“Of course she didn’t burn them.” Edward looked at Maurice, who raised an eyebrow. Edward nodded slightly—let me—and continued. “Why would she? They were the most precious things she owned, apart from the child she bore you. She kept them close, and safe, even if they were too painful to look at.” Edward judged the moment, and leapt. “Just as you do, with the things she gave to you.”
His gamble worked. Sussex looked down at his waistcoat pocket, his breath catching a little, and Edward wondered what small keepsake the duke kept with him.
“As I said. Simple terms.” Maurice’s voice, sharp as a blade, brought them back to the point at hand. “We could call it silence. Silence when it comes to my brother, silence when it comes to this.” He gestured elegantly to the papers. “Silent as a grave...a silence that lasts as long as we do.” He laughed with an edge of bitterness. “Until we are all gone. Including your rat, who is currently housed in some discomfort.”
The duke narrowed his eyes at the assembled group; Edward’s heart dropped. Had there been a mistake—some miscalculation?
No. The man was already opening his mouth.
“Understood.” He stared at Maurice, then at Edward; no apology was evident in his gaze. “There...there will be silence. I can promise you that.”
Maurice stared. Edward held his breath; the room seemed quiet enough to hear the beating of each individual heart. Then, with a brusque nod, Sussex broke the spell.
Not deigning to cast a look in Edward’s direction, he began walking away. There was a brief scuffle at the small table; Ginger, his face distorted with grief, was trying to run after Sussex as Maurice held him back.
“You’ve promised. I haven’t.” The boy’s voice was choked with tears. “I’ll get you for this one day.”
Sussex didn’t answer. The duke shook his head, seemingly bewildered, before vanishing into the darkness of the corridor.
The room exhaled. No atmosphere of celebration came as the footsteps of Sussex and his men faded away; even when Bryce appeared in the hall, dishevelled but smiling, the mood refused to lift. A general air of reckoning, a true sense, for the very first time, of the danger that they had faced.
The room stood still, as if in a tableau. Maurice leaning against a pillar, Lady Ploverdale’s concerned hand on his arm while Frakes and Lambert spoke to Bryce. Ginger sidling closer to the paper-covered table, a strange look in his eyes...
“I am glad the situation has been resolved.”
Gabriel’s voice, as tired as it had been before, hit Edward like a punch. He turned, steeling himself for the man’s expression, but Gabriel’s weary eyes hurt him all the same.
“I am tired.” Gabriel’s tone was deliberately impersonal. “Caroline, Ginger and I will be leaving soon.”
“It’s dark.” Edward knew it was a foolish thing to say, but said it all the same. “And far too long a distance from here to the village.”
“We will sleep in the gamekeeper’s cottage. Morton kept it maintained with the house.”
“Gabriel.” Edward moved closer, all too aware of the desperation in his voice. “Stay here. Stay with me. Hartley—”
“Was being malicious to make a point. I know.” Gabriel took a deep breath. “And I know you’re cruel because...because you’re wounded. But...” He paused. “I’m wounded too.”
“You make me whole.” Edward swallowed, uncomfortably close to tears. “I can make you whole too.”
Gabriel’s eyes were the most pained Edward had ever seen them. “I don’t know if you can.”
Chapter Forty-Seven
The darkness of late evening soon became the true darkness of night. An eerie, shadow-strewn silence lay over the house, save Hartley’s moans and curses rippling through the walls.
Maurice leaned against the small table by the door of his bedroom, overcome with weakness. Sweating, brow furrowed, he struggled to gain mastery over himself as the sun dipped low on the horizon.
Truth be told, he hadn’t been feeling himself for most of the day. The encounter with Sussex had taken the last of his strength. Sleepless nights spent planning increasingly desperate manoeuvres must have left him lower than he thought...but really, had he ever felt this weak? This sick, with clammy hands and an oddly racing heart?
Perhaps it was the code. Hartley’s code. He thought he’d worked it out, but...but it could not be right.
He looked again at the letter on his bedside table, picking it up. His lips moved as he read the coded signs; he didn’t feel quite himself, that was true, but he’d need to be in the ground before he forgot a code that he’d deciphered.
The address of Hartley’s other club, Greene’s, was unmistakeable. The surname of the duke, a member of Greene’s, was unmistakeable. But the contents of the letter...
Please continue to love me. Public acknowledgement does not interest me; we do not even need to be friends in the eyes of the world. But I am dying without you, dying by degrees; I need a sign, some kind of sign, to know that you—
Maurice let the letter flutter to the floor.
His deciphering skills had to be wrong...or, or, he had made the wrong assumption. He had made a large mistake.
His chest gripped once, twice, as if a claw were squeezing his heart. No. This was not normal. Maurice struggled to think, his hand creeping to his chest.
Harbury... Harbury...
There was more than one person named Harbury. The man had three sons—four, including Ginger. And a brother, also Harbury, with a son of his own...
...an unmarried son, who was about Hartley’s age. A son who was a member of Greene’s, just like his uncle.
He and Hartley could have met at Greene’s. Grown close, there.
Lord, he had been stupid.
Maurice tried to stand, to make his way to where Hartley was being held—but a violent stab of nausea had him retching onto the carpet.
Others looked to fate, or God, to explain the inexplicable. Maurice, however, went straight to something more sinister.
Someone had poisoned him. That much was clear.
When? And how?
What had he missed? What piece of the puzzle had he put aside, deciding that it didn’t fit? He had to work it out, now, because his legs were going to go completely, and what was that rushing sound, as if bats were flying through his bedroom?
He sank to his knees. Kneeling was easier—or lying down, yes, lying down was optimal. Eyes closed, the world tilting, Maurice marshalled his considerable powers.
Who. He had to know who.
Memories, sensations, impressions, all ran through his mind with incredible speed. Wheezing, eyes fluttering, Maurice tried to classify them. Which one seemed unusual, on reflection? Which person did he not know enough about...which person had he overlooked...
God, why were so many of his recent thoughts consumed with Lady Ploverdale? Lady Ploverdale talking, Lady Ploverdale laughing, Lady Ploverdale with her face turned to the morning sun, viewing the rolling fields of Hardcote with a rapt, delicious excitement that made every part of him overflow with—with—
No. Enough. Hartley was innocent; he knew that now. He hadn’t broken down the diamonds...but one of the Beasts had. And they had poisoned him, slowly and carefully, possibly over a period of days.
Who had been helpful?
Who had delivered cup after cup of tea?
No.
They were all in terrible danger.
He had to warn Bryce. He had to warn Edward—oh, God, if only he could get up! What had that bastard put in his drinks...nightshade, or something similar, something to stop his heart...
Where was his case of antidotes? He never left the house without it, one couldn’t be too careful...but it lay on the other side of the room, which seemed as far away as the stars.
Maurice lay on the floor, unable to move a muscle,
his heart beating out of his chest. He tried to cry out, throat muscles straining, but nothing more than a thin gasp escaped.
He’d failed. He’d failed all of them. Whatever was going to happen now, he couldn’t stop it.
He closed his eyes, too weak even to cry. All he could do was choose a thought, some shining thing that would make the process of dying less horribly unpleasant. A splendid sunrise...a ship in full sail...
Or Lady Ploverdale, head bent over a book.
Yes. That was something he could die dreaming about.
* * *
Jack Bryce settled with a sigh into the kitchen chair closest to the fire. He rifled around in his pockets for a cigarillo and struck a match against the table with a practised flourish. Taking a long, slow drag of smoke, he felt himself beginning to relax.
It had been difficult going, back there. The duke hadn’t seemed willing to accept he’d been beaten. He’d seen men like that, back in the war, men who wouldn’t stay down, no matter how injured they were. They usually ended up dying—but not before doing an awful lot of damage to those around them.
Would Sussex stay down? He honestly didn’t know. And that lack of knowledge meant he couldn’t relax completely, even with nothing but a crackling fire and his cigarillo for company.
He sat there, musing, until the fire had dwindled away to cinders. He sat there until his head was nodding, his eyes were drooping, until sleep was moments away.
When someone crept up behind him on light feet, he couldn’t react quickly. He half rose from his chair, wild-eyed—and then came a blow, a crushing one, that knocked him clean off his feet.
He slumped onto the flagstones, unable even to cry out. The last thing he heard, before he closed his eyes, was the murmur of quiet voices...and a door, the servants’ entrance, being unlocked.
* * *
Edward blew out the candle, closing his eyes with a deep, exhausted sigh. Buttons, his eyes briefly glowing in the last of the candlelight, settled down to sleep at the foot of his bed.
His room lay in abject silence, small reminders of Gabriel’s presence everywhere. Without opening his eyes, Edward counted all of the objects he remembered. One handkerchief, with his initials embroidered in the corner. One wooden comb. One linen shirt, that smelled like him.
He needed Gabriel around him. He knew that now. Even this single night apart was painful; he bent his head, face crumpling, at the idea of all the lonely nights that lay ahead.
Hardcote House was bearable, with him. The bitter echoes of the past had been sweetened by the presence, the smile, of the man he loved. London, with all its empty pleasures and false promises, had ceased to have any attraction at all...
He could have lived here, with Gabriel. Always.
Always. Before Gabriel, that word had seemed like a death sentence. Now it felt like a journey, a long, spectacular voyage, fuelled by the joy of having his person, the person he loved most in the world, beside him...
A voyage that he could never take.
Edward, dejected beyond measure, prayed for unconsciousness.
He slept. He slept so deeply that he didn’t hear the drawing room windows breaking. He didn’t hear glass crunching into the parquet floor, or the pictures being ripped from their frames, or the pages being ripped out of books.
He didn’t smell the brimstone as the touchpaper was lit.
He didn’t hear the licking of the flames.
Chapter Forty-Eight
Gabriel woke with a start. Something was wrong, very wrong. He knew it before he opened his eyes.
It had to be Edward. The way his heart ached, as if it had wandered into dangerous territory, meant that something unpleasant was going to happen to the man who had broken his heart.
For a moment he stayed on his mat in the corner of the room, hoping against hope that he was simply imagining the tension spreading through his body. It was ridiculous, a pathetic attempt at fortune telling, a foolish, baseless thought...it did no good at all.
No time to ponder it. No time to wonder why. Edward was in danger; he knew it in his bones. Looking at Caroline’s peacefully sleeping face, Ginger huddled close to her as they slept in the cottage’s only bed, Gabriel knew that waking them would do more harm than good.
After throwing on his clothes with hurried carelessness, he pulled the door of the gamekeeper’s cottage open. The moonlight light briefly shone on the cudgel that lay in the corner of the room. Gabriel eyed it warily before picking it up. Letting it rest against his shoulder, he walked a little way into the woods...and wondered why, with the air of tension growing ever greater, the moonlight was flickering orange on the bark of the trees.
This was why you woke up. The voice of reason danced through his brain as the rest of him chilled to the bone. No mystical connection with Edward...no further sight.
You, like all mortal creatures, fear fire.
Hardcote House.
Burning.
Gabriel broke into a run.
Chapter Forty-Nine
Smoke stung Gabriel’s eyes as he made his way across the lawns, his throat filling with acrid, burning heat. The journey from the woods to the house had never felt this long before; Edward was trapped, surrounded by flames, and he could feel his legs weakening...
No. He dropped the cudgel, tearing at his shirt with fumbling hands, wrapping the linen around his nose and mouth. He wouldn’t give up now, even if it was already too late.
The thought of too late brought tears to his eyes. He ran blindly, leaving the cudgel where it fell, hearing the sick crackle of smoke. For a brief, agonising moment, he couldn’t see the house—had it been completely engulfed?—but then it appeared all at once, one wing blazing.
Not the bedroom wing. With a brief prayer for Edward’s safety, followed by his own, Gabriel stumbled through the smoke. As soon as he felt warm stone under his hands, knowing that the stairs inside were far too risky to take in a fire, he began to climb for the nearest bedroom window.
Was it Edward’s? Damned if he could remember from the outside; damned if he could stop to think about it with the bricks growing warmer under his fingers, the smoke making him weep. The window had to be open—if it wasn’t, he was climbing into a trap that had no escape route...
There was a minuscule gap between the window and its frame. With an almighty tug on the latch, his fear giving him a strength that he hadn’t known he possessed, Gabriel heaved himself up and through the pulled-open window with a growl of pure effort.
He’d managed it. He stood up shakily, noting the smoke pouring thickly under the door, and surveyed the room. No one here, apparently—but there was a splayed, outstretched hand behind the desk, a glass phial in shards on the floor...
“Edward?” He ran to the fallen man, realising with a shock of guilty relief that it was Maurice. He pulled down the linen covering his mouth, taking Maurice’s limp wrist, letting out a sigh at the faint flutter of a pulse. “Thank God.”
“Don’t thank Him yet.” Maurice’s eyes were firmly shut, his voice a weak whisper from lips that were almost ashen. “He...”
“I know.” Gabriel noted the faint tinges of blue at the tips of Maurice’s fingers. “The duke. He wants to do away with all of us.”
Maurice gave a tiny shake of the head. “Gave me...gave me something to stop...stop the heart...this will have taken off the worst.”
Gabriel eyed the phial. “Is there more?”
“No. Don’t...don’t you think I would have taken it?” Maurice let out a low rasp of a laugh. “I can’t move. All I’ve done is...prolong my death.”
“I’m here.” Gabriel looked at the study window. “I can save you.”
“I don’t... I don’t need prayers.” Maurice raised an eyebrow with what looked like considerable effort. “Although I wouldn’t...wouldn’t mind your sister singing.”
“This is going to be a little more painful than prayer.” Gabriel ran to the study window, opening it wide. “And perhaps, if I can say it without being struck down, a little more immediately effective.” Moving back to Maurice, he hooked his arms under the man’s shoulders. “I hope you like sweet peas.”
Maurice barely made a sound as Gabriel pulled him to the window. As he hoisted him onto his shoulders, however, he made a faint sound of protest. “Wh-what?”
“Just relax,” Gabriel said. “And don’t look down.”
With a single heave, he threw Maurice out of the window. He winced as the man hit the flowerbed with a thump. “Are you well?”
Even in his weakened state, Maurice managed to sound sarcastic. “Wonderful.”
“I’ll get everyone out, Maurice. Everyone.” Gabriel turned from the window before he could hear Maurice’s reply—and stopped, turning back as he heard a yell.
“Vicar!” Frakes was staring up at him, ash-streaked and bruised as he held up a barely conscious Bryce. “I couldn’t get to the rest of them! Hartley’s too far away, Edward too—Christ knows where Lambert went.” He stopped as Bryce stumbled, retching into the grass. “Be careful, Winters. Please.”
Gabriel nodded as the roar of the flames grew louder. He ran to the door of the bedroom, wrapping his sleeve around his palm as he pulled the burning handle. He reeled back as boiling smoke flooded the open doorway, the corridor full of the stench of fire.
“Edward?” He’d never shouted so loud, his heart hammering in his chest. “Edward! I’m coming!”
Chapter Fifty
Edward woke to a hand over his mouth. He struggled to take a breath, acutely aware of a crushing weight on his chest.
“I wouldn’t fight.” Lambert’s voice floated out of the darkness, calm and mildly amused. “A diet of indolence and cigarillos leaves a man in very poor condition. You’re as weak as a kitten. Which reminds me—as soon as I’m finished here, I’m going to find and strangle that damned cat of yours.”
The Vicar and the Rake (Society of Beasts) Page 25