The memory was distinct in her mind now, though it had been rendered inconsequential by all that had followed. She’d pulled this button off of the man who had coshed her in the head and thrown her in the basket with Hirst. She’d never been more certain of anything in her life. She and Hirst had both assumed Kildale had been behind the attack, but this changed everything.
She’d distrusted Mr. Bonnet from the moment she’d met him. It would have almost been a relief to have her instincts proven correct, if not for the threat the viperous man posed to Hirst.
“What is it?” Wesley demanded, panicked by her expression.
“It wasn’t Kildale who lured us into the charlière,” she murmured in disbelief. “It was Mr. Bonnet! And it must have been him at the ruins yesterday.”
“What are you talking about? What do you mean he lured you into the charlière?”
Davina looked at her brother incredulously. “Did you think either of us wanted to ride in your stupid balloon? Did Mr. Hirst not explain to you what happened? Someone hit me over the head and threw me into the basket, Wesley.”
Sir Wesley looked absolutely poleaxed at the revelation. “Wha…? Dav…” He broke off, his face flushing sheepishly as his memory seemed to return. “He might have said something to that effect. But I…”
“Was more concerned about your balloon?”
Wesley grimaced. “Among other things, Leon. And I do wish you’d stop calling it that. It’s a hydrogen-filled, rubberized…” He stopped, shook his head as if to clear it. “Wait a minute. What’s this about the ruins?”
“Someone nearly managed to flatten Hirst with a stone yesterday, Wesley. Do keep up.”
“You didn’t say anything about being flattened earlier!” Sir Wesley spluttered. “And Mr. Bonnet? Bones? I can’t believe it…”
Davina ignored him. She had no time to spare for explanations. “I’d wager he’s behind the sabotage on the engine as well,” she continued, all the pieces slotting together in her head.
“Sabotage? But he’s Hirst’s closest mate. Why would he want to do such a thing?” Sir Wesley demanded, still incredulous.
“Money, of course,” she said. “I have a feeling Mr. Bonnet would stand to lose a great deal if Hirst were to marry, as Mr. Bonnet believes Hirst intends to do. No wonder he was so against Hirst courting Lady Ambrosia.”
“But…but sabotage?”
“To delay Hirst from filing the patents. He wanted them for himself and free of Hirst’s estate entirely,” she reasoned, “after he killed Hirst.”
“Dear God!” Wesley breathed. “But we must tell him, in case Bones tries something again!”
“Oh, I think he will do exactly that,” she said grimly, gripping the button in her hand. “And sooner rather than later.”
She took off at a sprint toward the castle. As much as she didn’t want to see Hirst right now, she had to warn him.
Sir Wesley began to scramble out of the basket in pursuit of his sister, but his waistcoat got caught in the weave and jerked him backwards.
“Davina! Where do you think you’re going?” he called after her in exasperation as he tugged at the tangled fabric.
She waved back at her brother impatiently. “To find Hirst!” she shouted, leaving her brother to catch up when he could. Something told her that there was no time to waste. Hirst was in more danger than either of them had imagined, and she’d be damned if she let Mr. Bonnet get away with his callous betrayal for a second more than she had to.
And as she ran, she thought that perhaps her brother was right, too, about not giving Hirst up without a fight—though Mr. Bonnet seemed a much more manageable foe than the less tangible impediments that stood between her and Hirst. If she’d learned anything from the last week, however, it was that having a life worth living took courage. She’d nearly forgotten that.
She’d try not to do so again.
Chapter Twenty Two
Revenge of the Rogue
The night after the picnic, Julian’s dreams were even worse than usual. The ghosts of his mam and Freddie followed him wherever he ran. They followed him through his old neighborhood in St. Giles, sat at the dinner table among his other guests at Arncliffe Castle, silent and accusing. They even followed him into the garden, where Fawkes was waiting for him among the yellow camellias. She was wearing the bottle green jacket and calf clingers, and her hair was still short, but he was no longer so willfully blind: he saw her, Davina, not the masquerade.
He reached to thread a camellia through her buttonhole, just as he’d done that morning that already felt like lifetime ago. But before he could reach her, his mam and Freddie, with their dead, angry faces, stepped between them, blocking her from his sight. And no matter what he did, how he moved or fought, they remained in front of him, and she remained out of reach, out of sight.
He woke up drenched in sweat, his throat hoarse from screaming.
He spent the rest of the night slumped over a table in his workshop, head in his hands, fighting back the lingering images from the nightmare and the nauseating sense of dread that wouldn’t stop creeping up his spine every time he tried to picture Fawkes’s face but saw only his dead family’s.
Damn Fawkes. Damn her for making him question everything he’d been fighting for. Damn her for making him yearn for impossible things, for making him care. He’d thought revenging himself upon Kildale would release him from the crippling grief, but with his revenge so close he could taste it, he’d proven just the opposite to himself. The grief was as bad as it had ever been.
And to make things immeasurably worse, he’d driven away the only bright spot in his life that had any chance of lifting him out of this black, friendless place. Fawkes had been right, had been the only one who cared enough to tell him the truth. And Julian had told her to go, too scared of the feelings she engendered in him to even consider her words.
Too scared and confused to even think how Fawkes’ absence would feel.
They could have tried—
And now he couldn’t seem to even breathe anymore.
He couldn’t lose her.
When the morning dawned, Julian knew what he had to do. It was time to have it out with Kildale once and for all, before he poisoned any more of his life. The sooner this business was done, the sooner he’d never have to lay eyes on his mother’s murderer again. And the sooner he could try to salvage the mess he’d made with Fawkes.
Julian hadn’t planned on revealing his hand to Kildale at the picnic, but he hadn’t been able to resist when the conversation had turned to ghost stories. Kildale’s reaction had been worth the painful melodrama of the moment. The sick recognition that his worst transgression had not gone undiscovered had been writ large in the marquess’ expression. Though Julian wondered if it was indeed the marquess’ worst transgression. If the man was capable of watching another human being die for no better reason than to protect his own vanity, he must have been capable of worse.
Julian found the marquess smoking a cheroot in the back garden, eyeing the ruined rosebushes judgmentally. He thought it a fitting place for their little tête-à-tête, considering it was the site of Kildale’s first attempt on his life. The fact that Kildale had nearly killed Fawkes in the process that night and at the ruins made his blood boil even hotter.
Julian wasted no time on pleasantries the moment Kildale noticed his presence. The bastard would know exactly what he was talking about.
“What makes it even more pathetic was that it was all pointless,” he said as he approached, running his hand gently over the delicate blooms of the yellow camellias as he passed them. “You lost the entire fortune from the jewels at the tables in a single night. You dug yourself deeper and deeper into the hole until there was no climbing out. The whole world knew soon enough how you had bungled your entire estate. Her death did nothing for you except to delay the inevitable by a month, if that.”
The marquess’ shoulders heaved, hands clenched into fists, but he couldn’t seem to turn
and meet his eyes. The coward.
“You’re not content with holding me by the balls with my debts, now you insist on bringing up ancient history,” Kildale spat. “To what purpose? What do you care about one whore of a housemaid? Is this your righteous justification for bleeding me dry?”
“Justification? Not quite,” he said flatly. “Do you think I make it a habit of buying up the markers of degenerate fops for the sport of it? With my fortune, your debts are but a trifle.”
“Then why?” the marquess bellowed, rounding on him at last, his face purple with rage. “Why do you torment me?”
“Because that whore of a housemaid was my mother,” he said with a lightness he didn’t feel. “I watched her hang at Newgate, and it was far from a quick death.” It had felt like hours. But the marquess didn’t deserve to know that, didn’t deserve to know about Freddie, how he’d been lost barely a month later, another indirect casualty of Kildale’s greed. The memories were his own, too exquisitely painful—too precious—to be aired aloud, especially to the marquess.
Kildale looked stunned by Julian’s confession, staggering back a step as if from a blow. “You must have been just a boy.”
“Not after that.” He grinned humorlessly at the man. “It took years, but here we are, at last. You’re my life’s work, Lord Kildale.”
“You mean to tell me…all this,” he began, waving his hands around wildly, as if trying to encompass all that had happened between them, “over the death of a whore?”
“I prefer to call it murder. You murdered her, as surely as if you strung her up with your own hands. And should you ever call her a whore again, I’ll cut out your buggering tongue and stuff it down your throat,” Julian said placidly.
Kildale blanched at the threat, for he was smart enough to know Julian was not bluffing. He squeezed his eyes closed in an effort to regain his composure, breathing heavily through his nose. “You own me financially, and yet this is not enough for you. You’ll take my daughter from me.”
Julian glanced down at the yellow camellias and grinned. “I must admit, I did have plans for Ambrosia,” he conceded. “I wonder, how far would you go if I were to offer for her hand right now, in exchange for clearing all of your debts.”
The marquess spluttered in wordless indignation, but one of the reasons for Kildale’s abysmal skill at cards was his complete lack of a poker face. Julian could plainly see the tortured indecision buried deep beneath the man’s fury. The marquess was tempted. Very tempted. Oh, Julian had the man by the balls.
“You know I cannot refuse,” the marquess finally bit out, unable to meet Julian’s eyes, his shoulders slumping.
Julian arched an eyebrow. “Well, that was even quicker than I expected. But don’t worry, I’ll not be testing your moral compass today, for I’ve no intention of marrying your daughter. I never did.”
“Wha…you bastard!” Kildale looked as if he were seconds from clawing out Julian’s eyes. “I should call you out right now!”
“You won’t.”
“No, I won’t,” the marquess sneered. “I’d never stoop so low. The field of honor is the province of gentlemen, not baseborn wretches like you.”
“No, you’d just murder me in my own home,” Julian said dryly. “As you’ve tried to do repeatedly since my arrival.”
“I’m sure I don’t know what you mean, sirrah,” Kildale huffed, jerking down the tails of his waistcoat, having the gall to look offended.
“I’m sure you do,” Julian shot back mildly. “Though you’ll have no further opportunity to try your luck. Our business is through, as is your welcome here. I do hope you’ve sorted out your cesspits, since I don’t think you’ll be living anywhere but your estate for a long time.”
“Bastard!” Kildale cried, raising his fist at Julian impotently. “If you want remorse, you’ll never have it from me. I’d see your mother hanged again tomorrow and still not care enough to remember her name!”
Julian just shrugged at the man. “On the bright side, the extra manure shall be great fertilizer, for all of the vegetables you’ll be growing. Food is expensive, my lord, as I’m sure you’ll discover soon enough.”
“You…you…utter…” Kildale couldn’t seem to continue, however, and his face grew so purple, Julian thought for a moment apoplexy was nigh. But unfortunately instead of keeling over, he just stalked away in a huff.
Julian let him go without a fight. It felt like he’d not breathed since the confrontation had begun, his lungs burning, his head filled with a disorienting lightness. At least he’d kept his composure, had been ice cold throughout, just as he’d always vowed to be in front of the marquess.
Had he wanted remorse? Ha. A man like Kildale was incapable of that particular virtue, which was what made him so despicable. Power and privilege had so perverted the man that he had placed the value of a human life in the same venal, absurd hierarchy that ruled their society. No, Julian had not wanted or expected remorse.
But he did feel relief. He’d had the last laugh, and wrung out every last bit of dignity the marquess possessed. Kildale had nothing but his entailed estate left to his name, and Julian doubted the man would ever be leaving it again.
He’d ruined the marquess, and that was enough. Nothing would ever erase the pain and horror of his mother’s death, and throwing away his soul trying to do so was never going to be anything other than an exercise in futility. And nothing would bring back his mother or Freddie.
Even the dimmest of souls had enough sense to recognize the finality of death, and yet he had not. He’d deluded himself all these years, distracting himself with his thirst for revenge, so he wouldn’t have to face the truth. His family was gone, and they weren’t coming back. No matter what he did to Kildale, nothing could ever change that fact.
He was a scientist. Of course he knew death was as universal a constant as the earth’s orbit around the sun. But in the back of his mind, in a tiny, dark corner of his heart, perhaps he’d hoped otherwise, as ridiculously futile as it had been to do so.
He sank to his knees next to the camellias, pulling at his cravat until all of Coombes’ careful handiwork was undone and he could take a proper breath again. He’d played his final hand after years—decades—of work, and though it was not quite the way he’d envisioned it, he could finally accept that it was over.
“You know he’ll never change,” came a voice at his side. He glanced up and found Lady Ambrosia staring down at him. She looked as perfectly presented as a fashion plate in a pale blue silk gown and pearls, her hair swept up in a profusion of pin curls, with not a drop of sweat on her creamy brow despite the heat.
She was a picture of serenity, though her eyes told another story to those standing close enough to notice.
He stood up on embarrassingly unsteady legs. “How long have you been here?”
“Long enough.” She arched her brow. “You’ve ruined him quite thoroughly, haven’t you?”
“He ruined himself. I’ve merely helped him along,” he said blandly.
“I don’t doubt that. And he deserves your wrath. He has done unspeakable things to make sure no one discovers how stupid and weak he truly is.”
“Not anymore.”
She paused. “I am truly sorry for your mother.”
He gave her a terse nod.
“You certainly had the last word,” she continued. “I wonder how long it will be before my father realizes he may actually have to become a farmer.”
“I wouldn’t hold your breath.”
“Quite right. He’ll starve himself to death first,” she said. “No matter how far he falls, he’ll always laugh at his friends’ puerile jokes, and talk of horses and scandals and how much he loathes the Whigs,” she continued idly. “He’ll never let the world see his faults, and will certainly never admit to having any.”
“And yet everyone must know he is bankrupt.”
“So is half the peerage. But no one talks about it. That would be crass,” she said dryly.
“Lady Ambrosia, I think I might owe you an apology…” he began.
She looked amused. “An apology! From you! I have a feeling that is a rare gesture. Certainly an unnecessary one. I never took you too seriously. It was hardly an enthusiastic courtship, if it could even be called that. I always suspected you were playing a rather different game.”
He decided to show her his hand entirely. He owed her that much, at least, for she seemed to think he was more harmless than he was. “I meant to seduce you, my lady, and leave you a ruined woman. It would have been my final coup de grâce against your father.”
She looked entirely unimpressed and unsurprised by his revelation. “Would have? Have you given up so easily?”
He snorted. “I think we both know I had no chance of succeeding.”
“You didn’t even try. But you’re right. Your efforts would have been wasted. My affections are already engaged.”
“Ah.” That didn’t surprise him. He just hoped that the man who held her heart didn’t underestimate her as he’d done.
“As I believe yours are as well,” she continued.
“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” he said too quickly.
She gave him a knowing look and turned to leave. She paused and regarded him over her shoulder. “Good luck with Davina,” she said.
He was flabbergasted. “What?”
She arched an eyebrow. “Miss Benwick, your secretary,” she said, as if it were obvious.
“You knew?”
“Of course I knew. I’ve known Davina since we were in nappies together. Though we had a bit of a misunderstanding years ago.”
“Misunderstanding,” he said doubtfully.
“She thought I stole her suitor. I thought I did her a favor by exposing a fickle man not worth either of our time. I don’t think she appreciated the gesture.” She hesitated. “Though in retrospect I should never have interfered. Better she’d married a man like Mr. Xavier than Lord Dalrymple. I suppose that is the reason for this silly masquerade of hers. Last I heard she was to wed him last week.”
Miss Benwick Reforms a Rogue Page 24