by Nicole Byrd
“You wanted to kill my father,” he said slowly. “And when you found that he was already dead, you chose me to murder in his place?”
“Someone had to pay!” The hand holding the gun trembled.
“You cannot do this!” Marianne raised her voice, as if trying to break through the girl’s strange air of befogged concentration. “Even if that account is true—and your grandfather was a grown man who made his own choices, you know—even if it had anything to do with the late marquess, it was not John who led your grandfather into those lairs of vice and disease.”
“Miss Ramburt, consider what you are about to do. I do not think you can truly wish me dead,” John added.
Except he thought perhaps she did. He wondered with a sickening emptiness deep in his stomach if he would lose all the joys he had only just found, all the love he had waited his whole life to claim. If she killed him here—
He pushed away the despair that might paralyze him; whether he died or not, he had to get Marianne safely out of this.
“When I saw that you were scarred, disfigured, I was happy,” the young woman murmured. “I thought it only fair—but it’s not enough. You’re still healthy enough to live your life, to dine and wine and visit with lady friends. Look at you, at ease in the gardens. You cannot be allowed—someone has to pay for what my grandfather suffered.”
“They will hang you for it,” Marianne said, perhaps trying to shock her into clarity. But Miss Ramburt still seemed to float in her own fog of despair.
She had dark shadows beneath her eyes, lines of worry etched into her forehead, and if she was Louisa’s age, she looked ten years older. What an unkind hand Fate had dealt her, John thought.
“You cannot have enough bullets in that gun to kill us both,” Marianne continued. “And there are servants all about. Someone will survive to raise the alarm. You must not do this—you have already lost your childhood—surely you do not wish to give up the rest of your life, too. Your grandfather is dead. Let him rest—at last—in peace, while you reclaim your own life. If you need funds, we will help you. Allow yourself time to mourn and then heal and be happy. But first you must put aside this quest for vengeance!”
Marianne had stepped forward again, and the gun wavered for a moment in her direction. He could not allow her to risk injury. So John stepped forward, too, and the gun swung back to face him.
“I know about families and how twisted the loves and hatreds can become,” he told her. “I have been influenced by my father, as well, and not for the good. Do not allow your grandfather’s hatred, or his madness, to destroy your life, Miss Ramburt. You must choose a better path.”
She blinked and lifted the gun. He thought that her finger tightened on the trigger, but for just a moment, she hesitated.
Then a small shape shot forward, growling, and the girl jumped, turning toward the new arrival. John seized the moment, lunging toward her to grab the gun and push down the muzzle.
The explosion of the gun’s blast was like thunder. The flashing powder burned his hand. He swore softly. Marianne called out his name, her voice frantic, and then one of his servants rushed forward.
A footman helped him hold the girl, who struggled against their restraining arms. The little dog was still trying to bite her leg.
“Down, Runt!” John said. “You have done good work today, but enough.”
Looking disappointed, the dog sat, panting.
“No, no, I must, I must—” And then suddenly her unnatural, masklike solemnity dissolved, and the young woman sobbed, loudly, like an infant who wakes to find itself in a strange and unfamiliar place.
Marianne rushed to him, touched his face, his good arm, as if to reassure herself that he was still whole.
“I am unharmed,” he murmured. “The bullet has gone into the dirt.” His hand stung, but the burns from the powder were not serious.
Marianne shuddered, then put her arms about Miss Ramburt and allowed the young woman to cry into her shoulder as she patted her gently.
Now several more servants rushed up, alerted by the gunshot, and he nodded toward two footmen. “Here, take her inside and summon the doctor. She should be attended to as soon as he arrives.”
“Fetch my maid,” Marianne added. “Tell her I said to sit with this lady. On no account is she to be left alone, not even for an instant, do you understand?”
The servants nodded, although they looked bewildered, as well they might. John said, “She is not in control of her faculties, so take the greatest care. But treat her gently and with respect.”
They led her off, and Marianne looked so pale herself that John put his arm around her.
“I thought you were going to die, and I’ve only just found you,” she whispered. “Oh, John, if I were to lose you, too!”
“I am here,” he told her, kissing the top of her head. “You will not be rid of me so easily, my love. But just now, let us go inside.” He offered Marianne his good arm, holding the gun carefully with his other hand. They walked toward the house.
“Did you find Louisa?”
Nodding, she told him the story.
“We will send the young fools back to London in my chaise,” he said, shaking his head. “I know I have scared off many a fair maid, but this is ridiculous.”
When they reached the house, Marianne went upstairs to check on the unfortunate Miss Ramburt, and John waited in the drawing room until she joined him. Sir Lucas and a somewhat pink-cheeked Louisa had returned, and he sent them to the dining room for a belated breakfast.
The food they found there would be punishment enough for their foolish schemes, he thought.
When Marianne returned, he poured them both a glass of wine.
“I suppose she fell apart under the strain of nursing her grandfather,” he said. “I’m afraid she was right about my father—his early life was full of unsavory conduct.”
Marianne sighed. “What a sad life she has had.”
They sat quietly together for a time until the doctor was announced. John went out to greet the man, whom he had known for years, and gave him a quick explanation of the circumstances. The physician was a stout man with a comforting, matter-of-fact air, and when he entered the guest room where Miss Ramburt was lying on a bed, he spoke to her gently, looked into her eyes, and took her pulse. The doctor took powders from his bag and mixed her a soothing draught to drink, which he promised would make her sleep.
John left them. Later, the doctor came outside the bedroom and shut the door. “Her mind is certainly clouded,” he agreed. “I do not think she should be left alone. She might try to injure herself. She has lost the certainty of her goal and is now slipping into a deep sorrow that has been, I suspect, long deferred.”
“Will she recover?” Marianne, who had come up to hear his prognosis, asked.
The doctor pressed his lips together for a moment. “I cannot say, ma’am, my lord. Only that she will have to be supervised, day and night, for her own safety as well as that of others.”
John thought of the gun the woman had already wielded twice, and he nodded. He gave orders to his servants, then walked downstairs with the doctor, who bathed and bandaged his burned hand while Marianne went into the bedroom to check on Miss Ramburt. Then the doctor departed, promising to return on the morrow.
Presently, Marianne rejoined John in the library, where he sat at his desk, but with the estate business on its surface untouched.
He had been holding something in his hand, and he looked up when she entered. Her expression was distressed.
“What is it, my dear?”
“John, if she does not improve, you will not have her sent to Bedlam? I have heard awful stories about that hospital. They say it is a most distressing place.”
He nodded in understanding. Hospital was perhaps too kind a word for the overcrowded facility for the insane, which was renowned for its lack of either oversight or basic comforts.
“No, I would never consign her to such a fate; she has bee
n through hell already,” he agreed. “If her inheritance from her grandfather’s estate is not sufficient to ensure her welfare, I will see that she has private nurses and guardians. We will find a secluded cottage for her, perhaps by the seaside, a serene and peaceful place where her mind might be able to heal.”
Marianne’s frown eased, and she came to lay her hand upon his shoulder. “That’s very good of you,” she said. “Oh, John, I was so frightened.”
He put his hand, now lightly bandaged, over hers. “As was I,” he agreed. “I do not think I will forget this day for a very long time.”
“In her madness, she has put you through a great ordeal.”
She sighed, but he shook his head. “On the whole, I think it has been for the best.”
Marianne looked at him in surprise. “What do you mean?”
“I have been thinking of what Miss Ramburt said. Poor old Sir Silas, moldering away, a prisoner of his failing body and mind. And I—I have made myself a prisoner almost as effectively. No more. You have places you wish to see.” He lifted what he had been holding, and her eyes widened as she made out the open book with the illustration of an Egyptian statue.
“But—you are uncomfortable amid crowds. I would never ask you to endure the painful stares of strangers,” she protested. “As I said before, you have brought the world to you through your library. I can be content with that, too.”
“Why should you have to be?” he asked. “And why should I care about the approval of strangers when I have you beside me every day? As long as I see myself in your eyes, witness your love and acceptance, why should I fret over anyone else’s opinion?”
Her expression startled, she gazed at him. “Are you certain, my love?”
He nodded. “When I first contemplated setting out for London, it was like a great weight on my shoulders. I dreaded every moment, every hour; all I longed for was to retreat to my own house, withdraw into my library where I could pull the draperies shut, open a book, and find my usual refuge, forgetting the rest of the world.
“But now—now when I consider traveling with you beside me, I think only of how much I will enjoy seeing the marvel in your eyes when we stroll together down the Gallery of Mirrors at Versailles, or venture into the dim tunnels of one of those ancient pyramids. I think we should start our honeymoon in Paris and then—we’ll just keep going, my love, wherever your fancy takes us. As long as you are with me, I know I shall never feel ill at ease.”
“Oh, John! You are marvelous!”
“Just don’t tell me how much you admire and esteem me,” he warned. “Or I shall expect another jilting.”
Laughing, she hugged him so hard that he winced. Looking contrite, she pulled away at once and caressed his almost-healed arm. “Oh, you must get well, my love, we have such plans to make. I shall go through all my atlases and travel journals—”
“And the wedding, first,” he reminded her, grinning. “That needs a little thought, too. I cannot bear to be apart from you an hour longer than is necessary. And you’ll find someone else to chaperone your lovely niece? Because despite her—”
He hesitated, and Marianne put in quickly, “Her sweet nature?”
“Yes, that among other things. . . . Despite all her good qualities, I confess that if she is with us every moment, I may be tempted to strangle her just to stop her chatter. In any case, she cannot come with us on our honeymoon!”
Chuckling, Marianne gave him a quick kiss. “Louisa is hatching her own schemes, and she is welcome to them. Besides, she may end up with a wedding to plan, too, and must return to Bath long enough to see to the arrangements. Anyhow, if it comes to that, the banns will have to be read there, as both she and Sir Lucas have their homes in Bath.”
“True.” John blinked as he considered the necessary formalities, and recalled just how many Sundays the banns had to be read. “We, on the other hand, shall obtain a special license. It’s much more speedy, and we’ve waited long enough!”
She kissed him again, and he pulled her into his arms, wounds be damned. And this time, their embrace was not in the least hurried.
Contents
Prologue
One
Two
Three
Four
Five
Six
Seven
Eight
Nine
Ten
Eleven
Twelve
Thirteen
Fourteen
Fifteen
Sixteen
Seventeen