by Laura Landon
Perhaps that was why she felt so strange today. Too little sleep, too much worry, and the premonition that something she could not control was about to happen.
Grace finished her morning routine and went in search of Vincent. She didn’t know why, but she felt an overwhelming need to be close to him. To keep him close to her. It was just another phase of this pregnancy she couldn’t explain. Her sharpened awareness that something was not right.
She’d felt it from the moment Germaine and Parker left yesterday. Vincent had been quiet and withdrawn, but each time she asked him what was wrong, he answered that it was nothing. Only that Parker had seen Fentington, but that he’d lost him. Nothing to be concerned over.
Grace walked into the dining room. Vincent sat at the table, a half-filled plate still in front of him.
“There you are.” She walked to him and accepted the kiss he placed on her cheek.
“Good morning, Grace. You look especially lovely today.”
Grace smiled. “Thank you. Alice and I had to work a long time. It’s difficult when your body is shaped like a clumsy barge sailing down the river instead of a sleek clipper ship. Caroline always looked so regal with her babes. Even just before she delivered she didn’t look as cumbersome as I do now. And I still have over a month to wait.”
“Perhaps it is because Caroline is several inches taller than you. She has more room to hide a babe.”
Grace sat at the table with a heavy sigh. “That must be it.”
Vincent took her plate to the sideboard and filled it. “Do you want eggs this morning?”
Grace nodded. “And one of those oat muffins and a fruit pastry. And a meat pie.”
Vincent looked over his left shoulder and raised his eyebrows. “You must be hungry.”
“It’s your son. He’s got quite the appetite.”
Vincent smiled and placed her heaping plate in front of her. He sat in his chair and sipped his coffee while she ate.
“Perhaps you’d like company today, Grace? Perhaps Lady Josalyn or Lady Francine could visit this afternoon?”
“I’d rather spend the day with you.” She ate another bite of coddled eggs with her toast and orange marmalade. “The nursery is almost finished. I want you to see it.”
“Perhaps tomorrow, Grace.”
Grace lifted her gaze to his. She put down her fork when she saw the serious expression on his face. “What’s wrong, Vincent?”
“Nothing. I just thought you might like company is all.”
A stabbing unease rushed through her body. Her breath caught and she clutched her hand to her stomach where a pain shot through her. She forced herself to take several deep breaths until the stitch in her side went away.
Vincent frowned. “Are you all right?”
“Yes,” she said after the pain eased. “It was just a catch. I think I’ve been sitting too long. I need some exercise. Perhaps we could walk in the garden?”
“I’d love to. As soon as you’ve finished.”
Grace ate a little more of her breakfast but didn’t have the appetite she had before. Something was wrong. Even the babe felt it. Another cramp caught in her side.
Grace finished her tea, then walked with Vincent in the garden. She told herself it was her imagination that he held her closer than usual while they walked. And her imagination that when his fingers twined with hers, there was a greater urgency in his touch. And her imagination that he studied her face as if memorizing her every feature.
He stopped before the small pond in the center of the garden. A beautiful swan sailed gracefully across the quiet water, and several ducks swam back and forth, from side to side. She and Vincent sat together on a stone bench and watched the peaceful scene; then he kissed her.
She knew the desperation she felt in his kisses was not her imagination. It was real.
They stayed out-of-doors longer than usual, both of them hesitant to go inside. Both of them reluctant to have this perfect day end. But Grace needed to rest. The ache in her back was not lessening but increasing. And the stitch in her side refused to go away but darted through her with regularity.
“Are you ready to go in?” he asked a little later.
“Soon. I want to sit with you a little longer.”
Vincent smiled at her, then lifted his gaze to the path when Carver came toward them.
“Mister Germaine is here, Your Grace. He seems to be in a—”
Vincent’s cousin was fast on Carver’s heels, nearly knocking the butler to the ground. “Raeborn! He’s back. Parker’s watching him.”
Vincent stiffened beside Grace, and the blood in her veins turned to ice. A fear greater than any she’d ever known twisted its gnarled fingers around her heart.
“No, Vincent. Don’t go. Leave him be.”
“I can’t, Grace. You know I can’t.”
“Then send for Wedgewood and Carmody. Don’t go until they can go with you.”
He didn’t answer but pulled her into his arms and pressed a hard kiss to her mouth. “I’ll be back soon. Don’t worry.” He dropped his arms from around her.
“Vincent, no.” She couldn’t keep the fear from her voice. Couldn’t keep the panic from stealing the air she needed to breathe.
Vincent paused.
“Hurry, Raeborn!” Germaine bellowed. “Or you’ll lose him.”
“I have to go, Grace.”
Vincent pulled her into his arms and pressed a last kiss to her mouth.
Grace was frantic to hold him and not let him leave. But one look at the determined expression on his face and she knew it was useless. She lifted her face and kissed him with all the passion she felt. With all the love she had for him.
He dropped his hands from around her and Grace hugged herself, the absence of his body from hers a loss that nearly took her to her knees.
“Carver.”
Carver was instantly at their side.
“Take care of your mistress.”
“With my life, Your Grace.”
Vincent turned and was gone, the sound of his footsteps fading to silence.
Grace stared after him, fighting to keep the tears from consuming her. She hugged her arms around her bulging stomach and sucked in a gasp as another sharp pain stabbed through her.
Chapter 20
Grace paced Vincent’s study like a caged animal. She needed to be here, in this room, where she felt closest to him. Where she could see him at his desk, breathe in the clean smell that always reminded her of him. Where she could close her eyes and hear the deep sound of his voice.
She rubbed her hands over their babe and fought the tears that wanted to fall. There had to be something she could do. She didn’t know how she’d survive if something happened to him.
A picture of Vincent lying on the ground flashed through her mind, his face pale, his blood soaking into the dirt. She clamped her hands over her mouth to stop a cry from escaping. She never should have let him go. She should have done something to keep him here. At least until Wedgewood and Carmody arrived.
She continued pacing, then stopped when another sharp pain gripped her.
“Cook sent a tray,” Carver said, opening the door for one of the downstairs maids to carry in hot tea and pastries. Deep worry lines etched his forehead. “Is everything all right, Your Grace?”
Grace took a deep breath and straightened her shoulders. “Yes, Carver. Tell Cook thank you.”
“Of course, Your Grace.”
Carver closed the door behind him and left her alone. Grace looked at the tea service and thought how routine and familiar the gold-leafed teapot with matching cups looked sitting there. The antithesis to the turmoil raging through her. She looked again to his desk, expecting to see him sitting there. She started when the door opened.
A breath caught in her throat. “Mr. Germaine?”
“Good afternoon again, Your Grace.”
Her heart raced. She reached for something to steady her. “Is something wrong? Where’s Vincent?”
“Then why have you come? You should be with him.”
“Your husband was worried about you. He insisted I return to stay with you.”
Grace tried to stamp down the questions that crowded her mind. What was wrong with Vincent that he’d send his cousin back here? She wasn’t the one in danger. He was. “I’m perfectly safe, Mr. Germaine. Please go back to help Vincent.”
He softly closed the door and walked into the room. “I’m afraid I promised I’d protect you.” Germaine stopped beside the tray Cook had sent up.
“I see you were about to have tea. That sounds wonderful. Would you mind if I joined you?”
Grace’s mind spun in confusion as Germaine sat in one of Vincent’s oversize chairs and stretched out his legs. He smiled while he waited for her to pour, as if this were the most ordinary of days.
Vincent dismounted more than a block away from the house where his cousin said Fentington was hiding and made his way through the alley so he wouldn’t be seen.
Vincent knew he should have gone for his brothers-in-law first but hadn’t wanted to take the time. He was glad when Germaine volunteered to go for them. He wasn’t sure what exactly would happen when he confronted Fentington and preferred to have Wedgewood and Carmody with him.
He didn’t want to kill him if there was any other way. But Fentington hadn’t left him any other option—except one. To force him to leave England and never come back.
Vincent pulled the gun from his pocket and stepped behind a hedgerow. He stayed protected as much as he could while he moved forward. Finally the house came into view.
Parker stood behind a large elm tree to the right of the house and nodded when he saw Vincent. Vincent nodded in return, then closed the gap between them.
He followed the walk, crouching low to get his best advantage, then froze when Fentington’s voice bellowed from inside the door.
“Both of you! Step out where I can see you.”
Vincent stood, his gun still hidden in his jacket pocket. He couldn’t see Fentington, only the gun pointed at him from a crack in the door.
“Tell your lackey to step out, Raeborn.”
Vincent lifted his hand and motioned for Parker to come forward.
Parker hesitated, then moved from his hiding place. When they were both in sight, the door opened and Fentington stepped out of the house.
His clothes were dirty and disheveled, and his hair was overly long. His face was shadowed by stubble that hadn’t been shaved for weeks. For the first time ever, he wasn’t in his usual white, but in black breeches and a dingy gray waistcoat and jacket. His shirt may have been white at one time but wasn’t any longer.
“Come in,” Fentington ordered, throwing open the door. “I’d offer you tea, but I’m afraid I gave the servants the day off.”
Vincent walked through the door and stepped to the other side of the foyer.
Parker reluctantly followed.
Fentington lifted his pistol and pointed to the center of Vincent’s chest. “Drop your guns to the floor and kick them over to me.”
Vincent hesitated, then reached in his pocket and dropped his gun. Parker did the same, and they both kicked their weapons across the wood-paneled floor.
Fentington reached to pick up the gun closest to him, then turned. In one fluid motion, he raised the gun and fired.
Vincent jerked, then turned to where Parker had been.
His limp body dropped to the floor, a bullet hole in the center of his forehead, his eyes open in a deathly stare. The gun he’d attempted to pull out of his pocket was still clutched in his hand.
Vincent swallowed hard, then turned to face Fentington.
“Are you surprised?” Fentington asked.
Vincent steeled himself. Unless he could find a way to get Fentington’s gun, it wouldn’t be long and he’d be as dead as Parker. “Hardly. You forget. I’ve already been the recipient of one of your bullets.”
Fentington frowned as if he wasn’t sure what Vincent was talking about. Then a smile spread across his face. “Oh, yes. The bullet you took on your way to meet your lover.”
Vincent sucked in a deep breath but held his tongue.
Fentington walked from one side of the room to the other, all the while keeping his gun aimed in Vincent’s direction. “What would you say if I told you I didn’t shoot you?”
“I’d probably call you a liar.”
Fentington stopped in front of Vincent and stared at him, the look in his eyes turning darker, a muscle in his jaw twitching. “Look at him.” He pointed at Parker’s lifeless body lying on the floor.
Vincent turned his head and looked, then turned back toward Fentington.
Without warning, Fentington lifted his gun and fired over Vincent’s shoulder.
Vincent felt air brush against his cheek, the bullet barely missing him. The shade on a lamp sitting on a table at the far side of the room shattered. Fentington pulled another gun from his pocket.
“If I had shot you, you’d be dead. I wouldn’t have missed.”
Vincent was confused. The first uncomfortable doubts rose to the surface. “I saw you. I saw your white horse,” he said accusingly.
Fentington smiled. “I didn’t say I wasn’t there. I said I wasn’t the one who shot you.”
Fentington paced the room, and Vincent used the time to try to decipher what he was saying.
“Have you ever considered someone else might want you dead, Your Grace?”
Vincent glared at him. Fentington was forcing him to consider a possibility more reprehensible than any he could imagine. His mind rejected such a thought. “I saw you. Why else would you have been there?”
Fentington smiled. “I was watching her—your whore. I was supposed to marry her. I would have—until I found out she wasn’t pure. That she’d already given herself to someone else.” He flailed a hand through the air. “I could hardly take a harlot for my wife. Someone who’d given away what should have been mine.”
Fentington waved his gun between them. “I wanted to know who she’d given herself to. So I followed her and waited. I knew her lover would eventually come to her.” He laughed. “You can’t imagine my surprise when I discovered it was you.”
Fentington paced in front of him. There was a wild look in his eyes, a desperate expression on his face. This was a man who’d lost everything, including his self-respect. A man who would do anything to retaliate, to punish anyone he considered responsible for his fall.
Vincent’s heart beat faster.
“How long had she been spreading her legs for you, Raeborn? Weeks? Months? More?”
The blood roared in Vincent’s head.
“How rude of me to ask.” Fentington gave a sadistic laugh, a demented laugh. “I can hardly expect you to tell your dirty little secrets, can I?”
A malicious grin lifted the corners of Fentington’s mouth.
“You cannot imagine the joy I felt when I saw you get shot. Someone else was doing what I’d only dreamt of doing.”
Fentington stepped closer. “You deserved to die. You’d stolen the woman I was supposed to marry and embarrassed me in front of the ton. My reputation is ruined! I wanted you dead. Oh, how I wanted you to suffer for the damage you’d caused.” He shook his head. “But I didn’t have the courage.”
Vincent tried to digest what Fentington was saying. He wanted him to believe he hadn’t fired the gun, but it had to have been him. It had to have been.
“And do you know why?”
Fentington paced in front of him again while Vincent studied his actions. His movements were jerky and agitated. He caressed the gun in his hand as if it were a precious keepsake. Vincent’s breaths became shorter. His fear more pronounced.
“Do you?”
Vincent shook his head.
“Because no matter how great I thought your sins were, no matter how vile and insignificant I thought you were in God’s
eyes, or how much I despised you, killing you would have lowered me to your level. Killing you would have made me no better than the power-wielding creature you are. So I turned to prayer. I prayed God would snuff your life out like you had snuffed out mine.”
Fentington stepped close to Vincent and pressed the gun beneath Vincent’s chin. “Just that swiftly, I thought my prayers were being answered. While I watched you ride to meet your lover, God sent someone else to do what I was not brave enough to do. God sent another of your enemies to kill you.”
Fentington walked to the far side of the room and glared back at Vincent. “I was going to leave after he shot you. But when he stayed, so did I.”
“You saw who shot me?”
Fentington smiled. “Of course I did.”
“Who was it?”
Fentington ignored him as he continued his story. “Later, I watched him barricade the doors and set fire to the house.”
He waved his gun through the air. “I thought for sure you would all die. But you were spared again.”
The expression on his face turned harsher, more intense. “That’s when I realized that I was in as much danger as you.”
Vincent tried to follow Fentington’s reasoning but couldn’t. “How so?”
“Don’t you see? The killer wasn’t satisfied with just your death. He intended to kill your wife too.” Fentington shook his head. “He confirmed my suspicion the night he pushed her out in the street in front of that carriage.” He dragged the back of his hand across his forehead. “For as much as I wanted you dead, I didn’t want her to die too. If something happened to her, the world would reach the same conclusion you did—that I was to blame.”
Vincent was desperate to try to make sense of what Fentington was telling him. “Why would anyone want to harm Grace?”
Fentington barked a loud laugh. “Because of the child, Your Grace.”
Vincent took a step away from Fentington. He didn’t want to understand what Fentington was implying.
Fentington laughed again. “You want it to be me, don’t you? You want me to be the one who has repeatedly tried to kill you and your wife so you don’t have to admit there is someone who hates you more than I do?”
