Bracing one hand on the gig, Charles looked into the wood, his eyes glowing. “I’m the last of the Butterworths—an infinitely superior breed, not that any Cynsters would admit that.” His lips curved mockingly. “Soon, they won’t have a choice. Once I take over the reins, I plan to change the family entirely—not just in the behavior associated with our name, but I’ll change the name, too.” He looked at Honoria. “There’s nothing to stop me.”
Honoria stared in openmouthed amazement. Smiling, Charles nodded. “Oh, yes—it can be done. But that was how it was meant to be—the Butterworths were destined to become the main line; my mother was to be the duchess. That’s why she married Arthur.”
“But—” Honoria blinked. “What about . . .”
“Sylvester’s father?” Charles’s expression turned petulant. “Mama didn’t expect him to marry. When she married Arthur, it seemed all clear—eventually Arthur would inherit, then his son. Me.” His frown grew black. “Then that slut Helena wriggled her hips and Uncle Sebastian fell for it, and Sylvester was born. But even then, my mother knew all would eventually be well—after Devil, Helena couldn’t have any more brats, which left father, then me, next in line.” Charles trapped Honoria’s gaze. “Do you want to know why I left it so long? Why I waited until now to make away with Sylvester?”
Honoria nodded.
Charles sighed. “I was explaining that point to Mama, to her portrait, when Tolly came in that night. I didn’t hear him—that cretin Holthorpe let him show himself in. Fitting enough that because of his laziness, Holthorpe had to die.” His voice had turned vicious; Charles blinked, then refocused on Honoria. “As I told Mama, I needed a reason—I couldn’t simply kill Sylvester and hope no one noticed. When he was young, Vane was always with him—the accidents I engineered never worked. I waited, but they never grew apart. Worse—Richard joined them, then the rest.” Charles’s lips curled. “The Bar Cynster.” His voice strengthened, his features hardened. “They’ve been a thorn in my side for years. I want Sylvester dead in a way that will wean them, and the rest of the family, from their adulation. I want the title—I want the power.” His eyes glowed. “Over them all.”
Abruptly, his face changed, his features leaching of all expression. “I promised Mama I’d take the title, even if she wasn’t here to see it. The Butterworths were always meant to triumph—I explained to her why I’d held off for so long and why I thought, perhaps, with Devil becoming so restless, the time might, at last, have come.”
Again, he was with his past; Honoria sat perfectly still, content to have his attention elsewhere. The next instant, he turned on her viciously. “But then you came—and my time ran out completely!”
Honoria shrank back; the horse shifted, coat flickering. Charles’s eyes blazed; for an instant, she thought he might strike her.
Instead, with a visible effort, he drew back, struggling to control his features. When he was again composed, he continued, his tone conversational: “Initially, I thought you too intelligent to fall for Devil’s tricks.” His gaze flicked her contemptuously. “I was wrong. I warned you marrying Sylvester was a mistake. You’ll lose your life because of it, but you were too stupid to listen. I’m not going to risk being moved further from my goal. Arthur’s old—he’ll be no trouble. But if you and any son you bear survive Devil, I’ll have all the rest of them to contend with—they’ll never let Devil’s son out of their sight!”
Clutching the back of the gig tightly, Honoria kept her eyes locked on Charles’s, and prayed that either Devil or Vane had arrived in time to hear at least some of his ranting. He’d taken the rope she’d handed him and run, unreeling enough to hang himself twice over.
Charles drew a deep breath and looked away, into the woods. He straightened; letting go of the gig, he tugged his coat into place.
Honoria grabbed the moment to look around—she still had the feeling someone was watching. But not even a twig shifted in the wood.
She’d achieved her primary objective. Her disappearance and death would give proof enough of Charles’s guilt; Melton could testify Charles had lured her away. Devil would be safe—free of Charles and his endless machinations. But she’d much rather be alive to share the celebrations, and to enjoy their child. She definitely didn’t want to die.
Charles grabbed her—Honoria shrieked. Dropping the reins, she struggled, but he was far too strong. He hauled her from the gig.
They wrestled, waltzing in the leaves carpeting the clearing. Snorting, the grey backed; Charles bumped the gig. The horse bolted, the gig rattling behind it. Honoria saw it go, caught by a sense of de´ja` vu. Another grey horse bolting with another gig, this time leaving her stranded with the murderer, not his victim. She was to be the next victim.
Locking one arm about her throat, Charles hauled her upright.
“Charles!”
Devil’s roar filled the clearing; Honoria nearly fainted. She looked wildly about; holding her before him, Charles swung her this way, then that, but couldn’t locate Devil’s position. Charles cursed; the next instant, Honoria felt the hard muzzle of a pistol pressing beneath her left breast.
“Come out, Sylvester—or do you want to see your wife shot before your eyes?”
Pushing her head back, Honoria glimpsed Charles’s face, full of gloating, his eyes glittering wildly. Frantic, she tried struggling; Charles squeezed her throat. Raising his elbow, he forced her chin up; she had to stretch on her toes, losing all purchase on the ground.
“Devil?” Honoria spoke to the sky. “Don’t you dare come out—do you hear? I’ll never forgive you if you do—so don’t.” Panic gripped her, sinking its talons deep; black shadows danced across her eyes. “I don’t want you to save me. You’ll have other children, there’s no need to save me.”
Her voice broke; tears choked her. A dull roaring filled her ears. She didn’t want to be saved if the price was his life.
In the ditch, Devil checked his pistol. Vane, brows nearly reaching his hairline, stared at him. “Other children?”
Devil swore through his teeth. “Fine time she picks to announce her condition.”
“You knew?”
“One of the prime requirements of being a duke—you have to be able to count.” His face grimly set, Devil stuck his pistol into the back of his waistband and resettled his coat. “Make for the other end of the ditch, beyond the track.”
Honoria was babbling hysterically; he couldn’t afford to listen. He pulled Tolly’s hip flask from his pocket; he’d carried it since Louise had given it back to him, a reminder of his unavenged cousin. Working feverishly, he wriggled the flask into the inside left breast pocket of his coat; swearing softly, he carefully ripped the lining—finally, the flask slid in. Resettling his coat, he checked the position of the flask.
Vane stared. “I don’t believe this.”
“Believe it,” Devil advised. He looked up; Honoria was still in full spate. Charles, his pistol at her breast, scanned the wood.
“I don’t suppose there’s any point trying to talk you out of it?” On his back, Vane checked his pistol. When Devil made no reply, he sighed. “I didn’t think so.”
“Sylvester?”
“Here, Charles.”
The answer allowed Charles to face in their general direction. “Stand up. And don’t bring any pistol with you.”
“You do realize,” Vane hissed, wriggling onto his stomach, “that this wild idea of yours has the potential to severely dint the family’s vaunted invincibility?”
“How so?” Devil unbuttoned his coat, making sure the buttons hung well clear of his left side.
“When Charles kills you, I’ll kill Charles, then your mother will kill me for allowing Charles to kill you. This madness of yours looks set to account for three of us in one fell swoop.”
Devil snorted. “You’re starting to sound like Honoria.”
“A woman of sound sense.”
Getting ready to stand, Devil shot a last glance at Vane. “Cover my back?�
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Vane met his gaze. “Don’t I always?” Then he swung about; crouched low, he started for the far end of the ditch.
Devil watched him go, drew in a long breath, then stood.
Charles saw him—he tightened his hold on Honoria.
“Let her go, Charles.” Devil kept his voice even; the last thing he wanted was to panic Charles—the one he was counting on to shoot straight. “It’s me you want, not her.” He started forward, stepping over the scrubby undergrowth, sidestepping new canes and saplings. He didn’t look at Honoria.
“Go back!” she screamed. “Go away!” Her voice broke on a sob. “Please . . . no.” She was crying in earnest. “No . . . No!” Shaking her head, she gulped back sobs, her eyes pleading, her voice trailing away.
Devil walked steadily forward. He neared the edge of the clearing and Charles smiled—a smugly victorious smile. Abruptly, he flung Honoria away.
She screamed as she fell; Devil heard the scuffling of leaves as she frantically tried to free her feet from her skirts. Calmly, he stepped into the clearing. Charles raised his arm, took careful aim—and shot him through the heart.
The impact was greater than he’d expected; it rocked him back on his heels. He staggered back, hung motionless for a split second—the second in which he realized he was still alive, that Charles had clung to habit and aimed for his heart, not his head, that Tolly’s hip-flask had been up to the task—then he let himself fall, slipping his right hand under the back of his coat as he went down. He landed on his left hip and shoulder; beneath him, his right hand held his pistol, already free of his waistband. Artistically, he groaned and rolled onto his back, his boots closest to Charles. All that remained was for Honoria—for once in her life—to behave as he expected.
She did; her scream all but drowned out the shot—the next instant, she flung herself full length upon him. Tears streaming down her cheeks, she framed his face; when he didn’t respond, she sobbed and frantically searched—for the wound he didn’t have.
Beyond thought, beyond all rational function, Honoria pushed aside Devil’s coat—and found nothing but unmarked white shirt covering warm hard flesh. Gasping, her throat raw from her scream, her head pounding, she couldn’t take it in. Devil was dead—she’d just seen him shot. She pulled his coat back—a wet stain was starting to spread. Her fingers touched metal.
She stilled. Then her eyes flicked up to Devil’s; she saw green gleam beneath his long lashes. Beneath her hand, his chest lifted fractionally.
“Such a touching scene.”
Honoria turned her head. Charles strolled closer, stopping ten paces away. He’d dropped the pistol he’d used to shoot Devil; in his hand was a smaller one. “A pity to put an end to it.” Still smiling, Charles raised the pistol, pointing it at her breast.
“Charles!”
Vane’s shout had Charles spinning around. Devil half rolled, coming up on his left elbow, freeing his right arm, simultaneously flinging Honoria to the ground, shielding her with his body.
Charles’s head snapped back; his lips curled in a feral snarl. He raised his pistol. And paused for an infinitesimal second to correct his aim.
Neither Devil nor Vane hesitated. Two shots rang out; Charles jerked once. The look on his face was one of stunned surprise. He staggered back; his arm slowly fell. The pistol slid from his fingers; his eyes closed—slowly, he crumpled to the ground.
Devil swung around—a stinging blow landed on his ear.
“How dare you?” Honoria’s eyes spat fire. “How dare you walk out to be killed like that!” Grabbing his shirt, she tried to shake him. “If you ever do that again, I’ll—”
“Me? What about you? Happily going off with a murderer. I should tan your hide—lock you in your room—”
“It was you he shot—I nearly died!” Honoria hit his chest hard. “How the hell do you think I could live without you, you impossible man!”
Devil glared. “A damned sight better than I could without you!”
His voice had risen to a roar. Their gazes locked, sizzling with possessive fury. Honoria searched his eyes; he searched hers. Simultaneously, they blinked.
Honoria dragged in a breath, then flung her arms about him. Devil tried to cling to righteous fury, then sighed and wrapped his arms about her. She was hugging him so tightly he could barely breathe. He lifted her into his lap. “I’m still here.” He stroked her hair. “I told you I’ll never leave you.” After a moment, he asked: “Are you all right? Both of you?”
Honoria looked up, blue-grey eyes swimming; she searched his face, then hiccupped. “We’re all right.”
“You didn’t get hurt when you fell?”
She shook her head. “I don’t think so. Nothing feels amiss.”
Devil frowned. “I’ll take you home.” To Mrs. Hull, who knew about such things. “But first . . .” He glanced at Charles, sprawled on the leaves.
Honoria looked, then, sniffing, flicked her skirts straight and struggled up. Devil helped her up, then stood. Drawing a deep breath, he stepped forward—Honoria pressed close. Devil hesitated, then put his arm around her and felt hers slide about his waist. Together, they walked to where Vane stood, looking down on Charles.
Two bullets ripping into it from different angles had made a mess of Charles’s chest. It was instantly apparent he couldn’t survive. But he hadn’t yet died. When Devil halted at his right hip and looked down, Charles’s lids flickered.
“How?” he whispered, his voice hoarse.
Devil pulled Tolly’s flask from his pocket. It would never hold liquid again; the ball had pierced one side and lodged in the other. He held it out.
Charles stared. Recognition dawned; his features twisted. “So,” he gasped, each word a fight. “My little half brother won through in the end. He was so set on saving you—” A cough cut him off.
Devil quietly said: “Tolly was a far better man than you.”
Charles tried to sneer.
“If I was you,” Vane said, “I’d use what time you have left to make your peace with God. Heaven knows, you’ll never make it with the Cynsters.” So saying, he walked away.
His expression supercilious, Charles opened his mouth to comment—his features contorted, his eyes opened wide. He stiffened. Then his lids fell; his head lolled to one side.
Honoria tightened her hold on Devil, but did not take her eyes from Charles’s face. “Is he dead?” Devil nodded. “It’s finished.” Hoofbeats approached, coming from the south. Vane came out of the cottage and looked at Devil. Devil shrugged. They moved to intercept the newcomers. Honoria moved with Devil; she wasn’t yet ready to let him go.
Horsemen appeared on the bridle path, riding briskly. The next instant, the clearing was overflowing with Cynsters.
“What are you doing here?” Devil asked.
“We came to help,” Richard replied, in the tone of one offended to be asked. Looking at the body sprawled on the ground, he humphed. “Looks like you’ve managed without us. He was so damned sure he had you dancing to his tune, he left London before you did.”
“What next?” Gabriel, his horse tied to a tree, came to join them.
“You can’t seriously consider passing this off as an accident.” Lucifer followed on his heels. “Aside from anything else, I, for one, will refuse point-blank to attend Charles’s funeral.”
“Quite.” Harry ranged himself beside Vane. “And if you can stomach burying Charles next to Tolly, I can’t.”
“So what do we do with the body, brother mine?” Richard raised his brows at Devil.
They all looked at Devil.
Honoria glanced up, but he had his mask on. He glanced down at her, then looked at the cottage. “We can’t risk burying him—someone might stumble across the grave.” His gaze lingered on the cottage, then swept the wood around them. “There hasn’t been much rain. The wood’s fairly dry.”
Vane studied the cottage. “It’s yours after all—no one would know except Keenan.”
“I’ll take care of Keenan—there’s a widow in the village who’s quite keen to have him as a boarder.”
“Right.” Richard shrugged out of his coat. “We’ll have to bring the roof down and push the walls in to make sure it burns well enough.”
“We’d better get started.” Gabriel glanced at the sky. “We’ll need to make sure the fire’s out before we leave.”
Honoria watched as they stripped off coats, waistcoats, and shirts, Devil and Vane included. Richard and Gabriel unearthed axes from the stable; Harry and Lucifer led the horses away, taking Charles’s hired chestnut with them.
“Turn him loose in the fields closest to the Cambridge Road,” Devil called after them.
Harry nodded. “I’ll do it this evening.”
Moments later, the sound of axes biting into seasoned timber filled the clearing. Devil and Vane each took one of Charles’s hands; they dragged his body into the cottage. Honoria followed. From the threshold, she watched as they manhandled Charles onto the bare pallet on which Tolly had died.
“Most appropriate.” Vane dusted his hands.
Honoria stepped back—a woodchip went flying past her face.
“What the—!” Richard, axe in hand, glared at her, then raised his head. “Devil!”
He didn’t need to explain what the problem was. Devil materialized and frowned at Honoria. “What the devil are you doing here? Sit down.” He pointed to the log across the clearing—the same log he’d made her sit on six months before. “Over there—safe out of the way.”
Six months had seen a lot of changes. Honoria stood her ground. She looked past his bare chest and saw Vane, with one blow, smash a rickety stool to pieces. “What are you doing with the furniture?”
Devil sighed. “We’re going to bring this place down about Charles’s body—we need lots of fuel so the fire burns hot enough to act as his pyre.”
“But—” Honoria stepped back and looked at the cottage, at the wide half logs of the walls, the thick beams beneath the eaves. “You’ve got plenty of wood—you don’t need to use Keenan’s furniture.”
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