Lara stared at the beast she had so impulsively revealed. He loomed up in her vision, a hulking half-formed creature of nightmares. For a long moment, he just glared at her.
Scars crossed his forehead. Thick lines striped the right side of his face and slit his mouth, nose, and chin. One ear was badly mangled, and there was no hair for several inches above it. Smaller tracks intersected the larger ones, giving one half of his countenance a shredded or hashed appearance. The eye on the injured side was white as milk.
His body stiffened, becoming ramrod straight. He fisted his hands tight at his sides. Shivering and breathing hard, he glared at the shocked, gawking faces around him. While the healthy cornflower-blue eye darted around in alarm and agitation, the damaged one gazed straight ahead.
As if released from a spell, Lara staggered away the moment he broke eye contact. Those villagers old enough to remember the former earl suddenly seemed to recall the infamous Tobias temper. Fear slid over their expressions. The whole group fell back as though expecting a violent explosion.
After a moment, the hunted look faded from Lord Yawron’s face. He simply closed his eyes and dropped his head with a wince. As he turned the ruined half of his visage to the floor, his brown hair draped in front of his face.
“Damn it,” he whispered under his breath.
“For Christ’s sake!” The Inspector cried, moving to replace the cowl.
The mortified earl raised a hand imperiously. On instinct, the Inspector stopped and waited. There was a long pause. Then, with a deep breath, Christopher visibly relaxed.
“No, Inspector,” he said with a hoarse yet regal tone. “No more.” Amid an awed hush, he pulled himself upright, straightened his shoulders and his cuffs, and set his face firmly. “No more hiding.”
The Inspector stepped away with an understanding nod. Almost apologetically, he said, “You will have to come with me, my lord.” Receiving a gesture of consent, he turned to his subordinate. “Constable, clear this mob out of here, so his lordship can be brought in peaceably.”
Flashing a full-faced glare and a cryptic “Like your handiwork?” at Teresa, the earl began to walk out. Despite everything, he strode forward with his pride and dignity intact.
“Stop!” A cry echoed from the balcony. All gazes turned upward, including the party of police and prisoners.
“Maggie!” Christopher breathed, staring at the vision in the minstrel gallery.
Instinctively, he moved to join her. A policeman’s hand came down on his shoulder, restraining him. He halted and watched her with admiration in his eyes.
Maggie, her head bandaged and her pale face bruised, stood leaning against the railing. A crutch—his old crutch—was propped under one shoulder. One arm, heavily bandaged, was held stiffly against her chest. Her handbag, which they had recovered from her car that first day, hung over her wrapped wrist. A cast encased her ankle. She was dressed in his mother’s thick Victorian dressing gown over an equally old-fashioned nightgown. Louise, fidgeting nervously, stood beside her, one hand holding her charge's elbow.
“I’m sorry, my lord,” the maid explained. “She heard the commotion and voices and got very upset. After listening for a moment, she grabbed her bag and stumbled past me. She refused to return to bed. I didn’t want to try to force her back, afraid I might injure her further. So I got the crutch and came with her.”
“What are you doing?” Margaret insisted. “Let him go at once.”
Swaying unsteadily, she pushed herself off the balustrade and leaned on the crutch. Louisa slipped under her charge’s bandaged arm, rested a steadying hand on her back and helped her limp down the stairs. Together with the unwieldy crutch, the servant’s added support allowed Maggie to descend slowly, painfully, and with great effort.
As he watched her hobbling down, Christopher had never felt more proud of anyone in his life. She left her sickbed to help him. He was both honored and humbled by her selflessness.
Teresa closed her eyes for a split second, a voiceless oath on her lips. Why wouldn't the bitch just die when she was supposed to? Why did she have to be a thorn in the sides of her betters?
Gathering her composure with an effort, the true lady of the manor sidled to the stairs and stalked toward the infuriating interloper with a concerned smile. “Oh, Margaret, darling, I’m so glad you’re all right!”
At her approach, the coward stumbled back and held her handbag in front of her like a shield. “Keep away from me. Someone keep her back!”
Sweet, ever conscientious Lara rushed forward only to be stopped at the base of the stairs by Constable Daniels. “Mags, what’s wrong?”
Hampered by her crutch and the cumbersome cast on her ankle, that woman scrambled awkwardly up a few steps and turned to face her enemy. “Just keep that woman away!”
“Miss Houseman,” the inspector ordered firmly. “Please descend those stairs. Now.”
Teresa stopped her approach. She didn’t want to openly defy the police. She had more important things to do. Still, the wait was galling. With barely controlled frustration, she waited. She did not retreat.
“Get away from her, Teresa,” Christopher warned, a toothless tiger roaring. “Get away, or I swear to God…”
He strained against his guards but did not openly fight them. She knew he would never do that. He would not force them to use handcuffs. Dear Lord Yawron, always so predictable.
Teresa gave him a challenging, disdainful look that said it all. He could not reach her if he tried. The police would see to that. Even if he were only delayed, that time would be all she needed. She knew she was completely in command here.
“What are you going to do with Chr—Lord Yawron?” the hussy asked Inspector Matthews.
Her quick correction made Teresa smile. Whore Taylor knew not to call him by his Christian name. The girl does learn, apparently.
“Why are those men restraining him?” the wench asked, moving closer to the handrail to get a clear view. Her movements were halting and unsteady.
Teresa’s eyes narrowed as she thought quickly. So, the tramp’s balance wasn’t good? Excellent.
Inspector Matthews looked distinctly uncomfortable. “He’s under suspicion for your kidnapping.”
“What?” she cried.
“Don’t worry,” Teresa added, taking another step closer to her. “We’ll make sure he can’t hurt anyone else.”
“I think the only one he ever hurt was you, and it wasn't physically either,” Margaret snapped and then turned to the crowd. “If you really want to know who did this or this”—she pointed to her face and her arm—“you have to look no further than Teresa Houseman.”
“What do you mean?” Teresa scoffed, the picture of innocence. “You’re delirious!”
“Am I? Then who gave you that bruise on your side, or the scratches on your face and neck that you’ve taken such care to cover with cosmetics.” Leaning against the balustrade, she prodded Teresa’s ribs lightly with her crutch.
White-hot fire exploded through her bruised side, a memento the tire-iron left behind. Teresa gasped and jumped away. Damn the bitch!
Margaret leaned over stiffly and whispered to Louise. Nodding, the servant left her charge and stepped up to the other woman. “Excuse me, Miss Houseman.”
Teresa turned to the maidservant, frowning in suspicion. “What do you want, girl?”
Quickly bracing Teresa’s head with one hand, the maid rubbed roughly across her left cheek and neck. Teresa hissed. Red lines appeared as wounds were reopened.
Struggling, Teresa slapped the maid's face hard and swore at her. How dare she assault a blue blood like that? Teresa spat and shoved her away.
Louise blinked and staggered but did not respond. She didn’t look upset or offended. She had obviously succeeded in her task. With hypocritical politeness, she grasped Teresa's arm and spun her to face the crowd.
“It was a cat!” Teresa replied, desperately trying to find an explanation. “Lara, you believe me. Tell them.”
Lara backed away slowly, shaking her head, a look of shocked betrayal on her face. “I… I… Teresa?”
“The feline had a very wide claw span, by the look of it,” Brenlaw remarked, stepping nearer, “almost bear-sized. It’s a miracle you escaped with your life if the cat was proportional to its paw.”
“And I have further proof,” Margaret continued.
What else could she have? How much worse can this get? Teresa had to end this before it got completely out of hand.
Brenlaw marveled at Miss Taylor’s composure as she faced down the woman who had so viciously attacked her. The young lady had appeared like an angel above the crowd, showing anxiety toward his lordship. No woman would do that for a man who kidnapped and assaulted her. If anyone could turn the tide in his lordship's favor, it was her.
Balancing precariously on one foot, supported only by the crutch and the railing, Miss Taylor dug into her bag and pulled out a sheet of paper. “I received this the other night, one of many I’ve found pushed under my door in the last few weeks. Shall I read it to you? ‘Margaret Taylor, you damned barefaced slut. A London tart is a pure saint compared to you…’ ”
The people below gasped at the shocking language. Even Brenlaw could not help flinching, a jolt running through him. Did she say this was one of many such letters?
The Inspector strode to the base of the stairway. “Miss Taylor, I would like to see that letter if you please.”
She held up her hand. “There’s more. ‘You deserve to be cut open on the village green, so that others may spit upon your entrails. You deserve to be violated until you bleed.’ ”
“Oh good Lord,” his lordship muttered, appalled. “All this time… letters like that… and she never said a word!”
The crowd was equally horrified. Murmured conversations spread, and the tide of opinion wavered. The mob turned from Brenlaw and his master to watch the drama above unfold.
Lara’s eyes widened. “Teresa!”
“It’s not true, Lara. I swear to you, it’s not true!”
Continuing up the stairs, the policeman ordered, “Miss Taylor, that's enough. Just bring that down to me.”
“Oh, but this is the best part. And it proves Christopher Tobias didn’t write any of the messages I received. ‘If every man in town had his turn, you could not be a more stinking whore than you are now. Don’t see him again, bitch, or you will regret it!’ ” She gazed down on the people below, her face glowing in triumph. Then calm as you please, she handed the letter to the approaching officer.
The Inspector glanced at it and scowled. Curling his lip in disgust, he stepped behind the alleged author. “Miss Houseman?”
“I have nothing to say, Inspector. Not in front of these cretins,” Teresa remarked.
Miss Houseman’s face was set in stone, but her blue eyes blazed at the person who had unraveled her carefully laid plan. Margaret, still weak, rested her weight on the rail and grinned. The older woman quivered with anger. Troubled by the look in Miss Houseman’s eyes, Brenlaw moved toward the stairs, his police guard now more of an escort.
Not wishing to sound too vengeful in front of her neighbors, Margaret spoke only loud enough for the Inspector and Teresa to hear. “You’re going to hang, you bitch! If you had killed me outright and quickly, your plan might have worked. But you couldn’t. Your malicious little heart wouldn’t let you. You had to take your time. You had to enjoy it.” Teresa met her eyes coldly and said nothing. Margaret continued, “Well, Teresa, you won’t get a second chance at me.”
“Don’t be so sure,” Teresa growled. She turned and took a step down with her right foot. Suddenly, she pushed off her left foot and swung around, hitting Margaret on the side of the head.
VVincent Matthews caught Miss Houseman before she could attack further, but he was too late. The woman had succeeded in her task. Weak and dazed, her already injured victim slipped over the rail.
“Maggie!” Lord Yawron cried, rushing towards the staircase. The policemen did not hold him back this time, releasing him when he lunged for the stairs.
As she plunged over the edge, Miss Taylor threw out the hand of her good arm. Her fingers found the wood they sought, firmly grasping the banister. A moment later, her body collided with the paneling beneath the staircase. The breath was knocked out of her on impact.
Her free fall stopped abruptly. She shrieked, gasping and closing her eyes for a moment. Blood began to seep into the sleeve of the nightgown. The sudden lurch must have strained every muscle and pulled open every covered wound. Yet she held on tightly.
Vincent quickly handed Teresa to one of his deputies and rushed to the railing. Reaching through the poles, he grasped the dangling woman’s wrist. “I've got you.”
“Someone call the doctor!” Lara shouted. “One way or the other, we’ll need him here.”
The maid, Louise, ran to the upstairs telephone extension. Brenlaw broke free from his own guard and dashed up the steps two at a time. Stopping a step above Vincent’s position, he reached for Maggie's forearm. His grip helped alleviate some of the strain. Vincent was able to get a better grasp on her wrist.
“Give me your other hand!” Brenlaw called.
“I can’t… I can't lift it! The pain… I can't hold on… I’ll have to drop!”
Struggling to keep his hold on her wrist, Vincent shook his head sharply. “It’s too high; you’ll break your neck!”
As he saw her hand sliding through Vincent's blood-slicked fingers, Brenlaw swore vividly in a very un-butler-like fashion. “Damn it, miss! Hold on!”
“Can’t… can’t help it!" she gasped. "It's the only way!”
She closed her eyes and let go. Without her help, Vincent and Brenlaw lost their grip. Both cursed vividly as her fingers brushed their palms. A split-second later, there was a heavy crash and a smash of glass.