For Deader or Worse

by Sheri Cobb South

  “ ‘Fear,’ Buckleigh? You, afraid of me?” She gave a snort of derision. “I wish I might have been there to see it!”

  He scowled at the interruption. “I found a wealthy merchant’s daughter, one whose parents were too enthralled at the prospect of their child’s marrying into the nobility to quibble at a thirteen-year-old scandal. I’m fifty years old, you know. I need an heir.” His face darkened as a new thought—or rather an old one, long forgotten—occurred to him. “There was a child, Claudia. He would be about twelve years old by now. What have you done with my child?”

  “Can you not guess?” she asked with a bitter laugh. “The blood you found on my shawl was all that remained of your heir. I hope you gave it a proper burial.”

  “Damn you!” He started toward her, and Pickett was forced to seize Jamie’s arm to restrain him. “You did it on purpose, didn’t you? You rid yourself of my child so you might be free to run off to God knows where!”

  She shook her head in mingled amazement and resignation. “You haven’t changed, have you, Buckleigh? Nothing is ever your fault. Someone else is always to blame, and that someone was usually me. May I remind you that you kicked me in the abdomen that day? You did this, Buckleigh. You killed our child as surely as if you had slit its throat, just like you slit poor Tom Pratt’s.”

  If Lord Buckleigh heard this last accusation at all, he did not react to it, so filled with rage was he at the first one. “You’re lying!”

  “By all means, believe that if you must, but it won’t change the truth.”

  “Let me remind you, Claudia, that you are still my lawfully wedded wife,” his lordship ground out through clenched teeth. “It’s not too late for me to get an heir on you, and by God, I’ve a mind to do it!”

  He seized her arm and flung her onto the sofa. Although she fought like a madwoman, he pinned her down with one knee on her skirts while he fumbled with the fall of his breeches. Behind the curtain, Jamie swatted Pickett’s hand off his sleeve as if he might a fly. He pushed the hammer of his pistol back and tossed it aside, then advanced upon Lord Buckleigh. During his thirteen year absence from Norwood Green, the scales of time had tipped in Jamie’s favor. Where he had once been a mere stripling trying to protect a young lady against a grown man, Major Pennington was now in the prime of life and battle-hardened into the bargain, while Lord Buckleigh had passed his fiftieth year. Jamie grasped his lordship by the collar of his coat and the seat of his breeches, and lifted him bodily off his struggling wife.

  “I believe it is time you were leaving, my lord,” said the major, shouldering the door open and dumping Lord Buckleigh unceremoniously onto the front stoop.

  “Well, well, look at the brave soldier, hiding behind the curtain and lying in wait for an unarmed man,” Lord Buckleigh said with a sneer, picking himself up and dusting himself off with as much dignity as he could muster. “As for you, Claudia my dear, I suppose I shouldn’t be surprised to learn that you’ve spent the last thirteen years whoring for the vicar’s son.”

  Far from being shamed by this accusation, Claudia lifted her chin in a manner strongly reminiscent of her younger sister. “No, indeed! Why should you be surprised, when you all but threw me into his arms? Why should I not commit the sin of which I had so long been accused? Jamie and I may not be legally wed, but he has been a better husband to me than you ever were!”

  “ ‘Husband’?” scoffed his lordship. “Call yourself his wife all you wish, my dear, but I know you for what you really are. Oh, and as for my divorcing you so that you might marry the vicar’s brat, know this: you are my wife ‘until death do us part.’ And who knows? The death that eventually parts us may not be mine.”

  “Is that a threat, Buckleigh?” Claudia asked.

  “No, merely an observation that life sometimes takes unexpected twists.” He gave her a long look with something surprisingly like regret in his eyes. “I did love you, you know.”

  There had been a time, more than a dozen years earlier, when such an assertion would have had her begging his pardon with tears of remorse. But in the intervening years, she had seen firsthand how a man was supposed to treat the woman he loved, and so she had no difficulty now in recognizing Lord Buckleigh’s attempt at manipulation for what it was. “ ‘Love,’ Buckleigh? You will pardon me for observing that you had strange ways of showing it,” she said, then closed the door on his lordship and sagged against it, burying her face in her hands.

  Jamie was beside her in an instant, gathering her into his arms, and Pickett, emerging from behind the curtain, thought he had never seen a man and woman who belonged more completely to one another.

  “Well?” the major asked, regarding him with a faintly accusing lift of one eyebrow. “Any other bright ideas from the boy genius?”

  Pickett bristled at the injustice of this charge. “I don’t see how you can blame me for the plan’s failure, when you were the one who abandoned your post!”

  “I suppose that, if it were your wife being assaulted by her first husband, you would merely watch and take notes,” Jamie retorted.

  “No,” Pickett said thoughtfully. “No, I probably would have shot him.”

  “And so I might have done, but for one little detail.”

  “What was that?”

  “A Bow Street Runner stood ready at hand to charge me with murder,” Jamie pointed out.

  Pickett grinned ruefully at him. “I doubt I could have brought myself to do so, given the circumstances.”

  “Now he tells me!” Jamie groaned aloud to no one in particular.

  “Mr. Pickett is an honest and honorable man,” Claudia told her beloved. “Perhaps it is just as well that you did not put him in the position of being forced to compromise his principles.”

  She was smiling now, albeit somewhat shakily, and Pickett realized with some admiration for the major’s methods that this was exactly the result Jamie had been pressing toward ever since she had shut the door on her husband. Perhaps he should make a note of it in his occurrence book, under the heading “How to Handle Women.” After all, he was a married man now; he needed all the help he could get.

  “His sins against you are undoubtedly great, Lady—er, Claudia, but I would prefer that he be executed in accordance with the law,” Pickett told her. “The two of you have suffered enough without Major Pennington being held responsible for his death, even if only in the court of public opinion.”

  “So what will you do now, Mr. Pickett?” she asked.

  He sighed. “I wish I knew. I suppose I could question Lady Buckleigh—Miss Gubbins, that is—provided I could get her away from her mother. Perhaps she saw or heard something without realizing its significance at the time, something that might connect Lord Buckleigh with Tom Pratt’s murder.”

  “But would she be willing to give evidence against him?”

  Pickett shrugged. “Who knows? If she believed he had tricked her into a bigamous marriage, she might be only too happy to see him get his comeuppance. I’ll try to see her this afternoon, but my first priority must be letting Julia know that you—” He turned to look at Claudia. “—are unharmed. She was not at all happy at being left behind, you know.”

  “I don’t doubt it!” Jamie said, grinning. “I wonder if I can prevail upon you to take the long route back through the village and stop in at the vicarage long enough to deliver a message.”

  “Of course,” Pickett agreed, and the major clapped a hand to his shoulder and walked with him as far as the door.

  “Let my parents know that I won’t be coming home tonight,” he said, lowering his voice to a conspiratorial murmur. “I can’t be sure Lord Buckleigh won’t return, now that he knows where to find Claudia. I won’t leave her alone until I’ve removed her to a safer location.”

  “Very well, but what excuse will I give them?”

  “I dare not claim an invitation to dine with the Runyons, for fear Mama would blow the gaff to Lady Runyon. Wait, I have it! You may say that I ran into old friends at th
e Pig and Whistle—Mama dislikes the place, on account of a certain tavern wench who is rather too accommodating—and have accepted an impromptu invitation to stay the night.”

  “But your lack of a valise—” Pickett protested.

  “If she asks, remind Mama that I have campaigned in Spain, and can get by with very little.” He frowned as the sound of a gunshot echoed in the distance. “And mind you watch out for poachers! Greenwillows has been without proper game management for far too long, and it appears the natives are getting bolder.”

  Pickett agreed to these instructions and, after saying his farewells to both Jamie and Claudia, set out on his way. He did not retrace his steps across the downs toward Runyon Hall where his wife waited, but instead turned down a narrow, overgrown path that would eventually widen into a cart track before it finally gave onto the main street of the village. He had not gone far along the path when a splash of color caught his eye, and he recognized the russet of Lord Buckleigh’s coat lying in the grass, its autumnal hue contrasting sharply with the bright greens of spring. Even from a considerable distance, it was clear that the coat still contained his lordship’s person. Recalling the scene he had witnessed only minutes earlier, Pickett was much inclined to follow the biblical example of the priest and the Levite and thus pass by on the other side; the urgings of duty, however, overrode those of inclination, and reluctantly he strode forward to offer whatever aid he might.

  This, he discovered when he reached his lordship, was little enough, for Lord Buckleigh was far beyond any earthly assistance. The baron lay flat on his back with his left arm flung out to his side, and his right clutching at his chest. His once-pristine cravat was liberally splattered with blood which trickled down his splayed fingers to run in rivulets onto his buff-colored waistcoat. Between the middle and ring fingers could be seen the jagged edges of a small round hole in the waistcoat. His lordship’s glassy eyes stared expressionlessly up at Pickett, who could not help feeling a certain sense of satisfaction that Claudia need fear nothing from this man ever again.

  Eager to return to the gamekeeper’s cottage to bring Claudia the news, Pickett began to turn away when a curious bulge beneath Lord Buckleigh’s coat drew his eye, and he bent to flip the cloth back. Tucked into the waistband of his lordship’s breeches was a pistol.

  The brave soldier, lying in wait for an unarmed man ... Lord Buckleigh had not, perhaps, been quite so helpless as he had led Jamie to believe. But no, Pickett thought with growing conviction, if his lordship had had access to a pistol at the time, he surely would have threatened Jamie with it, even if he hadn’t actually used it. It must have been just as he had said: he had come unarmed to the meeting with Claudia, being fully confident of his ability to overcome with his fists any obstacle she might have presented. After all, he’d had no trouble doing so in the past.

  He withdrew the pistol and sniffed the barrel, wrinkling his nose at the acrid scent of burned powder. The gun had been used, and recently; the only logical conclusion was that the person who had shot his lordship had then planted the weapon on his person. Pickett was not quite sure whether this was a stroke of genius, or a display of incompetence. If the killer had thought to make the death look like a suicide, then he had failed miserably: setting aside the improbability that anyone would attempt to commit suicide by shooting himself in the chest, he would be dead long before he could tuck the weapon neatly away in his waistband. No, this was no suicide, but a murder—and one done by a person from whom his lordship perceived no threat, for there was no indication that Lord Buckleigh had attempted to elude, much less overpower, the shooter.

  As for the gun itself, Pickett was no expert on firearms; fortunately, there was a man nearby who would probably be much more knowledgeable than he, and who would have his own reasons for taking an interest in his lordship’s death. Thus Pickett was doubly impatient to return to the gamekeeper’s cottage, and within minutes was standing on the front stoop and pounding on the door.

  “Back so soon, Mr. Pickett?” Jamie’s expressive face registered surprise as he opened the door. “Is something wrong?”

  “That depends on your point of view,” Pickett said, glancing past him into the room where Claudia had just risen from the sofa. “I’ve just come from Lord Buckleigh. He was apparently shot as he walked back along the path toward the village. Ma’am, your husband is dead.”

  “Dead?” Claudia turned quite pale, and groped for the back of the sofa for support. “Are you sure?”

  Pickett nodded. “Quite sure.”

  “Then I’m free,” she murmured to herself in disbelief. “After all these years, I’m finally free.”

  “But not for long.” Reaching her in two strides, Jamie took her hand and dropped to one knee before her. “My Lady Buckleigh,” he said, looking up into her dazed countenance, “will you do me the infinite honor of bestowing upon me your hand in marriage?”

  In answer, she cradled his head to her bosom and burst into overwrought tears.

  Chapter Eighteen

  The Return of Lady Buckleigh

  “I shall send to London for a special license as soon as I return to the vicarage,” Jamie promised Claudia, in between kissing her and drying her tears.

  Pickett cleared his throat, feeling very much de trop. “If you are headed back to the village, Major, I wonder if I could persuade you to come and have a look at the weapon.”

  “Certainly, Mr. Pickett, if you feel you need assistance. Although I must point out that I am a cavalry officer, and therefore more knowledgeable of sabers than I am of firearms.” He released Claudia with obvious reluctance. “I will return for you as soon as I am able.”

  She clung to his sleeve. “Surely you don’t intend to leave me here!”

  “He is dead, my love,” Jamie reiterated. “You need fear nothing from him ever again.”

  “That’s just it. I have to see him. I have to!”

  “He’s not a pretty sight,” Pickett cautioned her.

  “Perhaps it’s just as well,” she said with a shaky smile. “At least I’ll know he is truly dead.”

  Jamie shook his head. “Claudia, I don’t think—”

  “No, Major, let her come if she wishes,” Pickett said. He smiled at his sister-in-law. “They’re tougher than we realize, these Runyon girls.”

  Jamie, having seen the gently reared Claudia Runyon survive the abuse of a brutish spouse and then endure the rigors of following the drum, could hardly dispute this observation. And so the three of them set out down the path, and soon arrived at the place where Lord Buckleigh’s body lay.

  “Well, he is certainly dead,” noted Claudia, with only the slightest of tremors in her voice. “I cannot rejoice in his death, but nor can I regret it. In fact, I feel—nothing. It is rather like awakening from a nightmare, and discovering that none of it was real.”

  “That’s all it was, then,” Jamie said, his arm tightening briefly about her waist before he released her and knelt beside the body. He sniffed at the gun, just as Pickett had, then turned it over in his hands. “This was almost certainly the murder weapon, Mr. Pickett, but I daresay you’ve already deduced that. It’s one of Manton’s—you can see his maker’s mark here—hullo, what’s this?”

  “What have you found?” Pickett asked, leaning closer for a look.

  “Lord Buckleigh’s crest. He had it carved into the stock.” He held it out so Pickett might see. “In fact, this is one of a pair of dueling pistols he ordered from Manton shortly after he married Claudia. I remember when he bought them, for he made a point of showing them to me. I suppose you can guess why,” he added cryptically.

  Yes, Pickett could imagine his lordship taunting his vanquished rival, daring a young man barely out of his teens to challenge him to a duel. But Jamie had won in the end, and that without firing a shot. Which, of course, raised the question: if Jamie had not fired it, then who had?

  “Do either of you know where his lordship kept his firearms?”

  Claudia nodde
d. “There is the gunroom where his hunting weapons were stored, but he kept the dueling pistols in his study, for he was immensely proud of them.” She gave a rueful smile. “Or such was the case thirteen years ago. I daresay his habits may have changed in the interim.”

  “It is safe to assume, then, that only someone in the household would have had ready access to them,” Pickett reasoned.

  “I suppose so.”

  “Wait.” Jamie raised a hand in protest. “Are you saying you intend to try and discover who did this?”

  “Wouldn’t you like to know, yourself?” Pickett asked, surprised.

  “Yes, but only so that I might shake his hand,” retorted Jamie. “If you knew who killed him, would you charge him with murder?”

  “I could do no less,” Pickett pointed out. “I have a duty—”

  “Half an hour ago, you said you could not bring yourself to charge me if I’d shot him!”

  “To save Claudia from assault, yes, but as far as I can tell, Lord Buckleigh was doing nothing but walking back home. Look about you: no signs of struggle, of trauma—the man was simply minding his own business.”

  “For all you know, he was already planning his next attack on Claudia!”

  “But we can’t know that, can we? Yes, his lordship was a bounder and a cad, but even bounders and cads are entitled to justice under the law.”

  Claudia tucked a hand through each man’s arm. “I suggest, gentlemen, that we not stand here quarreling, but lay our plans. Mr. Pickett will have to break the news to that poor little creature who believes herself to be Buckleigh’s wife, while as for us—” She turned to address Jamie. “I confess I am ready to come out of hiding. Shall we inflict ourselves on your parents, or mine?”

  “Neither,” Jamie declared. “Or both, depending upon how one looks at it. You, my dear, are returning to your father’s house until the vows can be said, while I—”