“The woman is bloody mad!” Turner shouted. His damaged nose made his voice sound nasally. “She’s runnin’ away with me wife!”
“Indeed? I heard your threats against Miss Donovan . . . You can release him, Miss Donovan.” The earl’s eyes flicked to her. “I don’t think he’ll try anything. Will you, Mr. Turner?”
Adrenaline was still making Kendra’s blood hum. It took her a moment to let Turner go. She sprang back to avoid a renewed attack from the sheep farmer. But his gaze was on Bancroft and the gun, which was pointed at his heart.
Turner shoved himself to his feet, licking his lips nervously, swiping at the blood on his face. “Here now, sir. It ain’t w’ot ye heard, I swear. She’s the one that needs ter be locked up. Stealin’ me wife! She’s mad, she is.” He swung his damaged face around to glare at Kendra. “I’ve gotta right ter protect me property!”
“Shut up,” the earl snapped. He glanced at Kendra. “Are you all right, Miss Donovan?”
“I’m fine. Where did you come from?”
Bancroft gave a thin smile. “Your Duke believes in fate. He talked about it the afternoon he came to Falcon Court. I’ve always been a man who believes in making my own destiny—regardless of life’s misfortunes.” He laughed when she frowned. “I’ve changed my mind. Don’t move, Mr. Turner. That’s right—stay very still.” He kept his eyes on Turner, but said to Kendra, “I have this gun in my hand because I was working at the mill today. The troubles with the Luddites have made me more cautious. Yet it’s come in handy, don’t you think, with Mr. Turner?”
“I guess so,” she said, flicking a look at Turner’s bloody face. “But I was handling it.”
“Perhaps,” he shrugged. “But think of this. I left the mill later than I intended. If I had left five minutes earlier or later, I would have missed seeing you go into the woods, Miss Donovan. That’s fate.”
“W’ot the bleeding hell does fate have ter do with me and me wife?” Turner interrupted with a growl. He was getting his swagger back, thrusting out his jaw belligerently.
“Probably nothing,” admitted Bancroft.
Kendra jolted when the night sky was filled with a series of explosive pops, washing the woods in greens, blues, and reds, the promised fireworks of Guy Fawkes Night.
Bancroft smiled slowly. “Actually, you might be tied to fate after all, Mr. Turner.”
He pulled the trigger.
49
The line for spiced rum had been longer than Alec or the Duke had anticipated. By the time they made their purchases, Alec had to tamp down his impatience. Both men carried a glass in each hand, careful not to spill any as they threaded their way through the jostling throngs of people.
“I believe the vicar has begun his sermon,” the Duke said.
The vicar was shouting above the cacophony of the crowd. As they neared the bonfire, Alec caught the words Guy Fawkes and the evils of revolution. He smiled at his uncle. “Let us hope that one glass will be sufficient.”
Pushing their way through a group of people, Alec saw Lady Winifred, the flames from the pyre bathing her beautiful face in gold. Her maid stood a couple of feet behind her mistress. When Lady Winifred noticed their approach, she smiled and fluttered her lashes, experienced in the coquetry of the Ton. He’d been aware of her attempts to engage in a flirtation since they’d first been introduced. She was a beautiful woman, but she left him cold. The countess was like all the other women of the Beau Monde who’d eyed him as a potential husband. Before Kendra, he might not have regarded her so dispassionately. He might have been amused, and not entirely averse to a light flirtation.
“Thank you, Lord Sutcliffe,” Lady Winifred said. “I have discovered I am quite thirsty.”
He glanced around. “Where is Miss Donovan?”
She gave a tight smile, looking at the Duke. “I do not mean to offend, your Grace, because I know Miss Donovan is your ward. But I found her behavior quite peculiar. No doubt it’s because she is an American.”
“Where is she?” Alec repeated impatiently.
“I don’t know,” Lady Winifred lifted her shoulder in a dainty shrug. “One moment she was standing here, and the next she simply walked away. It was ill-mannered.”
The Duke frowned. “Miss Donovan didn’t say anything to indicate what had caught her attention?” he asked the countess.
“No. I told you, she simply walked away.”
Ice formed in Alec’s stomach. Kendra wouldn’t think twice about dismissing proprieties that she considered ridiculous and wandering around without a chaperone. But she’d known they’d be returning with the spiced rum. She wouldn’t walk away without a good reason.
“Which way did she go?” he demanded.
Lady Winifred hesitated. “I don’t know.”
“How can you not know? You must have seen which direction she walked!”
She stiffened at his tone. “I was not paying any attention to Miss Donovan, my lord.”
Alec bit back a curse.
“Alec—” the Duke began, but whatever he had been about to say was drowned out by loud booms and crackles as the Guy Fawkes’s fireworks lit up the night sky.
Alec shoved the glasses of spiced rum into the hands of the surprised man standing next to him watching the fireworks display.
“Oy!”
“Alec!”
“Something’s wrong.”
He didn’t know if his uncle heard him. He was already plunging into the crowd.
Kendra stared, shocked, as Turner clasped his chest, a look of surprise on his face. Blood seeped through his fingers. He staggered back and fell over the log that Flora had been sitting on moments before.
“What the hell?” She spun around to face Bancroft. Further words dried up in her throat as her gaze lowered to the gun the earl was holding. It was now pointed at her.
The night had taken on a surreal quality. She could smell the gunpowder, sulfur, and nitrate in the air, both from Bancroft’s gun and from the cloud drifting over them from the fireworks. The sky lit in red, green, gold, and blue with each bang and crackle. The varied hues created a strobe effect, flashing over Bancroft’s face.
“This is unfortunate,” Bancroft said with eerie calm. “I would have spared you this, Miss Donovan, but you have something that is mine.”
“What are you talking about?”
“Fate, Miss Donovan. Give me the letter.” He paused, lifting the flintlock pistol slightly. His hand was steady. “Now.”
Kendra glanced at the reticule and Stone’s letter on the ground.
“Yes,” he said in answer to her unspoken question. “If you please . . .”
Slowly, Kendra walked over and snatched them up. “What’s this about?”
“All in good time, Miss Donovan. Kendra. You don’t mind if I call you, Kendra, do you?” He approached her. He was old, but there was nothing frail about the man, she thought. His tread was firm as he approached her, his gaze dark and dangerous. “Formalities can be so tedious here. Turn around. Slowly, please. And walk.”
She swallowed. “I thought you wanted the letter.”
“Don’t be clever, Kendra. My gun may be old, but I can assure that it will put a sizeable hole in your head. And I really do not want to do that. At least not until we have a conversation. Now, turn around. Walk.”
Kendra forced herself to pivot and move forward. Adrenaline was replacing the shock. Her heart was pumping loudly in her chest. Her skin felt clammy in the night air. She needed to keep calm. Breathe in; breathe out.
The weight of the muff pistol inside her reticule was comforting. If she could slip her hand into the pouch and get hold of the weapon—
She stumbled to a stop when she saw what was ahead of her.
The muzzle of the gun poked her spine. “Keep going.”
Slowly, she forced herself to move forward, her eyes locked on the black stallion that stood next to a tree, its reins tied to a branch. As they approached, the beast snorted, ears twitching. The eyes r
olled toward them. Dread squeezed Kendra’s stomach.
“Get up,” Bancroft said, and untied the reins. He huffed out a dry laugh when she hesitated. “You’re not afraid of my horse, are you, Kendra?”
She looked at him, her mind racing with possible defensive maneuvers. Yet whether it was coincidence, luck, or smart strategy, the earl had positioned himself far enough away from her that there was no way she could close the gap before he pulled the trigger.
“Get on Alba, Kendra. Please, don’t make me tell you again.”
“Well, since you said please . . .” she muttered.
She slid the strings of her reticule over her wrist and clutched the letter with one hand. With her other hand, she took hold of the pommel. Her heart hitched when the beast shifted impatiently. Still, she managed to slip her foot into the stirrup, and haul herself up, swinging her leg over. Her skirt hiked up past her knees as she sat astride the horse, but modesty wasn’t her concern at the moment. Briefly, she considered using the horse to escape, but every scenario involving that idea that flitted through her mind didn’t end well for her. Either she’d be trampled to death under the beast’s hooves, or Bancroft would shoot her in the back.
The earl laughed as he swung up behind her. His body pressed against hers. “You really should learn how to ride, Kendra.”
She held onto the pommel for dear life as he clicked his heels to the stallion’s flank, and the horse shot forward into a hard gallop. Only last month, she’d been in a similar position, holding onto Alec and hurtling across the countryside. She’d been terrified then, too, but she’d been preoccupied with saving her friend, Lady Rebecca. Now she forced her mind to think of something other than the ground below, which was a blur.
Suddenly, Falcon Court was before them, and the earl yanked on the reins, hard enough to cause the stallion to rear back. Kendra’s fingers tightened on the pommel, and she couldn’t stifle a gasp. Bancroft laughed as he swung down. He already had the gun out and aimed at her before she could recover.
Kendra glanced around the courtyard and at the mansion as she slipped off the horse, but Falcon Court was eerily quiet. The gas lighting hissed around them. The gargoyles above the door seemed to mock her in the mottled light.
“Everyone is at the Guy Fawkes celebration,” he said, correctly interpreting her look. “We shall have complete privacy, Kendra. I have a secret to share with you.”
Kendra turned slowly to meet his dark eyes. “I know your secret. I know you’re not Lord Bancroft.”
50
Flora stumbled out of the woods. Her legs were shaking so badly that it took all her effort not to collapse on the ground. She pushed herself forward, running past the children. Fear clutched her heart at the size of the crowd ahead. She sucked in a deep breath and dashed over to the first person she saw, a man standing with two companions on the outskirts of the milling horde.
“Please! Oh, please! I need yer help, sir!”
He gaped at her, but recovered quickly. “Oi can help ye, lass. But w’otcha gonna do fer me, eh?” The wink he sent the other two men made them burst out laughing. “Oi need some sort of boon ter make it worth me while. But don’t ye worry. Old Matthias’ll make it worth yer while too.”
Flora flinched as the foul odor of whisky hit her. “Nay! Ye don’t understand. Miss Donovan . . . Ye have ter help Miss Donovan—” She yelped when the man lurched forward and grabbed her arm, yanking her against him.
“We’ll take care of yer Miss Donovan, too, doncha worry, lass. But first a kiss.”
Terror clutched Flora’s heart. She struggled against the man’s embrace, but her efforts only caused the drunken men to laugh louder. The world swam around her. She tried to twist away, and then gasped when she was suddenly free. She stumbled back, her eyes widening as a stranger yanked her attacker away and plowed his fist into the other man’s paunch, causing him to double over. Her savior then brought up his fists in a pugilist pose, squaring off against her attacker’s two companions.
“’Oo the ’ell are ye?” one of the men growled, his eyes narrowed.
“Sam Kelly—Bow Street. And you’re interfering with Crown business. Unless you want ter speak ter the magistrate and spend the night in lockup, you’d best be on your way!”
The man hesitated, glaring at Sam. Sam stared back, his gaze hard, his muscles tense.
“It ain’t worth it,” the other man finally said, and grabbed the arm of the man that Sam had punched. That man lifted his head to stare at Sam, initially resisting his friends’ efforts to drag him away. But whatever he saw on the Bow Street Runner’s face had him spitting on the ground, before turning and walking away with his friends.
Sam tracked their retreat for about half a minute. When they kept walking, he spun around to look at the woman he’d just rescued. “I heard you speak of Miss Donovan.”
“Aye! She—” Flora’s eyes went wide as the sky flashed with vibrant colors. The ground seemed to vibrate beneath her feet.
“Miss?” Sam snapped impatiently. “What’s this about Miss Donovan?”
Flora jerked her gaze back to the Bow Street Runner. “Please, ye have ter help her! He’s goin’ ter kill her!”
Bancroft’s dark eyes flickered, but the gun didn’t waver. He cocked his head to regard Kendra. “Well, well, well. This is very interesting. I didn’t expect this.”
Kendra said nothing.
“I always knew you were a clever girl. You had to be, didn’t you?” His mouth curved into a thin smile. “Let’s talk in my study. We might as well be comfortable.” He gestured with the pistol. “You first. And please don’t make any attempt to escape. I saw what you did to Mr. Turner—and you saw what I did. I think a gun has an unparalleled advantage in our situation, don’t you agree?”
Kendra pressed her lips together, and swung around. Inside, a few of the gaslights had been left on, bathing the entrance hall in soft amber light. She walked to the earl’s study, all the time intensely aware of the gun pointed at her back. The only light in the study was from the moon and stars, streaming through the French doors and windows.
“There’s a tinder box on the desk. If you would light a fire, Kendra.”
Bancroft went around the room turning on the gas lamps. Kendra slid her reticule off her wrist, and briefly considered retrieving the pistol in its depths. But Bancroft was watching her, and she didn’t want to risk him taking the purse away from her before she could get her hand on the weapon. She carefully set the reticule down on a chair, and placed the letter on top of it. Then she went to work, striking the flint and lighting the tinder. Someone, a footman probably, had already put kindling and logs in the hearth.
Kendra glanced at Bancroft, leaning his hip against his desk, studying her. The gun was still in his hand, still aimed at her.
“You really are a novice at these things, aren’t you?” he said, and she caught the gleam of amusement in his dark eyes.
Kendra gritted her teeth, and after a few more strikes, managed to actually create a spark that lit the tinder. She knelt down and coaxed the kindling in the grate to catch fire. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw the fire poker.
“Very good. I would applaud, but . . . well, you understand my hand is occupied,” he mocked. He straightened, and without taking his eyes off of her, walked over to the reticule.
Kendra held her breath as his hand brushed over the purse. If he should nudge it, he’d become aware of the weight. But he was only interested in the folded foolscap on top of the purse. Kendra watched him closely as he scanned the address. He smiled.
“Ah, Millie. I had wondered where she’d disappeared to.”
Kendra lifted a brow, striving for nonchalance. “A friend of yours?”
“You could say that.” His gaze returned to Kendra. “She was someone I knew a long time ago, in another life.”
“What’s in the letter?” asked Kendra.
“It doesn’t matter. You still haven’t told me when you realized my secret.”
The letter had mattered enough for Bancroft to kill two women and torture one, Kendra thought. But she let the line of inquiry go for now. “A couple of things have been bothering me for a while now,” she finally answered him.
“Oh? Please, tell me.”
“I kept hearing stories about Nat. He was charming, warm, basically a nice young man. It was difficult to reconcile that description with . . . you.”
“You wound me, Kendra.”
“I doubt it.” She went on, “Of course, people change. Nat left East Dingleford when he was seventeen years old and he was gone for sixteen years. There would be physical changes from boy to man; it was even plausible that there could be personality changes. It was assumed Nat had a difficult time while he was away. Life is hard. He found that out and grew up, became harder, colder. It happens.”
“Fascinating. Go on. You haven’t yet told me what gave me away.”
“I began to realize that you kept a lot of people from the past at a distance. Why wouldn’t you go to the tailor here in East Dingleford? He’s skilled. But Mr. Shannon grew up with Nat. He said that he and his father spoke to you at the earl’s funeral, sharing memories. Except they weren’t shared memories, were they?” She forced a smile at him. “You were afraid that there might be more stories swapped during fittings. If you failed to recall a significant event, he might become suspicious.”
She paused. He said nothing, so she continued, “Same with your housekeeper and butler. You pensioned them off as fast as you could. And then there was Mrs. Bolton. You really had to keep her at a distance, given her romantic involvement with Nat. The possibility that there were memories that only she and Nat would know was too great.”
He snorted. “I didn’t think any of these people would figure out my charade. But why tempt fate?” He smiled slowly, his eyes gleaming. “There’s that word again, Kendra—fate. You still haven’t told me how you figured out my secret.”
“I told you it was a lot of little things. The earl—the real Nat’s father—figured out the truth, didn’t he?”
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