Page 25 of The Inconvenient Compromise
“It’s all you are getting. I’ll not harbor you here anymore.”
“Harbor?” Estelle shouted. She dropped the money to the floor once more and surged forward, her hands outstretched and curled into wicked claws.
Charlotte, wary of having her face gouged by the other woman, stepped aside quickly. But Estelle couldn’t stop. Her momentum carried her forward, over the railing of the stairs, and onto the landing below.
The sound of her head striking the marble floor was sickening. When Charlotte could bring herself to look, she immediately wished she had not. A pool of red was spreading around her, framing her face like some gruesome recreation of the nimbus so often found in paintings of saints. Estelle had hardly been that.
The butler appeared then, climbing the stairs to where the woman’s body lay crumpled.
“Fetch a trunk,” Charlotte instructed. “Between the two of us, we can get her inside it. Then when the footmen return, we shall have them load it onto a cart. You’ll drive to Westminster Bridge after dark and dump it into the Thames.”
“Yes, my lady,” the butler agreed and then turned away to see to the task.
Charlotte stood there, watching the pool of blood as it grew bigger and bigger. Realizing it would soon drip onto the carpet, she did the only thing she could think of to stop it. Slipping her petticoat off, she rushed down the stairs and used the garment to create a dam of sorts.
When the butler returned, he was carrying some old rags and linens, as well as dragging a trunk behind him. After wrapping the linens about her head and face, hiding the wicked gash in her forehead, they struggled to get her limp form into the trunk. By the time it was done, they were both covered in blood.
Charlotte looked at the mess of them both. “She was always inconvenient, even in death. Burn the clothes. All of them. Yours and mine. We can’t have anyone see us this way.” Charlotte stooped to pick up the now blood-soaked bank notes.
Nothing had gone as planned, not since Estelle Weddington had entered her life. She’d known the girl was completely mad, known that she struggled to control her temper at every turn. But she’d thought her useful. How wrong she had been.
“Good riddance to a bad mistake,” she murmured, her voice cold and her eyes steely with disdain. No one would mourn Estelle, not really. They might wonder where she’d gotten off to, but the truth was, given her escape from the asylum, Estelle’s disappearance would not be questioned too closely.
It would all work out in the end.
TWENTY
Sunday Night—the Westrhavens’ ball…
Draped in rich green velvet, her hair piled high with several curls pulled free to drape over her shoulder, Fiona felt more than just passably pretty. She felt quite beautiful and more confident than she could ever recall. Perhaps it was the jewelry, she thought, lifting one hand to touch the delicate necklace that encircled her throat.
“It looks as though Lucian is proving to be a very generous husband,” Penelope observed somewhat smugly.
“He is very generous,” Fiona agreed. “And I am beginning to see that he was very right about one thing. I would have been miserable with the Earl of Kenworth. Lucian is so… unpredictable. I never know what he will say or do next. It’s maddening on the one hand, but on the other….”
“It’s exciting,” Penelope surmised. “But in a good way. In a way that, when life is more settled, and there are no more plots and schemes to deal with, will make you very happy.”
Fiona shook her head. “Happiness is a choice we make. And we must choose it even when life is difficult.”
“Words of wisdom.”
The deep voice came from behind her. Familiar and deliciously wicked as the words fluttered against her ear, Fiona smiled. “Lucian, you mustn’t sneak up on me so. If I scream like a banshee in the middle of the ballroom, it will not exactly lessen the amount of gossip about us.”
The quartet played the very first strains of a waltz. He didn’t ask but simply took her hand and led her to the dance floor. “What are we doing?”
“We are waltzing,” he replied.
“Charlotte is not here. No one who is here is a friend to her. We need not put on a show. It is tough that we are here, and it will be reported on in tomorrow's gossip sheets.”
He nodded. “Is that the only reason I could have for wanting to dance with you?” The flirtatious tone of his voice was unmistakable, as was the glimmer of desire that could be seen in his eyes.
“Well, I should hope you would want to dance with me for other reasons. But we know so little of one another. I was not even certain you liked dancing.”
“I like dancing with you,” he said, guiding her effortlessly around the floor. “As a bachelor, dancing with a lady could signify interest in her—in marriage or dalliance. I was considered a good prospect for the latter but not the former, and so my choice of partners was limited.”
“And what does dancing signify now?” Fiona asked softly.
“That I will take any opportunity I can to hold my wife in my arms.”
