by Tessa Candle
And the man was unconscious. It would be dishonourable to kill him, or even to give him the beating he deserved. Rutherford removed his now grubby-looking, canary yellow neckcloth and bound Delacroix’s feet together. He tore more fabric from his shirt and tied the miserable cur’s hands behind his back. Then he made sure there were no more bullets on his person, and left him there to be discovered.
As Rutherford descended the staircase his body shook with the residual energy of his fury. He was oblivious to the pain in his leg and the welt rising beside his eye. Leaving quietly, he hoped, would at least prevent any more grist for scandal than he already had supplied.
Some of the attendees were streaming out of the church in confusion. Rutherford moved among them, making his way to the vehicle where his driver awaited, trying to keep the look of curiosity off of his face.
Just then, Rutherford heard a “There he is!” and two large men approached him through the crowd. His instinct was to run, just to avoid speaking to anyone. But he resisted it. That would appear cowardly.
They placed themselves in his path and one said, “We have orders to detain you, sir, until the men from Bow Street have arrived to question you.”
“Question me?” Rutherford was incredulous. “Question me?”
“Aye.”
“And by whom, pray, were these orders given?”
“I prefer not to say, and that’s of no import.”
Of no import. Those were definitely words supplied to the ruffian by someone of a higher station. A suspicion began to form in the awakening mind of Rutherford. “And did Lord Screwe, who has no authority over me, by the way, tell you who I am?”
The men looked uncomfortable at the mention of Lord Screwe, but one of them replied, “We were given a description, which matches you to the last tittle.”
“And yet,” contended Rutherford, “you must be mistaken. For I am the Duke of Bartholmer. You were not instructed to accost a duke, I am sure.” Rutherford did not like to invoke his rank in this way, but thought it would be the most expeditious means to be rid of the two bully-ruffians.
“A duke? You?” The more talkative man laughed and swept his gaze over Rutherford’s person. “Aye, and I am the Queen of Sheba. This here,” he jabbed a thumb in the direction of his comrade, “is King Arthur.”
Both men laughed heartily at this wit and made to grab Rutherford, who evaded them, stepping back. It did not, until that moment, occur to him how he appeared in his dirty, torn, puppy piddle soaked, meat pie splotched clothing—having one leg caked in blood, unshaven, devoid of a neckcloth, and nursing a bruised cheek, besides. He did not smell especially fetching, either.
His colourful attire would also do nothing to lend him distinction. When displayed in such a horrid estate, it could only make him appear more ridiculous. Good Lord. He must look the very picture of a madman, and his claiming to be a duke would not help matters.
“The Earl of Aldley will vouch for me. He is inside.”
The looks on the men’s faces betrayed that they considered this further mad utterance highly amusing. They probably had no idea who Aldley was either.
“Look,” Rutherford made one more attempt to reason with them, “you see that carriage over there? You see that coat of arms on the door? That is my vehicle, and those are the colours of the Bartholmer duchy. Let us go ask the driver.”
The men seemed to be over their mirth now, and one said, more menacingly, “Aye, and let you try to escape by making off in some nobleman’s rig? That would suit you as right as mud suits a pig, wouldn’t it? No. We have our orders.”
Rutherford had hoped to avoid drawing attention with any further altercation, but realised that they would not hear reason from a man they considered mad. However, they also did not consider him much of a match and were not properly on their guard.
One man lazily made to grasp Rutherford’s arm. Rutherford slipped behind the two, and before they knew what he was about, deftly knocked their big, knobbly heads together. It was enough to stun them.
He made quickly away to his carriage. The people around him were now aware enough to get out of his way and looked somewhat alarmed. Fortunately his driver was looking sharp and had the door open for him when he arrived, closing it behind him with a withering stare at the two brutes that now made their way to the carriage.
Apparently, when they saw that the driver knew Rutherford as master, they thought the better of their former conduct. They doffed their hats and bowed, mumbling some apology that Rutherford did not hear through the door, then shuffling away.
He signalled the driver to take him home. His work was done. Tilly was safe, and was probably married by now, or would be soon enough. He heaved a sad sigh. He had at least earned a proper bath and a change of clothes.
Chapter 57
Tilly hardly had time to think as she rushed to push her way through the crowd. She heard a whispered gasp of “Thank God!” escape Lydia, who was hard on her heels, as they made their way to a clear view of the victim.
Aldley was beside Grandfather Fowler, who sat bleeding in his chair. The earl was trying to push the crowd back, while unsuccessfully calling for someone to fetch a doctor.
Lydia knew how to get rid of the recalcitrant onlookers. She raised her voice. “I am sorry for the shock you have all received, but as you can see a man has been shot. Whoever did this may still be in the church, reloading. For your own safety...”
The rest of what she had to say was drowned out by the sound of a herd stomping towards the door.
Tilly looked sadly at the face of the old man. She caught her father’s arm. “The art exhibit is over. You may consider your duty here discharged, Papa. But on the way out, will you instruct my driver to fetch a doctor to us immediately?”
He nodded his ashen face, patted her arm and left her.
Frederick gave her a theatrical look of disbelief as he ushered his wife out of the church.
Mr. DeGroen took her arm, murmuring under his breath. “This is unbelievable. Do we actually live in England, or have we been transported to the wild lands of the Americas? We must get you out of here, my dear. It is not safe.”
“Do not worry. It was Delacroix. I saw him. And I saw Rutherford make light work of him.”
“Rutherford?” DeGroen gave her a penetrating look.
Tilly only nodded. What more could she say? Who else but Rutherford should be the hero? But she had seen him leave. Her heart was breaking all over again. But this was not the time for her mawkishness.
“I am glad Frederick has made Genevieve go home. She does not need to see or hear what will follow. If you send some men, they will no doubt find Delacroix’s corpse up there.” Tilly gestured. “We are quite safe now.”
Having sent his wife home with the carriage, Frederick returned and fetched some men to retrieve Delacroix.
DeGroen went back to his grandfather’s side to take his hand, but the old man only stared blankly.
Certainly they must fetch a doctor, but his eyes were so glazed, so still. Tilly knew that no physician could do any good.
The priest, whom Tilly had to admire for not lifting the skirts of his robe and scampering away at the first sound of gunfire, came to the other side of the old man. He looked at DeGroen consolingly and began to pray over Grandfather Fowler.
DeGroen now wore an expression of bitterness and disgust. “He only had such a little time left. Why would anyone want to take it from him?”
“If it is any consolation,” the noisome voice of Screwe slithered into Tilly’s ear, “I do not think the madman was aiming at your grandfather.”
Everyone, including the priest, turned in shock to look at the nasty man.
“No, it is true.” Screwe ignored their disgusted looks. “It was Rutherford—I beg your pardon, Lord Drake. No, no, no. I mean the new Duke of Bartholmer. You will all forgive me, but the man’s titles are almost as difficult to keep track of as his mistresses.” He cast a knowing look at Lydia and Tilly.
Screwe ignored him. “I saw him, you know, waving his gun around. The duke, I mean. But I assumed he was aiming at his rival.” He winked at DeGroen. “Not the grandfather. Though I suppose it is possible that he thought, in a moment of embittered passion, ‘If I can’t have her, nobody can!’ and took an ill-aimed shot at the object of his affection.”
The man broke out in a mocking laugh that so lacked the support of any true merriment that it collapsed into a dry cough. “But I suppose we shall never know unless he makes a full confession.”
Tilly could feel the blood draining from her face. She had not thought of it, amid all the turmoil, but of course Screwe would try to make out that Rutherford had fired the shot. She wanted to cry out, to defend him, but she knew anything she said would just lend credence to Screwe’s assertions about her and Rutherford, and make him look more guilty.
DeGroen walked over to Screwe. “You are either mistaken—which would be understandable, the doddering often get confused—or you are lying. In fact, that would be understandable too. Or rather, it would be all of a piece with your having posted bond for the villain the last time he took a shot at someone. For I can positively affirm that Rutherford was not the shooter. Delacroix was. I saw them both. Rutherford wrested the weapon from your murderous friend.”
Tilly could kiss DeGroen. Who would not believe his word, under the circumstances? He had the better vantage point. He was the most injured party, save his grandfather. And if anyone had a right to cry foul against the affair that Screwe alleged, it was DeGroen.
Screwe waved his hand dismissively. “Of course you are trying to defend your bride from scandal, but really, Mr. DeGroen, you are telling tales.”
“We shall see whose testimony is believed, should it come to that,” DeGroen continued. “But it seems to me that your own testimony must be somewhat suspect, as, if Delacroix took another shot at Lady Aldley while he was out on your bond, you would lose all that money, would you not? Seems to me a man who cannot even pay his debts of honour might be willing to do a great deal not to let such a sum escape his clutching little fingers.”
Tilly had to admire DeGroen’s supple mind. Pure genius to deflect attention from Rutherford and Tilly by alluding to Delacroix’s shooting at Lydia.
Frederick called from the upstairs. “Delacroix is here all right. And so is his gun. He is all tied up with bits of colourful cloth. Looks like a Christmas gift, or perhaps a Christmas goose. But he is alive, more is the pity.”
“There!” said Screwe. “Where is Rutherford—I mean the duke? If he were not a guilty man, why would he run away? Looks to me like he left poor Delacroix to take the blame and stole off.”
But by now no one was really attending Screwe, for the doctor was arriving, followed shortly by two men from Bow Street. The priest exerted his authority and ushered everyone but family out of the sanctuary, so that the doctor might have quiet for his examination.
Tilly stood by DeGroen, awaiting the determination which she knew was inevitable. She wished she could run out those doors and escape. She wanted more than anything to be certain that Rutherford was not injured. And she wanted to keep him safe from the machinations of Screwe.
Chapter 58
Rutherford wished he could sketch Smythe’s countenance when he greeted his returning master. The valet permitted himself a sweeping look of despair over the attire of the new duke. This seemed to disturb the fastidious servant more than the contusion on Rutherford’s face or the bleeding leg.
Smythe lost his stiff upper lip all together and grasped at his own neck in an unconscious gesture of strangled horror at the completely missing neckcloth.
It was a few moments before the stunned valet could recollect himself. “Shall I have a bath prepared for his grace? Or perhaps some luncheon?”
Rutherford had pity on his faithful servant’s nerves. “A bath, a shave, and some fresh clothes would be just the thing. I shall nap while I wait.”
When he saw Smythe rally, he added, “This is a house of mourning. I shall wish to wear all black henceforth. I hope you have procured a few mourning garments for me.”
Smythe looked quite pleased with himself. “Indeed I have, your grace. They are ready made.” His lip curled. “But that is only temporary. The tailors are hard at work on his grace’s new wardrobe. And they deigned to make adjustments to the ready made things at first light this morning. So you have a full mourning suit at the ready.”
This was not bad for a valet who had only arrived home the night prior. Smythe was clearly enjoying the prestige and power of his position in a duke’s household. Rutherford thought that he enjoyed being a duke far less than Smythe enjoyed serving a duke.
When he was refreshed with a little sleep, a little cleaning, and the tender ministrations of Smythe to his bruised face, leg, and toilette, Rutherford did not look half bad.
The black attire made him look older, he thought, as he examined himself in the mirror. Or perhaps he simply was older, now. When he reflected on the Rutherford of one year ago, he could only think of him as a feckless young lad. He did not think the mantle of grief and dukedom was the lone cause of his new gravity.
Yes, properly dressed in the extreme of all black, but the elegance of perfect tailoring, he looked well. Even the wound on his cheekbone gave him distinction. He looked interesting and heroic, rather than shoddy and mad. This was just as well, because he had serious business to attend to.
His lawyer, Mr. Borland, whom Rutherford had summoned, arrived around the same time as his uncle’s lawyer did.
When they were all gathered in his study, Rutherford poured them each a brandy. “I am glad you are both here. It will save some time. Mr. Hastings, I assume you have come to discuss the testamentary arrangements of my uncle?”
“Yes, your grace. As I believe your grace is aware, the entail passes to the fifth Duke of Bartholmer as of right. But your grace’s late uncle bequeathed his entire estate to you, besides. Here is a list of all the assets.”
“Give it to Mr. Borland, if you please.”
Mr. Hastings handed over the papers. “There is also the matter of a more recent project undertaken by your uncle. I should like to know if it would please your grace to direct me to continue in its execution.”
“What is this project?”
“Put succinctly, his grace wished to procure all the debt anyone held, that was claimable against a certain Lord Screwe.”
“Oh yes.” Rutherford caught a glance, in the glazing of a dark oak cabinet across from him, of his own merciless smile, framed in the black of mourning. “That is an undertaking I very much wish to continue. In fact, I want you both to expedite it as much as you can. I also want you to use every means at your disposal to make a list of all Lord Screwe’s assets. Anything of any value.”
When the meeting was over, Rutherford succumbed to the inevitable gravity of rumination. He wondered what Tilly was doing. He should not think about that, but he could not resist. Had they proceeded with the wedding, as planned, despite the shooting? They certainly seemed to be in enough of a hurry for anything.
Or had the disruption been sufficient to delay them? In short, was Tilly still free? A tiny ray of hope, that relentlessly tantalizing but treacherous fairy, pierced the brooding gloom of his heart.
He sprang to his feet, suddenly. Surely he could find out. True, even if all was lost, he did not want her to go on believing what she must believe about him and Mrs. Colling. He called for his carriage.
Chapter 59
Tilly was feeling faint as she sat on the hard front pew. It had been a stressful day, and she was half starved.
DeGroen sat next to her, his mother on the other side, staring in concern as the doctor completed his examination. This was entirely pro forma, for Tilly had it from DeGroen that his mother, Grandfather Fowler’s eldest daughter, did not care one fig for the old man.
And he was gone. No one was shocked by the announcement, but DeGroen took Tilly’s hand and squeezed it. “Poor old man. He did not deserve this violent end.”
Tilly nodded and squeezed his hand back. It was not the proclamation of woeful grief that DeGroen’s mother was now attempting to feign with the rest of his unfeeling, hypocritical relatives. But it was honest. In his own way, DeGroen was going to miss the old prude. With his grandfather’s passing, he had lost the only blood relative that cared for him.
Tilly whispered, “He is receiving his reward for his devotion to God. And do not forget that you have friends who love you as family. You are not alone.”
Frederick returned, and the three of them went together to see the men from Bow Street. They each gave a statement and left their cards. Then they made to quit the church.
But Mrs. DeGroen came calling after her son. “My dear!” she said in a voice so obviously without real warmth that it cast a frost over Tilly’s back. “You must come with me to help select the casket. We want the best for him. He deserves the very best.”
DeGroen did not look at all deceived by her words. He must know, as Tilly certainly did, that the woman was thinking only of working her way back into DeGroen’s life so that she might somehow get her long fingers into the purse of the old man’s heir.
“I should be very surprised if Grandfather has not already made those arrangements. I shall send a note to the solicitor to see what he knows. But I shall go home now, Mother. You may go look at coffins if it pleases you.”
And with that, Frederick, DeGroen and Tilly squeezed into the wedding carriage and made for DeGroen’s home—what would by now have been Tilly’s home, had events of the morning gone differently.