by Gaelen Foley
It was narrow and dim in the shadows compared with the broad, sunlit avenue where the shoppers strolled.
“What is the meaning of—”
“Shut up. I’ll ask the questions.” Connor flattened Bryce against the wall again by his lapels.
Bryce grew incensed. “Take your hands off me, sir!” he snarled, baring his teeth like a cornered animal. “Unless you want another bullet?”
Connor laughed and glanced at the fop’s new hat. “You call me out again, and I guarantee, your hat there might survive it, but you won’t. I’ll put the bullet right…there.” He shaped his fingers into the form of a pistol and pointed it at Bryce’s left eyeball.
“Boom,” he added softly, pulling an imaginary trigger.
The threat inspired the vain fool to check his anger. “What do you want with me?”
“Oh, we’ve much to talk about, my lord. First comes the matter of your complete lack of chivalry. You see, I don’t like men who are unpleasant to young ladies.”
When Bryce started to scoff, Connor shoved him harder against the bricks, itching to punch him. But if he broke his jaw, then the son of a bitch wouldn’t be able to tell Connor what he knew about Richard’s secret life.
That didn’t mean Connor could not still put the fear of God in him, however.
“Did you think it amusing, eh, to splash Lady Margaret with your carriage when you saw her in distress? Make it worse for her? Punish her for jilting you to soothe your ego, you witless little boy?”
Bryce looked startled that Connor knew about it, but he didn’t deny it. “What, she came running to you about that?”
“If only that were the case. But no, I heard about it at the club. Allow me to assure you that no one but you and your idiot friends found it amusing.”
Bryce scoffed, but looked away, avoiding eye contact, which suggested he at least had the sense to be embarrassed by his behavior. “So she’s moved on to you now, has she? Well, don’t flatter yourself. She’s a tuft-chaser, Amberley, just like her sister. She dropped me, a mere marquess’s heir, to set her cap at you, a duke, I’m certain of it.” He tugged indignantly at his waistcoat and lifted his chin. “I think I deserved at least a little revenge for that.”
“Oh, drop the charade, Bryce. You never had any real interest in the girl. And we both know why.”
Bryce flicked a wary glance over Connor, suddenly worried.
Connor let out a brief, cynical snort and shook his head, releasing the man in disgust and stepping back.
Bryce eyed him uneasily. “What do you want from me?”
“Stay the hell away from Maggie in future. Don’t speak to her; don’t even look at her again. She is under my protection henceforward. Do you understand?”
“Fine.” Bryce rolled his eyes and looked away, haughty as ever.
Connor felt sure he’d got the message.
“Well!” said Bryce. “This has all been very enjoyable, Your Grace, but if there’s nothing more, then I’ll be on my way—”
“Not so fast.” Connor thrust Bryce once more against the wall. “I have a few questions for you. About Richard.”
Bryce’s stare homed in on Connor, a flicker of dread in his eyes. “What about him?” he asked with careful nonchalance.
Finally confident that the little viper wouldn’t try to slither away, Connor stepped back and blocked the escape route with a wide stance, his feet planted wide, his fists planted on his hips. “I want to know exactly why you thought my cousin was murdered in the first place, let alone why you blamed it on me. Official reports state his death was an accident.”
Bryce stared, weighing the question. “It wasn’t.”
“How do you know?”
“He knew how to drive his own damned curricle. He was a dab hand! He drove it everywhere. He knew exactly what that vehicle could do—and what it couldn’t.”
Connor had never driven a curricle, but he had seen plenty of them in Town. They were extremely popular with the dandyish set, those who could afford them. Light, fast, rather spindly vehicles built on elegant, flowing lines, with a leather top that could be folded down, and perched up high on two wheels—the only two-wheeled vehicle drawn by a pair of horses for double the power.
Bryce shook his head. “It’s obvious to me that the only way that accident could’ve happened is if someone tampered with his carriage somehow, or did something to the horses.” He fell silent abruptly, as though he felt he’d said enough already, and glared at Connor in mutinous silence.
Connor studied him with a probing gaze. “You must know by now that I am not the killer. At least you can admit that, if I were, I would not have done it in so cowardly a fashion. Tampering with someone’s carriage? Shoving an old man off a cliff? Not my style, as you may have noticed. I prefer the direct approach.”
Bryce arched a brow and looked away. “I suppose.”
“Well? What else do you know? It’s plain as day you’re hiding something. Were you with him that night? Was he drunk? Was he angry about something before he drove off and got into that wreck?”
“How should I know!”
“Do you want me to find his killer or not? If so, you’ve got to tell me what you know, Bryce.”
Bryce stared at him, clearly feeling cornered.
“Can you think of any other motives about why someone would do this to him? Jealousy? Vendetta? Hatred for your kind, maybe?” Connor suggested with a knowing look when Bryce remained silent.
“My kind? What are you talking about?” he answered, though his face flushed.
“Lovers’ quarrel?” Connor asked meaningfully.
Nothing.
“Look, I know you two were more than friends—”
“What?” Bryce’s eyes flared and he looked at Connor with dread.
“If anyone has information about what was going on in his life the night he died, I know it would be you. That’s why you called me out, isn’t it? To avenge him? And I am sorry for your loss—I am. But I need to know more if I’m to figure out what really happened to him. Did he have any particular enemies?”
Bryce shrugged. “No.”
“Were any of his other, er, companions especially possessive?”
Bryce made a show of looking utterly offended. “I’m not going to stand here and listen to such filthy, perverted accusations—”
“Bryce, I don’t give a damn about your secret, other than it being wrong of you to deceive Maggie. I just want to know who the hell is murdering my relatives. Preferably before they get to me.”
Bryce began trembling, but gave up trying to deny it. Ashen, he glanced up and down the alley. “How did you find out?” he whispered with a terrified gulp.
Seeing him like this, Connor did not have the heart to tell Bryce that many in the ton were well aware of his proclivities, according to Maggie. There was no good reason, either, to admit that the information had virtually dropped into Connor’s lap, courtesy of Richard’s diary.
“Military intelligence officer, remember?” he said instead. “I have my ways.” And just like in the field, he attempted to establish trust by being respectful of foreign customs. After all, a man who had blown up twelve innocent people in a tunnel did not have much room to judge. “I, er, understand you cared a great deal about each other.”
“Don’t be disgusting,” Bryce said.
“I told you, I don’t give a damn about it, Bryce. But I’m sure Society would. So do, please, cooperate.”
“Don’t threaten me, you Irish mongrel.”
“You really want to push me right now? After how you treated Maggie? I really don’t advise it.”
“What about how she treated me? Jilting me for no reason?”
“No reason?” Connor exclaimed, then shook his head. “Stop trying to change the subject. Just tell me what you know about my cousin’s death and I’ll go away. I did not kill Richard or his father or any of them; I had no designs on this godforsaken title. I would’ve been quite content to live out the res
t of my life on my grandfather’s horse farm in Ireland. So quit wasting my time.” Bryce winced as Connor shoved him back once more against the rough brick. “Start talking. When did you last see him?”
Bryce heaved a sigh. “Richard was obsessed with finding out the truth about his father’s accident. He was torn apart with guilt for how he’d treated the old man while he was alive.” Bryce scratched his brow and looked away. “His father was a priest. Caught Richard with another boy once when he was younger. And from then on, was fond of telling him he was going to hell.”
Connor scrutinized him. “Did Richard kill him? To get the title sooner?”
“No! He merely loved to scandalize him when he got the chance. But that game ended when his father suddenly died. Especially under such strange circumstances.
“Richard didn’t believe the story that his father had just accidentally slipped while he was out walking near those cliffs at their estate in Dorset. He suspected foul play, only his father had so few enemies. Bloody virtuous,” Bryce said with a sneer. “About nine months into his tenure as duke, Rich left Town again to continue his search for clues out in Dorsetshire. He felt certain one of the locals must’ve seen something.”
“Did he speak about finding any leads?”
“Nothing in particular. But he was spooked by it all.” Bryce shook his head. “He wanted me to come to the country with him, but I refused. Told him he was being paranoid, and that people have accidents all the time,” he added bitterly. “So he left.”
“Was he gone long to the country?”
“No. He said he’d be away for a fortnight. But then, well, you see, he came back unexpectedly after just a few days. To tell me that I was right. That he’d realized he was being foolish, acting obsessed. Except…” Bryce lowered his head as he slumped back against the wall. “He came over to my house unannounced and…we had a row.”
“Why?” Connor waited. “Well?”
Bryce looked at him in frustration. “I was not alone when he arrived.”
“Oh…I see,” Connor murmured. “So he found you with somebody else.”
Bryce blushed but nodded grimly.
“Who?”
“It doesn’t matter now—”
“It might. Who was it?”
“It’s insignificant! Believe me,” he said, red-faced.
“Damn it, Bryce—”
“Fine!” Bryce scowled and dropped his gaze. “It was Lady Haywood.”
“Lady Haywood? Oh… I see.” Connor had been warned at the club about the so-called man-eater of Moonlight Square. One dallied with her at one’s peril, Netherford had laughingly warned him.
Connor cleared his throat awkwardly as the murky picture became just a shade clearer. “Did, er, my cousin also like women?”
“No! Now I’ve answered your questions. Can I go?”
“First tell me what happened when he found you with her.”
Bryce shrugged. “Not much. He gave me this cold, scornful laugh and walked right out. I followed him, but that only made it worse. We got into a shouting match. Before I could stop him, he stormed out and drove away in his curricle in a rage. It wasn’t my fault,” Bryce insisted, though the tortured look on his face suggested that he had not managed to convince himself of this.
Connor pondered the order of events for a moment. “Richard wouldn’t have taken his curricle all the way to Dorset and back, would he?”
“Of course not. A curricle would never survive on rough country roads.”
Connor traced the line of his cousin’s final hours in his mind. “So, he must’ve returned to London in one of his heavier-duty coaches. Probably stopped at home to refresh himself after his journey, then left in the curricle to visit you.”
Bryce nodded. “Sounds about right.”
“And where did he normally keep this vehicle?”
“It stayed in London year-round, so I should think it would’ve been kept in the carriage house with his other vehicles right there at Amberley House.”
“Did he mention having any problems with the curricle or the horses?”
“God, Amberley. Considering how he found me, we didn’t exactly discuss such trivialities. Especially when he told me he never wanted to see my face again. He stormed out, and that was the last time I saw him alive.”
“Where did he mean to go?”
Bryce heaved a sigh. “There’s an inn on the outskirts of Town, almost as far as Islington, where men go looking for…”
“What’s it called?” Connor asked.
“The Ram’s Head Inn. That’s why he was out there on the turnpike road at such an hour.” Bryce swallowed hard. “Not a streetlamp for miles. Nothing but fields and cows. Then he hit that sharp turn. The curricle was smashed. And he was thrown clear of the vehicle. They say he hit some farmer’s stone fence headfirst…”
Connor dropped his gaze.
“At least he didn’t suffer,” Bryce said in a strangled tone. “They say he died instantly.”
Connor gave Bryce a moment to collect himself, then asked, “What of the horses? Did anyone examine them afterward for signs of tampering?”
“One was killed in the wreck, the other badly injured and had to be destroyed. Poor Richie. He loved those horses.”
“Who was it that found him out there?”
“The mail coach driver came passing through on his route. God, why are you asking me all this? I’m sure it was covered in the coroner’s report.”
Connor just looked at him meaningfully, and Bryce’s eyebrows shot upward.
“You think I had something to do with this?” he exclaimed. “You’re mad. Absolutely not. I didn’t even know he was dead until the next day!” He shuddered. “I’ve barely slept a wink since.”
“You feel responsible?”
“Obviously! He was scared of some wild plot against his family and confided in me, but I didn’t listen! How’s that for a friend? How would you feel?”
“So it helped allay your own guilt to blame his death on me, instead?” Connor said dryly.
“Well, you had the most to gain! And plenty of experience in killing. I’m sure you could’ve killed all three dukes easily enough. Just like you could’ve killed me in the duel. Why didn’t you, anyway?”
“Because Maggie asked me not to,” Connor said matter-of-factly. He gave Bryce a look of reproach, then turned away. “If you think of anything else that might be helpful, let me know.”
With that, he ended his interrogation and left Bryce alone in the alley to compose himself.
No doubt the guilt-ridden soul was glad to see him go.
At last, Connor returned to where he had left Nestor and Will waiting with the carriage.
“There you are!” said Will. “I was starting to worry.”
“Any luck?” Nestor asked, getting the door for Connor while Will climbed up onto the driver’s box.
“Possibly,” Connor said.
Upon their return home, he decided to have a look around inside the carriage house. If Richard’s vehicle had indeed been tampered with, then any alteration to it most likely would have been made while it sat in its usual spot, inside the coach house.
Chilled to find the trail leading back once more to his own property, Connor stared out the coach window, deep in thought, as Will drove them back to Moonlight Square.
Upon arriving, the lad slowed the horses, carefully turning in at the narrow passage between Amberley House and the row of large terrace homes beside it.
The passage led back to the mews behind the mansion, where both the stable and carriage house were situated.
The stable for Amberley House accommodated a dozen horses, with the grooms and coachmen housed upstairs in the loft. As for the coach house, it had five pairs of wide, arched wooden doors, behind which lay five carriage bays.
The first usually housed the ducal town coach, in which Connor presently sat, with the Amberley coat of arms emblazoned on the door.
The second contained an opule
nt barouche, while the third had been empty since Connor’s arrival. He presumed that was where Richard’s curricle had been kept.
The last two bays housed the sleek, but rugged, longer-bodied traveling chariot, built for comfortable conveyance over long distances, and finally, an old, plain brown carriage for the servants’ use.
When Will pulled the team to a halt in the mews to be unharnessed, Connor got out to take a closer look around inside the coach house.
For some reason, he had not given it much thought before.
He also made a mental note to have all the carriages checked for signs of tampering. He’d order full maintenance procedures performed to make sure all vehicles were safe.
After stepping through the man-door on the side of the coach house, since all five of the wide bay doors were still closed, Connor went in to explore the quiet space. His boot heels struck softly over the dark flagstone floors beneath him, while above, the vaulted ceiling with its mellow oak trusses and exposed rafter beams arched over him.
Sunlight angling in from the high windows lit up the fine particles of sawdust that hung in the air. The scent of it mingled with the smell of hay from the nearby stables, and the sharper but pleasing aromas of the oil and polish used in maintaining the carriages.
The bay for his town coach still stood empty, but Connor sauntered through it into the curricle’s empty slip and examined the space, his brow furrowed. Unfortunately, he wasn’t even sure what he was looking for at this late date. Probably wasting his time.
Any evidence of an intruder would have long since vanished, considering that Richard had died months ago…
Just then, someone spoke up from behind him, breaking into his thoughts: “Good afternoon, Your Grace.”
He turned around, a grin breaking across his face at the sight of his favorite face peeking in through the man-door. “Why, Lady Margaret Winthrop! What are you doing here?”
“Just a neighborly call. I was walking in the park when I saw you return. Couldn’t resist coming ’round for a quick hullo. Good thing I came, too; you look lost.”
Her smile dimpling, her gray eyes beaming at him from beneath the brim of her fetching, lace-trimmed hat, she ambled in, coyly swinging the skirts of her light blue walking dress, clutching her dainty reticule.
