Wynne’s brow lifted as a thought came to her. “This person hates you. You have been his goal from the beginning.”
Rayne ground the palm of his hand into his left temple. “I haven’t exactly been the favorite son in polite society. Name one enemy and I could match it against twenty. Give me that paper.”
Wynne handed him the note, and they all watched as he reread it again. Devona’s life depended on him interpreting the foul riddle. He mouthed the first few lines of the text. “I agree with you, Wynne. The words chosen convey a mocking hatred.”
Brock interjected, “Someone not pleased that you survived.”
“So you bump my family up onto the list of suspects,” Rayne said, not particularly upset. “We are no closer to singling out a villain or a location.”
“Location,” Brogden repeated. “If you ignore the emotion and insults, what location does the riddle offer?”
“My grave.” Rayne straightened his slouch. Renewed energy coursed through him. “The riddle points me back to the parish churchyard close to Foxenclover.”
* * *
Devona rested on her side across the coach’s bench. Her bound wrists and ankles and the cramped position prevented her from kicking at Oz. It also discouraged escape. She caught glimpses of trees and sky; however, there was nothing in her line of vision that gave her a hint about their destination.
The bumpy ride did little for her stomach. Having spewed up what water she had consumed that morning, she had nothing to offer the retching spasms that wrenched her insides. At least the sickness forced Oz to remove the gag. The last thing he wanted was for her to drown in her own vomit.
Oz replied to the unspoken question in her eyes. “Soon, my dear. Your part is almost finished.”
Panic flared inside her and Devona did not try to conceal her fears. “Have you sent Rayne a letter telling him our destination?” He had left her bound and gagged when he took the horses back to the inn. Two hours later he had returned by coach. She quickly had learned that the coachman’s loyalties sided with his employer. The servant had even carried her twisting bound form into the coach.
Her determination to glean information from him amused Oz. He was enjoying her efforts to foil him. “You keep forgetting, Devona,” he said, his eyes twinkling. “I have had months to plan this moment. Don’t worry, your husband has seen my note and if he possesses a modest amount of intelligence he should be racing to your side.”
“Why is Rayne so important to you?”
His eyes narrowed in anger. He clenched his hands into fists and briefly she worried he would strike her. “I would be more concerned about your role in my plan, rather than the fate of your husband.”
“We were friends, Oz,” she pleaded softly, willing him to relent and spare Tipton. “We could strike a bargain. I swear Tipton would not seek retribution. Doran is already dead and buried by his family, so no one would have to know you killed him.” Forgive me, Doran. “You could leave England.”
The coachman called out. The jostling coach slowed to a gentle bounce, then stopped. All Devona could see was the gathering large gray storm clouds. The blue sky had been blotted from her view. Also gone was her chance to talk Oz out of the fate he had slotted for her.
“Allow me to help you.” Oz gripped her upper arm and pulled her into a sitting position.
Devona peered out the open door and frowned at the graveyard. “Where are we?”
“It all began here. I thought it appropriate that it ended here as well.” He climbed down from the coach and automatically offered her his hand.
She was trapped. Resisting his summons would only result in punishment. Devona scooted closer to the door and did not pull away when he grasped her arm to help her down.
“Is the rectory empty?” Oz asked his approaching coachman.
“Dead as the ’yard.”
“Fine. Head over to the shed; you will find the tools we need.”
Devona watched the coachman walk to the small storage shed. “Dead as the ’yard. Did you have the vicar and his family murdered?”
He took hold of her arm and pulled her deeper into the graveyard. “I told you. I am not a violent man. The vicar and his family are away on a holiday. I was fortunate to have a friend to see to the details.”
She stopped. “An accomplice? A corrupted soul who does not understand that he will be as dead as Doran. Even John Coachman here.” She raised her voice so the returning man could hear. She eyed the pick and shovel he carried on his shoulder. “Do you expect him to dig his grave before you push him in it?”
The coachman’s blank expression became speculative. Oz caught a fistful of her hair and yanked hard. He was rewarded with the appropriate response. The immense pain drove her to her knees. Her cheeks puffed with air while she struggled to overcome her latest punishment. She would fall on her face if Oz released his hold.
“Trying to cause mischief?” He tugged hard.
“No, Oz.” She squeezed her eyes shut, not thinking her abused head could endure another attack. “P-please.”
Keeping his fingers locked in her loosely bound hair, he hoisted her to her feet. She choked on a stifled sob. “Evan knows as you do that the only people who should look over their shoulders are the ones who have outlived their usefulness.”
To her relief, he released her hair, allowing his hand to rest on her upper back. “Come along. I tire of these delays.” They continued walking, threading their way around dozens of monuments. The manner in which he scanned each stone told her that he sought a specific grave.
“Paying respect to the dead, Oz?”
“More along the lines of luring.” He halted, signaling to the coachman that he was to use the shovel at this site. “We may be slightly early to pay our respects; however, you may want to get yours over with, since I cannot promise you will be around at the proper time.”
Devona looked on while Oz scratched the moss from the stone. Rayne Tolland Wyman. The letters jumped out at her despite time’s best efforts to conceal them. Rayne’s grave. “I wonder why his family never knocked over the stone?”
“Maybe they had hoped he would return to it.”
All of them turned at the sound of an approaching horse. A single horse pulling a gig came into view. A woman held the reins, but she was unidentifiable from a distance.
Devona glanced at Oz. He seemed undisturbed by the newcomer. A moment later it occurred to Devona: Oz had a female accomplice. “No one believed me when I told them Lady Claeg had been responsible for pushing that statuary over the ledge in the conservatory. She had made no secret of her hatred.”
He noticed Devona’s disappointment that the lady in the gig was not an innocent arriving to tend her husband’s grave. “You should be happy the woman is expected. Another body would weigh heavily on your tender conscience.”
She gasped, wondering how she could still be shocked by Oz’s actions. The vision of Doran choking on his own blood haunted her every time she closed her eyes. “Considering Lady Claeg’s great love for her son, I doubt she will feel inclined to assist you when she learns of Doran’s tortured execution.”
“Oh, I agree.” He laughed at her astonishment. “Lady Claeg is a horrid creature. Her peculiar possessiveness of her son and her outlandish behavior to all she considered a rival for her son’s affections has been, at best, diverting. If she were here, she would likely wrestle both you and me into the grave Evan is digging.”
Devona’s spirits were already wallowing in the grave. “That isn’t Lady Claeg.”
“No.” He raised his hand to the mysterious lady. She set aside the reins and climbed down from the gig, each step bringing her closer to the bleak gathering. “Madam, come join Lady Tipton and settle her concerns. She feared I had set Lady Claeg upon her.”
The woman tilted her face upward, her somber features quite distinct. Devona did not realize she was swaying into a faint until Oz’s firm hand halted her descent and steadied her.
“Who is th
is Claeg woman?” the Dowager Lady Tipton asked, her eyes widening at the disheveled condition of her daughter-in-law.
“A mother who recently buried a son. I am certain you can understand.”
Jocelyn’s gaze held Devona’s. She seemed to be cataloging every detail, from her torn dirty dress and lack of shoes to the dried blood on her face, then up to the snarl of hair, the sad remains of her pretty hairdressing. “What is she doing here?”
“Did you think your son would walk into an ambush solely by request? I needed an attractive lure.”
“You never mentioned anyone else getting hurt.”
Oz’s eyes hardened; the sound of the shovel striking and hollowing out the grave filled the silence. “You have not needed to be privy to all the details, nor have you shown any desire to be enlightened.”
Jocelyn seemed to want to protest, but she remained mute.
Devona had no such problem. “What kind of mother would conspire to have her son murdered? What did he ever do to deserve this?” she demanded. Oh, if only her hands were free! Her blood pounded with rage. She felt strong enough to rip them all apart using her hands and teeth. Her intent must have shown on her face, because Jocelyn gave her a wary glance before stepping out of her range.
“An avenging angel to complement your demon, Lady Jocelyn,” Oz noted. “It is a pity you will never hold the passionate offspring the pair might have created.”
Devona cried, “No!”
The statement also shook Jocelyn. “You have no need to keep Devona here. Your trap is baited, Mr. Rawley. My son is coming for her.”
“Rawley?” Devona echoed. “Lady Jocelyn, do you not even know the name of your henchman? This is Osmund Lockwood.”
“My dear, I claim both names. Lockwood is my middle name. When I set myself up in London, I was worried Tipton would recognize a family name.”
“Family.” She gasped, the meaning of the events becoming lethally apparent. “Next in line. Damn you both.”
Oz patted her cheek. “Always an intelligent girl.”
Devona charged her mother-in-law. “How you must hate him! I know all about your attempts to lock him away in an asylum. You must have been disappointed when he ruined your efforts by running away.”
“You cannot understand what I went through back then. I had just lost my firstborn, and soon after my second. The grief consumed me!” Jocelyn’s liquid gaze pleaded for her to understand.
“God in his mercy returned one of your sons.”
“The wrong one!” she wailed. “Devlin and I shared a bond that I never had with Rayne. He was an odd boy. Even as an infant, he would stare at me through his eerie silver gaze as if I had somehow failed him.”
“And you think doing this will help him? You are as mad as he is,” Devona declared, switching her gaze to Oz.
“I am not insane, Devona,” he protested. “A madman loses control and direction. Trust me, I am very sane.”
Jocelyn stepped closer to Devona. “Rayne will not die.” She dug into her reticule and removed a small blue bottle. “I have a gentleman friend who enjoys his gardens as much as my daughter. His favorite exotics have some very interesting effects. I distilled this myself. A few drops and you will have the most restful sleep.”
Devona eyed the bottle as if Jocelyn clutched a poisonous snake to her breast. “My God, you do not believe that foul brew will be used to correct any sleep disturbances?”
“If he had remained in India,” Jocelyn continued, “none of this would have occurred. Rayne could have been declared lost at sea and the title would have gone to Mr. Rawley. A fair allowance would have been agreed upon and we could have lived out our lives happily. Madeleina would have been raised in a manner deserving of her rank.”
Instead, Rayne had returned and amused himself by cutting his mother off from the funds she had obviously coveted more than her second son. His actions might have been considered petty, but Devona understood now the reasons for his cruelty. She trembled, grieving for the lost chance of giving him the love and family he had so long been denied. Lady Jocelyn had underestimated her distant relative. The ruthless man would bury more than one body this evening.
“The killing will not stop with Rayne, Lady Jocelyn.”
“Killing.” She blinked. “Heavens no, my dear. There shall be no murder.” She held up the bottle. “A few drops induce sleep, a bit more a deathlike state for a period. When the person revives, there is a forgetfulness. The severity depends on how much of the drug was consumed. Mr. Rawley will simply encourage my son to drink from the bottle, I assume in exchange for your freedom. He will then place Rayne on a sailing ship headed for an exotic destination. My son will begin a new life, Mr. Rawley will have his title, and I will have the funds to give Madeleina a dowry that will attract a respectable husband.”
Devona thought the entire scheme despicable. The notion that it could succeed terrified her. These evil people were plotting to steal her husband’s life and memories and there was not a single thing she could do about it. Rayne would forget her. He would be lost to her forever. A low keening sound came up from deep in her chest.
“I do not think Lady Tipton agrees with your plan, Jocelyn,” Oz murmured. “Now that I have had a chance to consider it, neither do I.” His fist shot out and smashed into the older woman’s temple. She collapsed onto the pile of freshly dug earth. She remained unconscious.
Although Devona bore little love for Rayne’s mother, the vicious attack automatically had her asking, “Why? She has delivered up her son. I would think you would be showering her with gold.”
“Evan, permit me the use of the shovel.” Oz took up the offered shovel and tested the feel of its weight. “It was Jocelyn who first sought me out all those years ago. She was irritated by her son’s closefisted ways and the greedy woman thought dangling the title in front of my eyes would ensure my cooperation. It did, for a time.” He leaned down and picked up the small blue bottle. It disappeared into the inner pocket of his frock coat. “Listening to her babble on about her plans reminded me that what was to be halved could be mine as a whole, including her precious, innocent Madeleina.” He brought the flat side of the shovel down across Jocelyn’s head. Once. Her body quivered, then became deathly still.
Dropping the shovel, he swaggered over to Devona. She was so appalled, it took her a few seconds before her body acted on what her mind screamed.
Run!
She managed to sprint past four headstones before he caught her. His arm snatched her waist and her forward momentum pulled them down. Oz rolled her over and straddled her, sitting firmly on her pelvis. “A new plan, Devona. This one ends with your beloved husband dead and in his grave.”
“No,” she seethed. Oz’s added weight pressing down on her bound arms made them feel as though they would pop from her shoulders.
“Despite what old Jocelyn thought, Tipton was never going to live out his life on some exotic island. I have decided to amend my plans for you.” He braced his palms against the dirt on each side of her head. “You were to join your husband, Devona. However, the notion of killing you does not sit well with me. I am rather fond of you. And as I mentioned, I avoid violence when necessary.” He withdrew the bottle from the hidden pocket in his coat. “Your family will learn that you experienced a terrible accident. Involving a coach, I think. It will strip you of your memories, my dear. Sad and tragic, it’s true. Fortunately, I will be on hand to help you through your difficult ordeal.”
“Monster!” she hissed, trying to buck him off by arching her hips. “No one will believe you.”
He removed the tiny cork. “Look at you. Your dress is filthy. You have a nasty head injury where you struck your head when the coach rolled down the embankment. Yes, your family will believe me. Now open wide. A few sips and you will sleep like an enchanted princess. Perhaps I will even make you my viscountess.”
“No—” She opened her mouth to tell him what an evil beast he was and then realized her mistake. Oz took adva
ntage of her weakness and forced the bottle between her lips. The vile bitter liquid filled her mouth. Twisting her head, she spat some of the liquid out. The inside of her mouth burned, telling her that it would be impossible to get rid of all the poison. Oz was just as determined as she was, and he had the advantage. He jammed the bottle between her lips again, this time using the other hand to constrict her neck. She could not expel enough air to spew the liquid out. Terrified of losing her mind, she used her tongue to push the drug out. A glance told her the bottle was empty. Oz noticed it, too, and threw the bottle away. More liquid dribbled from the corner of her mouth.
“Swallow, damn you!”
She fought valiantly, a woman driven to save herself and the man she loved. It wasn’t enough. Oz, still gripping her neck, lifted her and slammed her head into the soft dirt. The impact was not hard enough to hurt her, yet it served its purpose. Devona’s throat automatically convulsed and some of the liquid went down. Rayne! She had failed. Oz lifted her head again and the gray storm clouds dropped from the sky to blind her. More liquid burned the back of her throat as it went down. She no longer felt Oz’s strong fingers strangling her. Strangely, she felt nothing. No pain in her head, no desperate need for air, even the heartache of her loss seemed to ease. The storm clouds settled over her like a warm blanket. She no longer was frightened. Relaxed, she succumbed to the inviting void.
TWENTY
They were walking into a trap. Rayne knew it, just as the villain who took Devona knew that he would do anything to get her back. Brock and Sir Thomas accompanied him, as did Wynne. The Bedegrayne men had been resistant to the idea of her placing herself near the danger. Rayne did not have time to argue. He stuffed the ill-tempered group into the coach and allowed them to fight it out on their journey.
In the end, he was pleased by the decision. Wynne Bedegrayne was a sensible woman. Her soft, feminine tone firmly cut through the male outrage. “We do not know what Devona has endured. Some matters are best confided to another woman,” she had explained. No one had debated the issue.
The No Good Irresistible Viscount Tipton Page 27