Chapter 36

36

T homas gasped in a breath. Sweet air! He'd been sleeping, and then…

A dream.

A nightmare.

He was underwater, struggling to breathe…

But he was awake now. Weak, but awake, and?—

"Thomas!" A throaty gasp.

Ignoring his shortness of breath and the pain from his burns, he leapt out of bed wearing only his britches.

Tricia was here, and someone was on top of her with his hands around her neck.

He winced as he stepped on something jagged, but he forced the pain away as he garnered all his strength and grabbed hold of the man who dared lay hands on his beloved, forcing the assailant's face into view.

Thomas gasped. "It can't be."

It wasn't Jonathan Jameson.

It wasn't Viscount Polk or his son Victor.

It was Albert Montague. His butler.

For a second, everything was still. No one moved. Thomas was so taken aback that no force in this earthly domain could move him.

Montague took advantage of the earl's bewilderment and kicked him squarely in the chest, knocking the air out of his lungs and sending him to the floor. Thomas hit the floor with a loud thud, his naked back scraping up against pieces of white and light-blue porcelain which dug into his skin like an angry hive of bees. Thomas looked up to see that Montague, his face a mask of cold resolve, had reclasped his gloved hands firmly around Tricia's neck. Her eyes bulged in terror, her desperate gasps for air echoing in the stillness.

Ignoring the pain and the small pool of blood that had formed under him, Thomas quickly got back to his feet. "Montague, release her at once!"

Montague's eyes flicked towards Thomas, his grip momentarily loosening. Tricia collapsed to the floor, gasping for breath. Montague straightened and met the Thomas's gaze.

"Why are you doing this?" Thomas asked. "You've served this family loyally for years. We've paid you well, treated you like family."

Montague's face darkened, and he bared his teeth like a bull about to charge. "If only that were true, my lord. "

Montague lunged forward, his right fist aiming for Thomas's jaw. Thomas sidestepped his attack, grabbing a silver candelabrum from a nearby table and swinging it towards the butler. Montague ducked just in time, the heavy object whooshing past his head and crashing into a mirror, shattering it. He then grabbed Thomas's arm, forcing him to drop the candelabra, and kicked him onto his knees, directly on top of the broken glass.

Thomas winced from the pain at first, but the sight of his beloved Tricia, who was coughing in the corner, spurred him forward.

Thomas rolled to his feet, ignoring the tiny shards of glass slowly ensconcing themselves into his bare flesh, and snatched a decorative saber from its mount on the wall. He advanced slowly, the blade reflecting the light off the broken glass. Montague circled him, his eyes calculating, before feinting to the left and then darting to the right, aiming a swift kick at Thomas's knee. But Thomas was not about to be thrown to the ground for a third time by his own servant. He staggered but didn't fall, swinging the saber in a wide arc. Montague leapt back, narrowly avoiding the razor-sharp edge.

Thomas thrust the saber towards Montague's chest. The butler caught Thomas's wrist, twisting it with the strength of a man half his age, forcing him to drop the weapon. It clattered to the floor. With a deft motion, Montague spun Thomas around, locking him in a chokehold. Thomas struggled, feeling his vision blur. He was already weak from his burns. What more could he do?

"Get away from him, you bastard!"

Out of the corner of his eye, Thomas saw Tricia, his beloved intended, run at Montague with the discarded candelabra. She smashed it into Montague's ribs repeatedly until the butler's grip slackened. Thomas broke free, gasping for air, and grabbed a fire poker from the hearth. He swung it with all his might, catching Montague across the shoulder. The black jacket he was wearing tore, and under it, Thomas saw his attack had rent a wide gash across the butler's upper arm, which was leaking blood over his pale exposed skin.

But this wound did not slow the butler. With a snarl, Montague grabbed a nearby chair and hurled it at Thomas. He dodged it, and the chair splintered against the wall. Montague rushed forward, and the two men exchanged a flurry of blows.

Finally, Thomas managed to land a solid punch to the center of Montague's abdomen, making him double over in pain. Thomas seized the moment and tackled Montague to the ground. They grappled, rolling across the polished wood floor. Montague's hand found a larger shard of broken mirror, and he slashed at Thomas's burnt arm, drawing blood.

Ignoring the pain, Thomas headbutted Montague, dazing him. He pinned Montague's arms to the floor, his knee pressing down on his chest.

"It's over, Montague!" Thomas panted.

Montague, blood trickling from the injury to his shoulder, stared up at Thomas, his expression inscrutable. Then, with a final, heaving sigh, he went limp.

Thomas rose unsteadily to his feet, his body bruised, bloody, and battered.

"Is he dead?" Tricia squeaked.

Thomas put an ear to the butler's mouth. He was breathing.

"He'll live," Thomas replied.

Then from behind him, he heard a clatter. Tricia had collapsed onto his bed.

"My darling! Are you all right?" Thomas rushed to the bed.

Her eyelids fluttered. She looked up at him, and her eyes widened at the larger wound on his arm, as well as the multiple tiny wounds from the broken glass and porcelain he had fallen on.

"You're hurt."

Thomas smiled. "I'll live, too."

"Thank God." She looked to the floor. "Thomas, your beautiful vase, I?—"

He placed a finger on her lips. "No antique, priceless as it may be, could match your value, my love."

She cupped his cheek with her hand. "I love you, Thomas."

"And I you, my dearest."

Tricia. His only love. Her voice cut through Thomas like a knife through butter, pulling him back to the divine realm of their love. It was as if he were seeing her for the first time again, not just as his love, but as his anchor, the one person who could remind him of the beauty of the world when all else failed.

Tricia sat up, her demeanor cautious. She reached out and lightly touched his arm. Her caress was gentle, a stark contrast to the violence of just moments ago.

"Let's go," she said softly.

Thomas nodded, unable to trust his voice. Together, they walked away, leaving Montague behind, groaning on the ground.

"We must get him medical help," Tricia said.

"Let him rot."

"Thomas…"

She was right, of course. Where was Longbottom, anyway? And Montague…

How could he have been so blind? He would never in a hundred years have thought that his butler was part of the conspiracy against him.

He needed to find his cousin and get to the bottom of everything, but he needed to dress first. Longbottom was nowhere to be found, though.

"Could you help me dress, my love?" he asked her.

"Of course." She looked down at the robe she was wearing. "Perhaps it's best if I get dressed as well."

"We'll run to your bedchamber next and you can throw something on."

Tricia then eyed Thomas's shoulder. "What about that cut?"

"We'll wrap something around it."

Tricia nodded and helped her fiancé get dressed, fashioning a makeshift bandage out of an old stocking.

Once Thomas was fully clothed—he found a shirt with sleeves wide enough to accommodate the bandages on his forearms and forewent a suit coat—he and Tricia left his bedchamber. He grabbed the first servant he saw.

"Where is Mr. Longbottom?" Thomas asked.

The servant widened his eyes. "I don't know. Isn't he in your chamber?"

"I wouldn't have asked you that question if he were."

Tricia nudged him. "Thomas, control yourself."

Thomas drew in a deep breath. She consoled him. Softened him. Brought him back down to earth.

"Please see if you can find him," Thomas said evenly. "The future countess and I shall be in her chamber. Please find us when you locate Longbottom."

"Of course, my lord. I'm sure I shall find him shortly." The servant sauntered off.

Thomas turned to Tricia. "Let us run to your chamber. We can put you in a dress."

Once they reached Tricia's bedchamber—her mother and Kat were not around, thank God—she quickly stripped off the robe and slipped into a lavender morning dress. Before they could leave, there was a knock on the door.

Thomas opened the door, and there stood the servant they had just talked to.

"My lord," he said. "A stable boy found Mr. Longbottom."

"Is he all right?"

"Foxed," the servant said.

"Foxed?" Thomas shook his head. "The man doesn't even imbibe."

"Apparently he did today, my lord."

"Someone must have forced him out of my chamber and made him drink," Thomas said. "Find the physician. He's needed in my bedchamber. I want to see Jonathan Jameson, Lord Victor Polk, and Viscount Polk right away. I'll see them in the men's retiring room, since my study is not an option."

Tricia squeezed his arm. "Thomas, please. You're still recovering."

He shook his head. "I have stamina for this, my love. Trust me on that one." He sighed. "Tonight will be the last dinner of the house party, and the guests will leave tomorrow. By then, Jonathan will have found out what happened to Montague and will disappear. I want to find him and get his story before he has the chance to do so."

Tricia frowned and gazed at the beautiful ring, which thankfully had not slipped off in all the struggle that had occurred in the earl's bedchamber. She took a deep breath in and sighed. "I understand, my love. But please be careful. Neither of us has any idea of how deranged your cousin may be."

He leaned down and kissed her forehead. "I am aware, my angel. Have no fear. I will see you as my countess. Make no mistake about that."

* * *

"What did you use?" Thomas asked Jonathan. "What did you use to poison my father?"

Jonathan blinked several times. "I'm sure I have no idea what you're talking about."

"And I suppose you're going to tell me the three of you had nothing to do with the fire in my study last night?"

The viscount scoffed. "Of course we didn't, Ashford. How could you think such a thing?"

Jonathan, however, looked at his feet.

"Polk, Victor, we've been friends for a long time. I can't imagine that one of you started that fire." Thomas stood and pointed at his cousin. "But Tricia recognized your voice, Jameson, and heard you mention that you were my cousin. She didn't recognize the other voice, which makes me think it probably wasn't you, Polk. But perhaps your father was involved."

"For the love of God, Thomas," Polk said. "We've been neighbors since we were both in nappies. How could you possibly think…"

"It occurred to me that you may have been unknowing participants." He turned to Jonathan. "How did you get the viscount and his son involved? How were you able to get them to slip poison into my father's food?"

Thomas saw a flash of hurt in Jonathan's eyes before he stood up from his chair, his face pale.

"Thomas," Jonathan said in a shaky voice. "You truly think I've got the blood of your father on my hands? He was my uncle!" His voice broke midway, and he had to clear his throat before he could continue. "You think I used the viscount and his son as my puppets?"

"To get my earldom," Thomas said. "Those jewels you've been handing out like sweets are counterfeit, Jonathan. I had a jeweler look at them. You're flaunting riches that don't exist. You got rid of my father, and last night you wanted to get rid of me before I produced an heir."

Jonathan fell back into his chair, looking stricken. "No, the fire… You don't understand, Thomas, it wasn't for you. And of course we didn't know Lady Patricia was in there. You don't understand. I would never... I couldn't... You're talking about family, Thomas! Don't you see?"

But Thomas was unstoppable now, his anger and hurt pouring out in a torrent of words. "See what , exactly? That my cousin has become a snake? That you've lied to us all, manipulated us all?"

Jonathan clenched his fists. Sweat beaded on his brow, trickling down his face as the room became eerily silent. He took a deep breath before speaking again.

"Thomas," he said evenly, "I never wanted any of this. The counterfeits…" He swallowed. "Yes, they are my doing. But not as you think." He swallowed hard, looking Thomas straight in the eye. "I was trying to protect you."

"Protect me? By putting my life and my title at risk?"

"No," Jonathan said. "It wasn't me. It was never me." He shook his head. "It was your butler. Montague. He put me up to it. Promised me the earldom if I helped him. God help us, Polk and his father are innocent. It was Montague who slipped the poison into your father's drinks, in cahoots with one of Polk's cooks."

"And did it not occur to you, dear cousin, that the only way you would inherit the earldom would be at my demise?"

Jonathan gulped. "You could have renounced your title in my favor…"

"Why the bloody hell would I renounce my title?" Thomas got to his feet. "Perhaps you didn't like to think about it, Jonathan, but you were actively participating in a conspiracy to have me killed." He unbuttoned his shirt, revealing a patch of oozy red on his shoulder where his cut had soaked through the rough bandage Tricia had fashioned. "This is just one mark your chum the butler left on me. Thankfully he's not quite as masterful at murder as he is at heading a household."

The room was silent for a long time. The fire in the hearth crackled, and the only other sound was the ticking of the grandfather clock in the corner. Thomas wrestled with the words that had been so confidently delivered by Jonathan, tried to reconcile them with the image of Montague, his father's trusted servant, a seemingly devoted family man. He had assumed up until this point that Jonathan was the mastermind behind the plan, and Montague only his pawn. He hadn't imagined that the opposite might be true.

"You'd have me believe that Montague is the one responsible for my father's death?" Thomas said quietly, looking at Jonathan with a hard stare.

Jonathan nodded. "Yes. Montague was the one who conspired with the Polk chef to have your father's food poisoned. Of that I've seen concrete proof. Letters between him and a government correspondent, speaking in code about water and border disputes between the Polks' estate and yours."

So Montague had a "friend" in higher places, as well as another "friend" in the Polks' kitchen. And that's how the Polks, quite unwittingly, got involved.

For a moment, everything felt like it was spinning. Thomas clenched his hands into fists as he processed this new bit of information. He glanced at Polk, who looked equally as shocked.

"I will need to see these letters," Thomas said finally.

"You can't," Jonathan said. "I… I disposed of them. Montague and I had an agreement."

"You mean you burned them in the fire?" Thomas shook his head.

"No, of course not," Jonathan said. "The fire was for your father's journal."

"But the journal survived the fire."

Jonathan nodded. "Yes, that was part of the plan. We singed the edges of the journal and then placed it on your desk after the fire had been extinguished."

Thomas scratched his chin. "Because you wanted it to look as though the Polks had set fire to my office to destroy the journal, the one piece of evidence that could implicate them in my father's murder."

Jonathan nodded shakily. "That is correct."

"So the journal was a fake."

Jonathan shook his head. "Quite the contrary. Montague figured you would be able to recognize your father's handwriting. The journal is real."

A line from his father's journal slammed back into Thomas's memory.

Montague pointed out that this was the second time that I have felt unwell after attending a dinner with him and suggested I keep a written record of any odd symptoms I experience after our visits, if only to track if I am perhaps sensitive to one of the more exotic ingredients his chef uses.

"Montague suggested that my father keep the journal. So that when he did die, there was a clear trail of breadcrumbs leading to the Polk estate."

"My God!" The viscount threw his hand over his mouth.

Thomas looked over at his trembling cousin. His temples were throbbing, and his arms so sore he could barely stand it. "But there is one thing I don't understand, Jonathan. Montague had no motive. You did. With my father and me gone, the earldom would be yours."

Jonathan opened his mouth to protest, but no sound came out. Endless minutes passed before he finally gathered himself and spoke.

"You're right. I did have a motive. But I swear to you, your father's death had nothing to do with me."

"That's easy enough for you to say now," Polk interjected, his voice shaking with a mixture of anger and disbelief. "Who's to say you didn't plan all this from the start? That you didn't orchestrate everything?"

"Enough!" Jonathan shouted, slamming his hand on the table. "I did not kill your father, Thomas! We have established quite clearly that Montague did that."

Polk leaned back, his face pale beneath the candlelight. Thomas rubbed his temples, attempting to make sense of the words being thrown around.

"Even if it wasn't you," Thomas began slowly. "You knew about it and you did nothing."

Jonathan's eyes widened, and he took a step back, reeling from the accusation. "I… I didn't know until it was too late," he stammered. "By the time I figured out what Montague had done, your father was already…"

"Dead." Thomas finished Jonathan's sentence with a finality that echoed in the spacious room.

Polk shifted uncomfortably in his chair, absorbing the weight of Jonathan's confession.

In the silence that followed, Jonathan dropped his gaze to his hands, his fingers working nervously at the buttons of his waistcoat. When he finally spoke, his words were barely audible. "I am not proud of what I did next."

Thomas took a step towards his cousin, his hands curled into fists. "What?"

Jonathan closed his eyes and took a deep breath in. "I figured out that Montague was responsible for your father's death, Thomas. I found the letters, and they were damning. I should have turned those over to the authorities, but I…" He buried his face in his hands.

"I swear to God, Jameson, if you don't tell me right now?—"

Jonathan held up a hand. "As you know, the gemstone mines my father and I invested in turned out to be worthless. I needed money, and I suddenly had this information against Montague…"

"You used it against him." Thomas grabbed Jonathan's face—his left hand throbbing, but he didn't care—and forced his cousin to look him in the eye. "Rather than swallow your pride and admit that you were penniless, you blackmailed Montague into helping you get me out of the way so you could inherit the earldom."

"I didn't think he was going to try to kill you, Thomas! I knew that he knew everything about you. He'd watched you grow up. I figured he would be able to talk you into relinquishing your title in my favor. I guess he thought that would be a fruitless effort, so he settled on"—all the color drained from Jonathan's face—"a different way of relieving you of your duty."

Thomas let go of Jonathan's face and crossed his arms over his chest, leveling a stony gaze at him. "And yet you didn't think to tell me? To warn me of what Montague might do to me?"

"I was afraid," Jonathan admitted. "Afraid of what Montague would do if he found out I'd betrayed him, afraid of what you would think of me for getting entangled in such a nefarious plot."

"But you knew that there was at least a possibility that Montague might try to kill me."

Jonathan's face tightened. "I really didn't think he would go there. I swear it!" He burst into tears. "Oh, cousin. I beg your forgiveness."

Thomas regarded his cousin coldly. "It's not my forgiveness you should be after, Jonathan. It's God's." He turned his back on his weeping cousin.

Polk's gaze darted between the two men, his face a silent reflection of the tension hanging in the room. "But there is one thing I still don't understand. Why did Montague want Thomas's father dead? It's not as if the earldom would pass to him."

Jonathan looked up, wiping his eyes. "Revenge," he said simply. "Against the dowager countess. When his wife took ill, he requested that she summon the physician. She was in the middle of a luncheon and did not call for medical assistance until after it had finished. By the time someone had arrived, his wife had taken a turn for the worse and nothing could be done. Montague believed the countess directly responsible for his wife's death. A spouse for a spouse."

A chill ran down Thomas's spine. "That coldhearted bastard. There would be no way of knowing if his wife would have lived had the physician arrived a few minutes earlier."

"I'm not defending his actions, nor his motive," Jonathan replied. "Montague is not well in the head. That much has been made clear to me over the past several months."

"And yet you still conspired with him."

"What was I supposed to do?" Jonathan threw his hands into the air in exasperation. "By the time I realized how utterly unhinged a man he was, I was in too deep. Turning him in would have implicated me as well."

"You could have come to me , Jonathan. I could have turned Montague in, convicted him with your testimony."

Jonathan gulped. "I did not want you to know of my father's and my failure in the Americas."

Another moment of tense silence.

"What poison did he use?" Thomas finally asked. "What killed my father, Jonathan?"

Jonathan's eyes widened and he swallowed hard. His eyes clouded over as he choked out his answer. "Nightshade. Deadly nightshade."

Silence then, as if everyone in the room were holding his breath. Jonathan's words echoed around in the vast space, bouncing off the high ceilings and the grand tapestries that hung on the walls.

"And how did you come to procure such a poison?" Thomas asked quietly, his voice hoarse from the myriad emotions he was trying to keep under control.

"As I've said repeatedly, I had nothing to do with the act of poisoning your father," Jonathan replied, his voice just as quiet. "But Montague had a fascination with plants, especially the poisonous ones. He grew them in his quarters. You've been there, Thomas. The place is lined with greenery from wall to wall. He always said that acquiring and tending to strange plants was a hobby of his."

"A hobby," Thomas echoed bitterly. "That's a generous term for plotting murder."

Thomas thought back to the plant he had been examining when Montague had discovered him in his quarters all those years ago. The green oval leaves, the dark-purple berries… Montague had indeed been tending to a deadly nightshade plant.

Jonathan fell silent, his gaze dropping to the floor. For a long time, the only sounds were the crackling fire and the occasional creak of the house settling around them. It felt as if the weight of their words had shifted the very foundation of their world.

Eventually, Polk broke the silence, his voice shaky at first but growing steadier as he spoke. "What do we do now?" he asked.

"Please forgive me," Jonathan said, looking toward Thomas. His eyes were filled with remorse, begging for pity. "I was desperate."

"I nearly died today due to your desperation, Jonathan," Thomas spat out, his face hardening into a mask of cold anger. "The authorities have been summoned, and Montague is going to be arrested. He tried to murder me, and he tried to murder Lady Patricia. Even if we cannot prove that he is the one behind my father's murder, he will stand trial and spend the rest of his life at Newgate."

"And what of you, Jonathan?" Polk asked, his gaze flicking back and forth between the two men. "You're as much a part of this as Montague."

Jonathan flinched at his words. "I… I understand," he muttered, running a hand through his hair. "If I must face your wrath for my part in this, so be it."

"No." Thomas's voice cut through the room like a blade. He glared at Jonathan. "The law will decide your fate. But if you think I'm letting you off easy after what you've done, you are sorely mistaken. I plan to put an heir in my beautiful wife soon enough, but even if I don't, I shall see that you and all your descendants are forever disinherited from this family. If the authorities do not see fit to send you to prison, you will live out the rest of your days outside of the financial security of the Ashford estate. If you thought you were penniless now, just wait until you've experienced true poverty."

With that, he turned and stormed out of the room.