by Clee, Adele
“Please, Victor,” Marie cried, “is all this necessary?” She walked over to him and placed her hand on his arm. “Take the necklace, but let Miss Beaufort go home. I will come away with you,” she pleaded as she caressed his arms. “We could go to Jamaica.” She touched his cheek.
Dampierre pushed her away and she tumbled backwards, hitting her head on the floor. “My sons cannot be born to a whore.”
Sophie held her breath, waiting for a sign that Marie was not hurt. Even Morgan stood up straight and took a few hesitant steps towards the limp body.
“Get up, Marie,” Dampierre shouted. When she moved her arms he repeated his instruction as if she were a child merely seeking attention.
Morgan walked over to one of the other chairs and brought it into the middle of the room. He strode over to Marie, placed his hands under her arms, lifted her off the floor and dumped her onto the chair.
“Do you see what I must endure, Miss Beaufort,” Dampierre said with a languid flick of the wrist. “Such weakness, such whining and whimpering after a gentleman, it is … degrading.” He walked over to Sophie, ran his finger slowly down her cheek and across her bottom lip. “How is one supposed to feel like a man when it is all offered so … so freely?”
As Dampierre stepped away, Sophie glanced across at Marie, who appeared to have recovered from her injury. Marie looked up at her, held her gaze and silently mouthed, “I’m sorry.”
“No,” Dampierre continued as he paced the floor, his hands clasped behind his back. “It is the fire burning deep within that I find so … so alluring.”
In this meditative mood, Dampierre appeared far more egotistical. Yet his movements, his manner, his words felt contrived and calculated, as though driven by some strange deep-rooted obsession. It went beyond a simple carnal craving or a depraved appetite. It had something to do with proving his worth as a man. But could she use it against him, Sophie wondered? Could she weaken his position enough for him to make a mistake? It was worth a try. Perhaps he had been repressed or intimidated by a woman. Perhaps that’s where his hunger for power and control came from.
“I have decided to call you Victor,” Sophie said firmly, surprising everyone in the room for she had said very little until now. “You will have no objection?” It was both a question and a statement depending upon how one perceived it.
“No, no objection,” he replied, albeit somewhat hesitant as he considered her request. “We are to be married, after all.”
She heard the apprehension in his tone, noticed he used the word marriage in order to intimidate. “Well, as to that, Victor,” Sophie replied arrogantly. “I have decided not to accept.”
Dampierre sniggered and was about to offer what she suspected would be a peremptory reply.
“I do not want to hear what you have to say on the matter,” Sophie continued, raising her chin. “Your opinion is not important, not to me, not to anyone.”
The Comte de Dampierre stood in the middle of the room, his mouth slightly open as he stared at her. “We will be married,” he repeated, anger brimming beneath the surface.
Sophie glanced at Marie, who was watching her intently, before focusing her attention directly at Dampierre. “How can you say that when you know your lineage is lacking. Who was your mother?” Sophie was guessing this was the root cause of his vile obsession. When he did not answer, she raised her voice. “Well, who was she?”
He appeared visibly shaken and then stuttered and stumbled over his words. “My father was a gentleman. He was the son of —”
“I did not ask about your father.”
Just when Sophie thought she was making some progress in unsettling the comte, someone banged loudly on the iron door. Dampierre froze and when it became apparent the person was not about to leave, he gestured for his man to deal with it.
“If you call out, Miss Beaufort,” Dampierre warned, regaining his vitality, “I shall be forced to hurt Marie.”
But Sophie did not have the opportunity to do anything, for the person barged into the warehouse determined to cause a scene. It was not until Morgan retreated further into the room, that Sophie identified the caller as being Lord Delmont, brandishing a pistol.
“Forgive me for intruding on this little party,” Delmont said, examining his surroundings with a look of disdain. “But as you went to so much trouble to spoil mine, I thought it only fair.”
Delmont glanced in Sophie’s direction but did not reveal any identifiable emotion. He appeared taller than she remembered, his golden hair much darker, and he looked vastly more sinister in such crude surroundings.
“What do you want?” Dampierre asked, his words cutting through the air like a knife.
“Has anyone ever told you it is preferable to invite more ladies to a party than gentlemen?” Delmont replied giving Dampierre a smug grin. He pushed his free hand through his golden locks. “The numbers have been evened somewhat, as the two men you posted outside have decided to take a swim. Still, I believe I stand a better chance with these ladies than you two miscreants.”
Sophie sat in stupefied silence, wondering what on earth Lord Delmont was up to. Why had he raised his voice when they were all just a few feet away? She noticed Dampierre glance back over his shoulder, to the walking cane he’d left on top of a crate.
“You have your marker,” Dampierre said with contempt. “You will get nothing more from me.”
Delmont laughed. “I would agree, if the marker was authentic.”
So his only reason for following them, his only reason for storming into the warehouse and waving his pistol about, was money. And when satisfied, was he just going to walk right out again and leave her tied to the chair?
Dampierre took a step towards Delmont. “Are you questioning my honour?”
“I am,” Delmont nodded confidently, pointing his pistol a little straighter. “And as I appear to be the only man who is armed,” he boomed as if to exaggerate his point. “I do not suppose there is much you can do about it.”
There was a faint rustling sound in the far corner of the room. Dampierre heard it too and narrowed his gaze, peering beyond Lord Delmont’s shoulder.
Sophie noticed the flicker of a shadow and watched helplessly as Delmont lost focus and made the foolish mistake of turning to look. Sensing it was his prime opportunity to alter the turn of events, Dampierre lunged forward and knocked the pistol from Delmont’s hand. Morgan hurled himself at Delmont, grabbing him around the neck, pulling him to the floor and pounding him with his fists until he was practically unconscious.
“No,” Sophie yelled. Not because she gave a hoot what happened to Lord Delmont, but because it meant Dampierre would have a weapon and another means with which to threaten.
Like a man possessed, Dane charged out of the darkness in an attempt to reach the pistol before Dampierre could get his hands on it. But he was too late. And, once again, they found themselves in the precarious hands of the Comte de Dampierre.
“You will stay where you are,” Dampierre shouted, his arm shaking from exertion as he pointed the pistol at Dane. When Dane ignored his threat and took another step forward, Dampierre switched direction and aimed at Sophie’s head.
Her heart skipped a beat, but she did not believe Dampierre would pull the trigger. Somewhere in his warped mind he believed he needed her, else why would he have gone to so much trouble. Dane, on the other hand, must have believed him capable of carrying out his threat and so stared at her, his face ashen, his eyes wide and fearful.
Sophie’s throat grew tight, her vision blurring as tears welled. Perhaps it was because of Dane’s tortured expression, or Marie’s look of guilt and remorse, or Delmont’s body lying battered and beaten on the floor. Whatever the reason, tears trickled down her cheeks and she shook her head in an attempt to make them stop.
“Sophie,” Dane whispered, but that one word sounded like a heart-wrenching apology.
Dampierre flicked his gaze towards her. “Stop it,” he yelled. His eyes conveyed
contradicting emotions: fury and fragility. Anger was the only emotion Dampierre understood or had the capacity to cope with.
The more tears that fell, the more volatile Dampierre became. At one point he stepped closer, grabbed Sophie by the arm, the pistol wavering between her heart and her head.
“Don’t,” Dane pleaded, his handsome face etched with pain.
“Shut up,” Dampierre cried, turning the pistol towards him. “Perhaps if I shoot you, then we can continue as before. It would not take much to finish Lord Delmont,” he said gazing down at the large body slumped on the floor.
As the tension in the air grew more palpable, Marie jumped to her feet. “What has happened to you, Victor? You must stop all of this,” she said wearily. “For goodness sake, listen to what you are saying. You can’t just kill them.”
Dampierre aimed the pistol at Marie. “No? Then perhaps I should shoot you, Marie. You think you have fooled me with your protestations of loyalty. But you are the traitor here and now you have tainted Miss Beaufort with your sobs and your snivels.”
Sophie noticed Morgan edge closer to Marie and she shouted out, “Please, sit down, Marie,” in the hope of warning her. Morgan looked like a man who would beat a woman as easily as he had Lord Delmont.
Ignoring Sophie’s plea, Marie cried, “I cannot take any more of this.” She opened her arms wide, providing the perfect target. “Shoot me, Victor. Shoot me, for I swear to you if I leave here, you will never set eyes on me again. Now, I am going to release Miss Beaufort —”
A loud crack resonated through the air as the Comte de Dampierre fired the pistol. Sophie screamed. Unable to cover her face with her hands, she closed her eyes as she could not bear to look into the cold, lifeless eyes of her friend, Marie.
In that second of silence, as the acrid smell of burnt sulphur invaded the room, Sophie promised herself she would see Dampierre hang for what he’d done.
“Morgan!” Marie screamed and Sophie opened her eyes to see Dampierre’s man lying on the floor, blood gushing from a wound to the chest as he gasped his last few breaths. Marie was scrambling to her feet and Sophie guessed that Morgan must have pushed her out of harm’s way. Marie sank back down to the floor by Morgan’s side and stroked his brow and cursed him for being so stupid, telling him to hold on and everything would be fine.
Dane used the distraction to attack Dampierre.
Tackling him to the ground, they fought and struggled as Dampierre threw away the now useless pistol, in a bid to reach his cane. For what seemed like an eternity, they wrestled on the floor, with Dampierre showing surprising resilience when Dane punched him in the face and stomach. In desperation, Dampierre kicked out, sending Dane flying backwards. As Dane reached into his boot and pulled out his hunting knife, Dampierre managed to get to his feet. He grabbed his cane, ripped the sword from its sheath and Sophie barely had time to blink before the sharp point was at her throat.
“Slide the knife across the floor to me,” Dampierre cried amidst breathless pants. “Do it now or I will kill her.”
Without any hesitation, Dane did as he asked, but the knife slid past Dampierre, who was not in any position to attempt to retrieve it.
“If you harm a hair on her head, I will kill you,” Dane warned, but the threat only roused Dampierre’s ire.
“What is she to you?” he asked with some irritation. “That you would risk your life in such a manner.” He lowered the sword so the point fell just above Sophie’s breast, just above her heart. “Tell me,” he yelled, pricking Sophie’s skin with the tip of the blade.
She refused to cry out, even when she looked down to see the small drop of blood escaping.
“She is everything to me,” Dane replied abruptly, gradually coming to his feet.
Dampierre gave a condescending snort. “And does Miss Beaufort know you frequent my establishment? Does she know you’ve been intimate with Antoinette?” He spat on the floor by way of an insult. “You dishonour her with your filthy words, for it is you who has allowed her to parade around so disgracefully, you who has sullied yourself and now think to sully her by association.”
From the floor behind him, Marie looked up from Morgan’s dead body. Patches of blood as dark as claret stained the front of her dress, her hands and her cheek. “Hypocrite,” she shouted. “It is you who defile everything you touch. You who vilify …”
In a fit of rage, Dampierre turned slightly but became distracted when Delmont, who had rolled onto his side, began to moan, cough and splutter.
“Shut up,” Dampierre cried, getting more and more agitated as his gaze flew from Lord Delmont to Dane and then to Sophie.
“Murderer,” Marie yelled. “Murderer.”
“Shut up,” he spat, hitting his head with his free hand. His countenance suddenly improved when he whipped the tip of his sword to rest on Dane’s heart. “If I kill you then I shall be free to leave here with Miss Beaufort.”
“Don’t,” Sophie cried. “I promise you … I shall leave with you, just don’t …”
The Comte de Dampierre stared at her for a moment as he considered her words. “You care for him,” he said bluntly. “Therefore, I cannot let him live.”
Dampierre pulled his arm back slowly, ready to thrust the sword into Dane’s chest. Marie ran to him and began tugging at his arm but Dampierre batted her away and she fell to the floor behind him.
As Dampierre pulled his arm back once more, Marie got to her feet and charged at him, growling as she hit him in the back.
Everything went strangely silent for a few seconds.
Sophie looked at Dampierre, who stood frozen to the spot, staring out into nothingness — then he coughed, a gurgling sort of sound as blood bubbled and frothed from his mouth. The sword fell from his hand and clattered on the floor. As he sank to his knees, Sophie had a clear view of Marie, standing with wide eyes, the knife in her hand smudged with Dampierre’s blood.
When Dampierre collapsed to the floor and finally stopped heaving and spluttering, Marie whispered, “We are free.”
Chapter 28
Having untied the ropes binding Sophie’s hands, Sebastian took her in his arms and kissed her repeatedly on the temple. He stepped back and scanned every inch of her, checking for cuts and bruises, pushing away the tendrils of hair from her face.
He stopped and examined the ebony curls, his brow raised in curiosity. “What happened to your wig?” he asked as he caressed her cheek.
“I lost it,” Sophie replied, placing her hand on top of his. “Morgan knocked it off … well, pulled it off, when I tried to escape.”
He forced a smile, brought her hand to his lips and kissed her fingers by way of a distraction. He did not want to think about what had happened to her during the last few hours, what could have happened to her.
“I need to alert a constable,” he said with some trepidation. “Haines will take you and Madame Labelle home while I stay here and deal with this.”
He looked over his shoulder and gestured to the two bodies sprawled out on the floor. Morgan was lying face up; his vacant eyes open as he stared at the ceiling, his chest an island of deep-red blood amidst a sea of clothes. Dampierre lay face down, his head resting on his arm as though sleeping.
“I’ll stay with you,” Sophie insisted. “I can explain what happened, I can tell them —”
“No,” Sebastian snapped. He took a deep breath and then softened his tone. “I need you to escort Madame Labelle home.”
“Her name is Marie. Somehow, I don’t think she’ll ever be Madame Labelle again.”
Sebastian glanced back at Marie, who was sitting in the chair, her bloodied hands resting in her lap, her face pale and listless.
“Haines will take you to Labelles. I want you to help Marie pack some things. Do you feel able?”
“Yes,” she whispered. “I’ll do anything to help.”
He placed his hands on Sophie’s bare shoulders, dismissing the urge to trail his fingers over the smooth, creamy-white skin,
dismissing the urge to stroke and caress her worries away. “Marie must not say anything about what has happened to Dampierre or Morgan.”
Sophie looked soulfully at Marie. “What will happen to her?” she whispered. “You cannot let her hang for this, Dane.”
He thought for a moment. “She has suffered enough at the hands of Dampierre,” he said. “But if I am to lie for her, then I need to know she will not contradict my story.”
“But how will you explain all of this?” Sophie asked nodding to the dead men, an anxious frown marring her brow.
“I will have to make it look as though Morgan stabbed Dampierre and before he fell, Dampierre shot him in retaliation,” he explained and then added with some confidence, “Lord Delmont will corroborate the story. No one will question the word of two peers.”
Sophie glanced at Lord Delmont who had managed to sit upright, albeit with a groan. “You should go to him,” she urged. “He’s in a bad way.”
“Wait here,” Sebastian said as he turned and left the warehouse. He used the bird call to alert Haines and when the carriage rumbled into view he returned to Sophie. “Haines will take you now.” He bent down and brushed his lips against hers. “Be as quick as you can at Labelles and then return to Red Lion Square.”
Sophie pursed her lips and nodded. He watched her walk over to Marie, rubbing the red marks on her wrists where the rope had dug in. “Come, let me take you home,” she said putting her arm around Marie and lifting her up from the chair.
Marie made no comment and simply allowed Sophie to escort her from the building.
Sebastian stepped over Dampierre’s lifeless body and knelt down next to Delmont. His right eye had swelled to twice its normal size; he had a split lip and a deep graze on his forehead.
“Delmont,” Sebastian said softly, placing his hand on the man’s arm. “Do you feel well enough to stand?”
