Sir John looked his son over, his eyes dark and very tired. “You know, I tried to kill you once, Gerard, and I failed.”
“No,” Gerard said, “no, that’s impossible. You may be sinister and no one really knows what you do or who you are, and I know that you beat my mother to death, but you’re still my father. You wouldn’t kill me, would you? Surely that isn’t right.”
“I didn’t beat your mother to death, you idiot. She fell from the balcony of our house, nothing more than that. As for you, you were my son and I had hopes that you would make something of yourself, but you didn’t. You are a wastrel. You are utterly worthless. You became a traitor to your country. There is nothing lower than a traitor.
“Naturally I would not let you ruin our family’s name, but you managed to survive the ship’s exploding and somehow get to shore.”
“But you didn’t make the ship sink. Even you couldn’t manage that, Father.”
“No, I hired one of the sailors to hit you on the head and throw you overboard, quickly and quietly. Then it would have been over, and your reputation of being a hero would be safe. The family would have been saved from disgrace.
“It was all arranged, but then there was the accident aboard your ship and it exploded before the sailor could find you. And then you were safe with your masters and I couldn’t get to you.”
Helen and Alexandra looked at each other. Sir John had fully planned to have his own son killed?
Helen said, “You honestly wanted to kill him because you discovered he was a traitor?”
“Yes, Helen. Gerard wanted money, and so he got it the only way he could. He betrayed his country. He went willingly and quickly over to the French. I don’t know how many secrets he sold to them, for he had the run of the Admiralty, as you can imagine, since he was my son. I discovered what he was quite by accident. The idiot left some papers he had stolen in his jacket pocket. His valet found the papers and brought them to me. I had no choice in the matter.
“I did my best by him. I puffed up the dispatches, had him made a hero, and then when I learned what he really was, I planned to kill him. There would be no dishonor for anyone. But he survived.
“Now, tell me, Gerard, was it indeed just the money that made you a traitor to all your family, to all that your father holds dear?”
Gerard remained on the floor. He didn’t look at his father. He looked at Helen, and there was murder in his eyes. “It was just a few ridiculous battle plans, the location of some troops and ships, names of towns where there were supply lines stored, that I sold to them, nothing of much importance. I gave them some names of men who were spying for England. Nothing much, again, I had to do very little.
“Of course I needed money. I had a wife. I had to support her. I had to pretend to want her after her dowry was gone. If I had only gotten her pregnant, then you would have given me half my inheritance. That is what you promised me.”
Helen looked at her husband and wanted more than anything to have his damnable throat between her hands. “Are you saying that that was the only reason you wanted a child? To get money from your father?”
“It was a great deal of money—ten thousand pounds.”
Helen just stared down at him, so much pain filling her, all of it pain for the innocent girl she had been. “But my dowry was ten thousand pounds. You spent that in two months. What was another ten thousand? Nothing much at all. You pathetic worm.” She raised her leg to kick him, then stopped. “I only wish your father had come to me when he realized you were a traitor. I would have helped him destroy you. I would have knocked you overboard myself.”
“You couldn’t have,” Gerard said. “You are a woman. They would not allow a woman on board ship.”
“Your mind,” Alexandra said slowly to Helen’s husband, “astounds me.”
Gerard preened.
Sir John gave Helen a look then that she didn’t understand. Was it admiration? No, surely not. He said slowly, “All of that was true, Gerard, but Helen is barren. And then because you have no honor, you became a traitor. Now, why did you write to Helen after eight years?”
“Dammit, I had to have money. When I heard about this lamp business, I decided to wait until she found it. Everyone in that stupid provincial town she lives in—Court Hammering—everyone speaks freely of it. Everyone believes she will find it, and very soon. I believe she has already found it.
“She had Lord Beecham with her and they went to this cave and came out with this strange iron chest. I knew the lamp was inside it, it had to be. They kept it close. They were secretive. Then Lord Beecham hared off to London. I knew they had found the lamp.”
“Listen, you idiot, if I had found the lamp and the lamp was magic,” Helen said very precisely, “I would have made you disappear with a mere snap of my fingers,” which she then did, right in front of his face. “But I didn’t make you disappear, did I? I couldn’t, unfortunately. Listen to me carefully, Gerard. There is no magic lamp.”
“You told me there was,” Gerard said. “You told me not above an hour ago that you would take me to it.”
“I lied.”
Sir John said then, “Enough about this ridiculous lamp. Of course she lied to you, Gerard. She wanted to escape you, and she would have if I hadn’t come.
“It is daylight now. I must hurry. Helen, I am sorry, as strange as that may sound, but you and your friend here must die. I wanted only to kill Gerard, once and for all, but I was unable to catch him alone.”
“You would kill three people?” Alexandra said, her voice incredulous. “Only a monster would do that, a monster who was truly evil, all the way to his soul. And to kill your own son? To prattle on about your honor? You are unspeakable, sir. You deserve to rot in hell.”
“I say, guv, the lady’s right. Ye ain’t much of a pa, and these purty littil pullets—well, ye shouldn’t pop them, guv.”
“Shut up, Ricketts. Now let me think. How will I do this?”
Alexandra moaned, clutched her belly, and fell to the floor in a dead faint. No one moved for a split second, then Helen cried out, and went down to her knees beside her friend. “Oh, God, Alexandra. What is wrong? You must wake up, please.”
“That was quite well done. You can get up now, Alexandra.”
Sir John closed his eyes for a brief moment, then slowly turned to see the earl of Northcliffe and Viscount Beecham and two men he didn’t know, standing behind them in the open doorway.
“I thought you were keeping a watch, Ricketts,” Sir John said through his teeth, so furious he almost choked on his own bile.
“No, guv, not since ye came along and caused all the ruckus.”
“Helen, are you all right?”
“Yes, but come here quickly. Douglas, she grabbed her stomach, then fainted. What is wrong with her?”
“Nothing at all,” Alexandra said, got to her feet and gave her husband a big smile. She swept him a curtsey. “Welcome, my lord. As always, your timing leaves me breathless.”
“Well done, Alex, well done indeed. You gave us the distraction we needed. I’m proud of you. Now, don’t move while we see to these villains.”
Douglas walked up to Sir John Yorke and twisted the gun out of his hand. He then held out his hand to Ricketts, and the little man, cursing under his breath, gave it up. “The knife as well,” Douglas said.
“Ye knows too much, ye does.”
Douglas handed both guns and the knife to Spenser.
“Go hug your wife, Douglas. These marvelous specimens aren’t going anywhere at all.”
Sir John said to his son, who looked both relieved to be alive and terrified because now he had been caught, “I should have just hired someone to shoot you. Now look at what you have done, you incompetent little sot. You couldn’t even kidnap the women without having the men on you in an instant.”
“Actually,” Lord Beecham said easily to Gerard, “your father is right. We were on you in an instant.” He added to the father, “We held back once we saw you fo
llowing your son. We wanted to find out what was going on.”
“He was going to murder all of us,” Helen said. “Alexandra is right. He is a monster.”
“She’s a lying bitch. I am not a monster.” Sir John ran at Alexandra. His son stuck out his leg. Sir John went flying. Gerard heaved himself against Spenser, knocking him sideways into Helen, then leapt through a rotting window that was covered with a thin sheet of wood. The wood splintered and Gerard was lost to sight.
Lord Beecham straightened, shook himself, and said calmly, “Mr. Cave, would you and your partner please fetch Mr. Yorke back here? Thank you.”
“Certainly, milord. Come along, Tom,” he said to his partner. “Let’s catch that sniveling cove traitor.”
Lord Beecham watched the two men run out of the cottage. Then he said, “As for you, Mr. Ricketts, you just lie down on the floor and clasp your hands behind your neck. Now.”
Bernie Ricketts stretched out on his stomach on the floor.
Sir John staggered to his feet. He was holding his left arm.
Douglas released his wife, then walked slowly to Sir John. He calmly took the old man’s neck between his large hands. “You were going to kill my wife. She is right. You are a monster. It is you who do not deserve to live. Your proud name, sir, won’t survive this day. You will be remembered as a cold-blooded murderer, a dishonorable man whose son was a traitor.”
“It is my turn when you are finished, Douglas,” Spenser said. “Don’t kill him just yet.”
“No, I won’t. I want him to stand in front of all the men in the House of Lords. I want everyone to see the sort of malignancy that exists in the highest levels of our government.” Douglas shoved Sir John back against the wall.
Sir John threw back his head and yelled, “No—you cannot tell anyone. I have spent my life fighting for the honor of England. No!”
Ezra Cave came through the front door at that moment, a knife in one hand and a gun in the other, and in front of him he was shoving Gerard. The father looked at the son, disheveled, pale, blood streaming down his arm. He yelled again in fury and threw himself against Douglas. Douglas tried to grab him, but the old man, quicker than a snake, jerked away from him, grabbed the gun and knife from Ezra Cave and turned it on his son. “I should have killed you when you were born. Your mother was a sniveling fool and that was just what she birthed.” And he stabbed his son through the heart.
He jerked the knife out of his son’s chest and used him as a shield.
Ezra Cave grabbed his partner’s gun and fired. He missed—not that it mattered, since Gerard was already dead. The bullet hit the wall beside Sir John’s head, shredding the wood, sending splinters flying. Sir John let his son’s body crumple to the floor at his feet and waved the gun wildly about in front of him. “No, none of you come at me. Just stay right there.” Then he threw his head back and yelled to the heavens, his voice thick with failure and rage, “I have done my duty to my country. I have executed a traitor. It makes no difference that he carried my blood. I have devoted my life to England. History will judge me an honorable man, a man who never shirked his duty, a man who gave his life for his country.”
Then Sir John turned the gun to his mouth and pulled the trigger. Blood gushed out of his mouth and the back of his head exploded. Both his face and his head were crimson with blood. He didn’t make another sound, collapsing where he stood, over his son’s body.
No one moved for a very long time, just looked at the old man sprawled over his son, as if covering him to protect him.
Helen said then, “This is too much, Spenser. It is just too much.” He saw the blankness of shock on her face and a dreadful sorrow in her eyes. He drew her against him and held her close.
But what Spenser was thinking was that Gerard Yorke was dead, finally and truly and irrevocably dead. He wondered in that moment, if he ever managed to get himself admitted into heaven, what Saint Peter would have to say to him about the thoughts in his mind as he held his future wife tightly against him and looked at her husband’s dead body at his feet.
30
SPENSER HEATHERINGTON, Seventh Baron Valesdale and fifth Viscount Beecham, and Miss Helen Mayberry were married in St. Paul’s Cathedral. There were five hundred guests present, many of them there to trade gossip about the fantastic lamp that of course didn’t really exist, that was only a titillating jest played on society by Lord Beecham. Ah, but what a fascinating tale it was—a magic lamp that had been in the possession of King Edward I, who had hidden it from the world, for whatever reason. Everyone had spoken of it, guessed at its whereabouts, granted it various powers. Ah, it had passed the time so pleasurably.
There were at least fifty guests there because they liked Lord Beecham and believed the lovely Helen Mayberry would make him an excellent wife.
As for the bride’s father, Lord Prith was in his element. Sophie Sherbrooke had told Helen that Lord Prith was giving samples of a new champagne concoction to guests on the sly as they came into St. Paul’s. Sophie said it had a blue tint. Helen just laughed and shook her head. She wondered if perhaps this time he had mixed blueberries with the champagne. What was he calling it? Bluepagne? Or perhaps Chamblue?
Bishop Bascombe performed the ceremony, his deep, melodious voice booming out into that huge cavernous space, touching everyone there, making even the most cynical of those attending forget about what their friends were wearing, and warming them to their toes.
It was a lovely service, all said. The huge reception held at Lord Beecham’s town house was magnificent, no expense spared. And some asked behind their hands, not in seriousness, of course, if the magic lamp had provided all this bounty. After all, both the lovely ceremony, all those guests, then the food served at the reception, were surely more than could be planned in a year, much less a mere month by a mere mortal.
Yes, surely one would have to have the services of a magic lamp to have such a splendid wedding on such short notice.
Ryder Sherbrooke was saying to Gray St. Cyre and his new bride, Jack, “Did your husband tell you my only marital advice?”
“Yes,” Jack said, stood on her tiptoes and kissed Ryder’s cheek. “He did. You are a brilliant man, Ryder. I can see why Sophie adores you even when she is planning to discipline you.”
“What’s this about discipline?” asked Gray St. Cyre, an eyebrow raised.
Lord Beecham came up in time to hear them. “And what is Ryder’s brilliant marital advice, Jack?”
“Laughter,” she said, giving her husband a wink. “A man can always seduce his wife with laughter.”
And that, Lord Beecham thought, was true enough. He looked over at Helen, standing next to Alexandra Sherbrooke. He didn’t even see Alexandra or the sublime dé colletage that displayed her beautiful bosom. No, he saw only his new wife. His wife. At the advanced age of thirty-three, he was at last a married man.
Helen Heatherington. The alliteration pleased him, tasted delicious on his tongue. She was more beautiful than a simple man deserved. She was dressed all in pale-yellow silk, yellow silk ribbons threaded through her hair. She wore a diamond necklace around her neck that he had given to her the day before and small diamond drops in her lovely ears. He simply couldn’t stop staring at her, and knowing, knowing all the way to his soul, that she was his and would be his forever. His wife, so tall and willowy and graceful, and strong as a bloody ox. He wondered, as he watched the two ladies talk, if they were exchanging more discipline recipes. He hoped that Alexandra was giving his new wife exciting new ideas. Probably so. He imagined that Douglas was hoping it was Helen giving Alexandra the new ideas. The ladies appeared to have very fertile imaginations, at least that was what Ryder had told him the previous week, a fatuous grin on his face. He’d said that Sophie was absolutely brimming with wicked notions, eager to test each one on him. The ladies had even brought Jack St. Cyre into the discipline fold. Gray would shortly be cross-eyed with pleasure. Sophie had announced that Ryder was always one to try something new, part
icularly if the something new promised to be administered with wicked abandon.
As for Gerard Yorke, all had gone smoothly in that quarter, thank all the heavenly forces involved. He had been found in a back alley down near the docks, stabbed, his possessions stolen. They had all discussed burying him and just forgetting him, but Lord Beecham knew that there would always be questions, sly looks, particularly since they had let the gossip rip through society that Gerard Yorke just might very well be alive and need to be found.
Lord Beecham had wanted no whispers that a man should not marry a widow if there was even the slightest chance that the husband were still hanging about somewhere. No, he had to be dead and there had to be a body. He wanted no questions, no doubts.
Well, Gerard Yorke had been found, and quickly. He was dead. Many had seen his body. Lord Beecham’s dearest Helen was indeed a widow. So all, thank God, was well.
Had Lord Beecham been responsible for his murder? Not many people even considered it a possibility, for which he was profoundly grateful. Douglas and Ryder and Gray St. Cyre had done a good deal of talking after Yorke had been found. Their reasoning had been this: After all, Lord Beecham could have simply killed him and buried him beneath an oak tree and no one would have been the wiser. He would not have left him in an alley where he would be found. That made no sense at all. And everyone in society agreed. Thieves and murderers abounded at the docks. It was one of these dreadful blackguards who had murdered poor Gerard Yorke.
But the death of his father, Sir John York, First Secretary of the Admiralty, shocked everyone. It was said that he was so saddened by his son’s murder, never even knowing that he had still been alive all these years and surviving in secret for reasons no one knew, that he killed himself. He put a gun in his mouth and pulled the trigger. Father and son were buried side by side, on the same day, by the bereaved and shocked Yorke family.
People spoke of nothing else but Sir John Yorke’s suicide for a full week. The parties involved said nothing at all.
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