The Taming of Ryder Cavanaugh

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The Taming of Ryder Cavanaugh Page 39

by Stephanie Laurens

Only then did she look at Ryder, but Ryder was no longer interested in her.

  To spare his half siblings, he needed to bring this entire tale to as neat an end as possible. Fixing his gaze on the two stable hands, he said, “As I’m sure you know, I’m the Lord Marshal of this area. That means I can hand you over to the authorities—it also means I can act as the authority.”

  “We saw her.” The older of the pair nodded at Lavinia. “Plain as day saw her stab Snickert right in the eye with that pin of hers. Killed him, she did. In cold blood an’ all.”

  “Yes, I know,” Ryder replied. “But that’s not what I need you to tell me. Both of you helped Snickert abduct my wife from the grounds of our home yesterday afternoon.”

  The man who’d spoken looked at Mary. “She can’t’ve known it were us—none of us was ever in her sight, and Snickert was the only one who spoke.”

  “Indeed.” Ryder inwardly shook his head. “But as you’ve just confirmed, you were there. Don’t waste time trying to deny it. Abducting a marchioness, incarcerating her, shooting at us—”

  “That were Snickert.”

  “Regardless, by helping him, you are guilty of the crime, too. For doing those three things alone, you are headed for the gallows. However”—Ryder held up a finger—“if you cooperate, given that I am the Lord Marshal and it was me and my wife you sought to harm, I will agree to convert your sentence from hanging to transportation.” He paused, then went on, “But that will only occur if you tell me all I want to know.”

  The stable hands exchanged a long glance, then they looked at Ryder. Resignation seeping into his expression, the older man asked, “What do you want to know?”

  “I want you to tell me, and all those here, everything you know, everything that Snickert told you, about his plans to murder me and my wife.”

  The man pursed his lips in thought, then said, “Don’t know much about what happened in Lunnon, but he did say as how he’d hired this bent lawyer who knew some navvies weren’t too particular—”

  The story came tumbling out, more or less whole. Lavinia’s initial plan to murder Ryder, subsequently expanded after his and Mary’s marriage to include Mary, too.

  “He said as she said”—the stableman nodded toward Lavinia—“that now you was married, she needed your missus bumped off first, because if we bumped you off first, you might already have knocked her up, and as her family’s right powerful, they’d have swept her up and off and no one would have been able to touch her and your babe, and for some reason that weren’t any good, either. You and your get—she wanted you wiped from the earth.”

  Rand shot a glance at Lavinia that was close to hate.

  “So then—”

  The stablemen continued, detailing how Snickert had got into the abbey, first to plant the adder, then the scorpion, by using a secret tunnel that led from the Dower House priest hole, hidden behind the mantelpiece in the dining room, to the chapel on the first floor of the abbey.

  Ryder turned to his half siblings. “What tunnel?”

  They all blinked at him. “Didn’t you know?” Godfrey asked.

  When Ryder shook his head, Kit humphed. “I suppose we all just assumed you did.”

  Turning back to the stablemen, Ryder gestured for them to continue. With a prompt here and there from Mary, and a question from Rand, they confirmed the entirety of Snickert’s actions on Lavinia’s behalf, ending with them using Mary to bait their trap for him, and then locking him and Mary in the cellar beneath the basement.

  “Snickert thought the poisoned water was a nice touch, and apparently her ladyship agreed. We thought when her ladyship came home, we’d be opening up the door under the sacks there and finding your dead bodies laid out all neat and nice.” The stableman looked at him with a certain shrewd acceptance. “Weren’t to be, though, was it? Told Snickert it were never a good thing to cross swords with a nob.”

  Ryder met his gaze. “You should have listened to your own advice.”

  The older man inclined his head. “Aye, so I should.” He straightened. “So, what now?”

  “Now I’m going to hand you over to my men. They’ll take you to the abbey—there’s a holding cell there. You’ll be placed in it until I can summon the constables to take you away.”

  “Wait.” Rand walked to Lavinia and halted directly in front of her. He looked into her face. “Do you deny any of what they’ve said?”

  She looked flatly back at him, then sneered. “Of course not.” She glanced at Ryder with naked hate. “I’m just sorry I couldn’t find more competent staff.”

  Rand studied her for a moment more, then turned and faced Ryder. “Kit and I will take her upstairs and lock her in her room.”

  Ryder nodded. “The rest of us will wait in the drawing room.” Without looking at Lavinia, he reached for Mary. “We’ll need to discuss what to do.”

  Twining her arm with his, Mary walked beside him out of the basement, collecting Stacie and Godfrey as they went, leaving Rand and Kit to deal with their mother.

  Now very definitely a murderess.

  Tea was the universal remedy.

  At Mary’s suggestion, Caldicott, who had remained on duty, brought in a tray. In addition to two teapots, he’d set out some pound cake on a plate.

  Watching Godfrey crumble a slice rather than eat it, Mary said, “You must be starving.”

  Godfrey looked down at the mound of crumbs, sighed. “I am—but I don’t think I’ll be able to eat anything in this house again.”

  Stacie shivered. “Let alone in Chapel Street.”

  Mary glanced at Ryder, then reached out to close her hand around one of Stacie’s. “Don’t worry about that. You’ll be staying with us, of course.” She looked across at Godfrey. “Both of you.”

  The looks of relief combined with real gratitude that passed over their faces were heart-wrenching.

  The door opened and Randolph, followed by Kit, walked in.

  Mary held up the teapot, a question in her eyes. Randolph caught his breath, then saw the glass of brandy in Ryder’s hand. “Ah—no, thank you.” He turned to see Kit already at the sideboard pouring two glasses. “That speaks more to my need.”

  Once Randolph and Kit, glasses of brandy in hand, had settled in two armchairs, Ryder glanced around the circle, then said, “So what do we do?”

  “It has to be incarceration,” Randolph declared. “The only question is where.”

  Kit nodded and leaned forward, cradling his glass between his hands. “It can’t be here, for obvious reasons, nor yet on any of the family estates—too hard to keep it secret. Yet where else is possible, and—more to the point—I’m not sure I would trust anyone except us not to be drawn in by her . . . well, her ways.”

  Grimly, Godfrey nodded. “She doesn’t look like a woman who would pull out her scarf pin and stab a man through the eye.”

  Stacie didn’t say anything, just hugged herself tighter.

  Ryder sat back. “I’ll support whatever decision you make, as long as it will keep me and mine safe from her and her plotting.”

  “That goes without saying.” Randolph looked into his glass, swirling the liquid. “I understand now why you insisted we had to hear it from her.” Abruptly, he drained the glass; lowering it, he admitted, “If you’d told me that—even if I’d heard it from those men without her sitting there, listening and not reacting, and then not denying it—I honestly don’t think I would truly have believed—”

  A scream cut off his words. They all looked up in time to see a shape fall past the windows.

  “Oh, no!” Hands to her face, Stacie shot to her feet.

  Everyone else did, too. Mary held Stacie back, let the men rush ahead, Randolph and Kit in the lead, Godfrey close behind. Pausing in the doorway, Ryder glanced back and saw Mary following more slowly with Stacie; he met her eyes, briefly nodded, then went ahea
d.

  By the time Mary and Stacie reached the front steps, Randolph and Kit had covered their mother’s body with their coats.

  Mary was grateful; she’d had more than enough shocks for one day, and she knew Stacie was at the end of her reserves. She and her brothers had had to face more in a few hours than anyone ever should have to endure.

  Ryder came to Stacie’s other side and helped her down the steps.

  The three of them drew nearer but halted when Stacie’s faltering feet did not seem to want to go further.

  Her brothers saw her standing there, trembling in Mary’s arms, Ryder’s arm around her shoulders, and one by one they left their mother’s body and joined them—the living.

  Mary and Ryder surrendered Stacie into Kit’s arms.

  Randolph came to stand beside Ryder, his face a mask of shock. “Did she jump, do you think, or did she fall while trying to escape?”

  Ryder hesitated, then said, “I can’t imagine her even contemplating suicide, can you?”

  One after another, they shook their heads.

  “In that case,” Ryder said, “as we’re all agreed, I can declare her death an accident.”

  “She would have wanted that—it will gain her some sympathy. It was always about her.” Randolph glanced back at the shrouded body lying on the gravel. “It was always all about her.”

  Mary let a moment of silence pass, then briskly stated, “Very well. Now that’s been decided, let’s go back inside. We have orders to give, and then all of you are coming home with us to the abbey.”

  She’d used her marchioness’s voice and was entirely unsurprised that no one argued.

  Dawn was painting its first pale streaks across the eastern sky when Ryder followed Mary into their bedroom.

  Mary heaved a gigantic sigh. “Finally, it’s over.”

  They’d spent the last hours sorting everyone and everything out as well as they could. Rand, Kit, Stacie, and Godfrey had been gathered in by the abbey staff, led by Mary herself. As Ryder’s half siblings often visited, they had their own rooms; wrung out, they’d retired as soon as their quarters had been made ready. “I just hope,” he said, “that the others can sleep.”

  “Hmm.” Mary glanced at him. “Do you foresee any difficulties with the two stable hands over Snickert’s death?”

  He shook his head. “Lavinia, through Snickert, had offered them a small fortune to help him do away with us—they know how close to the gallows they stand.” He hesitated, then admitted, “If Lavinia hadn’t died, then Snickert’s death would pose more of a problem, but as she has, and the stable hands know that, then . . .” He exhaled. “I think—hope—that this will blow over without anything that might damage the others socially coming out.”

  “How much detail do you need to give of the manner of Lavinia’s death?”

  “Officially, not much—just that she died of an accident. Death through misadventure, which is true enough. Given the staff at the Dower House rallied around, and will deal with the body and the undertakers tomorrow—no, today—other than organizing the funeral itself, there’s very little more that needs to be done to set this matter to rest.”

  “To lay Lavinia to rest, and free her children.”

  “That, too.” Looping an arm about Mary’s waist, Ryder drew her with him to the window.

  They stood there, leaning against each other, watching the dawn break across the sky.

  Eventually, Mary stirred. “A new dawn—a new beginning.”

  Ryder glanced at her. “Not just for us, but for the other four, too—for the Cavanaughs.”

  Meeting his gaze, Mary smiled. “For the Cavanaughs.” Catching both his hands in hers, she backed toward the bed, towing him, unresisting, with her.

  “Continuing in that vein”—halting beside the bed and releasing his hands, Mary pressed close, stretched up, wound her arms about his neck and looked deep into his hazel eyes—“I believe we should fall into this bed, and do what we can to make certain of the next generation.”

  Ryder’s lips slowly curved, then he laughed, swept her up in his arms, set his lips to hers, kissed her—and tipped them both onto the bed.

  They bounced.

  Mary shrieked, then laughed.

  Then fell to as they wrestled each other out of their clothes, as they paused, both caught by the lancing sensual jolt as skin met naked skin, only to be filled with piercing pleasure as hands caressed and stroked, lovingly, worshipfully tracing now familiar curves, reclaiming, possessing anew—familiar yet never before so poignant.

  Their eyes met—and in the blue, in the hazel, dwelled the same knowledge of comprehension and capitulation, the rock-solid certainty of what, through the tumult of the night’s events, they’d embraced, shared, and owned to.

  Openly. Directly. Without guile.

  Without any screens to shield them from each other they came together on a shared gasp, in a moment of shining clarity caught their breaths, then she drew his lips to hers, and he bent to her, and they let their passion and the power that fueled it rear like a wave—let it roar in and take them, let it sweep them away.

  Let desire and need and hunger coalesce into a fire beyond their control.

  Let the indescribable joy of being alive—of having cheated death together, of having survived together to come together like this, in wonder and in hope, in commitment and in reverence—flood them.

  Sink and submerge them, meld and fuse them until they were one.

  In love and in passion. In joy and in ecstasy.

  In hope and in surrender.

  To all they would be, to all that would come, to all they would create together.

  Chapter Seventeen

  Ashes to ashes, dust to dust.

  Lavinia’s funeral marked the end of a lost era for the Cavanaughs. Ryder was determined that from that point onward, with no Lavinia attempting to create schisms between him and her children, the five of them—with Mary to guide them—would become, or grow into, the sort of family they’d all yearned to be for so long.

  It would take time and a degree of learning, but they had time, were more than willing, and had Mary to help them understand when they should be sharing their difficulties. She’d well and truly taken the bit between her teeth and thrown herself into the role of his marchioness, into being the matriarch of the family, both immediate and wider, and had already made it plain that she expected any difficulties of any kind to be made known to them—if not to him, then at the very least to her.

  He loved her bossiness; what always amazed him was how she got away with it. Most often he suspected it wasn’t that people agreed so much as they surrendered to a patently greater force and gave in. Increasingly quickly. He could see it becoming a habit.

  There wasn’t a day when something she said or did didn’t bring a smile to his face—sometimes a smile he hid, but just as often he shared his amusement with her, just to see her narrow her vivid eyes at him, then humph and turn haughtily away.

  Having her beside him through the days following Lavinia’s death, helping him to help the others over the hurdles, social and otherwise, had been a huge boon. He honestly wasn’t sure how he would have managed without her.

  Together, the six of them had tackled the question of mourning. He and Mary had concluded that, for them, a week’s full mourning, followed by three weeks of half-mourning, would be appropriate; given the widely recognized antipathy between him and Lavinia, anything more would smack of hypocrisy. They’d encouraged Rand, Kit, Stacie, and Godfrey to make up their own minds; in the end, the four had decided on one month of full mourning, and three of half-mourning, and all those who gathered at Raventhorne for the funeral and wake had nodded and approved.

  Following the formal funeral at the nearby church and the brief ceremony of interment, the wake, held at the abbey, was, socially speaking, more in the nature of a
new beginning; the neighbors who attended made it plain they were doing so primarily to show their support of him and Mary rather than to acknowledge Lavinia’s passing other than it being the end of the past. Everyone clearly looked to him and Mary for a new direction, and to his everlasting gratitude, his marchioness was up to the challenge.

  She swept regally through the crowd, dispensing grace and calm and a species of reassurance that was uniquely hers. Those who hadn’t met her before quickly thawed and smiled; those who had been previously captivated were happy to be so again. Watching her delight and manage, manage and delight, he felt reassured himself, content and more that in being there, in managing his household and, as far as he would allow, determining his life, she was in her true element.

  Being his marchioness was where she should be; the position was hers—it was where she belonged.

  Where she needed to be, for his sake, and hers, and that of so many others.

  Throughout the afternoon, she constantly circled, popping up beside him to lay a hand on his arm, to lean close and ensnare his senses while sharing a shrewd observation or comment, and then she would be off again, sweeping on to oversee and direct.

  One who had attended the service, the interment, and the wake was Claude Potherby. In light of what Ryder knew of the man’s long-standing devotion to Lavinia, he had sent Potherby a personal note, inviting him to attend. Potherby had come but had remained at the wake only long enough to satisfy social expectations; his role as Lavinia’s confidant had been widely known.

  Potherby had looked shattered; he’d aged ten years in less than a week. He’d seized a private moment to ask Ryder whether Lavinia had taken her own life. When Ryder had assured him that her death had been an accident, brought about by an attempt to flee justice, Potherby had nodded and quietly reflected, “She wouldn’t have chosen it, but this end . . . might well have been for the best.” After a moment, he’d added, “For her . . . and for me.” Glancing at Ryder, he’d somewhat ambiguously said, “It’s time I moved on.”

  After tendering transparently sincere wishes for Ryder’s, Mary’s, and the Cavanaugh family’s future, Potherby had departed.

 

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