by Liz Carlyle
Diana still wouldn’t look at her. “I can’t!” she sobbed. “His mother—she—she turned him against me! Good God, can’t you see? I’ve waited and waited. I’ve been so good. I’ve licked her boots and kissed her arse ’til I’m choking on it.”
“No, it’s all right,” said Lisette fervently. “Anne said so. Just this morning. Why, she told me Cordelia knew you’d marry Tony. That she’d accepted it.”
Diana lowered the knife an inch and licked her lips uncertainly. “She—she did say it, yes. But she changed her mind. Long ago. She talked to Lord Hepplewood. Then he spoke to Tony. It was poison! All of it! Everything changed.”
“But Lord Hepplewood is dead now,” said Lisette, the wind still in her face.
At that, Diana sobbed and grasped her abdomen. “I know, I know, I know!” she wailed, bending over as if she’d been kicked, one hand still fisted about the knife. “I didn’t mean it! I loved him. I . . . I just wanted him to need me! And I wanted us to go home! If he were ill, she’d have to let us go. Wouldn’t she—? But Gwen—stupid, stupid cow!—she killed him!”
Dear heaven. Diana had known?
All along, she had known? The pierced kettle, the poisoned footmen, could it all be of a piece . . . ?
But Diana was sobbing hysterically now, and inching up on Felicity with the knife pointed at her throat. Just then, Lisette caught a flash of motion. Flicked a glance over her shoulder.
Napier. He stood on the top step, his eyes hard, his face gone white. Relief rushed through Lisette—and on its heels, alarm. She gave a tight, swift shake of her head. Another inch right, and Diana would see him. She might panic.
The wind had risen to a howl now, and clouds were rolling in. “Talk to me, Diana,” Lisette begged, throwing up a hand to stay Napier. “I’m your friend. I can help you.”
“It’s too late,” Diana sobbed. “Gwen already killed half the people I love.”
“But it was an accident,” said Lisette. “She didn’t understand. You need to go back, Diana. To tell Gwen what she did was dangerous. To make things right with Tony.”
The knife lowered an inch. “I can’t,” she whispered, hunching further. “I can’t. Something’s gone all wrong. And they . . . they won’t tell me what . . .”
She gave a mechanical jerk—a sort of start toward the collapsing corner of the tower. Suddenly, Lisette saw her intent. She meant to jump.
Everything happened at once then. Napier lunged, seizing Diana about the waist. She let out an agonizing scream. Hacked downward with the knife—short, brutal stabs.
Napier barked a curse. Lisette glanced back but an instant. Diana was clawing wildly. He was dragging her to the stairwell.
Lisette turned. She thrust a hand at Miss Willet. “Give me your hand,” she shouted.
Behind her, Lisette heard the knife clatter onto the flagstone.
“Lisette, watch your step!” Napier barked.
It was precarious. She edged onto the cracking flagstone. Miss Willet was sobbing, frozen, her arms wrapped around her head as if to shield it.
“Give me your hand!” Lisette ordered.
At last she did so, unfurling one arm to reach out. Lisette yanked her from the wall and flung her away.
Suddenly, there came an awful, cracking sound. The sagging wall crumbled in a roar. Flagstone splintered. Began sliding beneath her feet. Lisette scrabbled for purchase. She landed on her knees. Felt herself going over the edge. Something caught her wrist, yanking her arm from its socket and snapping her neck.
When the roar receded, she was looking up through a cloud of gray ash.
Napier had his hand locked around her wrist. “Hold still,” he said through clenched teeth.
Lisette blinked away the ash. She lay at a precarious angle, lower legs dangling. The back of her hand felt warm. Wet. She struggled to make sense of it. Blood was gushing down Napier’s arm.
“You’re hurt,” she shouted.
On a fierce grunt, Napier hauled on her arm. But Diana’s knife had sliced down Napier’s right forearm, ripping both flesh and sleeve. Dear God, he was going to go over with her. Lisette dug her hand into the rubble.
“Push,” he gritted, hauling harder.
Napier did not relent. Lisette fought down panic. The stone was going to give. But she’d begun to inch up. Acting on instinct, she dug her knees and then her soft slippers into the scree. Clawed into it with her other hand.
Inch by ruthless inch, Napier hauled her back up, Lisette digging at the stone. It had sheered, thank God, at an angle, giving opportunity for purchase. But it was Napier’s unbridled strength that hauled her up until finally, with one last heave, he dragged her over the edge.
Lisette found solid flagstone, crawled forward, then Napier’s strength dragged her to her feet. He caught her tight against him but an instant. Then he seized her around the waist, hauling her bodily into the stairwell. And then the tower wall gave way again, another two feet vanishing in a roar and clatter of rock.
Lisette blinked, and the very floor on which they’d stood was gone.
CHAPTER 15
In Which Jane Is Revealed
Mrs. Boothe, it was widely allowed, could not have chosen a more convenient morning to conk her innkeeper husband soundly across the sconce, nor a more efficient weapon with which to do the job.
“Postal scales,” Dr. Underwood grunted, throwing open his black bag. “Solid brass, drilled into a slab of oak. Took eight stitches to the back of the head. But the accident put me near to hand, eh? Even my catgut’s strung.”
Napier sat stoically in his grandfather’s black, dragon-armed chair by the hearth, never flinching as Underwood sliced away his coat sleeve and Lisette watched, her heart still in her throat.
A quarter hour earlier, she had practically forced Napier in through the gun room, the first door she saw open, to find young Hoxton cleaning an old pepperbox pistol, its parts laid neatly out upon a blanket.
The gamekeeper had gone at a run to set the footmen off after Diana Jeffers, fortuitously flying past the doctor in the entrance hall where he was trading gossip with Duncaster.
“A nasty bit of work,” grunted Underwood, tossing the fabric aside and setting Napier’s elbow into a basin of hot water. “I’m going to irrigate it, my lord. Unnecessary, perhaps, but it’s becoming the done thing nowadays.”
Napier set his jaw hard as the painful process was begun. Lisette had drawn a small chair to his side. She was still shaking with relief.
“Dreadful!” Duncaster himself was pacing back and forth by the row of French windows. “Dreadful business, Royden! Good God, you might have been killed! Then where would we be?”
“You’d do better to concern yourself with Lisette, sir,” said Napier, his eyes cutting a glance at her. “She very nearly was killed. And for that, I would never have forgiven myself.”
“Indeed, the two of you must set up your nursery at once!” Visibly shaken, the old man was talking almost to himself. “No time to waste. None whatever.”
“No, not if the family means to go round stabbing one another,” said Napier coolly.
Duncaster turned about at once. “That infernal woman is not our blood,” he replied. “She is nothing but Hep’s distant cousin.”
“Oh, I wouldn’t count on that,” said Napier—just before he hissed through his teeth.
Diana’s knife had gone deep into the muscle of Napier’s forearm, then drawn two long but blessedly shallow slices down its length. Never squeamish, Lisette nonetheless felt herself begin to swoon as Underwood’s needle pierced the first flap of flesh.
Indeed, it might as well have been her flesh, so much did the man seem a part of her. As if, in some deep, unfathomable way, they had become one, joined together by a thousand bits of bone and sinew.
And if she had lost him? Dear God . . .
Her vision began to darken a trifle at the edges.
“Duncaster—?” Underwood jerked his head in Lisette’s direction.
; The old man leapt with surprising vigor. “My dear girl,” he said, kneeling by her chair, “do bend forward. Here, rest your forehead in my hand. Yes, all the way down.”
“But I never faint!” Lisette whispered into her skirt, which was now bloodied and shredded.
Duncaster’s hand was blessedly cool. “I blame myself for this,” he muttered.
“If anyone”—Napier paused to grunt as the next stitch was pulled—“is to be blamed for dragging her into this, it’s me.”
Her head still set against Duncaster’s hand, Lisette drew a deep breath. It brought with it the scent of dried blood and mortar dust, reminding her of what they had survived. And if she could survive that, surely she could watch Napier’s arm stitched up. Bracing her hands on the chair’s arms, she pushed herself up again.
“I’m all right now, sir,” she managed. “Truly.”
Duncaster rose reluctantly, and Napier’s good hand crept over Lisette’s, giving it a hard, reassuring squeeze. Heedless of the doctor, she lifted it to her lips, and pressed a fervent kiss to the back of his knuckles.
Just then, the massive oaken door flew open, and Tony rushed into the room. “Good God!” he cried. “Where is she?”
“Gone upstairs,” said Lisette. “She’s frightened, but fine. I’ve sent Fanny to tend her.”
“No—the devil!—not Felicity.” Tony strode fully into the room. “Diana. They—dear heaven!—they won’t hurt her, will they?”
“I beg your pardon,” said Lisette hotly, “but it’s Napier here who’s cut well near to ribbons.”
Tony jerked to a halt. “Gad!” He looked at the partially stitched wound, stricken. “Napier, my good fellow. That’s frightful. But Diana—good Lord—she didn’t mean it! Wouldn’t hurt a fly, the poor girl.”
“I begin to wonder how well you knew her,” Lisette muttered grimly.
“Oh, this is all my fault!” choked Tony, dragging both hands through his hair. “I should have seen—might have guessed—oh, bugger all! I must go after her.”
“Language, my boy!” boomed Duncaster.
Underwood looked around in irritation. “I could do with some silence, if you please.”
“Sit down, Tony, and hush,” Duncaster commanded. “The servants will find Diana.”
The viscount had gone to a table by the windows, and was filling a tray of brandy glasses. It was very odd to see the grand old man himself carry the tray about, pressing one into Napier’s good hand, and then into Lisette’s and even Tony’s.
The handsome young man had fallen into a chair opposite Lisette, his face bloodless, his full, faintly petulant mouth drawn into an uncharacteristically thin line. At his grandfather’s appearance, he flicked a quick glance up, took the brandy with a nod of thanks, and downed it in one swallow.
They sat thus, the three of them, watching as Underwood worked his way down the arm, Napier wincing but otherwise stoic. By the time the doctor’s work was nearing an end, Lady Hepplewood had clacked into the room on her black stick, followed five minutes later by Gwyneth. At Duncaster’s warning glare, they sat silently together on the sofa opposite the hearth.
“Well, that’s that,” Underwood finally said, giving his surgical scissors a little tap on the basin, dislodging the last bit of bloody thread. “Twelve stitches to close the worst of it. But clean cuts, my lord, and only the one gone deep into the muscle. Still, I’m going to wrap it and put it in a sling.”
“No sling,” said Napier grimly. “Just bandage it, thank you. We’ve important business to settle—and settle it we surely will, before someone else gets hurt. Someone besides that poor Willet girl, who’s likely traumatized for life.”
Only then did Lady Hepplewood burst into tears, her shoulders hunching forward on an awful cry, her head falling into her hands. Surprisingly, no one moved. Not even Tony, whom Lisette would have expected to go to his mother’s side. For once, Lisette hadn’t the strength.
Instead, it was Gwyneth who consoled her aunt, patting her lightly on the back as she sobbed. “There, there now!” she gently chided. “It’s not as bad as all that.”
“Oh, isn’t it?” said Tony, his voice deep with anguish.
Gwyneth flicked a glance around the room. “By the way, they caught Diana,” she said in satisfaction. “Marsh told me as I was coming down. Hoxton found her huddled in one of the box stalls.”
“In the stables?” said Tony, his expression horrified. “Where is she now? What will they do to her?”
“Probably not what she deserves,” said Gwyneth mordantly. “Now, can someone kindly tell us what’s happened? There are all manner of wild rumors upstairs.”
Napier exchanged knowing glances with Lisette.
“I’m not perfectly sure,” she said. “Nor am I sure we ought to discuss it here.”
“Discuss it!” Tony leapt to his feet. “Damn and blast, I’m tired of keeping secrets.”
“Tony—!” said his mother on a sharp, pitiful cry.
“No!” He spun on his heel to face her, his face ashen. “No, Mamma, with all respect, you caused this! It’s you and your damned secrets—your overweening pride—that’s driven the poor girl half mad.”
“More than half,” said Gwyneth evenly. “After all, she tried to kill poor Felicity.”
“At the end, I think not.” Napier’s authoritative voice silenced the room. “I suspect she meant to throw herself over the parapet. That, at least, was my assessment.” He turned a steady gaze upon Lisette. “My dear? You were nearer than I.”
“Yes, without a doubt,” said Lisette decisively. “You’re right, I think, Lord Hepplewood. Diana hadn’t the will to kill Felicity. But had Diana jumped, she’d surely have taken part of that collapsing wall with her. And that would have sealed Felicity’s fate.”
“And yours,” Napier grimly reminded her. “It is easy, perhaps, for me to be magnanimous, Hepplewood. My bride has been spared. But you—I greatly fear you’ve lost yours. Miss Willet means to leave. This afternoon, she says. And I do not think you will be seeing her again.”
Tony lifted one shoulder. “Felicity must do what she thinks best.”
“Anne is already packing their things,” said Gwyneth a little ghoulishly. “Unless, that is, Felicity is needed as a witness?”
Napier appeared to consider it but an instant. “I fear we’ve a hard decision to make, sir,” he said glancing up at his grandfather, who now stood behind Lady Hepplewood. “The gossip cannot be entirely stopped. Rumor of Miss Willet’s canceled wedding will have gone round Mayfair before tomorrow’s out.”
“Yes,” said Duncaster solemnly. “I daresay you’re right. But what else is there to decide?”
Napier cast a glance around the room. “A few family matters,” he said darkly. “Specifically, how did Diana Jeffers come to imagine herself secretly betrothed to Hepplewood? And what must we now do with her?”
“Send her to jail, won’t we?” said Gwyneth.
Napier tilted his head almost warningly. “I should be very slow in deciding that,” he said, “though I’ve little doubt I can get her convicted, if that’s what you wish.”
“Well, why shouldn’t we?” Duncaster blustered. “She’s no kin of ours. Not really.”
Lisette watched Napier’s gaze turned wary. “I believe, sir, you’d best ask your sister about that. Or better still, ask your nephew the question I just put to him. How did that poor, mad creature come to think herself engaged to marry him?”
“Because he’s been tossing up her skirts for years, I don’t doubt.” Gwyneth thrust a finger at her cousin. “Go on, Tony! Tell them! It’s why you wouldn’t do what Grandpapa told you to do—to marry Anne, as you were intended, isn’t it?”
“Good God, Gwen, you disgust me!” cried Tony, leaping to his feet. “Does no one care about poor Diana? Yes, I once said I’d marry her! She seemed to want it so desperately, and—why, she was dear to me. And she’s fragile, always has been. Can none of you understand that? Or are you so unfeeling you c
annot care?”
“I care,” said Lisette softly. “But you have been Lord Hepplewood some months now. If you wished to marry Diana, why didn’t you simply do it?”
At that, Lady Hepplewood rose from the sofa, and hobbled to the French windows. Setting one hand on the door frame, she stood on the threshold as if she wished to flee. Then quietly she bent her head and began to sob in earnest.
“Mamma—!” Tony warned. “Don’t start. It won’t work again. I’m sorry; I’ve no wish to see you humiliated. But Diana cannot bear the brunt of this! She’s not strong; you know that. She’s not like you.”
At that, Lady Hepplewood spun about, her face a mask of rage beneath the tracks of her tears. “No, she’s not like me!” she retorted. “She’s fanciful—and spineless. But go ahead; if you’re willing to throw your poor mother to the gossip hounds to be slavered over and ripped to bits, I cannot stop you.”
“Perhaps I should go,” murmured Underwood, half rising.
Napier caught his arm. “No,” he said warningly. “You’ll be needed.”
But Tony was still staring at his mother. “This is our family, Mamma,” he said quietly. “Underwood is our physician. Duncaster is your brother.”
“It sounds as if something’s gone on too long,” said the viscount a little grimly. “And secrets kept, Cordelia, simply fester. What have you done to Diana?”
Lady Hepplewood drew herself up stiffly. “How can you, of all people, suggest I meant that girl ill?” she said sharply. “I brought her up cheek by jowl with my own son after her mother died. And to thank me, she decided to fancy herself in love with him! Of course, I’d feared it for years; she idolized the boy.”
“Yes, yes,” said Duncaster impatiently. “That’s why Hep wanted a match between Tony and Anne. To discourage the chit. And I supported it.”
“And it’s why he sent Tony off to school,” said Lady Hepplewood, “and then off to London. But you, Tony—you just kept giving in to her wheedling, didn’t you, and coming back home again? You could never refuse her manipulations. But I did as well by Diana as I could. I will not be blamed for thinking her not good enough for you, for she wasn’t. Still, I did my duty. I brought her up, and brought her out, too—and in a high style.”