London, England
The Old Bailey
March, 1794
Callum Wardell, the Earl of Aycliff, sat across from the men in the jury box and surveyed the courtroom floor. The large windows let in what little light the cheerless day provided, reflecting his mood all too well as he listened and waited.
He held himself utterly immobile as the barrister vehemently gave his closing arguments, the only sign of emotion was his clenched jaw. However, no matter how rigid his control, Callum couldn’t help that single outward sign. That reprobate’s defense continued on as the barrister made a weak attempt to clear him, but Callum had spent too long compiling the evidence against Frederick Garrow to let that bastard walk now.
Beside him, the newspaper man hastily sketched Garrow as the traitor stood in the prisoner’s box. Several sketches peeked out from his pile, one of the judge, white wig and black robes in stark contrast, and those important enough, or close enough, to the judge to sit beside him during this trial.
The judge had offered him a seat at the long table, but Callum had refused. Not that he hadn’t wanted his presence to sway the judge, but he knew he wouldn’t have been able to stay quiet throughout the trial.
Finally the barrister stopped and sat. The judge looked to the jury and turned it over to them, instructing them on the outline of the case they’d been listening to for several days now.
“Now you must decide,” the judge intoned, and the jury immediately huddled together and began talking in hushed, animated whispers.
Callum’s hands fisted as he awaited the verdict. If the judge made the wrong move, Callum would see him removed from the bench. But the man glanced across the room to him. While the judge’s face remained blank as the jury began their deliberations, he seemed to realize Callum’s intent as well.
The man who had bribed the previous judge and jury to return a guilty verdict on Mr. Darton, an innocent man, would pay. Callum still searched for that conspirator, Caleb Dervin, who had somehow managed to find a hole deep enough to hide in. But whether he found Dervin or not, Callum wouldn’t let either this judge or jury get away with that same tactic this time.
Formality covered the courtroom today, one that the Old Bailey didn’t normally hold. Not only was this a matter of treason, but a member of the House of Lords watched the proceedings. Callum didn’t care if that influenced both judge and jury to his way of thinking—in fact, he counted on it.
Callum gripped the head of his cane until his knuckles whitened as the jury foreman stood and announced to the judge they had reached a verdict. Clenching his jaw more tightly, he forced himself to remain sitting as the judge took his time nodding to the foreman to proceed.
The newspaper man next to him had stopped sketching the setting and now leaned eagerly forward. Everyone seemed to lean forward and hold their breaths, and an unnatural hush fell over the room.
“We, the jury, find Frederick Garrow guilty of treason against the crown.”
The foreman continued on, speaking the words he was supposed to, but all Callum heard was guilty. Satisfied with the verdict, he nodded.
Satisfied, yes, but vengeance, not justice, moved through him like a hot spike as he turned to the reporter. Handing the man a wad of money, he made sure he had the other’s full attention.
“I want to see an account of this trial in every newspaper in England,” Callum said in a low, fierce voice. The other man took the notes and pocketed them.
“That won’t be a problem, my lord,” the man promised as he stood. “Everyone in the kingdom wants to know what happened here today.”
He looked as if he wanted to ask more, questions that no doubt had little to do with the trial and more to do with Callum’s part in it. Callum gave him a hard look, and the man hastily bowed and left.
Callum also stood, but before he left he looked to the judge. The black cloth already lay over the man’s white wig. Garrow would be hung for crimes against the crown, much like Darton had been. Feeling no remorse for the man’s death, Callum turned from the courtroom and left.
Outside the doors, another newspaper man awaited him. “My lord, you’ve cleared the name of your former betrothed’s father,” the man began. “Will Miss Darton soon be the new countess?”
Callum refrained from hitting the man and brushed him aside as he left the crowded halls of the Old Bailey. Behind him another reporter shouted questions, but Callum ignored those as well.
He thought about using the papers to find Elizabeth, but didn’t trust them enough to do so. Hell, at this stage, it seemed his last resort. No matter how desperate he seemed Callum had one or two remaining options left.
In no mood to wait for his carriage, Callum stalked the London streets, anger pounding through him. Garrow was but one man from this elaborate scheme Callum sought to destroy. Today’s outcome had been desired, expected even, but he felt no sense of accomplishment.
Elizabeth’s whereabouts still eluded him.
As he made his way back to his townhouse he heard the street hawkers, already shouting the trial’s outcome. Callum cared little for the amount of newspapers this scandal, or the romantic past behind it, sold. All he did care about was that word of Darton’s innocence, proved in court, reached Elizabeth.
Another crowd of people stood along the sidewalk in front of his townhouse. Scowling, he pushed through them. Handing Stark, the butler, his items, Callum ordered the area cleared. He didn’t want gawkers before his townhouse, and he sure as hell didn’t want to answer any questions to inquisitive newspaper reporters. He might be willing to use them to his own purposes, but he’d be damned if it went any further.
Stark ordered several footmen to clear the sidewalk and, satisfied his butler would see the area remained clear, Callum headed for his study. He needed a drink.
Pouring a tumbler of whisky, he let the fire spread through him. It matched the fire that had propelled him to find Garrow, to hunt down Dervin despite the latter’s network of spies that allowed him to remain free from Callum’s grasp.
That fire had been all to see him through the long days and longer nights as he struggled to find Elizabeth. It had been all that kept him warm as he searched heaven and hell for her.
Callum slammed down the crystal, hands gripping the edge of the drinks cabinet as he struggled to control himself. To control the loneliness and loss that threatened to consume him with each passing day.
He refused to let that loneliness destroy him despite the ever-fainter leads on Elizabeth’s whereabouts. It didn’t matter that she had disappeared from his bed just over a year ago.
Breathing heavy, he forced those thoughts away; they’d never done him any good. Had never done aught but haunt him. In the end none of that mattered; Callum didn’t care how long it took to find her or where he had to search. He’d find her.
Opening his eyes, he looked to the whisky decanter but refrained from pouring another drink. It didn’t help. Nothing did. Elizabeth’s face obsessed him, her smile, her quick laugh. The taste of her kiss, the feel of her skin beneath his fingertips as they made love.
With a wordless roar, Callum threw the crystal glass across the room. It shattered against the wall, but did naught to ease his anger. He should have found her by now and he knew that.
“I take it that glass did something to offend you?”
The words were said in a slow, curious drawl as if the speaker already knew the answer to her question. Henrietta emerged from the hidden panel near the fireplace, her barely lined face untroubled as she gazed evenly at him.
When Callum didn’t respond, Henrietta raised an eyebrow and glided further into the room.
He didn’t know how she knew, but somehow the woman understood he needed more than several moments to collect himself. Callum circled his desk and sat behind it; the move didn’t give him a sense of power over the diminutive woman, nor did it ease his own internal turmoil. But it did give him precious moments to clear his senses of Elizabeth’s taste and focus on the matter at hand.
Taking another deep breath, Callum studied the head of the infamous Hellfire Club. He’d gone to Henrietta on a lead, and had discovered something of a kindred spirit in the woman.
“Have you found…” he broke off and stopped himself from asking what he truly wanted to. About Elizabeth, always about Elizabeth. Instead he asked, “Anything?”
Despite his rude manners in not offering her a seat, Henrietta took her time sitting in one of the leather chairs before his desk. Her mysterious grey eyes held his as she moved, but try as he might, Callum had never been successful at deciphering any emotion she didn’t want him to see.
He idly wondered if her lover, Donald, had any success but somehow doubted it.
“Give me a moment to congratulate you on such an outstanding feat, Aycliff,” Henrietta said graciously. He knew her words were sincere, and for that he nodded at her, shoulders relaxing, some of the tension easing.
“You’ve shown them all,” she continued and leaned forward just enough to emphasize her next words. “Including your late father, and against almost insurmountable odds.”
“I have only a single goal,” Callum said coolly, ignoring Henrietta’s comment about his father. “And that is to have Elizabeth in my arms again.”
Henrietta leaned back, but she didn’t look relaxed, either. “I know,” she said softly. “I know. But there has been nothing. Not a sighting, not a whisper.”
His chair scraped against the floor as he stood. The sound shot through the room, loud and grating. Callum ignored it and continued to watch Henrietta. He’d gone to her when his own resources had discovered nothing, and despite the rumors surrounding the Hellfire Club, had found her to be an honest and devoted friend.
This continued lack of progress infuriated him. Elizabeth was a gentlewoman and could not have possibly disappeared!
“You have the resources,” he said harshly, “all the powerful resources of the Hellfire Club. And you cannot find one girl?”
“You have the resources of Parliament,” Henrietta quipped, “and all the newspapers in England. And yet she’s not presented herself to you, either, has she.”
Callum stalked to the window. The day had not brightened, and now an unforgiving wind blew through his rear gardens. He ignored it and the spring flowers just blooming. Flowers…Callum closed his eyes and blanked his mind against the memories.
“Aycliff,” she continued, not unkindly, “you must face the real and true possibility that Miss Darton will never make herself known again. Or that something untoward has happened to her and she cannot return.”
“She’s out there,” he whispered.
“You’ve done the greatest honor to her and her family that can be done,” Henrietta insisted. “You’ve cleared her father’s name, her name. If she hasn’t returned yet, then it’s likely she never will.”
He heard rustling behind him and knew Henrietta helped herself to a glass of whisky. He didn’t begrudge her this, but didn’t acknowledge her either.
“There comes a time when you have to move beyond what was,” she said from next to him, “and seek a new future.”
“I have no future without her,” he said flatly.
“You had agreed to Olivia Reynard,” Henrietta reminded him. “Allow me to find another suitable companion for you.”
His hands tightened into fists behind his back and he tried not to remember that moment of weakness and depression when he had accepted his father’s pronouncement. Even then, Callum knew his acceptance, made in a haze of alcohol and misery, had been a mistake. But he’d been lonely and at the end of his rope—every lead he’d tracked down had hit a wall. Elizabeth had truly disappeared.
“That was my father’s doing,” he snapped. “Before his death. I’ve no interest in anyone else save Elizabeth.”
“Elizabeth may no longer be a choice for you,” Henrietta said quietly.
Furious at her words, Callum turned and stalked the few paces separating them. “I’ll find her if it means tearing this country to shreds,” he vowed. “Even if I have to dismantle your club brick by brick.”
Real fear flashed in her eyes and Henrietta took a step back. She quickly regained control of herself and raised her glass in salute to him. Satisfied he’d made his point, Callum stepped back and returned to staring blindly out the window.
“What of Dervin?” he asked.
“I’m told,” Henrietta said, “Caleb Dervin has attempted passage to France. However, I believe that to be an elaborate ruse.” She paused and sipped her drink, but Callum knew better than to suppose that move to be a stalling tactic. “In fact, I think him either in London or nearby. He has far too many business concerns,” she added with a touch of irony, “not to be readily on hand in London.”
Pleased with this turn of events, Callum nodded. If Dervin was indeed nearby, he’d find him far faster than if the bastard was in France.
“Keep what spies you have well paid,” he told her, turning to meet her steely grey gaze. “And make sure I’m informed the moment he surfaces.”
“Dervin isn’t like Garrow,” Henrietta warned and finished her drink. “He won’t be trapped without inflicting what pain he can.”
“The only pain to be inflicted,” Callum promised and saw Henrietta understood him perfectly, “will be Dervin’s when the rope snaps his neck.”