Chapter 14
“My father?” Stunned even more when Russell nodded, a twisted smile curving his thin lips, Walker considered shooting his cousin dead right then and there.
Who would fault him? Clearly Russell had arranged something nefarious for the duke, too, and why not? Until Walker had showed up so unexpectedly at his door, his cousin must have believed his plot intact and Walker and Marguerite murdered.
“You bastard,” Walker growled as he heard the carriage come to a stop on the street. “Was that why your man was here? You thought me dead, Marguerite dead, so you were going to have him hasten along my father’s death and find yourself suddenly become a duke?”
Russell stared at him with that same perverse smile, and he laughed dryly no matter the pistols pointed at his face. “I sent Charles word that I suspected you’d run off to Gretna Green with a common parson’s daughter—and look! He accepted my invitation and left his sickbed so he could be here to await your return. A messenger came earlier today saying he would arrive this evening. Not to congratulate you, I’m sure, but to berate you for the bloody American fool that you are!”
Sickened, Walker ground the heel of his boot into Russell’s chest, making his cousin grimace though he didn’t cry out. “So you did lure my father here to murder him—”
“I’ve got him, Walker!” Jared shouted from the hall, a kick from behind sending the man he’d chased after pitching headlong into the foyer. “Seems his name is Jack. I’d wager he’ll have a fine story to tell the magistrate, won’t you, Jack?”
“Damn you…” Russell muttered, not taking his eyes off Walker even when another violent kick from Jared sent his surly-looking prisoner sprawling to the floor beside him. “You stole everything from me! Everything!”
“Alexander?”
It took only a split second, Walker glancing behind him to see his father in the doorway leaning heavily upon his longtime valet when Russell’s fist caught him squarely in the groin. He doubled over, gasping, too much in agony to fend off a vicious blow to the side of his head.
White light blinding him, Walker fell to his knees, one of his pistols spinning across the floor behind him while the other was snatched up by Russell. He heard Jared shouting for his prisoner to get back down on the floor even as Walker felt the barrel of the pistol thrust against the middle of his forehead—oh, God, Marguerite…
The explosive report of a pistol firing at close range rang in his ears. His eyes squeezed shut, his lower body still throbbing fiercely, Walker knew then he wasn’t dead. He sank back on his haunches, trying to catch his breath even as he opened his eyes to see a pool of blood forming beneath the twitching body upon the floor.
Russell’s body.
“Dammit, Walker, you know better than to take your eyes off your enemy!” came Jared’s raised voice, Walker looking up to find his friend shaking his head though his face looked deadly pale. “Serves you right if you’ll have to abstain from your conjugal duties for a week or better!”
Walker gave a short laugh, which made him gasp in pain.
Yet there was nothing humorous about what might have happened if Jared hadn’t managed to shoot Russell. He glanced at the corpse lying sprawled upon the floor next to him…at the gaping hole in his cousin’s chest—
“It wasn’t me,” Jared murmured, bending down to help Walker struggle to his feet. Wincing with discomfort, he met Jared’s eyes, yet he’d already discerned who must have saved his life.
Slowly, Walker turned around to find his father staring at him from the doorway with a face even paler than Jared’s and a pistol in his lowered hand. His valet, Hodges, too, looked as white as death.
“Are you all right, my son?”
Walker nodded, gritting his teeth from the throbbing ache in his loins as he went to his father, the duke’s eyes welled with tears, his too thin frame visibly shaking.
“Well enough, Father, thanks to you.”
As if Walker’s words had been all the duke needed to hear, his knees suddenly gave way beneath him. If not for the ashen-faced valet still supporting him, and Walker rushing forward to take the pistol and grab his other arm, he would have crumpled to the floor.
“Here, let me take him,” Walker insisted, quickly sliding the weapon still hot from recent firing into his belt. Then he lifted his father into his arms—God help him, his illness wasting him away even more than when last Walker had seen him!—so he might carry him toward the stairs.
He thought no more of the pain gripping him or Russell’s blood-soaked body lying in the foyer.
He scarcely heard Jared ordering the footmen to take their horses and summon a constable, to summon a physician, while keeping his pistol leveled at Jack’s head.
As the duke’s valet followed close upon his heels, Walker could only think of getting his father upstairs to a bed.
Had he come all the way from Devonshire to berate him, as Russell had said? Yet hell, what did it matter? He was alive and breathing thanks to his father. Thanks to his father!
Emotion tightening his throat, Walker headed for the room he had occupied while residing at the town house, his father groaning in his arms. He kicked open the door, fearing the worst now from the terrible shock his father had just suffered, and laid him as gently as possible upon the bed.
To his surprise, the duke stared at him just as when Walker had first arrived at Summerlin Hall, as if he couldn’t believe his long-lost son had returned home to England. For long moments, too, while Walker kept silent, not wanting to overtax his father if he didn’t feel like conversing. Finally Charles turned his head feebly and glanced around the room.
“Is…is she here?”
His father’s voice a low rasp that further alarmed him, Walker was momentarily confused. “Who, Father?”
A weak smile lit his father’s face and he reached up to grasp Walker’s hand in his gaunt one. “Your bride, Alexander. The parson’s daughter. For you to defy me and wed in Gretna Green, she must be…truly extraordinary.”
Moisture clouded Walker’s eyes and he nodded. “She is extraordinary, Father. Marguerite.”
“Beautiful name…Marguerite. I would like to meet her before…well, I don’t know how much longer I’ve got…”
His father sighed shakily as if their exchange had exhausted him, which made Walker swallow hard.
“I’ll bring her to you, Father…as soon as I can, I swear it.”
“Good, my son. Let me rest now. The journey was so tiring…”
Charles released Walker’s hand and closed his eyes, while Walker wondered why he’d said nothing about Russell…but perhaps his father had seen all he needed to and required no explanation. Walker turned to the valet, the older man standing silently behind him.
“Stay with him, Hodges. I’ll go see about the physician.”
As the valet nodded and took Walker’s place beside the bed, Walker strode from the room only to stop in the hallway to see Wilbur, his own valet, peering out of a closet.
“The shooting’s done, man.” Walker gestured impatiently to the bedchamber he’d just left. “See if there’s anything my father’s valet needs—now go!”
At any other time he might have smiled at the ridiculous sight of Wilbur scurrying to oblige him, his coattails flapping, but the situation was far too grim for humor. He went to the top of the stairs, stunned when he looked down to find Jared, his pistol still trained upon Jack, talking to a woman.
And not just any woman…but an elegantly dressed Lady Belinda Cavendish, her jasmine and rose perfume wafting up to him. What the devil…?
Walker ignored the dull ache that still plagued him and the painful lump on the side of his head, and descended the stairs. At once Belinda came rushing toward him, though she took care to lift the hem of her mauve satin gown as she skirted Russell’s body lying in the middle of the foyer.
“Oh, Alexander, how terrible! Lord Dovercourt just told me you were upstairs with your father. Is he well?”
“Resting,” Walker said tightly. He glanced from Jared, who looked as perplexed as he felt at that moment, back to Belinda. “What are you doing here, my lady, if I might ask?”
She appeared momentarily startled by his brusque tone, but she recovered herself and laid her gloved hand upon his forearm.
“Why, I was invited by your cousin. He sent a message that he was expecting your father tonight and for me to come and greet him. Of course, I was thrilled at the thought of seeing His Grace again. I’ve always been so fond of him…so I stopped on my way home from a dinner party. My carriage is just outside…but oh, dear.” She glanced over her shoulder at Russell’s bloodied body. “This is such a shock…”
Walker cursed under his breath at the two bright spots of color on Belinda’s cheeks; the last thing he needed right now was for her to faint dead away in the foyer. He took her arm to lead her back toward the front door.
“My father can’t see you right now. As soon as the physician arrives to tend to him, I’ll be leaving to fetch my wife—”
“Oh, yes, I must offer you my congratulations. When Sir Russell passed along your regrets last week, he mentioned you might have gone to Gretna Green to wed. How wonderful for you!”
Walker wasn’t surprised that her good wishes didn’t seem to reach her crystalline blue eyes. He wondered, too, why Russell would have shared such news with her—but the rumpled-looking physician coming through the door with one of the footmen distracted him.
“Upstairs to the left,” he directed, torn between wanting to remain with his father while the physician attended to him and his desire to go after Marguerite before it might be too late. Then the foyer only grew more crowded as the other footman arrived with a portly constable followed by several soldiers carrying rifles.
Suddenly the place resounded with raised voices: Jared explaining to the constable what had happened, Russell’s henchman Jack spewing curses as he was yanked to his feet and led off by the soldiers, the physician pronouncing Russell truly dead after a quick examination, while Walker wanted nothing more than to escort Belinda out the door. Yet once again she grasped his arm to gaze with alarm into his eyes.
“Surely you can’t be thinking of leaving your father, Alexander! He may need you…oh, my, such a terrible occurrence. I’d be happy to fetch your wife for you. My carriage is here after all. Allow me to help you, please, it’s the very least I can do.”
Walker sighed heavily, glancing behind him as one of the footmen escorted the physician up the stairs. If his father lay upon the brink of death, wouldn’t it be better if he at least remained here with him?
“Very well. The address is Piccadilly Nineteen, but you cannot delay, Belinda. I don’t know how much longer my father…”
Walker didn’t finish but left her standing there while he hastened upstairs, missing entirely Belinda’s brittle smile as she whirled around and swept out the door.
***
Marguerite paced the foyer anxiously, her pale blue muslin gown swishing around her legs. Though she’d been awake for almost an hour now, she still felt so stunned that Walker would have left her without saying goodbye.
Jared was gone, too, while Lindsay slept upstairs unaware of his absence. Marguerite had just gone to check on her, and on little Justin sleeping so peacefully in his crib, and she wished now desperately that she hadn’t awoken, either.
Sweet oblivion would be so much better than this terrible worry gnawing at her! Had Walker and Jared decided to confront Russell tonight instead of in the morning?
The footman Sims, his back to her as he sat facing the front door with a pistol upon his lap, would only say that Lord Dovercourt had told him no one could enter until he and Lord Summerlin returned. The footman guarding the back door had said the same thing. Those words were ominous enough!
Oh, Lord, how was she to bear this misery of not knowing what might be happening? Perhaps she should go back upstairs and awaken Lindsay. Yet Marguerite doubted she would be sleeping so soundly if Jared had told her that he and Walker were on their way to challenge Russell to a duel—
“Oh!” The sudden scraping of Sims’s chair made Marguerite whirl toward the door. The footman had jumped to his feet as if hearing something…and then she heard it, too. Footsteps rapidly approaching followed by an urgent knocking.
“Who goes there?” Sims demanded, though his voice held a nervous tremor. The pistol he’d leveled shook in his hand, too, as the knocking abruptly stopped.
“It’s Lady Belinda Cavendish! Please open the door. I must speak with Lady Summerlin! Her husband sent me!”
Marguerite looked at Sims while Sims looked at her, clearly uncertain of what to do.
“Lord Dovercourt…he said not to let anyone enter—”
“Dear God, Sims, she said my husband sent her! Open the door!”
Still Sims appeared uncertain, while Marguerite could stand it no longer. She rushed past him to pull back the bolt herself and fling open the door.
Her heart hammering in her throat, she stared at Lady Belinda, whose flushed face and tear-filled eyes made Marguerite certain at once that something was terribly wrong.
“You must come with me now!” Belinda said frantically, gesturing to the carriage with its four snorting horses waiting in front of the house. “Your husband’s father is dying. His Grace only arrived tonight and came upon a terrible scene. Sir Russell is dead, and Alexander—oh, dear, I meant Walker, agreed for me to come and fetch you so he could remain by his father’s side. We must hurry!”
Marguerite didn’t hesitate but flew with Belinda down the walk, though she cried out over her shoulder, “Lock the door, Sims! I’m going to my husband!”
The poor footman had looked so stricken when she’d thrown open the door, but she planned to assure Jared and Walker later that Sims hadn’t disobeyed their command. She climbed into the carriage and Belinda followed her, and settled into the single seat very close to Marguerite as the vehicle jerked into motion.
“Driver, make haste!” Belinda cried out to the coachman, while Marguerite felt as if she couldn’t catch her breath, everything was happening so fast.
Already they seemed to be flying past the other town houses on Piccadilly, Aunt Winnie’s and others, the near-overpowering scent of Belinda’s perfume filling the lamplit interior. Marguerite turned from the window to find Belinda staring at her, half of her beautiful face cast in shadow.
Strange how she didn’t appear frantic anymore, Marguerite thought with a sudden sense of unease as the carriage rounded a corner at such a breakneck pace that Belinda was thrown against her. Yet instead of righting herself, Belinda stretched across Marguerite and clawed at the handle until she managed to throw open the carriage door.
“You common little bitch!” she screamed, grabbing Marguerite to shove her bodily toward the opening. “You dared to marry the man meant to be my husband? Get out! Get out!”