Page 94 of How to Cross a Marquess (The Way to a Lord's Heart 3)

“Leave?” The older woman’s laugh was grating. “Depends on what you mean by that.” She wound her free hand in Fenella’s hair and twisted as the waves surged around their knees.

“We’ll both go under.”

“You think I care if I die?” The woman’s eyes burned into hers as she tightened the cord again. “I deserve to die! Arabella was my only child, my darling, and I wanted a grand title for her. And so I thrust her into this terrible place of plotting killers.”

She thrust her face closer. It was twisted with hate. “My poor mite! She wanted to marry a mere mister, and I dissuaded her. Pointed out the young man’s faults, said her papa would cut her off, described the perils of poverty as if they’d be living in a hovel. As if he didn’t have a penny when he was well enough to pass.”

Fenella felt even sorrier for Arabella, that she’d been subjected to this woman’s manipulations. And then she concentrated on getting the cord off her neck, while Mrs. Crenshaw was distracted by her remorse.

“If I’d left well enough alone, my baby would be alive now. Living near London! I might have grandchildren.”

Fenella dug her fingernails under the cord and pulled with all her strength. She panted and strained, and at last the cord eased. With one sudden twist, she yanked it out and up and tossed the wretched thing into the sea. Her captor screeched and twisted her free hand in Fenella’s hair.

“You don’t know—” began Fenella. She put a hand to her hair, trying to pull free. Her eyes watered with the pain.

“Don’t speak to me!” Mrs. Crenshaw hit her again with the pistol, so hard Fenella hoped it would go off and attract others. But it did not. “I may have made a mistake,” her captor continued. “But you killed her.”

“No.” Her denial had no effect. Fenella doubted the other woman heard.

“I won’t see that worm Chatton happy while Arabella lies cold in her grave! They say he cares for you. Now he’ll see what it feels like to lose someone he loves.”

Fenella’s gown dragged at her, growing heavier with each wave that splashed over them. She clawed at the other woman and struggled to break her grip.

“What are you doing?” called a ringing voice from the shore behind them. Mrs. Thorpe stood there, staring.

“Get help!” answered Fenella. Her voice, still affected by the maltreatment of her throat, didn’t carry over the sound of the sea.

But Mrs. Thorpe could see what was needed. “Help!” she cried much louder.

Mrs. Crenshaw shrieked and threw the pistol. It spun through the air and struck Mrs. Thorpe on the temple. She stumbled to the ground.

Then, with a grin worthy of a corpse, Mrs. Crenshaw threw both arms around Fenella and fell backward into the sea.

Cold water rushed over Fenella’s chest and face, tried to go up her nose. The sudden immersion took her breath away. A receding wave pulled them away from the island. Mrs. Crenshaw let it, her grip frighteningly strong.

Fenella kicked and writhed. She managed to get her head above water and drew in a deep breath. They were already yards from shore. The ebbing tide was carrying them out with ominous power. She shoved with all her strength in the cold water, raising her knees and using her legs as well as her arms. Finally, she escaped the gripping hands. Arabella’s mother lunged for her. Fenella lurched away. And then they were separated. She let the current pull her away from her attacker. In only a few minutes, Mrs. Crenshaw was well out of reach, and then she was gone, hidden by the waves’ chop.

Fenella was free! But her heavy clothes were a death trap, a sodden weight dragging her down. She pulled her knees up again and dragged the sodden tunic up over her hips. It resisted, and a new wave swept over her, filling her mouth with seawater and turning her head over heels. She gagged, spit, and managed another lungful of air.

Wriggling, tearing, she slipped out of the tunic. The fastenings of her skirt resisted, but finally she undid them and shoved the swath of wool down and away. It swirled in a small whirlpool and then was sucked away as if by the inhalation of a giant.

Fenella kicked off her shoes. She was lighter now, in her shift. It was possible to swim. But she was also colder. The water sucked the heat from her body. She raised her head to get her bearings. She was well away from the island and rapidly being borne farther, out to sea, toward death. She saw no sign of Arabella’s mother.

The strength of the frigid current was terrifying. It was like being pulled along by a racing carriage. She couldn’t fight it. No one could have. Trying to swim against the tide would be futile. But Fenella had heard local fishermen discuss what to do if they fell from their boats into a riptide. She bobbed up again to judge the angle of the shore and started paddling slantwise, partly using the strength of the sea to move across the direction of the current.

* * *

Roger moved through the pageant crowd, growing increasingly frantic. Fenella hadn’t appeared for the ending of the performance when they were all supposed to take a bow. And now she didn’t seem to be anywhere in this infuriating mass of people sitting, chattering, eating, and drinking. She had to be here, and yet he couldn’t find her. The fear that had been with him since she was shot roared to life.

Cries from the dimness behind the arches set him running. He found three men bending over a woman on the ground. He rushed to join them and found not Fenella but Mrs. Thorpe being helped to her feet, holding a hand to her brow. “She threw that pistol at me,” the actress said, pointing to a weapon on the earth. “And hit me, too, which is quite difficult.”

Macklin rushed up with several others. “What’s happened?” he asked. “Are you hurt?”

“Not badly,” replied Mrs. Thorpe. “I’ll have a bruise.” Before Roger could consign her bruise to perdition, she added, “Someone, a woman, pulled Lady Chatton into the sea.”

“What?” Torn between learning more and rushing into the water, Roger was frozen.

“She had hold of her hair. I saw her hit Lady Chatton with the pistol, too.” Mrs. Thorpe watched as one of the men bent to pick up a gun. “She wore a hooded cloak, so I couldn’t see her face. I think she must have been mad.”

---