.

  “What?”

  “How did you know to come here now?” She had been here last night after Diana’s attack but had gone home before his lordship expired. Elliott knew of the situation here, but he would not have told his mother. Not without Diana’s agreement. “Was it because you knew about the poison? Perhaps put it in the teapot yourself?”

  “No!” she cried.

  “Then, how?”

  She swallowed. She clearly didn’t want to say, but he kept his expression implacable. And when she still didn’t speak, he arched a brow.

  Finally, she huffed out an answer. “Tina sent a message last night that his lordship had passed. She didn’t say how.”

  “Diana’s maid? She sent a message? You pay her to spy on your daughter for you.” He shouldn’t be surprised. Of course the woman snooped. That’s what women of the ton did because gossip was the life bread of their set. Still, it repulsed him to think that she would—

  “Of course I did!” she snapped. “I watch her because I knew. I knew about Geoffrey. I knew that Oscar was too ill to protect her.” She dashed away tears. “But what could I do? She was already married.”

  Lucas felt his gut tighten. “You know you did wrong.”

  “Yes, damn you, yes!” She looked away. “It was one mistake. One horrible mistake and—”

  “And Diana was one to pay for it.”

  “Yes.” The one word sounded miserable and carried with it a load of guilt.

  And suddenly, Lucas felt ashamed. He had thought forcing the woman to admit what she’d done would ease some of his fury. Because of her, he and Diana had been robbed of a normal courtship. Instead, he just felt empty.

  What good was it to force a mother to admit she’d betrayed her daughter? Perhaps he should have a séance and force Oscar’s ghost to admit that he lusted after a child. That he’d used the situation to get what he wanted. Did he also look to Diana’s father, then, for failing to provide adequate income for his family after his death?

  All of these people were at fault, and the burden of payment had come to Diana. And if he were truly to point fingers, he needed to confess his own guilt. Twelve years ago, she would have run away with him. He had managed to get the three thousand pounds he needed so they could escape together. He could have found a way to survive for the rest of their lives. They would not have lived in the same way, not with servants and fine food, but Diana wouldn’t now be in mortal danger from her stepson.

  How useless it was to blame. He saw that so clearly now. He took a breath, reoriented his thoughts, and gestured the countess belowstairs. “Tell the constable everything. Don’t try to hide from it.”

  “He’ll think I did it to save Diana.”

  “He might,” Lucas admitted. “He might also see how Geoffrey was the one who frightened everyone and that he is the only one cold-blooded enough to do the deed.”

  The countess was no fool. She heard his words and straightened, knowing now what she had to do. Without lying about anything, she would likely point the stupid officer toward the true villain. With a crisp nod, she headed down the stairs just as the knocker sounded.

  Lucas knew who it was. The only other people who would sound the knocker at this early hour were Oscar’s children.

  He moved to the door, feeling undecided on how he would handle seeing the adult daughter who had tortured Diana. He was still humbled by his revelation with the countess. How could he stand in judgment of Penelope, who had likely been victimized by her family as well?

  He pulled open the door and did his best to understand her sour expression and angry demeanor. She’d just lost her father, after all. But within a minute of opening the door, he banished any thought of sympathy. This woman deserved no compassion at all.

  Chapter Seventeen

  “Who are you? Where’s Simpson?”

  Lady Beddoe’s expression was as tight as her hair, which pulled her face up until she looked perpetually sta
rtled. And that looked very odd given her sour frown.

  Lucas performed a modest bow as he opened the door and stepped back to allow Oscar’s only daughter and her husband to enter. Lord Beddoe, however, remained outside, his gaze on Geoffrey, who was just now sauntering up the street.

  When he looked back, he shook his head. “This is bad business. Bad business indeed.” His words didn’t appear to be for anyone but himself. He handed his hat to Lucas—who hadn’t offered to take it—and then headed straight for the parlor and then the sideboard to pour himself a drink.

  Meanwhile, Lady Beddoe stood at the base of the stairs. “I suppose Papa’s upstairs, then. I suppose I’ll have to see him.”

  Lucas set the hat on the entry table, then stepped to watch Penelope’s expression closely. “Your father is upstairs, but he hasn’t been cleaned up yet. The results of poison can be messy.”

  Her gaze cut hard to him. “Yes, Geoffrey told us that shrew poisoned our father.” Then she sniffed delicately. “I’ll wait until things have been properly prepared before I see him.”

  “And how did Geoffrey know that?” Lucas asked. “The constable is still completing interviews.”

  “As if that matters,” she said as she headed for the parlor. Her black skirts made her look like a burned-out tree. “I hope she hangs for it.”

  “I assure you, it matters a great deal. How did your brother know Lord Dunnamore was poisoned?”

  She turned to stare at him with a huff. “He pays a footman to tell him things. Do you think we would allow a murderess to run wild in our father’s home without some form of watch?”

  “And do you know this footman’s name?” He would bet anything it was Fisher.

  “I don’t concern myself with my brother’s spies. Only the information he gives.” She looked around the parlor. “Where is Diana? With the constable, I suppose?”