“May I help you?”
She hadn’t thought to change, knew that her appearance was far from that of a duchess. Her upswept hair was wet, her gown spattered with mud, but that hardly mattered as she faced a man who could well save Lucien’s life.
“I need to speak to Mr. Milburn.”
“I am he.”
She felt her shoulders sag. Her feet left muddy tracks as she crossed to the counter where he stood. The door slammed shut on a sudden breeze.
“Look at these,” she said.
He drew back, and she could tell he was offended by her demanding tone.
Careful, Elizabeth. Best not to get off on the wrong foot.
She drew a deep breath, tried to compose herself. For the second time in her life she had cause to be grateful for her mother’s training. She straightened to her full height, not very impressive, to be sure, but it was looks that counted, or so her mother said.
“I am the duchess of Ravenwood,” she said.
She saw the man’s eyes widen, saw the way he scanned her face, doubtful at first, but he must have been privy to those awful drawings for realization dawned.
“These pistols were used by my husband in a duel, one which I’m sure you have heard of.”
“Aye, Your Grace. Who has not?”
Who indeed? “I need you to tell me if they’ve been fired,” she said.
He looked thunderstruck again. “Fired?”
“Yes. Fired.”
“But I thought—”
“That they had?” she finished for him. “So, apparently, does everyone else, but I would wager no one thought to check that they actually had.”
“But surely someone examined them for powder stains?”
“I’m sure they did. But it is my guess that they saw the stains around the firing pin, which would be enough to prove to the examiner that they’d been fired. I doubt they looked to see if there were powder stains in the barrel.”
The man’s brow furrowed. “But the barrel would not be stained by powder.”
Elizabeth felt as if the floor beneath her had been yanked away. “No? But what about marks inside the barrel? ’Tis plain there are none.”
The man shook his head. “The barrel of a pistol does not scar easily, Your Grace. It would be hard to prove the pistols had not been fired using that theory.”
She closed her eyes in a disappointment so stinging, it actually prickled her eyes in pain.
“But let me have a look at them just the same,” the man said, obviously reading her face.
She’d told herself not to get her hopes up. Lord, how she’d warned herself. Blindly, she hefted the box.
He opened the lid almost reverently, peering inside with eyes that went suddenly wide before they met hers. “But the stock is made of ivory.”
She nodded, her gaze turning blurry as she fought back tears.
“And this has never been noted before?”
She shook her head, something in his gaze setting her heart racing. “Not that I know of,” she said, her body quickening at the look on his face. “Why? Is it important?”
“Of course it is, my dear lady,” he said, his expression that of a man who’d opened a paper box only to spy gold inside. “Ivory stocks are notoriously weak, thus they are used for pistols that are meant for decoration only. Firing them would have broken the stock, the force of the blast causing cracks to appear around the barrel. These, as you can see, are still intact.”
Elizabeth could only stare, the words he had spoken slowly sinking in. “Then I was right? They have not been fired?”
He shook his head. “Powder might have been ignited from the flintlock, but only a small bit of it … enough to make them look as if they’d been fired. But, no. If a ball had passed through the barrel, the recoil would have caused the stock to break. I would stake my reputation on it.”
Elizabeth almost collapsed.
“And in looking at these, there is likely one other way to prove it. A way that could not be disputed.”
She tensed, waiting for him to explain.
“The barrels of these pistols are very narrow, the ball that would have come from it easily matched, I would think.”
“Matched?”
He looked up at her, his eyes blinking behind his spectacles. “Aye. By exhuming the murder victim’s body.”
Chapter Twenty-Three
Hangings, Lucien decided, were not for the faint of heart. Especially when one was the person about to be hanged.
The scaffold creaked, the floor beneath a fellow prisoner’s feet gave way. A thick rope twanged under the weight of a body.
Another man had met his end.
Lucien almost lost the contents of his stomach. His bound hands clenched behind his back, the shirt he wore beneath his black jacket drenched with sweat. The sun beat down upon him with the relentlessness of a purser’s whip. It made him dizzy. Or perhaps it was the smell. Or the roar of the crowd as hundreds, nay, thousands of people shouted at him, spit at him, threw things at him.
Lucien swallowed back bile.
“Would you like me to say a prayer for your soul?”
Lucien turned. A clergyman stood to his right, his robes as black as the executioner’s, a poor choice of color, Lucien thought a touch hysterically. He wore the high-pointed collar that all men who served the cloth wore, the wig upon his head looking a great deal cleaner than the clergyman’s at Newgate who had given the condemned’s sermon.
“If you like,” the little man added, his own forehead beaded with sweat. “I will pray with you.”
“What I would like,” Lucien said, “is for you to get me out of here.” And he did, for it was one thing to resign yourself to your fate, quite another actually to face it.
The clergyman’s brows had risen. “I’m sorry, but I cannot help you with that, my son.”
“But I thought all things were possible with prayer.”
“They are,” he said, placing a hand on Lucien’s arm. “Given time.”
“I don’t need your time, old man,” he said, wrenching away. “I need to get out of here.”
The expression on the man’s face turned pained. “You cannot leave, but you can repent. Your end is near. Confess your sins so that peace will rule your heart as you prepare to meet your Maker.”
“My dear man,” Lucien snapped, “the only peace the good Lord is likely to get from me is a piece of my mind. And I assure you, if I was, indeed, guilty of the cold-blooded murder for which I was accused, it would be far too late for me to make amends with the good Lord above.”
“It is never too late.”
“I assure you, it is, but since I don’t intend to meet my Maker just yet, your prayer would be wasted.”
But he was going to meet his Maker, he thought, turning away, only to be yanked back by a nearby guard. Oh, well. At least he’d tried.
“I will pray for you, my son.”
“Yes, do that,” Lucien said. “And while you’re at it, ask God to show me the easiest way to escape.”
He ignored the man’s look of pity and his guard’s tightening grip.
He didn’t want to die.
The thought hit him hard.
Henry, old man, you shall soon have your vengeance on me. And face-to-face, no less.
The crowd let out another roar as the limp body was cut down. Lucien kept his gaze averted. Odd’s teeth, what a fool he’d been. Why had he been so deaf to Elizabeth’s words? She’d been right. He’d not fought the charges as hard as he could. He’d given up. Caved in, and as a result Elizabeth would suffer the stigma of his death for the rest of her life.
“Bring on th’ duke,” a spectator yelled.
“Duke,” another person echoed.
Duke, duke, duke, the crowd began to chant.
Bloody idiots. Bloody infidels.
“Your turn, Your Grace,” the clergyman said.
Lucien glanced at the scaffold. It stretched high above him, the beams L-shaped. The previous
victim had finally been removed, a new rope hung.
“Any last words?”
Lucien eyed the executioner, the oddest urge to poke his fingers through the slits of his hood overcame him. Too bad his wrists were tied behind his back.
“Yes, my good man. I do have a few last words.” He faced the crowd. They were in a near frenzy now, their eyes all but glowing, their drab, gray clothing seeming to blend together so that it looked like the sea near Raven’s Keep on a stormy day.
Raven’s Keep. His home. One he’d never see again.
“Quiet,” the executioner called. “He’s got somethin’ to say.”
They quieted marginally, Lucien feeling his heart beat to the point that it hurt.
Come on, old boy. Buck up. There are worse ways to go.
Yes, he mentally answered. Like dying of plague or being torched alive.
“Quiet,” the executioner repeated.
Slowly, the crowd obeyed.
Lucien took a deep breath. “My dear friends,” he called out.
“Speak up,” someone yelled.
A hysterical urge to laugh overcame him. “I beg your pardon,” he bellowed, then waited to see if that was loud enough. When no one protested, he assumed it was, hysteria clogging his throat yet again before he tamed it.
“First of all, I would like to thank each and every one of you for coming to my hanging today. You’ve no idea what it means to me.”
When you’re uncomfortable, you cover it up with humor.
He shoved Elizabeth’s words to the back of his mind. He refused to think of her. Not now. “I realize it must have been quite a crush to get here, so your attendance means that much more.”
“Get on w’ it,” someone yelled.
“I beg your pardon, old man,” Lucien said in the general direction of the person who’d spoken. “But this is my hanging, and I shall speak as long as I wish.”
No one said anything. That was good. Very good.
Delay. That was what he needed to do, though why when the outcome was a foregone conclusion, he had no idea.
“Before I go,” he said, “I would like to say good-bye to my tailor, without whom I could not have obtained such a sterling reputation as a pink of the ton.”
He forced a smile.
One lone guffaw greeted his words.
A start. “And to my valet at Raven’s Keep, who is surely the stodgiest man alive, but who never clothed me wrong.”
“Ahh, get on wi’ it,” another person yelled, a woman this time.
He ignored her. “And to my staff at Raven’s Keep, who I understand are praying for me.” And his voice broke on the last, his satirical humor fading as the reality of what he faced grabbed hold of him with both hands. “Thank you. I appreciate your prayers more than you know.”
He had to swallow a few times before he could continue, the crowd strangely quiet now. “To my tenants, who worked their fingers to a nub for me. Thank you. It was a privilege to get to know you.”
His hands clenched as he forced himself to say the next “And John.” Odd how his anger at his old friend had faded suddenly. “Good luck, John. Take care of her for me.”
Her. Elizabeth.
He had to take a deep breath. What the hell to say to her?
I was a fool. An ass. I should be shot.
You’re going to be hanged.
Fear dragged icy fingers over his skin, leaving a cold sheen of sweat in its wake. He lifted his head, knowing he had to say something. He owed her that much.
“Elizabeth,” he said, his voice having lowered. Was she even here? God, he wished he knew. “My wife. You know how hard it is for me to admit this, but I find suddenly that you were right.” He shook his head, overcome by such a sudden burst of emotion he could barely think, and so he said the first thing that came to mind. “I was wracked with guilt, just as you said. I didn’t want to fight the charges. I don’t know why, but I didn’t.”
Bloody idiot, you know why. And you should admit it, too.
“I was afraid,” he said softly, and the people near the front of the platform leaned toward him in a group wave. “I was afraid that if I confessed to my fears, I would have had to admit something else, something that terrified me equally as much.”
He straightened, his bonds tugging at his wrists. “I would have had to admit how much I’d come to care for you.” There. He’d said it aloud. Only it was far too late. The world grew blurry, but he didn’t care.
“You are a remarkable woman, Elizabeth. You faced marriage to a disreputable bore like me without fear. You stood up to me. Matched wits with me. And you are witty, my dear. Sometimes I would marvel at your charm. You are wonderfully brave; something I noticed about you prior to our marriage. I can only imagine ’tis because of the way you were forced to stand up to society’s derision of you.” He felt tears come to his eyes as he admitted the last. “Would that I had faced my brother’s death with as much courage.
“You are remarkable,” he repeated, having to fight to keep his voice even. “I want you to know that. And that I was an utter fool for not seeing it before. It’s too late for us now, but I would give it all, my dear. Everything. Raven’s Keep, the land, the castle, everything for another chance.”
“Are ya finished?” the executioner interrupted, clearly fed up with such a maudlin speech.
“Well,” Lucien said, near hysteria again, “I suppose I should thank my boot maker, too, but I never did like the man.”
“Good, then let’s get on wi’ it.”
And just like that, it was time. No fanfare. No cries from the crowd. Life would soon be over.
“Bow your head,” the executioner said.
Lucien closed his eyes. He toyed with the idea of struggling, but what was the point? He was a condemned man. Nothing would change that now.
He did as asked. The crowd erupted.
A hood dropped over his head. Remarkably clean-smelling, he noted, another part tensing as he waited for the rope to be lowered, too.
Elizabeth, are you watching?
He felt a tug on the hood.
Did you understand what I was trying to tell you?
A rope tightened around his neck. Not even the crowd could drown out the sound of his heart.
I was trying to tell you that I fell in love with you.
The executioner stepped back.
I fell in love with you as you stood on the stand, so righteous, so outraged that anyone could think me guilty. I fell in love with you as you tried to seduce John, just so you could win a wager. I fell in love with you when I saw your reaction to that bloody horse. You looked as if I’d given you diamonds, as if no one had ever given you something so precious, something so silly. But perhaps no one has given you things before. And I’m sorry for that, too, little one. So sorry.
And then an odd sort of peace overcame him. ’Twas strange. He focused on the memory of Elizabeth’s face, wished for a second that he’d taken the clergyman up on the offer of a prayer.
He would have prayed for happiness. For her happiness.
The executioner gave the call. He tensed. She’d looked so beautiful the day of their wedding. He could picture her perfectly, the damn musicians playing the wedding march so loud. He could still hear the cacophony in his head as they’d tried to keep up with her outraged pace.
He straightened.
Cacophony?
“Make way!” a man yelled. “Make way by order of the Prince of Wales!”
Horns blared. A sweet, melodic sound that blended with the crowd’s cries as they were made to move out of the way.
“Make way.”
Every nerve in Lucien’s body froze. Was that a carriage he heard? It was hard to tell and it took what seemed like hours to reach him.
“Do not hang that man.”
And Lucien almost dropped to his knees.
The voice sounded out again, nearer now. “He has been cleared of all charges by order of His Majesty, the Prince of Wales.”
/> “Remove his bloody hood.” Was that John’s voice? He waited, nearly blinded by the sun as the fabric was abruptly pulled from his head, his bonds cut in nearly the same motion.
He blinked, focused. A carriage stood near the base of the platform, and not just any carriage, but the Prince of Wales’s own personal carriage, judging by the crest on the open door. Two outriders rode behind it, the black horses they rode twisting and spinning about at the crowd. But what caught Lucien’s eye was the sight of John coming toward him, his long legs making short work of the steps up the scaffolding.
“Well?” John asked. “Have you nothing to say?”
“Yes,” Lucien instantly responded, then he socked his friend.
“Lucien,” Elizabeth yelled, jumping down from the carriage as John dropped to the floor.
The crowd went wild.
And yet oddly enough, the first thing he thought as he saw her was that she hadn’t heard his speech.
Well, that was a relief. Or was it? It was hard to tell while he was bombarded by a myriad of emotions as he stared down at the woman he had thought never to see again.
And then he realized he didn’t care if she’d heard his speech or not. He’d meant every word of it. He straightened, giving her a blinding smile, holding out his hand as he did so.
She collapsed.
“Elizabeth?” Lucien cried.
People crowded around her. “Elizabeth,” he teased. “This is hardly time for theatrics.” But she was below him, and so she couldn’t hear.
Seduced Page 26
