Edward bit down on Lambert’s hand, gasping as Lambert withdrew his palm with a curse. “What the bloody hell do you think you’re doing?”
“It’s simple. I’m killing you. I’ve already killed your brother, and damn near killed your impertinent bastard of a servant...but really, it barely matters if he survives. And downstairs, Sussex’s erstwhile men are in the process of killing your house.” Lambert chuckled. “He assumed you would all perish in the fire. I wanted to make sure of things. I’m a little more courageous than he is.”
The eerie crackle of burning wood reached Edward’s ears in a rush. He bucked, trying desperately to free himself from Lambert’s weight—but his muscles were leaden, his head curiously heavy.
“I slipped you a little something, too.” Lambert’s face was little more than a pastel smudge. “You’re always so ready to have people serve you. You should pay a little more attention to what you drink. And a little more attention to the company you keep, if we’re going to be exact about it.”
Edward urged himself to focus, even as animal panic made him want to scream and claw. He had to stay awake—had to force himself. It was the only way he would get out of this. “I... Hartley...”
“The only thing Hartley did wrong was attempt to keep a secret around your brother. Even if it wasn’t the secret Maurice wanted to find.” Lambert’s smile was maddening. “Poor Hartley has been in love with one of Sussex’s nephews for years. Maurice thought one of his letters to his swain was a letter to the duke.” He shook his head. “That’ll teach him to fall in love with the wrong people. Well, it won’t, because he’ll die here too, but...oh, you understand what I’m driving at.”
“Lambert.” Edward gripped the man’s forearms with every ounce of his fading strength. “Why?”
“Because I knew the diamonds would come back to haunt me. Along with all the other favours I’ve performed over the years, for money and peace and safety—but mostly money.” Lambert’s voice lowered as he leaned closer. “I’ve always needed more money than you think. But then, you rarely think. I do—and I knew your brother would eventually discover that Hartley had nothing to do with the theft.” He smiled. “That’s why I kept the jeweller’s receipt safe. What tremendous luck, running into you in London. It meant that I could tell Sussex where you were, and await further instructions.”
“There’s...there’s time to remedy this.” Edward tried to find any trace of humanity in the man he had called his friend. “There’s time.”
“No. No time.” Lambert’s face grew grim. “Sussex only saw the necessity of killing you; apparently I’m the only one capable of thinking ahead. One’s past can eat a man alive. Best to keep running from the ravening maw. God knows, there’s no escaping it.”
Edward let out a strangled gasp as Lambert’s fingers slid around his neck. Smoke was beginning to fill the room; was this how it really ended, choking on burning wood, on memories, at the hands of an old friend?
One’s past can eat a man alive... His past was eating him now, burning it up, robbing him of any chance of a future.
No. No, it would not be.
Agency. That word, in Gabriel’s voice, shone in his mind with the urgent light of a dying star. Even if all was lost, beyond all hope of redemption...well, he could try to fight.
Gabriel would know. Gabriel would be proud.
With a final, savage burst of strength, he moved his thigh sharply upward. Lambert cried out, doubling over, his fingers briefly loosening...but no, it wasn’t enough; the man was already rallying.
“Good attempt.” Lambert’s fingers tightened again. “I—ah! Bloody hell!”
Edward’s neck was suddenly, improbably free. His mouth dropped open as Buttons, his ears flat against his head, clawed with seemingly deliberate fury at Lambert’s eyes.
He had to be dreaming, or dead. The door banged open; Edward struggled to turn his head, the world swimming around him as flames licked at the threshold. There was Hartley, ash-streaked, his eyes haunted...
And Gabriel.
“I fought.” Edward murmured the words; he needed Gabriel to hear them. He tried to speak more loudly as he fell back against the pillows; his vision was darkening, now. “I... I fought him...”
Gabriel’s words were indistinct. Edward closed his eyes, still trying to hear, even as he slipped away.
Chapter Fifty-One
Darkness. Endless darkness, and the sound of his father’s voice...but a rough hand caressing his face, bringing him back.
Edward took in a deep, clawing gasp of breath. He had to get away from the flames, so why couldn’t he see any? He could only feel their heat.
The only thing he could see with any real clarity were the stars. They hung above his head, a glittering reminder that somewhere, very far away, his problems counted as insignificant.
Then the pain hit, a throbbing, poisonous weakness spreading through every muscle. No, this wasn’t insignificant at all.
“Ga...” His throat was parched, choked with smoke. “Gabriel?”
“I’m here.” Gabriel’s face was above his, dark hair lit by a halo of stars. “I tried to get back to Lambert, I did, but then he fell back and I had to get you out. You were poisoned, Maurice was too, we had to use every antidote in his box until something worked—”
Edward couldn’t wait to hear the end of the sentence. Eyes brimming with tears of relief, relief so powerful it blotted out the pain, he pulled Gabriel to him for a thirst-filled, desperate kiss. He had to feel Gabriel’s lips against his, see his eyes closing with surprise, to know that he was truly alive.
“I love you.” He couldn’t hold back, not now—not after he’d seen death, known it intimately. Gabriel had to know. “I’m sorry, and I love you, and I’m sorry.”
“I know.” Gabriel’s lips were everywhere; soothing his brow, his cheeks, the tip of his nose. “I love you too, and I’m so sorry, and you almost—you almost—”
“But I didn’t.” Edward groped for Gabriel’s hand, taking it tightly in his own. “I didn’t, and I won’t.” He put his hand to his chest, letting him feel his heartbeat. “I promise.” A spear of pain shot through his chest, and he winced. “A doctor might be a wise idea.”
“No argument from me on that one. We are sadly reduced.” Gabriel brushed a tendril of hair from Edward’s face. “But...oh, thank God, you are safe.”
Edward rose up on his elbows with a pained gasp, shivering as garden dew dripped down the back of his neck.
The scene that met him seemed a mixture of utter tragedy and French farce. There was Gabriel, kneeling over him, streaked with soot and sweat—one of his shoes abandoned, smoking on the manicured lawn. A little way away sat Frakes, and then Hartley; Hartley, soot-streaked, his eyes alive with disgust as he stared at all of them.
Edward opened his mouth to speak to the man, to apologise, to appeal. But with a violent shake of his head, Hartley stood up and began staggering away.
“Let him go.” Gabriel kissed his forehead. “We’ll make amends when we’re able.”
Edward sighed, tears in his eyes, as he forced himself to look away from Hartley’s retreating back. Maurice lay sprawled and cursing in the flowerbed, Frakes and Bryce leaning over him, his bluish fingertips slowly reddening in the light of the blazing house...
Ah, yes. The house. Hardcote House, the ancestral home, the spiritual seat of the Stanhope soul...burning to ash. Razed to the ground. Ruined.
He knew he should be rejoicing. How many years of pain had been trapped behind those walls? This way his father was truly gone, his mother’s spirit finally freed...but no savage joy was hiding in his heart. No petty delight in destruction.
A small meow interrupted his thoughts. Buttons, lazing on the grass with every appearance of idleness, licked a paw as he looked at him.
Edward reached out a marvelling hand to the kitten. Button
s sniffed it, graced him with a small rub of his forehead, and lay back on the grass.
“Lambert didn’t manage to get out.” Edward looked up at the windows, half of them alive with flames. “He...did he even want to?”
“I don’t know.” Gabriel’s lips brushed gently against his cheekbone. “But I tried, Edward. I tried to save him.”
“I thought he was my friend.” Tears filled Edward’s eyes, blurring his vision. “I... I don’t have many friends.”
“You have more than you know. You’re loved. So loved.” Gabriel’s voice was ragged with meaning, with regret. “I should never have doubted you.”
“No. You were right to. Love should be lived, it needs time and space and—”
“Excuse me, but am I really hearing this correctly?” Maurice’s voice, faint but acid-dripped, rang out over the garden. “Our house is tuning itself to ash, all is lost, Sussex has won, and you are declaring love for one another like—like puppies? We are to be ruined, exposed, probably killed if the man decides to finish the job. Now? You do this now?”
“Glad to see you’re feeling less delicate.” Edward nodded to Maurice, who flopped back onto the flowerbed with an angry sigh. “Gabriel said you’d been poisoned. So was I.”
“Lambert tried. Try being the operative word.” A tinge of regret entered Maurice’s sarcasm-laden tone. “How stupid, using cunning with us. He should have called me out. I barely know how to hold a pistol.”
“Sussex wanted everything quiet. Cloak and dagger methods, to keep his own secrets safe.” Edward shook his head, still gripping Gabriel’s hand. “Lord knows how he’ll explain this away.”
“He doesn’t need to. No one knows he was ever here, apart from criminals who will be paid to keep quiet.” A thin plume of smoke rose from the flowerbed, along with the unmistakeable odour of Maurice’s cigar. “As far as Sussex is concerned, we’re dead. If we attempt to make the story more widely known in society, we’ll be hunted down—or simply ignored. Nothing we say can be verified—Ginger is nothing without documents, letters, evidence... Sussex has conquered us. He’s won.”
Grim silence settled over the garden. Edward lay back on the grass, head spinning. All was lost...all the status, all the glittering London pleasures.
All the pressure. All the pain. All the lonely nights in his Mayfair house, searching for something, anything, to fill the emptiness.
Gabriel’s hand was warm and tight in his. Edward, squeezing it, knew that everything of true value was still his. Still theirs.
He was safe. Safe, and ruined, and still capable of loving well. He had never known that all those things were possible to have together.
“Gabriel!” Lady Ploverdale’s high, terrified voice echoed over the lawns. Gabriel’s hand still tight in his, Edward followed the sounds, watching Caroline and Ginger run across the lawns. “We woke up to the flames. I—My God!”
“He’s well. We’re well.” Edward spoke hoarsely as the woman knelt beside him, pulling her brother tightly to her. “Sussex... Sussex decided not to compromise.”
“I saw Hartley making his way over the lawns.” Lady Ploverdale spoke quickly, holding her injured ankle with a wince as she bent down. “Should I—”
“No.” Maurice’s voice drifted from the flowerbed, tinged with melancholy. “I... I made a mistake.”
“Oh.” Lady Ploverdale’s face changed in the light of the burning house; Edward saw a deep sadness there. “I see.”
“Did my father burn it because of what I did?” Ginger spoke quietly, wide eyes on the burning house.
“What are you talking about, boy?” Frakes’s boisterous, smoke-laden voice rasped over the gardens. “None of this is your doing.”
“I did do something. But—but you said I could, before.” Ginger looked down at Maurice. “And you were all busy after he went, and I’m quicker than all of you, and—”
“Ginger.” Edward leaned forward painfully, Gabriel’s hand moving to his shoulder. “What did you do?”
Ginger shyly opened his jacket. He slowly produced a bundle of papers, which he handed to Maurice, papers Edward dimly remembered seeing on the small table in the hall.
“You said I should take everything that was mine.” The boy was staring mulishly at Maurice, who looked at the papers with widening eyes. “Everything that I thought belonged to me. These...these are mine. Not his.” He sniffed. “But if he came back and burned this place because I nicked them, then—”
“No.” Maurice’s voice was hoarse. “You did exactly what you should have done.”
Gabriel gripped Edward’s shoulder tightly. “How many are there?”
Maurice looked up. “Enough.”
Chapter Fifty-Two
The morning after the Hardcote fire was a busy one. Several things happened in very quick succession, each more astonishing than the last—so astonishing, in fact, that by the end of the day both Covent Garden and Mayfair were buzzing with the news.
First had come the letters. A rush of letters, a storm of them, falling onto the well-appointed doormats of nobility, gentry, and even certain tradesmen who had risen above the common herd. They were letters that men stuffed quickly into breast pockets, making sure to hide them from their wives...and some wives, upon seeing their name written in a most distinctive hand, retired quickly to their dressing rooms.
Once opened, the letters followed a simple formula. They were short, and to the point.
I know what you did.
I have evidence of what you did.
If you follow my instructions, what you did will disappear.
Lord Maurice Stanhope was calling in his favours.
The effect was swift, and staggering. By midday, His Grace the Duke of Sussex had been blacklisted from every club, drawing room, chophouse and gaming hell in London. And by the time the afternoon papers came out, full of incriminating evidence that Maurice had so helpfully detailed in letters to certain editors, the streets of the metropolis rang with the shocked glee that only comes when a publicly moral man is unmasked.
By midnight, Sussex was ruined beyond redemption. No one of his class was expected to be faithful to one’s wife—but consorting with the lower orders to such an extent? Falsely reporting the theft of a near-priceless necklace, breaking it into pieces and wasting it on a servant girl? Unacceptable. Unforgivable.
Society would turn its back. And as it turned, it would deliberately forget any scandals, even tremendous ones, connected to the Stanhope name.
Only the ending of the letters gave rise to a touch of curiosity. Why did Lord Maurice Stanhope, the most ruthless man in London, explicitly state that Sussex’s wife and sons were not to be ostracised? Such mercy seemed unusual for him.
Of course, if any curious readers had been privileged enough to see Maurice the night before the news broke, dreamily writing a postscript to his words while watching Lady Ploverdale talk to her brother, such tenderness would have been more than understood.
London developments caused the most gossip, to be sure. But in the quiet country lanes of Hardcote, where news was slower to arrive, the changes that came on the heels of the fire seemed remarkably inconsequential. Lady Ploverdale was to move into the rectory—and would be taking young Ginger in hand after the sad death of his mother. And hard-working vicar Gabriel Winters, recovered from the fever that had almost killed him, would be moving into the old gamekeeper’s cottage in the depths of Hardcote woods.
How nice, the villagers said to one another, remembering Gabriel as a boy—and how like old Mr. Welton, who had been so well respected. How monkish it seemed, as if Hardcote had its very own hermit, as it had in the good old days. A real touch of grace for any village, and something to talk to the neighbours about. And if they wondered about the sudden appearance of the infamous Duke of Caddonfell, and his apparent intention to stay in Hardcote House, so close to Gabriel
’s new living quarters...well, they remembered the times Gabriel had nursed their children through fever or brought them firewood in winter, or buried their dead with the tender respect of a man who knew true sorrow. Somehow, none of their questions ever reached their lips.
The last change was very small. So small, in fact, that only two people witnessed it, two people lying in bed in a sunlit cottage, the air still smelling faintly of ash.
“Do you know,” Gabriel said, musing as he kissed Edward’s shoulder. “I may do nothing at all today.”
“Oh yes?” Edward chuckled. “A Winters Nothing. Only four to five hours of mending roofs and badgering harmless old women into accepting favours they neither want nor need?”
“No. Caroline sent me a letter. She says Ginger’s quite keen on doing the work today. Apparently he still feels quite guilty about his light fingers, even though they saved us all.” Gabriel ran a finger along the back of Edward’s neck, watching the golden hairs stand up. “It appears I really will be doing...nothing.”
“That boy’s going to make a tremendous curate. Your sister will have enormous amounts of fun teaching him how to...roll cheese? Pluck sparrows?” Edward shrugged, laughing as he dodged a well-thrown pillow. “What can I say? Country wisdom still eludes me.”
“A dreadful thing, for a country boy.” Gabriel furrowed his brow in a mock frown. “I doubt you’ve danced around a single maypole.”
“Now that is a statement that practically begs for a knowing reply.” Edward yawned, stretching. “It’s a pity I’m simply too tranquil to speak.”
They lay in silence for several bliss-filled minutes. Gabriel kept sneaking glances at Edward’s uncovered body, gleaming in the early morning light. Ever since the night of the fire, Edward had slept tightly against him—and never, not once, had he tried to conceal his scars.
Edward was living, and his. The knowledge glittered in Gabriel’s mind like a star. Edward was his...and no, he didn’t know for how long, but he wouldn’t think about that. Not now.
The Vicar and the Rake (Society of Beasts) Page 26