Page 138 of Lessons for Marquesses
CHAPTER FIFTY-TWO
“And then Iran back through the hidden door.” The room grated with whispers. Georgiana turned to them. “So you see, it was not Lord Eastwick. He is innocent, and my wish is for all of you to know this. And convey to your society his innocence.”
Behind Nicholas, three women had swooned during Georgiana’s testimony and were attended by footmen. His flesh knotted up his torso to the collar bone which had once been split in two and pierced his lung. The surgeon had said it would kill him.
Nicholas seethed at Georgiana’s testimony. Here was why she feared immoderation. Why she put a face on her anger. Why she hated the color of her hair. Edmund, with his liquor and privilege, had egged William St. Clair on and brought Nicholas into the argument. Before attempting to rape a twelve-year-old girl. Rotten through and through. His brother.
Was it any surprise William St. Clair had killed Edmund? Sought revenge by stripping Nicholas of Farendon? Nicholas’s hands clenched with the need for revenge upon his own brother. If it had been his daughter…
Christ, he would have committed murder and more. Just as St. Clair had.
Oliver shifted through the court to stand within arm’s reach of Georgiana. But she required no support. She could have been a queen, if queens actually had the majesty their namesakes conjured. She stood with a royal bearing, her regal neck encased in pearls, the firm half-moon breasts, not overdone, not too small but perfect as to not distract from the rest of her. And the rest of her was still beautiful and strong.
Sir Thomas Cobley stirred from his bewilderment, slapped a roll of documents to his thigh, and snapped the audience from their hushed reverie. “Then who, Your Majesty, is the murderer of Lord Margate? Though shocking, Miss St. Clair’s testimony does not exonerate Lord Eastwick.”
Oliver stepped forward. “Your Majesty, I humbly beseech you to command Cobley to use his God-given brain.”
A titter of laughter floated above the court. The king’s eyes widened at the breech of etiquette. One did not address the monarch without permission, but the king, in rapt attention, nodded to Cobley.
Cobley flushed, his eyes on Georgiana. “And how do you know the man was Lord Margate? Did your father tell you?”
“He referred to himself as Clayton. And when I realized just recently that Mr. Wolf was—” Georgiana’s sea-blue eyes landed on Nicholas. “That is, I confirmed his identity from a miniature Lord Eastwick keeps.”
Nicholas removed the miniature from his coat which he handed to an attendant, who carried it to the king.
After a silent scrutiny, the king leaned forward. “Have you any more to relay to us, Miss St. Clair?”
She bowed her head at the throne. “Your Majesty, I never knew anyone was charged with Lord Margate’s death. The circumstances of my assault…I came to believe it was…understood. Most of all, I never knew his brother was made responsible. And I ask most respectfully, most humbly, for you to exonerate Lord Eastwick from the crime my silence condemned him to bear.”
“Your Majesty,” Cobley said, “if we are to exonerate Lord Eastwick, I recommend, in the interest of justice, we remand Miss St. Clair and this Beedle for further investigation into the murder of Edmund Clayton, Lord Margate.”
“I object,” Oliver said.
Cobley replied with a placating smile, “Lord Acomb, you cannot object.”
“I just did, Cobley, so therefore Ican.”
“Youmaynot.”
Oliver rushed around Georgiana, scraping an agitated bow. “Your Majesty, Beedle was an old man who merely saved his young mistress from Lord Margate’s atrocious assault. And my cousin was twelve, Your Majesty. Her only crime a fit of girlish temper. And rightlyso.”
“Old enough for a girl to marry,” Cobley observed hotly. “Or hang.”
Lost to the show, Georgiana nodded. As if agreeing to arrest.
Nicholas spoke. “Miss St. Clair was a girl. A woman now, who has lived with a painful mistake, which was not a mistake, was it? To confront a guest who had no right to act so dishonorably in her father’s home? Has she not suffered? To protect her against men like my brother, her father shaved her hair with the hope she would never again be subjected to threat ofrape.”
Nicholas let the last sentence lie. A woman’s muffled cry broke the silence.
“And she has grown up to tell the entire world in order to save me, a man who does not deserve saving.” Nicholas cut through the attendants, executing a courtly bow to the dais. “Your Majesty, if I may?”
Again, the third Hanoverian king benevolently ignored the etiquette violation and nodded.
“As we stand here,” Nicholas said, “your loyal subjects, we, Your Majesty, know who killed Edmund Clayton. And we understand the motive. We do not require a remanding of an innocent to satisfy justice. Further, I do not wish for an exoneration if justice must be satisfied elsewhere. Miss St. Clair is innocent.” He formed words he had never imagined he would think or speak. “And William St. Clair rightly defended his daughter against my brother’s unforgivable conduct.”
The king considered the miniature again.
Georgiana lifted her chin, and damn it, she was going to force the issue. “Your Majesty, I beseech you to exonerate Lord Eastwick. I committed a most unforgivable crime by not coming forth. Lord Eastwick was sent to war. He lost his home, his beloved.”
