by Jane Feather
“Aye, sir. Ten miles south as the crow flies.” The man gave precise directions. “Big stone gateposts … crumblin’ like, m’lord. Ye can’t miss it.”
“Ready, Quentin?”
“On your heels, brother.” Quentin put down his tankard and followed Tarquin downstairs and out into the yard. The incessant drizzle had stopped, and there was the faintest lightning in the sky. Tarquin paid their shot as flesh horses were harnessed to the phaeton.
They turned through the crumbling stone gateposts just as a feeble ray of sun poked through the clouds. The horses splashed through puddles along the driveway where Juliana had run with such desperation an hour earlier.
The housekeeper answered the furious tolling of the bell, her expression startled, her gray hair escaping from beneath her cap. She curtsied, her eyes like those of a scared rabbit. The morning had brought too many alarums and excursions into her normally peaceful routine.
“Sir George … is he at home?”
Dolly gazed up at the splendid figure in the caped driving cloak. His voice was cold and haughty, but his eyes were colder and carried a fearful menace.
“No, sir … no…. ’E left … a short while ago. ’E and ’is visitors.”
“Visitors?” Tarquin raised an inquiring eyebrow.
“Yes … yes, indeed, sir. A gentleman … mortal sick ’e was. Coughin’ fit to raise the dead … an’ a girl … a young woman … sick, too. Sir George carried ’er upstairs. Then they all left.” Her scared eyes flitted sideways, found Quentin’s reassuring gaze. She seemed to take courage, and her fingers loosed her apron where they’d been anxiously pleating and tucking.
“Do you know where they went?” Quentin asked gently.
She shook her head. “No, sir. But they went on ’orseback. The three of ’em on two. So they can’t ’ave gone far.”
“What road do we take to Forsett Towers?” Tarquin’s voice still betrayed none of his agitation. He knew now that he was within a hand’s grasp of Juliana, and his rage was cold and deadly. George and Lucien would have had to hurt her to compel her thus far. And they would pay. He drowned the images of what they might have done to her in the icy certainty of their punishment.
Lucien fell just as they turned onto the gravel driveway leading to the gray stone mansion of Forsett Towers. He had been barely conscious throughout the ride, slumped over the horse’s neck, the reins loose in his ringers. Every few minutes his body would be convulsed with violent spasms as he shivered and coughed into the now scarlet handkerchief. When his horse stumbled into a pothole on the drive, Lucien slipped sideways. The horse, startled, broke into a sudden trot, and his rider tumbled off the saddle.
Juliana watched in horror as the confused horse quickened his pace and Lucien, still with one foot in the stirrup, was bumped along the gravel. He was making no attempt to free his foot, just dangled inert until George managed to seize the animal’s bridle and pull him to a halt.
George dismounted, hauling Juliana down with him. Still maintaining a tight grip on her wrist, he released Lucien’s foot and then stared down at the still figure on the ground. Lucien had struck his head on something sharp, and blood pulsed from a gash on his forehead. His eyes were closed and he was barely breathing.
“Damn him to hell!” George declared, the calm, controlled facade cracking for the first time since he’d caught Juliana on the lane. He dragged Juliana back to his horse and pushed her up into the saddle, mounting behind her again.
“You can’t just leave him.” Juliana at last found her voice again. She wished Lucien to the devil, but the thought of abandoning him unconscious and bleeding was appalling.
“He’s no good to me in that condition.” George picked up the reins of Lucien’s horse, roughly kicked his own mount’s flanks, and started off again to the house, leading the riderless animal.
Juliana twisted round to look at the figure still lying on the drive. “We should carry him into the house.”
“Someone else can do it. Now, hold your tongue!” He pulled on her hair in vicious emphasis, and she fell silent again. She’d always known George was a brute and an oaf, but she hadn’t understood quite how brutal he was.
At the house George sprang down, dragging Juliana with him. He held her by the hair and the nape of the neck, shoving her up the steps to the front door, where he banged the knocker as if to sound the last trump. A footman opened it, looking both outraged and alarmed at such an uncivilized summons. He stared at Juliana as if he couldn’t believe his eyes. “Why, Miss Juliana …”
George pushed past him, thrusting Juliana ahead of him. “Where’s your master?”
“In the library … but …”
George ignored him, pushing Juliana toward the library door. Before he reached it, however, it opened. Sir Brian looked at them with an expression of acute distaste.
“I see you found her.” His voice expressed only annoyance.
“Yes … and I’ll see her burn outside Winchester jail,” George stated, shoving Juliana into the library. He held her by the neck and glared in triumph at Sir Brian. “And you, sir, and your lady wife will identify her before a magistrate this very day.”
“Goodness me, whatever’s going on?” Amelia’s irritated tones came from the door. “Juliana, whatever are you doing here?”
“Nothing of my own volition, ma’am,” Juliana said, recovering some of her spirit in these drearily familiar surroundings. “There’s a badly injured man on the driveway. Would you send some men to carry him in?”
Amelia looked between the sweaty, glowering, triumphant George and his pale prisoner. “You were never anything but trouble” she declared. “First you bring this clod into my house … and now you want me to take in some accident victim. Who is he?”
“My husband, ma’am. Viscount Edgecombe.” Juliana began to feel a bubble of hysterical laughter welling in her chest. It was extraordinary that they should continue to behave toward her with the same exasperation of her childhood. She was about to be arraigned on murder charges. She was half-naked, battered and bruised, in the clutches of a vicious brute, her husband was lying near death in a puddle on their driveway, and they were both blaming her for disturbing their peace, as if she’d brought mud into the house, or broken a precious dish.
Amelia sighed and turned back to the hovering footman. “Dawkins, take some men and see about it, will you?”
“Yes, my lady.”
“And send someone to the nearest magistrate,” George demanded belligerently. “Tell him it’s a matter of murder and he should come here immediately.”
Dawkins looked askance at his master. Sir Brian said shortly, “You may ignore that instruction, Dawkins. If Sir George wishes to find a magistrate, he may go in search of one himself … and take his prisoner with him,” he added coldly.
“You would obstruct justice, sir?” George’s sweaty face flushed crimson. “I tell you straight, sir, I’ll lay charges against you of impeding the process—”
“Oh, hold your tongue, man,” Amelia interrupted acidly. “Do you think we wish to listen to your puffing and blowing? If you have a grudge against Juliana, then you may do what you wish, but don’t expect us to assist you.”
Juliana was somewhat surprised. True, they weren’t taking her part, but neither were they taking George’s.
“A grudge!” George exclaimed. “Is that how you would describe the willful murder of my father … her husband. Petty treason is what it is, and I tell you—”
“You will tell us nothing,” Sir Brian snapped. He turned to his erstwhile ward and asked calmly, “Juliana, did you by any chance murder your husband?”
“No.”
“That’s rather what we assumed. It was just another unfortunate piece of clumsiness, I daresay.”
“It was certainly very clumsy of you to run away,” Amelia scolded. “I can’t think what could have possessed—”
“Put him down on that settle … careful now. Send someone for the physician.”
The crisp tones of the Duke of Redmayne came from the open doorway to the hall. Amelia stopped in mid-sentence. George inhaled sharply. Juliana wrenched her head around, ignoring the savage tug on her captured hair. Her heart thudded so loudly, it was impossible that only she could hear it. She stared at the door.
Chapter 29
I give you good morning, ma’am. Sir Brian.” The duke stepped into the library. “Accept my apologies for this disturbance. I wouldn’t have had it happen for the world.”
“And who might you be, sir?”
“Redmayne,” Tarquin said with a courteous bow. “Lady Edgecombe is in my charge during her husband’s indisposition. May I introduce my brother, Lord Quentin Courtney?” He gestured to Quentin, who stood behind him. Quentin bowed in his turn and murmured a pleasant greeting.
Juliana wondered whether anyone was going to notice her as she stood silent, still held captive by her hair. The scene resembled a stage farce with this exchange of polite greetings in the stuffy formality of the library.
Then Tarquin came over to her. “Take your hands off her,” he said quietly.
George recovered himself. “Don’t you give me orders, Redmayne. She’s my prisoner, and I’m accusing her before a magistrate of petty treason.”
Tarquin shook his head. “No,” he said consideringly. “No, you are not going to do any such thing. Take your hands off her!”
George’s hands fell to his sides. He could no more have withstood the soft-voiced ferocity of the order than he could have changed the direction of the wind.
“It wasn’t my fault this time,” Juliana croaked through her bruised throat. “I didn’t get myself into this trouble, it came and found me. I was perfectly innocently asleep in my bed—”
“I am aware,” the duke interrupted, taking her hands. “Are you hurt?”
“Only my throat, and I twisted my ankle,” she rasped, wishing that he would take her in his arms, wishing that he wouldn’t, look at her with those strangely dispassionate eyes.
Tarquin saw the bruises on her throat, and livid fire chased the dispassion from his gaze. He touched her throat. “He did this to you?”
Juliana nodded, her skin alive beneath the gentle brushing of his fingers. Surely he would take her in his arms now. But he didn’t. He turned back to George, his expression once more unreadable.
“Step outside. I don’t want your blood on Lady Forsett’s carpet.” The same cold, invincible tone. The gray eyes were as pitiless and implacable as the Last Judgment. He paid no further attention to Juliana, every fiber of his being concentrated on the annihilation of George Ridge. A wicked blade suddenly flickered at the end of the cane he held in his hand. “Step outside, sir.” The blade pushed between George’s fat thighs.
George could feel the sensation in his groin. His knees went to water. The pitiless eyes held him, mocking his terror. He stumbled toward the door. Quentin stood aside. Tarquin followed him out, the tip of the sword still menacing George’s quivering manhood.
“Lucien?” Juliana shook her head in an effort to dispel the trancelike sensation. “Is he all right, Quentin?”
Quentin didn’t answer. He crossed to her in two long strides, taking her hands in his strong grip. “My poor child,” he said. “What you must have suffered.”
“Not that much.” She smiled a wan smile. “I’m so glad to see you.”
“Did you imagine Tarquin wouldn’t come for you?” Quentin sounded almost reproachful.
“Your husband is dying in my hall,” Amelia announced before Juliana could respond. “I really do think it most inconsiderate of you, Juliana, to bring these people down upon us.”
“I hardly think Juliana is to blame, ma’am,” Quentin said. “If you’ll excuse me, I’ll go back to my cousin and await the physician.”
Juliana followed him out to where Lucien lay on the settle, his body strangely limp, his complexion waxen. Clotted blood formed over the gash on his forehead, and blood flecked his blue lips. He didn’t seem to be breathing. Juliana placed her hand lightly over his mouth and felt the faint stirring of air. “He’s still alive.” She kept her hand there, filled now with a perverse pity for the man who had tormented her. She glanced up and read the same emotion in Quentin’s eyes.
Outside George was pinned against the stable wall with a piece of wood across his throat. He didn’t know how it had happened, but one minute he’d been on his feet and the next felled with a blow to the back of his neck. He’d been hauled upright and slammed against the stable wall. The duke pressed the wood tighter. “Not a pleasant feeling, I believe,” he said coolly. He dropped the wood and once again pushed his unsheathed swordstick between George’s pudgy thighs. George’s eyes rolled.
“Listen to me very carefully now, my friend. You are going to tell the nearest magistrate that Juliana could not have been responsible for your father’s death. You will say that your father was old, had a weak heart, had been drinking heavily. You will say that you have no doubt at all that he died from excitement and overexertion, leaving his child bride blameless but alone and terrified.”
George’s eyes rolled again. He tried to shake his head, tried to speak, but managed only a grunt that changed to a squeak as the sword pressed upward and he could feel the blade, razor sharp against his shriveled softness.
“Let me tell you why you will do this, you dolt.” Tarquin paused, glancing over his shoulder at a groom who’d sauntered into the yard and now stood staring at the tableau. The duke dismissed him from his mind and turned back to Sir George.
“If you say anything else, I will lay against you charges of assault with intent to murder Lady Edgecombe. I will lay charges of stalking, of abduction, of breaking into my house, of thievery. I will have witnesses to your every action. I will say that you are obsessed with Lady Edgecombe, that you believe she is your father’s widow. I will prove beyond a shadow of a doubt that Lady Edgecombe is not Sir John Ridge’s widow. I will say that you bear me a grudge because I had you thrashed for trying to break into my house. Believe me, I can do these things. Whom do you think a magistrate is going to believe? The Duke of Redmayne, or an ignorant dolt of a country squire?”
George stared into the cold gray eyes. He knew he had lost. He had no defense against the charges. He knew the duke would produce witnesses who would swear blind to his guilt. He knew he would be bumbling and inarticulate and the duke and his lawyers would run rings around him. They would discount anything a convicted felon said against Viscountess Edgecombe, the Duke of Redmayne’s cousin by marriage. They would hang him … transport him if he was lucky.
“Of course, if my words aren’t sufficiently persuasive, there are other ways,” the duke mused. The sword moved upward. George’s gut loosened; he opened his mouth on a bellow of fear, but no sound came out. “It is really very tempting,” Tarquin murmured. “Emasculation seems such an apt punishment, don’t you think?” George felt the sword nick his inner thigh. He couldn’t believe it might happen, and yet he could believe anything of this avenging devil with his ice-cold eyes. The sword nicked his other thigh, and George groaned with terror, bitter bile filling his mouth. He retched helplessly.
Tarquin stepped away from him with a disgusted curl of his lip. “You are a fool,” he said contemptuously. “Oh, you might have succeeded in intimidating Juliana if she hadn’t been under my wing. She’s still an innocent … a child in many ways. But when you crossed swords with me, my friend, you made the biggest mistake of your bumbling oafish life. If you ever come within ten miles of Juliana again, I will unman you. I suggest you believe it.” He turned on his heel and left George sagging against the wall, vomiting up his breakfast.
In the hall Juliana and Quentin still stood beside Lucien. Of Sir Brian and his wife there was no sign. Tarquin came over to the settle. Juliana still had her hand over Lucien’s mouth, but she didn’t know why anymore. She looked up at Tarquin. “He’s dying.”
“He’s been dying for a long time,” Tarquin replied. “
What happened to him?”
Juliana started to explain, then stopped as Lucien’s eyes fluttered open. He stared up at them, and she shrank back from the naked malice in the rapidly glazing eyes. “God rot the lot of you!” Lucien declared. His head dropped to one side, his eyes staring sightlessly at the wall.
Juliana stepped backward, suddenly conscious of an invisible thread connecting Tarquin and Quentin. As she slipped into the library, Tarquin bent over and closed Lucien’s eyes. Quentin laid his hands on his breast. They stood in silence, looking down at the dead man.
“He’s dead,” Juliana said flatly as she entered the library.
“Who? Your husband or that oaf Ridge?” Sir Brian asked, sounding only mildly curious.
“Edgecombe.”
“Well, I never knew the man, but if he was anything like that crude ox, the world’s well rid of him,” declared Lady Forsett. “But I consider it in the very worst of taste to die in a stranger’s hall.”
“No one could ever accuse Edgecombe of having taste, ma’am,” Tarquin said ironically from the door. “But I do apologize once again for the inconvenience. It was most thoughtless of him to sully your house in such fashion.”
“Well, I daresay it was not exactly your fault,” Sir Brian allowed. “It was that clod Ridge who brought him here, as I understand. Or was it Juliana?”
“I didn’t bring anyone here,” Juliana said wearily. “I was dragged here against my will. I can assure you I would never knowingly have troubled you.”
“Well, since you’re now a widow again, what’s to become of you?”
“After a suitable period of mourning, Juliana will become my wife.”
The duke’s cool statement produced a stunned silence. Sir Brian blinked; Amelia stared at Juliana as if she couldn’t believe such a thing of the ugly duckling. Juliana and Quentin merely stared at the duke.
“But … but Lydia …, ” Quentin finally stammered.
“She will be eloping with you, my dear.” Tarquin leaned against the mantel, an enigmatic smile on his face. He was clearly enjoying the effect he was having. “It seems the only workable solution. You and Lydia will elope. I will of course be the gentleman. Suitably upset at being jilted, but very noble about relinquishing my betrothed to the man of her heart. Lord and Lady Melton will have no choice but to put a good face on it. It’s hardly a bad match, dear boy.”