Chapter Seventeen
At the loud rap of the knocker, Hetty, her heart racing, rushed down the stairs, praying it was Guy. She reached the entry hall as the maid admitted Lord Strathairn.
“I apologize for calling at cock’s crow, Miss Cavendish,” he said. “But I wonder if you have any notion as to Lord Fortescue’s whereabouts?”
His words produced a shudder of fear. She clutched her dressing gown and shook her head, her plait swinging. “I don’t. You’d best come into the parlor, Lord Strathairn.”
The big man followed her inside. Hetty sat before her knees gave way. Still holding his hat, he perched on the edge of a chair as if ready to leap up again.
“Lord Fortescue was to escort my aunt and me to a rout last evening, but he didn’t arrive.” She twisted her fingers. “Nor did he send word.”
As he took this in, he frowned. “Guy attended a ball with Lady Georgina and me. He went missing during the evening.” He looked down at the hat he held in his hands. “I didn’t worry at first. I have not known him long but suspected, well, that a lady might be involved.” His lashes shuttered his eyes, making her wonder what he wasn’t telling her.
“A lady?”
“I expected it to be you, Miss Cavendish, for Guy seems single-minded in that respect. When he did not return last night, I grew alarmed.” He shrugged. “Hence my unpardonable appearance on your doorstep before breakfast.”
Hetty clutched the arm of the sofa. “He disappeared in the middle of a ball?”
“Yes. Held at the home of Lord and Lady Taylor at Hampstead. No one remembers seeing him again after he danced with my sister.”
Guy danced with Georgina! Strathairn’s words rang warning bells in her mind. She shook her head and tried to focus on what was important. “And your sister returned home with you?”
“Yes.” His intelligent gray eyes studied her. “Georgina spent the rest of the evening dancing with a gentleman. They set the ton on its ear, I might add.” He stood as if to leave. “Guy didn’t mention returning to his estate?”
“If he was called back to Rosecroft Hall, he would have sent word. It is very unlike him to let my aunt and me down.”
“I apologize for worrying you. I’ll obtain the guest list from Lady Taylor. Someone might have learned of his direction.”
Hetty rose, too. She swallowed to moisten her scratchy throat. “Would you advise me as soon as you have news, Lord Strathairn?”
“I promise.” He took her hand. “Try not to worry, Miss Cavendish. He is a capable fellow.”
After the door closed, Hetty rubbed her arms and paced the room. All the life seemed to have been sucked out of her. Through the window, Lord Stathairn climbed into his carriage. “Horse Guards in Whitehall,” his booming voice instructed the jarvie.
Aunt Emily entered the room, adjusting her lace cap. “I listened at the door. I didn’t want to greet him in my wrapper.”
“Why would Lord Strathairn go to the Horse Guards?” Hetty asked.
“Likely he seeks help from his fellow officers.”
“I wonder if he suspects Guy is not what he purports to be.”
“You don’t doubt him, do you?”
“No, I do not. But there’s something Lord Strathairn didn’t want to tell me.” Hetty turned away from the window, massaging her aching temples. “Someone wants Guy dead, but it doesn’t seem possible he was attacked at the ball. A guest would have witnessed it, and his body…” She swallowed. “… found.” She moaned. “I must try to find out what happened.” She covered her face with her hands. “But I don’t know where to begin.”
Aunt Emily patted her arm. “Hush, my dear. Be patient. I’m sure there is a quite logical explanation for his absence. We shall hear soon enough. I must say, when you first told me of these attacks on him, I put it down to coincidence. England can be a very dangerous place if you are wealthy and go about unprotected. But no one attempts to kill without a reason. And what reason might there be?”
“I wish I knew,” Hetty whispered.
The hours passed in excruciating slowness which became almost unbearable. At times, Hetty feared she might lose her fragile hold on her emotions. She had hastily dressed, barely eaten, and jumped at every sound.
When the knocker rang through the house, it took Hetty a moment to realize she hadn’t imagined it. She rushed into the hall to find Aunt Emily’s maid, Sarah, at the door open-mouthed. A glamorous, dark-haired woman in a striped pelisse of Mexican steel blue stood in the porch.
“Mademoiselle Cavendish? Je suis Duchesse la Châteaudunn, la sœur de Lord Fortescue.” She put a gloved hand to her flushed cheek, her green eyes anxious. “Oh, pardon! English!”
Hetty sank into a curtsey. “How nice to meet you, Your Grace. Will you come into the parlor?”
Guy’s sister reminded her of a tiny bird. The Frenchwoman barely reached Hetty’s shoulder. But there was a family resemblance in the resolute look in her eye. She settled her skirts around her on the sofa.
“May I offer you coffee or tea, Your Grace?”
“No, merci. Gee wrote to me of your engagement. I wish we’d met under more pleasant circumstances. I am looking for him. I called at the address where Gee was staying but Lord Strathairn is away from home. The servants couldn’t help me. A young lady said he had left without giving his direction. She gave me your address.”
“I’m sorry, Your Grace. I’ve no idea where the baron is. I wish I did.”
“You… you are worried, too. I can see.”
“I must confess to becoming a little concerned.”
“Gee has always been most reliable,” the duchess said with a stricken look.
“Yes, that’s what makes this so surprising,” Hetty said. She resisted expressing the full force of her fears aloud, for the duchess looked close to tears as she fidgeted with her stylish reticule.
“He would never be…” She waved the reticule about as she frantically sought for a word. “So negligent.”
Her concerns were compounding Hetty’s. She wanted to rush right out to find him. “Could you furnish me with your address so that might I contact you, should I hear any news?”
“I’ve taken a house in Portland Place.” She shook her head, causing the soft feathers on her bonnet to flutter. “But we must act, must we not? Where might we begin, Miss Cavendish?” She motioned to the street beyond the window where a luxurious carriage and four matched gray thoroughbreds stood restlessly, their heads held by a liveried groom.
Hetty stared at the lady opposite, who chewed her bottom lip awaiting her reply. She might be a duchess, but she was Guy’s sister and shared Hetty’s anguish. “We might go to Hampstead.”
“That is in London, no?”
“That is where the ball was held at Lord and Lady Taylor’s home. The last place where Guy was seen.”
“Then we must drive there at once.” The dainty woman rose on feet encased in blue suede half-boots the like of which Hetty had never seen, trimmed with silk rosettes.
“I must leave a message for my aunt. She is away from home.”
“Bon,” the duchess said.
“I’ll fetch my pelisse and bonnet.” Hetty’s spirits rose as she hurried toward the door. Something to do at last, and a confidant in the tiny lady beside her.
*
Guy opened his eyes and stared into the dark. His first thought was a moonless night at midnight. But because the air was thick with dust and mold, he ascertained he was indoors. He moved his head gingerly. It ached, and every part of his body seemed bruised. Where was he? A memory flashed into his mind, a silvery moon, the sweet-smelling garden at Hampstead, and then… nothing.
He put his hand to the sore spot on the side of his head and discovered a lump with crusted dried blood coating his hair. He loosened his cravat, his mouth bone dry, his insides hollow with hunger. His last conscious thought came back to him, a demanding voice in the darkness. What did they ask him? Had he failed to supply the answer? His mind remained befogged. How long had he been unconscious? Once his eyes had adjusted to the darkness, he spied a faint light under a door. He staggered from what he recognized as a bed of coarse dusty onion sacks then, walked an unsteady path toward the light.
Once he located the door, he turned the knob, pushed the door open, and stood blinking in the glow of candlelight flickering in iron sconces along a low-ceilinged stone passage. Something came back, a memory of being dragged along a tunnel at some point, the rancid smell of earth and mold stifling him. His hands tied, he’d cried out and struggled and been hit again before the blackness claimed him. This must be a cellar. The weight of stone pressed down, disorienting him. The air rank with the smell of rat droppings and tallow made him swallow as nausea gripped him.
He fought to draw the stale air into his lungs, to strengthen him. To face whatever awaited him at the end of the passage. Bracing himself against the wall, he lurched toward the light, and stumbled into a wide cavern. A candle wheel hung from the ceiling, throwing the room into a chiaroscuro of light and shadow, the frigid air smoky. Without his coat, Guy shivered in his ruined evening clothes.
An arched door opened in the far wall, and he started toward it, coming to a halt as a tall man entered. He gestured with the pistol in his hand for Guy to leave the room.
Was he asleep or awake? “Who are you?” Guy wiped his eyes and took a step backward.
The man moved into the circle of light.
Stunned, Guy sucked in a breath and almost collapsed. He grasped the back of a wooden chair to right himself. It was like gazing into a mirror at his own visage. The face staring back at him was gaunt, the blue eyes harder. A long scar marred his cheek. But taken feature-by-feature, it was identical to his.
Guy passed a hand over his eyes. “It cannot be true! Vincent!”
“It’s true all right. You’d best sit down before you fall.”
Guy stared at him. He slumped onto the chair and put his hand to his throbbing head. “You speak better English than I.”
“Papa taught us well, but one forgets, no? But I learn fast. You must when life isn’t offered to you on a silver platter.”
“I’ve longed to find you my whole life, Vincent. Although we all believed you to have perished in the attack on the chateau, Papa never stopped searching. He is dead now. Maman, too. Did you know?”
“He abandoned me to the fire. His own son. You were his favorite, Guy.”
“That’s not true. He was a fair man.”
“He disapproved of everything I did.”
“You were often damned difficult, but he loved you. We all did.”
His hard face didn’t soften, didn’t acknowledge the possibility. “It matters not now.”
“Why do this? What is it you want from me?”
“All in good time.”
“You were not in our bedchamber when the fire started. Where were you?”
“Do you want food?”
“Yes, but first you must tell me what happened.”
“First, I will fetch you the food.”
He disappeared out the door again, shutting it behind him.
Guy sat with his head in his hands, it all seemed unreal.
His brother was soon back and pushed a plate of meat, a rind of cheese, and a heel of bread into his hands.
Guy was hungry, but he pushed it away. “I won’t eat until you tell me.”
“It is nothing to me whether you eat or not,” Vincent said. “It will not matter in the end.”
Guy felt the chill of those words. “What do you intend to do with me?”
“I’ll explain later. While you eat, I’ll tell you what happened the night of the fire.”
Guy reluctantly picked up the plate. He broke off a bit of the bread and chewed. “Go on.”
“I had crept downstairs to the kitchen to eat some leftover tart. When the crowd began to ransack the chateau, I was frightened. I tried to reach Papa and Maman’s bedchamber, but the flames licked at the servants’ stairs and blocked my way to the corridor leading to the family quarters. A servant rescued me as the house fell in flames around me. He carried me away half comatose for I had inhaled a lot of smoke. It was some days before I recovered. He cared for me and adopted me as his own. I was desolated when he told me my family had left France. You left me! Aristos were being rounded up and taken by tumbril to the guillotine. If I’d been found, that would have been my fate, too.”
“We did not leave France for days, because Papa held out hope that you lived. Who was this servant?”
“Papa’s chef. Remember Pierre Valois?”
Guy vaguely remembered a short, rotund man who gave him food when he was hungry. “Why did he not return you to us?”
“By the time it was safe to go back, you had abandoned me, and we knew not where you’d gone.”
“We did not abandon you! The whole of our quartier was in flames. We believed you dead and still waited far too long. We barely escaped with our lives. Papa paid someone to continue to look for you, but he sent us word that he’d had no luck. Did Pierre take you away from Paris?”
Vincent nodded. “We lived in Calais. Pierre opened a restaurant there. That’s where I grew up.”
“You never tried to find us?”
“No. What was the point? You’d left the country. There was no way of returning to France during The Terror. And in the end, I didn’t want to. I suppose my adopted parent’s hatred of aristos rubbed off on me.”
“Pierre was treated well. All Papa’s servants were.”
Vincent shrugged. “I do not remember. It’s likely you don’t either.”
“Please understand. We would’ve died, too, had we stayed. There was Genevieve to consider and Maman was not well.”
Vincent shook his head. He backed away, still pointing the gun at Guy. “Time to move.”
Guy thrust the plate onto the table and lurched to his feet, his head still aching. “I am telling you the truth, Vincent. Why are you threatening me with that pistol? Put it away!”
Vincent gestured toward the door. “Back to the storeroom.”
“And if I refuse?”
“I will shoot you. Don’t doubt I mean it, Guy.”
Guy searched his brother’s fevered eyes. He did mean it. He had hired men to do precisely that. Vincent had lost his reason. But why was he still alive? He was glad to have time to appeal to his brother. Sure that Vincent could be talked around. Blood was thicker than water, wasn’t it? Fear that he may not succeed, made his stomach roil as he stumbled back into the suffocating space. He would go mad, too, if he stayed there too long. “Why are you doing this?” he asked trying to delay. “Why did you send men to kill me?”
He was pushed through the doorway. The door slammed shut in his face, leaving him in the dark. “Tomorrow,” came the muffled reply.
The next day, Vincent came for him again. “Will you at least tell me the reason for this?”
Guy’s gesture encompassed the room, the table and chairs, and the pistol in Vincent’s hand. He’d spent a sleepless night shivering in the freezing dark trying to understand it. To think of a way out of it, but he couldn’t see past the fact that his brother was alive. It should have brought him joy, but for the fact that Vincent planned to kill him. Guy stiffened his resolve and decided to take his chances as they came, whatever the outcome.
“You owe me, Guy.”
Guy shook his head, confused. “You do not need to do this, Vincent.”
“But I do. I’m ready to become Baron Fortescue. I paid for that right.”
“But I am the firstborn son.”
Vincent shrugged. “A matter of a few minutes. Is that fair?”
“It is the way of the world. I am happy to share my life with you, although it won’t make up for what you’ve suffered. Where are we?”
“The tunnels beneath Rosecroft Hall.”
“How did you find a way inside?”
“Later! I need your identification papers. I’ve searched your chamber and the library here and turned up nothing. I tried to get you to tell me in Hampstead, but you were out to it. Tell me now.”
“For God’s sake, Vincent. This is madness. Sit down and we’ll talk.”
“Non! We shall just waste time. I need those papers!”
“I lost them when your men attacked me in the woods. I fell off my horse. But what good will they do you while I live?” Guy swallowed as the enormity of what Vincent planned became clear to him.
“I’ll need them later. But first I must supply the British government with a body, so the authorities will stop searching for me. Once I convince them that this dangerous spy who has been masquerading as the baron is dead, I can become you,” he waved his hand. “And take over your charmed life. We are identical, but for this. He touched the scar. And that I can fix.”
Guy whistled through his teeth. “So, it’s you in the documents Forney showed me!”
Vincent’s mouth stretched in a wry grin. “Oui.” He looked down at the pistol in his hand. “Once you are dead, I will be accepted as the baron. But I must have the proof.”
Vincent didn’t have the papers. That meant his portmanteau was still out there somewhere.
“Let’s go and search for them together?”
Vincent’s eyes burned fanatically. “No, I think not. You are tricky, Guy, and might find a way to escape. You rode directly from London. I know where you were attacked. I shall find them after you are dead.”
“You can’t mean to kill me!” Guy searched for a sign that Vincent’s determination might falter. His dry scratchy throat made his voice rasp. “Can I have some water?”
Vincent jerked his head toward a barrel in the corner.
“I rode away from the attackers before I fell. They could be miles away. I doubt you’ll find them. I knew better where to look, and I failed.”
A metal cup lay alongside the barrel. Guy scooped up water and swallowed thirstily. It was icy, and chilled him through to his very marrow, but the dryness in his throat eased. An ache thudded cruelly behind his eyes. “Even if you found them, your plan won’t work, Vincent. You cannot carry off such a deception.”
“After Pierre died, it was useful to take on your identity in France. To all intents and purposes, I am the baron. Vincent Valois died years ago.”
“Weren’t you afraid you’d come across me or someone who knew me?”
Vincent gave him a sly glance. “You were arrested with other hapless people and thrown in prison.” He grinned. “I expected your head to roll at the guillotine like many others.”
Guy frowned. “You didn’t try to help me?”
Vincent shook his head. “You disappeared after they released you. I was told you’d left France. Where did you go?”
“Spain.” Guy wrestled with the fact that his brother had known where he was at some point and never approached him. “It won’t work, Vincent,” he said. “There are many who know me well here in England.”
“You refer to Mademoiselle Cavendish.”
At hearing Hetty’s name on Vincent’s lips, anger and fear tightened his gut. He curled his hands into fists. “Leave her out of this.”
“I might, and I might not. That depends on the lady. I’ve come a long way and there’s much at stake.”
Guy welcomed the anger. It energized him. “If you hurt her, my friends will come after you.”
“I want nothing from her. If she accepts the engagement is at an end, it won’t be necessary to deal with her.”
He had to stay alive. Even if Hetty did accept the engagement was at an end and returned home to Digswell, which he doubted, what would happen when Vincent took up residence in Rosecroft Hall? When she grew suspicious, it would place her in terrible danger. He wasn’t prepared to let that happen.
“How did you find these tunnels?”
Vincent smiled with boyish enthusiasm. “Remember how often Papa told us stories about the tunnel that leads to the wood? And how it had been an escape route for priests during the reign of Queen Elizabeth. But I didn’t know exactly where it was.”
“You searched for it? How did you evade my servants?”
“I move about the house late at night.”
“I made a thorough search for the tunnel under the solar and failed to find it. Where is the entrance?” Guy asked.
“I doubt I would’ve found it either had I started my search inside the house. I located the tunnel entrance in the wood. It lies close to the eastern wing.”
“Near the fountain?”
“You can see the fountain through the trees; it’s so close you can feel the spray from it when the wind blows. It’s covered by a moss-covered stone tablet, which was quite heavy to lift. Steps lead down and the tunnel branches out into these storerooms. I daresay, priests lived here at one time. Maybe some even starved to death here, no?
Vincent’s eyes gleamed. He acted as though they were young brothers again, sharing a secret. “I emerged in the far corner of the long storage room beneath the solar. The door fits into the wall so snug it would be impossible to find without some prior knowledge. You must locate the exact spot. Once pressed, it releases the catch.”
“So, you can come and go undetected,” Guy said. “Smart of you.”
“I’ve learned to be, because life was hard.”
Vincent nodded with a satisfied smile.
“I brought you here because it makes a perfect prison. I hefted you down through the tunnels. You are no lightweight! No one saw me. No one will ever discover you’ve been here.” He raised a brow. “I shan’t kill you here, though. If you behave, you may enjoy what there is left of your life.”
Guy’s heart thudded in his throat. “You would murder your own flesh and blood?”
“I don’t blame you for the past, Guy. But don’t try to change my mind. I’ve very little choice. There’s nothing out there for me. If I fail, the British government will hang, draw, and quarter me. Not a good way to die. I burned my bridges in France. This or suicide is all I have left.”
“You can’t mean it,” Guy said, chilled to the bone. Unthinkable, that Vincent should kill himself and be buried in unconsecrated ground.
“I do. Now Napoleon’s finished.”
“You were close to the general?”
“Napoleon relied on me. He called me Le Renard. There are those who plot to rescue him once more. They wish me to join them.” Vincent shook his head. “I won’t, because this time it will not work.” He walked to the door. “I’ll fetch more food from the next room. I want you fit enough for the trip to London.”
“We return to London?”
Vincent cast him a pitying look. He went out, locking the arched wooden door behind him.
Guy recalled the disturbing words said in such a flat unemotional tone. He leaned his arms on his knees on the uncomfortable chair, his thoughts racing as he considered possible means of escape. Was it possible to wrestle the gun from Vincent? He looked to be every bit as strong as he, and right now in better shape, but Guy had to try.
As a boy, Vincent was often cruel. He ran wild and liked to torment animals and tease his little sister. But how did he become such a ruthless murderer? Guy was glad his father wasn’t here to witness it.