by KJ Charles
She stalked out on that bitter sarcasm, arm round Maisie’s shoulders. Telford stood aside to let them go, then gave Waring a questioning look.
“Your gun.” The viscount took the revolver, weighed it in his hand, and pointed it at Will. “Follow them up and lock them in, without fuss. Fetch my shotgun as you return. You, Mr. Darling. Drop the knife and kick it over to the wall.”
Will did so, but kicked it at Cheveley’s feet, hard enough that the man had to leap in the air to avoid it as it skittered by. Waring said, “Childish.”
“But funny,” Kim said.
“Shut up, Secretan.” Cheveley’s cheek was still red where Phoebe had slapped him. “Sir, do you want me to take that for you?” He indicated the gun.
Waring glanced at him. “No. No, I don’t think I do, thank you.”
“I wouldn’t either,” Kim agreed. “He is, after all, actively undermining you. I’m quite sure you told him we’d agreed a truce until the morning, so why did he order Anton to attack Maisie now?”
“He misunderstood his orders,” Cheveley said. “I told him to do it later.”
Will jerked forward. “You told—”
“Don’t move, Mr. Darling,” Lord Waring said, levelling the revolver at him. “Sit on the floor, both of you. Hands behind your head. I will not hesitate to shoot. After all, you have brought a lethal weapon into my house and injured my chauffeur, perhaps fatally.”
“Yes,” Kim said. “Perhaps you should consider calling a doctor.”
“Sit.”
He gestured with the gun. Will glanced at Kim, who nodded, and sat. It was something of a relief to put his hands up, as his left was throbbing ferociously now.
Unarmed, one-handed, outnumbered, and facing a professional killer. Will had to admit he wasn’t feeling optimistic.
Cheveley strolled up to Waring and looked down at them with a grim smile. “Let’s see. Anton was hit from behind. I dare say Secretan did that—a coward’s blow. Indecent advances, perhaps, leading to a lover’s tiff between Darling and Secretan that leaves one or both dead—I think this could wrap up very neatly, sir.”
“Extremely,” Kim said. “Except for Maisie and Phoebe, who can state it’s a lie, and the fact that it leaves Lord Waring with a traitor at his right hand. Otherwise, perfect.”
Telford came back into the room with an expensive-looking shotgun. He and Waring exchanged weapons, Waring taking the shotgun with casual familiarity. Doubtless he’d shot a lot of pheasants or whatever, but he wouldn’t have to be good with it. A weapon like that, loaded with shot, could blow a man’s chest open at this distance.
“Very well,” Waring said, settling the shotgun on his arm. “Now, John, you were saying—”
“Excuse me. I hate to interrupt,” Kim began.
“Then do not,” Lord Waring said, lifting the shotgun a fraction.
“You can’t shoot me in this position,” Kim pointed out. “It’ll ruin your story, and talking of stories, don’t you want to hear one about The Right-Hand Man Who Sabotaged Your Smuggling Operation?”
Cheveley started to speak. Lord Waring lifted his hand in a jerk of command. “If you are hoping to persuade me you’re playing for time, Arthur, don’t bother. The night is young, and no rescue is coming. We both know that you have not had the courage to speak to your master.”
“You have a subtle brain, sir,” Kim said. “I’m not that subtle and nor is Cheveley. He’s been trying to force us into conflict, the very conflict that you rightly note I have made vast efforts to avoid.”
Cheveley scoffed. “Bluffing, Secretan? You’re not in a position to do that.”
“You sent me a blackmailer, and used your mistress to get Will to the High-Low. You wanted me there; you deliberately set me against Mrs. Skyrme. Last man standing. You decided to get rid of her, even if it cost Zodiac the High-Low Club and an incredibly lucrative smuggling route; now you’ve done that you’re trying to get rid of me. All in two months.” He paused, letting two silent seconds tick by, and smiled. “What’s the hurry, Johnnie?”
Lord Waring’s face froze, in a way that reminded Will disturbingly of Kim. Cheveley said, “Sir, must we listen to this? He’s trying to talk his way out of trouble.”
“Let him talk,” Waring said.
“I don’t—”
Waring turned, bringing the shotgun round so that, just for a second, it pointed at Cheveley. Will tensed for an opportunity, but Telford, whose blank face suggested he wasn’t listening, still had the revolver levelled on him. “I said, he can talk.”
“Thank you. Where was I?” Kim’s long legs were stretched in front of him. He crossed them at the ankle in a manner so casual, anyone would want to clobber him. “Oh yes. Johnnie needed both me and Mrs. Skyrme out of the way, just as he needed Maisie Jones dealt with before she could take Phoebe to Paris and out of his reach. You and I have been on course for a reckoning for a long time, Lord Waring, but it’s Johnnie who’s forced both of our hands. He wanted to clear his path as your successor and son-in-law, and he wanted to do it fast. I hope it isn’t in poor taste to say he has a deadline.”
Cheveley’s face was twitching. “I don’t know what he’s talking about, sir.”
“Oh, you do. Edward Leinster, my colleague, received a tip-off about the High-Low and Zodiac. Who from? Hetta Galloway, your mistress, gave Maisie Jones a voucher for the High-Low Club. Why would she do that except to bring Will Darling there? You used me to see off Mrs. Skyrme, then you used her departure as cover to set the police on my personal life, which might well have put paid to my engagement. If you could secure Phoebe, you’d be looking at inheriting Waring’s legitimate property and the leadership of Zodiac. Maybe Waring might even revive that old promise about the letters patent and make your future son a viscount. That would be one in the eye for your brother Alan, squatting on his baronetcy and all your family money, wouldn’t it? You’d eliminate your rivals, secure Phoebe, and claim the kingdom.”
Cheveley’s nostrils were white. “May I make the obvious point? Lord Waring is a picture of health. We may expect him to live another thirty years, God willing, and there’s six months for Phoebe to see sense before your farce of a wedding. Why would I manoeuvre in this frantic manner you describe, risking my position and my neck? It makes no sense at all.”
“Nor to me,” Will said. “But I can tell a man protesting too much when I hear one, mate.”
“Shut up when your betters are speaking,” Cheveley snarled.
“Temper,” Kim said. “Any thoughts on why Johnnie might be in such a hurry, Lord Waring? Perhaps to do with your trips to Harley Street in December?”
Waring’s eyes flicked from Cheveley to Kim, and Will wasn’t sure he’d seen an expression like that in a man’s eyes through four years of war. There was a long, silent moment, and then the older man laughed, a genial, amused chuckle that suited the civilised host he looked, apart from the shotgun.
“I suppose you had that out of Phoebe. I must say, Arthur, I’m impressed. You’ve played a poor hand well. It won’t help you, not at all, but you could scarcely have done more.”
“Satisfy my curiosity,” Kim said. “Not cancer, surely? You look hale enough.”
“Thank you. No, nothing of the kind. An abdominal aortic aneurysm, I believe the term is. I had the best man in England open me up, for all the good it did. He claimed there was nothing to be done, the damned worthless quack.”
“Aneurysm. That’s a weakness in a blood vessel, yes?”
“Indeed. It could burst any time, he informed me, and gave me six months.” He turned to Cheveley. “A prognosis he stated in the letter he sent me around Christmas, John, when, as Arthur observes, you renewed your courtship of my daughter. The letter that I kept in my personal, private correspondence.”
“Uh,” Cheveley said.
Lord Waring’s smile was cold as charity. “I’m sorry to say, my boy, that you must have missed my other letters on the subject. I’ve an American surgeon sailing o
ver even now to repair it, the best in his field. They have a lot more—I believe they call it hustle, over there, and of course they’re rather more advanced, at least in New York. I shall be around for many a long year, I’m afraid, and some of that time will now be taken up in finding a new Aquarius as competent as Theresa Skyrme. I am not pleased by that, John. Not at all.”
Cheveley had a rather patchy look to his skin. “Sir—”
“No,” Lord Waring said. The shotgun rested loosely in his hand, but not that loosely. “I expect manoeuvres; I don’t expect to be undermined. Theresa’s business was worth thousands a year to me, and her ingenuity even more. You should have understood that, John. I am very disappointed in you.”
Cheveley’s face didn’t move, but something shuddered in his eyes. Waring contemplated him for a second, then turned his attention back to Kim. “But if you imagine this will make the slightest difference to you now, Arthur, I must correct you. You and Mr. Darling have made yourselves an intolerable irritation, and you have now forced me to deal with you. I believe John’s suggestion will do, with a few minor alterations. Let us say, John, that a brawl erupted subsequent to Anton’s attack on Miss Jones, between you and Arthur and his proletarian lover. I will be happy to assure the jury that you were forced to fire on Mr. Darling in self-defence. I dare say that even bare-handed he will be able to inflict some convincing injuries on you, to help your case. Of course you will bear responsibility for the death of Flitby’s son, which may be embarrassing, and certainly it will be impossible for you to marry my daughter having killed her fiancé. But you didn’t expect to get off scot-free, did you?”
“Sir,” Cheveley said. “You can’t—”
“Oh, I can, John. I want Arthur out of my way, for which I need a scapegoat, and I see no reason my daughter should not indulge her hobby with Miss Jones unmolested. You will do me this service as recompense for the inconvenience you have caused. I think that will suit very well.”
“Really? I have several objections,” Kim said.
“You don’t have a vote.” Lord Waring’s eyes were hard and dead as pebbles. “You have been, variously, an amusement, a convenience, and a nuisance to me. The nuisance now outweighs the rest and I will be rid of you.”
“The nuisance will remain. Even the great British bobby will ask questions about two men shot while sitting on the floor—which is where we’re staying, Will.”
“Are you really telling me You won’t get away with this, Arthur?” Waring asked. “I think I will. And the matter of your position when shot can be very easily remedied. Your Patroclus is straining at the leash; I’m quite sure such a brutish creature can be provoked to assault.” His cold eyes rested on Will’s face. “Especially when the alternative to your cooperation is to silence Miss Jones. Your choice, Mr. Darling. She can go to Paris with Phoebe for their little adventure, or—not.”
The blood was scorching as it pumped through Will’s damaged hand, a dragon’s heartbeat. He was having a certain amount of trouble breathing. “How can I trust you to keep to that?”
“You will have to,” Waring said. “But if you choose not to cooperate, I shall have Telford deal with her as he thinks best, and he will do it in front of you. I dare say you have done such things before, Telford.”
Telford’s blank eyes reacted to that, with a spark that looked like anticipation. “Yes, Lord Waring.”
“A very reliable man,” Waring said. “Now stand up. You have a brawl with John to execute, as it were.”
Kim sucked in a sharp breath. Will rose, bracing himself on his right hand in as casual a way as he could. He didn’t delude himself this would end well, with Telford and Waring both armed, but he could at least give Cheveley a hard time on his way out. He’d lived through the war and had seven years on top: plenty of men had deserved more and got less.
“Will,” Kim said softly and urgently.
Will wanted to say something to him, something about having had a good innings, but they hadn’t. They’d barely started. Fuck this.
“Hand him his knife, John,” Waring said.
“Sir!” Cheveley yelped.
“You can have the gun, in due course. But we must give the fellow a chance first. It’s only sporting.”
Waring’s smile looked very real, almost hungry. Cheveley said, “Telford!”
“Oh, no, no. Telford works for me. I fear he won’t help—” Lord Waring began, and Telford wrenched the shotgun from his grasp, and drove the butt into his stomach.
Chapter Eighteen
Lord Waring doubled over with an airless scream. Telford rammed the shotgun into his belly again, and brought it up smoothly, one-handed, and about an inch from Will’s stomach, which stopped his movement dead.
There was a frozen silence. Lord Waring was on his knees, making unpleasant sucking noises.
“Heavens,” Kim said. “Congratulations, Cheveley. You did your staffwork well.”
Cheveley ignored him. “Gun.”
He strode over. Telford passed him the revolver and adjusted his grip on the shotgun, and they both stepped back, levelling the weapons on Will and Kim.
Lord Waring had his arms wrapped round his gut. He croaked, “Help me.”
“Want them dead?” Telford asked.
“We’ve got to do it right,” Cheveley said, ignoring the viscount’s groan. “Keep Phoebe quiet. Suppose—yes, suppose one or the other of them killed Waring and they ran away together and had an accident. Secretan always drives too fast. That’s it. Crash his Daimler. Make it a fire.”
“Fire doesn’t hide bullets,” Kim said. “Which means you can’t risk shooting us. Actually you can’t do that anyway if you don’t want to upset Phoebe, but I have to point out that she won’t marry you at any price, you flaccid, contemptible little shit.”
“You think she’ll have a choice?” Cheveley said. “You know, Secretan—”
Telford held up a hand. “What’s that?”
“What?”
“Car.”
Will could hear it too now, wheels on gravel. “Cars.”
“Ah, yes,” Kim said, “That’ll be DS and the Private Bureau. You know, the rescue Waring thought wasn’t coming? He was wrong about quite a lot.”
Cheveley’s jaw dropped. Will turned to look at Kim, and got a wink. “Surprised, Will? You should know how much you can trust me by now.”
“Two cars,” Telford said. “Could be eight men. Too many.”
“Get these two into the cellar,” Cheveley said. “Don’t kill them unless you have to. Stay in there with them.” He glared at Kim, still sitting on the floor. “Get up!”
“Come on, Will.” Kim rose. “Do what they say. Don’t provoke them.”
The two armed men urged them out, down the corridor and to the great hall, leaving Lord Waring alone on the floor with the unconscious chauffeur. There was a sound of car doors slamming, and faint voices.
“Get them into the cellar and keep them quiet,” Cheveley ordered Telford. “I’ll get rid of the visitors. And mark me, Darling, Secretan, you will cooperate or Miss Jones will pay the price. Do you understand me?”
The doorbell clanged noisily.
“Understood,” Kim said. “We’ll behave.”
“I’m glad you have seen sense,” Cheveley said. “Now, hurry—”
There was the sound of footsteps above. Cheveley looked up. “Phoebe? Get back to your room at once!”
Phoebe, clad in a frothy dressing-gown, was running down the stairs. Cheveley cursed and started up towards her; Phoebe swung onto the banister, slid down it in a flurry of sea-green material and bare calves, and leapt lightly off the end, as if she’d done it a hundred times. Cheveley doubled back, sprinting after her; Kim stuck out a foot, and he went flying. Telford moved towards him, and Will took his chance in that chaotic second and put a fist into the bastard’s kidney as hard as he could.
Phoebe was at the door, pulling it open. There was a raucous chorus of shouts and squeals, and a cry of, “Surpri
se!”
Will was too busy to care. He grappled savagely with Telford for the shotgun, trying with all he had to wrench it away. Telford pulled back hard, his bland face now a mask of rage. Will had the barrel firmly in his right hand, but he couldn’t break the man’s grip.
Well, fuck. He tensed everything he had against what he was going to do, stiffened the fingers of his left hand, and drove it into the middle of Telford’s biceps.
It was staggeringly painful as the impact shot up his broken knuckle, but it worked. Telford’s fingers sprang open as he shouted with pain, and the shotgun dropped. Will slammed his left arm round Telford’s neck while he had the chance, putting his strength into crooking his elbow because his whole left hand was on fire now, and vented his many feelings on the man, hammering his temple with short-range blows. He could hear Phoebe shouting, “The police, go and get the police!” and screams, and what sounded for all the world like Bubby Fanshawe bleating, “I say!”
For Christ’s sake. He glanced up without stopping his work, and saw a group of gaping, shrieking Bright Young Things, all evening clothes and bottles of champagne. Fucking marvellous. All they needed now was a jazz band.
A scream from above cut through the chaos. He looked up the stairs. Maisie stood at the top, pointing down, to where Phoebe was facing Johnnie Cheveley.
She stood tall in the frothy dressing-gown and Cheveley had the revolver levelled at her point blank. There were a couple more screams as the Bright Young People caught up, and then a dreadful anticipatory silence fell.
With all eyes fixed on Cheveley and Phoebe, nobody was looking at Will, so he rabbit-punched Telford in the back of the neck with everything he had left, and let the body drop.
“What are you going to do, Johnnie?” Phoebe said into the silence. “Shoot me?”
“Don’t be silly, darling,” Cheveley said, lowering the gun, but not enough. “You’re being hysterical. You’re over-tired. Too much drink, too many late nights—”
“Liar,” she said. “Why did Anton attack Maisie? Why did you tell lies about her, and protect him? Why didn’t you call the police, or a doctor? Why didn’t Daddy?” She paused. “Where is Daddy?”
