Charles quivered. His back was drenched with sweat from the fire which roared behind him, yet his face and neck stung with the chill of the damp winter wind which swept across the Place Congo from the river. He wasn’t sure exactly where he was nor how he had gotten there. His wrists ached and itched and, soon, he became aware that someone had wrapped them in coarse cloth. He struggled to move, but found he could not. Straining his eyes, he tried to examine his situation. Aware that he was lying on his side, he peered down and saw that his hands had been bound in front of him. There, indeed, were the rough restraints that he’d felt. They were red. Or were they? No. That was his blood, he was sure of it.
Rolling his eyes upward, he saw, at an angle, the silhouette of Barbara Allen slumped at his head by what he quickly realized was a bright bonfire.
“Barbara,” Charles rasped.
“No. No talking now, Arthur.” Barbara hissed.
“I’m not Arthur.” Charles whispered. “It is I, Charles.”
“No, Arthur. I’ll have none of your trickery now. My mother will be down thusly and if she catches me with you, she’ll be quite livid. You know how she favors you. Now, be a good boy and go back to your duties.”
“Barbara,” Charles growled. “Listen to me.”
“You’re impertinent.” Barbara babbled. “But, you know I like it. Still, Father will be back from London soon and will require you.”
“Barbara, your father is dead. Your mother is dead.” Charles coughed, trying not to be overheard or conspicuous as he became aware of the many pairs of eyes and ears—mean, curious and greedy--which were nearby.
“Silly,” Barbara rambled. “You shouldn’t say such things. You know quite well that Father went to London to see Lord Fallbridge’s town house. Wasn’t Mother furious? She never approved of Julian—oh, pardon me, of Lord Fallbridge moving to the city. Still, he and Father have always gotten on so well. Why he’d want to go all the way to London I’ll never understand. Why would he wish to work—and as a jeweler? Now, see what you’ve done? You’ve gotten me to chatter. You always do that. I think you like to make me talk, Arthur.”
“Dear God, she’s lost.” Charles moaned.
“Keep your tongue still,” A man’s voice—thickly accented—whispered near Charles’ feet. “The englishwoman’s mad. You’ll not save her now, Carlo.”
“Giovanni?” Charles wondered.
“Yes, yes.” Giovanni growled at his brother. “Now, hold your talk. We must do this properly.”
“What this about?” Charles whispered nervously. “How have I come to be here?”
“You must be quiet.” A woman cooed. Charles recognized the voice as that of Ulrika Rittenhouse. “You’ll only make matters worse for all of us.”
“Miss Rittenhouse? What of Barbara?” Charles gasped.
“You lie here in the mud, your wrists cut, in front of a roaring blaze and surrounded by writhing lunatics and you wonder about that worthless girl?” Ulrika asked, leaning forward so that Charles could see her. It was then that he realized that she, too, was bound. “When it was Barbara who brought us to this point?”
“We are all complicit in this.” Charles groaned.
“Some of us more than others.” Ulrika scowled. “My only mistake was that Marie deduced that I helped that African woman escape with the Duke. Still, Iolanthe will get the worst of it. As for your Barbara, she’s as good as dead. And, that, after all, is all I wanted in the first place. So, there’s that comfort. And, besides, this is all too delicious. My only regret is that the mad Duke can’t watch his sister’s suffering.” Her eyes glinted brighter than the flames of the fire. “Or, better still, her infant son!”
“You are evil.” Charles croaked.
“And, you, servant, are a fool.” Ulrika laughed.
Meanwhile, at the cream-colored mansion on Royal Street, Adrienne, Cecil, Marjani and Robert all stood watch over Julian who remained unconscious, but, at least, had ceased his gasping and sputtering.
So enrapt were they that they didn’t notice that Agnes Rittenhouse had walked past the parlor door and crept up the elegant staircase to the floor above.
Agnes, accustomed to the scents of children, found the nursery with no problem.
“Hideous,” Agnes sniffed as she peered into the room. “To let that girl sleep in here with this two fine, plump little boys.”
For a moment, she considered kicking Columbia, Marjani’s granddaughter, who slept peacefully on her little bed by the fire. However, she knew she had no time for such delights and, instead, hurried toward the two babies who slumbered so sweetly at the other end of the room.
“They’re both quite charming,” Agnes grinned as she reached forward. “How I do love babies.”
Did you miss Chapters 1-350? If so, you can read them here.
