CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
“In the worst of all possible circumstances, one must remain calm. And well armed. Particularly the latter.” —The Dowager Marchioness of Wallingham to Lord Berne regarding the anticipated confrontation involving an unreasonable female and her highly destructive feline companion.
For years, Henry’s nightmares had consisted of this—Maureen with a pistol pressed to the back of her skull. The Investor brazen and gloating. Except the Investor had never been a woman.
He examined her face. Beautiful, certainly. He could see what might have entranced Holstoke’s father. Luminous blue eyes. Flawless skin. Perfect symmetry.
“You are the Sabre.” She chuckled. “Well, I must admit some surprise. I had my pursuer as Mr. Reaver.”
“Hmm. I find your surprise a bit surprising, considering you sent a runner to my home to kill me on my wedding night.”
Silver-blonde brows arched. “Oh, not you.” She gestured toward Maureen. “Her.”
Henry’s blood, already cold, solidified into ice.
“My son was much too attached. Had she simply married him, I might not have minded. But she married you. That was unacceptable.”
“You failed,” he said softly.
“Yes. You have given me a good deal of trouble, it is true. But now, I shall make proper use of your talents.”
“I will not help you kill an innocent girl.”
She blinked slowly, her lips curling in a grin that made his neck prickle. “I think you will. A pistol can do dreadful damage. Even the Sabre is not swift enough to undo what has been done, should he choose unwisely.”
“I’ve long wondered,” he said, keeping his voice casual. “Are you mad or simply evil?”
Luminous blue eyes flared, first with surprise, then with puzzlement. “Neither. I am a gardener.”
He waited for an explanation, letting the silence build.
She clicked her tongue. “To cultivate a garden, one must plant and tend whatever one wishes to grow. Nature is unruly, however. Weeds and blight and vermin work against the proper order. They must be eliminated. The concept is a simple one.”
“So, mad, then,” he confirmed. “I am relieved to have an answer. Thank you.”
Frowning her displeasure, she moved toward him. Her strapping companion, holding his pistol like a dead fish, looked on in wary puzzlement.
“Madness implies I lack reasoning. That is both inaccurate and insulting.”
“Apologies for the slight, Lady Holstoke. You did murder my father, after all.”
She waved a hand. “Oh, that. He discovered my association with a band of smugglers. I could not very well allow him to expose me. The solution was inelegant, I grant you. It was early on. My weeding techniques have since improved.”
He pretended curiosity. “How did you become associated with French smugglers?”
She sniffed. “I am French.”
Again, he waited for an explanation. The woman was out of her mind, but the longer he could delay, the better the chance either Colin or Reaver would return.
“Your disbelief is flattering. Disguising oneself as a young woman raised from birth in the English gentry was quite a difficult task. Particularly for a French girl whose first proper meal came when she was sold to a wealthy merchant at thirteen.” Her chin tilted and a hint of defiance entered her eyes. “I escaped his grasp. I escaped France and all its iniquities. I learned to be as English as your tiresome wife. I even ascended to the aristocracy.”
He recalled the reports on Holstoke’s family history. Lydia Brand had begun as Lydia Price, daughter of a little-known, deceased English landholder. The impoverished beauty had enchanted Simon Brand into marriage within three months of their first meeting.
At least, that had been the story everyone believed.
Now that he understood her essential nature, he could well imagine her strategy. She had married Simon Brand, a second son, shortly before his older brother had perished in a hunting accident, making Simon the heir apparent. Then, the old earl had suffered a lingering illness over several years. Most had assumed his grief and age to be at fault. Few would have suspected his daughter-in-law’s facility with poisons.
“Well,” he said wryly. “Your diction is flawless.”
She nodded to acknowledge the compliment. “It took three years, but nothing worthwhile comes without effort.”
“So, the French smugglers were …”
“Old acquaintances. The one who managed the shipments was the same man who ferried me from France to England when I was a girl. He discovered I resided in Dorsetshire and that I was connected to Holstoke. He sought to gain my assistance.”
The county of Dorset had been a center of smuggling during the conflicts with France. Henry should have made the connection, looked more closely at Holstoke from the beginning.
Instead, he’d been caught unawares, forced to watch a viper in blue silk play games with Maureen’s life. If he wanted to win, he must wait. Calculate. Stall for an opportunity. Above all, he must keep his wife here with him.
“He blackmailed you, in other words,” he said now, keeping the game going.
Again, her eyes flared as though she were offended. “A crude attempt. I soon turned the arrangement to my advantage, I assure you.”
“Yes, betraying one’s country can be lucrative.”
“Come now, Dunston. Patriotism is fool’s lullaby, sung as he marches to his death. I am subject to no king. Before the Revolution, France was a wretched place for those not born to privilege. England is little better. One is best served by serving oneself.”
“Your enterprises were all strictly for monetary gain, then.”
She sniffed. “A woman is, by all legal considerations, a non-entity. She is an extension of her husband, and therefore, whatever wealth she earns or property she obtains becomes his. On the whole, if a woman seeks to acquire a fortune over which she maintains control, she must do so in ways which remain, by their nature, hidden.”
He raised a brow. “With the help of a capable solicitor, of course.”
She smiled that frigid, predatory smile. “Of course.”
“Except that Syder did not remain dutifully bound in your garden, did he? No. He sprawled outward, invading where he should not. Drawing attention that threatened to expose you.”
Her smile faded as he spoke. Her eyes flattened until they resembled a snake’s—empty yet watchful. “Horatio was useful. Quite fond of me for a time. Like most men, however, he fell prey to disturbances of sentiment. His loyalty turned when he grew obsessed with my husband’s bastard daughter. A grave error. It made him reckless.”
“It appears he was not alone in that obsession. She’s drawn you here, where your enemies are assembled. Why do you want her so badly?”
The smile reappeared. “My reasons are irrelevant to your purpose.” She raised a finger. “Now, Lord Dunston, I shall ask politely for your assistance one more time. Have a care how you answer. Your wife is waiting with bated breath.”
Until now, he had deliberately avoided looking at Maureen. He could not remain lucid if he glimpsed her fear. But his gaze drifted to her anyway. What he saw nearly cut him in half.
Love. Her love for him.
She was afraid, too. He could see her trembling. Her color was papery, lips turned lilac, breathing gone shallow. But her eyes were locked upon him, shining like a beacon. Her head remained proudly upright.
Far from whimpering and swooning as one might expect from a woman unacquainted with such evil, she held herself steady. Held him steady.
His own fear felt ancient, a great boulder in his internal landscape, looming and permanent. The Investor loved nothing more than to hone her weapons on the stone of impossible choices. He’d long known that if the choice were Maureen’s life or becoming the Investor’s weapon, he would abandon all conscience, all civilization. He would be the monster he despised.
And yet, the choice was no choice at all.
“Very well,” he said, holding Maureen’s gaze with his. Right now, he needed her love, her faith, more than he had ever needed anything. “What would you have me do?”
Minutes later, they ascended to the bedchamber where Hannah had been taken to recover. The footman led the way, with Lady Holstoke’s man pressing his gun between Maureen’s shoulder blades. Henry followed the pair, savoring the thought of the man’s imminent death. Lady Holstoke followed behind Henry, aiming the footman’s pistol at his back.
The footman opened the large, oaken door and stood aside. Lady Holstoke gave Henry an imperious nod.
Henry entered first, swiftly scanning the interior. It was a small chamber, the bed on the left wall, a single draped window on the right, and a fireplace at the back. The space was dark except for a small, golden pool emitted by the lantern on the bedside table. But he could see. Even at the edges, he could see.
Hannah lay on the bed, still and unconscious. Sarah sat beside her, dabbing the girl’s cheeks with a cloth. Reaver stood beside the bed with his arms folded across his chest, glaring at the white-haired butler, who yammered on about vinegar being quite effective after a swoon.
Henry started there. “Reaver,” he said, withdrawing a dagger. “I’m afraid I must ask you to step aside.”
Reaver transferred his glare to Henry. He glanced at the blade, dropped his arms, flexed enormous fists, and widened his stance. “What the devil are you about, Dunston?”
Henry waved the knife toward the corner near the fireplace. “Stand there, if you please. The butler, too.” He then spoke to Sarah, who had leapt to her feet. “Lady Colin, you as well.”
“Dunston,” Sarah protested, reaching back for Hannah. The girl did not move.
“I am sorry,” he said. “I’ve no choice.”
Behind him, he heard the others enter—the shuffling leather soles of the big man. The lighter, reluctant slide of Maureen’s half-boots. The footman’s erratic tapping and the swish of Lady Holstoke’s silk.
The butler, he noted, had already scurried into the corner. Reaver hadn’t budged. Neither had Sarah.
Henry shook his head and pointed behind him in the direction of rustling silk. “This is Lady Holstoke. Perhaps you do not recognize her. Understandable. However, I must insist that both of you leave the girl and move to the fireplace.”
“Bloody, bleeding hell,” growled Reaver.
“Agreed. However, the large gentleman with the gun pressed into my wife’s back is not a figment of your imagination. I will thank you to move, Reaver. Now.”
“I promised Miss Gray my protection,” came the rumbling answer.
“We all say things we later realize were foolish. Come, man. Do not be stupid. When I tell you to move, you move.” He dared not convey his meaning more emphatically.
Reaver’s scowl did not abate, but his eyes narrowed subtly. He moved.
Sarah sputtered an objection, but Reaver simply grasped her elbow and tugged, pulling her with him toward the fireplace then tucking her protectively behind his powerful frame.
Henry turned to the side and waved Lady Holstoke forward toward the bed.
The woman shot him a suspicious glance then sniffed. “Edward, wait outside the door. If anyone enters, your son will not see the morning.”
Raw hatred twitched the corners of the footman’s mouth. Nevertheless, he obeyed.
She moved toward the bed, her gaze fixed upon Hannah’s prone form, her gun held casually at her hip. Slowly, she reached down and clasped the girl’s chin with the fingers of her free hand, turning her head this way and that. Then, she drew back her arm and brought her palm forcefully across the girl’s cheek. The crack, loud in the silent room, made Maureen gasp and Sarah cry out.
Henry tightened every muscle in his body against the need to toss his blade into Lady Holstoke’s back. His legs and lungs and arms burned with it.
Hannah’s dense black lashes fluttered open. She stared up into Lady Holstoke’s face. Her mouth opened as though to scream, but nothing emerged. She was frozen like a doll.
“Awake, are we?” said Lady Holstoke calmly. “Good. Your father gave you something that belongs to me, girl. Tell me where it is.”
Pale green eyes darted to the side, flaring as they saw Maureen, who covered her mouth with both hands. They came to Henry then dropped to his blade. Finally, they returned to Lady Holstoke. “I—I don’t know what you—”
Crack! The girl’s head snapped sideways, but she remained silent, slowly turning back to face the woman who had struck her.
“Pray, do not bother with lies, dear. Your father brought you gifts every time he visited Bath to see his whore. The object I seek would have been distinctive. A Pandora doll. Red gown. Blue glass eyes. It is mine. Now, tell me where it is.”
Once again, the girl’s eyes found Henry. She must have seen his hand tightening around the dagger, his muscles readying to strike. She gave a minute shake of her head. “Not here. I keep it in a special box. In my chambers at the school.”
“Putain!” She gripped the girl’s upper arm, her fingers digging until they whitened, dragging until she’d jerked Hannah halfway off the bed. “Up! Get up.”
Hannah scrambled to catch herself, but her arm buckled, and she tumbled awkwardly to the floor.
Lady Holstoke hissed and spun toward the man holding Maureen. She paced to where he stood. “You will have to carry her. Worthless girl.”
Henry watched the big man’s eyes. Saw the confusion. The uncertainty. Noted the relaxing muscles in the man’s arm. Time slowed with each breath as he waited for just … the right … moment.
Then it came. The man’s gun hand dropped.
Henry shouted Reaver’s name. Tossed his dagger end-over-end. Grasped the cool blade. Threw it with all his strength into the big man’s shoulder, where the separation of muscle and nerve would render the arm useless. Henry did not hear the man’s shout. Sound was dull and slow.
A growling giant rushed past him like a furious bull, swinging a fireplace iron high and swift into the other man’s head. Abruptly loosened from the man’s grip, Maureen staggered sideways, ramming her shoulder into Lady Holstoke.
Henry watched in horror as the woman righted herself, lifted her pistol, and pressed it to Maureen’s temple.
“Reaver!” he shouted as the giant pummeled the other man with boulder-sized blows.
Reaver halted, his shoulders heaving. The other man collapsed in a thudding heap. Behind Henry, he heard Sarah murmuring to Hannah.
But Henry’s entire being sharpened upon one thing—his pale, trembling wife.
Lady Holstoke shifted behind Maureen, who swallowed visibly and winced at the pressure on her temple. The woman wrapped one arm across Maureen’s shoulders. “Sabre,” she spat. “Vermin infesting my garden, uprooting and wreaking havoc. Why can you not simply die?”
Air halted in his lungs. Ice held him fast. His eyes riveted to the spot where the tip of the barrel pressed. A spot he had kissed tenderly dozens of times.
“I will die. Gladly,” he rasped, meaning every word. “Give her to Reaver, and you may kill me.”
She laughed, low and strange. “Sentimental fools. All of you.” She lowered her head to whisper in Maureen’s ear. He could not hear what she said, but Maureen swallowed again and lost what little color she had.
Then, his wife spoke. She said his name. “H-Henry.”
His gut twisted. “Yes, pet.”
“She says I may bid you farewell. This is what I would like to say. I trust you. Do you trust me?”
He was suffocating. Frozen and flailing in the void. “Always.”
Those secretive lips trembled into a tiny smile. Golden-brown eyes glowed with love for him. Love and purpose. “Good. When you think of me, I want you to remember one thing: There are storms, of course. Storms big enough to carry your hat away. But there are also orange cakes, my love. And they are divine.”
He had a single heartbeat to digest her message. To ready himself. To move.
For, no sooner did he draw a breath than his beautiful, clever, brave Maureen bent forward at the waist, throwing Lady Holstoke off balance, dislodging the pistol from its position against her skin. Just as quickly, she reeled back with all her weight, cracking her head into the other woman’s nose.
Blood spurted. The woman shouted in pain. The pistol fired into the floor. Maureen shoved backward with her hips, driving Lady Holstoke into the wall hard enough to snap the woman’s skull into plaster.
Henry was there in an instant, his second dagger caressing his palm, his free arm circling his wife’s waist and lifting her away. He had every intention of thrusting his dagger into the heart of the viper. But, before he could move, a shot rang out. Lady Holstoke’s already battered head jerked back, a dark hole staining the center of her forehead. She slumped and slid down the wall.
Turning with Maureen anchored to his side, her fingers clinging to his neck, his heart sank as he saw who had managed to retrieve the big man’s discarded pistol.
The one who had fired the killing shot.
“Oh, darling,” Maureen murmured. “Hannah.”
The girl—unsteady on her feet, black hair loosened into haphazard curls, pale green eyes eerily calm—lowered her arm to her side. “For Mama,” she whispered, and let the gun clatter to the floor.
*~*~*