His words brought Mandell up short. He was horrified to realize the old man was right. Gazing into the duke's face was like staring into some demonic mirror, a reflection of the dark recesses of his heart. Mandell glanced down at his hands, inches from reaching for the old man's throat. With great effort of will, he lowered them to his sides and stepped back.
“No, your grace,” he said dully. “You are not ruled by logic, but the bitter poison in your soul that drove you to destroy my father and that will destroy you as well.”
The duke said nothing. He reached for his quill and signed his name to the confession with a final flourish. Mandell paced a few steps away, striving to regain his composure before he could ask, “What did you do with my father after you killed him?”
“I concealed his body in a winding sheet, and turned him over to the parish as a wandering vagrant who had died upon my lands. He was buried in a pauper's grave in the cemetery of the little church near my estate. I daresay the old vicar can point it out to you if you are sentimental enough to wish it.”
After sanding the ink dry, the duke folded the vellum. Using the candle, he melted some red wax upon the closure and affixed his seal to it.
“Here,” he said, holding out the signed confession to Mandell. “This is yours. You may do as you like with it.”
Slowly, Mandell turned and came back to the desk. As he reached for the paper, the duke's hand closed about Mandell's wrist. The old man's fingers were remarkably cold.
“After you mother died, Mandell,” the duke said, “I felt that you were all that was left to me. I both cared for you and hated you. Your physical resemblance to your father was pure torment to me, so much so that I would often gaze at you as you slept and think of taking up the pillow, and suffocating the life from you.”
“After what I have learned tonight, I almost regret that you permitted me to live,” Mandell said. He stared pointedly at the duke's fingers until the old man released him. Wrenching the confession out of His Grace's hand, Mandell turned and stalked from the room.
Only when he was certain that Mandell was gone did the duke allow himself to murmur, “But I have never had any such regrets, my Mandell.”
The duke put away his ink, quill, and wax, clearing the desk as he had always done. He could not tolerate disorder nor had he ever liked servants handling his private possessions. He rose to his feet and went to peer at the surface of the bed with a smile of satisfaction. Mandell had forgotten to take the pistol away with him. That simplified matters a great deal.
Going to the window, the duke forced open the casement, taking in a reviving breath of sharp cold air. Smoothing back the lace from his cuffs, he took up the pistol.
Moments later a shot rang out in the night as the duke of Windermere claimed his final victim.
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
Braced by a score of pillows, Nick managed to sit up to take his breakfast. Bending over his tray, he attacked a large juicy beefsteak with a hearty enthusiasm that was unhampered by the thick wadding of bandages wrapped about his shoulder. Watching him, Sara could only marvel at his recuperative powers. It was difficult to remember that he was the same man who had been fetched to the doorstep of their modest townhouse only five days ago. He had hovered on the verge of death, and Sara had prayed to a God and all manner of saints she had not even believed in until that moment.
Her prayers had been heard and answered by someone, for Nick made a rapid recovery. Sara had discovered her husband possessed a remarkable resiliency of spirit as well as body. Whatever shock and disillusionment he had suffered from uncovering the truth about his grandfather seemed to have healed as swiftly as his wound. There would always be the scar creasing his shoulder, perhaps the lines about his mouth a little deeper for sorrow. But the sparkle in his eyes told Sara that his ultimate faith in the reason and goodness of mankind had not dimmed. Nick still believed.
Would that shining belief remain untarnished when faced with a far greater disillusionment? No longer having to fear for her husband's life, Sara had been freed to torment herself with other worries, Mandell's warning echoing through her mind again and again.
You would be better off telling him any dark secrets you might harbor.
The terrible events that had occurred that night at Windermere Palace had but postponed the inevitable. Sara knew that Mandell was right, yet she could not seem to summon the courage to act upon his advice.
While Nick devoured his breakfast, she sat by the hearthside in silence, mangling the stitches that she attempted to set in a linen handkerchief. Nick's bedchamber was small and close, not large enough to contain the mounting tension. But Sara knew the tension was all locked within her. Nick remained blissfully unaware that anything was wrong, or at least so she thought.
She was startled when he shoved his tray to one side and cheerfully demanded, “Out with it, Sara. What is troubling you, my love?”
“Troubling me?” Sara tried to look astonished. “I have no notion what you might mean, Nicholas.”
Nick grinned. “Our marriage has been brief, I will admit. But I can always tell that when you start wreaking havoc on some piece of unoffending fabric with a needle, it is a sure sign that something is wrong.”
She winced at his perception. This could be the opening she sought, but it would still be easier to laugh and deny his words. She had been such a good liar all her life. She did not know how to stop dissembling, had never wished to do so until falling in love with Nick. How did one begin to tell the truth, especially when one knew with a sense of inevitability where it must lead? Perhaps the best course was to spare them both a great deal of pain and begin with the end.
Plucking at the snarled threads of her embroidery work, she said, “I was only wondering how long one could be married and still obtain an annulment. Or barring that, how difficult it would be to obtain a divorce.”
Nick said nothing for several moments. Sara could feel the weight of his silence pressing upon her heart. She heard him shift, settling back against the pillows. He said with a quiet sigh, “Your question is not entirely unexpected and certainly not one that I blame you for asking. My prospects when you married me were bad enough, but after this scandal with my grandfather—”
“No!” Sara looked up, Nick's misconception a painful reproach to her. “It has nothing to do with that or your prospects, but everything to do with me. There is something that I have to tell you, and then it will be you who wishes for a divorce.”
Nick did not receive this dramatic pronouncement in the grave manner that Sara anticipated. His taut features relaxed with relief. He was almost smiling, and Sara did not know how she was going to continue, how she could do this to him. Damn him! Did he have to look quite so adoring, so infernally trusting?
Flinging her embroidery down, she shoved to her feet. It seemed easier to continue when she paced restlessly about the room, when she did not have to look Nick directly in the eye.
“There are many things about me you don't know, Nicholas.”
“Like the fact you are not a widow from Yorkshire?” Nick supplied amiably when she floundered again. “That your mother lives above a pawnshop in Bethnal Green? Or are you more worried about telling me of your recent history with my cousin Mandell?'
Sara whipped about to gape at Nick, stunned. His lips quirked in a lopsided smile, his expression so fond and foolish, Sara had to fight a strange desire to burst into tears.
“Then you already know everything? For how long?”
“Oh, since a day or two before our wedding.”
“And yet you married me anyway? Who could have told you such things about me or my family? You know more about me than Mandell ever did.”
“My cousin never had any occasion to visit Bethnal Green. You forget I am a frequent caller there. I was doing some of my investigations when I was accosted by a young boy named Palmer who tried to relieve me of my watch.”
“Davy,” Sara said darkly. “Why can't that fool stick to robb
ing dead bodies? He possesses no talent for being a pickpocket.”
“I do agree he should choose another career. In any event, your brother must have observed our encounter in the street that day. He assumed I had replaced Lord Mandell in your affections and sought to use that knowledge to dissuade me from handing him over to the magistrate. Instead David took me around to tea at your mother's flat.”
“You met Mum, too?” Sara asked with a sinking heart.
“Yes, and Gideon. A daunting but charming parcel of rogues. One could do far worse for a collection of in-laws. In time, I daresay I shall grow quite fond of all of them.”
Sara stared at him, wondering if Nick had lost his wits. Or perhaps it was she. She felt a sudden need to sit down, and sank upon the foot of the bed.
“Why didn't you tell me you knew all of this?” she asked. “Why did you let me go on lying to you?”
Nick squirmed and looked sheepish. “I discovered all that I did purely by chance, but I was afraid you would think I was spying on you.”
“Spying on me!” Sara gave a wild laugh. “Nick, you had every right to do so. I tricked you, lied to you again and again.”
“You told me you loved me. Was that untrue?”
“No!” One hot tear escaped to cascade down her cheek. “Those are the truest words I have ever spoken in my whole miserable life.”
“Then nothing else matters, my dear,” Nick said. He stretched out one hand to her, his eyes soft not with mere forgiveness, but with a loving acceptance of all that she was.
Suppressing a tiny sob, she went to him, allowing him to draw her into the comforting circle of his arm.. Stretching out beside him, she buried her face against his chest and wept as she had not allowed herself to do since her days as a small girl.
Nick patted her back, pressing kisses against her hair. “Sara. Sara, my love, whatever is wrong now?”
“Nothing. Only I never fully appreciated what a remarkable man you are, Nick Drummond.”
“Oh. It is most agreeable to hear that, but I wish it would not make you cry. I do not know what I shall do with you if you turn into one of those weepy, sentimental females. Besides, you are getting my bandage wet.”
“S-sorry.” Sara hiccuped on a laugh and sat, dashing the tears from her eyes.
“That is better,” Nick said, sweeping one fingertip along the curve of her cheek. “Now I trust there shall be no more foolish talk of divorce. There are other acts that need to be passed in Parliament I would rather devote my energy to.”
“I know.” Sara straightened, easing herself off the bed. “Nick, I don't want there to be any more secrets between us.”
“Nor do I, my love.”
“Then I think it is time you did a little plain speaking yourself.”
When Nick frowned in puzzlement, Sara went over to the tall wardrobe which housed Nick's rainbow array of frock coats. “Do you remember the morning after we were wed?” she asked. “I was attempting to help you dress so that we did not have to be intruded upon so soon by any servants.”
Sara eased open the wardrobe door and reached far back on the top shelf. “I found this when I was looking for a clean stock.”
She turned and held up the object that had so unsettled her peace of mind. It was a gauntlet, fashioned to make a man look as though he had no hand, the end curving into a lethal-looking steel hook. She crossed the room and laid the damning evidence upon the bed before him.
Nick fingered the gauntlet and heaved a deep sigh. “I can explain, Sara.”
She shook her head, cutting him off. “No explanations are necessary. I don't know what reason compelled you to run about at night, playing at being a footpad, whether you were trying to become a Robin of the Hood, or merely seeking to drive home your point about the need for a better police force,”
Nick looked nonplussed. “You appear to have taken this discovery quite calmly, my dear.”
“I have spent most of my life watching someone I love flirt with the hangman's noose. I never expected I would have to continue the tradition with my husband. But I supposed I must grow resigned to being worried to death.”
“Sara—”
“I wish you would not continue on with your activities as the Hook, but I want you to know that I shall support you in this, the same as in any other endeavor, even if we both end up in Newgate.”
To her astonishment and indignation, Nick only laughed.
“Sara, Sara! Your devotion overwhelms me. I daresay I will find myself in Newgate someday, most likely because I have written something to annoy those damned Tories who control the government. But I will never be arrested for anything so dashing as being the Hook.”
Regarding her with a tender smile, Nick held up the gauntlet. “My dear Sara, I confiscated this infernal thing from your older brother.”
The Palmer family gathered around one of the tables in the Running Cat tavern, the murky atmosphere suited to the general mood. Chastity and her youngest son, Davy, sipped at their tankards of ale, both faces as mournful as though attending a wake. Gideon appeared unaffected by their air of discontent. He rocked back on the legs of his chair, listening to his mother's complaints with a kind of lazy amusement.
“I always wished Sary well,” Chastity said. “And lord knows I tried to understand the child's mad obsession with becoming a lady and turning respectable. But I never thought the dire effects of Sary getting married would spill over onto us. Nick Drummond's a pleasant enough fellow, but I could tell at the outset he means to make a thorough pest of himself. Imagine! At our first meeting, telling me he meant to wed my babe, then already hinting that I should not be living over a pawnshop and drinking gin.”
Mrs. Palmer took a deep draught of her ale and shuddered. “He even had the boldness to suggest I might like to meet some respectable gentlemen, a country curate or a red-faced squire. Mr. Drummond means to saddle me with a second husband. I know he does!”
“You never had a first husband, Mum,” Gideon reminded her.
“Don't be impertinent, sir. You know what I mean. I prefer to choose my own admirers.”
“I don't know what you are complaining about,” Davy said querulously. “What about Drummond's blasted plans for me? He said since I have this interest in handling corpses and picking people's pockets, I might as well do it honestly and become an undertaker.”
Gideon no longer made any effort to contain his mirth. He laughed hard enough that his chair slammed back down on all fours.
Both his mother and Davy glared at him.
“I don't know what you find so damned amusing,” Davy said. “Drummond has already put a crimp in your affairs, hasn't he, my fine sir?”
Davy's sneering remark sobered Gideon a little. His lips twisted at the memory of his grim confrontation with Sara's future husband, listening to Drummond's earnest lecture on the follies of a life of crime.
“I'll never understand how Mr. Drummond figured out you was the Hook, Gideon,” Mrs. Palmer lamented. “Sara's husband does not look all that bright, and you did manage to fool all the best Bow Street Runners in London.”
Gideon cast a dark glance to where George Nagle was serving up some ale. “Drummond is cleverer than he appears, and I have no doubt he was helped along by the gossip and suspicions of a certain tavern host who'd sell out his own mother for a ha'penny.”
Davy smirked. “However Drummond found out, he's put a stop to your doings good and proper. He even made you surrender your hook, didn't he?”
“Ah, but that is the wonderful thing about losing a hand made of steel.” Gideon's teeth glinted in a feral smile. “One can always have another one made.”
Then he raised his glass and proposed a toast to the new bride and groom. “May my dear sister Sara have found her heart's desire, and may she keep her new husband far away from us.”
It was a toast Mrs. Palmer and Davy heartily seconded.
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
Anne stood on the slope near the willow tree, watching
her daughter romp by the pond in St. James's Park. With Pegasus tethered to a tree, the young groom trailed devotedly after Norrie, keeping the child from wading into the waters in her earnest efforts to toss bread to the ducks.
The breeze billowing out the soft folds of Anne's muslin gown, she appeared all that was warm and serene, truly the gentle goddess who had restored spring to the world. As Mandell alighted from his coach to join her, he felt a tightening in his chest, a rush of love and longing for her that was almost painful.
He had not seen Anne since the night at Windermere Palace, had been able to do no more than pen her a note, saying that as soon as he had sorted things out, he would come to her. Sorting things out—that had been a mild way to describe the chaos that had surrounded him since his grandfather's death.
Another woman might well not have comprehended his need to be alone after the devastating revelations of that night, to come to terms with the legacy of bitterness and grief that the old duke had left to him. But as Mandell approached across the grass and Anne glanced round, he saw no sign of reproach on her face. Her eyes shone with a silent understanding, a smile of welcome upon her lips.
Only Anne knew what it cost her to maintain such an aura of restraint. She wanted to run to him, cast herself into his embrace, just as she had been longing to seek him out these past days, offer him her love and consolation. But she knew from experience that the barriers of Mandell's heart could not be forced. He had to be willing to allow her in. He had done so once. She prayed he would be able to again.
Before Mandell could close the distance between them, Anne heard Norrie give a glad shout. Hiking up the skirts of her frock, the little girl rushed pell-mell at Mandell and flung her arms about his legs.
As Mandell smiled and lifted Norrie high into his arms, Anne envied the child her spontaneity, her complete freedom from the constraints and doubts that beset adults. Norrie hugged Mandell and thrust upon him a bedraggled bouquet of wildflowers and weeds. After a few moments of whispered conversation, Mandell set the child down and she went skipping back to the pond.
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