Elaine
“You will pay for your sins,” Elaine whispered at Lord Chiverton as he led her up the aisle. She would have shouted it at him had they not been in the house of God.
He smiled at her. “As a matter of fact, I have already been paid handsomely for my sins, my dear. You shall see how wealthy we will be with our smuggling runs and under-the-table dealings.”
Three candles flickered on the altar, barely illuminating a few feet beyond. The entire church was empty of all but three other people shadowed by the candlelight. One was undoubtedly the vicar. And then two witnesses—to make all official.
By the circular outline, one was Squire Stroud. And the other—
“Brixton?”
He grinned at her, a smirky, brazen thing.
“You are dismissed. Don’t ever show your face at Havencross again. I daresay you are the worst servant I’ve ever seen.” She turned to Lord Chiverton. “You had a spy in our house all along?”
“I told you I keep eyes on my people. How else was I to know what you were up to?”
She raised her hand to slap him, but he caught her by the arm and held it until they were standing in front of the vicar.
How Mr. Foss could be part of a smuggler’s ring and still call himself a man of God, she did not know. It was an abomination to think how many barrels and sacks of goods had been stored in the churchyard or inside the table tombs. Perhaps her own ancestors had shared their resting place with a tub of tobacco or a few yards of lace.
When she had agreed to Lord Chiverton’s terms, she’d thought she had three days, time and enough to free Gareth and escape Chiverton’s clutches. She never thought he meant to march her straight to the church this very night. She was still in her ruined dress, with one stocking missing.
This is for Gareth, she reminded herself. She owed him this, at least. Hopefully he’d found the fish knife and made his escape.
The vicar stepped forward, holding a book at the end of his long and pointy nose. “Dearly beloved,” he said to the empty pews and the tapestries fluttering in the draft. “We are gathered here in the sight of God.”
Elaine nearly laughed. She suspected God had forgotten about this lonely part of Cornwall. How else could He let so much bad happen? And in a moment’s time, she would be married to the worst man of them all.
For Gareth.
Once she was assured of his safety, she’d find some way to get out of this. Surely her father would help her.
Chiverton’s plan was to leave with her tonight on a honeymoon tour of Europe. At least, that was what the note said that she’d been forced to write—along with one telling her family she’d stayed the night at Miss Tippet’s. After a month’s absence, what could be done? She might even be carrying his child by then.
Please, dear heaven, anything but that.
The vicar droned on about how marriage was to be taken reverently, discreetly, advisedly, soberly, and in the fear of God. Lord Chiverton may have been able to take such vows lightly, but she could not. When she married, she meant for it to be sincere. A pledge before God of truth and faithfulness. Not this mockery.
Lord Chiverton leaned forward. “Don’t worry, my love, I always cry at weddings too.” He wiped her cheeks with his thumb.
“I’m only doing this for one reason,” she said.
“I know. Believe me. I went about this all the wrong way. I should have used that letter to my advantage long before now. Saved myself weeks of courting. Ah well. Lesson learned.”
The door at the back of the nave creaked. Lord Chiverton stared intently into the darkness, his smirk gone and his body on full alert.
“I declare an impediment,” came a voice from the shadows. Gareth.
His figure moved slowly, limping toward the center aisle. Bent at an odd angle. He sat on the first pew he came to at the very back of the church.
Gareth had made it. He had escaped. And by some miracle, he had found her.
“I beg your pardon?” the vicar said, looking at Chiverton, then back to Gareth.
“I said, ‘I declare an impediment.’”
The vicar’s eyes shot back to Lord Chiverton.
“Proceed,” the earl said to Mr. Foss.
Lord Chiverton gave Squire Stroud a nod, and he, in turn, jerked his head at Brixton. “See to it.”
Brixton stepped off the dais and started down the center of the nave.
Gareth raised a rifle and aimed it at him. Or maybe it was pointed at Lord Chiverton, Elaine could not tell.
“Listen,” Gareth said, resting his firearm on the back of the bench in front of him, still keeping it aimed and ready. “I’m tired. I’ve been bound, starved, jailed, and shot. So let me be plain. If you do not release Miss Cardinham and end this game, I will kill you. If I hang, I hang. I don’t think I really care anymore.”
Gareth pulled the flintlock back, and the click echoed in the silent church.
But he was only one against four. Elaine had not come willingly to this altar so that he could throw his life away in Saint Piran’s church.
“No!” She put her hand on Lord Chiverton’s arm. “We have a deal. One which I am prepared to honor.”
“Elaine,” Gareth said. “Could you just this once not be so stubborn? I don’t have the strength for it. Think what you are doing. Chiverton will never allow me to live no matter what you do. Enough of this.” He raised the rifle at Lord Chiverton. “Either you release her, or I shoot you. That is my final offer.” He laughed. “Or maybe I’ll just shoot you anyway. Turnabout and all that.”
Gareth was out of his senses. One shot at Lord Chiverton would not put an end to it. What about the squire? The vicar? And Brixton, wavering in the nave, still trying to figure out if he should apprehend Gareth or not? Gareth couldn’t take them all down with one ball.
The door to the church creaked again, and two more figures emerged from the dark. Her father and Mr. Tippet.
“Papa!” she cried. She leapt off the dais, but Lord Chiverton caught her.
“Not so fast, my love.” He put his arm around her. “You’re too late, sir. We are already wedded.”
“That’s a lie,” Gareth said. He was beginning to sound more and more like he’d spent the night in his cups over at The Black Hart Inn rather than as Lord Chiverton’s captive. “No vows have been exchanged. No pronouncement of man and wife.” He lowered the rifle and lay down on the oak bench of the pew. “No ring,” he called out, though Elaine could no longer see him.
The door creaked again, and two of Tippet’s men entered.
In a flash, cold steel pressed against her ribs.
“Stay where you are,” Lord Chiverton said, “or she gets a ball through her heart.”
Her father stopped, putting his arms out, warning Tippet and his men to stand down. Her father stood frozen in the middle of the church, an easy target for any of Lord Chiverton’s men. Gareth, at least, was behind a bench.
She could feel the barrel of Lord Chiverton’s gun slowly moving. He would never allow himself to be taken so easily. He was going to shoot someone. Her father. Once her father was dead, Havencross would be hers and then his.
“No!” she screamed. But the explosion of gunpowder drowned her out.
She watched her father, waiting for him to fall. But he didn’t.
It was Lord Chiverton who fell to his knees.
Elaine twisted away, searching the back of the church for who had fired. Smoke wafted up from Gareth’s rifle.
A thick moment of silence clouded the church as they all watched Chiverton press a hand to his bleeding leg. Almost the exact same spot he had shot Gareth.
Then the entire church sprang into action.
Brixton pulled a pistol from somewhere and aimed it at her father. Mr. Tippet leveled his Landguard musket on Brixton.
Lord Chiverton was struggling to his feet, weapon clutched in his hand, cursing.
From the corner of her eye, she saw Squire Stroud make a dash for the chancel door. Mr. Tippet took his aim off Brixton and set it on the squire. There was nothing stopping Brixton from shooting her father.
Elaine grabbed the three-pronged candlestick, dumping the candles onto the stone floor, and hurled it at Brixton with all her might. Two of the candles sputtered out, plunging the little church into near darkness.
She could not see whether she had hit Brixton or not.
A shot rang out. Then another one, followed by the sound of crashing glass. Someone grabbed at her. Lord Chiverton. She spun out of his reach.
“Unhand me,” a man yelled from beyond the altar.
Then she heard the vicar’s voice. “Not the Ascension window!”
The scuffling and grunting of men filled the church—blind men fighting in the dark for their lives. The clanging of weapon on weapon, weapon on stone. Splintering wood. The sharp tang of gunpowder.
From the light of the single burning candle lying on the floor, she saw Lord Chiverton squint into the darkness, his pistol ready to fire at the first thing that came into his vision.
A hand grabbed her from behind. “Over here.” It was Gareth.
He pulled her away from the candle, out of the light that would give her away. They bumped into one of the pews, and Gareth swung her around, crouching with her between two benches.
Another shot fired, followed by a grunt and a thud.
“My father,” she said, trying to go to him, but Gareth wouldn’t release her.
“Stay down.” His arm wrapped firmly around her waist. “He will be fine.”
“How can you know that?”
Gareth did not answer.
“Someone get the candles going,” Mr. Tippet called. His voice came from the direction where she’d last caught a glimpse of Lord Chiverton.
Another thud followed by a curse. “Brixton, you idiot. That was me,” Lord Chiverton moaned.
Gareth’s breathing came loud and labored beside her. She looked at him, though she could see nothing in the darkness. He didn’t sound well. She reached out, finding first his shoulder, then neck, then cheek. He was hot. And bristly, after going several days unshaven. His hand landed on hers, alighting at once both gently and fierce. He turned his head, pressing a kiss into the palm of her hand.
“Gareth,” she whispered.
At last, the speck of light grew bigger. The sounds of fighting faded into groans and gulping breaths.
“Father?” she called, peeking her head above the pew.
“I’m here,” he said. It was he who was setting the candles back on the altar, using the one to light the others.
“It is over,” Mr. Tippet called loud and clear.
Elaine stood. Her father seemed unhurt. She ran to him, falling into his arms. She’d thought for certain Brixton had shot him. Indeed, he’d probably tried.
Lord Chiverton lay on the ground, face pale. He was cursing Gareth and Elaine and even the Almighty Himself. Mr. Tippet stood over him, motioning for a young man to come forward with a pair of wrist irons.
“Make them good and tight,” Gareth called. He was sitting on the bench now, even paler than Lord Chiverton.
“Thank heaven that’s over,” Squire Stroud said. He pressed his hand over his arm. He must’ve been hit by a ball. “I’ve been cajoled into this mess and am desperate to find a way out.”
“Save your breath, Squire,” her father said.
“He already knows it was you who killed John,” Gareth called from his pew. He had lain back down again, only his voice giving him away.
Lord Chiverton laughed.
“Our engagement is over,” Elaine said. She couldn’t find an insult bad enough for him.
“You really do grow more beautiful the angrier you get, my love.” Lord Chiverton winked at her.
That man was pure evil. He would never bring any good to the world. Never. And she’d had enough. She grabbed Lord Chiverton’s pistol off the floor and leveled it at his head. The steel was still cold against the palm of her hand. It had not yet been fired. She pulled back the flintlock. Every person in the entire kingdom would be better off without him.
“Miss Cardinham,” Mr. Tippet said, his voice calm and steady. “Lower the weapon.”
“No.” She wrapped both hands around the stock, her knuckles white. “Look what he has done. He killed Mr. Kemp. He tried to kill Gareth. He nearly killed me. He deserves this.”
Her father stepped forward, but Mr. Tippet stopped him. “Stay back, sir.” He kept his eyes on Elaine. “Let the law deal with him. The Crown will see justice done.”
She shook her head. He was an earl. The whole affair would be one big joke. “He will go to the House of Lords,” she said, “and he will smile and flatter and lick their boots. They will slap his hand, and he will go free. How is that justice?”
Even if they did hang him, it would not be justice for her brother. She swung the firearm at Squire Stroud. “Perhaps I should take revenge for John instead.” None of these evil men deserved to live.
“Elowen,” Gareth said, his voice weaker than ever. “Look around you.”
One of the beautiful stained-glass windows was shattered. Night air poured in, flickering the candles. Saint Piran’s church was in ruin. Brixton lay sprawled across a broken pew. Dead. And a member of the Landguard lay unmoving not far from him. Gareth was right. There had been enough death. And she would not waste any more of her life on Lord Chiverton.
She gently released the flintlock and handed the pistol to Mr. Tippet.
“Get him out of here,” her father said, tugging Elaine away from Lord Chiverton.
Mr. Tippet locked the irons around Lord Chiverton. One of his Landguard did the same to Squire Stroud.
“Where’s the vicar?” Elaine asked.
“Did you want to shoot him too?” Lord Chiverton asked.
She did not even give him a glance.
“We caught him trying to make a run for it,” one Landguard said.
“I’m sorry I ever doubted you, Mr. Tippet,” Gareth called, but his voice barely reached them.
“Perhaps you’d better see to Mr. Kemp,” her father told her. “And get my rifle out of his hands. I’m not sure about his wits just now.”
While they escorted Lord Chiverton and Squire Stroud out, Elaine walked down the rows until she came to Gareth. He was lying on his back on the wooden bench with his eyes closed, gripping her father’s gun across his chest.
Elaine put her hand on his, removing the firearm from his grasp.
His eyes opened to half slits. “Not sure I should hand this over to you.”
“Nonsense. I’m perfectly fine.”
“Now you are.” He released the gun. “It doesn’t have a shot left anyway, so I suppose we’re all safe a little longer.”
“I wouldn’t have really shot him.” At least, she didn’t think so. “I just wanted to scare him. I wanted him to feel, even for a moment, what it must have been like for your father. For John.”
Elaine set the gun to the side and knelt on the pew in front of him, reaching over the back of the wooden bench to stroke his matted hair away from his face. A touch of color returned to his cheeks as he lay there, finally getting the rest he needed. “I do have one favor I’ll be asking.”
“What is it?” he mumbled. He was fading quickly.
“I need my stocking back.”
He laughed once. He placed his hand over hers. “I’m keeping it for my treasure.”
His hand went limp, but he was only asleep. Elaine could feel his heartbeat through his thin shirt, steady and strong.
“The carriage will be here soon,” her father said. “We’ll take him back to Havencross. We sent someone from Tippet’s place over to Dr. Woodbury. He should already be on his way there for Rose.”
She nodded. Her father sat beside her on the bench. She turned forward, leaving Gareth asleep on the pew behind her.
“I thought he was a good man,” she said. “How could I have been so blind?”
“He played his part well. We all thought he was good. And generous for taking you in after . . .” He stopped without mentioning London. It seemed insignificant now. And absurd the way they avoided any mention of it like it was a plague.
In truth, it was a plague. A sickness they’d let seep into their family. A plague of indifference. Detachment. If she’d told her parents about John and the letter, about Gareth’s offer, things might have been different. If they’d relied on each other instead of each going alone, perhaps London could have been avoided altogether.
“What did happen in London, Father?”
He sank lower onto the bench, leaning forward to rest his elbows on his knees. He looked up at the altar and the figure of Christ looming over it. The first rays of morning lit the stained-glass window.
“I already told you. And it was the truth. I met a woman unhappy in her own marriage. She listened to me, confided in me, and it comforted me. That is all.”
“But why could you not confide in Mother? She needed comfort too.”
He shrugged. “You are right to be angry with me, Elaine. I have wronged you and especially your mother. I knew it then, and I know it now.” He sighed heavily. “Who can say why we falter, why we fall. I am weak, I suppose. Vulnerable. Not like you. You are the strong one. Look what you have done this night, what you were willing to do to save Kemp.”
She turned and looked at Gareth. “What did Gareth tell you?”
“Everything. Chiverton’s involvement. The squire. His suspicion of Mr. Tippet. Though Tippet turned out to be clean. I am surprised about the vicar though.”
“And the letter?”
“What letter?”
So Gareth hadn’t mentioned John and the letter.
She could not sit here with the eyes of God upon her and blame her father for dividing the family while she herself held most of the blame. She must speak. If ever there was to be healing again in her family—in her heart—she must tell her father what she had done. If she held on to this any longer, it would drag her down and drown her forever. “I’m not strong at all, Father. In truth, I am the reason we have fallen apart. Not you.”
He turned to her with eyes wide. “Why do you say so?”
She was ready now, at last, to tell all. To carve open her soul and lay bare her secret. She opened her mouth to speak, but the words would not come.
There was no language written or spoken to tell her father she was responsible for the death of his son. Her brother. The heir. That she was the rift in the family. He could not see into her heart, the blackness that consumed it, eating away until it was like the petals of a winter rose clinging to the stem. One small tap and they all fall to the ground.
“She blames herself for John’s death.” Gareth had woken up. Or, more likely, he’d been lying there listening all along. His voice was soft and tired but strong enough to be heard. “She wrote me a letter and asked John to bring it to me. The night was dark and squally, but John loved her, so he obliged.”
“And that was the night he never came home.” Her father finished the story. They all knew what had happened from there—the smugglers, Squire Stroud. The cave.
Her father watched her, but she could not tell if it was anger or sorrow that shadowed his face. She hoped it was anger, for that would be easier. It was what she deserved.
“I’m so sorry, Papa. I didn’t know,” she whispered. “I didn’t know.”
“Why did you not tell us? You should have told us.”
She lowered her face into her hands. She had ruined everyone’s lives. “Do you not think I wouldn’t give my very life to go back and change it? I am sick. Broken in my mind and in my heart.” She thumped on her chest, her tears flowing freely. One mistake on top of another. And all of it for ruin. “I have done so wrong.”
Her father handed her a handkerchief; she’d long since lost her reticule.
He put his arms around her. “You cannot blame yourself. I was wrong to say that.” He held her for a moment while she dried her eyes.
“When I went to Lady Forton’s, I knew it was wrong. With every step, I knew I should turn back. But I didn’t. I was weak and foolish. But you, Elaine, you cannot carry the burden for John’s death. It was something you could never have predicted.”
She nodded. She’d heard his words. Now if only she could believe them.
“How many times do you think John snuck out of the house to go to Lowentop?”
A faint puff of laughter came from the pew behind her.
“Gareth came calling with pebbles at John’s window, and your brother would climb down the corner stones like a cat, and they’d be gone. None of us knew what evil was lurking. It could have happened at any time. You cannot blame yourself.”
Her father looked back at Gareth. “What was in this letter that was so important?”
Gareth grinned. “Urgent news, sir. Urgent news.”
Elaine turned around. “Go back to sleep, Mr. Kemp. You are not fit to be awake.”
Gareth only smiled bigger.
Mr. Tippet called to them from the door. “Your carriage is here, sir.”
“Thank you, Mr. Tippet.”
Her father and Mr. Tippet helped Gareth up and hobbled him to the door.
“I thought you were part of the smuggler’s ring,” Gareth said to Mr. Tippet, “because you didn’t put any effort into finding my father’s murderer. Thought you were a blasted turncoat with a handsome daughter. Wouldn’t you agree, Cardinham?”
“Gareth, hush.” Elaine rapped him gently on the back of his head. “I’m so sorry, Mr. Tippet. He’s lost a lot of blood, and I don’t think he’s had anything to eat or drink in several days. He’s not himself.”
“He had a good bit to drink from my flask,” her father said. “I think that might be part of the problem.”
They got Gareth into the carriage, and Elaine climbed in and sat beside him. By the time they crossed the bridge out of town, he was asleep again, leaning on her shoulder.