by Amy Corwin
With great effort, she forced him to retreat a step. The fire in her side deepened.
“Why?” the question whispered over her lips.
“Why not? She’s been a bloody nuisance, and I can think of no more deserving party. She will be surprised, of course, when she awakens to find you dead, the offending blade in her hand, and no recollection of what she has done. Accidents do happen. And perhaps she should not have confided in me that she loved Grantham and feared he was preparing to offer for you.” He clicked his tongue and shook his head. The tip of his blade danced in front of her eyes. “Jealousy, you know. Dreadful thing.”
“Sheer nonsense. No one will believe you. You forget Lord Saunders.”
“You forget that Lord Saunders is marrying your sister. Not you. I am afraid they will be all too happy to believe me when I sadly explain Miss Denholm’s terrifying jealousy.”
“The journal—” She stopped abruptly.
“What about the journal? Even that featherbrained Greenfield will realize the journal means nothing when I explain about Denholm.” In a quick gesture, he pressed his left hand over his heart in an exaggerated expression of grief. He smiled and continued reciting the tale he obviously intended to relate to Greenfield, “I just wish I had realized the danger to you sooner, before you were tragically murdered by a clearly unhinged Miss Denholm. Her unbalanced state also explains why a previously rational young woman would be so enthusiastic about learning to fence. It is unnatural, after all, and a plain indication of how disordered her mind was. It explains so much, you see.”
Olivia barely heard him. She pressed her left arm against her side, grateful for the shawl still draped over her forearm. The folds and the darkness of her dress hid the blood she was sure was seeping through her clothing. Mr. Belcher already had too many advantages — he didn’t need to know he’d wounded her.
She had to end this soon, before she weakened too much. She made a few feints, but Mr. Belcher parried her thrusts easily, his condescending smile never wavering.
He’s the better swordsman.
“I still do not understand — why should it matter to you if Grantham knew of your affair? He was guilty, himself,” she said, hoping to gain time. She needed a minute to catch her breath and find a vulnerability, an opening she could exploit.
“Grantham was nothing but an annoyance. But he could have made my new business endeavor with Milbourn a trifle awkward. Grantham discovered the truth — I don’t know how — and he threatened to tell Milbourn. He knew I had loved Isabella, and the baby was mine, not Milbourn’s.” His blue eyes burned in his bleak face. “And Milbourn killed them both — pushed her down the stairs. I lost everything I loved while he lived to gain a title and a fortune. Well, now he will discover what it feels like to lose everything he loves.”
With a flash of steel, he charged.
Chapter Twenty
“What do you mean, she is not here?” Alexander faced Latimore in the Archer’s entryway. His driving need to find Lady Olivia strengthened as he eyed the elderly butler’s impassive face.
It wasn’t until that moment that he realized where he’d seen the circular pattern left in the broken skin of Mrs. Adams’s temple. His sense of urgency deepened.
“She had a lesson, Lord Milbourn. With Miss Denholm,” Latimore replied, his voice growing so slow and ponderous that he gave the impression of a turtle frozen in winter ice.
“Who went with her? Mr. Edward Archer?”
“No, Lord Milbourn. She professed to be in a hurry and would not wait for an escort.”
“Alone? She went alone?”
“Indeed, Lord Milbourn.” As Latimore stared at him, his mouth tightened with disapproval at Alexander’s persistent questions.
Or perhaps he was still annoyed with Lady Olivia for leaving without a proper escort. Alexander’s lips twitched with a flash of amusement, but it didn’t last.
Olivia was alone at the academy. Or perhaps not alone enough.
He’d reviewed Grantham’s journal several times last night, before sending the diary back to Mr. Greenfield. Although it took him a while to break the code Grantham used in place of names, he’d been able to do so largely by associating his memories of the events described with Grantham’s references to Sharp, Simple, and Somber. Alexander was M. Dull, Belcher was M. Somber, and Wraysbury was M. Simple. The appellations seemed to be largely the opposite of each man’s underlying character — or so Alexander assumed. He’d been described as a great many things over the years, but dull had not been one of the more popular choices, and no one could consider Belcher somber or Wraysbury simple.
However, if Alexander had guessed correctly, Grantham’s notes explained a great deal and confirmed some of his suspicions. The recent deaths did seem to have their genesis in the past — specifically, his and Isabella’s fiery past.
Grantham’s derisive entries still rankled, even though what he’d written about was over more than ten years ago. He’d known almost from the beginning that his wife had been insatiable, but he had not expected her to betray him with his closest friends. And he’d never really suspected how contemptuous Grantham had been of all of them, including Wraysbury. He hid it well behind a gentle, friendly exterior, so ready and willing to listen to any confidences.
Good old Grantham — friend of everyone, critical of none. Or so it had seemed.
Apparently, Grantham’s kindness had earned him a place in Isabella’s bed, even if it only lasted a few days. He’d written of her with a disdain that made even Alexander angry for her sake, and his words revealed something about Grantham that perhaps even he had been unaware. Grantham had been in love with Isabella, and his cruel words about her only revealed his own pain when she inevitably abandoned him for the attentions of another.
Not enough excitement for her, it seemed. But then, no one would ever have been exciting enough. And with sharp spite infusing his ink and dripping from his quill, Grantham had documented his brief affair with her and the lover who replaced him: Belcher. No one could fault Grantham for a lack of awareness. He had been more observant of Isabella’s behavior than Alexander, himself, and he’d recorded everything he’d seen or guessed in his quite comprehensive diary.
How Grantham discovered that Isabella had taken Crispin Belcher as her last lover remained a mystery, but he seemed confident in his knowledge. And the words he’d read rubbed huge handfuls of salt into his wounds.
They still burned through him.
The entries echoed the same complaints Isabella had always hurled at his head, and he could hear her shrill voice screaming them at him.
You care more for your silly swords than for me!
The final remark about her affairs, recorded in Grantham’s journal, was the speculation that her unborn child may have been fathered by Belcher. The pain of that thought twisted inside Alexander until he thrust it away.
The past was important only as far as it affected the present. Isabella had been dead for ten years — she no longer had the power to torture him. So how did that sordid tragedy cause Grantham’s death, now?
There was at least one possibility. Grantham must have been blackmailing Belcher. If Alexander assumed that, it explained why Belcher was so anxious to sign the papers for their proposed business venture. He was afraid Alexander would back out if he ever discovered that Belcher had had an affair with Isabella.
Well, Belcher needn’t have worried. Alexander would never let Isabella’s old betrayals affect him. If he had, he’d have had to cut his acquaintance with most of the men he knew. Grantham had been aware of a few of her affairs — her last affairs — but even he hadn’t been aware of them all.
The thought was bitter, but Alexander had come to terms with his wife’s character years ago. She hadn’t been evil, she’d simply been desperate for admiration and attention. She needed to be told she was beautiful and desirable, the way most people needed to eat. One man’s sweet words would never be enough to fill the gaping chasm within her.
He looked up to see Latimore staring at him, the disapproving frown still creasing his face.
“Tell Mr. Edward Archer, or his brother, to meet me at the academy.” Alexander turned on his heel and strode away, a sense of urgency filling him.
Where was Belcher now? What was he doing? The image of the gold knob on the end of his walking stick arose, vivid and stark. The ball of the knob had a series of raised rings girdling it, making a pattern exactly like the one he’d sketched after examining Mrs. Adams. Belcher had clubbed her with his walking stick and killed her, all for the sake of a key.
Perhaps he was not at the academy. Or if he was, he had no reason to harm Lady Olivia. Most likely, Alexander feared for her safety for naught.
Or maybe it was already too late.
His stride lengthened until he was almost running, dodging other pedestrians and carriages and ignoring the angry yells of coachmen who had to rein in their teams to avoid hitting him. He turned the corner at Mortimer and took a deep breath as the ramshackle building housing the academy rose into view.
From the outside, it looked peaceful and deserted, all the gray-tinged windows shut. He ran up the shallow front steps and grabbed the doorknob. The house was unlocked. The door creaked as it swung open under a light touch. Lifting his head, he almost called out when he heard the creak of floorboards.
The sound came from the first floor. Maybe she was simply in her office and would be justifiably annoyed when he interrupted her.
He welcomed her displeasure, if that was all that would greet him. He raced up the stairs. As he set foot on the landing, he heard the metallic clash of swords. Every fear he’d ever suffered coalesced at the harsh sound.
He ran into the office and slammed to a halt in front of the desk. Out of the corner of his eye, he caught a swirl of gray. He grabbed one of the rapiers scattered amongst the foils on the desktop and turned. A man stood between Alexander and Lady Olivia. He was hunched beneath a shawl, struggling to throw it off.
Lady Olivia had thrown her shawl over her opponent. Alexander let out a breath, but instead of following through, she had stepped back, her face pale. The tip of her foil wavered.
She couldn’t do it — couldn’t make herself take that final, awful lunge to kill the man facing her.
And he had already looped the shawl over his left arm. He raised his sword.
Alexander closed the distance between them and touched the man’s back with his rapier. “Halt, Belcher. It is finished.”
Lady Olivia retreated another yard, her gaze fixed on Alexander, and the tension in her face relaxing into relief.
Throwing the shawl aside, Belcher whirled to face Alexander. When he began to raise his sword, Alexander ruthlessly slashed at his arm, then upward to slide his blade around Belcher’s, down, and force the weapon out of his hand. Alexander completed the move by pointing his foil at his opponent’s heart.
Wild-eyed and flushed, Belcher stared at him. Desperation widened his eyes.
“It is finished,” Alexander repeated, jerking his rapier to catch Belcher’s attention.
“No, it is not!” Belcher ground out. “You don’t know — don’t understand.”
“I do, Belcher. There is no point in continuing. Drop your weapon.” He looked at Lady Olivia. “We must send for the constable. Or Greenfield.”
Belcher flashed a glance over his shoulder at Lady Olivia and back at Alexander. The whites of his eyes revealed his panic. “No — you cannot. Wait—”
“No. There is no point in waiting,” Alexander said gently. “You must realize that. Delay will not help you — it will only prolong a difficult situation.”
When Lady Olivia took a step toward the door, Belcher jerked and shifted to block her path. “Please — you cannot — please.”
“I am sorry, but you must have known there would be consequences,” Alexander said.
“No, no — just allow me to depart. You will never see me, again. I swear it — upon my honor — I swear it!”
Alexander shifted uncomfortably. Belcher was visibly crumbling as he realized that his future was dimming and shrinking to the size of a cold jail cell and noose. “We cannot allow that. Come, Belcher, you know we cannot let you leave.”
“Then finish it!” Belcher screamed at him, hunching forward, with his angelic features contorted in desperation.
Alexander took one step back. “No.”
“Do it — you must! Kill me!” Belcher thrust his chest out, flecks of spittle collecting in the corners of his mouth. “Will you force me to face the humiliation of a trial? Kill me — now!”
“No — this is unnecessary.”
“Would you deny me an honorable death?”
“You denied yourself that courtesy,” Alexander said in a hard voice.
“I will not hang — I am not a common criminal,” Belcher said, near madness twisting his face, his eyes flicking around the room wildly.
Then, before Alexander could completely withdraw, Belcher threw himself forward. Alexander’s reaction was automatic. His blade lowered without conscious thought, and Belcher thrust himself into Alexander’s blade.
He grunted, a low, animal sound. His eyes grew wider. He stared into Alexander’s face, smiled, and with one last effort, he hunched forward and reached out to grab Alexander’s hand. He pushed the foil deeper and gave one final, long gasp.
Grim and sick at heart, Alexander yanked the sword free. The action was far too late. Belcher slumped to the floor as Lady Olivia watched in horror, her hand pressed to her mouth.
He studied her pale face and took a step forward. Her left side was dark with blood. Gripping her elbow, he flicked open the top button of her Spencer with his free hand.
“Mr. Belcher.…” Her murmured words drifted off.
“Dead,” he said gruffly. “By his own choice. Perhaps it is for the best.”
“How could he?” She frowned and brushed his hand away. “What are you doing? Stop that!”
“You are injured — we need to stop the bleeding.”
“Are you a doctor?” She dragged her elbow out of his grasp and pressed her arm against her left side before walking past him to the desk. Pallid and shaking, she perched unsteadily on the edge and faced him.
A twisted grin lifted one corner of his mouth. “Of course, not, but you must allow me—”
“On the contrary, I must not allow you such liberties, Lord Milbourn, and I am shocked you would suggest such a thing.” Her face grew bleak as she cast an uneasy glance at Belcher. “Mr. Belcher — are you sure he is.…”
“Yes.” Alexander knelt to roll him over on his back. Belcher’s left hand thudded against the base of the wardrobe. “It was his choice. I should have realized sooner—”
“We all should have realized sooner. I fear I suspected first Mr. Underwood, and then, even poor Miss Denholm.” She winced and caught her breath. “Is she all right? He said he did not kill her, but she has been unconscious for a terribly long time.”
He strode over to the woman slumped in the corner. He hadn’t noticed her before — his attention had been focused solely on Lady Olivia — and he studied her briefly. Her chest rose and fell in a strong rhythm, and she snorted abruptly. Despite her strong signs of life, he bent to hold his hand under her nose. Warm air fluttered over his palm. When he pressed his fingers against her inner wrist, a steady pulse thrummed under his fingertips.
“She is breathing and will most likely recover. You must let me bind your injury before you bleed to death.”
“I will not. You have admitted you are not a physician, and I repeat, I have no intention of allowing you such intimacies. Not as matters currently stand.” She fastened her cool gaze on his face.
As matters currently stand?
He raised one brow.
A smile flickered over her mouth before she sighed. “We must send for Mr. Idleman and Mr. Greenfield. Again.”
“Not until I stop that bleeding.” He threw open the wardrobe and pul
led one of the fencing costumes out of the bottom drawer.
“What do you propose to do with that?”
He pulled out a pocketknife and inserted the blade into the divided skirt to tear off long strips of white muslin. “Bandages,” he replied shortly. His mouth twitched, and he glanced over at her with a lopsided grin. “If you feel the urge to faint, I would encourage you to do so. It will be far less troublesome for both of us.”
“I am not in the least danger of fainting, and I wish to know if something Mr. Belcher said to me is true.” Her expression grew tense with concern as she studied him.
Holding half a dozen long strips of material in his hand, he straightened. He could guess what Belcher had told her and anticipated her question. “Yes,” he answered tiredly. “I suspect he did have an affair with my wife. Women always did seem to find him attractive. And she needed adoration — anyone’s adoration. He must have feared that if Grantham told me, that I would not go into partnership with him.” He shrugged. “He was a trifle short of funds, but he had one trading ship left that he hadn’t sold. I would not have let past misdeeds influence me. He should have realized that.”
She flicked her right hand with impatience. “That is all very well, however, that is not my question. Mr. Belcher said he wanted you to discover what it felt like to lose everything you loved.” A momentary flush lit her wan cheeks, and her glance dropped briefly to the floor. Her voice lowered to a breathless whisper when she asked, “What did he mean?”
Blood thrummed in his ears. This was not the right time — she would be better off not knowing. Ignorant.
Innocent, the way she’d been at eighteen, when he’d first seen her.
He lifted her roughly to sit on the desk before unbuttoning her Spencer, despite her exasperated attempts to stop him. He shook off her cold fingers and peeled back her short jacket, revealing the sprigged muslin dress beneath. Blood was soaking through the thin fabric to stain the left side of her bodice and the upper portions of her skirt.
She grabbed his wrist. “Stop that and tell me, what did he mean?”
