At Long Last

by Shirlee Busbee

  She recognized neither the servant, nor the animal, and by the time she had opened the note and read it, servant and mule were already disappearing into the shadows of dusk. Frowning, she reread the note.

  Patrick wanted her to meet him at the lodge within the hour. Now why there? If he had learned some vital information, why didn't he come to the house? What was so secret that he needed to meet with her privately? She didn't like it.

  Still frowning, she went inside and sat down and wrote her own note. After handing it to Tidmore with the admonition that it was to be delivered immediately, she went upstairs and found her pistol. Tony had been forewarned; she would wait long enough for him to receive her note, making allowances also for him to have a head start before she left for the lodge. She had no secrets from Tony, and if Patrick had something to say, he could tell them both, at the same time. Just to give her an added edge, the pistol would be safely hidden in the folds of the fringed shawl she carried.

  Patrick's reaction was much the same as Arabella's. Only he wondered what it was that Arabella had to tell him that could not be said in front of her husband and why she had selected the lodge as the location to meet. He, too, sent a note to Tony, informing him of Arabella's request for a secret meeting at the lodge. And like Arabella, he, too, set out, suspicious and armed, for the lodge.

  Boots had anticipated both their actions and to his list of murders he added the two servants sent by Patrick and Arabella. He'd had some wild riding to do and he was quite sweaty and breathless by the time he began his own journey to the lodge. With the two servants dead, their bodies hidden in the brush, he only had to see that his third and final note was delivered. And, of course, it would arrive in Tony's hands much too late to do any good.

  It had been a hectic evening, but Boots had timed everything perfectly. He had known Arabella and Patrick would be suspicious, and he had known they would try to contact Tony before leaving for the lodge, so he had staggered the times that their individual notes had been delivered to give himself room in which to arrange things to his satisfaction.

  Arriving at the lodge well ahead of the others, he tied his horse some distance away from the clearing where the lodge was situated. He wanted no snorting, neighing horse to disclose his presence.

  Darkness had fallen and the silvery gleam from the half-moon overhead gave him just enough light to see his way. Slipping down the path that led from the lodge to Greenleigh, he waited concealed in the rank undergrowth that crowded the narrow pathway. Just when he began to worry that he had miscalculated, he heard Arabella's cautious approach. He smiled. Act One was about to begin.

  Arabella had never liked this part of going to the lodge. In daylight, the lodge was a pleasant, scant ten-minute walk from the house, but at night, in near darkness, with thoughts of snakes and other feral creatures moving about, she found it not so pleasant. She had considered bringing a lantern but, not wishing to announce her position if there was something amiss, had discarded the idea.

  Concentrating on where she was putting her feet, wishing the faint moonlight shone more clearly through the canopy of trees, she was unprepared when Boots sprang at her from his hiding place. She had only time for a startled cry and then there was a burst of pain and utter blackness.

  Feeling very satisfied with himself, Boots half carried, half dragged her unconscious form to the lodge. Kicking open the door, having done his reconnoiter of the interior earlier, he moved confidently through the gaping blackness that greeted him.

  Throwing Arabella on the bed, he turned and swiftly struck a flint and lit a candle. In the feeble, flickering light he stared at Arabella, as she lay sprawled across the bed, her fringed shawl tangled beneath her. She looked good, but he was going to make her look even better.

  A few minutes later, he stepped back and admired his handiwork. She looked thoroughly disheveled now. Her hair tumbled in wild disarray across the pillows, her shoes and stockings were tossed on the floor and her gown was half-off, revealing a pair of charmingly plump breasts.

  He frowned and approaching her once more, arranged her gown so that one lovely thigh was exposed. She looked, he decided happily, quite wanton.

  The next part of his plan was easy enough; he had been careful to allow enough time to have events well in hand. Knowing Patrick should be arriving any minute, he secreted himself behind the door and waited for him.

  Like Arabella, Patrick approached the lodge cautiously. The feeble, dancing light glimpsed through the cracks in the door did not reassure him. It occurred to him that it could be Arabella waiting for him and that she really did have some logical reason for requesting this mysterious meeting. A look of chagrin crossed his face. He was going to feel a complete fool if it turned out that the note was not a hoax.

  Every nerve he possessed coiled tight, Patrick slowly pushed open the door. Silence greeted him. His pistol primed and ready in one hand, he inched into the doorway. In the flickering light, the sight of Arabella lying half-naked on the bed startled him, and he took two swift steps toward her before he stopped, his instincts screaming a warning. A warning that came a half second too late.

  Like Arabella, Patrick felt only a burst of pain at the back of his head and then nothing. He crashed to the floor, the pistol falling from his hand.

  Almost rubbing his hands together with glee, Boots surveyed Patrick's prone form. A perfect Act Two. Now to finish the scene and prepare for Act Three.

  Boots was puffing and cursing by the time he had maneuvered Patrick's limp body on the bed next to Arabella. Disposing of Patrick's boots, jacket, cravat, and waistcoat added to his breathlessness, and getting Patrick out of his shirt took him longer than he had planned. But soon enough, all was arranged, and he smiled at the scene before him.

  Arabella's head lay on Patrick's naked chest. One of his hands was resting on her equally naked breast. They looked, for all the world, like lovers—which was just what he planned.

  It was a very simple plan; the difficulty had been in making certain that each player arrived upon cue. So far, all had gone as he had assumed it would, and he was feeling rather smug.

  In less than a half hour, Tony would arrive, and the final act would take place. Tony would die, as would the other two. When the bodies were found, there would be no doubt in anyone's mind that Arabella had decided to pay Tony back for what had happened five years ago and had taken Patrick as her lover. It would be assumed that Tony surprised the pair of them in bed and in a jealous rage shot them both where they lay. And, of course, crazed by Arabella's betrayal and his own murderous actions, Tony would then turn the pistol on himself. A very neat and tidy ending if he did say so himself.

  For a moment, he thought about shooting Arabella and Patrick, before Tony arrived. He had hit them both soundly, and it was unlikely either would regain their senses before it was too late. It was tempting, and would remove a source of possible danger, but he decided against it. It was too close to the time for Tony's arrival, and he didn't want the sounds of pistol fire to scare off his prey.

  Suppressing the urge to hum, Boots took another look at the scene he had created, then slipped out into the night. Time for Act Three, he thought happily as he crept away. Come and take your bow, Tony.

  Chapter 21

  Scanning the note he'd just received, Tony scowled. Now what the devil! He didn't believe for one moment that Mary Montgomery had written him asking for a meeting at the Greenleigh lodge. There had to be some mistake. He looked again at the outside of the note and saw that it was clearly addressed to him.

  He was not familiar with Mary's handwriting, so he couldn't discount the possibility that the note really did come from her, but he doubted it. As for the servant that had delivered it, the fellow was already gone, disappeared into the night. Tony didn't like that either. There was something damned smoky going on.

  Something was up, but what? Had Boots forced Mary to write this note to him? It was a possibility, but Tony doubted that, too.

  Conv
inced that the note requesting him to be at the Greenleigh lodge that night at ten was a trap, Tony wandered restlessly about his study. It wasn't, he admitted, beyond the realm of probability that Mary had written the note. She had to know that he could influence Patrick and perhaps she planned on pleading with him to intervene. He scowled again, even more blackly. It didn't make sense, but it could be true. She would be desperate, and desperate people did not always do the sensible thing. But why had she chosen the lodge? That was what made him doubly suspicious. A meeting at Highview wouldn't have raised his eyebrow. But the lodge?

  He glanced at the gilt clock on the mantel. It was nearly nine thirty, and if he intended to make the meeting, he had better get going.

  It never entered Tony's mind not to go to the lodge. It did enter his mind to take precautions and be on the alert for anything that smelled of a trap.

  He tied his horse some distance from the lodge and proceeded silently on foot the remainder of the way. He found Patrick's horse tied to a young sapling almost immediately, and the feeling that he was walking into danger increased.

  Like Patrick, he had his pistol primed and ready as he crept toward the door of the lodge. The flicker of light leaking around the edges of the door did not reassure him either.

  Tony hesitated for several minutes outside the shut door. The windows were barred from inside, and there was no way of seeing into the lodge. Except, he thought with a grim twist of his lips, by opening the door.

  Standing off to the side, his back pressed against the wall of the lodge, he carefully lifted the latch and pushed the door inward. The heavy wooden door creaked as it opened, and Tony held his breath, wondering if he was to be met with pistol fire. When nothing happened, when only silence met his ears, he cautiously maneuvered to where he could glance inside.

  The sight of Patrick and Arabella lying together half-naked on the bed caught his gaze and for one ugly, painful second, he believed what he was seeing. Fury and anguish knifed through him as the knowledge that Arabella and Patrick had betrayed him hit him. But that thought vanished almost as soon as it had been formed. No. Arabella loved him—he did not doubt it. She would never betray him. Patrick was as loyal a friend as one could find and he, too, would never betray him. Knowing that he was staring at a carefully staged scene, he watched for several seconds more, the knot in his chest disappearing when he was able to discern the soft rise and fall of the chests of the two on the bed. They were alive!

  Reassured that Arabella and Patrick were still alive, he smiled wolfishly. Someone, he decided contemptuously, had certainly gone to a lot of trouble—and all for naught. He wasn't about to be caught by such an obvious trick.

  So what happens next? he wondered. That Boots had set the scene in the lodge was a certainty in his mind. But where is the bastard and what does he expect me to do? Does he think that I will burst into the room and, presumably, driven mad by jealousy, shoot the pair on the bed?

  A long, slow glance around the portion of the interior that he could see revealed nothing. The lodge was small, and there were only so many places a man, or woman for that matter, could hide. In fact, there was only one place someone could hide, and, springing inside, Tony threw his entire weight against the door, slamming it back against the wall. Anyone concealed behind the door would have been crushed and from the crash of the door meeting the solid wall, Tony knew that only empty space lay behind the door. Well, that took care of that place, he thought dryly, as he stepped away.

  Cold metal suddenly met his temple, and he heard a male voice purr behind him, "Very good, cousin. I knew that I would not catch you as easily as your friend there on the bed." The voice hardened, and the pistol pressed painfully into his skin. "Now drop your pistol, or I shall be forced to kill you as you stand."

  Tony hesitated, knowing it was likely that he was a dead man, no matter what he did. Should he take his chances? Or follow directions, hoping for a better chance? A second jab with the pistol and a snapped, "Unless you want to see Arabella die this very moment, do it now!" had Tony's finger easing off the trigger and his pistol clattering to the floor.

  Boots relaxed slightly, his pulse slowing. Catching Tony had been the most uncertain part of his plan, but the fool had acted predictably.

  "Move," Boots ordered, pushing Tony farther into the room. Careful to keep himself behind Tony, he kicked the door shut with his foot.

  Elated and excited at how easily his plan was unfolding, Boots was aware of an insane desire to giggle. Everything had gone so well! And in a few minutes, it would all be over—he would have won the biggest gamble of all. He frowned. Losing the rest of the Westbrook fortune was a blow, but he would manage to endure. The urge to giggle returned. Oh, yes, he would endure with a fortune that would open the eyes of everyone around him.

  Giving Tony another shove, he said, "Sit there. At the table, and keep your hands where I can see them."

  The sight of Tony meekly obeying him gave him a stab of pleasure, and, full of smug satisfaction, the tendency to gloat could not be entirely suppressed. Stepping in front of Tony, but keeping beyond the range of that powerful body, Burgess asked, "Did you really think you could best me, cuz? Did you?"

  Tony stared at his younger cousin's gleeful face, his own face revealing only polite interest. He supposed that in some part of his mind he was shocked. Burgess had never really been considered seriously for the role of Boots, and yet, Tony admitted slowly, he should have, recalling now Burgess's jealousy of Franklin and his hunger to make a mark in the fashionable world—a hunger thwarted by Alfred's tightfisted ways.

  "Obviously, I did," Tony said coolly, in reply to Burgess's taunt, "or I never would have come in answer to your little note." He nodded toward the bed. "Is that how you got them to come here, too?"

  His blue eyes gleaming maliciously, Burgess replied, "You don't believe what is before your very own eyes? That Patrick and dear, sweet Arabella are lovers?"

  Tony smiled wolfishly again. "No, I don't—you miscalculated there."

  Burgess frowned. "I did not! Else you would not be where you are at this very moment."

  Ignoring Burgess's comment, Tony went on easily, "You have been busy, I'll grant you that. Do you know that I did not really suspect you? I was certain that it had to be either your father or your brother."

  "That pair!" Burgess said scathingly. "They are all talk. Neither one of them would have taken the risks that I have. As a matter of fact, since Molly's death and the knowledge that you could not have killed her, my father has begun to wonder about some of the other incidents in your past. Do you know, he had the gall to ask me just the other day if I thought you had killed Elizabeth?"

  Tony's eyes narrowed. "And what did you tell him?" Tony asked silkily. "That no, I had not, but that you had?"

  Burgess smiled and Tony's hands involuntarily clenched into fists. "Now, now," Burgess teased, "none of that. Put your hands back where they belong."

  It was clear that Burgess wanted to preen and brag, and Tony was willing to allow him to do so. He was very aware of what would happen when his cousin had grown tired of bragging—his wife, his friend, and he would die. With that in mind, Tony asked with deceptive idleness, "Did you kill Elizabeth?"

  "I did indeed. Although, I will confess that I had not planned to. It was an accident—she caught me rifling through her jewelry box, and I had no choice but to shoot her." Burgess smiled at the look in Tony's eyes, and he added with deliberate cruelty, "I'll confess that it was a rather fortunate accident for me; it showed me how easy murder could be. Do you know," he went on conversationally, "that if I had not been forced to kill Elizabeth that we might not be having this conversation right now? After I killed her, I realized that murder was a simple thing to do—and that it solved so many problems."

  Holding his fury at bay with an iron will, Tony fought to keep his features bland. Burgess was enjoying himself too much to consider that the prudent thing would have been to kill them and make his escape. Tony certainly
had no intention of pointing that out to him—or of letting the bastard know just how much his words clawed at Tony's very heart. As long as it kept them alive, Tony was willing to let him babble on. Time was the only asset they had. Given enough time, Tony reminded himself, Patrick or Arabella might regain consciousness. And if one of them did...

  "Is that so?" Tony asked. "Is that how you plan to get rid of your father and brother? Murder them? I assume for your scheme to work that they will have to die. It is your plan to inherit everything, isn't it? All of it?"

  "Yes, it is," Burgess replied, disappointed that Tony was taking things so calmly. "Father may save me the trouble—just as I kept hoping you would have the courtesy to break your neck, I am hopeful that Father will take himself off in a fit of apoplexy. Of course, if he doesn't, I may have to help him. And as for Franklin—do you know, I shall enjoy killing him?" Burgess's eyes gleamed. "He is so like you. Arrogant. Lording his position over me. Always letting me know that he is the eldest son and that he shall be the one to inherit the majority of Father's wealth."

  Tony forced himself to look comfortable, stretching his long legs out in front of him, leaning back in the chair. His indolent posture disguised the coiled, poised strength of his body, the leashed power straining to explode. If only Burgess would come within striking range. All Tony needed was an opening. Just one opening.

  "What about Mary Montgomery? Is she to die, too?"

  Burgess made a face. "It all depends upon how well she takes your deaths. I'm assuming that she will accept everything at face value—as will everyone else. After all, your reputation is well-known. I doubt anyone will have any trouble believing that you killed Arabella and Blackburne—they already think you killed Mercy and Elizabeth."