Something nudged at Astrid’s awareness, a flicker of light near the barn door, a shift in the air. Magic peered at the door too, suggesting Astrid hadn’t imagined whatever caught her eye. The horse also ignored his hay. Despite the cold, despite being as devoted to his fodder as any equine.
Keep talking.
Henry straightened and gave her his boyish smile. “You know, Astrid, the most difficult thing for me has been managing this whole business without having anyone—not one soul—to appreciate the genius of it. You should consider yourself honored. I would not be surprised if intelligent younger sons weren’t getting away with murder much more frequently than the world suspects. Now where”—he gave the reins a savage yank—“will I find a damned lantern with oil in it?”
“I don’t know, Henry. I am not familiar with Heathgate’s stables. When I need a mount, I summon a groom to fetch me one.”
Henry leered at her and stroked himself through his breeches with his free hand. “And do you need a mount now? We probably have time, and I can assure you, my attentions will make you forget Herbert—or that strutting pain in the arse, Greymoor—ever touched you. You complicated things too much when you married that one, Astrid.”
Her life had been saved at least twice over when she’d married Andrew—Astrid was more sure of that now than she’d ever been.
Henry stroked himself again, and nausea welled anew. Astrid could contemplate death more easily than she could defilement by this incarnation of evil, but if Henry wasted only ten minutes raping her, that was ten more minutes when a groom, stableboy, or somebody else might come along.
“Ah-hah,” Henry cried as his gaze lit on another lantern, this one hanging on the ladder that led up to the haymow. He hauled Astrid to it and crowed with pleasure when he saw the lantern had plenty of oil.
“We’re in business, dear Astrid,” he said cheerily, lighting his prize from the single fixed lantern burning low halfway down the aisle. “Come along.”
She did, but stumbled when he pulled too sharply on her wrists.
“Isn’t it enough,” she hissed, “that you’re going to kill me, Henry? Must you abuse me in the process?”
That struck him funny as he hauled on the reins again, sending Astrid careening into the unused saddle stand. As she righted herself, the main barn door cracked open.
“Henry!” she bellowed. “You need not jerk my wrists, for God’s sake. I’ll follow you to the saddle room readily enough if you’ll be patient.”
“It really, really is a shame we don’t have time to play,” he observed, proceeding more quickly.
“So how will you kill me?” Astrid asked, using her two remaining wits to not look in the direction of the barn door.
“Interesting question. Do you have a suggestion? Firearms are my preference, as you know, but a gunshot would bring a crowd a bit too hastily for my convenience. I’ve a knife in my boot if all else fails.”
Oh, the preferences she had. To see Andrew again, to see the last of Henry in this life, to keep her child safe. To keep Herbert’s child safe from a menace poor Herbert hadn’t recognized. “I don’t particularly want to suffer.”
Though to reach his knife, Henry would have to take his attention from her, which gave Astrid a glimmer of hope.
“Reasonable enough, I suppose, but we must bear in mind your death cannot appear to be murder, which leaves only accident or suicide. Suicide would fit in nicely with Douglas’s theory, though his conviction regarding your inclination toward self-harm is wavering. What say we start a fire in the stables?”
And then nip ’round the pub for a pint? “That won’t answer. I’d simply run out of a burning building, Henry.”
“Same thought occurred to me,” Henry replied genially as he unlatched the saddle-room door. “That leaves us with suicide, which will have the advantage of being relatively painless for you, though messy for your family. My apologies and condolences.”
“So you’ll simply cut my wrists and leave the knife by my body?” Astrid asked, hanging back at the saddle-room door.
“He will not,” Andrew hissed, brandishing a pistol. “Run, Astrid!”
She bolted for the far end of the barn aisle, jerking the reins from Henry’s grasp in the instant it took him to realize that his ingenious machinations would again be foiled. Astrid flung open the door and pelted out into the bright sunshine.
Her balance and her nerves failed her then, and she ended up floundering to her knees in the snow a few feet from the door.
“Astrid!”
Douglas Allen hissed her name from beside the door. He put a finger to his lips, motioning for silence. “It’s Henry, isn’t it?” he whispered. He drew a knife from the folds of his cape and freed her wrists with one slice.
“With Andrew—Henry has a knife. Henry was going to murder me, and… oh, Douglas…” She hung her head and tried not to retch.
“I know,” Douglas said softly. “But it’s dark in there, and Henry is distracted by Greymoor. I’ll have the advantages of stealth and surprise.” Only then did Astrid see Douglas, too, had a gun, a long-barreled pistol that would be lethal over a goodly distance, likely half a matched set of Mantons. Before she could say another word, Douglas hoisted her to her feet, nodded briskly toward the manor house, and slipped into the barn.
Get help, Astrid thought desperately, trying to draw air into her lungs. Go to the house and get help. Feeling returned to her hands in stinging agonies, and she wasted precious moments trying to push away the dizziness and the roaring in her ears.
The barn door burst open, and Henry stumbled out, his knife in his hand. Before Astrid could scurry to safety, he hauled her up against him and raised the blade against her throat.
“That’s far enough, Greymoor,” Henry panted. “Toss your gun out here into the snow, and then come out slowly with your hands behind your head.”
Nothing moved in the darkness within the barn, prompting Henry to jam the blade tighter against Astrid’s neck.
“Quickly, man! No tricks, or I cut her throat,” Henry cried.
A gun the exact match of the one Douglas had held came sailing through the door, landing in the snow at Astrid’s feet.
“Now out!” Henry barked.
After a long moment’s pause, Andrew slowly emerged from the barn and stood in front of the door, his hands raised and clasped behind his head. The posture was humiliating, one forced on soldiers taken prisoner.
“You have only one blade,” Andrew pointed out. “You might as well bury it in my heart, Henry. There’s no love lost between my wife and me, and I doubt she’d testify against you. In fact, you could probably depart the scene and blame my death on her.”
“Oh, Greymoor.” Henry sounded positively gleeful. “I do admire this display of coolheaded reason, but it won’t serve. Astrid, I’m afraid we’re back to setting the barn on fire.”
“Henry…” Astrid raised her left hand, as if fending off a swoon. She sagged against his arm for further effect, but as her hand approached her face, she opened her fingers and flung a handful of sugar directly into Henry’s eyes.
“Astrid, down!” Andrew bellowed.
She rolled herself into the snow as Andrew dove at Henry and wrenched the knife from his hand.
“Hold still!” Andrew roared, sending the knife sailing across the stable yard. “Hold still, or by God I’ll murder you with my bare hands.”
He had Henry in a choking hold, his elbow hooked around the shorter man’s throat.
“Andrew, you can’t kill him,” Astrid panted, struggling to her feet. “He’s Douglas’s only brother, and he’s not—”
“He’s not sane,” Douglas said, emerging from the barn, his pistol cocked and aimed at Henry. “He’s cheerful, charming, good company, and willing to kill for the privilege of a viscountcy I neither need nor want.”
Henry seemed to grow smaller as Andrew dropped his arm and took a step away. “Douglas. You weren’t supposed to find out. You were supposed to
be dull old Douglas, until—”
“And you weren’t supposed to leave Mother alone. I am slow, Henry. A plodding embarrassment of a brother, I know, and a pathetic excuse for a viscount, but the staff at least follows my directions when I tell them to report to me the comings and goings of family.”
While Astrid watched, Henry’s bewilderment shifted, his expression lightened, and foreboding gripped her by the throat. “Andrew, watch—”
She’d left the warning too late. Henry darted forward, snatched the gun from Douglas, and as Andrew bundled Astrid off to the side, the sharp report of a sizable pistol reverberated through the stable yard.
Douglas’s tortured, “Dear God, no,” reached Astrid’s ears while Andrew’s arms tightened around her.
“Don’t look,” Andrew rasped as he pushed her face against his shoulder. “Dear heart, please spare yourself and don’t look.”
Twenty
“What made you come out to the stables?” Astrid asked.
She feared Andrew’s reply, because when one person asked a question and the other provided an answer, it could be construed as a conversation, particularly when those two people were alone before a roaring fire in the Willowdale library.
Since Henry Allen had… died earlier that day, Andrew had not left her side. He’d kept an arm around her, a hand on her arm, or his fingers clasped with hers. He reminded her of a wolf, bedding down with its mate to maintain bodily contact through the long, cold night.
But they’d spoken little. Andrew had summoned Gareth and told him in terse language what had transpired. Gareth, after a few moments of outrage that his household would be further troubled while the marchioness’s health was imperiled, had calmed down and set about dealing with the practicalities.
Andrew had sent for the magistrate and the estate carpenter, who would measure Henry for his coffin. With Douglas’s consent, he’d directed that a place be made for Henry’s remains in an unused, unheated parlor, and dispatched notes to Lady Heathgate and to the Allen solicitors. A groom tore off for London to fetch changes of clothing for Douglas and David, and to determine the whereabouts of Lady Amery.
Douglas had been assigned a guest room, and David had been assigned to watching over Douglas, lest the events of the day result in any more pointless tragedies.
Between Andrew, Gareth, and David, it was agreed that Henry’s death would be labeled an accident, rather than a suicide, damp weather being notorious for making guns unreliable, even in the hands of men accustomed to their use.
Andrew seemed to share Astrid’s reluctance to begin a dialogue, for he took his time forming an answer to her inquiry regarding his trip to the stables.
“Gareth and I had been roughhousing in the playroom,” he said slowly, “and talking. Talking about… the past. I wanted to be in the saddle, wanted to go for a good gallop and clear my head. Cook told me you’d taken yourself out to the barn, but what about you? What drew you to the stables?”
He wasn’t telling her half of what she wanted to know, but neither was he lying. “One of the footmen had a note for me. I thought it was from you. Henry likely slipped it to a groom, and the rest of the household knows I’m happy to go visit the horses.”
Astrid laced her fingers through her husband’s. How long would it be before she had the courage to visit the stables without an escort? What if Douglas had not brought two pistols—because by all accounts, Andrew had arrived to the stable unarmed? What if Henry had seen his brother lurking in the shadows of the barn? What if Henry had pitched that knife at Andrew? What if Andrew had not felt the need for time in the saddle?
“I like to visit the horses too,” Andrew said. “They can help a man sort himself out. These past few days have been so…”
“At sixes and sevens,” Astrid supplied. “So happy, so sad, so tense, so tiring… I have wanted to talk to you too, Andrew, but I haven’t known what to say.”
“Hush,” he replied, looking at their linked hands. “Never let it be said Astrid Worthington Allen Alexander was at a loss for plain speech.”
Rather than admit she was at a loss for much more than that, Astrid concentrated on the feel of his hand, warm and secure around hers. This is where he tells me, so gently and regretfully: we really cannot continue like this, and he will be leaving me soon.
“Astrid,” Andrew said as a shower of sparks disappeared up the flue, “we cannot continue the way we’ve begun in this marriage.” Her worst fears, put into words, but Andrew wasn’t finished. “I love you—”
She dropped his hand. “What?”
“I love you.” He eyed her hand but didn’t make a grab for it. “I’ve loved you since you were a girl of seventeen trying not to cry because you’d beaten out a fire with your bare hands. I’ve loved you across three continents, several years, and more stupid behavior on my part than I can recall. I love you, and I’ve done a damned poor job of owning up to it.”
“Yes, you have.” Astrid subsided against him, at a loss to label what she was feeling beyond… shock.
“You don’t have to choose now to be agreeable.”
“Civil and agreeable are two different things,” she retorted. “So why have you gone to such great and unpleasant lengths to convince me my husband did not love me?” Because that question desperately needed an answer if she was to maintain her sanity.
He was silent for a moment, while Astrid contemplated smacking him.
“It’s complicated.”
She mashed her nose into his shoulder. Love was not complicated. “Then you’d best have a good explanation.”
“I have for many years been under a serious misapprehension,” he began. “I was wrong about myself, among other things, and I want to choose my words with utmost care, Astrid, because I doubt you’ll give me a chance to refine on them.”
She did not tell him he likely had the right of that, for his tone was too grave.
Haltingly at first, then more easily, Andrew related to Astrid the events of his fifteenth summer. About the accident, Astrid had thought she’d been well informed, but about Andrew’s involvement with Julia Ponsonby, she’d had no clue—neither, apparently, had Gareth, at least not until it was too late.
When Andrew paused to pour them both a tumbler of brandy, Astrid was aware that she’d rather he not have left her side even to cross the room.
“I had clues as to this misapprehension of yours,” she said, considering a drink she did not want but probably needed. “I once overheard Gareth wondering why you never entertained women he’d been involved with, despite their many attempts to gain your notice, but you didn’t mind in the least where your castoffs went for consolation.”
Andrew’s expression was… bewildered. “You consider that a clue?”
“Of a sort. Or there’s the way you would not allow Gareth to help you, not with your property, not with your various scrapes and peccadilloes—why did it never occur to you, if you’re going to fight a duel, your brother should have been your second, not the last to know?”
Andrew sat beside his wife, his drink untouched.
“I did not want my brother to be as ashamed of me as I was of myself. I did not want him to ever, ever find out what a weak, immoral, dishonorable man I was.”
This reasoning was flawed. Understandable, but badly, badly flawed. “If anybody knows about being immoral with women, it is your brother. He convinced himself he could misbehave with Felicity, a spinster virgin if ever there was one.”
Andrew settled his arm around Astrid’s shoulders, a warm, welcome weight. “Gareth apologized to me. It about broke my heart. He said my brothers ought to have protected me.” Now he slugged back his drink, a gesture that struck Astrid as despairing.
“I’ve seen him looking at you lately with an odd expression on his face. Was this a recent discussion?”
“Shortly after the babies arrived,” Andrew replied. “I waited for Gareth to come down the stairs, knowing he’d have to get something to eat or drink eventually. When
he found me, he was a man who believed his selfish rutting had cost his wife her life. I thought to comfort him by confessing to costing my own child—conceived with Gareth’s fiancée—his or her life. In hindsight, it was a deuced odd sort of comfort to offer, but under the circumstances, it made a kind of sense.”
Astrid was silent, feeling utterly weary. Andrew’s revelations explained a lot, but she wasn’t ready to believe their marital problems were solved.
She squirmed down to lay her head on his muscular thigh. “Something bothers me.”
His hand settled on her hair, the near reverence in that simple touch making Astrid’s heart beat harder. “Tell me, love.”
“You believed you were responsible for the death of an unborn child, but now you know there was no child. Morally, is that a material distinction to you?”
Andrew put his drink on the end table and let his hand drift from Astrid’s hair to her face. She had asked the ultimate difficult question, but she was also coming to know her husband, and the matter had to be faced:
How was Andrew to reconcile himself to the fact that he’d been willing to put the life of that unborn child second to his mother’s welfare, and in his own eyes, second to his own convenience? Had there been a child, the child would have died with Julia, and by virtue of Andrew’s choice.
“I made a mistake,” he said. “I made a selfish mistake, the results of which are no more than I deserved for having slept with a woman who was, as far as I knew at the time, otherwise chaste. Had there been opportunity, I would likely have slept with her again at other times and places.”
Such remorse would have felled a lesser man, and yet, the conversation could not end with that guilt-wracked recitation. Astrid covered Andrew’s hand with her own, lest he try to extricate himself from the discussion.
“Let me put a question to you, then, Andrew,” she said. “Why do you define your entire self, your entire life, in terms of those mistaken moments?”
Andrew; Lord Of Despair Page 28
