The Dark Regency Series: Boxed Set

by Chasity Bowlin

  “Whore myself? Really, Alistair. You mustn’t speak to me that way.”

  She backed away, towards the open door of the drawing room. If she could get to the window, she could at least get outside and have a chance at escape. He continued his approach, following her back into the sitting room.

  He moved closer. Emme sidestepped, trying to get away from him but he grasped her arms and shoved her roughly against the wall. He stood so close she could feel the hard ridge of his erection pressing against her.

  “I’ve watched you. This house is riddled with secret passages, and some of them are uniquely equipped with peepholes. When she would come to town , Elise and I would go to brothels and pay ridiculous sums of money to watch expensive whores service men the way you serviced your husband.”

  She felt positively ill. “You are repulsive. Let me go,” she demanded.

  He laughed cruelly, his grip tightening, bruising her arms. “Oh, no! Bedding Elise was sweet revenge against my dear cousin Rhys but taking you, whom he actually seems to give a damn about, that will be the sweetest revenge at all.”

  Emme groped behind her, hoping that there would be something that would serve as a weapon. Her hands closed around a porcelain figurine on the shelf behind her.

  “I would never permit your filthy hands on me!”

  There was glee in his eyes when he said, “Of course you wouldn’t. But then I wasn’t really asking your permission. In fact, I prefer not to have it. Fight me. Struggle, scream! It only makes it better.”

  Swiftly, Emme brought her knee up. She didn’t hit her intended target, but in ducking the blow, he loosened his brutal hold on her upper arms. She twisted her right arm free and brought the figurine down, landing a staggering blow against his temple. He was between her and the window so she turned to her only other avenue of escape.

  Jerking away from him, she ran for the door. Her slippered feet were sliding on the dust-covered floor as she ran down the hallway. She could hear him behind her. Her heart thudded painfully in her chest. She had almost reached the door, her outstretched fingers brushed against the wood to push it open, when hands fisted in her hair and yanked her back. She screamed as he pulled her to the floor, her skirts tangling around her legs.

  He slapped her, the back of his hand striking her cheekbone with such force that it made her ears ring. She tasted blood and realized that her teeth cut her lip. She struggled against him, using her hands, her feet, anything that she could to get him off of her, and then the ribbon was around her throat. He pulled it tightly, just enough that her breath was restricted but not entirely cut off. She clawed at it but she couldn’t get her fingers beneath the satin.

  “Have you any idea,” he whispered harshly, his breath hot in her ear as his weight crushed her, “What a beautiful sight that is?”

  She gasped, struggling for air, when he loosened the ribbon slightly. “We don’t want it to end too quickly,” he said. “That would spoil all of my plans for you.”

  “You killed them! You killed Melisande and Elise!” she said, confronting him with the ugly truth.

  “Shut up,” he growled, and pulled the ribbon tighter. His hands were rough as he pulled her to her feet. “She deserved everything that happened! Everything!”

  She was going to die. The truth of it sank in with sickening clarity. Larissa had no idea where she was. Rhys and the other gentleman were investigating the tunnels because she’d insisted that the answers were there. No one knew that she’d come to the south wing except Melisande. No one would be coming to her aid. In the end, it would be too late.

  Rhys stood shoulder to shoulder with Michael, as Spencer smashed the lock on the ancient trunk. They’d discovered the small chamber far into the maze of tunnels under the south wing. They’d also discovered that this tunnel led into the woods, near the site of Melisande’s murder. When the lock clattered to the floor, Spencer opened the trunk and pulled out the bundled fabric. He shook it out and Rhys stared in growing horror at the lavender dress streaked with brown. He had no doubt that the brown stains were his sister’s blood.

  Michael’s voice was low, filled with shock when he spoke. “Melisande was killed by a woman?”

  Realization and growing horror crept through him. “By a woman in mourning. It was Eleanor. Eleanor was still in mourning for Uncle Reginald that summer.”

  “Why? What possible reason could she have had? And the manner in which she was killed—it’s impossible!”

  It unfolded clearly before Rhys in his mind’s eye. With the information that Michael had given him, he understood why she had done it.

  “She was protecting Alistair. She might have killed Melisande but it was to hide the fact that her son had brutally raped a child, his own cousin. We have to go back. Emme and Larissa are alone in the house with only Eleanor and Mother.”

  “It’s quicker to exit onto the south lawn than to weave our way back through the tunnels,” Michael said, hot fear coiling in his belly.

  Spencer bundled the dress up, stuffed it into the satchel he’d brought and followed the others out. As he stepped into the sunlight, movement in the distance caught his eye. He saw Larissa running across the lawn with what looked to be a pistol in her hand.

  “What the devil?”

  “He’s taken her!” she screamed, still running toward them.

  She stumbled and Spencer rushed forward to help her. She shoved the gun case into his hands.

  “He’s taken Emme!”

  “Taken her where?” Rhys demanded.

  He didn’t bother to ask how Larissa knew this. He’d come to understand that Larissa had her own gifts that were just as incomprehensible to him as Emme’s.

  Michael uttered a foul curse. “I know where he’s taken her.”

  Suddenly, Rhys did as well. He took off at a run, headed for the clearing where it had all begun. Michael followed but veered off the path to circle behind. Spencer and a weakened Larissa followed behind him. When he reached the clearing his blood ran cold. Alistair was there, and he held Emme in front of him, using her as a shield. The ribbon around her throat bit into the tender flesh of her neck and he could see that she was struggling for air. Alistair also held a pistol, the barrel pressed against her cheek.

  “Alistair, let her go. Let her go, now and you can walk away. The other things don’t matter,” Rhys said, and it was true.

  He would give up pursuing justice for Melisande; he would give up everything for Emme. Standing there, knowing how desperately close he was to losing her, he knew that there was nothing he wouldn’t do to save her.

  “Very gracious of you cousin, but I don’t think that I will,” he sneered. “Always so magnanimous, just like our dear brother was. Jeremy was always looking down his nose at me, just as you are. Your title doesn’t make you that superior. By all rights, it should have been mine! Or didn’t you know that? That your illustrious father was fucking my mother under the noses of their duped spouses? Oh, I can see that you didn’t”.

  He paused and gestured with the pistol for Spencer to halt, which he did. Then the shining barrel once again pointed at Emme.

  Alistair continued, the vitriol and rage spewing out of him like poison. “I am the eldest son and yet I’ve had to watch as my title went first to your whelp of a brother and then to you.”

  While Alistair’s rage and jealousy weren’t surprising, his revelations, if they could be believed, were shocking.

  Rhys recalled the cravat pin. To A, with love, From E. It had not been from Elise to Alistair, it had been from Eleanor to his father, Alexander. He’d known of course that his father had been faithless but that he’d indulged in an affair with Eleanor was hard to imagine. Alistair jabbed the barrel of the pistol tight to Emme’s cheek, the metal digging into her flesh. Fear, unlike anything he’d ever known, claimed him.

  “I’d give you the title if I could. For the love of God, Alistair, just let her go! It doesn’t have to be this way,” he urged, uncaring of the desperation in his v
oice.

  Alistair’s expression was a twisted mockery of a smile. “Is your touching display of concern for your lovely wife or for the bastard growing in her belly?”

  Rhys tried to remain calm, he kept his voice pitched low and his tone even when he said, “It’s me you hate. I’m the one who is depriving you of your title. Kill me; you can put that ball in me right now. Michael and Spence will swear that it was an honorable duel. Just let her go.”

  Emme shook her head at him, unable to speak. She couldn’t believe what he was proposing.

  “No,” she managed to croak out.

  Alistair laughed and the sound was filled with madness. “So touching. She’s such a whore. They’re all whores, just like my mother, just like Elise. Especially Elise, but she was special because she never denied it, or attempted to hide her true nature. She was perfect for me in that regard. She adored it when I punished her for her wickedness.”

  “And Melisande?” he asked, his voice deceptively soft.

  He shrugged; the casual gesture at odds with the hellish light in his eyes. “Well, it was unfortunate. I had gone to the tavern in town, intending to tumble a maid there who had been more than willing. But then Jeremy had charmed her away from me. It was just something else of mine that he had stolen. I was walking back here, furious over the incident when I found her. I decided then that I would take something that was his. I would use his precious baby sister and leave her worthless. Oh, I admit, it wasn’t a well thought out plan, not in the least, but I was young and hot-headed then.”

  He was completely insane, Emme realized. She began her struggles anew, fighting against the vicious hold he had on the ribbon, tethering her.

  “But my dearest mother came to the rescue then. She finished the job. There was all that blood and I had panicked. I didn’t have a taste for murder, yet. It doesn’t bother me so much now.”

  Emme could feel the ribbon growing tighter. In his excitement he gripped it tighter and tighter as he spoke. Consciousness was fading. She looked at Rhys, memorizing every detail of his face. She wished then that she’d told him, that she’d been brave enough to say that she loved him when she’d had the chance.

  Rhys watched Emme’s eyes growing heavy lidded. He could see Michael approaching from behind Alistair. No one could move as silently as Michael and that was perhaps the only thing that would save them all.

  “Let her go, Alistair. I will give you whatever you ask, if you let her go. Your secrets need not come out.”

  “What I want is the title. And the only way I will get it is if you die and the whelp she’s carrying dies too. I can’t risk it you see. I can’t risk that she might have a son.”

  Michael continued to approach stealthily, creeping ever closer. Rhys never blinked, never acknowledged, but kept his gaze steadfastly fixed on Alistair. Suddenly, Emme went limp, sinking against Alistair as she lost consciousness. He stumbled with her weight, the pistol wavering. Michael sprang, knocking him to the ground. The pistol fired, and Rhys felt the familiar burn in his shoulder. He ignored it as rushed forward and caught Emme as she fell, pulling her away from the two men locked in battle. His right arm was useless, the ball lodged firmly in his shoulder. He collapsed to the ground beside her as Spencer rushed into the clearing.

  Spencer raised the pistol that Larissa had brought. With a steady hand and the same cool manner that had made him such an excellent marksman on the battlefield, he aimed and fired.

  Alistair’s struggles ceased immediately. There was a small neat hole in the center of his forehead. Rhys didn’t have to look to know that the exit wound would not be so pretty.

  Spencer lowered the weapon and met Michael’s gaze. “I couldn’t let you kill him. You have enough on your conscience already.”

  Emme stirred, her eyelids fluttering.

  Rhys touched her face. “It isn’t over yet, love,” he said.

  “Alistair?” she asked, her voice hoarse and low. Bruises were already forming about her neck.

  “He’s dead. But he didn’t kill Melisande or Elise. It was Eleanor,” Rhys said.

  Emme slipped into unconsciousness again

  Michael looked at Spencer, “Since you’re the one with the brute strength, you carry Her Grace, and I will assist His Grace back to the house. Where is Larissa?”

  “She’s hiding a few yards back,” Spencer said as he strode forward and picked her up.

  Michael helped Rhys to his feet and removed his cravat. He applied a temporary bandage to his wound.

  “We’ll do a better job of that at the house.”

  They made the trek back to the house in uneasy silence. Rhys was losing more blood than Michael was comfortable with and Emme still had not regained consciousness. When they reached the house, Rhys finally spoke, “Take her to my chambers. I’m not letting her out of my sight.”

  Michael didn’t protest because he knew it would be pointless. Spencer cast him an arch look. Both of them were aware that Rhys was in no condition to protect anyone. They sent Rhys’ valet to fetch clean water and bandages.

  Taking a pair of shears, Michael unceremoniously cut away Rhys’ jacket, waistcoat and shirt. The poor valet was near to tears. It was the second set of clothes to be sacrificed to a gunshot wound.

  “Better to mourn a jacket than to mourn a master, Tinsley,” Michael said dryly, which immediately shushed the man.

  The wound was ugly. It cut a deep furrow into the skin of his chest and shoulder. Carefully, Michael cleaned the wound, removing dirt and bits of fabric. Rhys was stoic throughout.

  When Michael reached for the decanter of whiskey, he poured a healthy measure into a glass and handed it to Rhys, before pouring an equally healthy measure onto the wound. The fire the bullet had created was nothing compared to the agony of the whiskey pouring over the wound.

  His breath hissed out through his teeth as Rhys said, “God above, you’re a cruel bastard!”

  Michael merely shrugged. “I treated every wound the two of you received while fighting Napoleon’s troops on the peninsula. You both came home with all of your limbs and not rotting in a box. It might hurt like the devil, but it is effective.”

  Rhys drained what was left in the glass and said nothing further as Michael dressed the wound.

  “Rhys?”

  The voice was barely audible coming from the large bed. Michael nodded at Spencer and they made a hasty retreat as Rhys went to his wife. He lay down on the bed beside her.

  “You’ve been hurt,” she said, dismayed.

  He noted the darkening bruises on her slender throat. “So have you.”

  Emme’s throat ached. In fact, her entire body ached. Being dragged about by the hair had left her with bumps and bruises all over. But bumps and bruises were a far cry from the bullet wound he had received.

  “He’s dead. I remember you telling me that before I lost consciousness. And that Eleanor murdered Melisande, but so much of it is a blur. It was all I could do to keep breathing.”

  Rhys rolled onto his back, ignoring the pain. He’d never felt such fear in his life. He’d faced down Napoleon’s greatest soldiers. He’d endured some of the worst battles of the war, often charging right into the thick of it, but nothing had prepared him for what he had endured that day.

  “Alistair claimed that he was in fact my father’s eldest son; that my father and Eleanor had been carrying on an affair while Uncle Reginald was dying. It may have been true. He hated Jeremy and he hated me for taking the title he felt should have been his.”

  Spencer and Michael stepped out of the room and into the small sitting room, granting them a measure of privacy. They decided amongst themselves to have Spencer gather the others, leaving Michael close by to attend the injured.

  “I went to the south wing because of Melisande. I saw her, but then Alistair came, and I thought that would be the end of it. No one knew where I was, or how to find me.”

  “What he did to Melisande—it was to punish Jeremy for stealing a tavern wench from hi
m. When the deed was done, he panicked, ran to Eleanor, and she killed Melisande to hide the truth of her son’s monstrous nature. Her motives for murdering Elise are yet unclear.”

  It was horrific. “What will you do? She must be completely insane, Rhys.”

  He sighed. “Michael and Spencer will fetch her and Mother. We found evidence in the tunnels. You were correct about that. The dress she wore was hidden there, still stained with Melisande’s blood.”

  There was a commotion outside the door, and then Lady Phyllis entered. Eleanor was at her heels as usual. Michael and Spencer followed with Larissa, who appeared pale and wan.

  Ever the gentleman, Spencer led her to the settee where Larissa sank gratefully onto the thick cushions.

  Phyllis was breathless when she spoke. “Rhys, my darling boy! Whatever has happened? Michael wouldn’t tell me anything other than that you were injured!”

  Rhys looked at Eleanor and then at his mother. “I think it best if you both sit for this; the explanation will be quite difficult, I fear.”

  When the ladies were seated, Michael and Spencer remained at the door. It might have appeared polite, as there were limited seats in the room, but in truth they were standing sentry.

  “Emme was abducted this afternoon. She was taken at gunpoint from the south wing.”

  Eleanor’s already wan face paled considerably. “The south wing?”

  “Yes,” Rhys replied coolly. “Your son, Alistair, abducted her. We followed and confronted him in the woods, in a place that has already seen too much tragedy. He claimed to be the eldest son of my father, stating that you, Lady Eleanor, had been involved in an affair with him while Uncle Reginald lay dying.”

  Phyllis gasped but Rhys continued. “He admitted to raping Melisande as a means of avenging himself against Jeremy and myself, whom he saw as usurpers, but he denied killing her.”

  “Where is my son?” Eleanor demanded.

  “He is dead, Madam,” Michael interjected.

  His voice was cold, so cold that Emme felt the chill from it. Rhys grieved, but Michael suffered the guilt of his horrible memories.