Total pages in book: 84
Estimated words: 78100 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 391(@200wpm)___ 312(@250wpm)___ 260(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 78100 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 391(@200wpm)___ 312(@250wpm)___ 260(@300wpm)
“No, that’s not true. None of this is true.” Brittingham finally seemed to find his voice. “Preposterous fantasies trumped up to excuse your own reprehensible behavior. How dare you accuse me, sir? How dare you, by God—”
“How dare I?” Marlow thrust a finger under his nose. “Your sneering henchman revealed everything to me as I lay in chains on that stinking ship. How he’d switched my clothes with that other chap. How they’d put him on a ship to India under my name so it would seem I’d abandoned my wife.”
His eyes found her as he said it. Even though her mother had drawn her a safe distance away, he’d known exactly where she was the entire time. “I never left you, Rosalind. Never.”
“I know.”
She whispered the words, ashamed, because she had allowed herself to believe it when she should not have believed. He’d never left her. He’d been kidnapped by Brittingham’s accomplices.
“I’ll have the name of every man who helped you,” he shouted at Brittingham, turning away from her. “I’ll have the name of every criminal who conspired against me at your hand and the lot of you will pay with your lives.”
“I had nothing to do with any plot,” said the marquess, his eyes wide. “Stand away from me, sir, or I’ll call out the magistrate to haul you to Bedlam. You’ve clearly lost your wits.”
The idea of Marlow being hauled away made her move toward him. Her mother held her gently. “Wait,” she said. “Not yet.”
“Yes, let’s fetch the magistrate,” said Lord Warren, gesturing to a servant. “Send for him at once.”
“You will not,” blustered Brittingham, fixing his disordered cravat. “I will not be slandered here before all these people. You ran to India and abandoned your family like a coward. Now you wish to return and accuse me of kidnapping to save face.”
“My only cowardice is not killing you on the spot,” Marlow said with such venom that Brittingham took a step back.
“Well, I can see you will not be assuaged from your ravings. I shall take my leave—” He bumped into the towering Duke of Arlington behind him. He and his son Wescott shoved Brittingham back into the circle of accusation.
“I believe we must hear the gentlemen’s testimony under oath,” said Lord Warren ominously. “Once the magistrate arrives.”
“Indeed,” said Marlow. “I’ve got your name from the man on the ship, who was happy enough to betray you even though you paid him a pretty amount to pull off the scheme. I’ll learn the names of all your cronies and I’ll tell you this—you shall not know a moment of peace from now until the day you pass from this earth. You’ll rot in jail or be hanged, you bloody mongrel. This is the end for you, Brittingham.”
“Let me go. Release me.”
The men had no intention of releasing him. In fact, all the men present at the ball had given off dancing for the night and devoted themselves to guarding the dishonored marquess, lest he try to make a run for France before the law arrived. They believed her husband. She believed her husband. He would not have left her, and Brittingham was never a good man. She had always known that deep in her heart, that Marlow was the better choice.
“Go to your wife,” said his father. “We’ll keep Brittingham here until the magistrate arrives.”
Now that his story was told, now that Brittingham was contained, Marlow seemed to have shed the fury that animated him. He walked toward her, then stopped and looked down at his clothing, as if remembering how scruffy and wild he looked.
She went to him instead, meeting him in the center of the ballroom floor, where couples had been blissfully waltzing mere minutes before. He took her hand, gazing into her eyes. He had aged a little. God knew what he’d been through.
“I’m sorry,” he said softly. “I’ve just arrived from the harbor. The servants told me you were here, but I didn’t know about this… The ball… I’ve made a scene.”
“It doesn’t matter. Oh, my love.” She threw herself into his arms. “None of it matters but that you’re home.” She grasped him, holding him tight. “I’ve missed you so much. Oh, how I’ve missed you. What misfortune have you had to survive?”
“That doesn’t matter now. I only had to survive it to come home to you. Tell me Brittingham didn’t propose to you, that you haven’t fallen under his spell in my absence—”
“No. Of course not. My heart never let go of you.” She would not, could not, let go of him now that she held him. His hair, once shorn, had grown all the way back. It tickled her cheeks as she clutched at him. He felt the same, just thinner. He was still strong, still true. He’d been strong enough to find a way back to her.