Dauntless

by Lynne Connolly

  “You know what I wanted?” Charles said, as if engaging in everyday conversation. His voice remained smooth and melodic. Sunlight illuminated the left side of his body, as if he were an angel. Charles still appeared perfect, at least from the front. From the side, as Oliver knew only too well, his skull was misshapen, flat and pitted. That was the reason Charles always wore a wig or an elaborate cap. Except for today.

  Oliver kept his attention on the gun. “No, tell me.”

  “I wanted you to die without marrying. The succession would be nice and clean, then, and I could take my place as the duke. You took too many decisions without me. But no more.” This time he bared his teeth in a ghastly grin. “You’re going to kill yourself because of Dru’s death. So sad, they will all say.”

  Dru’s death? “Charles, what have you done?” Terror filled him, not for himself but for his wife, the woman he loved so very much. Charles was mad. Completely insane. What he said made sense, if a person did not know the truth. Even if someone knew, what he said made twisted logic. “Nobody will believe you.”

  He needed to get to Dru, to discover what Charles had done.

  “Of course they will. I’ve thought it all through. Burnett should be back soon.”

  As if answering a cue, a shuffle came from the door. Oliver turned his head to see Burnett, similarly equipped with a pistol, the twin of the one Charles held.

  Dear God. “What have you done with Drusilla?” Terror clutched at his stomach, twisting it into a knot. He forced himself into calmness, as much as he could manage. He had to think clearly.

  “Burnett took her out to the docks. He should have disposed of her by now.”

  “Did you take care of the duchess?” Charles demanded.

  “Yes, my lord.”

  “She’s dead?”

  Oliver flinched. If he got out of this, he’d kill them both. No question about that.

  “No, my lord. She’s taken care of.”

  Charles raised the pitch of his voice slightly. Enough to make Oliver take notice. “What do you mean? She’s not dead?”

  So there was a chance. Oliver kept a knife in the drawer in his nightstand. Mainly to trim wicks, open letters, and such, but if he could get to it, he might stand a chance. Unfortunately, with two guns trained on him, he would have much less opportunity of escaping with his life. One, and he might have taken what fate offered. If Burnett had not said Dru was not dead, he’d have been far more reckless. He watched and waited for the first opportunity to take Charles off guard. He was standing closer and was a better target. If he hurled himself at Charles’s legs, he could take him down.

  Could he do it? Yes, yes he could, if it meant saving Dru. Himself, he cared less about.

  He prepared to spring, curling his feet back, preparing to go up on his knees, the better to propel himself off the bed. He could get there with one firm shove on the mattress, or near enough to reach his brother.

  “Now, now,” Burnett said, as if talking to a child. His tone was soothing, conciliatory. “Put the weapon down, my lord.”

  “Call me ‘your grace’,” Charles said. He glanced at the manservant, frowning. “You’re pointing the gun in the wrong direction.”

  “No, sir, no, I’m not. Put it down, please.” He sounded patient, quiet. “We can get you back to your room and nobody the wiser. The maids’ll be up soon.”

  “You knew he could walk?” Oliver said.

  “Yes, sir, but he ordered me not to tell. I didn’t know he was planning this. I swear. I followed his plans, but in the end I couldn’t do it.” Sorrow infused his voice. “I can’t kill another human being. I did what I could to stop it from happening.”

  Oliver stared at Charles, who glared at his servant. It was like looking at a stranger. He didn’t know this man at all.

  Burnett motioned with his weapon. “Drop the gun, my lord.”

  Charles ignored him. “When I kill my brother, what will you do, Burnett?”

  “I’ll have to tell them. I’m sorry, my lord, but you can’t go around killing people and get away with it.”

  Oliver breathed out very slowly, watching Charles carefully, waiting for his opportunity. Relief filled him. A witness would surely make Charles think twice.

  “You do not want to be responsible for a person’s death, my lord,” Burnett said in the same level tone.

  Charles’s voice turned smooth. “You think not?” Moving his arm to one side, he fired. The explosion, coming so suddenly in the quiet room, deafened Oliver.

  The thump meant Charles had reached his mark. Burnett was either dead or injured. But he had no time to turn and check. This was his chance, the only one he would get. He propelled himself off the bed, lunging head first to his target. He met hard flesh as he brought his brother down.

  Charles’s roar of anger echoed around the room, but Oliver ignored it, going for the pistol Charles had just drawn from his belt. Oliver put his knee on Charles’s thigh and pressed, pinning him to the floor. A punch to the side of his head made Oliver grit his teeth and hold on, but his grip on Charles’s arm weakened, and his brother wrenched himself free.

  Ignoring his brother’s shout, Oliver reached out, gripped Charles’s shoulder and slid his hand down to the pistol.

  The sound of thundering feet came from the hallway and into the room. Charles lifted his head and pushed up, sending Oliver off-balance.

  Oliver sat, risking a shot, and swung his fist. He caught Charles under the chin, snapping his brother’s head back and to one side.

  Charles remained still, unconscious or dead.

  Oliver grabbed the pistol from Charles’s slack grip and sprang to his feet. He met his valet’s clear gaze from where the man kneeled on the floor next to Burnett. Robinson shook his head. He didn’t have to say any more. A footman stood by Oliver, staring down at Charles.

  “Take my brother back to his room,” Oliver said, his voice remarkably steady. “Guard him. He is dangerous, so secure him if you need to. Search him for anything he can use as a weapon, and do not allow him to leave his bed. He can walk.”

  The footman swore, a sign of his extreme agitation. “Sorry, so sorry, your grace.”

  Oliver waved his apology away. “I’m glad you came, Whatmough. Get him tucked into bed before he comes around, if you can. Secure his wrists loosely to the bedposts, and don’t allow him anything, not even a drink of water.” His mouth flattened. “However sweetly he begs for it.”

  They would have to call in the authorities. Oliver had no intention of tucking this event away, not allowing it to be made public. This matter must be dealt with properly, or Charles would use that, too. His eyes were wide open now. He should not have allowed his brother to interfere in his marriage. But he had loved Charles and felt deeply guilty about the accident. That guilt had crippled him as much as it had Charles, but in a different way.

  What had Burnett said? He’d “taken care” of Dru, but she wasn’t dead. Wasn’t dead? What the hell did he mean by that?

  The thought propelled him out of the room, now filling with servants, perturbed and confused. He raced downstairs and flung open the door to Dru’s room.

  The bed was empty.

  Only one person would know where his wife was, now Burnett was dead. Charles would not be unconscious for long, Oliver determined.

  Charles’s rooms contained four servants, three of them who had never entered the suite before. “Where is he?” Oliver demanded. Someone held out his robe, and he shrugged into it, belatedly aware he still only wore his nightshirt. He strode into Charles’s room. “Is he awake?”

  One of Charles’s other assistants, Atkinson, got to his feet as Oliver entered the room. “He is unconscious but resting peacefully, your grace.”

  “Wake him.”

  The man blinked at Oliver’s insistent tone.

  “He killed Burnett
and would have killed me, had I not stopped him. Did nobody tell you?”

  Atkinson shook his head. Charles had never seen the man bareheaded before. Without hat or wig, the man appeared completely different, a bruiser rather than a footman. His bald head gleamed in the light of two branches of candles. “They brought him here and said he was not to leave this room, sir. Is Mr. Burnett really dead?”

  “I fear he is.” Oliver crossed to the bed and gazed at his brother dispassionately. “All his displays of affection, all his pretenses, and I never noticed they were all meaningless. My brother has no soul, Atkinson.”

  “Yes, sir.” Atkinson did not sound surprised.

  “You knew?”

  “I suspected, sir. When the family were not present, he did not care for anyone. He showed no emotion.”

  “Hmm.” He used emotion to fool them. The accident had obviously removed more from Charles than the use of his legs.

  He gave Charles an openhanded slap across his face. Not hard, although he longed to batter him into oblivion. Bitterness filled his heart, blending with regret that he had nearly thrown everything away.

  Charles’s eyes snapped open. He could have been awake all along. Not that Oliver cared.

  “Where’s my wife?”

  Charles smiled. “Wouldn’t you like to know?”

  Oliver slapped him again, a little harder. “You will tell me.”

  The blow jerked Charles’s head to one side, but other than that, he behaved as if Oliver had not touched him. “I should have been duke. You know that. I know it, too. It is my turn. My dukedom.”

  “You’d ruin it.”

  Charles shrugged. He was lying flat on his back, only his head supported by the pillows. He lifted his hand, signaling his servant. Oliver snapped his fingers at Atkinson, refusing to let him close.

  “It is mine by right of succession. Then you married that slut. I managed to separate you, but not until the damage was done. Unless she’s had her courses?” He raised his brows, expecting an answer.

  Oliver didn’t know. Nor did he care. He wanted Dru back, needed her. Nothing else would do. Nobody else would serve. “Did you interfere with the carriage and her horse?”

  A sneer curled Charles’s lips. “Burnett did. He was sweet on the maid, did you know? She stole the manuscript for him, and he brought it to me.”

  “Even that? You did even that?”

  “It worked, didn’t it? You hated her when that thing went into print. If we couldn’t hurt her before she got to your bed, we’d do it after. Except he betrayed me. I thought better of Burnett.”

  He refused to say any more. His brother had planned to kill Dru to stop her bearing an heir to the dukedom. To him.

  What had he done? “Where is she? What have you done with my wife?”

  Chapter 17

  Dru slumped to sit on the noxious narrow ledge in the Common Room in Newgate Gaol. She buried her head in her hands, the tears falling freely. She had not slept a wink all night. They’d brought her here and tossed her into the room, the jailer telling her she was lucky. “Wait until the judge puts on the black cap,” he’d said. “Then you’ll know what you’re in for.” He pinched her backside so hard she could feel a bruise forming there when she sat.

  She’d invented a name. “Jane Robinson,” she’d told a man wielding a quill over a big book.

  “Arson,” the constable had added. “In the docks. Caught in the act.”

  The jailer had peered at her over the rim of his spectacles. “Death,” he’d said. “Fire at the docks. Mr. Fielding will love you.” He looked past her. “Nobody else?”

  The constable had shaken his head. “Another one with her, but he ran. We’ll get him.”

  Dru kept her head down. The least she could do was to keep her name out of it. The constable and the men who’d handled her roughly on the way here had insisted she would hang. She had no doubt of it. Tried on Monday, hanged on Thursday, someone had said.

  Would they ever discover what had happened to her? She’d even failed in her effort to destroy the books. They’d extinguished the fire, not a copy lost. Burnett had gone. Maybe he’d send somebody, but she doubted it. And in any case, how would they know her? She’d covered her tracks effectively. Who would think that Jane Robinson, wearing shabby clothes with barely a guinea to her name, was the Duchess of Mountsorrel?

  They’d offered her food, which they wanted her to pay for, but she shook her head. She wouldn’t starve in four days. It would only feel that way. She’d have to buy water, though. Or maybe she could die of thirst.

  Anyway, she would die. Her book would be published, and the author would disappear, while a woman of no consequence called Jane Robinson would hang at Tyburn.

  She shivered.

  Nobody bothered her. The noise surprised her, but she ignored it. Men and women copulated in corners. They played with makeshift dice on the floor in the middle of the room, a space cleared of the noxious straw and filth to make a playing ground. Dawn had seeped through the high windows, but all night people had talked and sang and played dice. And fornicated. She huddled down, making as small a bundle of her body as she could, curling inside her shabby clothes. She lifted her knees and lowered her forehead to them. Despair coursed through her body.

  Maybe if she pretended to be asleep they wouldn’t bother her.

  She should have known better, should have thought harder. Burnett had raised the alert, had told them she was responsible for the fire. He’d disappeared before they could question him. Perhaps he’d turn up for the trial on Monday. She doubted it. Enough men had seen her, tinderbox in hand, setting the rags alight. They would bear witness to her evil deed, and Dru did not intend to defend her act. What would be the point? More than that, what would she say? Short of giving her true identity, she could do nothing, and even if they knew who she was, that wouldn’t help. She’d tried to set fire to a warehouse at the docks. She would not deny it.

  Charles had known. She was sure of it now. He’d betrayed her. He was no more her friend than Burnett or anyone else.

  What was the point?

  A new sound reached her ears. Someone had opened the door, the jingle of keys indicating a jailer. Steps crossed the stone-flagged filth-strewn floor to where she stood. Dru lifted her head.

  “This is the woman,” the man said.

  She blinked, struck dumb by the sight before her. Her husband was here? She opened her mouth and then closed it. She couldn’t reveal herself.

  “So it is,” Oliver said calmly, his mouth a firm line. “Bring her.”

  The jailer grabbed her arm and hauled her to her feet. She stumbled but regained her footing.

  “Not like that!” Oliver frowned at the man. “Treat her with respect.”

  The jailer spat at her feet. “She was caught in the act.”

  Oliver clinked coins, and gold changed hands. “She was trying to light a lamp. She is my employee, set to guard the warehouse.”

  “A printer rented that warehouse,” the jailer said. “She has to go to court on Monday.”

  More gold changed hands, clinking as the jailer shoved it in his pocket. “She has done nothing. I am here to collect her.”

  “Proof?” the jailer asked.

  “I’ve given the papers to the man outside. He has the details.”

  Around her, the prisoners had gone silent. Someone on the other side of the room yelled, “We’re all innocent! Got enough for everybody, mister?”

  Raucous laughter ensued. Oliver took no notice, but curved his arm around her waist. “Come with me…Jane.” Laughter colored his tones.

  How could he show amusement in this hellhole? Dru didn’t know what to speak, what to feel. Confusion invaded her sleep-addled, stressed mind. “I did it,” she said.

  Oliver touched her lips with one cool finger. “Enough. We’ll talk later.
”

  For once, Dru subsided. When Oliver tried to lead her toward the door, she stumbled, her feet numb from sitting. With an exclamation rarely heard in the fashionable drawing rooms, Oliver swung her into his arms and strode out of the jail. Dru curled her arm around his neck, clinging on like a monkey. He’d come. How he’d discovered her, what had happened to alert him, she had no idea, but she could be nothing but glad.

  She buried her face in his waistcoat as they hit the bright morning light. He climbed into a carriage, the vehicle rocking as he sat and arranged her across his lap. The carriage set off.

  “How did you know I was there?” she mumbled into the soft woolen cloth.

  “Charles told me.” He sounded grim. He had every right to be, after what she’d done.

  “He told you everything?”

  Oliver grunted. “How he meant Burnett to murder you, how he wanted to kill me and make it look like suicide because he wanted to be duke? Yes. I’d have been sooner but I went to the docks first and then heard the story and found out where they’d taken you.”

  Shock gripped her hard as she lifted her head. Nausea roiled in her gut. “What?”

  He gazed at her, his expression soft as he cupped her cheek. “He’d planned it all along.”

  The carriage jolted as it turned a corner, and he held her tighter. Or maybe he’d planned to do that anyway. “To k-kill us?”

  “To kill you because you might be carrying my child. Burnett was to murder you in that warehouse. He didn’t care whether the books burned or not. Just that you did. The reason for your presence there would be obvious. Burnett was to say he tried to deter you, that the fire was your idea. Dear God, Dru, I nearly lost you!” He fastened his lips to her, kissing her with no mercy.

  Not that she wanted any. She tightened her grip on his neck, holding him close. This was all that mattered.

  He pulled away, staring at her, drinking her in. “I will never forgive him for what he did.”

  “Burnett meant to kill me?” Disbelief swept through her at first, swiftly followed by acceptance. Yes, she had left herself open to attack. But Burnett?