Gwynnie’s hands tightened around the glass.
“Why would they wish to frame you for an attack on Goodwife Battersby?”
Gwynnie didn’t answer. She wanted to trust him, to believe that another was in a position to help her now.
“This is not easy,” she whispered.
“If Fitzroy is involved, I imagine not.” He scratched the coppery stubble across his jaw. “Yet there is only one way out of whatever mess you are in. That is to tell me the truth.”
Gwynnie inhaled, ready to speak. “I —”
“Elric? Elric, are you in there?” a voice called from the door.
Tombstone jumped up from his chair and flung open the door, revealing a rather tired-looking Pascal on the other side. He walked into the room, carrying a cane with him and resting his weight upon it.
“You and I must talk —” He halted abruptly, his chin jerking between Esme and Gwynnie.
“Hush, we must be quiet.” Tombstone took Pascal’s shoulder and steered him across the room, away from Esme and toward Gwynnie.
Not for the first time did Gwynnie think there was something strange about Tombstone and Pascal’s relationship. She imagined many employers would have been furious at their employee for manhandling them, but Pascal simply accepted his touch.
“By this light, what has happened?”
Gwynnie concentrated on her drink, the bitter taste now gone as she listened to Tombstone revealing how Gwynnie had come to his door with Esme, and what they had both said since.
“Will she live?” Pascal waved his cane in Esme’s direction. His concern made Gwynnie’s heart soften toward the man.
“I have hope, considering she has woken now,” Tombstone said softly, returning to his seat beside Gwynnie, who was still kneeling by the fire. “She has not yet emptied the contents of her stomach either. It is promising.”
“Good, good,” Pascal said distractedly, his gaze turning on Gwynnie.
Whatever softening Gwynnie had felt toward him vanished abruptly.
“And you believe this woman’s tale?” He thrust the cane toward Gwynnie.
“I do.” Tombstone waved a hand toward the sleeping form of Esme. “Goodwife Battersby confirmed it.”
“Poor Goodwife Battersby has been struck down. She could say anything, confused by what has happened. You know as well as I do that people with head wounds can lose their mind, no longer know their left from their right, their husbands from strangers.”
“She spoke with reason,” Tombstone insisted, a firmness to his tone. “I choose to believe her.”
“You are a fool,” Pascal spat with sudden venom. “You have her attacker here before you.” He pointed the cane once more at Gwynnie. “She is covered in the woman’s blood. What further proof do you need?”
“Renard did it —” Gwynnie tried to speak.
“Oh, and I should believe you, should I not?” Pascal scoffed. His eyes were hooded, his face wrinkling like parchment that had been scrunched up by strong hands. “You accuse the man of one of the greatest courtiers in England!”
Gwynnie put down her glass.
She didn’t cry this time, nor did she panic. This was what she had suspected would happen, and why she shouldn’t have placed her trust in Tombstone in the first place. Even if he was inclined to believe her, the man with the ultimate power was Pascal. He had already proved himself prejudiced against maids and anyone of Gwynnie’s class.
“You would sooner believe the word of anyone above me, would you not, sir?” she asked, lifting her chin toward him. “Or would you sooner trust the word of any man over me?”
He stood straight, leaning his weight upon his cane. “You are covered in blood,” he said. “Elric, arrest her.”
Tombstone didn’t move. He stared at Pascal, his jaw going slack.
“Tombstone!”
“You wish me to take her to Newgate? I cannot do that.”
“Whyever not? She has attacked a courtier, a fine lady indeed. We have seen before what insolence she is capable of. She is hardly like her mother, a reverent woman. Now you see the true capabilities of a person of her class, Tombstone. It is before you.”
Gwynnie stood. Her legs, which had been shaking, were now straight and firm.
“Take her,” Pascal ordered again.
“I do not believe —”
“Take her to Newgate now, or your position here is at an end.” Pascal’s threat hung in the air. Tombstone glared at him, as if he did not believe his ears. When Pascal’s grasp on his cane tightened, Tombstone sighed, clearly resigning himself to the inevitable.
Gwynnie moved toward the fireplace and took hold of the poker that rested against the stone hearth. She knew now that nothing she could say would persuade Pascal to believe her.
“Take her,” Pascal said again.
Tombstone stood.
“I am not going to Newgate.” Gwynnie acted fast. Striking out with the poker, she thrust the iron rod into the fireplace and pulled out one of the burning logs. It landed on the hearth rug between her and the two men, setting the rug alight.
