by Cheryl Holt
Their wrists were tightly bound, and they were huddled on the rug in an embarrassing posture. Amelia was weeping like a frightened child, and Winston would like to weep too, but he wouldn’t give them the satisfaction of realizing he was afraid.
Night had fallen, and it was an ominous sign, the darkness especially threatening. It was drizzling rain, and the inclement weather would keep people hunkered down inside. If Marston perpetrated a transgression against Winston, who would be out and about to act as a witness?
Marston was dressed for traveling, and he said to the boy, “I have a carriage out front. Mr. Webster and Warwick are coming with me. I’ll be gone for the rest of the evening.”
“I want to help you finish it,” the boy told him. “It’s only fair that I be allowed to participate.”
“I need you to stay here and watch Mrs. Webster until I return. I’ll deal with her then.”
With that, Marston started for the door, his grip tight on Winston’s arm, and Winston tried to squirm away, but couldn’t.
“What are you planning?” he asked rather frantically, but he was ignored.
Amelia had better luck. “Where are you taking him?”
“I’m not taking him anywhere,” Marston replied. “Haven’t you heard? He escaped our custody, and we have no idea where he went.”
Amelia frowned. “What is that supposed to mean?”
“He vanished without a trace,” Marston bizarrely explained, “and he’s such a sly criminal that I’m positive he’ll never be found.”
Winston was even more confused than Amelia. Was Marston releasing him? Would he be permitted to sneak away unscathed? It didn’t seem likely.
“Amelia!” he called. “Stop him!”
“How would I, Winston?” She showed him the shackles on her wrists.
The boy said to Marston, “I’m tired of listening to them. May I gag her?”
“Yes, of course. Feel free.”
The boy walked to Amelia, kerchief in hand, to stuff it into her mouth. She refused to open for him, and he pinched her nose so she couldn’t breathe. When she finally gasped for air, the fiend accomplished his goal.
“Now see here!” Winston complained. “That’s my wife you’re abusing!”
Marston cut him off, saying to the boy, “Mr. Webster hit Hannah with a hard object. Have they mentioned what it was?”
“They haven’t talked about it, but it might have been this.”
He hurried to the desk and picked up the correct evidence. It was a broken piece of metal pipe Winston had tripped over in the woods. He’d been carrying it as a weapon in case the debt collectors accosted him. Marston lifted it, gauging its heavy weight.
He said to Winston, “You’re the type of coward who would hit a woman with a metal pipe. Is this it?” Winston smirked, and Marston said, “I’m assuming that’s a yes.”
Before he understood what Marston intended, the crazed lunatic struck Winston alongside the head with it. He collapsed, managing a last glimpse at Amelia as he fell to the floor.
When he awakened, he couldn’t figure out where he was. From how he was bumping and jostling, he had to be in a carriage. His wrists were still tied behind his back, so he couldn’t brace himself against the onslaught. He could only jolt and lurch with each rut in the road.
It was incredibly dark, and for a moment, he wondered if he’d been blinded, then he realized there was a sack over his head. He tried to shout for help, but he’d been gagged too.
After a lengthy trek where his misery grew too acute for words, the vehicle rattled to a halt. The sudden cessation of movement, coupled with the absolute silence, was terrifying. He lay very still, struggling to deduce where he was, but no clue presented itself.
After a torturous delay, the door was opened, and he was dragged out and onto his feet. He was off balance, feeling as if he might suffocate, and to his great shame, he was whimpering with alarm. What was about to happen?
The sack was yanked off, and though the night was black and rainy, there was enough light to see Marston and his twin. He appeared to be on a deserted, rural lane, in a deep thicket of woods. Marston marched him toward the trees, and Winston wrestled to prevent any forward progress, but Marston was such a big brute that resistance was impossible.
Eventually, they were spit out next to a wide river. Was it the Thames? Lamps were swinging on boats out in the current, so he guessed it had to be.
Marston pulled the kerchief from Winston’s mouth, and Winston inhaled, hoping to scream for assistance, but Marston slid a knife out of his coat. He stuck the tip into the soft spot under Winston’s chin, nicking Winston, drawing blood.
“Don’t even think about it,” Marston warned.
“Are you releasing me?” Winston asked.
Marston laughed in such an eerie way that Winston couldn’t hold his bladder.
“Ah!” the twin said. “He’s pissed himself.”
“It doesn’t matter.” Marston focused his monstrous gaze on Winston. “My brother and I like to handle difficult problems on our own, and we never follow rules we don’t like.”
“You’re speaking in riddles,” Winston said. “Am I supposed to solve them?”
“I’m delighted to be clearer: I could take you to the authorities, but I’ve decided this situation needs a particular kind of justice. Tell me why you attacked Hannah.”
“Bugger off,” he muttered.
“Mind your manners—and your language.”
“If I did anything to her, she deserved it. She’s a flighty, impertinent female, while I am a male, and thus, her superior in every area that counts. She had no right to be so insolent toward me, and I tolerated her disregard for years.”
The twin clucked his tongue with offense. “He’s an idiot, isn’t he?”
“I told you he was.” To Winston, “Were you the arsonist who burned down her shop?”
“Maybe. You’ll never prove it though.”
Marston whacked him with the butt of the knife, hard enough that he saw stars. “I don’t really care why you attacked her, but you should understand that you will never have another opportunity to inflict yourself on her.”
“If you’re planning to toss me into the river,” Winston blustered, “I must inform you that I can’t swim. And I especially can’t when my wrists are bound.”
“You don’t have to know how to swim. Have you any last words?”
The question was voiced so nonchalantly that Winston wasn’t certain what Marston meant. “Last words about what?”
“You’re about to meet your Maker,” Marston said. “Is there any comment you’re dying to get off your chest?”
“What are you talking about?” Winston asked. “You’re acting as if you’re about to…to…kill me.”
“I am about to do that.”
Winston blanched. “This is England, and homicide is a capital crime. You can’t just commit murder and expect to escape without consequence.”
“Yes, I can. I am a decorated soldier of the Crown, a viscount who is son and heir to an earl. What are you? Who will miss you, Webster? Who will be concerned if you disappear? Is there anyone?”
Marston seemed to be deadly serious. What sort of deluded villain behaved so insanely? The entire episode was so bizarre that Winston couldn’t convince himself it was actually occurring. It might have been a dream.
“Check his pockets,” Marston said to his twin. “Let’s be sure there aren’t any identifying items on his person.”
The twin riffled in Winston’s coat, removing a timepiece and an empty purse. Then he tugged off Winston’s shoes and threw all of it into the bushes. Winston watched like a lump of clay, a man too battered and bewildered to fight back. He was swaying so violently that the twin stepped behind him to keep him upright.
“I love Hannah,” Marston absurdly claimed, “and you shouldn’t have hurt her. For that, you must pay a very high price.”
“You told my wife you’d let me go.” He wanted to soun
d forceful and tough, but he was wheezing, trembling, dizzy with terror.
“No, I told her people will assume you snuck away when I wasn’t looking.”
“But…but…you brought me here. There are witnesses.”
“Are there?” Marston snickered and glanced at his twin. “Have you seen Winston Webster anywhere?”
“No,” his twin said. “He crept out of the Dower House, and I can’t imagine where he is.”
“I’m happy to vanish,” Winston said. “I won’t argue about it.”
Marston pretended to ponder Winston’s suggestion, then he smirked. “If you were skulking out there in the world, I would always have to wonder if you might return and harm Hannah again. That’s a burden I won’t accept.”
“I’ll vanish,” Winston repeated. “I swear.”
“Yes, you’ll vanish. In that, you and I are in complete agreement. I could allow you to be tried and hanged,” Marston mused, “but then, the sordid story would be in the newspapers. Hannah’s name would be dragged through the mud with yours. You’ve imposed yourself on her for far too long, and your harassment is ending. This is a good night for endings, don’t you think?”
“I’m willing to take my chances in the courts. Any judge in the land would recognize how she constantly defied me. No man should have had to suffer as I did. If she and I had differences, and if I attempted to rein in her impudent tendencies, it’s her own fault.”
The twin spoke to his brother. “Must we listen to this drivel?”
“No,” Marston replied. “I’ve heard more than enough.”
“Be careful you don’t get blood on your boots,” the twin said.
Before Winston could inquire as to what he meant, Marston lowered the knife and stabbed it into Winston’s belly. The pain was quick and sharp—and curiously unreal.
“Your bloated corpse will be found floating in the river,” Marston said, “but there are hundreds of bodies found in the river every year. No one will know who you are, and you’ll be dumped in a pauper’s grave, without even a marker to indicate the spot. For a pompous beast like you, that’s the best conclusion I can devise on the spur of the moment.”
Winston was gasping, trying to wiggle free of the knife, but to no avail. Marston pulled the blade upwards, then drew it out, as the twin released Winston. He collapsed to the ground in an odd sort of slowed motion, his mind disconnected from events. Then he was flying through the air. He smacked into the cold water, face down, and he sank swiftly.
Amelia! he thought, a flicker of memory jolting him with how she’d been so devoted, but then, even that spark was extinguished and everything went black.
****
Nate’s carriage rolled to a halt, and he peeked out the window, searching the dark lane for Rebecca. He didn’t see her, but he had no doubt she’d arrive shortly.
He was so excited he could barely contain his glee. The prior day, he’d received a letter from her. Apparently, a familial catastrophe had occurred, and it had coaxed her mother from home.
She’d written at once to apprise him that he should come to Parkhurst to fetch her away. He hadn’t even had to wait until the following Saturday to abscond with her. She was eager to go immediately, before her mother returned.
Finally, his luck was changing.
He opened the door himself and jumped out. He was traveling incognito, using his own vehicle, one he’d hidden from creditors so they hadn’t repossessed it, but he hadn’t brought any of his servants. In case the situation didn’t unfold as he was planning, he couldn’t have gossip circulating.
Instead, he’d hired a pair of grooms—unsavory types—from a coaching inn in London, and he’d provided them with a fake name. If he ever crossed paths with them in town, he’d simply pretend he had no idea who they were.
He checked his timepiece, and it was midnight, as he and Rebecca had arranged. The gate to Parkhurst was just ahead. There was plenty of moon to illuminate it, and Rebecca wasn’t standing under it as she was supposed to be.
“Give me a minute,” he murmured to his driver. “We should be on the road very soon.”
He’d debated whether to inform them of the genuine purpose of the trip, but with them whisking him to Scotland, he couldn’t exactly conceal what he was doing. He’d told them a whopping lie about how they’d be rescuing an innocent Miss who’d been badly abused by her father.
It should have won them to his cause, but they were criminals who weren’t impressed that he was eloping. So long as they were paid at the end, they’d be happy. The jury was still out as to any payment though. Nate was always broke, and if he could sneak away from them and avoid compensation, he would.
He went over and stood at the estate entrance. His nerves were rattled, his anxiety spiraling. He’d plotted so meticulously, but there were so many ways he could be thwarted. If she didn’t show up, how would he proceed?
Footsteps sounded, and he peered down the lane. To his enormous consternation, Hunter and Jackson Graves emerged from the shadows, and the sight of them was so strange that he couldn’t deduce what he was witnessing.
Why would Hunter be at Parkhurst? Why would he be strolling about at the precise moment Rebecca was scheduled to appear? Hunter had warned Nate to leave Rebecca alone, and his bowels clenched. What if she strutted up right then? How would Nate explain it?
“Hello, Nate,” Hunter said. “Fancy meeting you here.”
“Hunter!” He forced joviality into his tone. “Why on earth are you at Parkhurst?”
“I could ask you the same.”
Nate replied with, “You’re the very last person I was expecting to bump into.”
“Yes, I’m sure I was.” He added the very worst words Nate had ever heard. “Rebecca isn’t coming.”
Nate scoffed as if the notion was preposterous. “Who isn’t coming? Rebecca Graves? Is that who you mean? I scarcely know the girl. I was ah…ah…”
He couldn’t devise a good story, and while he was dithering and wondering if he could run to his carriage and race away, Jackson strolled up and hit Nate just as hard as he could. It was a furious punch and a complete surprise.
Nate staggered back and muttered, “What the hell was that for?”
“That was for my sister,” Jackson said. “If you ever bother her again, I’ll kill you.”
He might have delivered another blow, but Hunter stopped him, so Nate lowered his guard. Then Hunter hit him too.
The wallop was so powerful that Nate was lifted off the ground, and he collapsed in a stunned heap. He lay in the dirt, half-conscious, blood oozing from his nose and mouth. He wanted to leap up and claim he’d had no plans with regard to her, that he’d merely been passing by in the neighborhood.
Would that work? He was so disoriented that he couldn’t decide.
He struggled to focus, as Hunter leaned down and seized him by his coat. He drew Nate in very close, so Nate couldn’t miss how angry he was.
“Rebecca is little more than a child,” Hunter said. “What is wrong with you?”
“Don’t you dare lecture me. You’re rich and very grand. You have no idea what it’s like to be poor.”
“No, I don’t, but somehow, even if I didn’t have a penny to my name, I’m certain I would never inflict myself on a child.”
Hunter released his grip, so Nate collapsed down again. Nate should have remained silent, but he couldn’t resist digging more of a hole for himself. “She was excited to elope with me. Her mother is a lunatic, and she begged me to help her escape.”
“Only a brute as deluded as you would believe that.” Hunter kicked him in the ribs. “I’m through with you. Don’t ever contact me. Don’t ever so much as look at me. If you see me on the street, walk in the other direction, for I can guarantee if you ever step into my path, I will beat you bloody all over again.”
Hunter punched him a final time, just for sport it seemed, and Nate was so discombobulated that he couldn’t defend himself. Hunter and the boy dragged him to th
e coach and tossed him inside.
“I want him back in London as fast as you can get him there,” Hunter said to the driver. “Don’t slow down for any reason, and don’t let me catch you sniffing around here ever again. If I do, there will have to be consequences.”
The two grooms didn’t have to be told twice. With a crack of the whip, the horses bolted away.
Nate was huddled on the floor and too bewildered to sit up. As they bumped down the rutted road, he bounced painfully and grabbed for purchase to pull himself up onto the seat, but he couldn’t find his balance.
Ultimately, he curled into a ball and tried to cushion his body against the rough pounding, and he could barely feel the jabs and bangs. He could simply think about Rebecca’s pretty money, how it would stay locked in a safe vault, how it would never flow into his empty purse.
On top of it all, he’d squandered his friendship with Hunter. It was a night of horrors, a night of ruin, and he shut his eyes and cried like a baby.
****
“This will be a trial of sorts, and you two will be my jurors.”
Hunter stared at Rebecca and Jackson, and Jackson said, “Shouldn’t Hannah participate too?”
“No,” Hunter said. “Your sister shouldn’t have to contemplate Amelia Webster.”
“May I offer a comment?” Mrs. Webster asked.
“No, you may not”—Hunter didn’t so much as glance at her—“and if you interrupt me again, I will have you gagged for the rest of the proceedings.”
They were in the Dower House, in the den where Winston Webster had attacked Hannah. Hunter was seated at the desk, Warwick standing behind him, with Jackson and Rebecca in the chairs across. Amelia Webster was lashed to a chair that had been shoved into the corner.
“Where is my husband?” she asked even though he’d warned her to be silent.
Hunter turned to her, his expression pure innocence. “How would I know his whereabouts? He snuck away while I was sleeping.”
“You liar! You and your brother left with him, and he never came back.”
Hunter peeked over his shoulder at Warwick. “Did you and I leave Parkhurst with Mr. Webster?”