by Kim Bowman
“On what charges?” Wilhelm sounded worried.
“Conspiracy and racketeering. The Brotherhood can hold them for a few days, but you will have to compensate them upon their release.”
“That doesn’t matter. What about Swenson and Gibbs?”
Silence while someone sank into a chair. Gideon answered with a tight voice, “Both dead. Swenson went septic and Gibbs never woke after the blast.”
Blast? What blast? And what about the men who had died?
She heard a metallic whine then glass shattering. She decided it sounded like the lantern on the corner of Wilhelm’s desk, which had probably just been crushed in his hand. He tended to break the nearest object when overwhelmed. Yes, she had to be right, because the thudding sound had to be his head dropping to the desk in a gesture of grief.
“—about widows?” Martin asked, and Sophia missed the rest until she heard “—stipend for the orphan, anonymously, of course.”
Philip finally said, “Well, God rest their souls. Along with Clarke and Longworth, the best of men and worthiest of soldiers.” The other men assented solemnly, then someone rustled paper, perhaps unrolling a sheet map.
Sophia blinked back tears, stunned at the news that four men had perished. There had been some sort of war between Wilhelm’s men and her father’s men, a private battle? People were dying for her? Her breath came faster, her head swam, and shame stormed her entire being. Distressing enough for Wilhelm to defend her, but an entirely other matter to forfeit innocent lives for the cause. Widows and orphans? How could she live with herself — how could Wilhelm…
Someone in the office moved, blocking sound to the grate, but Sophia didn’t care to hear more at any rate. Her head clanged with alarm; guilt made her limbs feel heavy, as though her blood had turned to cold silt. She crept slowly across the room and left as silently as she’d entered, ignoring the tears streaming down her cheeks.
Fritz had been waiting, lying in front of the door. She snapped her fingers, indicating he should follow her. She tried to play the piano, but every note sounded ugly, either shrill or murky with a dead tone. It gave her a headache. She wandered the halls again, both restless and aimless. Distracted. Powerless. Slowly she made her way down the stairs, glad to do so on her own two feet, ignoring the dull throbbing in her womb.
Coming from the west drawing room: four happy voices bantering in French, dishes and silver clinking, and the musical sound of her mother’s enchanting ladylike laughter. So Helena had made fast friends with the Cavendish girls. Aunt Louisa had probably retreated to her rooms, protesting the presence of another demimondaine.
Sophia simply didn’t belong in such a carefree scene. She turned to avoid the drawing room and exited through the gallery, over the terrace and into the courtyard garden. Dagmar joined Fritz, and walking that way with the dogs reminded her of the night she’d met Wilhelm, by stumbling over him, in that very spot.
Before he transformed into Iron Wil, Wilhelm used to take her to his favorite places at night, and this had been the first spot they “christened.” The fountain looked less romantic in daylight, but the marble shimmered in moonlight, and the curtains of falling water turned the stars into hazy gems. That had been her view then, lying in the shell-shaped dish with Wilhelm covering her, gripping the shelf above. She remembered it vividly, his wet hair, the water muting the sounds she could see coming from his throat, a pleasant mix of warm summer air and cool water on her skin. She would take that moment to her grave with a smile.
Fritz and Dagmar started growling, hackles raised.
“Anne-Sophronia. I thought you would never come outside your fortress.”
She had been expecting such a moment for over a year, so her father’s voice only startled her a little. It iced the blood in her veins, but the mindless panic that would have engulfed her before? In its place hummed a focused calm. Slowly she turned to face him, not faking the blank expression she wore.
“Monsieur Girard,” he answered the question she hadn’t asked. “Apparently he cares for his sister in Versailles.”
So Chauncey had blackmailed the chef for information. And access inside the house, she remembered. Sophia looked at her father, really looked, and saw a tired, soulless old man. His aristocratic polish had been ruined by drink: red swollen nose, watery eyes, loosened skin about the jaw. He looked wildly out of place in a verdant garden. His size failed to intimidate her, though he stood taller than she remembered, taller and wider than even Wilhelm.
“I would have made my way inside soon. How thoughtful of you to meet me instead.”
“I find I lack the energy to hate you.” She took a step backward, and the dogs flanked her on each side. “But my husband has no such weakness,” she warned.
Chauncey chuckled, a mocking, grating sound she had grown up hating. “I can ruin Devon with the stroke of a pen, or a single bullet. You choose which.”
“Go to hell.” Sophia reached a hand for the dagger concealed in her skirts. I have to do it. Let him come a little closer.
“Granted. However, news of your rather embarrassing annulment was already published. Sign the document, making it official, and—”
“Not a single paper circulated. Burned to ashes, all twenty-five-thousand copies.” She scratched behind Fritz’s ears, disguising her other hand grasping the knife handle. “And these dogs would love to rip your throat out, should I give the word. You couldn’t possibly shoot them both before they finish the task.”
He showed no reaction to her reference to their last meeting, in the Eastleigh hothouse, where he’d sent Lowdry to rape her, then shot her dog for defending her. That was before he’d flayed her back with the edge-side of a riding crop. Only Helena’s intervention had prevented him from killing her in a fit of temper. The reminder that he had no scruples whatsoever raked chills down her back.
Chauncey pursed his lips thoughtfully and raised his fist to study it, no doubt a deliberate gesture for her to recall the countless times she and her mother had met the business end of that fist on a bad day. Fritz and Dagmar remained motionless, both of their gazes locked on Chauncey, their menacing growls an eerie duet with the pleasant noise of the fountain.
She had no choice but to go through with it. Let the dogs take him down, then slit his throat with the knife? Not likely she could push the blade through his ribs. Sophia resisted a grimace of distaste, and a sinking feeling brought the unwelcome revelation that she was not as fearsome and callous as she wished.
Think of Wilhelm… on the gallows… She had to do it.
Chauncey cocked his head in nonchalance. “No matter. I like the bullet option better at any rate. But you still have a choice. Your fool husband overstepped his bounds. I merely want to reclaim what was stolen from me. My estates. My wife and daughter. My heir.”
She hadn’t noticed him holding a pistol in his other hand, but as he raised it, Fritz tensed and erupted in a sharp volley of barking. He twitched with the desire to attack, waiting for the command. She silenced the dog and noticed Chauncey’s hand tremoring, unsteady.
“I do have a choice, but not the one you suppose. We could talk circles around the fact that you have lost everything, which gives Lord Devon time to notice my absence and come to the rescue. Or you could provoke an attack and end this now. Either way… you lose.” She tilted her chin and furrowed her brows. “Personally, I would take my chances with the dogs. Lord Devon truly does not like you. Shall I give the word?”
Strange, she’d long imagined this confrontation, but the cordial threats didn’t fit the vision. Over the past months, all the scathing accusations cataloged in her mind had faded and been replaced by more pleasant concerns, further proof of how Wilhelm had healed her. Last year she would have flinched, simpered, or fled from her father. Now she simply wanted to be rid of him.
She heard the other two dogs barking, not far from the garden, near the house. Perhaps Wilhelm was already on his way. She must hurry. Chauncey laughed again, raking irritation d
own her spine. Her lip threatened to raise in a sneer, but she held her even expression. The moment he thought he’d affected her, he gained power.
“You may not want to do that, Anne-Sophia. You see, darling, we have a rather bloodthirsty scoundrel by the name of LeRoy waiting outside the window of the west wing drawing room. He is a very good shot. His instructions are to aim for the pretty heads inside, one by one, should he lose sight of me. If you care about the Cavendish twits, sign the bill of annulment. Immediately.” He raised a folded sheet partially from his vest pocket and patted, as though she’d be stupid enough to fetch the paper herself. He gestured impatiently with the pistol.
She blinked slowly, covering a rush of panic, then raised a brow. “Another lie, and unimpressive.”
His eyes narrowed. “Unwise, Sophie.”
In a sharp gesture, he raised his fist above his head, then too many events crowded the same instant. Fritz ripped out a frightening snarl and leapt to snare Chauncey’s arm. The crack of gunfire sounded in the distance, accompanied by shattering glass and high-pitched shrieking. A force knocked her aside then surged forward in a blur.
Where had her knife landed? By the time she righted herself on her feet, several sets of broad shoulders blocked her view. Judging by the repetitive thudding noises and grunting, two angry men were brawling on the ground. A deep voice shouted orders, and other voices shouted back in the affirmative. Her mind processed chaos until a familiar shout of agony jarred her mind with the panic that had eluded her before.
“Wil!” Her cry stuck in her throat, and she recognized Philip’s voice hushing her, his arm barring her way. More gunshots punctuated the mix of strange noises. Strong arms wrestled her to the ground and covered her, protecting her from the gunfire. She wrestled back, feeling the jolt of alarm turn to a blanket of mindless dread. “Philip, let me up! Now.”
Then she was reduced to begging and fighting for her life even though she knew it was unreasonable. He must have understood the desperation in her voice; Philip lifted her to a sitting position, and a scene straight from her nightmares played out next to that lovely fountain.
Amidst trampled hedges, an impasse. Wilhelm’s arm wrapped around Chauncey’s neck from behind, each of their right arms locked in struggle to control the pistol. Wilhelm’s hand covered Chauncey’s fist, shaking in effort to turn the barrel away from her.
And that was why Philip, O’Grady, and Sir Gideon stood in front. Gideon looked ridiculously young. He could not be twenty, but there he stood like Saint Peter guarding the pearly gates, blocking her from the line of fire.
She hadn’t noticed with all the flailing and heaving, but a glint of light drew her eye to a blade in Chauncey’s other hand. Her knife! She moved to look over Philip’s shoulder — he stood not quite as tall as the human boulders on either side — and wished she didn’t see the gashes on Wilhelm’s arms and thighs. He twisted to counter Chauncey tossing his head back, their balance teetered, and she saw bright red blood seeping through Wilhelm’s shirt across the side of his ribs. Blood ran down his arms, deep scarlet where it soaked through his trousers in dark lines.
“Do something,” she muttered under her breath. Panic? Now she was panicking. “Do something! Stop him!” Sophia pushed against her captors, but they moved not an inch, her hands ineffectual opposition against the wall of beefy shoulders.
“Hush,” all three hissed over their shoulders at once.
“Do not distract him,” Gideon muttered.
She noticed O’Grady fingering a pistol in his fist. “When I get a clear shot, I’ll take it. But right now, I am as likely to hit Wil. Stay calm and let him concentrate.” His gruff burred voice in low tones sounded calm, but his eyes followed the action with a sharp alertness that made her nervous.
At the crack of another gunshot, they ducked again, covering her in a shield three bodies deep. Voices shouted across the garden in sounds of triumph, all four dogs barked, and the men smothering her made sounds of relief and helped her stand.
“Bastard! Whoreson!” she heard Chauncey shouting, and thankfully the rest garbled. His face turned a dangerous shade of purple as Wilhelm tightened his arm, still locked around Chauncey’s neck. In a riot of movement, Wilhelm’s blood-slicked hand slipped, losing control of the pistol. Chauncey threw his weight back in an effort to topple Wilhelm at the same time Wilhelm kicked the back of Chauncey’s knee. They both went down in a heap.
Where had the knife gone? And the pistol? She couldn’t see the grappling, a blur of ham-like arms striking and blocking Wilhelm’s sinewy limbs. Chauncey was stronger, but Wilhelm much more agile. Chauncey landed a fist to the corner of Wilhelm’s jaw with a wet thud. She swallowed a cry of despair as his head jerked back. Wilhelm stumbled, swaggered, his eyes rolled. When Chauncey chambered his fist for another strike, Wilhelm sprang from his pose and darted under Chauncey’s arm with a lightning-fast palm strike to the nose, spraying blood. Chauncey roared, enraged, and Wilhelm righted his balance without fanfare.
She watched, incredulous, as moments played out as though frozen in time while other actions seemed to pass in the blink of an eye. She tasted blood as she bit her cheek, refusing to cry out and distract Wilhelm. Chauncey shouted and cursed, charging and flailing, while Wilhelm remained silent and focused. Blood matted his hair, soaked his clothes, coated his arms. His cold focused gaze, flared nostrils, and straining muscles made him an eerie vision in contrast with his deadly calm.
The sounds became unbearable, the snapping and popping. A dull snick and Chauncey’s elbow bent the wrong way. He made an inhuman keening noise. Philip flinched. Gideon hummed in approval. O’Grady twitched, kneading the handle of the pistol in his palm. They all seemed to be waiting for something.
Chauncey roared and threw his weight into a swing with his other arm. Wilhelm pivoted and ducked beneath the blow. Movement blurred, then he gripped his hands around Chauncey’s throat, his thumbs poised under the corners of Chauncey’s jaw. Sir Gideon sucked in a breath and held it. Chauncey froze, making wheezing sounds, his jaw upturned and back arched stiff in imposed submission.
Wilhelm squeezed, making Chauncey’s knees buckle, and it seemed Wilhelm held up the larger man solely by the sides of his throat, a disgustingly vulnerable, pitiful position. It made Wilhelm appear the consummate predator, lowering a shaking Chauncey to a kneeling position with smooth control. Chauncey’s skin flushed red then purple, his limbs trembling as he was forced to stare into the cool gaze of his victor.
Her husband finally spoke, low oaths she couldn’t make out, but she heard sheer hatred in his tone and saw it in his bared teeth and clenched jaw. One could wish a person to hell in any language and be understood.
Unreasonable that she should feel so little. Only raw anxiety. A desire for the end. And she couldn’t keep her eyes from the bloody weapons lying on the grass, the pistol and the knife.
Chauncey’s mouth moved, forming sneering words she couldn’t hear.
“Small world, Duncombe,” Wilhelm taunted.
Chauncey’s gaze darted to Sophia, his lips curled in a twisted smile as he muttered something else she couldn’t hear.
Wilhelm burst with anger; he shook Chauncey’s neck and shouted, “No right to speak her name! You traitor! Murderer!”
She saw the change as it happened: Chauncey’s desperate reply altered Wilhelm instantly. The fight drained from him, his hands loosened. His cold façade gave way to a stricken, ill look. Wilhelm stepped back, staring in horror at Chauncey, who heaved for breath.
What in hell had her father said?
Wilhelm retreated another step. O’Grady shifted his weight, his gaze steady on Chauncey as he herded Sophia backward. What was going on?
Wilhelm shook his head and clenched his jaw so tightly his skin turned white at the edges. “Never.” His voice caught, hoarse. “Never.” He turned to trade glances with the men guarding Sophia; it seemed he looked straight through her.
The dagger lay embedded in his thigh to the hilt
— when had that happened? He seemed to pay it no heed. “My girls?” His bloodshot eyes betrayed tumult, the only sign he was not as collected as he appeared.
Chauncey struggled to stand, and Wilhelm allowed it.
Gideon raised his arm and made two wide gestures with his hand. He watched across the field then answered with another gesture. “Secure.”
O’Grady stared at Chauncey with relentless anticipation, ignoring the surrounding scene.
“LeRoy?”
“Dead.”
“Lowdry?”
“Captured.”
Lowdry? She tried to ask why he would be there, but her mind scrambled. Lowdry had come with Chauncey to reclaim her? A surge of nausea made her throat lurch, but she forced herself to calm.
Wilhelm sighed and slumped his shoulders. She’d never seen him so tired or somber. He nodded toward Chauncey. “Arrest him. Send for the constable. We will do this the right way.”
He meant to walk away?
Wilhelm balled his fists then flexed his fingers but took another step back. She saw it in his expression: devastation, bloodlust, and a sadness that made her heart clench. He warred with desire for vengeance. Yet still he walked away.
Philip and Gideon tentatively approached, flanking him, waiting to see if Wilhelm would succumb.
Her instincts prickled a moment before she shrieked, startled by a sudden movement and fierce growl. Chauncey lunged at Wilhelm, thrusting out the pistol. Fire erupted from the barrel. Thunder rang in her ears and she crashed into the hedge.
Numbly she watched as Chauncey sprawled over Wilhelm, and they both collapsed. High-pitched ringing robbed her of hearing, and her pulse pounded through her head with a noise like ocean waves. Her mind chanted, No! No! No!
Gideon blocked her view as he darted forward, and she waited desperately while he rolled Chauncey over to reveal Wilhelm.
Breathing?
Impossible to discern if he’d been shot, already covered in blood.
