Returning to the parlor, he set it on a table while his parents, his brother and the Marquess gathered around it. He glanced at them. “We have tried every combination we could think of while on board the ship,” he told the eyes watching avidly. “The Earl may have provided me with a clue, as he said the old Earl often called her Merial the Mermaid.”
“So what will you try now?” Maxwell asked.
Christopher shrugged and pushed the letters for mermaid. The box refused to open. He might have cursed had his mother not been present. “I felt so certain the word ‘mermaid’ would work,” he muttered. “I feel so strongly that the right combination revolves around Merial.”
Lord Saxonshire picked it up and shook it, frowning thoughtfully. “That does not sound like jewels.”
“Unless they were heavily wrapped,” Christopher reminded him. “Packed tightly in velvet, and placed in other boxes before being set in this one.”
Lord Saxonshire nodded. “You have an excellent point.”
Leaving the coffer on the table, they returned to their chairs and their now cold tea. Owen busily poured fresh tea, and Christopher took a biscuit to nibble as he pondered. “I fear we can go no further at this time,” he muttered, hiding his frustration. “Perhaps the time has come to take an axe to the thing.”
“And risk damage to the contents?” Maxwell shook his head. “Not yet. I am certain you will hit upon the right combination.”
In gloomy silence, Christopher half listened to the conversation in the parlor as it shifted to talk of the ton, the Prince Regent, as well as the prospects of Merial getting her memories back. An hour or so later, Lord Saxonshire made his farewells, and glanced at Christopher.
“If you learn more from Dorsten’s daughter, or that box, as it pertains to the Earl’s death, I would appreciate being notified immediately.”
“I will do so, My Lord.”
Missing Merial terribly at dinner that evening, Christopher tried to be cheerful. Yet, between her absence and the uneasiness that would not leave him alone, he knew he was not very good company. “I apologize,” he said when Henry remarked on his sour mood. “Something I cannot name is troubling me.”
“Then after dinner,” Henry told him, “we will find a way to open that box and examine the contents. Perhaps what is inside will ease your mind considerably.”
“I do hope so.”
After the meal was over, the Duke and Duchess joined Christopher and Henry in the parlor for port, and Christopher stared at the stubborn box with near hatred. “Open or I will break you with an axe,” he muttered to it.
Henry laughed. “That will do it, brother. Curse it into opening.”
Henry the cat leaped into the Duke’s lap where lay, purring with contentment, as Maxwell caressed his fur. “You are certain Merial’s name has something to do with the combination?” he asked. “Why do you think that?”
“It is my gut telling me so, Father,” Christopher replied, gazing at the letters. “Hmm. If ‘mermaid’ did nothing, what about ‘Merial the Mermaid’?”
Henry sipped his port, his legs elegantly crossed. “Cannot hurt to try.”
Christopher pressed all the letters of Merial the Mermaid, and a sharp click resounded throughout the nearly silent room. “Oh, my,” Christopher breathed, hardly daring to lift the cover.
“It worked,” Henry crowed, standing to stride over to him.
The Duke dumped the cat off his lap as he, too, came to the table to see what was inside as Christopher lifted the lid. He gazed down at an assortment of papers, ledgers, and diaries. “How can all this be so important?” Christopher asked, disappointed.
Maxwell picked up a paper off the top. “This appears to be the Earl’s last will and testament,” he murmured, taking the paper to his chair to read.
Sorting through the various papers, Christopher glanced at them while Henry pulled the diaries from the coffer and stacked them. “Business letters?” he asked. “Personal diaries. Hardly worth the fuss, I should think.”
Picking up a letter from the top, Christopher started to read and his blood ran cold. His legs numb, he stumbled to his chair and sat down heavily. “Oh, my God,” he moaned. “Oh, Merial.”
“What?” Henry asked, standing by him. “What is it?”
Christopher lifted his eyes to his brother. “This is a letter stating that should the Earl die, his own brother, Edward is to blame. The younger brother always coveted the earldom, the wealth.”
“What?” the Duchess half shrieked, standing. “How can this be possible?”
The Duke stared grimly at Christopher and Henry. “This confirms it. In his will, the Earl states that his title should go to the closest male heir, as his brother should have hanged for murder. He wrote that all the evidence is in those books.”
“I have to get over there.” Christopher felt terror seep through his soul. “Merial is with the man who murdered her parents.”
Epilogue
At dinner with Edward that evening, Merial felt increasingly uncomfortable with him. He did not smile, and seldom spoke, and answered her questions with grunts or did not answer them at all. If she had not seen his warm, caring personality before this, she might never have remained in the house with him. This man set her nerves on edge.
She caught the eye of Charles, the butler, who stood nearby with a number of footmen, ready to serve. Though his expression did not change from his stern, formal neutrality, there was something deep in his eyes she tried hard to read. It almost appeared to be an urgency, yet about what she had no idea.
Unable to stomach the company any longer, Merial smiled at Edward, though he did not look at her and see it. “I am not very hungry, Uncle,” she said, rising. “I think I will retire now.”
Edward replied with a mutter that she did not understand, and flicked his eyes up from under his brows for a moment, then returned to his meal. Passing Charles, who bowed and rendered her unable to read whatever it might be in his eyes. On a sigh, she left the dining room, and headed up the stairs to her chambers.
Inside, she found someone had lit the lamps, illuminating the rooms, although that was the job a personal maid would have performed if she had one. Missing Christopher, she wandered around the rooms, wondering what he was doing at that very moment. “At dinner most likely,” she murmured.
Inspecting the wardrobe that held her clothes, she looked for a nightgown she would wear to bed. Taking one out, Merial laid it on the bed for later, and wandered, restless and bored, into her sitting room. Unpinning her hair, she combed her fingers through it absently as she inspected the books.
Selecting a tome at random, she sat down in an armchair to read it. Soon, she was absorbed in the pages, and yawned, content.
She may have read for an hour or more when her door slammed open. Throwing the book aside, Merial leaped to her feet, alarm and terror racing through her. Edward, his countenance a tight mask of malice, closed the door behind him, then strode toward her.
“You should have stayed dead, Merial,” he grated through clenched teeth. “Now I will finish the job those useless louts did not.”
“What are you talking about?” Backing away from him, Merial sought for something to throw at him, then felt the reassuring weight of the knife still strapped to her left arm.
“What are you talking about?” he mimicked, his voice high. “You know damn well, girl. Once you regain your memories, all my work will be for nothing.”
As he stepped closer to her, a voice flashed into her mind.
“He wants my title and wealth for himself. My own brother! We must hurry, there is no time to fetch the authorities, we will hide in an inn, safely anonymous, until we can set the courts on him. Merial, hurry up, and pack light.”
“You killed my father.”
Merial’s tone held no fear, nor accusation, only a strange kind of wonder. “My father warned me about you. Said you would never stop until we all lay dead.”
Edward laughed. “Ah, your me
mory is coming back.” His countenance suddenly twisted with hate and a malignant evil. “That is not a good prospect from your point of view, and your father paid the price for it.”
“You killed him.” Merial wondered at how calm her voice was.
He sneered. “I should have been born first. He had everything, while I was left to beg for scraps. Now he is dead, and all the wealth and titles and honor are all mine.” He pointed toward her. “And they will remain mine. I will kill you, and no one will be the wiser.”
Stalking her, Edward lunged, and Merial put a table between them. “You are forgetting about Christopher,” she told him, keeping a wary eye on his hands. “He will not stop, either. You will still hang.”
“That pup.” Edward scoffed. “He will learn nothing, as the fire I will set will cover up all the evidence pertaining to your death. He will have no proof.”
Faster than a striking serpent, Edward dove for her, but Merial was faster. Whipping her blade from its sheath, she slashed at his throat as Christopher had told her. She missed, and laid open his lower jaw. Blood poured from the horrid gash, and the astonishment in his eyes nearly had her laughing.
Roaring like an outraged lion, Edward lunged again. Merial slashed, as fast as lightning, ripping into his upper right arm before dodging him, spinning like a dervish. This time he screamed, high and womanish, clutching his arm as bright red spurted from between his fingers.
“I will kill you,” he bellowed, his teeth clenched, spittle blooming at the corners of his mouth.
Making sure to keep as much furniture between herself and Edward, Merial ducked and dodged, ready to leap in any direction. Still yelling like a mindless beast, he flung chairs to the side, knocking over tables, and Merial could not help but wonder, from a small corner in her mind, why the commotion had not brought servants on the run.
Edging toward the door, she knew that she would be forced to turn her back on him in order to open it, and escape through it. She dared not turn her back on him, not for even the seconds it would take to nip through the door.
He threw himself at her, but from her left side where she could not use her knife. Not bothering to try, she ducked out from under his reaching hand—and was a fraction too slow.
His grip seized her by her flowing hair. Merial shrieked in both pain and fury as he yanked her toward him, dragging her across the floor, bumping her body over fallen furniture. Her dagger still clenched in her fist, she slashed and stabbed at him, and managed a strike across his knee. He cursed, spittle flying, and his boot struck her hard in the back.
“Got you now, you little wench,” he snarled, planting his foot on her chest.
Get this.
Merial slammed the knife into the top of his foot.
His howl of agony ripped through the room, and he jerked his foot away, snatching the knife from her hand. But she was free. Rolling to her knees, caught, tangled in her skirts, Merial stumbled to her feet. In a lunge toward the door, the handle so very close, she thought she would make it. Triumph surged through her—
His heavy body slammed her to the floor.
“That was not very nice,” he hissed in her ear.
Edward yanked her backward by her hair, and this time Merial knew he would choke the life from her. Kicking, fighting him with everything she had, she screamed for help even as his body fell atop hers, his hands reaching for her throat. Her fingernails clawed for his eyes as the pressure cut off all her breath—
“Bastard. Get off her.”
Through dim eyes, Merial caught a glimpse of a shadow looming behind Edward. Hearing a distinct thud, she felt his fingers scrape the soft skin of her throat as Edward was thrown from her. He landed on his side with a hard grunt, just as Christopher drew back his boot and kicked him solidly in the ribs again.
Wheezing, gasping, Merial rolled out of the way as Christopher, and his brother Henry, pounced on Edward. Though he fought and cursed, he was no match for the Buckthorns. Within minutes, he lay on the floor, cursing, bleeding, his hands bound behind his back with Henry kneeling between his shoulder blades.
Merial staggered to her feet just as Christopher reached her, his face filled with anxiety. “Merial.” He seized her by her arms, gazing anxiously into her face. “Speak to me. Did he hurt you?”
Unable to help herself, Merial fell into his arms, laughing like one bewitched, weeping with reaction, roaring gales of laughter for having escaped death by a hair. “Yes,” she managed, wiping her steaming eyes. “I am—all right. I think.”
Bemused, Christopher hugged her tightly to him. “I read your father’s letters. He told the story about his younger brother plotting to kill him.”
Merial sobered enough to nod, wiping her eyes. “He told me as much.” Staring at the struggling form under Henry’s stout weight, she murmured, “My father went to the inn to give us time to get to the courts. How he found us there, I do not know. But he killed my parents.”
Christopher pulled away from her to stare. “Your memories are back?”
Merial grimaced, and nodded. “I now know everything that happened, my love. My father told me things.” She stared unflinching at her uncle, who glared back at her with malice in his eyes. “How Edward was never quite right in the head, and tried to kill my father when they were both just boys. Now I will tell my father’s secrets to the King’s Bench, and let justice be served.”
A commotion at the door brought not just Charles, the butler, but also the Duke of Heyerdahl, as well as another man, who she learned was the Marquess of Saxonshire. “We got here as soon as we could,” His Grace said, a little breathless.
He gazed in fascination at Edward, who struggled, then looked at Merial with a smile playing around his lips. “Did you do that to him?”
“Of course. He attacked me and I defended myself.”
Clicking his tongue, amused, the Duke went with the Marquess to stand over Edward.
She gazed up at Christopher as the newcomers took charge of her uncle, and half listened to words like “gaol”, “inspectors”, “royal courts”.
“May we go to your house?”
Christopher chuckled, and held her close. “I will never let you out of my sight again, my love.”
Safely tucked under his arm, Merial let him lead her out of her rooms, and down the stairs. “My mother is worried sick about you,” he murmured.
“Then let us get to your house where we can reassure her,” Merial answered. “And I need a drink.”
Christopher laughed. “Is My Lady becoming a lush?”
Merial blew a kiss up into his face. “Your Lady fought like a tiger, and almost won. She deserves a stiff drink.”
“My Lady is a fierce wench, and anyone who tangles with her is a fool.” Christopher laughed. “Just wait until Gauthier finds out.”
Reaching the main doors and the footmen who opened them wide, Merial turned to him. “I love you, Christopher. Thank you for saving my life.”
“That is my two to your one,” he said with a grin. “And I love you, too, my ferocious lady.”
“Oh, you will get into some sort of trouble I will need to rescue you from,” she replied with a chuckle as they went out into the quiet darkness.
The End?
Extended Epilogue
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Preview: A Mistletoe Match for the White Duchess
Chapter 1
Isolde watched as the couples twirled across the dance floor to the sounds of
the quadrille. She knew every step–every movement–even though she had not danced it herself in some time. Her feet tapped along to the sound of the music and she bopped her head to the rhythm. From the dance floor, her closest childhood friend, Miss Olivia Brown, smiled at her.
Olivia was paired up with Lord Canterbury who could not take his eyes off her. No wonder, Olivia was a true beauty, with fair skin and golden locks. She had it arranged in a splendid half-up, half-down style which looked striking with the pale-blue crape dress she wore. You couldn’t tell now, as it was pinned up, but the dress had a lovely train.
The Lost Countess That Counted Stars (Historical Regency Romance) Page 28