“Something funny, Willie?” Tally’s hand touched the side of the tall cherry armoire in the corner of the room. He opened the armoire door and waited patiently, plucking absently at a loose bit of thread on his breeches.
“The panel. Feel for it with your fingers. It's all the way in the back. There's a latch on the left you'll trigger, and it will slide open.” William made a motion with his hand, almost too exhausted to keep his arm aloft. His hand quivered as he instructed Tally. Unable to keep his arm up, William let his hand drop to his chest just as he felt another sharp pain.
The pains in his chest along with the sensation of being suffocated occurred nearly every day. His stomach troubled him after his meals. He tossed and turned nightly, never really resting. That's when he saw Maureen.
His dead wife haunted his dreams—her round, pretty face wreathed in disappointment. The same way she'd looked after he confessed how they came to be in Bermuda. How he'd paid for the finery she wore and the large house they lived in.
“Foolish,” he muttered under his breath. “So foolish.”
“What's that, Willie?” Tally's head was deep inside the armoire.
“Nothing.” William winced, thinking of his stupidity. He should have gone to a minister or spoken to God himself if he wished absolution. Not his pregnant wife. The confession of his sins did not absolve him as he hoped, instead Maureen went into early labor, killing both she and the son she carried. There had been so much blood. The bed and mattress had been soaked with it. He took Maureen's hand in his, holding it to his heart, willing her to live.
She didn't of course. Maureen, his lovely Irish lass, who he'd given up everything to have, never opened her eyes again. Prostrate with guilt and grief, William decided he must confess to the authorities. He must pay for his crimes. Maureen would wish him to. He explained this all to George Corbett.
But George would have none of it. He sat William down, poured rum for the both of them and looked William square in the eye.
“I am sorry, truly sorry about Maureen, but you cannot confess. It is too late. I have a wife and two children. Your family, in England, believes you dead. If you will not keep your mouth shut for yourself, think of what your confession will do to me, to your family, and to Jane Emily. The Dunbars will destroy us. They will destroy your family in England. You can do nothing now but repent in silence. To do otherwise will doom us all."
William, sobbing, had agreed. George was right. He was always right. George and William were bound together for the remainder of their days, tied by the horrible crime committed. It was George who arranged Maureen’s funeral while William grieved. June Corbett tended Jane Emily and allowed William to cry on her shoulder. He devoted himself to becoming even more prosperous and raising Jane Emily while George Corbett grew fat from his partnership with William. They spoke no more of treason. William pushed aside all thoughts of the Devils of Dunbar, choosing not to think of his crime or the innocents who suffered.
Until now.
“Maureen,” he whispered.
God, how he missed his wife.He felt her loss just as keenly now as he had nearly twenty years ago. But he would see Maureen soon. He was unwell, and William knew he would not see another Christmas. The guilt he carried surfaced, bubbling up to poison him. Worry, not for himself, but for his only child, made him anxious. He once thought that giving Jane Emily and Sea Cliff to Augustus Corbett would bring him peace, but the decision brought only more worry. He did not insist she set a date to wed Augustus, thinking that the young man’s affections were more for Sea Cliff than Jane Emily. Then, the final harbinger of William's impending demise arrived in the form of Nick Shepherd.
When he saw the man at the end of George Corbett’s dinner table, William felt a surge of dread unlike any he’d ever known since Maureen’s death.
“George,” he whispered to Lord Corbett. “Who is that man?”
George shoved a bit of cheese in his mouth and shrugged. “Who, Willie? You mean June’s newest pet? Some failed gentleman with a proper letter of introduction. June’s invited him to stay.” George rolled his eyes. “As she does them all. She seeks to further Dorthea’s fortunes though I must remind her endlessly that Dorthea is quite happy in Yorkshire with her barrister. God help Dorthea if her husband’s elder brother dies and he inherits. June will have us on their doorstep in a thrice.”
“It’s him. The Devil of Dunbar. They have finally found us."
“Don’t be ridiculous. I’ll admit there’s something I don’t like about the man, but he calls himself Nick Shepherd.” George tore into a piece of bread. “It's been twenty years, Willie. The Dunbars have forgotten about us. Why the current duke must be near eighty if he’s a day.”
“They won’t have forgotten, George.” William swallowed the lump down that formed in his throat as he watched the Sinclair sisters throw themselves at the man. “That cursed family never forgets.”
Just then, Shepherd turned his head towards William, striking him with an assessing, brilliant blue gaze.
"It’s him. I know it," William said.
George pursed his lips and waved for more rum punch while he chewed on an oyster. “We’ll see.”
“Are you sure there’s something back here Willie? Perhaps you only thought there was.”
“Yes.” Tally's voice snapped William back to the moment. “Must I come help?” William winced at the pain lancing through his chest. Time was of the essence, he knew. Tally must be convinced of the rightness of William’s decision. William trusted no one else with Jane Emily.
Tally shooed him away with a hand and went back to reaching through shirts and underclothes in the armoire, the sounds of his fumbling the only noise in the room.
I am tired. Tired of living with my guilt. Tired of waiting to be discovered.
William remembered the Duke of Dunbar, the Old Spider, a man who terrified nearly everyone at that doomed house party,especiallyWilliam. Stealing from the Tremaine family was the act of a desperate man, which William had been. He’d only stolen the papers, it was George who sold them to the French. He didn’t even know what the papers actually contained, until later.
Yet I stayed silent, even after I knew that George made it look like the duke’s wastrel of a son committed the crime. Even after I knew that men died because of me. That the heir to Dunbar killed himself because of me.
“But I need not stay silent much longer,” William whispered.
