“Ashby may have mentioned it, when I came to retrieve my collection of travel journals from the library.” Ernest shook his head. “And I have heard nothing from Sir Ross, or anyone else, for that matter. But I count it the height of negligence that they have been unable to identify and arrest the villain. No doubt, you and Florence are in danger, and I do not comprehend how you can sit idly by, while a killer remains at-large.”
“You think I have done nothing?” In that moment, Barrington bit his tongue and clamped shut his mouth, as Aunt Esther and Percy came alert. Considering his response with caution, as predetermined by Sir Ross, he delayed by flagging Ashby for a refill of his wine. “While I am not privy to the proceedings, I am assured that Sir Ross and members of Bow Street are actively pursuing leads. As for my wife, I am doing everything I can to protect her, but it has taken a toll on our marriage, and I do not need you to remind me of the regrettable development.”
“I know you do not think much of me, although I am at a loss to understand why, but you are my brother, she is my sister, and I care for you, both.” Ernest exhaled audibly. “If there is anything I can do to be of service, you need but ask. Believe me, you can depend on me.”
“Thank you.” It was pretty sentiment Barrington could not swallow, as he prepared to take his shot. If he fooled his relations, he just might trap the murderer. “By the by. There is something you can do for me.”
“Anything, brother.” Ernest daubed the corners of his mouth. “As I said, you need but ask.”
“I am planning a trip, and Florence and I will depart in two days.” That should gain the scoundrel’s notice. “She has been under great strain, and I want to show her the Mediterranean, if only to help her relax.”
“That is a stroke of brilliance.” Aunt Esther set down her fork and pressed a hand to her chest. “And it will do her a world of good, which you will appreciate, later.”
“I think it capital.” Percy raised his glass in toast. “Absolutely capital, cousin.”
“Are you mad?” Ernest pounded the table. “How can you leave London, when the Season commences shortly, and there are pressing matters in Parliament that require your attendance? Or do you plan to ignore your duties?”
“Actually, I had thought to send you as my emissary.” Under cover of the linens, Barrington clenched his fists, as his heartbeat hammered in his ears. “And that would free me to take an extended journey with my bride.”
Thus the trap was set.
~
It was late in the afternoon, as Florence lounged in her sitting room, lamenting another day with no word from her husband. Despite their argument, she expected him to send for her, and it hurt to think Barrington could dismiss her with such ease.
“My lady, there is a gentleman just arrived for you.” Arching a brow, Mead shook her head, as Florence leaped to her feet. “It is not Lord Ravenwood.”
“Oh.” Crestfallen, she stopped at her vanity, tamed a wayward curl, and smoothed the wrinkles from her lace collared, sprigged muslin day dress. Still, she clung to hope. “Are there any messages?”
“No, my lady.” Mead furrowed her brow. “But I can check with that miserable Jameson, if you wish.”
“Thank you, dear friend.” Grabbing her shawl from the back of a Hepplewhite chair, Florence sniffed and navigated her childhood home. As she descended the grand staircase, she drew up short, and gooseflesh covered her. There, in the foyer, loomed Ernest. “Hello.”
“Florence.” He cast a lopsided smile and neared the newel post. Then he took her hand in his and pressed a chaste kiss to the back of her knuckles. “It is good to see you.”
“And you.” Fear spark and then spread, and she struggled to remain calm, given Barrington’s suspicions regarding his brother. Taking him by the arm, she steered him to the drawing room. “To what do I owe this lovely surprise? And should I ring for tea?”
“Actually, I am expected at Howe House, in an hour, though I am confused by the invitation, and that is why I came to see you.” He sat at the end of the chaise, as she eased to the overstuffed chair near the window. “And I do not care for tea, but I appreciate the offer.”
“You say you received a summons from your brother?” Clasping her hands in her lap, she tried not to panic, because she resided in her father’s home, and there were plenty of witnesses. “How is that odd?”
“Given the family dinner he hosted, last night, in your absence, and our long talk afterward, I am puzzled by the curious missive he dispatched.” From his pocket, he drew a card. “And I still do not understand the curt command, which looks as though he scribbled it in the predawn hours, after consuming vast amounts of brandy.”
As he scrutinized the stationary, Florence could scarcely contain her shock at the revelation. Why would Barrington hold a family gathering without her? Just what was her husband about? Masking her astonishment, she inhaled a deep breath.
“So, how was the meal?” As her pulse raced, and her ears rang, like the bells at Westminster Abbey, she played the affable hostess. “And I am sorry I could not be there, but my father needs me, as he has been quite lonely since I wed Barrington.”
“Then there are no difficulties?” Leaning forward, Ernest opened and then closed his mouth. “Forgive my indelicacy, but I am at a loss to understand him. First he treats me like a common criminal, as though I am his enemy, and then he asks me to take his seat at Parliament, while you two sail the Mediterranean.”
“Ah, yes.” She laughed, even as she realized she could be entertaining a murderer. “He is rather excited about the journey.”
“Then you are in agreement?” He seemed startled by the prospect. “You truly think it the right course of action, despite the fact that the authorities have yet to identify the person who killed our maid in my brother’s bed?” With a snicker, he shook his head. “Barrington told me it was your idea, but I did not believe him, until now.”
It was then Florence discovered her husband had not been honest with her, and she would wager her best bonnet that when he enacted the scene in his study, it was with the expressed purpose of hunting the villain, while she remained oblivious and safely ensconced in her father’s care.
“My lady, I beg your pardon, but you asked me to deliver any messages, posthaste.” Mead curtseyed and then charged forth, with an envelope in her grasp. “Jameson received a missive for you, just after noon, but he misplaced it.”
“Excuse me, Ernest.” Against her better judgment, because she could not wait, Florence tore into the note and pulled out a card bearing a familiar coat of arms. Written in unsteady script was a pedestrian plea.
Darling,
Please, come home.
~B
To her chagrin, she could not stifle a shriek of delight.
“Good news, I suppose?” Ernest chuckled.
“Indeed.” She glanced at the mantel clock and started. “Did you say you were expected at Howe House at a precise time?”
“I did.” He nodded.
“Mead, where is Papa?” Florence tapped her chin.
“At White’s, my lady.” The servant shuffled her feet. “Should I send for him?”
“That is not necessary.” In that instant, Florence stood. “May I ride with you to Howe House?” she asked Ernest. When he indicated the affirmative, she said to Mead, “Fetch my pelisse, as I return home with Lord Ernest. And pack my things. I will send the coach for you, later.”
“Aye, my lady.” Again, Mead curtseyed.
“Shall we depart?” Shivering with nervous anticipation, Florence rushed into the hall, where Jameson held the pelisse. As she hooked the garment at the collar, Ernest tugged on his gloves and collected his hat.
The butler held open the door, and she descended the entrance stairs, where Ernest’s coach sat at the curb. A footman handed her into the rig, and she sank into the squabs for the short drive to the home she shared with her husband.
As the equipage lurched forward, Ernest peered at her and sighed. �
��Florence, I hope you know I am happy for you and my brother. I always knew he was your first choice, and I bear no ill will, in regard to your deception while he was gone.”
“I am sorry about that.” As the sun set on the horizon, the various buildings cast shadows on the sidewalk, in an artful mosaic. “But I could not marry you, because I do not love you, and you deserve someone who is committed to you.”
“You believe there is a lady out there, waiting for me to find her?” He averted his gaze. “You think someone could love me, a second son?”
“Of course.” The coach slowed to a stop, and she glanced out the window. “We are here.”
In a breach of decorum, she did not wait for the footman. Instead, she turned the latch, opened the door, and jumped to the sidewalk. Seconds later, she strolled into the foyer.
“Hello.” Howe House was quiet, save the ticking of the long case clock in the hall, and she called her husband’s name, but he made no reply. “Where is Barrington?” she inquired, as she doffed her pelisse and hang it on the hall tree.
“Perhaps he is in the study.” Ernest stared at the landing and then the empty drawing room. “Let us check, together.”
As soon as she ventured into the masculine arena, which always smelled of cigar smoke, she spotted her man, sitting at his desk. But when he spied her, she knew something was horribly wrong.
“Florence, what are you doing here?” The dread, the sheer terror investing his handsome features brought her up short. “Ernest? Why are you here, and what are you doing with my wife?”
“I received your summons, as did Florence.” Ernest glanced at her and frowned. “Why do you act surprised to see us?”
“You need to leave—now.” Barrington stood, rounded his desk, took her by the hand, turned her around, and led her to the door. “Darling, if you love me, go back to your father’s and stay there, until I come for you.”
“That will not be necessary, as we are all here.” Aunt Esther loomed in the entryway, with Ashby behind her, and he held a pistol in his grasp. “It took some work, but I finally have you where I want you, and none too soon, given your impending departure, but you should have known I would never let you leave London, alive.”
“Aunt Esther, what are you doing?” Barrington placed himself before Florence, and he held tight to her hand. “Why would you attack me?”
“All in good time, but first I must deal with your wife.” She snapped her fingers, and a motley group appeared in the hall. “Such a pity that Florence is with child, as I would have let her live. But she presents another barrier to the title, and that I cannot abide, so she must disappear.” To the surly crew, she motioned with her head. “Take her, and see that you get a good price for her.”
“No.” Florence maintained a firm grip on her husband, but the three men, one of which sported a nasty scar and an eerily white eye, wrenched her free. “Barrington, I love you. I love you.”
“I love you, too, sweetheart.” When Barrington tried to intercede, one scoundrel held a knife to her throat, and her husband splayed his palms. “I beg you, sir, do not hurt her.” To Florence, he said, “Never forget there is nothing I would not do to protect you.”
The cryptic comment, unusual in its simplicity, struck her as more than a little odd, given the violence of the moment, and she relented. A shorter, mysterious creature with a floppy hat pulled over his face lingered to the right of the butler, and he yanked her to his side, as she stepped into the narrow passage, and the menacing attacker slammed shut the door. Together, they navigated the hall.
In the foyer, the diminutive figure, almost her size, pulled back the hat, and Florence discovered a woman with delicate, refined features.
“Shh.” She held a finger to her lips. “We are friends of your husband, and we are here to help you, but there is no time to explain. Right now, I need you to scream like your life depends upon it, because Barrington is in danger.”
THE IRON CORSAIR
CHAPTER TWELVE
A shrill shriek reverberated through the house, signaling Florence and his unborn child were safe, if all went according to the carefully devised strategy. At that very moment, Jean Marc should have ensconced her and Madalene in a coach bound for Grenier’s, where Barrington would reunite with his wife, once the unpleasant business concluded. Now he could focus on Aunt Esther and Ashby, the true villains in the violent crimes.
“Farewell, Florence.” Aunt Esther laughed. “I never did like her, and now she is gone.”
“Esther, what on earth do you think you are doing?” Ernest raised his palms, as the butler leveled the pistol in a threatening manner. “Please, there is no need for violence. Were you tricked into committing unconscionable acts, because we can defend you?”
“No, my dear, gullible nephew.” She smirked. “I planned the entire affair, including the dispatching of the unfortunate maid, who was just a means to an end. It would have succeeded, had Barrington not fled London.”
“But you are not strong enough to have overpowered the servant.” Barrington checked the mantel clock, as Sir Ross and his men would have gathered in the hall by then. All he needed from Esther was an admission of guilt, and he would be free of the past. “And then what would you have done, given Ernest would have inherited the title?”
“I did that, Your Lordship.” Ashby sneered, as he aimed the weapon in Barrington’s direction. “As Esther and I have an understanding.”
“Indeed, I have known Ashby since he worked for my father, which is why I recommended him for the position of your butler. As for Ernest, he is a generous sort.” She shrugged. “I might have let him live. Of course, if he took a wife, and his charity ended, I could have easily arranged an accident, and then Percy would have claimed the title and, more important, the fortune.”
“So it was about the money?” Barrington took a small step forward, to bring himself in line with his brother, as he would shield his younger sibling, if necessary. “And you expect me to believe it was your idea?”
“Narrow-minded boy, just what part do you think a woman incapable of managing?” She lowered her chin. “The manipulation or the murder? In fact, I honed my skills on your uncle, as I never wanted to marry him, but he squandered Percy’s inheritance, on drinking and gambling.”
“But you are f-family,” Ernest stammered. “And if you needed help, you had only to ask.”
“I do not want to ask.” She huffed a breath. Behind her, the doorknob turned, and Barrington braced for the forthcoming confrontation. “And now I will not have to, as my son will be the new marquess of Ravenwood, and Ashby and I will enjoy all the comforts my son’s new station entails.”
“And you expect Percy to go along with your game?” Barrington envisioned his wife and babe, to gain a measure of strength. “He is complicit?”
“He knows nothing of the sort.” She gave vent to a snort. “My son may be a lot of things, but intelligence never entered the equation.”
“So what is your goal?” Barrington’s mind raced, as his heart pounded. No matter what, he had to keep her talking. “How will you explain that we are both felled by the same pistol?”
“It is elementary.” She extended her hand, and the butler brought it to his lips. “I overheard a terrible row, followed by deafening cracks. Fearing for you both, I attempted to intercede, but, alas, I was too late. Then Ashby and I found you. It would appear Lord Ernest was so overset by your treatment of him, as well as the loss of his four thousand pounds, a point of contention well known about the ton, thanks to me, that he killed you and then turned the weapon on himself.”
“Murder-suicide.” It frightened him to consider how her initial plan might have succeeded, had he not fled England. Indeed, had he stayed, there was a very good chance he would have been convicted of a crime he did not commit. “And that is it?”
“Precisely.” Just as Esther stood clear, Sir Ross pushed open the door, and two Runners rushed the study.
Ashby lowered the pistol, and
a shot rang out. In a flash, Barrington dove for his brother, and they skidded on the thick rug. As he checked for an injury, he noticed the butler clutched his gut and dropped to the floor. As Sir Ross kicked the weapon across the carpet, Esther fell to her knees, draped herself over Ashby, and wailed.
“Take her into custody.” Sir Ross pulled on his gloves and collected Ashby’s firearm. To Barrington, Sir Ross asked, “Are you all right, Lord Ravenwood?”
“Yes.” He stood and then extended a hand to Ernest. “We are both fine. Is my wife safe?”
Scratching his temple, Sir Ross grinned. “Lady Ravenwood is unharmed.”
At the mention of her name, Florence ran into the study. Anger sparked, as he would wager she disobeyed Jean Marc, but before he could scold her, she assaulted him.
“How dare you enact such a dangerous tack and not tell me.” She kicked his shins and let fly her fists, punching him in the chest and the shoulder, and he just stood there and took it. Then she collapsed against him, and he enfolded her in his arms. “You could have been killed.”
A familiar cackle taunted him, and he looked up to find Jean Marc laughing.
“What is so funny?” Barrington cradled Florence’s head, as she clung to him.
“Mon ami, I was just remembering a similar predicament, only our positions were reversed.” The former pirate rocked on his heels and cast a smug smile. “Do you not recall the night you rescued Mon Chou from her bastard of a father, and she reacted in the same manner? If memory serves, you found sport in my suffering. Now, we are even.”
“Stop teasing him.” Madalene elbowed Jean Marc in the ribs. “Let us leave them alone, as the Runners wish to interview us, and then I would return to the hotel.”
“Belay that.” Barrington kissed Florence’s temple, and she hugged him about the waist. “You will stay here, as our guests, and we can send for your things.”
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