The Dangerous Duke
Page 26
“There might have been hope once,” Louisa said. She managed a twisted smile. “But no longer. I will not be forgiven. And perhaps it is better that way. I—I would like to have children and my time is running out. I believe I shall settle on a nice man who will be kind to me, and put the . . . rest out of mind.”
If only it were that easy, thought Kate.
A flurry of movement in the trees ahead made the horse shy. Kate struggled to bring him under control, so occupied with managing beast and vehicle that she didn’t see the figures in their path until Louisa’s hand clamped like a vise over her forearm.
She looked up, to see Perry standing in the middle of the road, his arm around Sukey’s waist. He held a pistol to Sukey’s head.
Horror held her motionless while Perry shoved the maid before him, as if to display her. “Duchess!” he shouted. “Your Grace! Step down from the gig, if you please. You, too, Lady Louisa.” He gloated while they obeyed. “So glad you could join us.”
MAX groaned. His head ached as if someone hacked at it with a blunt meat cleaver. He’d hit the brandy a little hard last night, after she’d left. In this state, he had about as much chance of making head or tail of the estate account books as he had of flying.
She’s leaving me. Over and over, the words beat a tattoo in his tender brain. Max shoved his hands through his hair and blinked hard as the neat figures in their narrow columns blurred before his eyes.
Though she hadn’t left physically, there’d been no trace of his Kate in the polite, coldly correct lady who’d accompanied him at breakfast that morning. The elegant automaton who had answered him readily enough when he spoke to her but cut off every attempt at deeper conversation was not the impetuous, passionate woman he’d fallen in love with.
She withheld herself so he wouldn’t hurt her again. The knowledge struck him like a physical blow. She might as well have picked up a fire iron and thrashed him with it. He’d have preferred that, in fact. At least physical hurt didn’t last very long. The pain of Kate’s withdrawal might never go away.
After that excruciating breakfast, he’d moved through the rest of the morning as if he lived in a nightmare. Every minute slowed until it seemed like a lifetime until he’d see her again. Deciphering the accounts had been a particularly foolish thing to attempt, but he needed something to occupy his mind. Usually, he’d find solace in riding or fencing or punching someone, but he didn’t have the heart for it now.
Brandy would befuddle his brain nicely, but it was too early in the day for drink. Besides, he wanted another chance to talk to Kate when she returned from her errands of mercy in the village. Drunken ramblings weren’t likely to win him her favor.
His heart lurched and set up a frantic pound in his chest. Every time he thought of what he’d done, the pain he’d caused her, he wanted to cut out his heart and throw it down for her pretty feet to stomp on. He knew he’d made a terrible mistake. Every word she’d uttered sank him further in his own estimation.
But how could he make it up to her? How could he find a way to regain her trust?
That was the devil of it. He was adept at analyzing problems, formulating plans, and acting on them with ruthless speed, but he couldn’t begin to devise a solution for the most important conundrum of his life.
A step on the terrace outside made Max turn his head. Jardine.
Max grunted and sat back in his chair. “Choose your moments, don’t you? What are you doing here?”
Jardine took off his hat, dropped his gloves into it, and set it on the desk. “I’m here because you asked me to come, old man.”
How could he have been that stupid? “Did I?” For the life of him, he couldn’t recall why. Then he remembered. He’d wanted Jardine’s help in the arson case.
Jardine spoke before he could marshal a response. “Thought you’d rid yourself of that puling whelp.”
Max blinked. “I beg your pardon? What puling whelp?”
“Perry. Saw him skulking around in the vicinity. Thought you’d given him his marching orders.” The devilish brows descended over his bright, dark eyes. “If you haven’t, you’re a damned fool. Anyone can tell he’s infatuated with you.”
An odd choice of words. “Infatuated. Perry?” The ironic curl to Jardine’s mouth made Max uneasy. Suddenly, realization dawned. “You don’t mean—”
“My God, Your Grace, did you just come down in the last shower?” Jardine mocked. “You didn’t know?”
Impossible! Max dismissed the notion that Perry might . . . “Hero worship,” he said stubbornly. “Perry looks up to me as a mentor. A father figure.”
“Yes,” purred Jardine. “And we know what Perry’s father did to him, don’t we?” That saturnine smile chilled Max to the bone.
Blowing out a breath, Max straightened in his chair. He’d had no idea. Not the slightest clue. How blind, how stupid he’d been! But he wouldn’t allow Jardine to make sport of the lad. “I’ll speak to Perry,” he said briefly. “But that wasn’t why I asked you to come. It’s about the fire.”
He told Jardine about Tucker’s assertions that a stranger had arrived at the estate and stirred up resentment shortly before the day the blaze broke out.
“I’d assumed the existence of these agents provocateurs was a myth,” he said.
“Not at all.” Jardine narrowed his eyes. “The government must be seen to be dealing with unrest. Whether that unrest is genuine or fomented by government spies is neither here nor there. All the more excuse for Sidmouth to maintain the state of emergency and increase the government’s powers to unprecedented levels. He’s not likely to discourage the practice if it yields benefit.”
“So we might be looking for one of us,” said Max. “A Home Office Johnny seeking adventure and excitement— and a substantial reward. Someone with something to prove.”
Jardine nodded. “That about sums it up.”
“Perry,” Max said.
“Could be.”
Fumbling a little, Max pulled out his file and found the sketch Tucker had drawn. He examined it closely, focusing on lineaments rather than depth of color and features that could be disguised or changed.
Lighten the hair, clothe him appropriately, and remove the beard that covered half his face and that sketch might well be Perry. The eyes should have been unmistakable, but it was a pencil sketch, not a painting, and therefore played down Perry’s most distinguishing features.
The revelation hit him like a horse kick to the gut. “Do you know what this means, Jardine?” The horror of it surpassed anything Max could have imagined. His chest squeezed painfully. “It can’t be true.”
For once, even Jardine’s eyes widened in shock. “Deranged.” He shook his head. “He killed all those people so that you could be a duke. Such is the extent of his devotion.”
It was bizarre, yet chillingly probable. There’d been two men and their sons standing before Max in line for the dukedom. All had attended the reading of the old duke’s will. All had died in the fire. Could it have been contrivance on Perry’s part? Bitter, hot bile surged to Max’s throat. He could barely comprehend such warped reasoning, but it made horrible sense.
Max set his jaw and banged his fist on the table. “If it’s true, I’ll see him hang for this!”
Slowly, Jardine shook his head, and the truth broke over Max like a douse of cold water. Frustration at his powerlessness simmered inside him. “It’ll be swept under the carpet, won’t it? Faulkner can’t afford to let the public know he’s planted agents around the country to stir up trouble.”
“Oh, you’ll find our Perry is well protected,” agreed Jardine. “Even if it weren’t such a sensitive situation, he won’t see the inside of a prison cell, much less swing for it.”
Max’s mind darkened. “Why is that?”
Jardine regarded him pityingly. “You must know Perry is one of Faulkner’s boys.”
“Faulkner’s—” Max broke off, feeling a fool. Why hadn’t he seen the truth? It all made perfect
sense. No wonder his objections about Perry had fallen on deaf ears all this time. Faulkner wanted him close. Very close, if Jardine were correct. And Jardine usually was correct in these matters. It also explained Perry’s contempt and resentment for Faulkner. Even through his disgust and horror at the crime Perry had perpetrated, a twinge of compassion struck him.
Perry’s father had used his son vilely. It seemed Faulkner might have preyed on the vulnerable young man, too. “Unforgivable,” he said.
“Yes.” Jardine walked to the long window and stared out. “With that history, is it any wonder the lad’s half crazed?” Suddenly, he swung back to face Max, dark eyes glittering under devilish brows. “But don’t you see, Lyle? We have him now. We have Faulkner by the balls.” He made a crushing gesture with his fingers. “Right where we want him.”
Coldly, Max said, “I’ve no interest in your political scheming, Jardine. What will we do about that damned boy?”
Jardine shrugged. “Pack him off to Jamaica or Africa or some other godforsaken place. If you try to have him arrested, Faulkner will quash the charges before the committal hearing. You won’t see him hang in England.”
Despite the devastation he’d wrought, Max was no longer sure he wanted to see Perry hang. God, what a tangle!
“Letter arrived for you, Your Grace.” Max hadn’t even noticed the butler standing in the doorway. With an irrational surge of fear, he snatched up the letter and opened it.
Your Grace—
I have her. Did you think I’d let her take you away?
Come to the old theater, alone.
I want to kill her while you watch.
The letter was like a punch to the gut, sucking the air from his lungs. Winded, blinded by rage and terror for Kate, and for Louisa, too, Max simply sat there, clenching that taunting message in his fist.
Perry had Kate. The world around Max slowed. His throat tightened and a pulse thumped there. As if his heart blocked the air passage, as if he might choke to death on his fear.
Move! A voice inside him bellowed like a sergeant major over the din of his heart and the harsh drag of his breath. The silent bubble that cocooned him for those few seconds burst, and the outside world resumed its normal pace.
Years of conditioning kicked in. A mission. Another mission. A job, that was all. He needed to believe that, or he wouldn’t be able to function well enough to defeat Perry. Having just resolved to win back his humanity, he needed to shed it again to save Kate.
Max unlocked a desk drawer, took out his pistols and loaded them, cool deliberation overtaking his mind. His hands deftly manipulated gunpowder, ball, and pistol in practiced, disciplined movements. His hands didn’t even shake, though beneath the sheer layer of icy calm, agonized fear coursed like a torrent through his body. This was what he was trained for. He couldn’t afford to make a mistake.
“What is it, man?” Jardine’s voice finally caught his attention.
Max’s voice rasped like a rusty gate. “Perry’s got Kate. My sister is with her. God knows what he’ll do.”
Naked rage swept over Jardine’s countenance. “I’ll kill him.”
“Not if I get there first.” Lyle finished loading and stood. “Let’s go.”
SO much for self-defense, thought Kate, with an anguished roll of her eyes at Louisa. Despite having three strenuously objecting women to deal with, Perry had managed remarkably well. Lyle would be proud of his protégé.
He’d bound the three of them together by their hands, so they sat like the spokes of a wheel with their backs to one another on the stage of a small, dilapidated theater in the castle grounds.
Perry sat on the edge of the stage between the foot-lights, crooning to himself as he scored his hand with the tip of his hunting knife.
As the network of red welts built on his palm, Perry set down his knife and rolled up his sleeve. He continued the crisscross pattern further up his arm until it blurred, smeared with his blood.
His face remained eerily serene all the while, not once registering pain. Kate’s stomach churned. If he could do that to himself, what horrors might he inflict on her and Louisa and Sukey?
She hadn’t imagined the hatred in his eyes when first they’d met. Perry was clearly unhinged, more dangerous than a paid assassin could ever be.
What was he waiting for? Kate wanted to ask, but drawing attention to herself while he was in the mood for cutting into human flesh didn’t seem like a good idea.
Then, Louisa slipped a hand free.
Kate’s gaze flew to her friend. How had she done it?
With a glance in Perry’s direction, Louisa ever so slightly shook her head. “Double-jointed,” she mouthed.
Another hand flexed, doubled and compressed, painfully, slowly wriggling free. Kate glanced at Sukey, who seemed to have slipped into a daze of terror. Goodness knew what she’d endured in the lead-up to this event. Kate prayed all three of them would live through this.
Working quickly, silently, with one eye on Perry, Louisa managed to loosen Kate’s bonds enough for her to tug her hands out of the rope.
With a jerk of the head, she indicated the unresponsive Sukey. After some difficulty, Louisa eased the rope from her hands, too. What would they do if Sukey couldn’t run?
Kate scanned the stage for possible weapons. A thick layer of dust covered everything, but she distinguished some wooden swords standing upright in a box. They’d be no defense to a bullet, but she couldn’t let herself worry about that. Perry only had one pistol, which meant one shot. Her lips twisted. Ever the optimist, Kate.
A storm of booted footsteps set Kate and Louisa into motion. They launched to their feet and ran for the stage door, dragging Sukey with them, while Perry leaped up, his knife and his bleeding arms forgotten.
Kate had hoped he’d leave them and concentrate on the footsteps coming ever nearer, but she heard him shout at her to stop and the unmistakable click of a pistol being cocked.
She froze, willing the others to get away while they could. “He wants me! Damn you, Louisa. Go!” she roared.
Louisa ignored her, but she shoved the unresisting Sukey into one of the wings, out of sight.
“Turn around, Your Grace.” Perry’s voice was so calm and pleasant, it sent shivers down her spine.
Slowly, Kate turned.
“Do you see her, Max?”
A deep voice from the shadows. “I see her. Yes.”
“You can’t win on this one, you little snot rag,” came Jardine’s voice. “I have you in my sights and if you so much as sneeze in the duchess’s direction I’ll shoot your damned head off. Understand?”
Lyle walked out onto the open stage unarmed, looking relaxed, as if he were taking a stroll in the park. “The pistol, Perry. Give it to me.”
His deep voice was calm, his gaze steady. Kate marveled at his cool composure. But then, he did this sort of thing for a living. She shivered. If she got out of this alive she’d make Lyle promise never to work for the Home Office again.
MAX’S mind slowed; time all but stopped. His pulse beat in his ears.
“You heard Jardine, Perry,” he said in an even, soothing voice, as he eased ever closer. They were almost arm’s length apart now. Perry seemed to stare through him with those brilliant blue eyes, as if he existed in another realm, perhaps the one inside his sick, befuddled head. Blood stained Perry’s shirtsleeves. Had Kate done that?
“Jardine is here. I’m here. You can’t win,” said Max gently. “Come now, lad. Let’s not part as enemies. Give the pistol to me.” On the last word, he reached for the gun.
Perry, who’d seemed transfixed while Lyle spoke, shot to awareness at the last second. He yanked the gun out of Max’s reach and swung it in Kate’s direction. “I’ll kill her!” he screamed. “I’ll do it! I will!”
Terror lent Max lightning speed. He clamped his hand on Perry’s wrist, trying to bear his arm upwards to deflect his aim from Kate.
“Kate, move!” he shouted. “Take cover!”
With a strangled roar, Perry swiveled his hips and shoulders, wrenching free of Max’s grasp in a practiced wrestling move. Max looked around wildly for Kate, but she must have obeyed him for once and hidden behind one of the props on the stage. Louisa had also disappeared.
He switched his attention back to Perry, who had scrambled beyond Max’s reach. The boy held his pistol in a slack, dangerous grip. He was volatile. He might try to kill Max next.
Max spread his hands in a placatory gesture, still attempting to end it without bloodshed. But when Perry slowly lifted the pistol with a white, shaking hand, he didn’t aim it at Max. He pressed the pistol to his own temple.
“Don’t do it.” Struggling to keep his tone calm, Max moved forward a pace, gingerly at first.
“What do you care?” jeered Perry, his lips curling in an ugly sneer. “You wouldn’t care if I lived or died.” His eyes reddened, the pain in them raw and ugly. He began to cry, in wrenching, ragged sobs. Watching for his moment, Max saw Perry’s grip on the pistol slackening slightly, his finger lift from the trigger.
That moment of inattention was all Max needed. He launched himself at Perry and knocked his pistol hand away, fighting a grim battle for the weapon.
Perry’s manic strength seemed to have trebled, and it was no easy thing to overpower him. As they swayed, locked together in a desperate tussle, a thought flashed across Max’s mind, treacherously persuasive. He could let him. He could let Perry end it. If Perry survived this encounter, Faulkner would make sure he wasn’t tried for murder. If Perry went free, he would come after Kate again. There was no question about that. While this boy lived, Kate would never be safe. How could he let her future be consumed with fear?