“By God, your brother did not warn me of your stupidity when I bought you. Give me value for my money. Do your duty!”
Her back hit the wall, trapping her. A thin wail drifted from the adjacent room. Their voices had woken William. She turned toward the sound. The governess had quit after Barrett’s last fit of temper, and she hadn’t been able to find a replacement. “Let me go to him, my lord. He needs me.”
“Your duty is to me, Elise, and ’tis time you learned it.” He turned and headed for the adjoining door.
Terrified, she followed. “Wait, my lord. Let him cry. I… I will give you what you want.”
“Aye, you will. When I’m done here.” He threw the door open and crossed to the bed. Seizing the three-year-old, he held him aloft. “Is this what you love best, madam?”
“Barrett, please,” she choked, fear clogging her throat. She tore off her wrapper, exposing herself in her thin nightdress. “Put him back and…and I…”
“I’ll have it anyway, madam. It’s mine to take as I please.” He tucked little William under one arm and headed to the window. “But first I’ll rid us of this useless appendage.”
Oh, dear God! He meant to throw William out the window and he was drunk enough to do it! He had his back to her and, without thinking, she seized a brass candlestick and hit him over the head. He dropped to his knees and William tumbled onto the woven rug, still crying and hiccupping.
Barrett turned toward her, hatred in his eyes and a trickle of blood oozing down his cheek from his temple. “You will pay for that!” He staggered to his feet, the child forgotten in his fury.
It was hopeless. Barrett was insane and he knew her weakness. William would never be safe. His lips drew back in a snarl and his hands stretched out for her. He no longer meant to claim his marital rights—he meant to kill her. She fled back to her room and he tackled her, bringing her down with a breathless thud. Her forehead hit the marble hearth and her head swam as blood streamed from the gash in her skin.
Frantic, knowing that if he killed her there would be no one left to protect William from his father, she groped above her head, seeking anything she could use to stop him.
She gripped the fire poker and rolled faceup.
Barrett’s expression was a study in madness. Spittle formed at the corners of his mouth as he ripped her nightdress away from her breasts. Sobbing, she brought the poker down on his shoulder and again on his head. And again. And again.
He collapsed on her and was still, his weight compressing the air from her lungs. Still weeping and panting, she dropped the poker and pushed his weight to the side. She wriggled free, clutching the gaping sides of her nightdress together and using a shred to wipe the blood from her forehead.
William’s cry was frenzied now, almost a scream. She half crawled, half stumbled back to the other room, gathered him up from the floor and held him close. Still in a daze, she crooned and rocked back and forth, murmuring reassurances.
“Hush, William. Hush. I won’t let anything happen to you.”
When she’d soothed the toddler, she put him back in his bed and returned to her room. Barrett still lay facedown and unmoving in front of the fireplace. There was a wide split on the back of his head and his skull showed through a gap in his hair. A widening puddle of blood had formed on the hearth. A clock in a distant part of the house struck midnight.
Her stomach convulsed. She had killed her husband! She groped for the chamber pot, emptied her stomach and then wiped the cold sweat from her forehead. There would be hell to pay! Barrett’s younger brother, Alfred, would take William away, then see that she was arrested and hanged. Alfred had always been ambitious for his own sons. Elise would not put it past the man to eliminate William so his own son could inherit the title and wealth.
No. No, she wouldn’t let that happen. She staggered to her dressing room and donned a dark blue dress, then pulled her valise down from an upper shelf. With no particular plan, she threw a few serviceable gowns and the contents of her jewel chest into the case, then carried it to William’s room and packed the necessary items for him. There would be a ship leaving the docks. Any ship. It didn’t matter where it was going. She’d go to hell if she had to.
Chapter One
London
September 1, 1820
R eginald Hunter, sixth Earl of Lockwood, regarded the undersecretary of the Foreign Office with doubt. “I don’t know, Lord Eastman. I’m with the Home Office. How can I help you?”
“The lines between the Home and Foreign Offices have blurred recently, especially in the West Indies. St. Claire is a British colony, which would put it under the auspices of the Home Office, but since we are dealing with other nationalities and subjects, the Foreign Office has taken charge.”
Hunt settled into the deep overstuffed chair across from Lord Eastman and accepted a small goblet of brandy from the footman. What could the man be about to say that required them to meet at their club instead of the government offices? Either Eastman wanted him drunk, or he had a concern with security at the office.
He cupped the goblet in his right hand and warmed the deep red liquid. “Did Castlereagh inform you that I’ve tendered my resignation to the Home Office?” The last thing he wanted on the eve of his retirement from public service was to become embroiled in someone else’s problem. He’d paid his dues, and an extra measure besides. What more could they ask than his soul?
“Yes, your resignation.” Eastman nodded. “That’s why we were hoping to persuade you to join us.”
“Thank you for the confidence, but why would I trade one dangerous job for another? I’m weary of risking my life at the turn of a corner. And now that we’ve finally dealt with—”
“The white slaver. Yes, heard about that. Just a week or so ago, wasn’t it?”
“That was the last loose end. I can quit in good conscience now, take my seat in the Lords and settle down.”
Eastman sipped his own brandy. “You’ve barely reached your apex, Lockwood,” he said, using Hunt’s title. “This assignment is a little plum. Easy as pie and something you could do in your sleep. Think of it as a holiday.”
In his experience, nothing the government asked of him was that simple. “Then have someone else go on holiday.”
“Has to be done on the hush. Very sensitive, as it is a part of an ongoing investigation. You’re known for your discretion.”
Discreet? Is that what they were calling assassins now? Would discretion reclaim the soul he’d forfeited to do the dirty but necessary jobs that other men refused?
Ah, but he was intrigued in spite of himself. And now he was sure the Foreign Office had a traitor. Why else would they need a man of his “talents”? “Is your leak here or in St. Claire?”
Eastman frowned and lowered his voice. “We don’t know. We need an outsider for this, and your name came up since you have holdings in St. Claire. Only natural that you’d want to visit and check on your investments, eh?”
Hunt sighed. “Tell me about this ‘little plum’ you
