Cold-Hearted Rake

“That’s not the only change. You’ve gained social and political power.”

“Power without capital. I’d rather have money.”

Winterborne shook his head. “Always choose power. Money can be stolen or devalued, and then you’re left with nothing. With power, one can always acquire more money.”

“I hope you’re right about that.”

“I’m always right,” Winterborne said flatly.

Few men could make such a statement convincingly, but Rhys Winterborne certainly did.

He was one of those rare individuals who had been born in the perfect time and place to suit his abilities. In a staggeringly short time, he had built his father’s ramshackle shop into a mercantile empire. Winterborne had an instinct for quality and a shrewd understanding of the public appetite… somehow he could always identify what people wanted to buy before they themselves knew. As a well-known public figure, he had a vast array of friends, acquaintances, and enemies, but no one could truthfully claim to know the man.

Reaching for a decanter, which had been set on a railed shelf affixed to the teak paneling beneath the window, Winterborne poured two malt whiskeys and handed one to Devon. After a silent toast, they settled back into the plush seats and watched the ever-changing view through the window.

The luxurious compartment was one of three in the carriage, each with its own set of doors that opened to the outside. The doors had been locked by a porter, a standard railway practice to prevent unticketed passengers from sneaking aboard. For the same reasons, the windows had been barred with brass rods. To distract himself from the vague feeling of being trapped, Devon focused on the scenery.

How much smaller England had become, now that it was possible to cover a distance in a matter of hours rather than days. There was scarcely time to absorb the scenery before it had rushed by, which inspired some people to call the railway a “magician’s road.” The train crossed bridges, pastures, public thoroughfares, and ancient villages, now passing through deep chalk cuttings, now chugging by open heath. The Hampshire hills appeared, slopes of dark wintry green hunkering beneath the white afternoon sky.

The prospect of arriving home filled Devon with anticipation. He had brought presents for everyone in the family, but he had deliberated the longest about what to give to Kathleen. At one of the jeweler’s counters in Winterborne’s, he had found an unusual cameo brooch, an exquisitely carved scene of a Greek goddess riding a horse. The cream-colored cameo was set against an onyx background and framed with tiny white seed pearls.

Since the cameo was set in onyx, the saleswoman at the counter had told Devon, it was suitable for a lady in mourning. Even the pearls were acceptable, since they were said to represent tears. Devon had purchased it on the spot. It had been delivered to him that morning, and he had slipped it into his pocket before leaving for the railway station.

He was impatient to see Kathleen again, hungry for the sight of her and the sound of her voice. He had missed her smiles, her frowns, her endearing frustrations with impropriety and pigs and plumbers.

Filled with anticipation, he contemplated the scenery as the train struggled to the summit of a hill and began the downward slope. Soon they would cross the River Wey, and then it would be only a mile to the station at Alton. The railway cars were only half full; a far greater number of passengers would travel the next day, on Christmas Eve.

The train’s momentum gathered as they approached the bridge, but the forward-hurtling force of the engine was upset by a sudden jerk and lurch. Instantly Devon’s ears were filled with the metallic shrieks of brakes. The carriage erupted with violent shudders. Reflexively Devon grabbed one of the brass window bars to keep from being bounced out of his seat.

In the next second, a tremendous impact jolted his hand loose of the brass bar – no, the bar itself had come loose – and the window shattered as the carriage wrenched free of the rails. Devon was thrown into a chaos of glass, splintering wood, twisting metal, and unholy noise. A wild heave was accompanied by the snap of the couplings, and then there was the sensation of plunging, tumbling, as the two men were thrown across the compartment. Blinding white light filled Devon’s head as he tried to find a fixed point in all the madness. He kept falling, helpless to stop the descent, until his body slammed down and a spearlike pain burst in his chest, and his mind reeled and sank into darkness.

Chapter 16

The violent cold brought him back to awareness, pulling gasps from the bottom of his lungs. Devon rubbed his wet face and tried to hoist himself upward. Foul-smelling river water was gushing steadily into the train compartment, or what remained of it. Climbing over splintered glass and wreckage, Devon maneuvered to the gap of the shattered window and stared through the brass bars.

It appeared that the locomotive had plummeted over the wing wall of the bridge, and taken three railway carriages with it, leaving two remaining vehicles poised on the embankment above. Nearby, the broken bulk of a railway carriage had settled into the water like a felled animal. Desperate cries for help swarmed through the air.

Turning, Devon searched frantically for Winterborne, shoving aside planks of teak until he found his friend’s unconscious form beneath a chair that had broken free of the floor. The water had just begun to close over his face.

Devon hauled him upward, every movement sending an excruciating stab of pain through his chest and side.

“Winterborne,” he said roughly, shaking him a little. “Wake up. Come to. Now.”

Winterborne coughed and let out a ragged groan. “What happened?” he asked hoarsely.