From Ruin to Riches

The only question that mattered was how to inflict the least damage and pain on Will. Once she put it like that, then the answer seemed clear: not to drag his name through a public trial, an even more public hanging. She must vanish. But to do that she must silence the Priors and the only way she could think of was to hold over them the threat that they, too, would appear as accessories.

She would tell them that, rather than let Will pay blackmail money for the rest of his days she would surrender herself and then she would have killed their golden goose for them. If they did not believe her, called her bluff, then she would have to decide what to do—give up and surrender or run and try to hide. But she would deal with that if she had to.

Will would go to the authorities himself, of course, but then he would be seen as someone deceived, someone doing the right thing as soon as he found out the truth. His pride would be hurt, but that was better than the alternatives.

But she needed time to compose herself and think this through, to make certain Will did not try to find her. There was one certain way of doing that, she supposed. If she could make Will believe that she had taken her own life he would not search for her. But she would not lie to him. Never again, even in this.

Julia went to the desk, pulled a sheet of paper towards her and dipped the pen in the inkwell. She wrote:

Dearest Will,

When you read this I will be beyond the reach of the law and beyond the capacity to cause you any more pain or scandal. I am too much of a coward to take poison. I have heard that the river is the last resort for many of London’s despairing souls.

There is nothing to say except that I am sorry and that I never meant to hurt you. You will go to the authorities with this letter—I know that you are too honourable to break the law over such a matter. I will not write anything to embarrass you more, except that I love you. Believe that if you believe nothing else.

Julia.

There was a small portmanteau that she had pushed into the bottom of a larger one, anticipating having to pack more clothing on their return than she had when they arrived. He would not notice that it had gone. Julia changed from the smart morning gown into a plain walking dress, put on strong half-boots and packed a change of undergarments that hopefully Nancy would not notice were missing. A handkerchief, a comb, her reticule. She must take nothing that would be missed or, if it was, be unlikely that a woman going to drown herself might take out of habit.

Money she would need. She doubted Will had counted the notes he had given her the day before, or, after all that had passed, even recalled doing so. Julia unfolded it: twenty-five pounds, a year’s wages for many people. She put it in the reticule, then checked every pocket, all her other bags, and found another two pounds in small coin and a crumpled five-pound note. She had enough to get a long way away.

‘I love you,’ she murmured, one hand flat on the door panels, as close to him as she would ever be again. ‘Goodbye, Will.’ Halfway to the service door she turned back and took another two handkerchiefs from the drawer. She would need them.

Then, feeling as shocked and desperate as she had when she had stepped out from behind the screen in that inn room, she slipped into the dressing room, went behind the screen in the corner, eased the door open and tiptoed down the back stairs.

Chapter Nineteen

Will splashed brandy into a glass and tossed it back in one swallow, poured another and stood gripping the glass as he stared down into the busy street below.

His mind could not seem to get past the fact that Julia had killed her lover. It seemed utterly out of character—everything about her spoke of the need to nurture. He had obviously not understood her at all and it was no wonder he had sensed that she was keeping something from him: any other secret he could conceive of paled into insignificance beside this horror.

Nancy came in and he snarled at her so that she fled, white-faced. He could not bring himself to explain. Not yet. Outside the traffic built as the morning progressed and his mind became as tangled as the mass of hackney carriages and carts, pedestrians and riders down below.

His name would be ruined. King’s Acre would always carry the stain of this scandal. And his heart… Well, thank heavens his heart was not engaged, that was the only mercy in all this. What if he had loved his wife as she, the deceitful witch, had said she loved him? The pain in his chest was anger and betrayal, nothing more.

The glass was empty. He filled it. And again. It did not help, all it did was to fire his memory. The pale ghost on the bridge over the lake who had run to his aid. The desperate, grieving mother who had been so afraid he would evict that pathetic little coffin from the vaults. The intelligent farmer arguing for some improvement to the farm, the mistress that the staff, indoor and out, loved and supported with devotion.

Julia in those scandalous divided skirts riding the stallion with such skill and teasing him about his manhood as she did so. Julia, passionate and sensual in his arms.

Julia. And all he had been thinking about was how this was going to affect him. The empty glass dropped from his hand and he stared at it as it rolled on the carpet, wondering at his own selfishness. He believed her when she said she had not meant to kill. You could not live with a woman as closely as he had with her and not know whether she had a capacity for violence or not. He dragged me by the wrist. He had seen the bruises, savagely black and blue, that first evening. He meant to rape me. He knew from her responses in bed that the man had been a selfish lout. Of course she had tried to fight back.

And the story of her escape was probable. He could imagine the scene, the chaos, the gawping crowd avid for sensation. The body would have been the focus of all attention. Julia, almost sleepwalking with shock, could well have dressed in that simple grey cloak and plain bonnet and merged int

o the crowd until she vanished.

He believed everything she said, he realised. And that meant he must believe her when she said she loved him. The knife that was carving its way through his chest gave a sharp stab.

Julia had been abused, ravished and then threatened with more violence by the man she thought loved her. What had happened to him had been an accident and, if anyone was to blame it was Jonathan Dalfield. And now, with every excuse never to trust a man again, never to allow herself to love, she had given him, Will Hadfield, her heart.

And in return he had accepted the worst of her without question, verbally attacked her, locked her in her room, left her in fear of the worst kind of justice. Will was across the room, unlocked the door, flung it open, all before the thought was even finished.

The bedchamber was empty. He found the service door and then the note lying on the pillow. Dearest Will. His hand was shaking so much he had to sit on the edge of the bed and steady himself before he could read on.

He was halfway down the stairs before any kind of rational thought hit him. He sent the hall porter sprawling as he barrelled his way through the crowded lobby, down the steps and into the road under the nose of a startled cab horse.

‘Westminster Bridge, at the gallop and there’s five pounds in it for you,’ he yelled at the cab driver, who shut his mouth on the stream of invective and whipped the horse up before Will could get the door closed.

He clung by on instinct as the cab swayed and swerved across Piccadilly, down St James’s Street, across Pall Mall and into St James’s Park. Westminster was the closest bridge and she would need a bridge to be certain of falling into the deep, lethal water. The banks were too uncertain, the water slower, there were too many people to stop her, to pull her out again.