by Aston, Alexa
Andrew wanted to protest that it was Francis who had made the mistakes but he didn’t dare anger the man, not when he held a gun to Phoebe’s head.
“I went to London, you know,” Francis said. “I couldn’t face going to America. I jumped from the ship at the last moment. I’m an Englishman. I didn’t want you chasing me from my homeland.” He spat on the ground. “London held nothing for me, though. Even my good friend, Parks, wanted nothing to do with me. You must have scared him spineless, Windham, for Parks to abandon me like that.”
“Francis, let Phoebe go,” Andrew pleaded.
His eyes gleamed with madness. “Maybe I will make her my duchess.” He leaned close and licked Phoebe’s cheek, the gun still held to her head.
Phoebe shuddered but kept silent. Then she looked at Andrew and mouthed, “I love you.”
He wanted to reach out. Touch her. Assure her all would be well. With Francis teetering on the edge of sanity, though, he didn’t dare.
“You can’t be the Duke of Windham,” he said gently. “There’s a warrant out for your arrest, Francis. I was made to give a sworn statement. The magistrate knows you attempted to murder me. He has proof you killed another man and pretended he was me so that you could claim the dukedom.”
Francis made a guttural noise deep in his throat, tightening his grip on Phoebe. “Then if I’m to swing from the gibbet, it won’t matter if I kill again.”
“Me, Francis,” Andrew implored. “Shoot me.” As he spoke, he saw tears well in his wife’s eyes.
“No. Me,” Phoebe said, her voice calm and surprisingly strong. “You can easily pull the trigger now, Francis. Let Andrew live.”
He clucked his tongue. “Both of you, so self-sacrificing. I wish I could kill you both. Let me think.”
“There’s nothing to think about,” Andrew said, shakily, his heart racing as he caught sight of Robbie Jones silently creeping toward Francis.
The coachman had appeared from nowhere. If Andrew could keep Francis talking, it would give Robbie time to reach Phoebe.
“Let’s talk about this, instead, Francis,” he continued, making certain his gaze connected with Francis so as not to give his half-brother any reason to turn.
“I am done talking!” Francis shouted. “I am done listening to you. You have taken everything from me. I want to take everything from you. Everything.”
Andrew’s gut tightened hearing those words, knowing how volatile Francis was and that he might fire the pistol at any moment.
His half-brother smiled. “I want you to suffer as I have. I want you driven to drink. Mired in the depths of unhappiness for the rest of your life. It seems losing this pretty little wife of yours is the answer.”
As Francis cocked the pistol, Robbie crashed into him from behind, jerking Francis’ wrist away. Francis’ shot, meant for Phoebe, fired into the air instead as the threesome tumbled to the ground.
His hold broken on her, Phoebe scrambled away as Andrew launched himself at Francis. With glee, he slammed his fist into his half-brother’s face.
Francis cried out, bringing his hands up to block Andrew’s next punch. He diverted it, punching Francis in the throat instead. It knocked the wind from the madman and Francis fought for air. Andrew stood and Francis rolled to his side, wheezing. Without any regret, Andrew kicked their attacker in the head. Francis didn’t move.
“Watch him,” he told Robbie.
“Andrew!” Phoebe cried, running to him and throwing her arms about him.
He enfolded her, stroking her back, kissing her hair. “Are you all right?” he asked, gently taking her chin in hand and lifting her face.
“No,” she said angrily. “You were begging him to kill you.”
“I didn’t want him to shoot you.”
Fire lit her eyes. “And I didn’t want to live without you,” she said, defiance lacing her voice.
His thumb stroked her jaw. “Then the next time a madman is holding you hostage, you suggest I allow him to shoot you?” he said lightly.
“Oh, Andrew.” She clutched his waistcoat and forced his mouth to hers.
They kissed one another greedily, knowing how a split second might have changed the courses of their lives.
He broke the kiss. “We have someone to thank and I need to see to Francis.”
She shuddered and clung to him. “I wish you could kill him. I know I sound like a savage but he almost killed you. Or me.”
“He will die for his crimes,” Andrew assured her.
Gently easing away his wife, he turned and saw Robbie had already bound Francis’ hands behind him. How his one-handed driver had managed the task, Andrew hadn’t a clue. Gratitude, though, filled him as he strode to his driver.
“What in God’s name brought you here?”
“A soldier’s gut instinct, Your Grace. I sensed something was off today. So I grabbed a horse and followed you.”
“Just like my gut instinct in hiring you to begin with.”
Both men grinned at each other shamelessly and Andrew said, “We make a fine team, Robbie.”
“That we do, Your Grace.”
He looked down and saw that Francis was beginning to stir. His nose sat crooked from the blow Andrew had landed the first time. Blood stained his grimy clothes. Andrew understood exactly what Phoebe meant. He wished he could shoot his half-brother and toss him into the sea but he kept his head. With Robbie’s help, they brought Francis to his feet, both keeping a tight grasp on Francis’ elbows.
“Get the pistol, Phoebe,” he called. “Be careful.”
She went to it, looking at it with distaste as she lifted it with two fingers and then brought it to him. He slipped it into his coat pocket.
“I will make sure he doesn’t escape. Robbie, retrieve your horse and see Her Grace safely back to Moreland Hall. Then ride for the magistrate and tell him Francis Graham has returned—but not what you witnessed. I don’t want anyone overhearing your conversation and gossiping about it. Have Sir William bring several men with him to Moreland Hall. Once he is here and my half-brother is in his custody, Sir William will need to take your statement regarding today’s events.”
“Yes, Your Grace,” his driver said.
“I will have Martin send several footmen back to you,” Phoebe told him.
“I’ll start heading in your direction so I’ll meet them along the way.”
“You’ll meet us along the way,” she said with determination. “I will bring them back.”
Andrew smiled at his fearless wife. “Then I will be watching for you, my love.”
Phoebe went to her horse, allowing Robbie to give her a boost into the saddle before he swung up onto his own horse.
“I love you,” she told Andrew. “Even if you are pigheaded and far too handsome for your own good.”
With that, she nudged her horse and she and Robbie took off at a gallop for Moreland Hall.
“Come along, Francis,” Andrew said, taking the reins of his horse in one hand and leading his half-brother with the other.
“You think I want to rot in prison while awaiting trial?” Francis asked. “And then hang as the public jeers at me?” He shook his head. “You always were a fool.”
Francis tore himself away and ran.
Toward the cliff’s edge.
Andrew gave chase but Francis had a sole purpose in mind. A quick death. He reached the precipice and flung himself over without hesitation. By the time Andrew arrived seconds later, he saw Francis crash into the sea, the waves swallowing him whole. If he survived the fall, drowning was almost a certainty since his wrists were securely bound behind him.
He continued watching for several minutes and never saw Francis surface. Returning to his horse, Andrew mounted and rode back to Moreland Hall. By the time he arrived, he saw Phoebe moving from the stables toward the house. She gasped when she saw him. He rode to her and dismounted.
“Where is Francis?” she asked.
“He broke away and flung himself over the clif
f.”
“Is he dead?”
“Most likely. Wait here.”
He took his horse to the stables and gave his reins to a groom and then joined Phoebe again.
“I think our idea of christening Moreland Hall will have to wait until Sir William has come and gone.”
They entered the house and he called for tea. He told Martin that Sir William was expected and to have him and the tea brought to the library. He lifted Phoebe in his arms and carried her there, sitting in a large chair with her curled upon his lap, her head resting against his shoulder. She trembled for a few minutes and then seemed to calm as he stroked her back and murmured softly to her.
Martin wheeled in the teacart himself and silently poured both of them a cup, doctoring them with a heavy dose of milk and sugar before retreating without a word.
Andrew reached for the nearest cup. “Phoebe, the tea is here.”
She raised her head and he held it to her lips.
“I can hold it, Andrew. Really, I’m fine now. I was just upset and crazed at the notion of you being shot before my eyes. I’m much better now.”
She started to rise and he restrained her. “Stay. I like you here.”
Grinning, she said, “I like it here, too.”
Taking the cup from him, she sipped at the hot tea and he did the same.
Within an hour, they’d finished their tea and sat talking quietly when Martin entered the room.
“Sir William Rankin has arrived, Your Grace.”
“Show him in.”
Phoebe suggested, “Let’s move to the settee. It’s one thing for our servants to see me in your lap. Quite another for the local magistrate.”
“As you wish.”
By the time the butler showed Sir William in, they sat side-by-side on the settee, looking perfectly normal.
Andrew rose and Phoebe did the same. “Sir William,” he greeted.
The magistrate came toward them. “Your Graces. Congratulations on your marriage. I heard the news from Mrs. Butler.”
He chuckled. “I’m sure the entire community of Falmouth has heard from Mrs. Butler.”
“I also know she is coming to tea at Moreland Hall. In the Windham carriage, no less.”
“Did she mention Mr. Butler is to accompany her?”
“I assumed he would,” Sir William said, also chuckling.
“Won’t you have a seat, Sir William?” Phoebe asked, indicating a chair.
“Thank you, Your Grace.”
They situated themselves and the magistrate said, “I was told by your coachman that my presence was needed regarding Graham.”
“Yes. He returned to Cornwall and confronted my wife and me this afternoon while we were out riding.”
Phoebe’s hand sought his and he laced his fingers with hers as he told Sir William what had occurred, noting Robbie’s role in Francis’ capture and that the coachman could attest to what had unfolded.
“I thought restraining him was the safest way to return him to Moreland Hall,” Andrew concluded, explaining how Francis had broken free and hurled himself over the cliff. “I only wished I could have acted quickly enough to prevent him from leaping to a certain death.”
“You did nothing wrong, Your Grace,” Sir William reassured him. “The man knew he faced the gallows and took a coward’s way out. I will send the men I brought with me to the beach to look for him at once. Hopefully, the body will wash up soon and we can close this case. I brought along three men with me.”
The magistrate rose and Andrew did likewise, offering his hand. “Thank you for coming so quickly.”
“Will you be at Moreland Hall long?”
“No. After tomorrow’s tea with the Butlers, we plan to return home to Windowmere the following day.”
“I will send word to you, wherever you are,” the magistrate promised.
After he left, Andrew sat. He placed his arm about his wife’s shoulders and drew her to him. Her familiar lavender scent and warmth comforted him. They sat without speaking for several minutes. He gave thanks that they were able to do so. That neither of them had been hurt or killed by his insane half-brother. He also prayed that Francis was truly dead and would never trouble them again. Hiring Robbie Jones had saved the former military man from his unhappy life but Robbie had returned the favor a hundredfold by stepping in and saving Andrew and Phoebe from a madman.
The next afternoon, the Butlers arrived for tea, looking awestruck by their surroundings.
“Would you care to look around the house?” Phoebe asked Mrs. Butler. “We can delay having tea sent for half an hour.”
The woman’s eyes lit up. “You would do that?”
“Certainly. Come along, Mrs. Butler. I’d be happy to show you Moreland Hall. Would you care to go as well, Mr. Butler?”
“If it’s no trouble, Your Grace,” he said eagerly.
Andrew joined them and they showed the couple every floor and each room. Compliments flowed from Mrs. Butler. He supposed she’d never been inside a house so grand.
They returned to the drawing room and tea arrived moments later. Phoebe poured out and they spent three-quarters of an hour in conversation and eating sandwiches and small tea cakes.
“I am so glad you could join us today,” Phoebe said.
Martin appeared. “Your Grace, Sir William Rankin has arrived.”
“Show him in,” Andrew said, knowing they must have discovered Francis’ body. He looked at Phoebe, who bit back a smile, knowing their guests would have a front row seat to what the magistrate would share.
“I hope you don’t mind Sir William interrupting our tea,” he said. “I believe he has important news for us.”
“Not at all,” Mrs. Butler said, curiosity eating away at her.
When Sir William arrived, they greeted him and asked him to join them. Phoebe rang for another cup and gave him tea.
The magistrate glanced at the Butlers and back to Andrew. “I suppose you know why I came, Your Grace.”
“I have a good idea, Sir William. Speak freely.”
After a moment’s hesitation, he did. “The body of Francis Graham was discovered a few hours ago. I had it brought back here. I understand if you wish to refuse it, however.”
He thought a moment. “No, Francis should be buried at Windowmere. It’s where his mother and father lie. He should be at his final resting place near them.”
“That is very generous of you, Your Grace,” Sir William said.
“I’m just happy to see this matter finally closed,” he said.
Sir William rose. “I will take my leave then.”
Mr. Butler also stood. “Would you mind if we rode back with you, Sir William? That way, His Grace’s carriage doesn’t have to go to Falmouth and back.”
Andrew saw Mrs. Butler was outraged at her husband’s suggestion and said, “I’m sure Sir William has things to do regarding this case, Mr. Butler. I would prefer you and Mrs. Butler return in the ducal carriage.”
“Oh, thank you, Your Grace,” Mrs. Butler said quickly, her relief obvious. She also stood. “Tea was lovely, Your Grace,” she said to Phoebe. “Perhaps we can do this again the next time you are in Cornwall.”
He was proud of the gracious smile his wife gave the gossipy woman. “We’ll certainly consider it, Mrs. Butler. It was lovely seeing you.”
Martin showed their guests out. Andrew waited for the door to close before he burst out into laughter and pulled Phoebe to him.
“It seems as if you have a new best friend in Cornwall,” he teased.
“I’m afraid you will always be my best friend,” she replied.
He kissed her. “I’m happy Mrs. Butler will not replace me in your affections.”
Phoebe’s smile was radiant. “You will always be my one true love, Andrew.”
Epilogue
Windowmere—April 1815
Phoebe groaned as another birth pain racked her body. Her maid wiped a cool cloth against her forehead again.
“You
’re doing fine, Your Grace,” the servant encouraged.
“She’s right,” the midwife agreed.
The pain lingered longer than before and she couldn’t stop the scream that erupted from her. Suddenly, a need to push overwhelmed her. She vaguely recalled having the same feeling when she’d given birth to Nathan.
The midwife nodded. “You want to push, don’t you?”
“Yes,” she said through gritted teeth. “Yes.”
“Let me check again.”
Lifting the sheet, the midwife disappeared from view for a moment. When she lowered the sheet, Phoebe saw the woman smile.
“It’s time, Your Grace. Bear down as hard as you can and push with all your might.”
Phoebe did so repeatedly. Her strength began ebbing.
“I’m so tired,” she said, her voice sounding as if it came from a distance. From some other person.
“You’re almost there, Your Grace,” the midwife encouraged. “Just once more. Twice at the most.”
She scrunched her face and bore down with all her might, a guttural, animal noise coming from her. It did the trick, though, as she felt the baby leave her body.
“Is everything all right?” she asked worriedly.
A wail began. The most beautiful noise she had ever heard.
“You have a boy, Your Grace,” the midwife told her, handing the baby to the maid. “Get him cleaned up,” she instructed. “I will attend Her Grace and collect the afterbirth.”
Phoebe lay against the pillows, exhausted, as the process continued. Relief swept through her, knowing she had given birth again. Another boy. This one could never replace Nathan in her heart but she was so eager to be a mother again. To Andrew’s son. Their boy together.
Another maid appeared and helped her from the night rail she wore, bathing Phoebe’s limbs and then helping her to stand while fresh sheets were placed upon her bed. The maid slipped another night rail over her head and helped her into her dressing gown before easing her back onto the bed.
Then her maid appeared with the swaddled bundle and she saw the sweet, tiny face that she already loved so very much. The maid placed the baby into Phoebe’s arms.
“Bring His Grace,” she said, wanting Andrew to share in the joy of their new son.