Page 64 of Unmasked by the Marquess
“No,” said Clifton slowly. “But the alternative is that we leave this to the authorities to sort out. In that case, Louisa’s complicity in what might very well be considered a murder would become a matter of public note.”
The edges of her vision were going dark. “I told you it wasn’t murder. I would never have.”
“They were married, you sodding bastard.” This was the ever-loyal Keating. “And you—” he pointed at Charity “—either act like you have some fight left in you or I’ll have to slap you.”
“Married? But that’s neither here nor there,” Clifton replied equably. “Louisa will be dragged into whatever the judge and jury decide to make of this sordid business. So will Lord Pembroke, come to think of it. The two of you have been thick as thieves, by all accounts.”
Charity felt her blood run cold. She couldn’t even run away—couldn’t disappear to India or America. Louisa might stand trial. Alistair would be thrown into a scandal worse than anything he had ever contemplated, worse than anything his father had ever dared commit. He would never live down his shame. She would burden him with a lifetime’s worth of humiliation.
“Then what do I do?” she asked.
“I certainly don’t know.” Clifton shook his head impatiently. “You’re the one with expertise in fraud and deceit. Arrange for some way to have Robert Selby declared dead.”
“A boating accident,” Charity said, remembering what Alistair had suggested. It seemed so preposterous when he suggested it, but now it was the only way to keep him and Louisa safe. “There would be no body. You could get a death certificate if a witness attested to Selby falling overboard.”
“There!” Clifton said with some satisfaction. “I knew you’d come up with something. And that’s not so bad after all. You were planning to run off to India anyway. This is a mere errand to perform before you go on your way.”
“The merest trifle,” Keating spat. “I gather I’m supposed to be the witness. Fucking boats.”
Clifton ignored this. “Needless to say, you must also agree never to return to England or have any dealings with anyone you knew during your time as Robert Selby.”
Her life would be over. Everyone who mattered to her—everyone to whom she mattered—would be taken away from her. She felt as cold and alone as if she truly were at the bottom of the ocean.
“Fine,” she said. She would do this. One last effort to protect Louisa, one last kindness to repay everything Alistair had done for her. “A boating accident.”
She really would be as good as dead. She didn’t dare write so much as a note to Louisa or Alistair to let them know that she was alive and well—as if wellness were something she could aspire to in this state.
She couldn’t even withdraw enough money from the bank to start her new life, whatever that was to be. She couldn’t so much as pack a change of clothes. Nothing must draw suspicion.
Nameless, friendless, penniless. That was how she entered the world, but she had made a life for herself. She’d just have to do it again. She glanced over at Keating and he gave her a sharp nod. Not quite friendless, then.
She had made sacrifices before out of love and loyalty. This would only be one more.
“All right, then, Mr. Clifton. We’ll do it.”
Hopkins handed Alistair the newspaper as soon as he returned from the club, before he had even removed his gloves. “Delivered by messenger,” the butler murmured.
Glancing at the front page, he saw it was a Newcastle paper from one week earlier. He flipped through the pages with a rising sense of cold dread.
He found it on the fourth page. A boating accident. “Presumed dead,” the notice said. “Robert Selby, Esq., late of Fenshawe, Northumberland,” was how the paper referred to his Robin. There was more—something about an inquest and the testimony of a manservant—but the words danced before Alistair’s eyes.
Having guessed that Charity would disappear did not lessen his shock at seeing it in print. He would have Nivins look into this. He would send investigators to find out where Charity had gone. He didn’t know how to find one woman, presumably dressed as a man, most certainly headed for some absurd and improbable corner of the world, but he would do it anyway. It might take years, but he’d do it.
After all, he had put this blasted stupid idea of a boating accident in her head. But he hadn’t meant for her to vanish away fromhim, for God’s sake. He had only suggested it as a way for her to start fresh, to put an end to her old identity in order to be with him. That was before he understood that for Charity, starting fresh would mean giving up an essential part of her. And now she had just drowned that part of her in the North Sea.
His heart broke for her.
He gathered up the paper and headed back outside to make good on the promise he had made his sister.
There were carriages lined up outside the Allenbys’ house. Alistair cast about in his mind for the date and realized it was the night of Mrs. Allenby’s salon. Well, there was nothing for it. Having promised Amelia that he would tell her any news of Robin, he would fulfill that promise without dragging his heels. He found her deep in conversation with a woman wearing a turban. When she saw him approach, her face went pale, but she rose to her feet and silently led him through a passageway into the very room where Robin had teasingly suggested a tryst.
She looked up at him expectantly, her lips pressed together. He had not managed this in a way to minimize her shock, he realized. He was not wearing evening clothes and he was carrying a cumbersome newspaper. And while visitors to the Allenby salon did not as a rule dress or behave with much regard to convention, in the Marquess of Pembroke any deviation from propriety was conspicuous.
“Please tell me,” she said, and he realized he had been standing silently for too long.
“I believe he’s well. But you’ll hear about this sooner or later, and I want you to know I don’t believe it to be true.” He unfolded the paper and showed her the article.
He watched her squint at the page as she absently patted her pockets for spectacles that she evidently did not have with her.
