by Anne Perry
“You think Pitt will come?” Forsbrook asked huskily, his voice laced with fear. “He won’t. Why should he?”
“Because he’s following you, you fool!” Quixwood snapped. “He told you I’d betray you so you’d come and attack me.”
“You could betray me,” Forsbrook said loudly, his voice wavering now. “They’ll let Hythe go and come after you. They know you poisoned the wine. Why would you do that if you didn’t know she would be raped?” It was clear panic was mounting in him, and that he was close to losing control.
“That’s what they want you to think, you fool!” Quixwood said, his voice scalding with contempt. “Get a grip on yourself. They’ll come here. I told the footman to tell Narraway where I’d gone.”
“Why should he care what happens to me?” Forsbrook demanded. He was nearly shouting now. “Pitt would see me hanged for that Portuguese girl. He knows it was me, he just can’t prove it.”
“No, he can’t prove it,” Quixwood agreed. “Or any of the others.”
“They don’t know about the others!” Forsbrook yelled. “And if you tell them I raped Catherine, I’ll tell them you paid me to.”
“No you won’t,” Quixwood said levelly.
“If you shoot, you’ll hit Lady Vespasia.” Forsbrook’s voice was almost falsetto, panic tearing through him. “How are you going to explain that? The bullet’ll go through her and into me. You won’t be able to say it was my fault!” Now he was crowing, high and shrill, sudden victory in sight.
Pitt chose that instant to open the door, pushing it hard and following straight in behind it.
Quixwood had moved a yard or two from where he had been when Pitt had seen him through the window. He was closer to Vespasia. He heard Pitt and swung around to face him, the gun in his hand. He smiled.
“At last! But slow, Commander. There’s your rapist. Or perhaps I should say ‘my rapist.’ He’s the one who raped and beat poor Catherine. But I daresay you know that. Though, I must admit, I hadn’t expected you to work it out.”
Forsbrook started to speak, then changed his mind. He held Vespasia, tight and hard in front of him. “Quixwood’s mad. He kidnapped me and now he’s trying to kill me. I don’t know who murdered his wife. She must have had some other lover, if it really wasn’t Hythe.”
“You know exactly who murdered her.” Vespasia spoke for the first time. “You raped her and Angeles Castelbranco as well. Quixwood lied to protect you, probably the price for attacking Catherine for him.”
Quixwood raised his revolver. His dark face was twisted with passion. It seemed hate and pain were all but tearing him apart.
At that moment, Narraway crashed through the French doors and charged Forsbrook just as the gun went off. Vespasia fell sideways onto her hands and knees. Neville Forsbrook pitched after her, his chest blossoming scarlet blood.
Quixwood reacted instantly. With his other hand out, he dived toward Vespasia and yanked her to her feet, wrenching her shoulder and tearing her gown. He still had the gun in the other hand. His eyes were wild. He backed toward the door, swiveling his glance from Pitt to Narraway and back again, pulling Vespasia with him.
Forsbrook lay motionless on the floor, the blood spreading wider and wider around him. There was no movement of his chest, no breathing. Pitt scrambled over to the young man, checking for any sign of life.
The door was half-open where Pitt had pushed it. Quixwood groped for it with one hand, still holding the gun in the other, his arm around Vespasia.
Narraway seized his moment. He snatched up a letter opener from the desk and charged at Quixwood. He did not go for the man’s gun arm, or for his heart, or even his throat.
Quixwood hurled Vespasia from him and raised the gun, but he was too slow. The letter opener pierced him through the eye, into his brain, and he buckled and collapsed to the floor, Narraway falling on top of him, still holding the letter opener. The gun roared uselessly, the bullet crashing into the ceiling, passing an inch to the side of Narraway’s head.
Vespasia climbed to her knees and stared at Narraway. Her face was ashen, her hair half-undone. Her eyes were wide with terror and her whole body shuddered.
“Victor, you idiot!” she said, sobbing to get her breath. “You could have been killed!”
Narraway sat up very slowly, leaving the letter opener where it was, embedded in Quixwood’s head. He swiveled around and looked at the tears on Vespasia’s face.
“It was worth it,” he said with a slow, beautiful smile. “Are you all right, my dear?”
Pitt rose to his feet, too full of exquisite relief even to look for words. He watched Vespasia move over to Narraway and very gently put her arms around him.
“I am very well indeed,” she told him.
To Susanna Porter
BY ANNE PERRY
FEATURING WILLIAM MONK
The Face of a Stranger
A Dangerous Mourning
Defend and Betray
A Sudden, Fearful Death
The Sins of the Wolf
Cain His Brother
Weighed in the Balance
The Silent Cry
A Breach of Promise
The Twisted Root
Slaves of Obsession
Funeral in Blue
Death of a Stranger
The Shifting Tide
Dark Assassin
Execution Dock
Acceptable Loss
A Sunless Sea
FEATURING CHARLOTTE AND THOMAS PITT
The Cater Street Hangman
Callander Square
Paragon Walk
Resurrection Row
Bluegate Fields
Rutland Place
Death in the Devil’s Acre
Cardington Crescent
Silence in Hanover Close
Bethlehem Road
Farriers’ Lane
Hyde Park Headsman
Traitors Gate
Pentecost Alley
Ashworth Hall
Brunswick Gardens
Bedford Square
Half Moon Street
The Whitechapel Conspiracy
Southampton Row
Seven Dials
Long Spoon Lane
Buckingham Palace Gardens
Treason at Lisson Grove
Dorchester Terrace
Midnight at Marble Arch
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
ANNE PERRY is the bestselling author of two acclaimed series set in Victorian England: the Charlotte and Thomas Pitt novels, including Midnight at Marble Arch and Dorchester Terrace, and the William Monk novels, including A Sunless Sea and Acceptable Loss. She is also the author of the World War I novels No Graves As Yet, Shoulder the Sky, Angels in the Gloom, At Some Disputed Barricade, and We Shall Not Sleep, as well as ten Christmas novels, most recently A Christmas Garland. She lives in Scotland.
www.AnnePerry.co.uk