Andrew: Lord of Despair (The Lonely Lords)

by Grace Burrowes

  “My brother,” Henry said, giving the leather a vicious yank, “or should I say my late brother, was becoming too headstrong. He begrudged me the occasional loan from your funds, but then, he’d also married you against my wishes. He got you pregnant against my wishes, telling me it was what Father would have wanted. Bah! All Father wanted was to tramp around in the mud, shooting at anything that moved—a convenient propensity, in the end.”

  Henry put a tight knot in the reins, painfully binding Astrid’s wrists.

  “Is that snug enough for you?” he asked oh-so-pleasantly. “Such a shame we don’t have time to play…”

  She needed to keep Henry talking. Sooner or later, somebody would check on the horses, or on her—wouldn’t they?

  “You sent the note telling me to meet you here, didn’t you?” She was damned if she’d let Henry know how much her bindings hurt.

  “Clever of me, wasn’t it?” Henry yanked on the trailing ends of the reins, pulling Astrid toward the door of the saddle room. “You see, I am the clever one in the benighted Allen family, but by definition, that means my parents and my dear siblings were unable to appreciate my superior intelligence. While that allows a fellow a certain freedom, it does grow tedious, always having to manage every detail oneself. Come along.”

  Astrid weaved on her feet, half in earnest. “I’m dizzy.”

  “Come anyway, bitch,” he growled, “or I’ll drag you. And right now, you don’t particularly want to be on the floor, much less on your back, do you?”

  Astrid stumbled along behind him, her sense of balance hampered with her hands tied in front of her. The saddle room loomed at the end of the barn aisle like a crypt, with doors opening both onto the aisle and onto the outside wall of the barn. If Henry got her in there, he could easily kill her and leave the building unseen.

  “So it was you who poisoned me? And was it you who pushed me down the stairs?”

  “Now that’s exactly what I mean,” Henry said, reverting to eerily pleasant tones. “I did indeed put the poison in your raspberry jam. Mother wouldn’t have gone near the stuff, but as for that, Mother nearly caught me giving you a little push down the steps. I do this for her, too, you know, dutiful fellow that I am. She doesn’t care for Dougie. Doesn’t appreciate nipfarthing, pompous condescension, doesn’t realize the poor boy can’t help himself. Douglas was due to join us for our weekly tête-à-tête, and it should have been he who was suspected of pushing you down those stairs, but alas, spontaneous schemes are sometimes not the best. Tell me you did suspect him, just a bit, hmm?”

  Nausea rose, for once having nothing to do with Astrid’s condition. She considered bolting while Henry fumbled with the latch on the saddle-room door.

  “How does pushing me down the stairs harm Douglas?” Though accusations of murder would rather hamper a man’s prospects.

  “Foul play would appear to be in his interests rather than mine at present, though Dougie, I regret to inform you, is not long for this world.” He peered into the saddle room. “Damn it. It’s black as Hades in there.”

  Henry Allen, cold-blooded murderer of innocents, was apparently afraid of the dark, thank God.

  ***

  Astrid conversed with a homicidal lunatic, as if the man had come to call at teatime. Through the cracked door, Andrew had a narrow view of the barn aisle and could see his wife tethered by the hands as she was dragged toward the saddle room. Her captor was solidly built, though not as tall as Andrew.

  Not as tall as Douglas Allen either. The dim lighting of the barn’s interior shrouded the man’s features when he turned to head down the aisle toward the saddle room, hauling Astrid behind him.

  The saddle room held weapons—knives for trimming and repairing harness, farrier’s tools, and other items a man might use to take the life of a small, defenseless woman.

  Astrid stumbled, and Andrew nearly bolted through the door to catch her. She righted herself, grousing at the fellow who dragged her through the gloom.

  Andrew considered working his way around the barn from the outside, but the door from the saddle room on the outside barn wall might well be locked. The element of surprise was his only advantage, and he could not squander it. When Andrew might have slipped into the barn, the fellow contemplating Astrid’s murder yanked the saddle-room door closed and came stalking back up the aisle, forcing Andrew to give up his vantage point as well.

  He eased the barn door closed the two inches he’d dared open it, just as the crunch of snow behind him warned him he was no longer alone.

  “Greymoor, what in God’s name is going on?”

  The voice was clipped, irritated, and far from welcome, for what murderer ever worked alone when he might recruit a willing accomplice?

  ***

  “Your immediate family seems to suffer from a propensity for fatal accidents,” Astrid observed. Henry tugged her along, and she had no choice but to trot along behind him, like an obedient dog.

  “They do, bless them. Father was my first stroke of genius, and then when Herbert became too… obstreperous, he was the next to go. I blush to admit I started a few rumors suggesting Herbert might have taken his own life—a diversionary tactic, of course.”

  Henry passed the reins to one hand to fiddle with a lantern hanging from a crossbeam. “You are the first person to connect those two deaths, and they occurred in exactly the same fashion. Herbert moved, damn him, and ruined my shot, but it did the job, nonetheless.”

  “And you think you can also murder Douglas, leaving you with the title?”

  “Not a doubt in my mind—this one’s empty, bugger it.” Henry tossed the lamp aside, the resulting crash making the horses restive. “I will be creative, maybe sabotage his curricle, though I rather fancy it myself. I might hire somebody to call him out and anticipate the count just the least, most unfortunate bit—that sort of thing happens all the time.”

  Something nudged at Astrid’s awareness, a flicker of light near the barn door, a shift in the air. Magic peered at the door too, suggesting Astrid hadn’t imagined whatever caught her eye. The horse also ignored his hay. Despite the cold, despite being as devoted to his fodder as any equine.

  Keep talking.

  Henry straightened and gave her his boyish smile. “You know, Astrid, the most difficult thing for me has been managing this whole business without having anyone—not one soul—to appreciate the genius of it. You should consider yourself honored. I would not be surprised if intelligent younger sons weren’t getting away with murder much more frequently than the world suspects. Now where”—he gave the reins a savage yank—“will I find a damned lantern with oil in it?”

  “I don’t know, Henry. I am not familiar with Heathgate’s stables. When I need a mount, I summon a groom to fetch me one.”

  Henry leered at her and stroked himself through his breeches with his free hand. “And do you need a mount now? We probably have time, and I can assure you, my attentions will make you forget Herbert—or that strutting pain in the arse, Greymoor—ever touched you. You complicated things too much when you married that one, Astrid.”

  Her life had been saved at least twice over when she’d married Andrew—Astrid was more sure of that now than she’d ever been.

  Henry stroked himself again, and nausea welled anew. Astrid could contemplate death more easily than she could defilement by this incarnation of evil, but if Henry wasted only ten minutes raping her, that was ten more minutes when a groom, stableboy, or somebody else might come along.

  “Ah-hah,” Henry cried as his gaze lit on another lantern, this one hanging on the ladder that led up to the haymow. He hauled Astrid to it and crowed with pleasure when he saw the lantern had plenty of oil.

  “We’re in business, dear Astrid,” he said cheerily, lighting his prize from the single fixed lantern burning low halfway down the aisle. “Come along.”

  She did, b
ut stumbled when he pulled too sharply on her wrists.

  “Isn’t it enough,” she hissed, “that you’re going to kill me, Henry? Must you abuse me in the process?”

  That struck him funny as he hauled on the reins again, sending Astrid careening into the unused saddle stand. As she righted herself, the main barn door cracked open.

  “Henry!” she bellowed. “You need not jerk my wrists, for God’s sake. I’ll follow you to the saddle room readily enough if you’ll be patient.”

  “It really, really is a shame we don’t have time to play,” he observed, proceeding more quickly.

  “So how will you kill me?” Astrid asked, using her two remaining wits to not look in the direction of the barn door.

  “Interesting question. Do you have a suggestion? Firearms are my preference, as you know, but a gunshot would bring a crowd a bit too hastily for my convenience. I’ve a knife in my boot if all else fails.”

  Oh, the preferences she had. To see Andrew again, to see the last of Henry in this life, to keep her child safe. To keep Herbert’s child safe from a menace poor Herbert hadn’t recognized. “I don’t particularly want to suffer.”

  Though to reach his knife, Henry would have to take his attention from her, which gave Astrid a glimmer of hope.

  “Reasonable enough, I suppose, but we must bear in mind your death cannot appear to be murder, which leaves only accident or suicide. Suicide would fit in nicely with Douglas’s theory, though his conviction regarding your inclination toward self-harm is wavering. What say we start a fire in the stables?”

  And then nip ’round the pub for a pint? “That won’t answer. I’d simply run out of a burning building, Henry.”

  “Same thought occurred to me,” Henry replied genially as he unlatched the saddle-room door. “That leaves us with suicide, which will have the advantage of being relatively painless for you, though messy for your family. My apologies and condolences.”

  “So you’ll simply cut my wrists and leave the knife by my body?” Astrid asked, hanging back at the saddle-room door.

  “He will not,” Andrew hissed, brandishing a pistol. “Run, Astrid!”

  She bolted for the far end of the barn aisle, jerking the reins from Henry’s grasp in the instant it took him to realize that his ingenious machinations would again be foiled. Astrid flung open the door and pelted out into the bright sunshine.

  Her balance and her nerves failed her then, and she ended up floundering to her knees in the snow a few feet from the door.

  “Astrid!”

  Douglas Allen hissed her name from beside the door. He put a finger to his lips, motioning for silence. “It’s Henry, isn’t it?” he whispered. He drew a knife from the folds of his cape and freed her wrists with one slice.

  “With Andrew—Henry has a knife. Henry was going to murder me, and… oh, Douglas…” She hung her head and tried not to retch.

  “I know,” Douglas said softly. “But it’s dark in there, and Henry is distracted by Greymoor. I’ll have the advantages of stealth and surprise.” Only then did Astrid see Douglas, too, had a gun, a long-barreled pistol that would be lethal over a goodly distance, likely half a matched set of Mantons. Before she could say another word, Douglas hoisted her to her feet, nodded briskly toward the manor house, and slipped into the barn.

  Get help, Astrid thought desperately, trying to draw air into her lungs. Go to the house and get help. Feeling returned to her hands in stinging agonies, and she wasted precious moments trying to push away the dizziness and the roaring in her ears.

  The barn door burst open, and Henry stumbled out, his knife in his hand. Before Astrid could scurry to safety, he hauled her up against him and raised the blade against her throat.

  “That’s far enough, Greymoor,” Henry panted. “Toss your gun out here into the snow, and then come out slowly with your hands behind your head.”

  Nothing moved in the darkness within the barn, prompting Henry to jam the blade tighter against Astrid’s neck.

  “Quickly, man! No tricks, or I cut her throat,” Henry cried.

  A gun the exact match of the one Douglas had held came sailing through the door, landing in the snow at Astrid’s feet.

  “Now out!” Henry barked.

  After a long moment’s pause, Andrew slowly emerged from the barn and stood in front of the door, his hands raised and clasped behind his head. The posture was humiliating, one forced on soldiers taken prisoner.

  “You have only one blade,” Andrew pointed out. “You might as well bury it in my heart, Henry. There’s no love lost between my wife and me, and I doubt she’d testify against you. In fact, you could probably depart the scene and blame my death on her.”

  “Oh, Greymoor.” Henry sounded positively gleeful. “I do admire this display of coolheaded reason, but it won’t serve. Astrid, I’m afraid we’re back to setting the barn on fire.”

  “Henry…” Astrid raised her left hand, as if fending off a swoon. She sagged against his arm for further effect, but as her hand approached her face, she opened her fingers and flung a handful of sugar directly into Henry’s eyes.

  “Astrid, down!” Andrew bellowed.

  She rolled herself into the snow as Andrew dove at Henry and wrenched the knife from his hand.

  “Hold still!” Andrew roared, sending the knife sailing across the stable yard. “Hold still, or by God I’ll murder you with my bare hands.”

  He had Henry in a choking hold, his elbow hooked around the shorter man’s throat.

  “Andrew, you can’t kill him,” Astrid panted, struggling to her feet. “He’s Douglas’s only brother, and he’s not—”

  “He’s not sane,” Douglas said, emerging from the barn, his pistol cocked and aimed at Henry. “He’s cheerful, charming, good company, and willing to kill for the privilege of a viscountcy I neither need nor want.”

  Henry seemed to grow smaller as Andrew dropped his arm and took a step away. “Douglas. You weren’t supposed to find out. You were supposed to be dull old Douglas, until—”

  “And you weren’t supposed to leave Mother alone. I am slow, Henry. A plodding embarrassment of a brother, I know, and a pathetic excuse for a viscount, but the staff at least follows my directions when I tell them to report to me the comings and goings of family.”

  While Astrid watched, Henry’s bewilderment shifted, his expression lightened, and foreboding gripped her by the throat. “Andrew, watch—”

  She’d left the warning too late. Henry darted forward, snatched the gun from Douglas, and as Andrew bundled Astrid off to the side, the sharp report of a sizable pistol reverberated through the stable yard.

  Douglas’s tortured, “Dear God, no,” reached Astrid’s ears while Andrew’s arms tightened around her.

  “Don’t look,” Andrew rasped as he pushed her face against his shoulder. “Dear heart, please spare yourself and don’t look.”

  Twenty

  “What made you come out to the stables?” Astrid asked.

  She feared Andrew’s reply, because when one person asked a question and the other provided an answer, it could be construed as a conversation, particularly when those two people were alone before a roaring fire in the Willowdale library.

  Since Henry Allen had… died earlier that day, Andrew had not left her side. He’d kept an arm around her, a hand on her arm, or his fingers clasped with hers. He reminded her of a wolf, bedding down with its mate to maintain bodily contact through the long, cold night.

  But they’d spoken little. Andrew had summoned Gareth and told him in terse language what had transpired. Gareth, after a few moments of outrage that his household would be further troubled while the marchioness’s health was imperiled, had calmed down and set about dealing with the practicalities.

  Andrew had sent for the magistrate and the estate carpenter, who would measure Henry for his coffin. With Douglas’
s consent, he’d directed that a place be made for Henry’s remains in an unused, unheated parlor, and dispatched notes to Lady Heathgate and to the Allen solicitors. A groom tore off for London to fetch changes of clothing for Douglas and David, and to determine the whereabouts of Lady Amery.

  Douglas had been assigned a guest room, and David had been assigned to watching over Douglas, lest the events of the day result in any more pointless tragedies.

  Between Andrew, Gareth, and David, it was agreed that Henry’s death would be labeled an accident, rather than a suicide, damp weather being notorious for making guns unreliable, even in the hands of men accustomed to their use.

  Andrew seemed to share Astrid’s reluctance to begin a dialogue, for he took his time forming an answer to her inquiry regarding his trip to the stables.

  “Gareth and I had been roughhousing in the playroom,” he said slowly, “and talking. Talking about… the past. I wanted to be in the saddle, wanted to go for a good gallop and clear my head. Cook told me you’d taken yourself out to the barn, but what about you? What drew you to the stables?”

  He wasn’t telling her half of what she wanted to know, but neither was he lying. “One of the footmen had a note for me. I thought it was from you. Henry likely slipped it to a groom, and the rest of the household knows I’m happy to go visit the horses.”

  Astrid laced her fingers through her husband’s. How long would it be before she had the courage to visit the stables without an escort? What if Douglas had not brought two pistols—because by all accounts, Andrew had arrived to the stable unarmed? What if Henry had seen his brother lurking in the shadows of the barn? What if Henry had pitched that knife at Andrew? What if Andrew had not felt the need for time in the saddle?

  “I like to visit the horses too,” Andrew said. “They can help a man sort himself out. These past few days have been so…”

  “At sixes and sevens,” Astrid supplied. “So happy, so sad, so tense, so tiring… I have wanted to talk to you too, Andrew, but I haven’t known what to say.”

  “Hush,” he replied, looking at their linked hands. “Never let it be said Astrid Worthington Allen Alexander was at a loss for plain speech.”