October Revenge

by Farmer, Merry

  He nodded slowly. They continued to sit there, as if saying a final prayer over the lifeless form of the man who had taken so much from so many. Angelica didn’t know if it was right. Prayers for the soul of men as evil as Lord Shayles were useless, as far as she could figure. So she closed her eyes and said her prayer for her husband. She prayed his nightmare was finally over and the life he had always deserved to live could go on.

  They sat in silence for several more seconds before a splash drew Angelica’s attention. She lifted her head and turned to the pond only to find Christopher up to his calves in the water. He used a stick to reach for something floating several yards from the edge of the pond. A moment later, she realized what it was.

  “The painting,” she gasped, rising to her knees to watch Christopher.

  Mark straightened and turned to watch as well, though Angelica sensed he didn’t have the strength to leap up and investigate.

  Christopher hooked the edge of the sodden canvas with his stick and pulled the painting close enough to grasp it. As soon as he did, he lifted it, dripping, out of the pond and carried it to the grass.

  “It’s soaked through,” he said as he walked toward Angelica and Mark. “I don’t know anything about paintings. Can it be saved?”

  “Possibly,” Mark said, his voice quiet yet purposeful. “It must be dried slowly to avoid cracking or bubbling. With attention, it may survive.”

  Angelica couldn’t help but smile. “It will survive,” she whispered, hugging his arm. “I’ll make certain it does.”

  Mark turned to her, a look of utter exhaustion in his eyes. But in spite of it all, he smiled. It was a tiny smile, a weary one, but it caused Angelica’s breath to catch and her heart to speed up. It was the first genuine smile she’d ever had from him. It lit his whole face and made him seem warm and human.

  Angelica’s burst of joy was short-lived. “You’re injured,” she said, picking at the shredded fabric of his shirt. “He hurt you.”

  Mark shook his head as he glanced down at his chest. “They’re just flesh wounds. They’ll heal in time.”

  “You need to see a doctor,” Angelica insisted, helping him to his feet. They took a few steps away from Lord Shayles’s corpse, but Mark stopped her with a shake of his head before they got far.

  He sat in a sunny patch of grass with her, then lay on his back with a wince. “I just need to rest for a moment,” he said, closing his eyes. “Or perhaps more than a moment.”

  Angelica frowned. She had a better view of his wounds with him lying flat, but she still didn’t like what she saw. She picked carefully at his ruined shirt until she was able to remove it entirely, then she tore another strip of her petticoat to dab at the dozens of slices on his chest. She hated every single one of them, but she had to admit that he was right, none were particularly bad, and in spite of the frightening sight of his shirt soaked with blood, most had already stopped bleeding. The slashes across his left cheek were the worst of the lot, and he would likely bear light scars for the rest of his life.

  In a strange way, it seemed only right that Mark would finally have outward scars to show for the myriad of internal wounds that had been inflicted on him over the years.

  “Are you certain we can’t take you to a doctor?” Angelica asked softly, leaving his wounds to brush her fingers through his hair.

  “No.” He shook his head, relaxing deeper into the sun-warmed grass. “I’m all right.” He let out a breath. “I’m better than all right.”

  “Are you sure?” Angelica asked. “Because that’s a lot of blood for someone who is all right.”

  He shook his head and smiled up at the sun. “They’re cuts, that’s all. They’ll heal.” He paused, then let out a deep sigh. “They’ll heal.”

  Chapter 20

  The morning sun continued to smile down on them, a breeze kicked up, and a relieved silence settled over Ravencrest Hall. Nobody spoke for a long time. Angelica didn’t know what to do. It didn’t seem right to disturb Mark from the rest he had earned. He seemed perfectly content to lie in the grass shirtless, smiling up at the sky, in spite of his wounds. In fact, Angelica was fairly certain he’d fallen asleep. She didn’t have the heart to wake him.

  Christopher had spent a few moments glancing awkwardly from Angelica and Mark to Lord Shayles’s body, chewing his lip in uncertainty, his brow knit in thought. He’d finally turned and walked away, back up to the house. Angelica didn’t question where he was going or what he planned to do once he got there.

  She was left sitting where she was, a sleeping man and a dead one for company. She drew her knees up, resting her elbows against them, her chin propped in her hands, contemplating Lord Shayles’s waste of a life. And it was a waste, she was certain. She knew so little about him, but seeing the impact he’d had on Mark and on the lives of others had taught her everything she needed to know. She’d seen enough evil, greedy, licentious men in New Orleans to know his type. The world was better off without some people.

  And yet, it was a tragedy all the same, and she wept silently over it. Lord Shayles had obviously been intelligent. She’d walked through his house and seen how much wealth he’d once had. He’d been born with a title and every advantage life could have given him, and yet he’d squandered it all. He’d used his gifts to hurt others and indulge his wickedness. Angelica wept for that the same way she would have wept if she’d been present the day he’d thrown the kittens into the river at Blackmoor Close. It had all been such a wretched waste of life.

  She closed her eyes and rested her head against her hands for a time, just breathing, no more energy left for the past. The future was ahead of them, and that was where she wanted to live.

  Some time later—she wasn’t certain how long—she was stirred from her thoughts by footsteps in the grass. Christopher had returned from the house with a large piece of muslin, like the ones draped over the unused furniture in Ravencrest Hall. Silently and with more respect than Angelica was sure the man deserved, he covered Lord Shayles’s body. When he was finished, he came to sit beside her.

  “We should probably call the authorities and have him moved to the appropriate place,” he said.

  “Probably,” Angelica agreed. She didn’t have the will to act on those words, though, and Christopher didn’t seem to either.

  “Det. Craig is most likely on his way,” he said in a thoughtful voice. “I’m not inclined to do anything until he gets here.”

  “How long does it take to travel from London to Dorset?” Angelica asked.

  “Hours.” Christopher shrugged. “And that’s assuming he received my telegram right away.”

  “But you’re certain he’ll come?” Angelica asked.

  “I am.” Christopher nodded. They were silent for several more minutes before he took a deep breath and let it out with a sound that was somewhere between a laugh and a sigh. “It’s the end of an era,” he said. “Shayles and his lot have plagued so many of us for so long. Not to mention he was the center of a cabal of peers who stood in opposition to the bill we’ve all been trying to pass to extend the rights of women.”

  Angelica’s brow went up. “Lavinia told me about your bill. Do you think it will be able to pass now that Lord Shayles is dead?”

  Christopher shrugged. “It might. Parliament returns to Westminster this winter, and although there are many things on the Prime Minister’s plate, I foresee that the bill we’ve been working on might finally come up for a vote next year.”

  “That’s wonderful,” Angelica said, her heart feeling lighter still.

  “I hadn’t thought of that,” Mark said in a groggy voice, sitting with a wince. Angelica was surprised he was awake and twisted to help him sit, fussing over him far more than she was sure he’d like. His lacerated chest had scabbed over, but she could tell he was still in pain. All the same, he went on with, “Everything will change now.”

  “For the better,” Christopher agreed, smiling at Mark.

  A flutter spread through An
gelica’s gut. Christopher’s smile was warm and genuine, and while Angelica still didn’t know the whole story of how many men had rejected Mark over the years, how many friends he could have had but didn’t, she was filled with the absolute certainty that the terrifying events of the day had opened the door for Christopher to become exactly the sort of friend Mark would need going forward. After all, Sir Christopher Dowland was as different from Lord Shayles as it was possible to be.

  At last, they decided something needed to be done with Lord Shayles’s body. It was a grim task, but between the three of them, they managed to fully wrap the corpse in muslin and carry it back to the house. Angelica was fairly certain she had more strength left in her than Mark, but he and Christopher both insisted she shouldn’t have any part in carrying it. She gathered up Lord Shayles’s bloody knife and Mark’s painting instead. They made a macabre procession as they returned to the house and laid Lord Shayles’s body on a settee in the parlor closest to the front door.

  From there, Angelica and Mark ventured down to the servant’s hall, where Angelica was able to clean Mark’s cuts as best she could and dress them with the supplies they found in the housekeeper’s room. Mark was even able to find a plain, white shirt amongst unused items of livery. He looked almost presentable by the time they returned upstairs to join Christopher in the long, painful wait.

  It seemed like an eternity before the sound of wheels crunched on the gravel outside Ravencrest Hall and a knock sounded on the front door. They’d left the door open—it had felt as though the house itself needed to breathe fresh air now that its master was dead—and within moments a male voice with a Scottish accent called out, “Hello?”

  “In here,” Christopher answered, leaping to his feet from where he’d been sitting on a muslin-covered chair beside the settee where Lord Shayles lay.

  Mark rose as well, his expression flashing to astonishment, and Angelica stood with him. A moment later, two men marched into the room. One appeared to be in his thirties, with dark hair and sharp eyes and the kind of plain and serviceable suit Angelica imagined a Scotland Yard inspector would wear. The other was older, with grey hair, a fine suit, and an irascible expression.

  “Where is the bastard,” the older one growled. “Are you certain he’s dead?”

  He stopped short at the sight of the muslin-swathed body on the settee, then strode across the room with a determined look and peeled back the muslin from Lord Shayles’s head. His eyes widened for a moment before narrowing as he stood straight. He threw the muslin back over Lord Shayles’s face.

  “Got what you deserved at last, did you?” he said in a voice that was almost disappointed.

  “I’m sorry you didn’t get the chance to land the killing blow,” Mark said.

  The Scottish man whipped to face him, suspicion and dislike pinching his face. “Gatwick,” he greeted Mark.

  “Lord Malcolm,” Mark returned the greeting, bowing respectfully.

  Lord Malcolm continued to regard Mark with distaste. “How did it happen?”

  Mark opened his mouth to answer, but ended up closing it and turning to Angelica.

  “I believe he accidentally punctured his own thigh with the knife he was wielding when I crashed into him,” she said.

  Lord Malcolm’s brow rose, but it was the other man, the one who had to be Det. Craig, who stepped in to ask, “Was there an altercation?”

  “Yes,” Angelica told him. “Lord Shayles had my husband at knife-point. He had already wounded Mark badly. I lunged at him in an attempt to get him to stop.”

  “You lunged at him?” Lord Malcolm asked. “Who are you?”

  “Lord Malcolm Campbell, Det. Jack Craig, may I introduce my wife, Lady Angelica Gatwick.” Mark made the introduction as though they were meeting at a palace ball instead of under grim circumstances.

  Lord Malcolm seemed shocked as he glanced from Mark to Angelica. “I’d heard you married, but I thought it was just a rumor. I didn’t think any woman would be….” He pressed his mouth shut.

  Angelica arched a brow at him and crossed her arms, daring the arrogant Scotsman to finish his sentence. Fortunately, he didn’t seem particularly inclined to.

  “And you say there was a confrontation?” Det. Craig asked her, turning to face her in such a way that Lord Malcolm was subtly excluded from the interaction.

  “Yes,” Mark answered. “It is a complicated story, but early this morning, I came to Ravencrest Hall with the intention of confronting Shayles about his past treachery.”

  The entire story was repeated for Det. Craig, including the summons Lord Shayles had issued for Mark to meet him at Newgate Prison and the roll that the painting had played in the whole ordeal. Angelica added her bit where needed in order to give the detective as full a picture as she could. Det. Craig remained stoic throughout the entire explanation, causing Angelica to worry that Mark might actually end up in serious trouble because of Lord Shayles’s death.

  “It wasn’t Mark’s fault,” she burst as they reached the end of the story. “Lord Shayles intended to murder him. If anyone is to face charges for his death, it should be me.”

  “No,” Mark said, holding up a hand as if to stop her from charging off on his behalf. “Lady Gatwick’s name should not be connected with Shayles or his death in any way. If anyone is to face the consequences, it should be me.”

  “It should not,” Angelica argued. “You’ve spent far too much of your life facing consequences that you shouldn’t have had to because of that man. I was grappling with Lord Shayles when the injury occurred, so if anyone is to blame, it truly is me.”

  “I will not let him hurt you, even in death,” Mark said. He turned fully toward her, grasping her arms, a hint of desperation in his eyes. “I swore that I would protect you with everything I have. Let me do that.”

  “Not when you are not to blame.” Angelica rested a hand on the uninjured half of his face. “I love you, Mark, and it would tear me apart if anything more happened to you.”

  A well of emotion overflowed in Mark’s expression. He shifted from holding her back to sliding his arms around her. “You love me? Still? Even after I did this thing?”

  “Of course I do,” she said. “You are brave and bright. You are compassionate and caring. You’re a talented artist and the most wonderful husband I could ever have asked for.”

  “You love me.” He breathed out the words with the same relief that had shone from his face right after Lord Shayles’s death. His arms tightened around her, and he leaned in to kiss her. It was a brief, light kiss, followed by an embrace that somehow meant so much more. He rested his forehead against her head, his weight sagging against hers as he let out a breath she had the feeling he’d been holding since he was a boy.

  A few minutes of silence passed as they stood in each other’s arms before Lord Malcolm said, “I feel as though I’ve missed something.”

  “I believe you have,” Christopher answered immediately, a hint of irritation in his voice. Angelica stepped out of Mark’s arms—though she stayed glued to his side—as Christopher faced Lord Malcolm with a frown and went on. “You and your friends have insisted on seeing Lord Gatwick as the enemy, as Shayles’s ally. But what I have seen today tells an entirely different story. You didn’t see the way he confronted Shayles this morning or the way he defended his wife.” He turned to Det. Craig. “Sir, if there is to be a trial, I wish to testify on behalf of Lord and Lady Gatwick.”

  Lord Malcolm’s mouth dropped open, but it was Det. Craig who spoke.

  “I doubt there will be a trial,” he said. “An investigation, yes. But from what I’ve been able to gather so far, Lord Shayles’s death was clearly the result of a self-inflicted wound.”

  A ripple of tension sizzled through the room.

  “Self-inflicted as part of a struggle,” Angelica said softly.

  Det. Craig shrugged slightly. “Perhaps. Or perhaps Lord Shayles’s madness reached its height and he took his own life. He certainly had reason to
, seeing as his reputation was ruined, his money gone, and this estate is soon to be broken up and sold to pay creditors.”

  “Is it?” Christopher asked, blinking.

  “In fact, it is,” Det. Craig nodded.

  “But…but Lord Shayles’s death wasn’t suicide,” Angelica tried once more to set things straight.

  “Who’s to say it wasn’t?” Det. Craig told her with a particularly firm voice. Before Angelica could make another objection or Mark could add anything, he went on with, “I’ll head back into town to find the local constable and apprise him of the situation. Lord Malcolm, will you accompany me?”

  “I….” Lord Malcolm hesitated, glancing to Mark with a wary look, then to Angelica, and then on to Christopher before giving up whatever thoughts he’d been holding onto with a sigh and saying, “Yes, I suppose I will.”

  As soon as they were gone, Mark wrapped his arms around Angelica once more. Christopher stepped to the mantel, where the painting had been propped to dry, and studied it to give the two of them privacy.

  “It’s over,” Mark said, kissing her forehead before resting his against hers. “At last, I believe it’s truly over.”

  “And you’re all right with Lord Shayles’s death officially being suicide?” she asked.

  His face pinched for a moment. “I’m certain the truth will always weigh on my conscience, but it is a small price to pay to have the matter closed, once and for all.”

  Angelica burst into a smile and hugged him. At least until he winced and made a small, pained noise. “Sorry,” she said, rocking back. “I don’t want to hurt you.”

  “It’s nothing,” he insisted. “I will never complain about you being in my arms. The cuts will heal.”

  “But we should still seek out a doctor in town.”

  “We will,” Mark promised. “And once we do, once these petty wounds are finally healed, I will hold you as tightly as possible for as long as I can.”

  “We have so much to look forward to,” she smiled, lifting on her toes to kiss him.