Pale Moon Rider

by Marsha Canham

  Renée’s gaze flicked to the open hallway behind him, but Vincent’s shoulders blocked the doorway. She took another stumbling step back, which he matched, and another that brought him far enough inside the room to hook the door with his foot and slam it shut behind him.

  Renée retreated as far as the bed and could go no farther. She had not had time to fasten her cloak properly and when she came up sharp against the edge of the footboard, the cloak slipped off her shoulders, bringing attention to the naked whiteness of her throat.

  “Well, well.” Vincent came up in front of her and flexed the muscles in his jaw a time or two. “Shall I guess what you have in the bag?”

  He threw the glasses to one side, causing Renée to flinch at the sound of them shattering against the wall. The bottle ended up on the floor, the glass too thick to break, and before it had rolled to a halt, Vincent had snatched up the valise and jerked it open. The velvet jewel case was on top and seeing it, he expelled a long, sour breath laden with oaths.

  “… Cheap little whoring thief,” he concluded with a disbelieving shake of his head. “No different from any other lying bitch.”

  Eyes blazing, he removed the velvet case and saw the canvas pouch beneath. He started to lift it out when Renée lunged forward, trying to dart past him, but he caught her by the arm and flung her back hard enough that her knees buckled against the footboard and she fell backward onto the bed. She twisted to one side and tried again, but this time when he swung out, he slapped her hard enough to knock her momentarily senseless with the shock and the pain. Keeping one eye on Renée’s dazed efforts to struggle upright again, Vincent loosened the drawstring and emptied the contents of the sack into his hand. When he saw the pearl brooch, his jaw gaped, and when he saw that Renée had almost managed to regain her feet, he swung out again, this time with his fist closed and the full force of his anger behind the blow.

  The agony exploded inside Renée’s head, blinding her to the further pain of landing awkwardly on her shoulder as she was thrown back onto the bed again. Starbursts clouded her vision and sent her senses reeling; she did not know for long, wildly spinning seconds which way was up or down. Somewhere out of the pain and fog, she heard Vincent swear again, felt him grab a fistful of her hair, angling her face up and into the blurred glitter he shoved in front of her eyes.

  “Where did you get this, bitch? Where did you get this?”

  Even as the pain cleared enough for her to focus on the brooch, she was pushing herself to the side, trying to escape his clutches.

  With a snarl he hauled her sharply back and before she could thrash her way free, he was looming over her, his fist tightened around her hair, his knee gouging into her belly to keep her body pinned to the mattress.

  “I’ll ask you one more time,” he grunted. “Where did you get this? No, never mind. I know where you got it. The question I should be asking is how you got it and what you gave him in exchange.”

  Renée felt his spittle on her face and her temper flared. The rage of fifteen generations of noble blood coursed like fire through her veins and she reared up at him in defiance. “I could ask you the same thing. Where did you get it? Where did you get the rubies? No,” she spat, “never mind. I know where you got them, m’sieur. I know whose blood is on them and whose blood was spilled that you might profit from their deaths!”

  His grin was slow and evil. “So you know all about our little enterprise, do you? And what were you doing, trying to cut yourself in for a share of the profits? You stupid bitch, you could have had ten times as much if you’d waited another two days.”

  “But I also would have had to marry you, and I would not have been able to endure the stench for a thousand times as much!”

  He stared and his face seemed to swell, purpling around the jowls as he responded with two vicious, open-handed slaps across her face. One of them caused her lip to split and her mouth filled with the rusty taste of blood.

  “Whore,” he snarled. “And me thinking you were a lady. A fine, noble lady of quality and virtue who had to be treated gently and patiently.” He brought his face menacingly closer. “Won’t Roth be surprised to hear exactly how well his little trap worked? You had Starlight eating out of your hand, all right. Eating out of something else, too, I wager. You must be good. Damned good for two hundred thousand pounds’ worth of bauble.”

  He flung the brooch beside her on the bed and Renée braced herself for another blow, but he had caught the glitter of the diamond cravat pin amongst the coins he had discarded and he grabbed it up in his fist.

  “And this? By God, who were you sweating under for this? Goddammit”—he bared his teeth and glared down at her—“am I the only one you haven’t spread your legs for?”

  “No,” she countered furiously. “I have not yet had the gardener or the man who cleans out the gutters.”

  He struck her again and this time when her vision cleared, she saw the glitter of something else before her eyes. It was a knife, long and thin, sharpened to a needlepoint at the end.

  “We’ll see how much of that clever little tongue you have left at the end of the night,” Vincent hissed. “And we’ll put this here”—he stabbed the knife into the corner post, leaving it vibrating easily within hand’s reach—“for incentive, shall we? If I don’t think you are worth every penny of the trouble you have caused us, you’re going to find yourself cut ten ways to Sunday and wishing you were dead.”

  He straightened and started tugging at the buttons and fasteners on his jacket and waistcoat. Renée made another desperate lunge to the side, but he snatched her back with ease. His hands clawed at her breasts and he fell on her like a ravening beast, tearing at the delicate silk, plunging his mouth over the soft white flesh where it was exposed. Growling and grunting, he fumbled with his breeches and with the hem of her skirts, having to stop every few seconds to beat down her arms and legs as she fought to dislodge him.

  He was big and he was drunk, and for every twist and blow of her fists, he struck her hard with the flat of his hand. She screamed—or at least she thought she did—as his teeth sank into her breast and dimly she was aware of another sound, another shadow looming up over the bed. His mouth was wide and the silent screams he made were coming from a nightmare—the same nightmare that forced him to relive the horror of seeing his mother being beaten and kicked to death on the wet cobblestones of a Paris street.

  Antoine threw himself across Edgar Vincent’s broad back, clinging like a dog with his teeth, his nails, his knees, anything and everything he could bring to bear. The fishmonger roared and heaved back, throwing the boy across the room, hard enough to crack his head on the wall. In a fresh rage, he turned back to Renée, his breeches gaping, the angry red spear of his flesh clutched in his hand.

  Renée had scrambled to her knees and was holding the long, thin filleting knife between her clenched fists.

  “Do not come any closer, m’sieur,” she hissed.

  “What are you going to do? Slit my throat? Stab me in the gut? Or maybe you’d like to try to geld me?” He approached the side of the bed, his hand working his flesh, his fist sliding back and forth along the thick protrusion, obviously aroused by the threat of the knife. His attention was all focused on Renée, on the blood that ran from her split lip, on the streaks of red that were smeared across the whiteness of her breasts where they glowed through the torn silk.

  At the very last possible moment, Renée shook her head and ducked out of the way. The knife slashed sideways, cutting a ribbon across the back of Vincent’s hand as he plunged forward, but he barely felt it and certainly did not notice it. The strike of the wine bottle against the back of his skull came with a sickening crunch of glass on solid bone and, after rearing back briefly to absorb the shock, Vincent shuddered once and collapsed forward, his weight landing in a limp heap across the bottom of Renée’s legs. At the same time, the impact shattered the bottle and the contents exploded across the bed, spraying wine and shards of broken glass across t
he counterpane.

  For five, ten full seconds no one moved. Antoine raised the jagged neck of the broken bottle and was prepared to swing again but Vincent lay still as death across the bed. The skin across the back of his neck was split like overripe fruit, and a thick, sluggish stream of blood started to ooze down through his hair and collar. Renée lay gasping beneath him, her legs pinned beneath his bulk.

  “Antoine,” she cried. “Antoine—help me! I cannot move!”

  He dropped the bottle and dashed forward. Between them, pushing and pulling, they rolled Vincent over onto his side, then shoved him off the edge of the bed, where he landed with another dull thud. Renée choked back a sob and clung to her brother as he helped her up and off the bed. He managed to get her to her feet and together they stumbled across the room to the vanity table, where he eased her down into the chair then ran into the dressing room to fetch a towel.

  Her dress was torn and gaped open to her waist. She went to clutch the edges together and realized she was still holding the filleting knife. For one final outraged moment, she stared at Vincent’s body, then opened her fingers and let the knife fall to the floor.

  Antoine returned with the towel and began to blot the splashes of wine and blood off her face.

  “C’est finis. La bête est morte. La bête est morte!”

  “The beast,” she agreed with an angry shudder. “The bastard! I would have used the knife on him. I would!”

  “I killed him for you, Renée. He cannot hurt you again!”

  Renée shook her head, certain it was the ringing in her ears causing her to hear the proud assurances. But when he continued to say them and she continued to hear them, she stopped and looked up, squeezing her eyes to clear them of unshed tears. “Antoine … what did you say?”

  “I said I—” he stopped too.

  He closed his mouth, then opened it again and when he spoke, the words were rasped and broken with wonder, but they could both hear them.

  “I killed him for you. He cannot hurt you anymore.”

  “Again, mon coeur” she whispered, barely daring to breathe, to hope.

  “I killed him for you.” Stronger this time. “He cannot hurt you anymore! Renée—! Renée—!”

  She brought him into her arms and hugged him. The tears she had not permitted herself to give in to until now came hot and fast, and a moment later, when Finn came running into the room, that was how he found them. Laughing, crying, hugging each other with the bleeding body of Edgar Vincent sprawled on the floor in front of the bed.

  “Mary and Joseph! What happened here!” Renée was still sobbing and it fell to Antoine to explain, which he did with a wide grin on his face.

  “I believe I have killed him, M’sieur Finn. He was hurting Renée. He was hurting her like the soldiers hurt maman, so I killed him.”

  “Dear God in heaven, he is bleeding all over the—” the valet halted halfway to the bed, drew a deep breath, and stiffened. His eyes started to crinkle with surprise as he stared at Antoine, but then his gaze was drawn to Renée’s torn clothing and the bloodied towel she was clutching over her breast and the smile turned into an expression of horror. “Good sweet God, mad’moiselle, are you all right?”

  She nodded as he hastened over. “I am fine. Perfectly fine. Antoine came to my rescue just in time.”

  “I heard her scream.”

  “And he hit him with a bottle …”

  “I smashed it over his head,” Antoine repeated proudly. “And killed him.”

  “The blood?” Finn asked. “You are cut!”

  Renée touched her cheek and her fingers came away red. “It must have been from the glass. Before that, he only hit me and—” she slid a finger along her bottom gum and a moment later produced a piece of broken tooth.

  Finn peered anxiously into Renée’s eyes. “You are not … hurt anywhere else?”

  “No,” she said, resting her hand over his. “No. He was … too drunk and too angry.” She looked over at the body. “He was too clumsy, too stupid, too …” The words failed her and her temper flushed hotly into her cheeks again. “Rien de tout!”

  “Yes, well, unfortunately, he is something. He is another body in your bedchamber that must be disposed of. Had I known this was going to become a habit,” he added with dry sarcasm, “I might have insisted you take a bedchamber on a lower floor.”

  He returned to the body and knelt down beside it.

  “Is he dead?”

  Before Finn could answer, Vincent groaned. One of his legs dragged forward a few inches then slumped flat again.

  “Unfortunately not. It appears his skull is as thick as the rest of him. He is leaking quite profusely, however. Antoine—another towel, if you please? Or something we can use to wipe up the mess.”

  Antoine disappeared into the adjoining room and returned with two thick towels.

  “What shall we do with him?” Renée asked.

  “We shall have to tie him up and hide him away somewhere. But the first thing we must do is see you and His Grace safely to the tower. That rascal Hart said he would wait, but if someone should stumble upon us and the hounds of hell are released, he may not be able to wait too long. What is more, he was not looking too spry when last I saw him. No doubt his wound is playing him for the devil and while it is all very well for one to think one feels strong enough to caper about like a marionette, it is quite another to do it with a recently cauterized hole in one’s side. I will just fetch the young master’s bag—good God, I left it outside in the hallway!”

  “I will get it,” Antoine said, on his way before Finn could push himself to his feet. When he did, he had to grab at the bedpost to steady himself, suddenly looking every one of his sixty years.

  “Can you manage on your own, mad’moiselle?” he asked Renée.

  She frowned, then followed his uncomfortably indirect glance down to the torn edges of her gown. “Oh. Yes, yes I can manage.”

  “Good. Then dress quickly, if you please. We haven’t: many moments to spare.”

  While Renée changed in a shadowy corner of the dressing room, Finn gathered up the coins, the pin, the brooch, and the jewelry case, returning them to the valise. He removed the wine-splattered counterpane, bundling most of the broken glass inside, then turned down the corner of the sheets as if the bed had been prepared for the night. When he was reasonably satisfied with the appearance of the rest of the room, he took the braided cords off the curtains and began tying Vincent’s wrists together.

  Renée returned, pale as a ghost but freshly attired in a light woolen gown that closed all the way up to her neck. She had washed the blood off her chin and throat, but her lip was still leaking, as was the cut on her cheek. Her hands, though ice cold, were a good deal steadier however, as she placed them on Antoine’s shoulders and gave him a fierce hug.

  “You were very brave,” she insisted. “Just like papa. He would have been so proud of you! When I saw you standing there, lifting that bottle, ready to smash it on his head, I could have laughed right in le cochon’s face!”

  “Indeed, Your Grace,” Finn said, “both your father and lady mother are likely smiling down upon you now, bragging to all their heavenly companions what a fine job they have done raising you. You have one more task to perform, however, before you puff out too much. You must take your sister quickly and discreetly to the tower.”

  Startled, Renée looked at Finn. “What about you?”

  “I will be along directly, never fear.” He retrieved her cloak from the floor and draped it around her shoulders. “I must insure this wretched swine cannot cry out an alarm or cause a disturbance until we are well on our way.”

  “We will help. Or we will wait.”

  “Not here, mad’moiselle. I would feel exceedingly more at ease if you waited in the tower. I will only be a moment behind you, I promise. And please,” he crooked an eyebrow in anticipation of an argument, “Do exactly what Mr. Hart tells you to do. Even though I thought I should bite my tongue off
before saying this, I believe you can trust the rogue. He will see you and the young master come to no harm. Quickly now. Faites vite!”

  Antoine took her hand and started pulling her to the door. “We will not leave without you!”

  Finn was already bending over Vincent again. “Yes. Yes … go.”

  After checking carefully down both ends of the hall, Antoine and Renée slipped out of the bedroom and hurried toward the tower stairs. Antoine bade her stop halfway and scampered to the bottom, peering cautiously down the long gallery. There was a couple strolling leisurely down the hall admiring the dusty old portraits, but they were still well along where the light was stronger. He retreated quickly and, holding a finger over his lips to caution her, lifted the edge of the heavy tapestry to one side while Renée ducked behind.

  The door made the faintest squeak as it swung inward. The sound was no louder than what a mouse might make scurrying away from a tabby but to Renée it was like a scream. It was also pitch dark inside the musty old tower and for another heart-stopping moment, she feared they were too late. Tyrone had gone without them. He had waited as long as he could, and despite his promise …

  The sudden scrape of flint on tinder quelled the bubble of panic rising in her chest. It was dispelled altogether when the spark was touched to an oil-soaked taper and she saw Robert Dudley standing against the far wall beneath the curve of the stairwell. His features were stark, distorted by the weak flame, and as he held the taper to a fat yellow candle, the brighter light revealed the worried look on his face.

  “I thought I was going to have to go looking for you,” he muttered, obviously not pleased at the delay.

  “Where is M’sieur Hart?” Renée asked.

  “Here.” The voice came from the blackness beside them. Dudley limped forward with the candle, while the shadows retreated to show where Tyrone was seated on the stone steps. He looked, as Finn had forewarned, terrible. His face was drawn, his eyes dulled by exhaustion and pain. His jacket and waistcoat were unbuttoned, his cravat was loose and the ends were trailing down the sides of his lapels. His right hand was cradling his ribs, his left was holding a gun.