Page 77 of The Mad Baron's Bride
He could hurt Jack because of her. Fear lodged high in her chest, cutting off breath. “He’s a friend of the family. I’ve only come for a visit.”
“He won’t want you now. Not afterheknows. And I’ll make sure he does.” He whispered the whip against his breeches, leather upon buckskin.
“What do you want, Eustace?”
“The boy, first. And then I have other demands.”
“The baby died. You said I killed him. You swore before the magistrate that I stabbed him when he emerged from the womb, and that accounted for the blood.”
“Then I wonder why the man at the White Hart says you send so many packages to Tytherton Kellaways. And I found your sister in Chippenham—so surprised was she, to learn her dear Caledonia was not dead after all! There were many to say they’d seen a violet-eyed woman and a lordly kind of man walking Maud Heath’s Causeway that day.”
“No one would know the shade of my eyes from that distance,” Leda said weakly. Her sister had spoken to Eustace? Then she had also told their parents Leda was not dead.
And if she lied about her own death, she might be lying about Ives. He could hunt him down so easily, Eustace and his dogged greed. He stepped closer.
“You didn’t kill a babe any more than you killed my uncle.”
His nasty smile poured a cold shower of horror down her spine. “I didn’t? Then who did?”
“Oh, I’m sure any number of people had it in for that rat-faced bastard. It’s a blessing to the world someone blotted him. And enough time has passed, I’ll forgive his mad wife. I’ll take in his poor, sad relict and give her a home.” He leered. “I am certain I can teach her to please me.”
The triumph in his gaze alerted her. It was the only explanation that made sense, really. “You killed him,” Leda whispered.
His eyes narrowed to dark slits, like the eyes of a snake. “You’d best keep that between us. For you’re the one to benefit, after all. You’ll be the mistress of Norcott Hall again, but with a young and fitter husband, one who forgives your madness. You’ll have all that you wish if you prove a good, smart, quiet, loyal little wife.”
Fear dug talons into her throat. He was so close. “I won’t marry you, Eustace.”
“You weresupposedto marry me.” He lashed his leg with the whip. “You were supposed to be sleeping your nice little laudanum nap while I took care of things for us. But no, always a meddler, weren’t you? Had to come downstairs and surprise me. I had to put the knife in your hand. You’re lucky you didn’t fall on it and kill yourself while you stumbled around in your fog. A hard one to put down, you are, Caledonia Hill.”
She hadn’t killed Bertram. She hadn’t murdered anyone. Leda’s heart beat so fast the rush of blood made her dizzy. “Why would you tell me this?”
“Because a wife can’t testify against her husband in court. No one will believe you anyway. I’m the generous one, taking in a poor, mad woman whose family won’t have her back. Giving her a home. And she’ll show her gratitude.” He leered, his hot breath wafting toward her. “I’ll breed my own children on you, proper heirs, and you won’t dare shame me, will you? You know what it’s like to be a woman alone, at the mercy of her own wits. Best cast yourself on my mercy instead.”
He put a hand to his groin, adjusting himself inside his breeches, aroused by whatever images his words conjured in his dark mind. Shame and fury scorched Leda’s cheeks. It was the same threat he’d made when he saw her carted away to the madhouse, her wrists bound in chains. He would never make such a gesture before a lady.
He would never admit his crimes, either, not where they could come back to him. He didn’t mean to marry her. He didn’t mean to let her live. He wanted to confirm where Ives was, and then he meant to kill her.
“You don’t have the mercy of a stone,” Leda said. She turned and plunged into the tunnel.
“Get back out here,” Eustace roared. “I’m not going to chase you.” She heard the slap of his crop against his thigh as he vented his frustration. He would use it on her if he could.
Eustace was afraid of the dark; she knew that. Leda wasn’t. She had made friends with the dark as a girl, all the nights she sat curled at her window weaving dreams from the stars. She had made cold truce with the dark in the madhouse, where they took away the candles for fear of fire.
“What do you suppose you’re doing, you foolish bitch? You have to come out sometime.”
But she didn’t. She could wait him out. She could stay in here until she fainted of thirst, and then she would crawl out on her knees, triumphant.
“Caledonia Toplady!” he bellowed.
The tunnel she was in went straight for a while, casting a dim carpet of light before her. Gray sparks glinted from the walls now and again, like secret eyes. The floor wasn’t smooth, clods of chalk breaking apart beneath her boots, dust sliding along her soles. She put a hand to the wall so she could find her way out. Just like walking a hedge maze. The earth smelled fresh and damp and powdery, like Jack’s brick mixture.
Jack. If she died here—if she died in the tunnel like a rat, or Eustace found and killed her, which would be worse—how would Jack know what had happened? He would know only that she had left him. Like Anne-Marie.
Her heart jammed in her chest. Of course, shehadleft him, but she meant to send a long letter explaining why. Because he had not trusted her with the truth about Nanette, and she knew she deserved that. She had not trusted herself.
But she wasn’t a killer. She could scarce wrap her mind around this new reality. She’d never lost her senses and attacked a man with a knife. She’d been drugged, and Eustace had murdered Bertram.
Of course. Why hadn’t she seen that all along? She wasn’t strong enough to drive a carving knife through a grown man’s ribcage. The worst she could have done is nicked his skin even if she penetrated the thick cloth of his coat. It took another man, younger, stronger, full of murderous rage. The man who stood to gain everything if Bertram died.
