“I have not yet uttered a single word that was not sincere,” Callum said, straining to sit up slightly and look at her but finding himself still too weak. “I love you, Lady Beatrix, and I would endeavor to marry you, though I am most undeserving. If you’ll have me, I will make it my life’s work to be the man you deserve.”
“And what of all the Earls in the world who stand between us, arguing against our happiness with rules about propriety?” she asked without meeting his eye. “How are you and I to live happily among those who would despise me for my lowly birth and questionable parentage? Who would then despise you in turn for your poor choice?”
“That should be their concern, not mine,” Callum said as firmly as he could manage. “I mean that. Those are not just pretty promises that I make from having narrowly avoided death only a day ago. I have seen what could have been the end of my life, and the things that once mattered to me are no longer important.”
Beatrix looked up at him and he smiled tenderly, adding in a weak but determined voice, “You are all that matters now.”
Beatrix was rescued from answering by a sudden flurry of activity. Mrs. Powell brought the requested tray and placed it near to the bed, insisting on feeding Lord Bellton right away. Soon enough, Sir Williams entered to see to his patient and proclaimed his recovery slow but still remarkable.
Beatrix took the liberty of excusing herself so that the physician might examine the Marquess privately, but in truth, she only made it as far as the hallway before collapsing against the wall in a near faint.
It had been a trying two days, to be sure. First it was the emergency with the driver, then the elation that turned to confusion upon seeing her father again. That short-lived reunion had ended with the most horrible sight she’d ever known. She clutched at her stomach from the memory of watching helplessly as he was hauled away, all because of the chaotic argument that led to the Marquess’s grievous injury. Now, with very little sleep and almost no nourishment to carry her through, Beatrix’s head swam with Lord Bellton’s declaration. Surely it was only the words of an injured man who felt grateful to be alive. He could not have thought this through!
“Worse, I don’t want him to think of it clearly!” Beatrix thought, nearly succumbing to her emotions. “I want a man who would throw all of this to the wind to have me!”
But still, the practical voice that guided her every thought was right: there was no good end for a nobleman and the daughter of a thief.
In children’s tales, the poor girl was always one who had been wronged in some way. It always turned out for the best in the end, but that could not be true for Beatrix. She knew who her father was—worse, she knewwhathe was—and though she loved him desperately, his was not the sort of character who came ‘round to happy endings.
Instead, the thief’s daughter might escape into the night in these stories, having no one else to care for. But never did the authors dress the girl in a fancy gown and put jewels in her hair as she was delivered to her loving prince. That was only for the princesses who’d been forced to work in the scullery.
And despite the title her father had bestowed on her all the years as his own little princess, she was truly no lady. The way the Earl had spoken to her even before her father came to her rescue had assured her of one thing: there could be no happy ending between her and the Marquess.
“I must be away from here,” she thought miserably, “before the pain becomes too great for either of us to bear! But where shall I go, and how?”
In truth, the driver who laid injured was her only hope. She could strike out on foot as she’d already planned, but where would that leave her father? What was the name of the town Mr. Lloyd had confirmed? Chelmsford?
Beatrix was as trapped as ever, held prisoner this time by indecision. How she’d dreamed of breaking out through a window or kicking her way free through the downstairs door! Now, she found she had nowhere to go and no way to help anyone she cared about.
“Ah, Miss Risewell,” the physician said as he left the room. Beatrix turned sharply, her eyes wide at the mention of her father’s surname. “I’m glad that you are still here. I shall not be able to stay much longer, I’m afraid, as I have other patients I must attend to. Should I leave written instructions?”
Beatrix dropped her shoulders in defeat and nodded solemnly. “Of course. I will stay and see that they are followed to the letter.”
“Good!” Sir Williams replied, but his relief turned to confusion. “Though you do not look pleased at my request. Are you put out that you are needed here? I can try to send a nurse, if that is so.”
“No, it’s all right. I’m more than obliged to stay after all the Marquess has done for me,” she answered slowly. “It is only fear for my father’s plight that makes me question it.”
“Ah, that is wholly understandable,” the older man said with a reassuring smile, patting Beatrix on the shoulder kindly. “But never fear, I’m sure our letters will reach the court immediately. They will help your father greatly, I’m sure of it.”
* * *
“Bring in the prisoner,” the court officer bellowed from his post. He waited while the murmurs of an unusually crowded room mellowed slightly. Not that he could blame the onlookers for their curiosity, as it was not every day the court heard the sworn testimony against not only a wanted thief but a murderer as well.
The well-known Prince Aaron was led into the room in chains, his hands and feet bound in such a way he looked to be no prince. He looked hardly more than a timid animal, a wounded one at that. His long black hair hung loosely about his face, giving him an air of poor health and a lack of cleanliness.
The crowd hissed loudly as he was brought in, and the official had to rap his cane upon the floor several times to bring them to silence. Once Prince Aaron was locked securely inside his wooden cage, the circuit judge arrived through a door at the side of the room, adjusting the white curls of his peruke over his own hair as he entered.
“What is the nature of the charges?” the judge asked in a weary voice. The prosecutor for the Crown stood up and read from the document. “Ah, so I finally have the pleasure of hosting Prince Aaron himself within these halls!”
“Yes, Your Honour,” the prosecutor agreed, sounding as formal as he could.
“My, my. I’ve waited a long time for this occasion. Now I can see why the entire town is treating this as a festival day!” the judge said, clapping his hands and smiling wickedly. “There is much to celebrate, after all, when we rid ourselves of the fear caused by a black-hearted criminal such as this!”
“Will the officer read the evidence?” the prosecutor asked, and the officer stood up and came to the center of the room. All eyes were affixed as he read from three letters.
“Thank you, I’ve no need to hear any more,” the judge announced when the officer was finished. “I shall think a verdict will be rather straightforward. While the letter from both the criminal’s daughter and the doctor who tended the patient are compelling, they do not hold sway over the evidence of the esteemed eyewitness, written by his own hand. The Earl of Weavington was in attendance and watched the accused brutally murder the victim, a member of the peerage, the Marquess of Bellton. That, coupled with his many years of criminal behaviors, gives me no pause in condemning Aaron Risewell to death.”
There was a gasp of surprise followed by triumphant cheers in the gallery. The officer once again slammed his staff repeatedly against the floor to bring about order.
