Chapter Eighteen
Marcus felt the muscles of his stomach tighten defensively at the butler’s pronouncement. “Has his physician been sent for?”
“Yes, my lord. But I fear he will not survive until the man arrives.”
That statement spurred Marcus to action. He was practically running as he left the library and climbed the stairs, taking them two at a time. He didn’t knock or wait to be bid entrance to his father’s chamber, but simply burst inside.
Owlsley, his father’s valet and loyal servant for decades, was crying silently in the corner. On the bed, his father lay heaped beneath a mound of sheets and blankets. Even then, his lips appeared to have a bluish cast.
Marcus approached the bed and knelt beside his father.
“It’s done,” the old man whispered. “You married the girl?”
“Yes, Father.”
He nodded though the gesture cost him precious energy. “Good… good then. Your stepmother poisoned me,” he said.
“You’re certain?”
“I had suspected it for some time. But after last night, I was sure. She poured me a brandy, but when I refused it, she forced it down my throat. I’d have died already had I not forced myself to cast up my accounts,” he said. “As it is, I’m dying anyway. You’ll see to it she’s punished?”
“I will,” Marcus promised.
“You were a better son than I was a father,” the old man admitted. “But I’m not sorry for what I did. You’re set up for a fine future now.”
Marcus didn’t answer. The old man was taken by a coughing fit and when it had passed, his lips were speckled with blood. His breath wheezed in and out of his lungs in such a manner that it was plain he had a very limited number of them left.
“I love you, Father, and I forgive you for anything that has passed between us that was not as it should be.”
The old man simply nodded again and then closed his eyes. After a moment, his chest stilled entirely and the valet fell into fits of weeping. “Did you hear his confession, Owlsley? What he said about the duchess?”
“I did,” the valet confessed.
“Say nothing until you are told otherwise. It’s best if she has no warning that we are aware of her misdeeds. Is that understood? And see to it that bottle is well hidden. I don’t want her to destroying the evidence.”
The man nodded again, still weeping bitterly.
“You’ll be fine, Owlsley,” Marcus said, getting to his feet. “You’ll not be turned out. See to having his body prepared. I’ve no notion who to call first in this situation.”
“Yes, your grace,” the valet said tearfully.
Your grace. The mantle had already been passed, he thought bitterly. Exiting the chamber, Marcus found Jane standing in the hall surrounded by a bevy of servants. “The fifth Duke of Elsingham has passed away,” he stated. “You will offer any assistance necessary to his valet in making the necessary preparations for his burial.”
There was a flurry of bows and curtsies as they all murmured in a subdued fashion, “Yes, your grace.”
When they had gone to see to their duties, Marcus met Jane’s gaze. “It hurts far more than I imagined it would.”
“He loved you,” she said. “He was maddening, tyrannical, obsessed with wealth and appearances, but he did still love you… even if he failed at showing it.”
Marcus nodded. It was true enough. But more profound was what she did not say. His father, in spite of being notoriously difficult, had loved him. Her own father did not.
“We need to talk privately,” he said.
He led her once more to the small gallery, the same place where they had shared their first kiss and where the trajectory of their dealings with one another had shifted so perfectly. “Cassandra poisoned him. He admitted that she forced poison-laced brandy down his throat last night after he refused it. Owlsley has been instructed to hide the remaining brandy before Cassandra can destroy the evidence.”
“We need to call in someone from Bow Street,” she urged. “Let them deal with both Charles and Cassandra. I do not like this, Marcus. They are clearly feeling desperate or they would not have sped up their course of action to such a degree.”
“She’s quite right. And I’m afraid your discovery of Cassandra’s little exploit last night will be your undoing.”
Neither of them had heard Charles approach. He’d been concealed in the gallery all along, likely to observe what was taking place near the duke’s chamber.
“Charles,” Marcus said. “Whatever you’re about, it’s far too late. Surely, you see that? This can still end in a dignified manner for you.”
“Why should I care about dignity now?” the other man snapped. “My entire life has been devoid of it! I’ve been a beggar at your table for as long as I can remember! Do you honestly believe Thomas Carter is your only bastard brother? Did you not know the old man had been rutting with my own whore of a mother even before my father wed her?”
Marcus hadn’t known, but it certainly explained Charles’ animosity. “There is no need for this. If you wish to be acknowledged—”
“I do not wish to be acknowledged!” Charles exploded as he pulled a pistol from within his coat. “I’m done taking scraps when the lot of should have been mine!”
“Charles,” Marcus began, but Charles was having none of it. He lifted the pistol and aimed it directly at Jane. Marcus fell silent instantly.
“I am the elder brother you see… by a full year,” Charles explained. His tone was sing-song, like a child with a secret. He waved the pistol wildly as he spoke. “The title, had our late father been a more honest and honorable man, would have been mine! He’d have married my mother and now I would be the Duke of Elsingham! Instead, I’m just a poor relation… scrounging and begging like a dog!”
The soft hum of the servants doing their work had stopped. There was little doubt that Charles’ exclamation had been heard throughout the house. The sound of a pin dropping would have echoed for days in the still quiet.
“And now the world knows you are not only a traitor but a bastard, as well,” Marcus said softly. “If you want to see me dead, so be it, but know you’re signing your own death warrant. You’ll hang for it, Charles. That is a certainty.”
Charles smiled. “I had thought to kill you, but then I thought better of it. You have eternally been the good son, the one whose conscience always led him down the proper path. Until now—until your lovely bride here. Tell me, Brother… did you ruin her in name only or did you manage to actually do the deed? If not, I’m afraid you’ve missed your opportunity. She’ll leave this world as innocent as when she entered it.” With that statement, Charles leveled the weapon once more, pointing it directly at Jane, at a distance that could be nothing less than fatal.
As he pulled back the hammer, he said, “I decided that killing you would end your misery too quickly. I’ll kill her instead, and leave you to live with the guilt of failing to save her… the same way you failed to save our worthless father!”
*
Jane had slipped her hand into the pocket of her borrowed pelisse. After her father had set upon them the instant they entered the house, she hadn’t yet had the opportunity to remove it. In that moment, she was infinitely relieved to have been waylaid by her father’s ill temper and accusations. It meant the Lord Highcliff’s gift to her was still close at hand.
Her fingers closed about the small muff pistol that he’d offered her as a wedding gift. The man’s timing and foresight were uncanny.
She waited, biding her time for Charles to step closer.
“Come here,” he demanded. “I want him to have a better view when I put this pistol ball right between your passably pretty eyes.”
“No,” she answered. “I’m not leaving Marcus’ side.”
“You will or so help me I will put a pistol ball in him now the way I should have done at Corunna! I was too greedy then… wanting to see him carted off to work as slave labor for the French!”
“If you want me at your side, Charles,” she said challengingly, “then you’ll simply have to come here and get me.”
“I will,” he said. And casually, without a care, he fired the pistol.
Marcus slumped to the floor, his hands grasping his thigh as blood seeped from the wound. “Run, Jane. He only had the one pistol ball. You can escape him before he reloads.”
“I don’t have to,” she said. As Charles neared her, she raised her hand, never even removing the gun from her pocket, and pulled the trigger. The ball discharged with a deafening bang, her small gun much louder than Charles’ larger one had been. The sound was still reverberating throughout the gallery as he stumbled toward the railing. Blood seeped from behind the dark cloth of his waistcoat, staining his fawn breeches and lacy cuffs. He fell, tumbling over the railing to the floor below, landing on the heavy marble with a sickening thud.
Jane didn’t bother to look. She had no desire to see the carnage that waited below. Instead, she lifted her skirts, tore at the hem of her petticoat until a long strip of fabric gave way. Kneeling next to Marcus, she tied it out about his leg. “I didn’t think he would actually shoot you.”
“I don’t think anyone has ever been able to accurately predict Charles’ behavior,” he said with a grimace. “It’s clear to me now that it was envy that drove him mad.”
A brace of footmen rushed in, led by Riggs, who offered immediate apologies, “Forgive me, your grace. We didn’t know whether to wait for him to make his move or rush in. It seems the duchess had a better understanding of the situation than we did.”
“There is nothing to forgive,” Marcus said, as the footmen helped him to stand. With one arm about each of them, they helped him limp toward his room, Jane behind them. “If you’d rushed in, Riggs, the outcome may have been far worse. We need to see to it that my stepmother does not escape this house. She’s guilty of poisoning my father.”
“It’s been taken care of, your grace,” Riggs said. “I took the liberty of setting several footmen to guard her door after Owlsley told me what the late Duke of Elsingham had confessed to you. The physician should be here to attend you shortly. I haven’t sent anyone to fetch the lads from Bow Street yet. I thought, perhaps, you might want it handled more discreetly.”
“My goodness, Riggs. If they’d had you at the front, I daresay Napoleon would have been defeated more quickly,” Marcus joked. He needed a moment of levity, something to break the terrible tension that had settled over the house.
“What shall we say about this unfortunate end to Mr. Balfour, sir? I daresay it would not be well thought of for the new duchess to be guilty of manslaughter… even if it was well deserved.”
“I will say that I shot him in self-defense,” Marcus insisted, “We quarreled because—I can’t think of why we should have quarreled.”
Her father had been listening from the hall along with the servants. “Because he’d been harboring a secret affection for my daughter, of course. When she chose to go through with the wedding to you, your grace, he was quite overcome. Driven mad by unrequited love. It’s at least a more sympathetic reason than being jealous of his legitimate sibling or, infinitely worse, facing the hangman for treason.”
“It’s utterly ridiculous, and no one who sees me would ever believe it. But it is a better option than the truth,” Jane agreed.
“What about the duchess?” Mr. Barrett asked.
“You mean Cassandra? Jane is the duchess now,” Marcus corrected, grimacing as he laid back on the bed. The cloth she’d tied about his leg was already soaked through with blood.
“Will she hang?” Barrett asked. “The scandal—”
“I’m more concerned with the fact that my husband is bleeding profusely, Father,” Jane snapped. “Cassandra’s fate can be decided later!”
“She will not hang,” Marcus said through gritted teeth. “As much as it pains me to say so, we are better off if the nature of my father’s demise remains unknown.” He looked pointedly at the servants gathered and at Mr. Barrett.
“There is a convent in Scotland, near one of our estates,” he continued, “Cassandra will live out the remainder of her days there, or the truth will win out and she will pay the ultimate price for her crimes.”
“She will never consent to that,” Jane insisted. “That would be tantamount to death for her regardless.”
Marcus offered a casual shrug. “I hadn’t planned on offering her a choice.”
Jane noted how pale his face had become. It was obvious to Jane that he was in a significant amount of pain. She’d seen the scars on his legs, knew that he’d been injured in battle before. That Charles had taken such precise aim led her to believe he’d been aware, as well.
“Get bandages and bring me a pair of shears to cut away his clothing. He’s losing blood very quickly and we need to staunch that wound or calling for the physician will have been a pointless endeavor,” she ordered.
“Speaking of Napoleon,” Marcus said as Jane went about issuing orders like a general, “I believe you may be something of a tyrant yourself.”
“Hush. This is no time to be flippant. You always do that at the worst possible moments!” she snapped as she cut away his clothes with the scissors that had appeared as if by magic. Without the bunched cloth in the way, she tied another tourniquet about his leg, much tighter than before. When the task was done, her hands were coated in blood.
He smiled much like a drunkard. It was clear the loss of blood was impacting him and he would not be conscious for much longer. “I will endeavor to do better, Wife.”
Jane watched his eyes flutter closed and her heart stuttered in her chest. Only that morning, she had wondered if perhaps what she felt for him was love. With the very real possibility of losing him forever staring back at her, she could finally freely admit that it was. She loved her husband.
“He can’t die, Riggs. Don’t let him.”
“Begging your pardon, your grace, but I fear that isn’t up to me,” the butler answered.
“Of course, it is,” she said. “You rule this house with an iron fist. You only have to forbid it and then it will not be.” Then, for the second time in her life, Jane fainted.