by Henke, Shirl
Beth wanted to scream, but she needed every ounce of her strength just to hold on to Bertie's deadly weapon. Annabella stood frozen in horror as they struggled over the pistol. The dog, who terrified her, would not relinquish his hold on Bertie's leg.
He and Beth overbalanced and fell against the door frame, smashing her arm into the wall, but still she would not relinquish her hold on the pistol. Beth gripped it with maniacal strength as she fought her way through another contraction. She and Bertie both had their hands wrapped around the weapon, waving it wildly back and forth between them, neither quite able to point it at the other.
Trembling and sobbing, Annabella picked up a poker from the fireplace and tried to get near enough to strike Beth, but the struggling combatants kept twisting and turning so that the dog was between her and them. Feeling another contraction beginning to tear at her, Beth made a desperate lunge forward. This would be her last chance.
She succeeded in slipping her thumb inside the trigger guard on the pistol and pressed against Bertie's finger as they stumbled on the edge of the carpet. Their hands moved in a downward arc from above their heads while Beth tried to turn the barrel toward Bertie, squeezing with all her strength.
The gun discharged with a deafening roar. Annabella fell backwards, the poker dropping from her hand as she stared dumbly down at the blossoming red stain on the front of her pink silk gown. She teetered for a moment, then crumpled to the floor. Bertie cried, “Bella! My darling Bella!” He shoved Beth away. Percy released his hold and stood protectively in front of Beth, snarling.
She doubled over in a contraction as Bertie knelt and cradled Annabella in his arms, frantically trying to staunch the bleeding and sobbing uncontrollably. “Don't die, Bell, my Bell, please don't die, my beloved,my only.”
Beth felt the stream of wetness flowing down her legs as the agony of the contraction began to fade. Her water had broken. She could hear the pounding of footsteps from down the stairs and the cries of servants. She stumbled out into the hall with Percy.
A young footman approached, white-faced and breathless, followed by the butler and Mistress Widlow, both puffing to keep up. “Whatever has happened?” the housekeeper asked, taking charge when the other servants made way for her. They all stood back and gawked at the countess, who was doubled over, panting and disheveled, with her gown torn and her hair hanging in ratty clumps.
“Inside...they...tried to...tried to...” Beth got no further as the breath was squeezed from her lungs by searing pain. With the end of the fight, her frantic strength deserted her, and she crumpled onto the floor. Donita came running past Mistress Widlow and knelt beside her mistress. Percy moved back, whimpering frantically now as he watched Beth.
“The babe comes,” Donita said in her broken English, seeing the puddle of water around Beth. “Take her to room.” She pointed toward the master bedroom down the hall.
Just as two of the footmen came forward to do her bidding, a second shot reverberated through the open door of Annabella Jamison's sitting room.
* * * *
“Would you please be so kind as to open your greatcoat and remove the pistols I know you have concealed within—very carefully.” Evon Bourdin glided across the carpet, stepping over the old count's body as negligently as if he were a stray dog dead in the gutter.
Derrick slowly opened his dampened raincoat. ”I did not come here alone,” he said. “Before you can arrange the little scene to your satisfaction, my man will hear the shot and come rushing in.”
Bourdin laughed nastily. “Ah, I believe my man Valeri can dispose of a mere groom. You see, I had this old capon”—he nudged d'Artois's body—“dismiss his household servants for the day, then arranged for Val to admit you to the house.”
“Why kill your cousin? He was your entree to English society,” Derrick said as he slowly slipped the coat from his shoulders. Come closer, Bourdin...come closer.
Bourdin sneered. “The pompous fool was displeased with my enterprise. The pistols, Jamison, the pistols,” he purred, pointing to the brace of stubby Clark pistols in Derrick's sash.
“You seem to have made a life's work of unsuccessful attempts to kill me. I'd scarce call such enterprise,” Derrick said as he dropped one pistol onto the carpet.
“Ah, but there is more, so much more...involving your bitch of a wife.” When Derrick's eyes flared with anger, the Frenchman could not resist taunting him. “She and your heir will be disposed of quite neatly. In fact, if your sweet sister-in-law has her way, I imagine the American whore will be in Quinn's clutches shortly. Tut,” he scolded, gesturing to the second pistol. “Drop it.”
Quinn at Lynden Hall! Derrick struggled to remain calm as thoughts of Beth and their child in danger set his heart pounding. With the greatcoat still hanging from his left hand, the Englishman tossed the second pistol on the floor as he said, “Bella could scarce mastermind a scheme to rid herself of Beth, no matter how much she may hate my wife.”
“Ah, but your dear cousin Bertie could. He is really quite clever, you know, a veritable chameleon. When he becomes the earl—”
“His dear Bella will become a countess once again.” It was all coming horribly clear to Derrick.
“Twas very cooperative of you to banish your wife and return to London.” Bourdin stepped closer to stage the exchange Derrick would appear to have had with d'Artois. “Now I have the pleasure of killing—”
When Bourdin's hand tensed on the pistol, Derrick flung his greatcoat at the Frenchman's arm. The heavy garment threw off his aim and the shot grazed Derrick's jacket sleeve as he sprang forward, knocking Bourdin back. He tripped over d'Artois's body and tumbled to the floor. Derrick was on him, the knife from his boot now in his hand. The Frenchman had dropped his weapon when he hit the floor, but as they rolled across the carpet, struggling over the dagger in the Englishman's hand, Bourdin groped frantically to recover one of Derrick's pistols.
Derrick was still weakened by his long ordeal, but sheer terror for Beth lent him superhuman strength as they fought. From the corner of his eye he saw the pistol in Bourdin's hand. He lowered his head, butting it hard into his foe's face. Derrick's grip on the dagger never wavered as he slashed the blade directly across the Frenchman's throat.
Bourdin made a horrible gurgling noise, then dropped the pistol to the carpet. The sound of the shot and ensuing struggle had brought the Frenchman's thug on the run, but it also brought Derrick's man pounding up the front steps. Seizing the pistol from the carpet, Derrick rolled onto his back and aimed at the figure in the doorway, firing a split second before the false butler was able to shoot him.
A second shot hit the man from the other side of the door an instant later. Then the Bow Street Runner came rushing into the room. “Are you all right, yer lordship?”
“He didn't hurt me,” Derrick replied tersely as he scrambled to his feet and quickly retrieved his pistols and coat. “Summon the authorities and then remain here to explain what happened. Bourdin killed the count. He planned to kill me and make it appear as if we'd shot each other. That fellow dressed in butler's clothes is one of his hired ruffians,” he explained as he headed for the door. “I'm going after my cousin—Bertie Jamison is behind this whole thing!”
When he reached Bertie's house no one answered his frantic pounding on the door. If Bertie had seen him racing up the steps, he would try to flee after instructing the servants not to answer the door, Derrick reasoned. He would take great delight in choking the life from his dear deadly cousin—once he learned from the bastard just what Quinn's plans were for Beth. Perhaps it was not too late to call off the corsair before harm came to her.
* * * *
“She is such a love,” Martha Rumsford said, smiling down at the infant nursing at Beth's breast. The cook placed a tray beside the chair where the new mother and child sat, instructing Beth sternly, “Now you eat every bite. I've made all yer favorites. You got to keep up yer strength to feed the little dumpling.”
The “littl
e dumpling” made a cooing noise and fell fast asleep. Beth smiled down at her child, feeling a wave of love well up so strongly that it brought tears to her eyes. Now she understood what her mother had tried to explain to her about having children. If only she and Derrick could have a relationship as loving as her parents did.
But that was not to be. She prayed he was safe. Mr. Harris had ridden pell-mell for London to warn Derrick about Bertie and Annabella's perfidy and to explain the tragedy that had occurred here. She stroked the child's soft cap of dark hair, thinking of all the additional scandal and disgrace her involvement in a murder suicide would bring.
Poor Bertie had been so deranged when he saw that his beloved Annabella was dead, he'd fired the second shot from his Manton and ended his life. They had been buried together quietly in the family plot.
When Beth had explained to the local sheriff what had transpired, she knew he did not believe her. Who would take the word of a notorious American adventuress, even if she was a countess? The village officials only waited for the return of the earl before they dared to charge her with her sister-in-law's murder. If not for her child, Beth would not have given a fig for her own life. It stretched so bleakly before her...without Derrick.
Suddenly, she heard the sound of footfalls and excited voices raised outside the door of the master bedroom. Then the door swung open and he strode into the room, a fierce, unreadable expression on his face.
“Hello, Derrick,” she. said softly, clutching the babe close to her breast.
Chapter Twenty-seven
“Hello, Beth,” he replied, struggling to stay on his feet. On the punishing ride to the Hall, he had used up every ounce of his strength. He felt light-headed as he studied her. She looked positively radiant. That wretched spaniel sat on the bed beside her, as proud as if he were the new father. “I understand I have a daughter,” he said, looking down at the infant in her arms, ignoring the dog.
“Tis not the heir you sought. I know how much you wanted a son.” Her voice sounded unnaturally tight and high to her ears.
“We could always have a son, puss.” We could...if I did not have to let you go. “The important thing is that you are unharmed and our daughter is safely delivered after all that's happened. Have you named her?”
He did not even care enough about a daughter to select a name. “If you wish, we can name her for your own mother,” she said stiffly.
“No,” he replied more sharply than he intended. “That is, I believe you have the right to choose her name. Have you?”
She looked down at the sleeping infant. “Vittoria Ma-delyne...if that is agreeable to you?” she said uncertainly.
Derrick smiled a bit sadly, nodding. “Vittoria Madelyne it is, puss.”
She could have been killed because of him and his bloody title. He stepped closer to the bed, fighting the urge to take her in his arms, knowing that it would only make what he had to do more difficult. Beth was loyal. She had pledged her troth to him and she had struggled in a hostile and alien world to make the best of her bargain—in spite of his neglect. He'd gone out to save the world and his family's honor and almost cost his wife and child their lives. But as usual, his resourceful American had managed to save herself.
“Beth, there is much we have to discuss—”
“Have the servants explained about Bertie and Anna-bella—that the sheriff wishes to speak to you? He believes I was responsible for what happened,” she said, struggling to keep her voice steady. He looked oddly pale,and perspiration dampened his brow in spite of the coolness of the day.
“The sheriff is a fool. I'll deal with him,” he said dis-missively, trying to focus on what he had to say, but the room kept spinning as he attempted to gather his thoughts. How many days had it been since he'd slept? “Beth...”
“Derrick!” she cried as his eyelids fluttered down and he started to fall. Still holding the baby in one arm, she reached out to him with the other, pulling him onto the bed before he crashed to the floor.
In a moment, she had half a dozen servants racing into the room. Ever since her brush with death at the hands of Bertie and the former countess, Beth found everyone hovering about her protectively. “Put him in this bed,” she said, sliding from the opposite side as two burly footmen did her bidding. She could sleep in the adjoining room...for the short amount of time she would be here.
Handing Donita the sleeping baby, Beth began undressing Derrick, horrified to see how thin he'd become since last fall. Then she saw the shiny pink of newly healed scar tissue on his chest, abdomen and arm. Dear God, he could have died of infection from injuries such as these! Bertie must have hired other assassins besides Bourdin.
Looking down at Derrick's haggard face and newly healing injuries, she could not be sorry she had accidentally killed Annabella, nor that Bertie had decided to kill himself. With them both dead, her husband and child were safe.
Beth caressed his brow, brushing back that lock of black hair that always fell over it. He was pale and sweating, utterly exhausted from the long ride. Had he learned about Bertie and Annabella before she did? Was that why he had exhausted himself, riding from London?
“Always duty, my love,” she murmured sadly as she finished stripping him with the aid of one of the footmen. Then she called for lots of warm water and soap. He was filthy, as if he'd not taken time to bathe in a week. Perhaps it was foolish not to have one of the male servants do it. She was letting herself in for even more pain. One last time, Beth would touch his body, caress it as she ministered to him.
You're not the only one who's a slave to duty, she thought ironically as the soapy cloth glided across his chest.
* * * *
Beth sat at the credenza in the small suite of rooms adjoining the master bedroom. With Derrick tossing and turning next door, she'd gotten little rest. The family physician who was supposed to deliver Vittoria had been summoned from Carlisle to examine Derrick. Her husband was more in need of his services than she had been.
Placing the pen aside, she allowed herself a bit of a smile, remembering how Donita had guided her through the birth. By the time Dr. Fielding had arrived, she had been sitting up in a chair feeding her newborn daughter. The pompous old man had almost scolded her for daring to bring the child into the world before he was present.
This time he clucked over Derrick's injuries but assured Beth that they were healing nicely. Derrick only required several days of rest and nourishing food to restore him to health. The physician insisted on putting a sleeping potion into the herbal tea Martha had prepared and stood sternly over Derrick as he, unaware, drank it down.
The impetuous young earl should not have risked his health on such an arduous ride, Dr. Fielding sternly told Beth. He had heard all the gossip about her and the deaths at Lynden Hall and seemed to imply that everything was her fault, even if he did not say so directly. She knew everyone from Carlisle to London blamed her. Derrick would have no difficulty at all securing a divorce.
Beth returned her attention to the letter she was composing for Derrick. By the time he awakened and read it, she would be gone,taking Vittoria with her. He would have more children. She would not give up her daughter.
As if understanding her struggle, Percy sat at her side, his brown eyes sorrowful as he looked up at her. She finished the letter and signed her name, then laid her head down on the desk for a moment.
By twilight everything was ready for their departure. The only one who knew her plans was Donita, who had pleaded to go with her. But the little maid was desperately homesick and Beth knew it would be far kinder to send her back to her family in Naples. With only Percy for company, she and her daughter would sail for America.
All the stable men had gone to the kitchens for their evening meal when she slipped into the musty barn where the rigs were kept, leading two of the steadiest of the carriage horses. Seated in a pile of straw nearby, Percy guarded the sleeping baby, watching Beth as she hitched up the team.
* * * *
Derrick was awakened from his drugged slumber by a very hesitant valet, who informed him that the sheriff had just arrived from Carlisle and was waiting downstairs. “He says it is a matter of great importance, m'lord,” Conway said apologetically as Derrick struggled to sit up on the edge of the bed, trying to clear his fogged brain.
“I feel as if I’ve been drugged,” he muttered half to himself. “How long have I slept?”
“Since you arrived, m’lord. A bit over four and twenty hours,” Conway replied as he assisted his master in dressing.
Derrick stopped midway in sliding his good arm into a shirtsleeve and narrowed his eyes at the valet. “Damn, I was drugged! Twas that idiot Fielding and his accursed possets.”
“I'm sure I wouldn't know, m'lord. Her ladyship did say you needed your rest...but the sheriff—”
“Another damned idiot,” Derrick snarled as he fastened his shirt while Conway brought him a pair of breeches.
His mouth felt as if he'd chewed through the stable floorboards and an itchy growth of beard gave his face a piratical cast when he walked into the library to greet Sheriff Bosley. Although he was not in the mood to deal with the officious ass, the sooner he set the fellow straight, the sooner the fool would cease harassing Beth. “I understand you have something urgent to tell me, Sheriff,” Derrick said brusquely as the man struggled out of the side chair in which he had made himself comfortable.
The sheriff was a short, squat man of sixty years with a pale doughy face that tended to redden whenever he exerted himself. Since he weighed over fifteen stone, just standing up required significant exertion. “Yes, m'lord, I do.” Bosley harrumphed as he produced two thick bundles of envelopes.
“These are for you and her ladyship, m'lord...” Bosley handed the papers to Derrick. His voice trailed off in nervous silence before he cleared his throat and continued, “One of the village lads who worked at Wharton Hall brought the whole of them to me after learning of the baron's death...and that of Lady Annabella. It seemed the baron had bribed the post rider to turn over all correspondence coming into and going out of Lynden Hall so that he could inspect it before it was forwarded. These were held back.”
