The incident had immediately been ruled a suicide. Everyone knew how depressed Elisabeth had been. All Charlotte had needed to do was compound the matter a little and mourn her loss for all to see. “The poor woman—if only I had known, I might have been able to help her,” she’d said. “How difficult it must have been for her. I should have done more to earn her friendship. Perhaps then I might have been able to prevent this tragedy.” She grinned in spite of herself, unable to fathom how easy it had been to get away with it.
Her fingers now opened the top drawer of the desk. It was empty, but that didn’t worry her. What she sought lay beneath the fake bottom. Pushing down, she eased the bottom of the drawer backward, giving way to a small space that lay hidden beneath. She reached in and pulled out an envelope, her fingers lightly grazing the wax seal that carried George Riley’s insignia. Finally. She let out a quivering sigh, her eyes closing with relief as her grip tightened around the paper.
“I see that you found what you came here for.”
Her eyes shot open to find the room in the process of being lit. She spun around to face the source of the voice, her eyes settling on Francis, who sat comfortably in a beautiful rococo armchair as though he didn’t have a care in the world. What caught her momentarily off guard was the fact that Emily sat beside him, her eyes flashing daggers. Clearly she had misjudged the woman. She gritted her teeth, ready for battle.
“Aren’t you eager to read it, mother?” Francis asked as he waved his hand in a nonchalant gesture.
Her heart quickened at the thought of what she held. This would be her salvation, and her lips curled into a hideous snarl as she unmasked her true character. “Oh how I’ve longed for this moment, Francis.” She fixed him with a cold gaze that sent shivers down Emily’s spine. Francis seemed unexpectedly calm and reserved. “Do you have any idea how much I’ve suffered? How much I’ve had to endure in order to get my hands on this? To feel that man’s hands all over me . . . to endure childbirth only to watch you indulge in everything that ought to have been mine. But no more, Francis. Today I get what is rightfully mine.”
“And pray tell, what is that?” Francis asked, masking his growing concern with remarkable perfection.
“Would you care to guess?”
“I would much prefer it if you would just cut to the chase and spit it out.”
“Very well then, why don’t I show you what your father has written with his own hand? You know he revered me. Did you honestly think that he would leave me with nothing? Not a single token of his gratitude?” She chuckled slightly as her eyes fell upon the letter that she held between her hands.
“He left you with five thousand pounds,” Francis stated.
“Come on . . . you don’t seriously believe that I would have settled for so little, do you?”
Francis just stared back at her, a blank expression masking his true feelings of apprehension.
“Here you are, Francis. Why don’t you go ahead and open it? After all, it’s the least I can do, considering that I’m about to take half of what you own.” Francis’s mouth fell open in a blend of genuine surprise and disgust. “What? Didn’t he tell you that he made an amendment to his will? It will be such fun to redecorate the London home; yes, that goes to me as well.”
Unable to contain himself a moment longer, he reached out and snatched the letter from her hand. He sensed Emily’s agitation as she shifted uneasily in the seat next to his. She hadn’t said anything, but then again, there wasn’t really much for her to say. The situation was clearly far worse than he ever would have imagined. It was difficult to believe that his father would have done such a thing.
Taking a deep breath, he broke the familiar seal and removed the letter from the envelope. His eyes focused on his father’s handwriting as his forehead furrowed into a deep-set frown. He read the letter, and then he read it again to ensure that he had understood it correctly, but the message was quite clear.
Dunhurst Park, 1809
Dear Charlotte,
It is with great sadness that I now prepare to leave this world. My physician tells me that it is but a matter of days now, and I do feel that I am ill prepared.
In a way, I consider myself more fortunate than most, for I know what is to come, and have therefore been allowed some measure of time in which to put my affairs in order. Still, there is one issue that I have failed to resolve, and that is my relationship with my son Francis. My heart is heavy with regret for how much that poor boy must have suffered. I wish I could have done more to help, but in the end, this will have to suffice.
Charlotte, my wife and I brought you into our home to fulfill a dream, and you gave us the most precious gift of all. For that, we have always been eternally grateful. However, I am baffled as to why you wish for me to say that he is your son, when clearly he is not. Let there be no doubt in anyone’s mind that Francis Riley is the son of Elisabeth Riley and myself. We have always loved him and have always had the best of intentions for him—something that you completely lacked. If you look closely, madam, you’ll discover that the signature on the letter you have in your possession has not been written by my hand. It is a forgery and will never stand in a court of law.
You charmed yourself into our lives, never once failing to serve your own interests, selfish as you were. Elisabeth saw through you much sooner than I, and I do believe that she paid for it with her life, though it was impossible for me to prove it.
I am a man of principle, Charlotte, and as such, I would never stoop to murder a woman—not even to avenge my own wife. But I have no qualms with attacking you in kind.
It wasn’t always easy to play the part, and I do fear that my sacrifice may have been too great; I lost my son’s respect and affection in the process. My only consolation is that he will one day discover that you did not deceive me, but rather, that I deceived you.
I’m sure you must have realized by now that I leave you with nothing. Your selfishness destroyed my family. I pray, that this letter may serve to destroy you, or in the very least, the chance of achieving your goal.
George Riley,
The Earl of Dunhurst
Francis felt his throat tighten. This was in truth the last thing that he had expected to discover. He carefully folded the letter, hoping perhaps to gain some time in order to get his emotions under control. Tears pressed against his eyes, but he forced them back. He would find time to heal his wounds later. “This truly is a surprise,” he said in a clipped voice as he handed the letter back to Charlotte. “I think you’ll find it likewise.”
Taking the letter from him, Charlotte read, her eyes clouding over with anger and dismay as the truth dawned on her. By the time she was through, her otherwise beautiful features were twisted and contorted into an ugly grimace.
Francis noticed Emily tense beside him as they watched Charlotte grow red with fury. He placed a reassuring hand upon her arm as Charlotte crumpled the letter between her fingers. “No,” she said. “No, no, no! To hell with you, Francis. To hell with all of you.”
Emily saw the flash of silver first. Instinct told her what it was, and without a second thought for her own safety, she rushed forward, flinging herself toward their nemesis. She had hoped somehow to disarm her, but a deafening bang split the air, and the pain that followed quickly overpowered her. She knew immediately that she’d been shot, but before another thought could surface, the room tilted and everything went black.
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
She felt the throbbing headache before she even realized that she was awake. The muted sound of voices filled the air, but what they said was unclear to her. It almost felt as though her ears were filled with water.
Her head rested on a fluffy pillow, but it did little to ease the pain that occasionally tore through her skull. She slowly eased open her eyelids, her lashes fluttering slightly as her eyes adjusted to the light.
The quickening thud of approaching footsteps sounded. “She’s awake,” someone said.
“Thank God.”
She tried to focus, but her vision blurred, and with a heavy sigh she drifted back to sleep.
“It’s been two days already. Are you sure we shouldn’t try to wake her? She needs to eat.” Beatrice was distraught with concern for her sister and Francis couldn’t blame her. He was equally worried, having kept vigil ever since the shooting, silently praying that she would soon recover.
“The doctor says we should let her be, and I’m inclined to agree. This has been a traumatic experience for her. She needs to rest in order to heal. Don’t worry; she’ll eat once she wakes—in her own time.”
Beatrice perched herself on the edge of the bed and placed the palm of her hand against Emily’s forehead. “She feels cooler today,” she said hopefully.
The bedroom door opened and Claire entered with Richard in tow. “You look awful,” she told them. “Both of you.”
Beatrice gave her a reproachful glance. They hadn’t slept more than a couple of hours since the incident, remaining awake to watch over Emily and tend to her wound. She’d been feverish for the first day, and they’d repeatedly had to wipe her down with squares of linen soaked in cool water.
“Richard and I have agreed that you need to rest. We’ll look after Emily until you wake.”
“I don’t want to leave her,” Francis argued.
“You won’t be much good to her if you’re too tired to respond, should she need you. Now go and rest—that’s an order.”
Beatrice realized that Claire had a valid point, though she was just as reluctant as Francis to step away from Emily’s bedside. “I should like to be here when she wakes.” She saw that Francis nodded in agreement.
“We will call you immediately if she does. And when she does, there will be much to see to. You will both be of more use to her if you’re well rested.”
Beatrice knew that Claire was right. She kissed Emily lightly on the cheek and left, promising to be back in a couple of hours to check on her. Francis muttered another series of complaints, but finally did as he was told and went to find his bed.
It was late afternoon before he woke. He cursed when his eyes drifted toward the clock next to his bed and he saw the time. He’d slept for six hours. What concerned him the most, however, was that nobody had woken him in all that time, which meant that Emily still slept. He’d expected her to be awake by now, and the fact that she wasn’t worried him.
“Any progress?” he asked Claire as soon as he returned to Emily’s room.
She shook her head. “Perhaps that’s a good thing,” she suggested. “The fever hasn’t returned, and when I changed the dressing two hours ago, her wound appeared to be healing nicely. I think we’re out of the woods so I’m sure she’ll wake soon.”
Francis nodded. “I think you’re right.”
Richard saw that Francis fought to gain control of his emotions—that no matter how hopeful the situation appeared, he was sick with fear for Emily. “It was lucky that the bullet struck her shoulder and that it went straight through,” he said. “And though she did sustain a nasty bump to her head, I’m confident that she’ll be as good as new in another couple of days.” He paused for a moment, knowing full well how little comfort his words were to Francis. “She’s very lucky to have you by her side.”