Drat!
Ruan deposited Poppy--or was it Alexandra?--at the side of the ballroom once their dance had ended, and went in search of his wife, but she was no where to be seen. Ruan scanned the room, thanking his lucky stars that he was one of the tallest men there, but still he could not see her. He began to make his way toward the refreshment table, where he had spotted Jane, but his path was blocked by a rather familiar face.
"Lord Keyford," he said, pausing mid-step, as he came face to face with his father in law. The last time the two men had met, was five years ago at Catherine's funeral. The atmosphere had been tense, to say the least, and Ruan had left St. Jarvis convinced that his father in law wanted him dead --something he was still sure of now.
"You decided to return," Keyford said, his words slurred. It was obvious that the old man was drunk, even at a distance Ruan could smell the overpowering scent of alcohol on his breath.
"Aye," Ruan answered slowly, carefully watching the older man's reaction. "I thought it was about time I showed my face, even if it's the last face that some people might want to see."
The old man looked at him curiously and to Ruan's surprise his eyes became misty. "I hope you're not referring to me, lad," Keyford said, his voice thick with emotion. "For I know all that you did for Catherine, and you're forever welcome here, by me, at least."
"You know?" Ruan's face paled; what exactly did the old man know, and who had told him?
"Mrs Hogg." As though he had read his thoughts, Lord Keyford offered up the name of his informant. "I met her one day at Catherine's grave, and I'm ashamed to say that I began to abuse your reputation terribly --Mrs Hogg soon set me straight."
Ruan swallowed in lieu of a reply, he could not think of what to say in response to the man that his late wife had despised. Keyford seemed different now -- defeated, almost as though his daughter's death had affected him profoundly.
"Catherine always attracted ne'er-do-wells; if it wasn't Lord Somerset breaking her heart, it was that Birmingham chap. I should have thanked you properly, when you took her under your care. You did her a great kindness Everleigh."
"Lavelle?" Ruan felt a stab of confusion, "What does Lavelle have to do with anything?"
"He proposed to Catherine, the last summer he was here," Keyford spat angrily, "Then disappeared to London and promptly forgot about her. Is it any wonder she ended up in the arms of that scoundrel Birmingham?"
Ruan felt as though he had been punched in the stomach; he had not known that Lavelle had proposed to Catherine. It was a despicable thing to have done, to have raised her hopes and then dashed them --but they had been young men.
"Perhaps there was some misunderstanding?"
"No misunderstanding," Keyford was firm, "And then he had the gall to accuse her of betrayal when she married you. I tell you, when I saw him in Southampton, not two weeks ago, I was tempted to run him over with my carriage."
Realisation dawned in Ruan's mind, slowly at first, but like a gas lamp catching flame he soon saw the light. It had been Lavelle all along; the attacks, the accidents, the attempts on his life, even the two roses at Catherine's grave. Lavelle had not arrived in Southampton to assist his friend --he had come to pay the man he had hired to kill him!
"Good God," he whispered, glancing frantically around the room to see where his nefarious friend was.
"Everything all right Everleigh?"
Ruan nodded curtly, and left Keyford standing in the middle of the ballroom, as he went in search of Lavelle.
"Have you seen Somerset?" he asked Jane urgently, once he had reached her side.
"I have seen no one, your Grace," the young woman replied miserably, "I can't see past the end of my nose without my spectacles. The waltz is soon though, I know that much. You'd best go fetch Olive before somebody steals her away!"
Although Jane's voice was light and teasing, her words sent a jolt of fear through Ruan. The last time he had spotted Olive, she had been hiding in a dark alcove. He made his way to where she had stood, when she had smiled at him, but there was no one there. The curtains on the French doors, which had been left open to catch a breeze, rustled slightly as they were stirred by a gust of wind. A dash of colour of the floor caught his eye, and he stooped down to inspect the item. It was a ribbon, a green ribbon: the same one which Olive had worn on her dress. It had caught his eye because he had vividly imagined untying the thing once he had her alone in his bedchamber.
Silently he exited the doors, which led to a dark veranda. He could see signs of a struggle --an overturned urn of flowers, a wrought-iron chair on its side, and most worryingly of all, a lone slipper. He hunkered down and picked it up; it was small, black and utterly anonymous, but he knew instinctively that it belonged to Olive.
Agitated he stood, and made to return to the ballroom, but a confused voice called out to him from the shadows.
"I say Everleigh, is that you?" It was Lord Deveraux, relaxing and smoking a cheroot. "Finished already?"
His old friend gave a rather saucy laugh, which left Ruan perplexed.
"Finished what?"
"With your wife. I heard you dragging her away, old chap," Julian guffawed with amusement, before taking another drag on his cigar. "Well done, you finally convinced her."
Ruan near staggered at Julian's words --the stupid fool had heard his wife, who had obviously been putting up a fight, being dragged away into a dark garden, and he had done nothing!
"That wasn't me," he bit harshly, to a startled Lord Deveraux, "That was Lavelle. He wants revenge for Catherine and so he's taken my wife."
"W-what?"
Ruan had no time to explain to Julian what was happening, instead he barged through the ballroom, and up to his bedroom. He had never been filled with such rage; his pistol lay in the drawer of his bedside table, and never before had he felt so compelled to use it. If someone had told him a week before that he would want to put a bullet through his best friend's heart, he would have told them they were insane --now, at that moment, he would gladly have riddled Lavelle with as many bullets as he could shoot.
"I say," a voice called, as Ruan came barrelling down the stairs to the entrance hall, "What's all this about Somerset kidnapping your wife?"
It was Lord Payne, slightly breathless, but wearing a look of determination on his young face.
"He absconded with Olive about half an hour ago," Ruan snapped, not breaking his stride. The younger man jogged alongside him, his face worried.
"Any idea where he might have taken her?"
Ruan paused just outside the door, thinking.
"There's one road," he said, as he once again began to stride in the direction of the stables. "It goes in two directions."
"So, I go one way, you go the other."
Ruan glanced at Payne in surprise; the young man was known as a high-spirited rake, but now his tone was determined and Ruan was glad that he was there. Payne looked grim and angry, and Ruan knew that he would gladly do anything to protect Olive--even shoot Lavelle.
"You go in the direction of Truro," he said, "I'll go toward the cliffs, it leads back to Lavelle's home, he might have gone that way. Do you have a pistol?"
Payne patted the breast pocket of his dinner jacket. "Always."
He might have made a wry comment about a man with a predication for married women needing to carry one at all times, but this was not the moment. The Duke and the Duke-in-waiting, dashed across the front yard, to the side of the house where the stables were located. The grooms inside were still mucking out for the night, but jumped to attention when they caught sight of the pair. They saddled two horses for the men and within five minutes Ruan was away, galloping down the pebbled drive of Jarvis House. Once he reached the gates he went right, while Payne went left with a shout of encouragement. Ruan leaned low against his mount's neck, urging him on in a fast gallop. He hoped that Lavelle would be slowed down by Olive struggling, for he had a large lead on him.
Ruan galloped ferociously through the dark night, ignoring the town of St. Jarvis, which was lit up below him. The cliff path was in darkness, but luckily the night was clear and the three-quarter moon illuminated his way. Never before had he been struck by such fear; the thought of Olive afraid or in pain was like a sword through his chest. This feeling was new and utterly unfamiliar; he had not known that he had the capacity to care so much for another human being.
"Faster," he urged his steed, slapping the horse's flank with his crop. He didn't usually ride so hard, and his thighs screamed in protest at the strenuous exercise, but he ignored the pain.
Finally, horse and rider came to a sharp bend in the road. The path, if he chose to follow it, went further inland, but if he went left he would reach the edge of the rugged cliffs.
Ruan paused, to consider his options. As he did so he heard a sound from his left; it was hard to hear exactly what it was, over the crashing of the waves below, but instinctively he rode towards it. He directed his horse over the grass and heather, until they were nearly at the cliff edge --and then he saw them. Olive was struggling valiantly against Lavelle, who had his arm around her neck and was dragging her across to where the cliff ended abruptly.
"Olive!"
Her name was torn from his mouth, and it flew across the space between them on the harsh, unforgiving breeze. Lavelle paused and looked up; a manic grin spread across his face as he spotted Ruan.
"You're too late," he roared above the howling wind, "Say goodbye to your wife Everleigh."
Panic seized Ruan at his words, but Olive, brave, resourceful Olive, took advantage of Lavelle's distracted state, to deliver a sharp elbow to his stomach. The Viscount doubled over, winded, letting go of the grip he had on the Duchess. Pale-faced Olive stumbled away from him, running in the direction of Ruan, who was in turn barrelling toward her.
"You're safe," he whispered as he caught her in his arms. He swiftly pushed her behind him, to protect her from any harm and began advancing on Lavelle.
"Why?" he asked, as he withdrew his pistol from his breast pocket. "Why do this Henry?"
"You ruined everything," his friend snarled, reaching inside his own jacket and fumbling for his weapon. "You stole Catherine from me and then you killed her. You don't deserve happiness, you don't deserve to live."
"Ruan didn't kill Catherine," Olive was shaking her head, her eyes fixed on the pistol that Lavelle now gripped. "She killed herself --he kept it secret so that she could have a decent burial."
"Lies!" Wild-eyed Lavelle backed away from the Duke and Duchess, his pistol still pointed at Ruan.
"It's the truth," Ruan bit out, "She was afflicted with sadness --a sadness that you helped perpetuate when you abandoned her for a life of vice in London. Why do you think she wrote to me when she discovered she was pregnant by Birmingham? Because she knew I was her true friend--she knew I would return to her. But you, you'd already broken her heart Henry, you'd already treated her like dirt upon your shoe."
"It's not true," the Viscount shook his head, and took another step backward. "You killed her, you did, you did--"
"Henry, no."
Ruan watched in horror as his oldest friend took another step back and lost his footing on the loose, stony edge of the cliff. He seemed to stay suspended, mid-air, for one second, his eyes awash with confusion and fear. Ruan raced forward, but it was too late, by the time he reached the cliff edge, Lavelle was plummeting toward the rocks, some fifty feet below.
"Don't look," Ruan ordered Olive, who had come to stand by his side. He drew her toward him, pressing her face against his chest so she would not have to see the horrible sight below.
"Is he..?"
Ruan nodded, unable to speak as a tide of emotion seemed set to drown him. Lavelle had been his best friend since they were both three-foot high, but for the past five years the man had secretly hated him and wished him dead.
"Come," Ruan put his arms around Olive's shoulders, and guided her to where the two horses now stood, grazing on the flora of the sea-cliffs. "We need to get back to Somerset House and fetch some help retrieving Lavelle's body."
He also needed a stiff glass of brandy and few moments alone to reflect on what had happened. He helped Olive to mount Lavelle's steed, then jumped into the saddle of his own. The Duke and Duchess travelled back to Jarvis House in silence, each lost in their own thoughts.
"Oh, you're safe. Thank goodness."
Jane, once more bespectacled, stood on the steps of Jarvis House to greet them. Lord Payne, who was thoroughly dusty and covered in a sheen of sweat at her side.
"Where's Lavelle?" he called to Ruan, who was helping Olive to dismount. The Duke threw the younger man a look that spoke volumes, which Payne returned with a grim nod of understanding.
"The guests have all left," Jane said, ushering Olive and Ruan inside. She guided them to the drawing room, where she ordered a pot of tea be fetched for Olive and something stronger for the Duke.
"Does anyone know what happened?" Ruan asked urgently, his mind already working to see how they could salvage the situation.
"Just myself, Lord Payne and Julian," Jane offered, handing Olive a steaming cup of tea. "We weren't quite sure exactly what was happening, so we didn't tell the other guests."
"Good," Ruan relaxed, "Let's keep it that way. Lavelle is dead, he fell off the cliffs just by Fisherman's Cove. We will tell no one of what he did, for his family's sake-- Julian can circulate a rumour that he was in his cups when he left."
"You're going to pretend it was a tragic accident?"
Olive spoke for the first time since they had arrived, her face a picture of confusion. Ruan nodded; he hated Lavelle for the danger he had put his wife in, but he did not want to ruin his family's name, for Lavelle had brothers who lived around the locale and it was they who would bear the brunt of his treachery.
"Good God man, you're far more noble than I," Lord Payne said, taking a large bite out of a sandwich and looking at Ruan with awe.
"He's the most noble man that I have ever met," Olive whispered proudly, taking Ruan's hand in her own and squeezing it tightly. Ruan felt a stirring of pleasure at her words. They were both nearly finished their drinks, and Olive looked as tired as he felt.
"Shall I take you home?" he suggested, thinking to leave her at the boarding house, as he had every other night.
"Yes," his wife held his gaze, "Take me back to Pemberton Hall, Ruan. I'm ready to go home."