'He must have worked out the truth,' I said. 'And came here to confront you. He was just as grieved as his brother, even if he kept it quiet. You are not blameless in his death.'
'But I killed no one,' Eggleston protested. 'Jack and Breckenridge did it all.'
From the fireside carpet, Brandon opened his eyes. 'You were an accomplice to five murders. You will definitely hang for that, my friend.'
His brisk, matter-of-fact voice seemed to penetrate Eggleston's haze of denials. His eyes widened. Then the gentleman who had sneered at my clothes and dismissed me as less than nothing, went slack-kneed and fainted.
Lord Richard Eggleston's trial was held a few weeks later. His brother, the Marquis of Hungerford, protested on the strongest terms, but there had been no denying that Eggleston had, at the very least, shot at me, Brandon, and Grenville, and had been party to Kenneth Spencer's murder. Grenville's word on this counted for much. The marquis, however, pointed out that we could produce no concrete evidence that Eggleston had been present at the deaths of Breckenridge or Westin. In the end, the Lord Chief Justice and the marquis made an agreement that if Eggleston wrote out a confession, explaining all, he could commute his sentence to transportation.
So Eggleston's argument that he had not actually murdered any of these gentlemen won out. He wrote the confession and signed it, and was taken to Newgate to await passage on a ship to New South Wales. I had no doubt that his wealthy brother had ensured he'd have a fine room in the jail with servants and wine and food. Such were the wheels of justice for the privileged.
Lady Richard, his child wife, I learned later through Louisa, had gone to the north of England to live with the marquis and his wife.
After the sensational trial, the journalists turned to other fodder. Pomeroy had discovered the bodies of two women in a cellar in Islington and arrested the gentleman who had married, then murdered, them. He was quite pleased with himself, and the journalists, Billings included, lauded him.
Louisa Brandon returned home after I dragged her husband back from Hertfordshire with his leg in splints. She had nearly flown from the carriage that had deposited her at her front door, and rushed to her husband’s bed with rage and fear in her eyes. I walked away from their reunion and closed the door on their rising voices. I did not see or hear from either of them for a long time after that.
Bartholomew recovered from his gunshot wounds, though for a long time he limped from the bullet that had pierced his leg. Grenville had spared no expense on surgeons and doctors, and the lad had lived like a prince while he convalesced. He was young and strong and brave-hearted, and he recovered quickly.
August slipped into September. The days at last cooled, and the evenings became crisp. Grenville talked of going to the country to go hunting. He invited me along, but I’d had enough of country houses. The vice of the city at least wore a face I could recognize.
In mid-September, long after I’d believed Lydia Westin must have quit Town herself, she sent for me.
William greeted me with subdued wariness. He led me in silence to the upstairs room with the pianoforte and Lydia's portrait. He ushered me in, then took the double doors one in each hand and backed out, closing us in, leaving us alone.
Lydia sat on a damask chair, her hands in her lap. She avoided my gaze as I entered. She had given up mourning black, and wore a gray high-necked and long-sleeved gown trimmed with lighter gray. The costume did not become her; her face was too pale for it, though it made her midnight blue eyes bluer still.
If only she would look at me with them.
I moved slowly forward, resting my weight on my walking stick. When I reached the halfway point between door and chair, I stopped.
Silence hung in the air, broken only by the ticking of the clock and the faint crackle of the fire. The September day had turned cool.
'I had not thought you would come,' she said.
'As ever,' I answered, trying to keep my voice light, 'I fly to your side when you call.'
Still she would not look at me. She transferred her gaze to a corner of the carpet. 'You cannot imagine how long it took me to work up the courage to face you. Even now I falter.'
'You have no need to.'
My anger at her had long since ground itself to dust. After the arrest of Eggleston, my melancholia had taken over, as I had known it would.
The last time I had discovered the identity of a murderer, the sheer cruelty of it all had sent black waves of melancholia crashing over me. I had been expecting it this time; nonetheless, the malady had laid me in bed for nearly a fortnight, and had not yet completely subsided. I currently could only view the world through a fog, as though I watched everything through a thick, waved glass. Although I walked and spoke, I often could not say whether what I did was real or the vestiges of a dream.
She smiled faintly. 'Before you remonstrate with me, or scold me, allow me to thank you for clearing my husband's name. Lord Richard's confession absolved him of all crimes in the Peninsula. The Times even praised Roe for his bravery.'
I looked straight ahead. 'Yes, I read the story.'
'Well.' Her voice was soft, whispery. 'I wanted to thank you. To see you when I did it. Writing seemed-an inappropriate method.'
'I would have treasured such a letter.'
At last, she looked at my face. Our gazes met, stilled. 'Please do not say such things when you do not mean them,' she said. 'I know that you long to tell me what you think of me.'
I slowly closed the distance between us. I reached down and lifted her hand, the one with the heavy gold and sapphire ring. I stroked my thumb gently across her fingers, the same smooth fingers that had caressed me while we lay together in her bed.
'I did not come here to scold you.' I lifted her hand and pressed it to my lips. 'But to learn whether you were well.'
She watched me kiss her fingers, then she withdrew her hand and crumpled it on her lap. 'Please, Gabriel, do not be kind to me.'
'If you prefer that I rail at you like a drunken waterman, I am afraid I cannot oblige.'
'It might be easier for me.' She lifted her gaze and looked at me fully. I saw in her eyes everything that had been between us, and great pain, and loneliness. She was lonely because of the grief she faced, a grief she could not share.
'You are a good man, Gabriel. You did not deserve what I did to you-tried to do to you. In the end, I simply could not.' She tore her gaze away. 'Oh, please, sit down. I cannot bear you standing there looking so patient.'
I was not patient. Anger was stirring beneath my fog, and the mists had cleared a little. I obliged her and seated myself on the divan.
She studied the carpet again, seeming to gather strength from the gold and black oriental pattern. 'Do you know why I made my way alone that night to the bridge?'
I remembered her sliding through the rain, her dark cloak blending with the night, the fire of diamonds in her hair, her lovely, distressed face beckoning me to follow, follow.
'You wanted to end your life,' I said. 'Because you carried a child that you dared not bring into the world.'
She looked at me, startled. Then she shook her head. 'No, Gabriel, I had not intended to kill myself. I would never have left my daughter alone, no matter how wretched I was, believe that.' She paused. 'It was not to end my life, much as oblivion would have been sweet to me at the moment. I went to meet someone.'
'The beggar who tried to cut you.'
'He was not a beggar.' She drew a breath. 'I had been told to meet him there, by a-a woman to whom I spoke about my predicament. She assured me that this man would tell me where to go to rid myself of- my so unfortunate burden.'
I remained still. Likely she had managed to consult a high-flying courtesan or an actress who would know all about removing unwanted children.
