by Cheryl Holt
In heavily-accented English, the Captain said, “I dispatched your pathetic friend with one blow. I’m happy to show you the same discourtesy.”
“You must mean Chase Hubbard, the man for whom Miss Clementi has been spreading her thighs with reckless abandon.”
Miss Clementi hissed with outrage and ludicrously seethed, “Kill him, Romilard. I command you.”
“We are guests in this country, Miss Clementi,” Romilard told her, “so we will not engage in conflict with him. But he will move. Now.”
“I’ll gladly comply,” Bryce replied, “after I have spoken to the Princess.”
“I’m afraid that won’t be possible,” Romilard said.
Bryce would have leveled him then and there, but Valois strolled into the courtyard. He was his usual, affable self, but he was accompanied by three men who had studied fencing with Bryce. They were armed, and as opposed to the ceremonial sabers worn by the soldiers, Valois’s pistols and swords were very real.
“Ah, Miss Clementi,” Valois smoothly said, “how delighted I am that I was able to catch you before the Princess departed. I so wanted to make my goodbyes to her.”
“We’re late,” Miss Clementi insisted. “There’s no time.”
Valois ignored her. “And of course Mr. Blair has been a great friend to the Princess during her sojourn in Egypt. I am sure he will wish to say goodbye to her as well.”
Romilard was a bully and an idiot, but apparently he wasn’t keen on starting a fight with Valois. He stepped away, and Bryce stomped forward, causing the soldiers to stumble aside so he could approach Katarina.
He stopped directly in front of her, and she extended her hand as if he was one of her subjects, as if he should fall to his knees and kiss it.
He’d be damned if he would!
He peered into her eyes, but the glow of merriment he’d always seen there had been drummed out of her. The Miss Webster whom he’d loved so fiercely had vanished.
“What are you doing?” he asked.
“I’m leaving for Parthenia. My king has sent an honor guard to escort me.”
“Really?” he sneered. “It appears to me they’re taking you by force.”
She laughed, but it was a brittle, cold sound. “By force? Why would they have to? I’m eager to return to my country. There is no force involved.”
“This witch”—he pointed at Pippa Clementi—“had Nicholas and Isabelle kidnapped. Were you aware of that fact?”
Princess Morovsky blandly stared at Miss Clementi then shifted her gaze to Bryce. “She has simply obeyed her sovereign.”
Bryce felt as if he was speaking to an automaton. If there was a tiny piece of Kat Webster lurking inside, he couldn’t connect with it.
He reached out and laid a hand on her arm. The soldiers gasped and spun as if they’d attack, and the Princess frowned and leaned away.
“Let’s go to your room, Kat. I need to talk with you in private.”
“That wouldn’t be appropriate, Mr. Blair, and I can’t believe you suggested it.”
“Tell me what’s happening. Why are you letting Miss Clementi lead you about like a puppet on a string?”
“My marriage has been arranged, Mr. Blair. I am traveling home for my wedding.”
Bryce might have been punched in the stomach. “Who are you marrying?”
“My cousin, Kristof.”
“And who is he?”
“He is King of Parthenia.”
“So you’ll be a queen. Is that your heart’s desire? Is that how all your dreams will be fulfilled?”
She didn’t answer his question, but said, “Yes, I will be Queen of Parthenia—as my mother was queen.”
“The way I hear the story, the actual king is your brother, Nicholas. The way I hear it, this Kristof fellow staged a coup and seized your brother’s throne. When he has done you such a wrong, why would you wed him?”
“Mr. Blair,” Miss Clementi snapped, “that’s quite enough.”
The Princess ignored her and callously stated, “It’s all arranged, Mr. Blair, and you have no right to pester me about any of my choices.”
“What about me?” he bleakly asked.
“What about you?” She was focused on a spot over his shoulder.
“We would have been so happy together, Kat.”
“I have no idea what you mean.”
“You let me assume you were a lonely, friendless nobody. You let me think I had a chance.”
“Again, Mr. Blair, I have no idea what you mean.”
He searched her face, trying to get her to look at him, but she wouldn’t.
“What about last night?” he whispered. “What about the promises and plans we made?”
She flinched imperceptibly, and if he hadn’t been standing so close, he wouldn’t have noted it. A single arrow had finally hit its mark, but she glanced away and cruelly whispered, “There were no promises between us.”
“I see.” He dithered, confused and angry and at a loss. “Are you leaving because they have your sister and brother? Is that why? Because previously you told me you would never return, no matter what. Pardon me if I find this sudden decision to be a tad peculiar.”
“Why would I care as to your opinion? Goodbye.”
Her voice cracked on goodbye, but it was the only sign that she was affected in the slightest.
She swept by him and said to Romilard, “Let’s be off. I’m ready to depart, and I don’t wish to delay another second.”
As she reached the door, Bryce caustically hurled, “I guess it’s because of my being an actor after all, isn’t it, Your Highness? You claimed it wasn’t an issue, but it’s obvious a mere actor could never have been sufficient for you.”
She lurched to a halt, as if he’d stabbed her in the back. The group behind her froze, and Bryce thought she’d reply to his horrid taunt, but she squared her shoulders and commanded, “Romilard, let’s go!”
Though it was petty and pointless, Bryce was determined to have the final word. “Just so you know, Your Highness, along with my being an actor, I am Earl of Radcliffe.” He announced the title aloud for the very first time ever. “So even with my true status revealed, I’m still much too low for you. An exalted person such as yourself could never have stooped to having an earl, I suppose. For a woman of your rank, it’s a king or no one.”
She whirled around, and he sensed there were a thousand comments roiling her, but she could never mention them. She yanked her gaze from Bryce to Valois and said, “Thank you for your hospitality, Monsieur Valois.”
“You’re welcome, Your Grace. I am honored to have had you as a guest.”
“I shall recall my visit to Cairo with great…fondness.”
It sounded as if she’d swallowed down a sob, and Bryce couldn’t imagine who she might be crying for. She was headed home, with a royal fortune in her pocket, to wed a king and become a queen. To hell with her.
“It wounds me that you must depart so precipitously,” Valois said.
“Well, Monsieur, there are some things in this world that are out of my hands.”
Then she was gone. The soldiers marched out behind her, but Miss Clementi lingered, looking sly, looking smug. “Goodbye, gentlemen. Monsieur Valois, I also thank you for your hospitality.”
She sashayed out, and Bryce couldn’t resist muttering, “Lazy, deceitful whore.”
It was an awful remark, but he didn’t regret it. She glared back, her expression even more cunning. “Yes, but certain whores are very significantly rewarded for their efforts. I happen to be one of them.”
“Slut,” Bryce fumed. “Betrayer. Shrew.” He imbued the insults with all the scorn he could muster.
She might have added a snotty aside, but she noted Valois’s disparaging glower. Her snide grin faltered, and she huffed out.
Bryce stood, listening as Princess Morovsky climbed into her carriage, as doors were slammed and horses mounted. A command was called, whips were cracked, spurs jingled, and the entourage ra
ttled away.
In another minute, it was eerily quiet, as if none of them had been there.
Bryce frowned at Valois. “Did you know who she was all along?”
Valois simply shrugged.
“Couldn’t you have warned me?”
“It wasn’t my secret to tell, Bryce.”
“I hate that I made such a fool of myself over her. I believed she and I had an understanding, that we were marrying.”
“I’m sorry, my friend.”
Chase took that moment to stagger in. He was still disheveled, a kerchief still pressed to the cut on his cheek. His eye had continued to puff up and was now swollen completely shut.
“They left?” Chase asked.
“Yes,” Valois responded when Bryce didn’t.
“What about Nicholas and Isabelle?”
“Apparently they’re bound for Parthenia,” Valois said.
“But…but…they were kidnapped! They were terrified of those men. Isabelle screamed and cried. We have to help them.” Chase turned to Bryce, accusation in his tone. “Why didn’t you stop Pippa?”
Bryce studied Chase, a wave of dislike and disdain bubbling up.
“Prick,” he spat. “Rude, stupid prick.”
He pushed by Chase and proceeded to his room where he could lock himself in and figure out what to do next.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
George Blair, Earl of Radcliffe, hovered behind a tree in the woods outside Radcliffe village. The Blair twins rode out every day, and George was waiting for them to pass by.
The coaching inn was just up the road. They’d taken rooms there, bold as brass, as if they had every right to flaunt their paternity. They were talking to whoever would listen, telling stories that were circulating like wildfire.
George could barely leave his bedchamber. Whenever he did, he was met with insolent stares of condemnation. So far no one had dared to mention the gossip to his face, but he could sense the festering derision, the hope that change was coming.
Well, change wasn’t coming.
From the moment the twins had blustered into the castle, George had known he had to get rid of them, but he couldn’t figure out how. It had never occurred to him that Julian’s children might live and thrive, that they might have the audacity to show up where they weren’t wanted.
He’d devised no contingency plans, had prepared no counter offensive against their lies and smears. Of course they weren’t lying. That was the problem. Their every comment had a ring of truth. People believed whatever they said. They had their father’s charisma, their father’s gift for making others like them.
George had considered having them arrested and immediately executed, but apparently their sister was alive too and married to a British aristocrat. If George had had them jailed, no magistrate would have dared to hang them, and he’d have stirred an aristocratic incident between the two countries besides.
His next idea had been to hire a murderer, a tenant or perhaps an employee at the inn who could enter their room in the middle of the night. But with how they were starting to be worshipped wherever they went, George didn’t trust anyone. Any paid assassin would likely tattle.
No, there was just one way to handle it. He had to dispatch the twins himself. He could do it too. He had the gall, the nerve. He’d dealt with their father easily enough. Without a word of warning, he’d shot Julian in the chest, and he’d never regretted it.
George and his father had never understood Julian, had never liked him, had always been embarrassed by him. He’d been wild and carefree and independent, had never worried about conventions or morals.
George’s father had yearned to be free of the constant humiliations Julian had inflicted on the family. His marriage to an actress had been the final straw. Like a plot out of a Shakespearean tragedy, his father had begged to be rid of his rebellious son.
George had acted on his father’s plea, and it remained the only remarkable deed he’d ever committed. He’d killed Julian for his father, then he’d been allowed to wed Julian’s rich, pretty fiancée.
If he could shoot his own brother and not regret it, he could certainly kill his brother’s sons. He merely wished he was younger, his hands steadier, his vision clearer.
Suddenly he heard horses approaching, but they were traveling very fast. If it was the twins, he’d get just one chance and didn’t dare miss.
He eased out from his hiding place and glanced down the road. It was the twins! Their horses were cantering, and in the blink of an instant, they’d hurried on by. He slumped against the trunk of the tree, railing over his fate, his lot.
It was desperate business, attempting homicide, and he dawdled for a few minutes, letting his pulse slow, his nerves calm. Then he spun to sneak into the woods and return to the castle. As he did, he was gazing down the barrel of a pistol held by one of his nephews.
“Hello, Uncle George. Fancy meeting you here.”
“What the devil…?” George muttered, his fear acute, his rage boiling over.
Why couldn’t his plans ever succeed? He was old now, and none of his dreams for Radcliffe had ever come to fruition. He’d been cursed the day he’d murdered his brother, cursed again when Anne Blair had been convicted, then transported. It wasn’t fair for the twins to demand justice after so many years.
He might have raised his own pistol, but before he could move a muscle, his nephew grabbed it and tossed it away. He was tall and imposing, and with his dark hair and blue, blue eyes, George might have been staring at Julian all over again.
“I’m Matthew, in case you were wondering,” the man said.
“I wasn’t wondering,” George grumbled.
“Were you hoping to shoot me in the back?”
“Bugger off.”
“I have a problem with people shooting at me unaware, and ever since we arrived, I’ve been expecting you to try something stupid. Were you supposing I wouldn’t observe you lurking in the trees?”
“You have no right to question me, and I won’t stand for it on my own land.”
“There’s the rub, Uncle. It’s not your land, is it?”
The other twin blustered through the forest. He noticed George’s gun lying in the grass, and he snatched it up and stuck it in his belt.
“What have we here?” Michael Blair asked.
“I told you I saw him,” Matthew said.
“Your eyesight must be better than mine.”
“No, I simply don’t intend to be shot ever again. I’m a little more vigilant than you.”
Michael sneered at George. “You scurry around like a rat in a sewer, don’t you? I wouldn’t put it past you to attack on the sly.”
“It’s the coward’s way,” Matthew said.
“We’ll see who’s a coward in the end,” George fumed.
“Shut up, Uncle,” Michael said. “A great benefit of being me is that I don’t have to listen to anyone who annoys me.”
He marched over and stood shoulder to shoulder with his brother. They towered over George, their imperious expressions snide and condemning.
Fate was so cruel. It seemed as if Julian had returned to Radcliffe, except there were two of him instead of one. Two exact copies. Two replicas who looked the same and talked the same and acted the same. They’d already disarmed George, and he felt so helpless he might have been castrated.
“We have your wife’s confession,” Michael said.
“I have no idea what you mean,” George replied.
“We’ve sent all the papers to our solicitor in London.”
“Why would I care about that?” George asked.
Michael chuckled, and it was an eerie, dangerous sound. “We’ve commenced legal proceedings to retrieve what belongs to our brother, Bryce.”
“It’ll be a cold day in Hell when you best me,” George said.
“You don’t believe we can?” Matthew mused. “Michael is disgustingly wealthy, and we’ve heard you’re not.”
Michael said, “We’ve
heard you’re a lousy landlord, that you’ve wrecked the farms and the fields and the flocks. You’re land rich, but money poor.”
Matthew continued, “Michael can keep our claim locked up in the courts for the rest of your miserable life, and he won’t miss a penny of the lawyer’s fees. We can have your bank accounts seized and your crops garnished. We can have you evicted while we’re adjudicating. We can have you arrested for murdering our father and held without bail until the case is resolved.”
“You could make it easy on yourself and go away.” Michael smiled his deadly smile. “That way, we won’t have to torment you to the bitter end.”
“Go away?” George said. “You’re mad if you think I’d leave my rightful place.”
“You always call Radcliffe your rightful place,” Matthew said. “It’s not yours, you scurvy dog, and it never was.”
“I won’t be insulted by you,” George huffed.
He pushed them, but it was like shoving a brick wall. Neither of them moved, and the only thing George accomplished was to feel his palms throbbing where he’d smacked those two massive chests.
“Tell me something, Uncle,” Matthew said.
“What?”
“Did you enjoy killing our father?”
“Sod off, Matthew Blair. I don’t answer to the likes of you.”
But the idiot wouldn’t be deterred. “Did you creep up on him from behind? Or did you have the balls to shoot him in the face so he’d die knowing it was you?”
George was so incensed, it was on the tip of his tongue to crow about his supreme triumph. He’d never been able to admit the deed, how quickly it had happened, how unsuspecting Julian had been. They’d been hunting, with Julian being his usual confident, posh self. He’d been bragging about his wife, about his children, about how silly their father was to demand he set his wife aside.
Julian had been beloved by everyone, so he’d never understood the level of George’s dislike, had never understood George’s jealousy or envy. Julian had had the courage to flee Radcliffe, to travel to distant lands and see fascinating sights and people. He’d wed without permission, to the most extraordinary, beautiful woman in the world. He’d done it unabashedly, without shame or remorse, and George had seethed through all of it.
