Chapter Eighteen
It took two hours through roads clogged with London traffic before Hetty and Genevieve arrived in Hampstead Village. Lord and Lady Taylor’s Portland stone mansion was surrounded by a high stone wall.
The duchess’s name opened the door to them like magic. They were ushered into a drawing room papered in crimson, cream, and gold and seated on a sofa with cream velvet cushions and rosewood arms. Guy’s sister wasted little time peppering them with questions in her thick French accent.
While Lady Taylor appeared captivated by the small duchess, Lord Taylor’s thin face bore a haughty expression. “Lord Strathairn visited this morning,” he said, as if one morning call at an inappropriate time was bad enough. He settled his boney frame on the chair and crossed his legs. “My wife and I had little to tell him. Lord Fortescue was last seen dancing with Lady Georgina Haldane. I have since sent letters to each of our guests. Many have replied with no knowledge of the baron’s whereabouts.”
“Lord Strathairn was in a fearful hurry.” Lady Taylor twisted her mouth. “He has visited our other neighbors before luncheon. And I’ve no idea why he felt it necessary. It’s nonsense to imagine Lord Fortescue was snatched from our home. He must have left of his own free will.”
“Lord Fortescue would not be so ill-mannered to leave without seeking you out and thanking you,” Hetty said.
“I’m sure he will return when it suits him.” Lord Taylor’s jaw stiffened. “The baron is new to London. He is entirely unknown to us. He was not invited but came with Lord Strathairn. We cannot say if this is his usual behavior.”
Genevieve let out a little huff. “My brother has impeccable manners.”
“But of course he has, Your Grace,” Lady Taylor said hastily, with an annoyed look at her husband. “Perhaps some tea?” Her hand hovered over the bell.
“No, merci. We must continue our search,” the duchess said, rising.
Lord and Lady Taylor rose with obvious relief. Lady Taylor patted the lace cap that covered most of her iron-gray hair. “It is to be hoped that the baron returns very soon to lay this mystery to rest. We wouldn’t wish any scandal to attach itself to us, especially with our daughter’s season upon us.”
“There is little point inquiring of the neighbors, as Lord Strathairn has been before us,” Hetty said, when they found themselves out in the street.
The duchess having agreed, they entered the coach. Hetty wrapped her arms around herself, feeling the tremor in her arms. Rational possibilities had deserted her.
The duchess told the coachman to stop at the farrier’s in the village. The blast of the furnace greeted them when they entered the forge. The solidly built man pushed his cap back with a finger. “The night of the Taylor’s ball? Mostly fancy carriages and their liveried grooms. There was two men in their cups. So many shady coves roam the heath. The Bow Street boys often bring bodies down from there.”
Hetty shivered. “Tell us everything, even the smallest details could be important.”
“I told ’is lordship who called earlier. When I was walking ’ome down Hampstead Road, I passed these two coves. One was lugging the other. Said ’e was drunk when I inquired. Toffs they were, probably been to the ball, so’s I minded me own business. ’E bundled the drunker one into a curricle and drove off fast. But then they’s always drive fast, don’ they.”
Hetty grasped the man’s sleeve. “What did they look like?”
“No need to rush me, miss. I was gettin’ to that.” He shook off her hand and took a step back. “Didn’t see their faces. Similar in size. Tall and dark-haired, both of ’em.”
Hetty clutched her hands, finding cold sweat on her palms. “But which way did they go?”
“Took the north west road, but from there, who’s to say?”
“Could it have been Guy? He might have been hurt.” Hetty allowed the footman to assist her into the coach. “But who would the other man be?”
“Lord Strathairn’s residence,” Genevieve instructed the coachman.
*
With an eye on Vincent, Guy ate the bread, sausage, and cheese. The pistol had never wavered in his brother’s hand. If Guy managed to escape, would he be able to find his way through the labyrinth of tunnels before Vincent found him? Guy was no longer under any delusion about what his brother was capable of. Vincent would shoot him down in cold blood.
“Do you remember your childhood, Vincent? The happy times when we swam in the lake and fought duels with wooden swords?”
“Oui. The apple fights in the orchard. And that time I set fire to Genevieve’s doll’s hair.” He laughed and shook his head. “She cried and cried.”
As the memories came, they shared them, lapsing into their native tongue. As Guy indulged his brother, the hope flickered to life that he could convince him to give up his awful plan.
“You can’t do this, Vincent. Don’t you see? We’ll enjoy a good life, here. Together.”
Vincent frowned. “This changes nothing. I’ve burned my bridges.” When he reverted to English, his persona changed. He became more intent on his purpose. Guy didn’t know this man and was forced to accept that Vincent was committed to his wicked plan. The pain and the hurt of it tore through him as if he’d already been shot.
His thoughts returned to a means of escape. If he was able to find his way to the room under the solar, he’d make for his chamber where he kept a brace of pistols. It was an enticing thought. Then they would be on equal terms, although he doubted he could shoot Vincent if it came to that.
“Do you have ale?”
Vincent nodded. He disappeared into the next room and soon returned with a tankard. As he put it down on the table, Guy jumped up. He threw the plate of food at Vincent’s head.
Startled, Vincent put his hand to his head, dropping the pistol, and Guy rushed him. He punched his brother’s solar plexus and met hard muscle. Vincent fell to his knees and groped for the pistol which had skidded under the table.
Guy kicked Vincent’s rear end and knocked him flat to the floor.
“Bastard!” Vincent cried, scrabbling for the gun. He was between Guy and the weapon and would reach it first.
Guy turned and bolted through the door into another large storeroom. Vincent had made a bed for himself there. Through another door, beyond it, he found himself in a dim rock-walled tunnel where only one candle flickered in a wall sconce. He fled down it. When the tunnel branched into two, he didn’t hesitate, he took the right fork. Around a corner, he skidded to a halt at a dead end. This didn’t make sense. It must lead somewhere. If this led into the room below the solar where was the door? Cursing at finding himself cornered, Guy ran his hands feverishly over the wall as he searched for any protrusion. There was no time to retrace his steps to the other passage which would surely lead him to the garden. Somewhere behind him came the rumble of his brother’s untroubled laughter.
Vincent was confident he had him. “You can’t escape, Guy,” he called. “Surrender. Don’t make me shoot you. I don’t wish to carry a dead weight all the way to the curricle again. But I will if I have to.”
Gasping, Guy’s searching fingers alighted on a button-like protuberance. He hit it hard. A click sounded, and the door swung open. Vincent cursed. The passage brightened. Vincent had snatched up a candle and was coming fast.
With a grim smile, Guy leapt through and put his shoulder to the door, closing it behind him. He swung around in the pitch dark. Which way out? He trailed his hand along the wall, searching for a doorway. From the shape of the room, he gained confidence. It was the long chamber under the solar. He paused to orient himself, then stumbled forward to where he thought the steps leading up to the kitchens and solar were, and fell onto them, barking his shins. He scrambled to his feet and took the stairs two at a time. His heart hammered and his breath came in large gasps. He cursed that his strength was deserting him.
In the main house, he passed the solar, a tired dusty room where the family had once gathered but not used for a very long time. Nearby came the clatter of plates and the chatter of the servants in the kitchen. Not wishing to endanger them, he ran up the next flight of stairs. On reaching the upper corridor, he made his way to the east wing. The butler walked toward him along the passage.
Hammond stopped dead. His cool persona dropped away as his mouth dropped open and shut again.
“Come with me, Hammond!” Guy pushed the astonished man backward and ran toward his chamber.
Performing a swift about-turn, Hammond huffed behind him as they raced through the house. On reaching his chamber, Guy took out his pistols and loaded one, expecting Vincent to burst through the door at any moment.
“M-my lord,” Hammond stammered, his cheeks crimson.
“My twin brother is here in the house. He is armed and extremely dangerous.”
“Your brother, my lord?” Hammond’s eyes widened with bewilderment. Guy didn’t blame him, but he had no time to explain.
With both guns loaded, Guy placed them in his waistband, then opened the door and peered into the corridor, surprised to find no sign of Vincent. “Take care. He intends to kill me. Keep the servants out of the way and send a footman for the magistrate.”
“Right, my lord.” Hammond scurried away toward the servants’ stairs.
With a firm grip on the pistol, Guy edged along the corridor, listening for any movement.
A servant girl emerged from a chamber. She squeaked at the sight of him in his dirty clothes and bloodied hair.
“Go and find Hammond.” He jerked his head back, indicating the way he’d come. She rushed away.
When Guy reached the main staircase, he found Vincent in the hall below, and saw the reason he had not been right on Guy’s tail. He looked up at Guy, his lips stretched in a manic grin, blood dripping from his chin. He had freshened the wound on his face with the knife he held in his left hand. “When I take your place, the baron will have a scar. Foolish of you, Guy. You should’ve run.”
Vincent raised his pistol.
“Your plan to kill me has failed, Vincent. The servants know.”
“I’ll make them believe I’ve killed the imposter.”
Guy leaned sideways against a pillar which offered him a little protection. “Shall we both die here?”
“You won’t shoot me.”
Guy was inclined to agree with him. He had no wish for his brother’s blood on his hands.
An explosion echoed hollowly around the huge hall. Stone chips from the pillar peppered Guy as he leapt back.
Vincent climbed the stairs, slightly off balance as he reloaded his pistol.
“I have a loaded gun, Vincent.”
“You won’t shoot me,” he repeated.
Guy took his chance and rushed him. He took six stairs at a leap and crashed into Vincent. They both tumbled down the stairs, landing hard at the bottom.
Bruised and winded, Guy retrieved his pistol and approached Vincent, where he lay crumpled and still.
Hammond and the rest of the staff appeared as Guy crouched to examine him. He took his brother by the shoulders and called his name. Vincent’s head lolled, all the strength and fierce determination gone from his body. Guy lost his breath and his throat closed. “The fall broke his neck,” he said, his voice an anguished growl.
“He looks so like you, my lord,” Hammond said in a hushed tone.
Sadness engulfed Guy like a dark shroud. He sat on the step with his head in his hands.
Two of the maids began to wail and were ushered away by a footman.
“Did you send for the magistrate, Hammond?” Guy asked, lifting his head.
“I did, my lord, he should be here soon.” Hammond opened the front door.
A horse galloped up the gravel drive.
The rider dismounted and ran up the steps.
Guy climbed to his feet. “John!”
“So, you are here.” Strathairn walked into the room. “What has happened?”
Strathairn stared down at Vincent who lay on his back, his eyes staring blankly up at them. “Your twin.”
“Oui. Vincent and I fought. We fell down the stairs. His neck is broken.”
John nodded. “See to Vincent’s body first. We’ll discuss how to deal with the situation, later.” He knelt beside Vincent and drew a tiepin from his cravat. It was of a bronze bird its wings outstretched.
“What are you doing?” Guy asked with a gasp.
“We might have need of this.” John handed the tiepin to him. “An eagle. A Napoleonic symbol. Like those that sat atop regimental flag poles.”
“To lose an eagle would bring shame to a fighting unit,” Guy said. “Vincent told me he was close to Napoleon.” Hating to hold the thing in his hands, he gave it back to John and turned to the butler. “Hammond, have two footmen move my brother into one of the bedchambers. Wait for me in the library, John.”
Guy went to oversee the laying out of his brother. He gazed down at the face he’d longed to see again since he was twelve years old. He sat for a moment in the still room staring at nothing, his mind grappling with the horror. When he finally left the room and returned to John, he was barely aware that his body ached for the pain in his heart was so intense it almost brought him to his knees. He walked to the drinks table. “Whiskey, John?”
“Please.”
Guy sloshed amber liquid into two tumblers and handed one to John. He sat and took a large swallow as warmth spread through his cold insides. It failed to remove the hollow pain and sense of loss. He doubted anything ever would.
“So, this is the spy Whitehall has been looking for,” John said.
Guy nodded, his shoulders slumped.
“He was a murderer. I’m sure he would’ve killed you, Guy.”
“I have no doubt of it.”
“The government must be informed. Lord Parnham will handle it.”
“I see.”
“But Parnham will be disappointed.”
Guy glanced up. “Disappointed? I should think he would be relieved.”
“Vincent was to lead us to the spies’ nest.”
“You’ve learned nothing from following Forney?”
“He’s being cautious. He approached you believing you to be Vincent and expected more from you. Your reaction would have surprised him.”
Guy gingerly touched his head. “Perhaps.”
A curricle rattled its way up the drive.
“See to that wound while I consult the magistrate. He will need to view the body. After that, we must return to London.”
Guy searched his friend’s sharp gray eyes. He was bone-tired and had no strength left to argue. “As you wish, but I won’t leave until Vincent is interred in the family crypt.”
“Yes, of course.”
Guy sighed. “What must Hetty be thinking?”
“I visited Miss Cavendish. She is concerned, naturally.”
“Zut!” Guy rested his head in his hands. It had taken quite a battering of late. “I must get word to her.”
“Sorry, Guy. Parnham expects us at Whitehall,” John said. “Send a note to put Miss Cavendish’s mind at rest. But say no more.”