by Cheryl Holt
“Did any of the rest of you see her after that?” Hunter asked.
They shook their heads, and Hunter looked at Jackson and said, “Let’s go have a chat with Mr. Webster.”
Rebecca said, “I’m coming with you.”
But Jackson piped up before Hunter could. “No, you stay here. We can’t be away from the manor at the same time. Who can predict what mischief these sloths might implement if we were both away?”
Hunter was liking Jackson more and more. “Take me there,” he said to the boy, “and be quick about it.”
“Should we bring a pistol?” Warwick asked.
They each had one strapped to their saddles, and they carried them when they were traveling, but Hunter said, “We don’t need a pistol. Winston Webster is a weasel and a coward. There’s no reason to be afraid of him.”
Jackson wagged the poker at Warwick. “I have this. If Mr. Webster has hurt her, I’ll beat him bloody.”
He whipped away and marched out the door, Hunter and Warwick dogging his heels.
As they hurried after him, Warwick murmured, “I thought this whole trip would be a boring slog. Will there be fisticuffs? It’s been awhile since I’ve had a chance to punch someone.”
“I can’t imagine what we’ll find,” Hunter replied, “but if Hannah has been harmed, we’ll do quite a bit more than punch Winston Webster.”
“Will we kill him?”
“Yes.”
“Marvelous! It’s been awhile since I murdered anyone too.”
****
Winston was seated at the desk in his den, while Amelia paced and nervously wrung her hands.
“I feel awful about this,” she said, “and I hate to have Hannah injured. We’re not violent people. There must have been a better way to deal with her.”
“I’m weary of debating the issue. You’re aware of how recalcitrant she’s been. What option was left to us? She’s already tossed us out of the manor, and I have no doubt her next move would be to throw us out on the road.”
“I can’t picture her acting that badly.”
“I can,” he fumed. “How could we have stopped her? Were you willing to risk being evicted?”
“But to hit her! To tie her up! I’m very bewildered by our ultimate goal, Winston. What is your plan?”
He glared at her, then shifted his focus to the desk. He was drafting a letter to that snooty lawyer, Thumberton, but she kept interrupting. He was imitating Hannah’s handwriting, so Thumberton would think it had been penned by her, and Winston had to concentrate.
He’d collected the insurance money on Hannah’s building, and he’d given most of it to the villains who were threatening him. It had bought him an extra month to come up with the balance, which he fully intended to do.
He would pretend to be Hannah and would inform Thumberton she was transferring title to Winston—who would be an excellent caretaker. Then he’d write to Thumberton in his own hand and make the announcement about Rebecca’s paternity.
As her acknowledged father, he would be able to seize control of her dowry assets. In a few weeks, he was certain he would have the situation resolved, and he refused to suppose he wouldn’t.
With his finally vanquishing Hannah, he was in a manic state, his mind racing, his pulse elevated, so he was feverish and agitated. He felt omnipotent, as if he could commit any atrocity with impunity.
He’d never previously pummeled a woman, and it had been such a satisfying experience. Why had he waited so long to use physical force against her? After he had, it had been so easy to gain her compliance.
He’d knocked her unconscious, had bound and gagged her, then he and Amelia had dragged her down to the wine cellar. She was still there, and she would remain there until after dark. And then…?
Amelia wanted to free her and couldn’t understand why they didn’t dare. A grave had to be dug in the woods, so he could dispose of Hannah’s body. He’d expected to have Amelia’s assistance, but as usual, she was proving herself weak and feckless.
Perhaps he should rid himself of her too. Once he owned Parkhurst, why would he need Amelia? He couldn’t conceive of a single reason. She would have to suffer a tidy accident, and he’d be a widower, one who was a landed gentleman. Then he’d wed a woman who was worthy of being his bride.
“May I take Hannah some tea and biscuits?” Amelia asked. “What is your opinion? I’d like to check on her.”
Winston slammed a palm on the desktop. “We’re not checking! How many times must I explain this to you?”
“I’m trying to behave more rationally than you. She’ll be very angry over your vicious conduct, and I should calm her down.”
“Would you like to untie her and bring her upstairs? What would happen then? Would we simply go about our business as if nothing has occurred?”
Amelia frowned. “I’m sure she’ll be very upset with you.”
“With us, Amelia! Not just me! We could wind up in legal jeopardy for assaulting her. Now be quiet and let me finish this letter.”
He’d dipped his quill in the ink pot when there was a loud bang out at the front of the house. Commotion erupted in the foyer.
“Where is Mr. Webster?” an irate man asked one of the servants, but Winston couldn’t hear the reply. He blanched, wondering if the moneylenders had arrived to thrash him again.
Booted strides echoed in the hall as several people marched toward them, and he glanced over at Amelia and hissed, “Keep your mouth shut! No matter what.”
She jumped from her chair and skittered to the corner, as if she could hide there. He leapt up too, yearning for an escape route, but the only exit was through the door that led into the hall. He searched the desktop and picked up a letter opener, thinking he could use it as a knife to protect himself.
As to Amelia, she was on her own.
A burly blond man burst in first, and it was Viscount Marston. Winston was incredibly confused by the sight. Why would the noble scoundrel be at Parkhurst?
A second man entered behind him, and he looked so much like Hunter Stone that he was either Stone’s twin or Winston was seeing double. The little cretin, Jackson Graves, strutted in too, and though it was bizarre, he was clutching a fireplace poker.
“Where is Hannah?” Lord Marston demanded.
Winston was shocked to have Marston inquire about her, and he peeked over at Amelia before he could stop himself. He had to appear guilty as sin. Marston stomped across the room, and Winston held out the letter opener, wielding it like a weapon.
“Stay where you are!” he warned.
Marston simply yanked it away and flicked it over his shoulder. Then he grabbed Winston by his shirt and lifted him, so they were nose to nose, his feet dangling off the floor.
“Where is she?” Marston said again.
Winston scoffed. “How would I know? I haven’t talked to the pathetic shrew since yesterday.”
Marston didn’t appreciate the slur against Hannah, and he tossed Winston away as if he weighed no more than a feather. Winston crashed into the wall and fell with a hard thud that knocked the air out of his lungs. He curled into a ball and struggled to breathe.
He ordered himself to rise, to fight back, but his limbs wouldn’t obey.
Jackson advanced on Amelia, and Winston could only watch helplessly as Jackson brandished the poker and said, “I don’t like you, and I would love to wallop you with this, so I will ask you this question once. If you don’t answer me, I will beat you to within an inch of your life. I’ll enjoy it too. Where is Hannah?”
The fiend was eager to start pounding on Amelia. She was trembling and had been rendered speechless.
“Amelia! Be silent!” Winston forced out, but while he’d wanted to sound commanding, his lungs were still barely functioning, so the words came out in a whisper.
Suddenly, Amelia looked over at the door, and she screamed with fright. Winston looked over too, and a ghost seemed to be standing there, one that might have just climbed out of the grave
. It was covered in muck and blood, its clothes dirty and torn, a hand reaching out toward them.
He blinked and blinked again, realizing it wasn’t a ghost at all, but a very battered Hannah. Apparently, as he’d been blithely forging letters and plotting where to dig her grave after he strangled her to death later in the evening, she’d been escaping from the wine cellar where she’d been imprisoned.
How had she managed it? And why had Winston foolishly let her live for as long as he had? Why hadn’t he killed her after he’d hauled her down to the cellar?
The problem was that he had no prior experience with homicide, so he had no rules to guide him. He’d intended to do it after dark, which had seemed a more suitable hour to commit that type of crime.
Why couldn’t anything go as he planned? It had been the story of his life!
Hannah swayed in the doorway, and Marston’s twin muttered, “What the hell is that?”
Then Marston said, “Oh, my Lord! Hannah, is it you?”
“Hunter?” Hannah wheezed, then she wailed with dismay and fainted.
****
“It’s not as bad as it looks.”
“It feels bad.”
“You were merely banged on the noggin. That kind of wound bleeds ferociously, so it always appears worse than it is.”
Hunter was back at the manor, in Hannah’s bedroom. She was snuggled on his lap, her arms curled tightly around his waist, as if she’d never release him.
Rebecca had brought a pitcher of warm water and a pile of soft towels to clean her face. Hunter was gently swabbing away the dried blood. Behind them, housemaids and footmen were rushing in and out of the dressing room, filling a bathing tub, so she could soak her sore muscles and wash off the grime.
After she’d staggered in like a spectral apparition, Jackson had been so incensed that he’d whacked Winston with the poker, delivering several fierce blows before Warwick had dragged him off the cowering villain. Jackson had a potent lack of inhibition and an ingrained sense of justice that was terrifying.
Hunter needed to get the child into the army as soon as possible. It would be a good outlet for his rage, and it would also provide the training required to control it.
Hannah had fallen to the floor in an unconscious heap. She’d been in such a rough condition that he’d wondered if she hadn’t dropped dead at his feet, but she hadn’t. She was rattled and bruised, but bruises healed.
Warwick and Jackson were still at the Dower House, guarding Amelia and Winston. Hunter would join them the moment he could pry himself away.
“My head is aching,” she said.
“I suspect it will hurt for quite awhile.”
She peered up at him, and he kept his expression blank, not keen to have her observe his wrath, but he was so furious he could barely remain calm. She’d been through a horrendous ordeal, and she’d be distraught for ages.
On many occasions, he’d witnessed trauma in soldiers, and he’d suffered plenty of his own after he’d been wounded. It took an eternity to stop jumping at loud noises and blanching at sudden movement by others.
She’d have a slow recovery, and he wouldn’t stir her unease by reminding her of how hazardous the situation had truly been. After she was better, they could dither over the details of the incident.
“I went over there to speak with him about the estate,” she said.
“Hush. We don’t have to discuss it now.” He tried to settle her against his chest, but she was desperate to talk about what had occurred.
“He’s always been rude and dismissive, but I never expected him to become violent.”
“The last time I visited, he manhandled you. Remember?”
“Yes, but I never believed he’d actually hit me.”
“What did he use to pummel you?” There were two deep cuts on her scalp that he didn’t suppose had been inflicted by a fist. Webster had to have employed a weapon.
“It happened so fast; I couldn’t tell what it was. I assumed he was giving me some papers to read.”
“I’m delighted that you can recall portions of the event. It means the wallop wasn’t too forceful. Or it could be that you’re very hard-headed, so he couldn’t exact as much damage as he was hoping. It’s my view anyway.”
He offered the comment in jest, wanting to lighten the somber mood, but it didn’t work. Everyone was incredibly disturbed, the servants tiptoeing by, casting nervous glances at Hannah. They were alarmed by how she’d been assaulted and none of them had been present to prevent it.
“Why are you at Parkhurst?” she asked, as she rubbed her throbbing temple.
“I was in London, but I was worried about you. I mentioned my concern to your friend, Sybil Jones, and she nagged at me to check on you. Knowing your penchant for getting yourself into trouble, I decided I should listen to her.”
“Miss Jones was worried about me?”
“Yes.”
It wasn’t the real reason he’d come. The real reason was because he’d intended to propose again, but there was no hurry. She was a tad bewildered, would start a sentence, then lose her train of thought. Her befuddled state was scaring all of them.
“He tied me up,” she said. “Amelia assisted him and made certain the knots were extra tight.”
“I figured she probably had.”
“They carried me down to the wine cellar.” She scowled, struggling to recollect, and grimacing as if the effort was painful. “I went to sleep…I think. Then I woke up and I freed my wrists. It took forever.”
“You can tell me about it later,” he said, his tone soothing.
“He learned how to forge my signature. He was writing letters with my name on them.”
“Don’t fret over it. He won’t ever have the chance to mail them.”
“He’s an arsonist! He set the fire that burned down my shop!”
Hunter was stunned. “He confessed to it?”
“Yes—for insurance money! I’m pretty sure he was going to kill me. Don’t you imagine that’s what he was planning?”
Hunter wasn’t about to have this conversation. Not while she was still so anxious. Not when she hadn’t even had an opportunity to scrape off the evidence.
“I’ll unravel his schemes. You shouldn’t fuss over it. You should just concentrate on feeling better.”
She began to cry quietly, and she collapsed onto his chest. He stroked a palm up and down her back and peeked over at Rebecca who appeared so stricken that Hunter was afraid she might faint.
Will she be all right? Rebecca mouthed.
He nodded and mouthed in reply, She’ll be fine.
A housemaid whispered, “Her bath is ready, Lord Marston.”
He drew Hannah up so she was looking at him, and he said, “Can you take a bath for me? Would you? The maids will clean you up and put you to bed. You’ll be more yourself after you’ve washed.”
“Yes, I can wash,” but she gaped about as if she didn’t know where she was.
“I’ll help you.”
“I can do it,” she insisted.
She slid to her feet, but she was swaying slightly, so he clasped her arm to steady her. He walked with her to the dressing room, pretending he was simply accompanying her, but mostly, he was propping her up so she didn’t fall down.
He wanted to sit with her as she bathed, wanted to keep an eye on her every second, but with her sister and the servants hovering, he didn’t dare.
“I’ll just be out in the hall,” he told her. “If you need anything, have Rebecca fetch me.”
“I shouldn’t need you,” she claimed, her voice tremulous, “but don’t leave!”
“I won’t leave. I promise.”
“And don’t let…them into the manor. I’d be very frightened if I had to see them again. Can you swear they won’t get in?”
“They will never be permitted back inside. I swear it to you. You relax, and I will handle everything else.”
Rebecca stepped forward and led Hannah into the room. A trio of h
ousemaids entered with them, and the door was closed. He dawdled until her bath was finished and she’d been tucked into bed. She drifted off so fast there had hardly been time to say goodnight.
“What should we do, Lord Marston?” a footman inquired as he tiptoed out of the bedchamber.
“I have to deal with Mr. and Mrs. Webster. Is this the only way in and out of this suite? There’s no rear exit, is there?” The boy confirmed there wasn’t, and Hunter said, “You can guard the door for me. Don’t allow anyone in except her sister. If she awakens and asks for me, send someone to find me.”
“She won’t…won’t die, will she?”
“Goodness, no. She’ll have a headache, and she’ll be jumpy and out of sorts for a few weeks, but she’s a fighter. She’ll recover quickly.”
“What about Mr. and Mrs. Webster? What will happen to them?”
“I’ll apprise you once I’ve determined the best conclusion.”
Hunter marched out and proceeded to the Dower House. He didn’t usually grow angry, and he never liked to quarrel. He wasn’t a particularly vicious man, and he was never overly concerned about punishment or vengeance, but in this situation, the usual habits didn’t apply.
Winston and Amelia Webster would have to pay a very high price for what they’d perpetrated, and Hunter was thrilled to be the person who would extract it from them.
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
“Stand up.”
“Why?”
Winston glared at Viscount Marston, but couldn’t see him all that clearly. His left eye was swollen shut from the beating the boy had delivered with his accursed poker. Whatever Marston was contemplating, Winston didn’t imagine the situation would end well.
He hadn’t moved, and Marston said more sternly, “Stand up!”
Marston yanked Winston to his feet, but he’d been bruised and battered, so he hurt everywhere. He cried out with dismay. How many more indignities would he be required to suffer? He simply wished he could crawl into his bed and lie down.
While Marston had been over at the manor, Winston and Amelia had dawdled in the pathetic den at the Dower House. The boy and Marston’s twin, the evil Warwick, had stood over them, fists at the ready, should they attempt to defend themselves or flee.