by Merry Farmer
“What are you going to do?” Alex asked, falling into step beside him, Marigold on their heels, as they crossed through the front hall and toward the grand staircase.
“I’m going to have a bath,” Armand grumbled. “Then I’m going to change clothes. After that, who knows?” He let out a heavy breath.
“We have to decide what to do about Shayles, now that he has the letter,” Alex went on, following Armand as he began to mount the stairs. “If we could just—”
“Alex, let him be,” Marigold said, grabbing her husband’s sleeve. As Armand turned the corner on the staircase, he noted that Marigold had the same glint of mischievous confidence in her eyes that Katya had.
Alex writhed with impatience, seemingly caught between his wife and pursuing Armand. “We can’t just sit back and let Shayles destroy Gladstone’s new government before it gets started.”
“It will be all right,” Marigold insisted. “Go to our room, change out of your cricket things, and come down to the dining room. Mrs. Ainsworth said that supper will be ready soon, regardless of everything else.”
“But—” Alex continued to protest.
“Trust me,” Marigold said.
Armand paused near the top of the stairs to watch his friend writhe. In the end, Alex let out a frustrated breath, stepped down to kiss his wife quickly, then continued up until he was by Armand’s side. “The ladies are up to something,” he muttered as he and Armand strode down the hall toward their rooms.
“Aren’t the ladies always up to something?” Armand asked.
Alex let out a humorless laugh. It seemed appropriate. As far as Armand could see, there was nothing funny in their situation.
“Stop here,” Shayles shouted up to his driver.
It was well after dark. They’d been speeding through the countryside for hours after picking Miller up in the village. The idiot had dosed Maqsood with laudanum, then proudly seen that the man was handed over to the care of his shipmates. Maqsood had been whisked off to Exeter before Shayles could catch up with him and slice his throat to get him to keep quiet. The whole, carefully-laid plot had fallen apart spectacularly, and all because of an errant cricket ball and Dr. Miller’s ham-fisted stupidity.
“Why are we stopping?” Miller asked as the carriage rocked to a halt. “I thought we were headed for Weymouth. This looks like a moor.”
“It’s just a quick stop,” Shayles said, scooting toward the door. He nudged Gatwick to wake him as he did. “Come on.”
Like the useless, confused puppy he was, Miller followed him out of the carriage. His driver had chosen their route well. Silent darkness stretched out in every direction. Gatwick stumbled out of the carriage behind him, rubbing his bleary eyes.
“What reason do you have to stop in the middle of nowhere like this?” Miller asked. Immediately, he answered his own question with, “Ah. Nature calls, I presume. There seem to be some amenable trees over that way.”
“Gatwick,” Shayles said with barely a hint of concern. “My blade.”
Wordlessly, Gatwick leaned back into the carriage and brought out a long-handled, razor-sharp knife. It was a small miracle that he’d been able to retrieve it from Maqsood’s wicketkeeper’s pads. Khan had been just as incompetent at the task given to him as Miller was at, well, everything he did. It would have been simple to puncture Pearson’s femoral arteries, as Miller had instructed him, so that the idiot viscount would bleed to death. Khan should have trusted his betters to get him out of the murder charge, not that Shayles had actually intended to help the fool once the police apprehended him. Pearson would have been dead, though, Gatwick would have inherited the Helm land, title, and money, and his financial woes would be alleviated.
Gatwick handed the knife over with a disinterested cough. At least the man was taking the failure to secure the Helm title in stride. But then, Shayles could count on one hand the number of times his friend had displayed emotion, and he’d have fingers left over.
“Henshaw, light a lamp, would you?” Shayles called up to his driver. “I need to see what I’m doing.”
“Very good, my lord,” Henshaw replied. A moment later, a match struck, then a lamp illuminated the darkness around the carriage.
“Oh, I say.” Miller turned toward the lamp, shielding his eyes from the sudden light.
“No,” Shayles said, “You don’t say anything. And you never will.”
“What are you talking about?” Miller asked with a confused frown.
Shayles toyed with his knife, testing the tip. “How long do you suppose it would take a man to bleed to death once his neck had been slit?”
Miller shrugged. “It depends on how deep the cut and whether the jugular veins on both sides were cut or only—” He stopped with a strangled cry as Shayles twisted to grab him from behind and sliced his neck as deeply as he could. When he let go, Miller fell to the ground, sputtering, blood oozing everywhere.
“You fool,” Shayles sneered over him. “Maqsood will talk, now that you allowed him to go free. There’s no telling who he’ll share my plan with.”
“Maqsood won’t darken England’s doorstep again, I think,” Gatwick said, watching Miller gurgle and bleed to death with an expressionless face. “Even if he did, who would believe a lascar would pose as a doctor with the sole purpose of luring a peer aboard a ship and disposing of him at sea?”
Shayles hummed, watching with growing excitement as Miller’s life drained away. “I suppose.”
Miller’s eyes slowly rolled back in his head. Apparently bleeding to death happened in no time at all. A grin spread across Shayles’s face. His cock was growing hard as fast as Miller’s life left him. Watching people die was the best aphrodisiac he’d yet to discover. They’d have to stop and find an amenable brothel before reaching Weymouth, or, failing that, a farm with a suitably young daughter for him to fuck as a victory celebration.
“Henshaw,” he shouted. “Get down here and figure out a way to make this look like highwaymen.”
“Yes, my lord. I know just the thing.” The driver hopped down from the carriage, took the bloody knife from Shayles, and crossed to scoop Miller’s body up by the arms, dragging him to the side of the road.
Shayles let out a satisfied sigh and leaned his back against the carriage. “The whole thing could have gone better, but at least I got to kill an idiot.” He reached for the bulge in his trousers, contemplating giving himself relief while Henshaw did his job. Instead, he slid his hand into the inner pocket of his jacket to take out the letter from Winterberry Park. “At least we have this.” He chuckled as he turned the letter over in his hands.
“Well done,” Gatwick said, leaning against the carriage on the other side of the open door and yawning. “I still think you should charge more than you quoted to The Observer for a look at that,” he added, closing his eyes.
“Perhaps I will,” Shayles chuckled. “Perhaps I—”
He stopped. Something wasn’t right with the envelope. It had partially resealed itself after spending so much time against the heat and moisture of his chest, but the flap was completely open now. He pushed away from the carriage, walking until he stood directly under the lantern, and yanked the letter out of the envelope.
“Something wrong?” Gatwick asked, one, bored eye open.
Shayles unfolded the letter and read. “Dearest Lavinia. Can you ever forgive me for the situation I have had a part in thrusting on you?” The rest of the pages held more of the same drivel.
Shayles growled in fury, which quickly turned into a shout. “Those filthy bitches.” He ripped the letter, tearing it to shreds and dropping it to the ground to stomp on it.
“Is there a problem?” Gatwick asked, as if asking whether the fish at a banquet was to his liking.
“Those bloody bitches,” Shayles continued to rage. “They switched the letters.”
“You’re joking.” Gatwick pushed away from the carriage at last, looking startled. “When? How?”
“I have no idea,” Shayles rage
d. “It had to have been at the cricket match. I knew it was a mistake asking Miller to guard the blasted thing.” He marched off to the side of the road, where Henshaw was removing Miller’s purse, coat, and anything that would have been considered valuable to a thief from his body, and kicked him. “You fucking idiot,” he shouted, kicking Miller over and over.
“Calm down,” Gatwick called from behind him, sounding more put out than enraged over the debacle. “What’s done is done. Miller is dead anyhow.”
“I’ll climb down to Hell and murder him again if I have to,” Shayles growled, stalking his way back to the carriage. His blood boiled, and he clenched and unclenched his hands, desperate for someone to strangle. “This is all Malcolm Campbell’s fault.”
“How do you figure?” Gatwick asked.
“It’s always Malcolm’s fault. He put that whore Marlowe woman up to pestering me. He’s had it in for me since he stole Tessa from me.” His breath came in heavy, hot gulps, and everything in his vision was red. “He won’t get away with this. I’ll see him dead if it’s the last thing I ever do.” Still seething, he leapt back into the carriage.
“Are we going back to Broadclyft Hall, then?” Gatwick asked.
“No,” Shayles muttered, fighting to keep his breathing even and his temper in check. He would be better able to plot revenge if he controlled his emotions. “We’re still going on to London. But Malcolm had better watch his back the moment he sets foot in town again. Katya Marlowe too. I’ll see the two of them broken, humiliated, and dead if it’s the last thing I ever do.”
Chapter 20
Every muscle in Lavinia’s body was in agony by the time the carriage stopped at the Seven Stars Inn in St. Austell. It was close to midnight, and though she’d managed to doze for a while as the carriage rattled over Cornish roads, her head ached and she felt as dull as mourning crape.
“We can rest the horses here for a while,” Lord Malcolm said as he opened the door and helped Lady Stanhope, then Lavinia down. “And a bite of something to eat wouldn’t be amiss.”
Lavinia nodded to Lord Malcolm, then let Rupert escort her into the inn. The two gentlemen had caught up to them only a few miles away from Broadclyft Hall, though they’d continued to ride instead of joining Lavinia and Lady Stanhope in the carriage. All four of them looked the worse for wear as the startled innkeeper showed them to a quiet table, away from the inn’s other late-night revelers.
“It shouldn’t take long,” Lord Malcolm reassured them as a sleepy barmaid brought a tray with tea, bread, and even a few bowls of stew. “Unless you’d prefer to get a room for the night.”
“No,” Lavinia said, helping herself to tea. She took one look at the stew, but even the smell turned her stomach. “I’d rather reach Starcross Castle as soon as possible.”
“Understandable,” Lady Stanhope said, patting her arm, then pouring tea for herself once Lavinia had hers.
“It’s been a trying day,” Rupert agreed with a sigh, taking one of the bowls of stew and digging into it.
“A trying fortnight for our Lavinia, I think,” Lady Stanhope went on. “We all played a part in that.”
Lavinia was surprised enough by the admission and by the unusual weariness in Lady Stanhope’s voice that she turned to stare at her friend. The lines around Lady Stanhope’s eyes and mouth made her appear older, for a change, instead of simply wiser and worldly. She sat back in her chair, sipping her tea and brooding.
“I suppose this is what comes of allowing a joke to go too far,” Lord Malcolm said, tearing off the heel of the bread and munching on it sullenly.
“So you consider your friend’s happiness a joke?” Lady Stanhope challenged him.
Lord Malcolm shrugged. He and Lady Stanhope must have been exhausted. Under normal circumstances, Lavinia was certain they’d be having a go at each other over an exchange like that.
“I honestly believed,” Lord Malcolm went on, sparing a weak smile for the barmaid when she delivered pints for him and Rupert, “that marriage to Lady Lavinia would bring Armand the kind of happiness he didn’t even know he needed in his life.”
“And did you bother to ask whether marriage would benefit Lavinia?” Lady Stanhope asked, some of the light of challenge coming back into her eyes.
“No,” Lord Malcolm admitted, taking a swig from his pint.
“But it did benefit me,” Lavinia said, dragging herself out of the haze of exhaustion and thought that threatened to box her in. The others glanced at her with curious looks. “It did benefit me,” Lavinia went on. “The life I would have been able to live as a single woman was more limited than I first thought,” she said, mostly speaking her thoughts aloud without concern for who was listening. “I would have spent my entire life living at the mercy of my friends.”
“We would have supported you in anything you wanted to do,” Lady Stanhope said, resting a hand on her arm again.
“But I would have forever remained legally under the control of my parents,” Lavinia went on. “Even though my marriage has been a dismal failure thus far, at least as Lady Helm I can command more respect. And,” she continued with a wince, disliking the mercenary nature of everything she was about to say, “I suppose I’m due some sort of allowance from Armand that I could live off of.”
“He’ll gladly give you anything you desire,” Lord Malcolm said.
“I don’t think it will come to that,” Lady Stanhope said, taking another sip of tea and reaching for the bread.
“You don’t?” Lord Malcolm asked.
“No,” Lady Stanhope said confidently. “I fully believe that Lavinia and Armand will work things out in the end.” She turned to Lavinia. “The two of you will be reunited, and soon, if my instincts are correct.”
Maybe it was the weariness of everything she’d been through, but Lavinia was instantly close to the brink of tears. She wanted everything to work out. She wanted to be happy, and for Armand to be happy too. In the pitifully few moments that the two of them had been together, by themselves, without interference from friends, family, and foes, they had enjoyed each other’s company. The morning they’d shared together in the gamekeeper’s cottage had been the stuff of dreams.
In an instant, Lavinia ached to feel Armand’s arms around her again, to be swept away by the ardor of his kisses, no matter how frustrated she’d been with him hours before. What would have happened between them if Shayles and Gatwick hadn’t shown up and if their friends hadn’t come tumbling down on them a day later?
Her yearning thoughts were cut short as Rupert handed a bowl of stew to Lord Malcolm and said, “You’d better eat up, sir. Once we deliver the ladies to Starcross Castle and inform Lord Dunsford of the situation with the letter, I’m sure we’ll have to turn right around and head back to Broadclyft Hall, or even London, to deal with the disaster.”
“You’re right,” Lord Malcolm said with a sigh, reaching for the stew. “This whole thing is exactly the kind of bloody mess we didn’t need to deal with.”
“Only eat that if you want to,” Lady Stanhope said with a wry grin. One glance and Lavinia could tell her friend was about to thoroughly enjoy revealing everything that had happened while the men were playing cricket.
Lord Malcolm must have sensed something as well. “What do you mean?” he asked.
“Only that once we arrive at Starcross Castle, we won’t have to go anywhere if we don’t want to,” Lady Stanhope said, sitting back in her chair and arching a flirty eyebrow at Lord Malcolm as she took a sip of tea.
“Are you mad, woman?” Lord Malcolm said. “I mean, madder than usual. Shayles won’t sit on that letter for long.”
“Shayles doesn’t have the letter,” Lavinia said.
Lord Malcolm looked at her with the doubtful expression most men used when looking at her, as if she were no more than a child and couldn’t possibly know anything about anything. “Lady Lavinia, we saw Shayles pocket the letter after the match.”
“You saw Shayles pocket a letter,” Lad
y Stanhope told him, her grin widening.
Lord Malcolm’s frown popped into a look of surprise. “You didn’t,” he told Lady Stanhope.
“You are correct. I didn’t.” Lady Stanhope nodded to Lavinia. “Lavinia did.”
“If Shayles doesn’t have our letter to Gladstone,” Rupert said, “then what does he have?”
If she’d been a lesser person or in a cheerier mood, Lavinia might have been tempted to gloat. As it was, the victory of the letter paled in comparison to the loss of her chance to have a loving marriage. So with a flat tone, she said, “I switched the contents of the envelope with a letter Marigold had written to me shortly after I arrived at Broadclyft Hall. Lord Gatwick helped me. I believe Lady Stanhope burned your letter to Gladstone.”
“Hold up,” Lord Malcolm said, setting down his pint and leaning across the table to Lavinia. “Lord Gatwick helped you?”
Lavinia nodded. “He created an adequate distraction and assisted me in stuffing Marigold’s letter into the envelope addressed to Gladstone.”
“Shayles might not discover he’s been duped until he reaches London, and by then it will be too late,” Lady Stanhope said.
Lord Malcolm glanced from Lavinia to Lady Stanhope and back again, his mouth hanging open. “You managed to get our letter away from Shayles without him being any the wiser, and without any of us knowing you were doing it?” He glanced to Lady Stanhope again.
“Don’t look at me,” she said. “It was entirely Lavinia’s idea. I only found out about it after it was done.”
Lord Malcolm turned back to Lavinia with a whole new light of respect in his eyes. “Shayles would have eaten you alive if you’d been caught.”
“She wasn’t caught,” Lady Stanhope said. “And she may have discovered an unlikely ally in her efforts.”
Lord Malcolm sat back, finally closing his mouth and shaking his head. “I refuse to believe that Gatwick is our ally, though I might be willing to concede that he isn’t as much of a friend to Shayles as we thought.”
