by Alyssa Drake
“Nothing,” replied Daphne. Swallowing, her eyes locked on the gun.
“It is rude to remain seated when being introduced to someone,” Mr. Morris replied thoughtfully, rubbing his temple with the muzzle. “However, I suppose you have been taking etiquette lessons from Samantha, which would explain your lack of manners.” He pointed the gun at her heart. “Stand.”
Grimacing, Daphne slid her legs under her body, pushing into a kneeling position. Using the cane, she struggled to her feet, leaning against Miss Larson’s arm.
“Are you injured, Miss Clemens? How delightful.” His mouth curving into a horrific grin, he flicked his gaze to Miss Larson. “We have some unfinished business to attend, my dear.”
Without warning, he pulled the trigger. Miss Larson wheezed, a scream trapped in her throat. Her hands fluttered to her chest, a pool of crimson spread from under her fingers, staining her apron bright red. She turned toward Daphne burbling, blood foaming on her lips. With a groan, she crumpled to the floor, her hand stretched toward Daphne’s feet.
Mr. Morris’ gaze lifted from Miss Larson’s face, focusing on Daphne. “Miss Clemens, I am surprised to find you outside, unchaperoned at this hour. Could it be that your guardians are not aware of your nocturnal explorations? I warned them of Samantha’s; however, I neglected to include yours.”
Shuffling closer, Mr. Morris stopped in the center of the gazebo. Daphne gulped, her eyes locked on the barrel. If she kept him talking, perhaps someone would notice her absence? But who? With Lord Westwood’s near-fatal injury, the entire household was occupied. She licked her lips. “How do you know of my stargazing?”
“I have been watching you for several days.” Stepping forward, he reached out, trailing the pistol down Daphne’s cheek.
She shivered, fighting the terror churning through her veins, her hand tightening around the cane. “Then you must have seen me fall from the trellis.”
“I did.” He laughed. “I was quite surprised at your attempt, given your apparent clumsiness.” Daphne flinched at his accusation. He grabbed her chin and pinched her skin, forcing her to stare into his eyes. “I want you to give Samantha a message for me. Can you do that?”
Daphne nodded.
Wrenching her head, he dug the pistol under her chin. “I asked you a question, Miss Clemens. Can you do that?”
“I can,” she whimpered.
“Excellent.” He released her, taking two steps backward, aiming the pistol at her chest. “Tell her how much you suffered.”
The gun fired. Daphne screamed, stumbling backward into the gazebo railing. The cane flew from her hand, crashing into the far side of the gazebo. She squeezed her eyes shut, waiting for the explosion of pain, the coldness of death. Nothing. Peeling her eyes open, she saw Mr. Morris lying motionless, face down on the floor, the gun resting at Daphne’s feet.
A shadow pushed off Mr. Morris, standing and approaching quickly, a knife glinting in its hand. With a squeak, Daphne dropped to her knees, fumbling for the gun. She raised it, her arm vibrating madly. “Do not come any closer,” she demanded, her voice cracking. “Drop the knife!”
It clattered to the floor. “Daphne,” the voice strained.
“Thomas!” Daphne flung herself at him. He caught her, extracting the pistol from her hand, wrapping her tightly in his arms.
“Do I want to know why you are outside, alone, at this hour?” he murmured into her hair, his mouth brushing over her forehead.
“I saw Miss Larson sneaking around the gazebo through my window,” replied Daphne.
“Why did you not say anything?” He sighed, his thumb caressing her lower lip.
“I was concerned for your brother,” she murmured. “I did not want to disturb you.”
“You can always disturb me.” Leaning forward, he stopped a breath away from her lips, his eyes searching hers. “Please tell me you did not climb down the trellis.”
Daphne grinned. “I did not climb down the trellis. I used the front door.”
“It was you that I heard!”
“It was Aunt Abigail’s cane.” Daphne blushed. “I dropped it.”
“Then I am thankful I investigated that sound, or I would have lost you this evening.” He bumped his forehead against hers.
“Are you worried about losing me?”
Mr. Reid’s eyes flicked down to Mr. Morris’ unresponsive body. “No, not anymore.”
A shot echoed in the garden. Mr. Reid’s face froze. Without a word, he collapsed.
Chapter Twenty-Two
“I do hope you were not expecting Mr. Reid to give you an offer of marriage.” Miss Randall, a pistol clasped in her gloved hand, climbed the steps. Her gaze floated over the gazebo, drinking in the macabre scene. When her eyes reached Mr. Reid, her face distorted into a cruel grin. Strolling to his side, she nudged his leg with her foot, then bent over, yanking the gun from his hand. “I like you, Miss Clemens, so I will give you a chance to survive if you can find this before I shoot you.”
A laugh burst from her lips, melodious and cold. She flung the pistol over the railing. It vanished in the darkness, hitting a rose bush with a dull thud, then skittered down the gravel path toward the rear of the house. Turning, Miss Randall pointed her gun at Daphne.
“Why did you shoot Mr. Reid?” whispered Daphne, forcing herself to hold Miss Randall’s cruel gaze. She knew the answer. Miss Randall was Mr. Morris’ accomplice. But, how had they missed the association? Mr. Reid had said a man was assisting Mr. Morris… A shiver flowed down Daphne’s back. Why would Miss Randall commit such dreadful atrocities?
Miss Randall tilted her head, her violet eyes sparkling. “Between you and Samantha, I am surprised neither of you realized my involvement.”
“They assumed it was a man.” Disbelief washed through Daphne.
“Men usually do,” Miss Randall scoffed.
“But your aunt?” Daphne slid sideways, stepping to her right. Her eyes flicked down, combing through the dim shadows. Where had Mr. Reid dropped the knife? Miss Randall mirrored the small movement, stepping over Mr. Reid’s lifeless arm, closing the distance between herself and Daphne.
“She was a horrible person. It was my pleasure to torture her until she begged for my forgiveness.” Sneering, Miss Randall stomped on Mr. Reid’s hand, grinding her heel into his palm.
Daphne gasped. Had Mr. Reid flinched? He was alive! Miss Randall’s gaze lifted to Daphne, suspicion wrinkled her forehead. Glancing down, she lifted her heel, slamming it again Mr. Reid’s hand.
“You chopped off her head!” Shouting, Daphne hoped her voice was loud enough to conceal Mr. Reid’s moan of anguish.
“No.” Miss Randall spun, anger flashing in her eyes. “My father did.”
Her gaze fell on Mr. Morris, softening. Crossing the gazebo, she cut off Daphne’s escape route, corralling her in the rear of the gazebo. Kneeling, she aimed the pistol at Daphne’s heart and glanced down, trailing her fingers through Mr. Morris’ hair. They slid down his neck, wrapping around his shoulder. Yanking, she rolled his body toward her, flipping him onto his back. She brushed her fingers over his peaceful face, closed his eyelids, and sighed. “He was quite an interesting man, intelligent, well-traveled, and humorous. I wish I had more time with him.” She glanced up, centering the pistol on Daphne’s chest. “Mr. Reid took my father from me; I had to kill him. My father taught me that—everyone who slights me must be punished.”
Daphne swallowed, her eyes flicking to Mr. Reid. Blood drained from his body, seeping across the floorboards, dripping to the soft earth beneath. If she managed to escape, would she be able to get help in time?
“What about your uncle? Mr. Pierce was a kind man. He was good to you.”
“He was,” replied Miss Randall, folding Mr. Morris’ hands across his chest with her free hand. “However, he did not rescue me from my aunt’s jealousy.”
“Neither did your father.” Daphne gestured to Mr. Morris. She bumped against the gazebo railing, her hands closing aroun
d the worn wood. She could fling herself over the railing; however, she could not run, so she would need to crawl like Miss Larson. The waning moon would not provide enough light to reveal her location once she was amidst the gardens, but it also would not expose the pistol’s whereabouts. She would have no weapon, and without a distraction, Miss Randall would shoot Daphne before she hid among the rose bushes.
The air crackled with Miss Randall’s fury. Rising, she stalked to Daphne. “My father sent me the money necessary to free myself from my mother’s family. He saved me.”
“He taught you to kill.” A small movement caught Daphne’s attention. Her eyes dropped to Mr. Reid. His chest moved, dipping slightly. Hope soared through her heart. Keep breathing!
“I killed long before I even knew of my lineage.” She glanced down at Miss Larson’s pale face. “That is a pity, I had hoped to be the one to take her life.”
She was crazy. Mad. Touched in the head. Daphne needed a plan, or she would end up beside Mr. Reid, slowly bleeding to death.
“Who did you kill?”
Miss Randall tilted her head as if considering the question. “I suppose, since I am going to kill you, there would be no harm in admitting my crime. There is only one other person who knows my involvement, and he will never speak on the subject, especially once I fulfill my promise to him.” She paced away from Daphne, stopping beside Mr. Reid, nudging his leg again. “I will tell you if you answer one question for me.”
“Alright…” Daphne’s forehead scrunched. What could Miss Randall want to know?
“Did Mr. Reid kiss you?” Miss Randall’s violet eyes gleamed.
Licking her lips, Daphne nodded.
Miss Randall turned, retracted her foot, and kicked Mr. Reid in his side. He groaned. A peculiar smile crossing her face, her gaze lifted to Daphne. “When did you plan on informing me Mr. Reid was still alive?”
“I only agreed to answer one question, and Mr. Reid will bleed out shortly,” replied Daphne, forcing her tone to remain calm. Her gaze furtively swept the gazebo for the cane. She spied it against the railing behind Mr. Reid. “It is your turn.”
Miss Randall arched an eyebrow at Daphne’s authoritative tone, inclining her head. “Jeremiah.”
“Your cousin? Jeremiah Shirely? But he was just a child.”
“As was I.” Miss Randall’s mouth stretched into a macabre grin. “I was ten.”
“What did you do?” Numbness flooded Daphne’s body. Was it possible that Miss Randall was worse than her father?
“Robert and I played together frequently as children. We were close in age and quite alike in temperament too. He was my favorite companion, and I had been nurturing a fanciful attachment for some months. The afternoon of Jeremiah’s death, we were playing a game. Robert discovered my hiding place and chased me across the meadows. He was faster and easily captured me, dragging me to the ground. Concealed among the tall grass, I admitted my attachment to him. Robert was just a few days from his ninth birthday. I told him I wanted to give him a present; I gave him a kiss on the cheek.”
Daphne, her eyes locked on the gun, stepped to her left, edging toward the cane. “Did he kiss you back?”
“He did. It was sweet, innocent.” Miss Randall touched her fingertip to her lips, lost in the memory. “Jeremiah dove through the grass, surprising us and knocking Robert to the ground. He had been following us most of the morning and overheard my confession. When he threatened to tell Aunt Lillian, I had to stop him.”
“She would have been livid,” replied Daphne, inching along the railing. She prayed Miss Randall did not realize how close she was to the cane.
Miss Randall nodded. “She would have prevented me from ever seeing Robert again; I couldn’t have that. I would not lose Robert. We chased Jeremiah down. Robert caught him and pushed him down, pinning his arms over his head, kneeling on his legs. I told Robert to cover Jeremiah’s mouth with his hand. Then I lifted a rock and brought it down on Jeremiah’s head, splitting it open with one strike.” Miss Randall paused, her eyes glazing over. “Blood spurted everywhere. He flopped several times like a fish gasping for air, then stilled.”
“What did Mr. Shirely do?”
“He was shocked, releasing his brother immediately, and lifted him from the grass, cradling Jeremiah’s limp body. It was Robert’s screams which drew the governess’ attention.” Miss Randall moved closer to Daphne. “I pleaded with Robert not to reveal the truth.”
“Mr. Shirely was accused of the crime! Why did he not say anything?”
“I told Robert if he revealed my involvement, Aunt Lillian would ensure I was hanged. Then he would be responsible for two deaths. Therefore, we fabricated a story, repeating it over and over until it became the truth.”
“Surely, as he grew older, he would have understood the ramifications of your actions.”
Miss Randall tilted her head, a strange smile graced her lips. “I have repaid him on numerous occasions for his silence.”
“How?” asked Daphne, scooting to her left again. The cane was almost close enough to touch.
“Robert is a man. He has needs, quite a healthy appetite, as it were.” Miss Randall shrugged. “I give him what he wants, without question, and he repays my kindness with favors.”
“Like a prostitute?”
Miss Randall bristled at the moniker, her eyes narrowing. Angering Miss Randall was not her best decision…
“Then why did you not just marry Mr. Shirely?”
“Robert is a brute. He cares nothing for a woman’s needs, only his own. But Mr. Reid…” The macabre grin reappeared on her face. “I am curious. How accurate is his reputation?”
Daphne blushed. “I would not know.”
“I believe you do know, Miss Clemens.” Miss Randall’s soft voice wrapped around Daphne. “Shall we ask your lover? I think he has a few breaths left in him.”
“Mr. Reid is not my lover!” Daphne lunged for the cane, her fingers closing around the stem. Ripping it from the ground, she swung it in an arc. It connected with Miss Randall’s head with a sickening crunch. She screamed, dropping the pistol, her hands flying to her cheek as she staggered backward, howling in agony. Without waiting, Daphne yanked up her skirt and vaulted over the railing.
She landed awkwardly on a pathway, balancing on her good leg. Leaning on the cane, she stumbled in the direction Miss Randall had thrown the other gun. Flinging herself forward, Daphne dove toward a rose bush, sliding across the gravel pathway, rocks scratching her clothing, shredding the cloth, and ripping her skin. She bit her tongue, muffling her anguish and scuttled underneath a bush. The thorns pricked her arms, gouging pieces of flesh from her limbs. Please let me save Mr. Reid.
“I hope you have hidden quite well, Miss Clemens,” taunted Miss Randall, agony straining her voice. She leaned over the gazebo railing, her hand clamped to her cheek, and waved her other arm, the pistol flashing in the dim moonlight.
Crawling along the ground, Daphne abandoned the cane, digging her elbows into the dirt and pulling herself forward through the rows. As long as she kept her head beneath the bushes and flower petals, Miss Randall would not see her.
“How long do you think you can hide before I find you?” Miss Randall descended the gazebo’s staircase, her shoes crunching as she took the first pathway toward the rear of the house.
Peering over her shoulder, Daphne spied Miss Randall several meters behind her. Miss Randall hunted through the first row of rose bushes, smacking aside small branches in her desperation. Ducking her head, Daphne crawled faster, pushing forward with her feet. A sharp pain shot through her ankle. She froze, sinking her teeth into her lower lip to prevent the scream from escaping. Had Miss Randall heard her gasp? She twisted around, searching for Miss Randall, who had paused halfway down her row, her head tilted. A slow grin spread across her face.
“I can hear your heartbeat, Miss Clemens. Do you feel it, thrumming madly in your chest? It calls to me.” She spun around, pointing the pistol at Daphne.<
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Daphne shrunk down, holding her breath. Her blood pounded through her veins so loudly, she feared Miss Randall might very well hear the sound. Her ears pricked; boots scraped on the pathway. Miss Randall was heading directly toward her! Gulping, Daphne froze, praying. Her muscles screamed.
“Good evening.” The voice sent a shiver slithering down Daphne’s spine. She lifted her head. Miss Randall stood above her, pointing the pistol at her head. “Stand up.”
Nodding, Daphne pushed up on her knees, dragging her hands along the ground. Her fingers closed into fists, collecting dirt and pebbles in her fist. Sliding her foot under her, she rose shakily, her arms outstretched for balance.
Jerking the gun, Miss Randall indicated for Daphne to walk toward the gazebo. Lowering her arms, Daphne took a hesitant step forward and turned back toward Miss Randall.
“Do you have something you’d like to say before I take your life?” she smirked, arching an eyebrow.
“I do.” Daphne took one more step, planting her strong leg behind her.
“Please, continue.” She curtsied, opening her arms in a wide gesture.
Suddenly, Daphne flung the dirt and rocks into Miss Randall’s face. Miss Randall shrieked, rubbing her eyes. Lunging at Miss Randall, Daphne struck her in the chest, knocking her backward. They rolled in a ball of limbs and skirts. The pistol flew out of Miss Randall’s hand, rebounding off the side of the house, falling to the bushes lining pathway below.
Daphne shoved Miss Randall, crawling off her body, and scuttled toward the rear of the house. Grabbing Daphne’s ankle, Miss Randall yanked. An anguished scream tore from Daphne’s lips, pain radiating through her leg. She kicked backward, her heel connecting with Miss Randall, who released Daphne’s ankle, falling backward.
Struggling to her feet, Daphne hobbled to the edge of the path, her eyes scanning the darkness for the gun. Behind her, Miss Randall moaned, her head rolling side-to-side on the gravel. She only had a few moments. She just needed to reach the kitchens.