Vincent jerked his head toward a barrel in the corner.
“I rode away from the attackers before I fell. They could be miles away. I doubt you’ll find them. I knew better where to look, and I failed.”
A metal cup lay alongside the barrel. Guy scooped up water and swallowed thirstily. It was icy, and chilled him through to his very marrow, but the dryness in his throat eased. An ache thudded cruelly behind his eyes. “Even if you found them, your plan won’t work, Vincent. You cannot carry off such a deception.”
“After Pierre died, it was useful to take on your identity in France. To all intents and purposes, I am the baron. Vincent Valois died years ago.”
“Weren’t you afraid you’d come across me or someone who knew me?”
Vincent gave him a sly glance. “You were arrested with other hapless people and thrown in prison.” He grinned. “I expected your head to roll at the guillotine like many others.”
Guy frowned. “You didn’t try to help me?”
Vincent shook his head. “You disappeared after they released you. I was told you’d left France. Where did you go?”
“Spain.” Guy wrestled with the fact that his brother had known where he was at some point and never approached him. “It won’t work, Vincent,” he said. “There are many who know me well here in England.”
“You refer to Mademoiselle Cavendish.”
At hearing Hetty’s name on Vincent’s lips, anger and fear tightened his gut. He curled his hands into fists. “Leave her out of this.”
“I might, and I might not. That depends on the lady. I’ve come a long way and there’s much at stake.”
Guy welcomed the anger. It energized him. “If you hurt her, my friends will come after you.”
“I want nothing from her. If she accepts the engagement is at an end, it won’t be necessary to deal with her.”
He had to stay alive. Even if Hetty did accept the engagement was at an end and returned home to Digswell, which he doubted, what would happen when Vincent took up residence in Rosecroft Hall? When she grew suspicious, it would place her in terrible danger. He wasn’t prepared to let that happen.
“How did you find these tunnels?”
Vincent smiled with boyish enthusiasm. “Remember how often Papa told us stories about the tunnel that leads to the wood? And how it had been an escape route for priests during the reign of Queen Elizabeth. But I didn’t know exactly where it was.”
“You searched for it? How did you evade my servants?”
“I move about the house late at night.”
“I made a thorough search for the tunnel under the solar and failed to find it. Where is the entrance?” Guy asked.
“I doubt I would’ve found it either had I started my search inside the house. I located the tunnel entrance in the wood. It lies close to the eastern wing.”
“Near the fountain?”
“You can see the fountain through the trees; it’s so close you can feel the spray from it when the wind blows. It’s covered by a moss-covered stone tablet, which was quite heavy to lift. Steps lead down and the tunnel branches out into these storerooms. I daresay, priests lived here at one time. Maybe some even starved to death here, no?
Vincent’s eyes gleamed. He acted as though they were young brothers again, sharing a secret. “I emerged in the far corner of the long storage room beneath the solar. The door fits into the wall so snug it would be impossible to find without some prior knowledge. You must locate the exact spot. Once pressed, it releases the catch.”
“So, you can come and go undetected,” Guy said. “Smart of you.”
“I’ve learned to be, because life was hard.”
Vincent nodded with a satisfied smile.
“I brought you here because it makes a perfect prison. I hefted you down through the tunnels. You are no lightweight! No one saw me. No one will ever discover you’ve been here.” He raised a brow. “I shan’t kill you here, though. If you behave, you may enjoy what there is left of your life.”
Guy’s heart thudded in his throat. “You would murder your own flesh and blood?”
“I don’t blame you for the past, Guy. But don’t try to change my mind. I’ve very little choice. There’s nothing out there for me. If I fail, the British government will hang, draw, and quarter me. Not a good way to die. I burned my bridges in France. This or suicide is all I have left.”
“You can’t mean it,” Guy said, chilled to the bone. Unthinkable, that Vincent should kill himself and be buried in unconsecrated ground.
“I do. Now Napoleon’s finished.”
“You were close to the general?”
“Napoleon relied on me. He called me Le Renard. There are those who plot to rescue him once more. They wish me to join them.” Vincent shook his head. “I won’t, because this time it will not work.” He walked to the door. “I’ll fetch more food from the next room. I want you fit enough for the trip to London.”
“We return to London?”
Vincent cast him a pitying look. He went out, locking the arched wooden door behind him.
Guy recalled the disturbing words said in such a flat unemotional tone. He leaned his arms on his knees on the uncomfortable chair, his thoughts racing as he considered possible means of escape. Was it possible to wrestle the gun from Vincent? He looked to be every bit as strong as he, and right now in better shape, but Guy had to try.
As a boy, Vincent was often cruel. He ran wild and liked to torment animals and tease his little sister. But how did he become such a ruthless murderer? Guy was glad his father wasn’t here to witness it.
Chapter Eighteen
It took two hours through roads clogged with London traffic before Hetty and Genevieve arrived in Hampstead Village. Lord and Lady Taylor’s Portland stone mansion was surrounded by a high stone wall.
The duchess’s name opened the door to them like magic. They were ushered into a drawing room papered in crimson, cream, and gold and seated on a sofa with cream velvet cushions and rosewood arms. Guy’s sister wasted little time peppering them with questions in her thick French accent.
While Lady Taylor appeared captivated by the small duchess, Lord Taylor’s thin face bore a haughty expression. “Lord Strathairn visited this morning,” he said, as if one morning call at an inappropriate time was bad enough. He settled his boney frame on the chair and crossed his legs. “My wife and I had little to tell him. Lord Fortescue was last seen dancing with Lady Georgina Haldane. I have since sent letters to each of our guests. Many have replied with no knowledge of the baron’s whereabouts.”
“Lord Strathairn was in a fearful hurry.” Lady Taylor twisted her mouth. “He has visited our other neighbors before luncheon. And I’ve no idea why he felt it necessary. It’s nonsense to imagine Lord Fortescue was snatched from our home. He must have left of his own free will.”
“Lord Fortescue would not be so ill-mannered to leave without seeking you out and thanking you,” Hetty said.
“I’m sure he will return when it suits him.” Lord Taylor’s jaw stiffened. “The baron is new to London. He is entirely unknown to us. He was not invited but came with Lord Strathairn. We cannot say if this is his usual behavior.”
Genevieve let out a little huff. “My brother has impeccable manners.”
“But of course he has, Your Grace,” Lady Taylor said hastily, with an annoyed look at her husband. “Perhaps some tea?” Her hand hovered over the bell.
“No, merci. We must continue our search,” the duchess said, rising.
Lord and Lady Taylor rose with obvious relief. Lady Taylor patted the lace cap that covered most of her iron-gray hair. “It is to be hoped that the baron returns very soon to lay this mystery to rest. We wouldn’t wish any scandal to attach itself to us, especially with our daughter’s season upon us.”
“There is little point inquiring of the neighbors, as Lord Strathairn has been before us,” Hetty said, when they found themselves out in the street.
The duchess having agree
d, they entered the coach. Hetty wrapped her arms around herself, feeling the tremor in her arms. Rational possibilities had deserted her.
The duchess told the coachman to stop at the farrier’s in the village. The blast of the furnace greeted them when they entered the forge. The solidly built man pushed his cap back with a finger. “The night of the Taylor’s ball? Mostly fancy carriages and their liveried grooms. There was two men in their cups. So many shady coves roam the heath. The Bow Street boys often bring bodies down from there.”
Hetty shivered. “Tell us everything, even the smallest details could be important.”
“I told ’is lordship who called earlier. When I was walking ’ome down Hampstead Road, I passed these two coves. One was lugging the other. Said ’e was drunk when I inquired. Toffs they were, probably been to the ball, so’s I minded me own business. ’E bundled the drunker one into a curricle and drove off fast. But then they’s always drive fast, don’ they.”
Hetty grasped the man’s sleeve. “What did they look like?”
“No need to rush me, miss. I was gettin’ to that.” He shook off her hand and took a step back. “Didn’t see their faces. Similar in size. Tall and dark-haired, both of ’em.”
Hetty clutched her hands, finding cold sweat on her palms. “But which way did they go?”
“Took the north west road, but from there, who’s to say?”
“Could it have been Guy? He might have been hurt.” Hetty allowed the footman to assist her into the coach. “But who would the other man be?”
“Lord Strathairn’s residence,” Genevieve instructed the coachman.
*
With an eye on Vincent, Guy ate the bread, sausage, and cheese. The pistol had never wavered in his brother’s hand. If Guy managed to escape, would he be able to find his way through the labyrinth of tunnels before Vincent found him? Guy was no longer under any delusion about what his brother was capable of. Vincent would shoot him down in cold blood.
“Do you remember your childhood, Vincent? The happy times when we swam in the lake and fought duels with wooden swords?”
“Oui. The apple fights in the orchard. And that time I set fire to Genevieve’s doll’s hair.” He laughed and shook his head. “She cried and cried.”
As the memories came, they shared them, lapsing into their native tongue. As Guy indulged his brother, the hope flickered to life that he could convince him to give up his awful plan.
“You can’t do this, Vincent. Don’t you see? We’ll enjoy a good life, here. Together.”
Vincent frowned. “This changes nothing. I’ve burned my bridges.” When he reverted to English, his persona changed. He became more intent on his purpose. Guy didn’t know this man and was forced to accept that Vincent was committed to his wicked plan. The pain and the hurt of it tore through him as if he’d already been shot.
His thoughts returned to a means of escape. If he was able to find his way to the room under the solar, he’d make for his chamber where he kept a brace of pistols. It was an enticing thought. Then they would be on equal terms, although he doubted he could shoot Vincent if it came to that.
“Do you have ale?”
Vincent nodded. He disappeared into the next room and soon returned with a tankard. As he put it down on the table, Guy jumped up. He threw the plate of food at Vincent’s head.
Startled, Vincent put his hand to his head, dropping the pistol, and Guy rushed him. He punched his brother’s solar plexus and met hard muscle. Vincent fell to his knees and groped for the pistol which had skidded under the table.
Guy kicked Vincent’s rear end and knocked him flat to the floor.
“Bastard!” Vincent cried, scrabbling for the gun. He was between Guy and the weapon and would reach it first.
Guy turned and bolted through the door into another large storeroom. Vincent had made a bed for himself there. Through another door, beyond it, he found himself in a dim rock-walled tunnel where only one candle flickered in a wall sconce. He fled down it. When the tunnel branched into two, he didn’t hesitate, he took the right fork. Around a corner, he skidded to a halt at a dead end. This didn’t make sense. It must lead somewhere. If this led into the room below the solar where was the door? Cursing at finding himself cornered, Guy ran his hands feverishly over the wall as he searched for any protrusion. There was no time to retrace his steps to the other passage which would surely lead him to the garden. Somewhere behind him came the rumble of his brother’s untroubled laughter.
Vincent was confident he had him. “You can’t escape, Guy,” he called. “Surrender. Don’t make me shoot you. I don’t wish to carry a dead weight all the way to the curricle again. But I will if I have to.”
Gasping, Guy’s searching fingers alighted on a button-like protuberance. He hit it hard. A click sounded, and the door swung open. Vincent cursed. The passage brightened. Vincent had snatched up a candle and was coming fast.
With a grim smile, Guy leapt through and put his shoulder to the door, closing it behind him. He swung around in the pitch dark. Which way out? He trailed his hand along the wall, searching for a doorway. From the shape of the room, he gained confidence. It was the long chamber under the solar. He paused to orient himself, then stumbled forward to where he thought the steps leading up to the kitchens and solar were, and fell onto them, barking his shins. He scrambled to his feet and took the stairs two at a time. His heart hammered and his breath came in large gasps. He cursed that his strength was deserting him.
In the main house, he passed the solar, a tired dusty room where the family had once gathered but not used for a very long time. Nearby came the clatter of plates and the chatter of the servants in the kitchen. Not wishing to endanger them, he ran up the next flight of stairs. On reaching the upper corridor, he made his way to the east wing. The butler walked toward him along the passage.
Hammond stopped dead. His cool persona dropped away as his mouth dropped open and shut again.
“Come with me, Hammond!” Guy pushed the astonished man backward and ran toward his chamber.
Performing a swift about-turn, Hammond huffed behind him as they raced through the house. On reaching his chamber, Guy took out his pistols and loaded one, expecting Vincent to burst through the door at any moment.
“M-my lord,” Hammond stammered, his cheeks crimson.
“My twin brother is here in the house. He is armed and extremely dangerous.”
“Your brother, my lord?” Hammond’s eyes widened with bewilderment. Guy didn’t blame him, but he had no time to explain.
With both guns loaded, Guy placed them in his waistband, then opened the door and peered into the corridor, surprised to find no sign of Vincent. “Take care. He intends to kill me. Keep the servants out of the way and send a footman for the magistrate.”
“Right, my lord.” Hammond scurried away toward the servants’ stairs.
With a firm grip on the pistol, Guy edged along the corridor, listening for any movement.
A servant girl emerged from a chamber. She squeaked at the sight of him in his dirty clothes and bloodied hair.
“Go and find Hammond.” He jerked his head back, indicating the way he’d come. She rushed away.
When Guy reached the main staircase, he found Vincent in the hall below, and saw the reason he had not been right on Guy’s tail. He looked up at Guy, his lips stretched in a manic grin, blood dripping from his chin. He had freshened the wound on his face with the knife he held in his left hand. “When I take your place, the baron will have a scar. Foolish of you, Guy. You should’ve run.”
Vincent raised his pistol.
“Your plan to kill me has failed, Vincent. The servants know.”
“I’ll make them believe I’ve killed the imposter.”
Guy leaned sideways against a pillar which offered him a little protection. “Shall we both die here?”
“You won’t shoot me.”
Guy was inclined to agree with him. He had no wish for his brother’s blood on his hands
.
An explosion echoed hollowly around the huge hall. Stone chips from the pillar peppered Guy as he leapt back.
Vincent climbed the stairs, slightly off balance as he reloaded his pistol.
“I have a loaded gun, Vincent.”
“You won’t shoot me,” he repeated.
Guy took his chance and rushed him. He took six stairs at a leap and crashed into Vincent. They both tumbled down the stairs, landing hard at the bottom.
Bruised and winded, Guy retrieved his pistol and approached Vincent, where he lay crumpled and still.
Hammond and the rest of the staff appeared as Guy crouched to examine him. He took his brother by the shoulders and called his name. Vincent’s head lolled, all the strength and fierce determination gone from his body. Guy lost his breath and his throat closed. “The fall broke his neck,” he said, his voice an anguished growl.
“He looks so like you, my lord,” Hammond said in a hushed tone.
Sadness engulfed Guy like a dark shroud. He sat on the step with his head in his hands.
Two of the maids began to wail and were ushered away by a footman.
“Did you send for the magistrate, Hammond?” Guy asked, lifting his head.
“I did, my lord, he should be here soon.” Hammond opened the front door.
A horse galloped up the gravel drive.
The rider dismounted and ran up the steps.
Guy climbed to his feet. “John!”
“So, you are here.” Strathairn walked into the room. “What has happened?”
Strathairn stared down at Vincent who lay on his back, his eyes staring blankly up at them. “Your twin.”
“Oui. Vincent and I fought. We fell down the stairs. His neck is broken.”
John nodded. “See to Vincent’s body first. We’ll discuss how to deal with the situation, later.” He knelt beside Vincent and drew a tiepin from his cravat. It was of a bronze bird its wings outstretched.
“What are you doing?” Guy asked with a gasp.
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