So did Herman…
“What was the point of killing Gilbert Herman after she died?” he asked in a grave, low timbre, the fog in his head beginning to clear.
Steven’s eye twitched, his lips thinned. “He wanted to testify at your trial that he knew my dear, departed sister actually committed suicide because she loved him and couldn’t bear to live a life without him.” He chuckled. “Ridiculous female rationality, but I could not, you understand, allow that to happen. Not only would your death be convenient for all concerned, I could not ever allow her suicide to be mentioned in good Christian circles. Murder yes, accident yes. But never suicide. You know what society would think.”
Will swallowed, shaking his head minutely in a feeling of disbelief and hatred never more keen and focused than it was right now.
“You are a sick son of a bitch,” Sam said from the corner of the room.
Steven seemed less startled by that interruption than Will was. But he remained steady in his stance, poised to strike, noting that it would have to be soon. Vivian visibly shook now; she’d shut her eyes. His heart ached to grab on to her and never let go; his body yearned to strike the man who had so altered the course of both of their well-ordered lives. Still, one question remained.
“Why bother to change identities?”
“Why not?” Steven replied immediately. “It afforded me the opportunity to leave for the Continent after your rather unjustified acquittal. Gilbert Herman and I sort of… evolved into one man while I traveled there, eventually becoming the great Shakespearean actor Gilbert Montague, a new identity that wouldn’t be associated with either of us. Since I turned out to be a much better actor than he ever was, I had no trouble going abroad for a while then resuming my performing here in England, after the business of your trial had died down and there was no hope of the authorities recovering Herman’s body, or at the very least, identifying it.” He smiled arrogantly. “And of course Steven Chester was simply traveling abroad. One only had to ask his sister.”
Will’s blood felt like ice.
With an audacity that surely shocked them all, Steven leaned over and gently kissed Vivian’s cheek. She winced, and it was all Will could do not to take the shot.
“Years later,” Steven continued, eyeing him again, “as I started to consider all the ramifications of my actions, I one day realized it was surely the most brilliant thing I had ever done. It occurred to me that I could use Montague’s identity to become a rich man by getting the manuscript from you and selling it on the Continent, or the Middle East or America, where it could be authenticated and easily traded for a hefty sum. Then Gilbert would disappear and Steven would come home at last to settle down comfortably in society. Unfortunately, I will have to leave the country to settle down now. You have seen to that. But no matter, the Mediterranean is lovely any time of year.” He lowered his voice and very somberly asked, “Now where is my money?”
Will took careful note of his sudden change in mood. “So, you and your sister took some time to plan,” he maintained as his tone became darker as well, “then you moved ever so subtly into my life again by using an innocent woman to get to me.”
Steven glared at him with blackened eyes. “And she was good, your grace, in so many different ways.” He dropped his voice to a deadly whisper. “Now where is my money?”
Will’s heart pounded, his head ached, his body broke out in a cold sweat that drenched him with a fear he had never felt in his life. He clenched his teeth together to control himself, for he could not lose it now. If he did, she would die.
With an odd sense of satisfaction, he replied, “What would make you think that I would pay for something that belongs to me?”
It took seconds for Steven to grasp the intent behind his words. Then his face immediately turned a brilliant red as his eyes opened wide. His body shook with a fury so harsh the edge of the blade that still rested at her neck began to nick it, forming drops of blood at the surface.
“You will never know what your stupidity has cost you,” Steven said in a thick, raspy voice.
Will’s gaze never wavered from Steven’s. The muscle in his cheek twitched slightly as he countered in whisper, “And you, Steven, will never know what hit you.” Suddenly he shouted, “Let her go!”
Almost instantaneously the back door crashed open as Colin rushed inside then dropped to the floor and rolled. The unexpected noise and movement from his left startled Steven so that his grip on Vivian loosened enough for her to react. With amazing strength and determination to escape his clutches, she shoved her foot back into his kneecap. Roaring in rage, Steven grabbed her by her hair and threw her, headfirst, into the stone wall. At just that moment, Will fired his weapon, hitting the man squarely in the temple. For a split second Steven seemed stunned, then his knife fell from his lifeless fingers and he dropped to the floor.
Chapter 22
Vivian had yet to regain consciousness, and it terrified him to think she might be dying. He held her on his lap as best he could as the four of them rode quickly back toward Penzance, cold and wet from a light, lingering rain, all of them silent but for clipped, necessary conversation. For Will, it proved to be the longest ride of his life.
He had reached her side instantly after disposing of Steven, noticing at once how her head bled profusely from a deep puncture at the hairline on her forehead where she’d struck the sharp edge of the rock wall. Will had swiftly ripped off a section of Steven’s shirt, tying it securely around her head before lifting her in his arms to rush her back to safety. They had stopped briefly on the road, as she’d moaned once then vomited across his stomach, seconds later sinking back into darkness as they moved on even faster. He held her tightly, securely, trying with every bit of strength he possessed not to think of anything at all save the desire to get home and attend to this brave woman who had done nothing to warrant such evil retribution.
At last they turned into the front drive of Morning House, where Will thought she’d get the best care. As soon as he’d stopped near the front steps, Colin and Sam were off their horses to help him as he lowered her into their arms. After dismounting, he quickly took her back from them and carried her up the front steps, glancing curtly to a stunned Wilson who held the front door open wide for their entrance.
“Send for my surgeon at once; tell him it’s an emergency,” he ordered as he moved into the foyer and toward the grand staircase. “And I want a bath prepared in my bed chamber now.”
“Of course, your grace,” Wilson responded decisively. “Right away.”
Will was breathing hard and fast when he reached the top of the landing and headed for his bedroom at the end of the hall. He carried Vivian into it and gently laid her down on the plush coverlet, resting her injured head on his pillow with great care.
Subduing emotion as much as he could considering the potential seriousness of her condition, he tried to think only of the practical for the moment, getting her clean, having her looked at by his doctor, making her comfortable and helping her to get better in any way he could.
Yet she looked like death, like a fallen angel, filthy and weak as she rested in perfect peace, taking slow, deep breaths, the rise and fall of her chest the only movement she made.
Although it seemed an eternity, he could have only stood by her side staring down at her for moments before there was a knock at the door followed by four servants entering—two carrying a brass tub, one holding two big buckets of steaming water, and another carrying towels and soap.
With a short curtsy, one of the young girls said, “More water will be here momentarily, your grace. Is there anything else?”
“No. I’ll send for you when I’m through,” he replied, his voice commanding even under the circumstances, uncaring what they thought of him bathing the Lady Vivian alone in his bedroom. He knew this situation had already gone well beyond, and was far more important than, a matter of protocol.
Another two chambermaids entered seconds later with water bucke
ts, and within moments the tub was filled nearly three quarters full.
“Leave us,” he fairly barked. “And I want no interruptions until the doctor arrives.”
“Yes, your grace.” After curtsies of acknowledgment, the room was emptied once more save for the two of them.
He removed his soiled shirt first, then, bare-chested, he slowly went to work on Vivian. First, he untied and removed her shoes, then turning her on her side, he unbuttoned her gown from neck to waist, carefully removing it and her petticoats which he tossed on the floor beside the bed. Next he rolled her stockings down her legs until they were bare, then tipped her on her side again to unhook her corset. With great care and trembling hands, he tugged and loosened it until he could easily lift it from her body.
Will stared down at her naked form, knowing that this beautiful vision of her would forever be embedded in his mind. But it was the bloodied makeshift bandage still wrapped around her head, marring his first-ever look at her unique and luscious femininity, that brought tears to his eyes and a lump to his throat for the first time in years.
He squeezed his lids shut to recapture control, then rubbed his eyes with his fingertips, breathing deeply, feeling a sudden, inescapable physical exhaustion and emotional weariness envelop him. If he could, he would gladly collapse right here, beside her, cuddled into her peaceful form, and sleep for days with only her for warmth and strength. But such thoughts weren’t practical. He needed to regain his perspective. He had to make her better.
After a few seconds of steadying himself and his thoughts, Will wiped his palms harshly down his face and over his still-wet hair, then went to work, placing one arm under her knees, the other behind her neck, lifting her once more. He carried her to the tub, then tenderly lowered her body inside after a quick test of the water temperature with his fingers.
He eased her down, still cradling her neck as he reached for a washcloth. He wet it and first wiped her face, removing grime and blood that had run down her cheek, now pale and cool to the touch. He ran warm water across her neck, cleaning the nick she’d received from the knife, though thankfully it wasn’t more than a scratch. As her arms dangled freely in the water, he added soap to the cloth and began to wash her body, her breasts and legs, feet and hands, only barely brushing the delicate skin between her thighs. At last, with one hand, he carefully untied the material wrapped around her head and loosened it just enough to make sure the wound had stopped bleeding. After assuring himself that it had, he removed the bandage, dropping it to the floor.
Not wanting to affect her healing, he decided not to wash her hair, though he did squeeze the water out of the cloth then lightly tapped her hairline to better view the injury.
He noticed only the one sharp puncture that had already closed over, but beneath it was a large knot about half an inch high and the width of a woman’s fist. She had been flung hard, with fatal intent, and suddenly Will felt the overpowering urge to murder Steven all over again.
But he couldn’t consider his rage and the indignity borne him and those he loved now. His late wife’s family didn’t deserve any more of his time or contemplation. If he allowed his thoughts, his anger and resentment, to linger on the injustices they had done to him over the years, they would ultimately win in their desire for his life’s destruction. He refused to let them win. It was all truly over.
Vivian still hadn’t made a sound, hadn’t moved at all since he’d brought her inside his home. She rested her neck and head against his arm, but he felt he had cleaned her body as much as he could. There was nothing more he could do for her now. They could only await his doctor.
He reached for a towel with his free hand and fanned it out over his shoulder. Then bracing his legs on the floor beside the tub, he lifted her once more, resting her wet body against him as he returned her to his bed.
Placing her gently upon the coverlet for a second time, he proceeded quickly but softly to dry her off. Once finished, he pulled the coverlet out from beneath her and covered her body to the neck, brushing her hair back from her face with his fingertips.
Will sat on the edge of the bed near her covered feet, dangling the towel from his hand, looking at her as she rested, so quiet and lifeless.
“I’m sorry,” he breathed, his voice barely audible. “I’m so sorry.”
For a long time he sat there, motionless, his bedroom deathly silent except for the steady, relentless tapping of the rain on the windows.
At last his exhaustion overcame him. Will stood, walked to his wardrobe and found a clean, casual shirt and dry pants. He donned the fresh clothing, then pulled his favorite cushioned rocker from next to the fireplace to Vivian’s side, where he sat heavily and leaned forward, resting his weary head on his crossed arms, next to her covered breasts.
Her steady breathing sustained him, relaxed him, and after a time, he slept.
A resounding knock at the door startled him awake. Will sat up abruptly, momentarily confused by his surroundings, the time. Then the knock again.
He glanced down at Vivian’s still, sleeping form and a flood of memory came rushing back, haunting and hurting.
Running his fingers through his hair, he said, “Come.” He stood up from the rocker, his body feeling tense and tight, his muscles sore. Before he could take a step, Wilson entered, glancing only briefly at Vivian lying in the bed, then looking at Will, no expression on his face whatsoever. It occurred to Will, oddly enough at such a moment, that Wilson was a marvelous servant. Loyal and nonjudgmental.
“Your grace, Doctor Braithwaite has arrived,” Wilson stated, standing tall, hands behind his back.
Will wiped a palm down his face. “Send him up here immediately.”
“Yes sir.”
“And I want a fire started and the bath removed,” he added, becoming aware for the first time of the damp chilliness in the air and the steady, continuing rainfall that made the room look gray and gloomy.
“Right away, your grace,” Wilson replied. “Will there be anything else?”
Suddenly he remembered he hadn’t come home alone. Hands on hips, he asked, “Where are Colin and Sam?”
Although Will had spoken of his friends informally for years, Wilson answered his question with strict decorum.
“His Grace, the Duke of Newark has retired to the blue room, and His Grace, the Duke of Durham has retired to the green salon. Both have eaten hearty meals and are now presumably resting.”
He nodded once. “I see. What time is it?”
“Nearly half past eleven, your grace.”
God, how long had he been sleeping? “Thank you, Wilson, that will be all.”
Wilson bowed, then quit the room.
Will glanced down at Vivian again, who lay in the same position he’d placed her in after her bath. But, in a flicker of hope, he noted that she was still breathing steadily and strongly, and that her color looked a trifle better. At least he thought so.
Moments later, another knock sounded at the door.
“Come in,” he ordered again.
Wilson entered first and announced the surgeon, then went to the grate to light a fire.
Doctor Gilmore Braithwaite followed immediately, his corpulent form barely fitting through the doorway. He wore a perpetual smile on his nearly fifty-year-old face, though most people rarely took note of this once they placed their attention on his long and curled, waxed mustache.
Today he wore casual clothing, though that said very little of the individual who spent most of his days relaxing with his wife and seven children in Penzance. The man had a rather mundane business, an ordinary home life, but he was considered by all to be the best surgeon in Cornwall.
“Good day, your grace,” Braithwaite said jovially as soon as Wilson retreated and closed the door behind him. “I hear you’re in need of assistance.”
“Indeed, doctor, I have a patient for you. Mrs. Vivian Rael-Lamont. A head injury. She—” He stumbled over the words as his chest tightened. “She had an accident—�
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“How long has she been unconscious?” the doctor cut in, his tone growing serious, frowning so much his mustache drooped as he walked directly to the bed, clutching his brown leather bag of medical sundries.
Will backed up from her side a little as the man moved in to peer down at her. “About… I’m not sure. Maybe eighteen hours.”
The doctor placed his bag on the coverlet. “Any vomiting?” he asked as he touched her face with the back of his hand.
Shaken by the grave inflection in Braithwaite’s voice, Will crossed his arms in front of him and tried to remain composed. “Yes, once.”
The doctor leaned over her and lifted one of her eyelids. “How old is she?”
For a second or two, that question confused him. Then he mumbled, “Five years and thirty or thereabouts.”
“Mmm-hmph.”
Silence ensued for several minutes while the doctor examined his patient, opening his bag to utilize one contraption or another. Agitated, Will couldn’t watch, so he instead turned his back to them and walked to the grate, staring down at the beginnings of a good, warm fire. The room still felt altogether chilly, but the heat on his face as he gazed absentmindedly into the blue-red coals felt somewhat soothing.
Finally, he heard the rustle of the doctor’s things as the man finished his examination. Turning, he watched Braithwaite place his items back in his leather bag and close it with an annoyingly loud click.
Will clasped his hands behind him, standing as tall and stately as possible.
“She cannot die,” he fairly charged, though his voice sounded weak and verging on hopelessness to his ears.
The doctor drew in a long breath and pulled down on the sleeves of his linen shirt. “You grace, if I may be direct?”
He felt like roaring to the rafters and tearing the room apart with his bare hands. Instead, he replied as evenly as possible, “I would expect nothing less, doctor.”
Duke of Sin Page 23
