“Especially considering Miss Bruce was not the only person to, er, slip and fall that day,” said White. “Martin washed up on the beach hours later with horrific injuries, but somehow a local physician managed to save his life. The physician has since passed, but my men talked to his son, a physician in training as it happens. Apparently they’d never seen a man so close to death actually live.”
“Dear God,” said Caroline. “So what really happened there? Were Taff and Hermia together? Did they fight, he pushed her and in remorse attempted suicide? Or did she slip and he tried to save her only to fall himself?”
“All excellent questions, Lady Westleigh. But not nearly as excellent as the question one of my men asked the physician’s son—”
“Which was?” cut in Stephen impatiently. The more words that spilt from White the sicker he felt, although now he could feel perspiration gathering at his temples as well.
White scowled at the interruption. “The son was just a shy, spotty lad watching from a corner when this happened, and the magistrate, yes, an elderly drunk, failed to ask him a single question about such remarkably odd proceedings. My man asked the lad, do you remember anything unusual about Mr. Martin’s injuries? And do you know what he said? That all the injuries, the broken bones, the bruising, the lacerations were consistent with a plunge down a cliff face. Except…”
“Except?” said Stephen, bracing his hands on the top of a chair, every instinct he possessed screaming that something shocking, even worse than Taff’s lies, was about to be revealed.
“Except the deep stab wounds to Tavistock’s right hand, chest and neck.”
His vision blurred. He could hear voices, one feminine, one masculine, asking him if he was well, but they seemed very far away. Muffled. Like they were trying to speak to him from under a body of water. Was he even still upright? He couldn’t tell, his body had turned so cold. Utter numbness in every limb, right to the tips of his fingers and toes. Unhappily every other part of his body shutting down somehow resulted in absolute clarity of mind, and one thought continued to churn until he thought he might be violently ill all over the pale blue carpet.
Wynn-Thorne and Sir John said Gregory and Hermia were together on the cliff top the day she died.
The story they’d offered at the Piccadilly meeting—so many details with Hermia’s threat, his father’s decree and Gregory’s pleas—yet nothing which could be proved or disproved as all three people involved were dead. But if Gregory had been there on the cliff top…
Was it possible? No. His conscience shied away from even completing the thought.
Cruel logic dragged it back.
Was it possible his brother murdered Hermia Bruce and attempted to murder Taff?
A raw cry of denial tore from somewhere deep inside him. But too many things were starting to make sense. The Bruces’ strange behavior. The poacher ‘rescue’, the cart, Taff’s comings and goings, always away when awful things happened, and finally Rochland’s death and the false notes.
Everything circled back to Taff.
For God’s sake, the man actually spoke of his ordeal at William’s picnic! I underestimated and foolishly engaged with the enemy, he threw me over a cliff…I didn’t fall all the way down so I survived. Unfortunately my…comrade…wasn’t so lucky. Even though it has been a few years the loss still affects me greatly.
Not a French enemy. Gregory Forsyth.
Not a comrade. Hermia Bruce, the woman he’d loved.
Oh fuck.
Sharp pain burst through the thick fog surrounding him, and Stephen shook his head as he realized he was kneeling on the floor of the drawing room and shaking violently. Caroline knelt next to him, her face parchment pale. White stood about two feet away, a pink palm indicating he’d been the one to administer the resounding slap to the face.
Stephen flexed his stinging jaw. “Bloody hell. Don’t do that again. Ever.”
“We lost you there for a short time, Westleigh,” White murmured calmly, but his eyes were bright. Calculating. “Was it something I said?”
“No,” he said. “It was something Wynn-Thorne and Sir John Smythe said when I first met with them and Kimbolton.”
“Do share.”
“Gregory was with Hermia Bruce the day she died. According to them…now what was the story? Ah yes…she threw herself off a cliff because my brother wouldn’t marry her.”
Caroline gasped. “They actually said that?”
“Yes.”
She covered her mouth with her hands and swayed. “Oh God, Stephen. At our wedding ball Taff talked about his wife who died four years ago.”
White’s expression transformed to a portrait of utter grimness. “If Hallmere did indeed murder Hermia Bruce and attempt to murder Tavistock Martin, that would certainly generate plenty of motive for revenge against you, Westleigh. I doubt his plans are complete, so it’s a good thing you’re all here in town. I’ll post extra guards around the perimeter until he can be located.”
All here. Stephen’s heart stopped beating. “No.”
“What? What is the matter?”
“My mother,” he croaked. “She’s at Westleigh Park.”
~ * ~
If Stephen kept up this frenetic level of activity, he would surely collapse again.
Gnawing her lip, Caroline pondered the best time to inform her husband she had packed a small travelling satchel and would be accompanying him to Westleigh Park. He’d already lost a very heated debate with White about the mode of travel. Despite better speed, horseback was immediately vetoed for safety reasons, so Stephen had reluctantly agreed to travel by carriage. Staff had been dispatched to all corners, and now the last of the supplies were being stored in the carriage. Weapons. So many daggers and pistols it made her tremble. A small mountain of food including a basket of bread, cheese, pastries and fruit for the journey, as well as flasks of lemonade and a full bottle of whisky.
Stephen was methodically checking the horses, but he looked awful. In the space of half an hour, pure torment had etched deep grooves into his deathly pale face and his shoulders were hunched like an old, old man.
“Stephen,” she began, hurrying forward to put a hand on his arm, but he shrugged her off.
“I’m a little busy right now, Caroline. Long journey ahead.”
“I know that, but you need to slow-”
“Spare me the kind words,” he snarled. “As the bastard who left his mother alone and unprotected in the country, I don’t deserve them. White might think it’s far better to sit tight and hope that Taff or Sir John or Wynn-Thorne or any other man who currently holds a bloody goddamn grudge against me, restricts their vengeance activities to London-based Forsyths…but I cannot take that chance.”
“Of course not. How many armed outriders is he providing?”
Stephen paused and braced one hand on the side of the carriage while two fingers pinched the bridge of his nose. Oh God, her husband was going to explode at any minute. Whether with anger or fear, she couldn’t quite tell.
“Four. They should be here soon. I told him I was leaving at two o’clock sharp.”
“We were leaving,” she said firmly.
“What?”
Even though he couldn’t see her, Caroline assumed full battle stance. Back straight, hands on hips and eyes narrowed. “We.”
“You’re not bloody going.”
She stepped forward and wrapped her arms tightly around him, pressing a soft kiss to the back of his neck. “Oh, yes, I am.”
“God damn it, Caroline! No, you’re not! It could be dangerous!”
“You have two choices, husband. One, I go with you. Two, I follow you on my own, without the protection of weapons, armed guards, footmen and coachman.”
“Three, you bloody well do as you’re told and stay right here.”
“Unfortunately there is no third option in my world, Stephen. Where you go, I will go and all that.”
He cursed fluently. Several times. For a long moment
Caroline held her breath as he visibly warred with himself.
Then his shoulders sagged. “You will not leave the carriage under any circumstances. Is that clear?”
“Yes,” she replied, mentally crossing her fingers. If he was in any danger, she would be out the door and brandishing whatever weapons were available. It couldn’t be that difficult to shoot a pistol, surely.
“I mean it, Caro,” he muttered, tilting his head back until his cheek rested against hers. “I couldn’t bear it if…”
“I’ll be fine. And so will your mother, so stop torturing yourself.”
Stephen sucked in a harsh breath and slammed his fist against the carriage door. “I raised my voice. Waved her away. And all the time she was right, about the group and what they did.”
“Jane will forgive you. However, if I were you, I would not so much as raise an eyebrow over a party or modiste bill ever again.”
“But what if Taff—”
“Don’t imagine the worst-case scenario. Taff could be in France and your mother sipping tea in her rose garden right now. Let’s take this one step at a time and consider the facts, hmmm?”
“Stop it. You’re starting to sound like me.”
“A very low blow, Lord Westleigh.”
The tiniest of smiles tugged at his lips. “Hellion.”
“I shall take that as a compliment,” she replied pertly, leaning down to pick up her satchel from where she’d stashed it behind a carriage wheel. “Now let’s be away.”
They must have looked a sight as they pulled away from Grosvenor Square, the carriage practically groaning with coachman plus two burly footmen at the front and another two perched on the back. Not to mention the four heavily armed riders accompanying them.
Caroline grinned briefly as she stretched her legs on the opposite seat. “People will think this carriage contains royalty at the very least.”
“It might do.”
“That is true.”
He cleared his throat. “You know, Caroline, I could hire someone to make enquiries. About your father I mean. I understand you have very little information about him, but there are professionals who can follow the flimsiest of leads and end up with excellent results.”
Emotion surged, and she blinked frantically to clear dewy eyes. “Really?”
“Really. About time you knew. Of course, if you and George are the love children of a sea captain who also happened to be a French axe murdering bigamist, I will have to divorce you.”
“Fair enough. And if we are the legal heirs to an obscure but wealthy European kingdom where women and cake are equally worshipped, I will have to divorce you. Although I might relent and allow you to prostrate yourself at my feet on occasion.”
“Very gracious.”
“I thought so,” she replied, yawning and snuggling against his shoulder. Between the sunshine beaming through the glass windows and the rocking motion of the carriage, she was suddenly feeling rather sleepy.
“I won’t be offended if you want to nap. Especially as you forgot to bring any embroidery to pass the time.”
She flicked him with a finger and closed her eyes. “Maybe just a short one.”
When she opened them again it was pitch black outside, only the small lamps on either side of the carriage providing any light.
Caroline jolted upright. “What time is it? Why didn’t you wake me?”
“You obviously needed rest,” Stephen replied, but she felt his acute tension.
“How far are we away from Westleigh Park?”
“Only a few miles now.”
She took his hand and squeezed it. “Jane will be fine. I’ll enjoy watching her box your ears for waking her though.”
Stephen didn’t smile. His restlessness was palpable as he peered into the suffocating darkness. Finally they were on the long driveway, the swaying movement of the carriage indicating its gentle curves, before pulling up in front of the wide main entrance. Westleigh Park, a sprawling, immaculately kept mini stone and timber village.
He leapt out of the carriage and sprinted up the steps, her running close behind.
One door swung open, revealing a young footman holding a large candelabra. “My lord! Thank God!”
“What?” snarled Stephen. “Where is my mother?”
“My lord, I…”
“Speak, man!”
“We sent a rider…you probably crossed paths…oh, my lord, I don’t know how to tell you this, but the dowager has been kidnapped.”
“Kidnapped?” Caroline choked out.
“Yes, milady. She was taken from the gardens sometime this morning. We searched and searched when the alarm was raised, but found no trace of her. Except this.”
Stephen stared blankly at the parchment in the footman’s hand, so Caroline snatched it and slowly read aloud.
Westleigh,
We’ll be waiting for you at the cottage. If you’re smart you’ll know which one. If you’re truly smart, you and your wife will come alone.
T
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
“La-dy West-leigh. It’s morning, time to wake up, my dear. You really have been sleeping a long time. Rather lazy of you, actually.”
Thick lashes fluttered but her dark brown eyes were cloudy and unfocused.
Taff sighed. Perhaps Uncle Albert was right and he had administered far too much laudanum. The dowager had been lying practically motionless on a rather uncomfortable-looking chaise all day and all night, but it was the least rat-nibbled piece of furniture in the ramshackle cottage. Damnation, he hated being back here. Sure there was a certain kind of poetic justice to have this location as the final reckoning place between the Forsyths and the Bruces, but he hadn’t been prepared for the violent, overwhelming emotion. Or the gut-wrenching memories. Luckily there were men posted in every direction, despite the personal distractions it would be impossible for Westleigh to stage a surprise attack and rescue his mother.
“Has she woken up yet?”
He looked over his shoulder and met Albert Bruce’s narrowed golden gaze.
“She’s starting to now. Although if she hears your gruff voice she will probably change her mind. Is breakfast ready?”
“Never mind breakfast, Taff. It was supposed to be a small dose, just enough to weaken her so she could be brought here without any fuss. Not leave her unconscious for hours!”
“Well, a small dose didn’t work. In fact I have a goose egg on my shin where the damned woman kicked me several times, she might be petite but she’s no shrinking violet. Actually it was bloody hard work removing her from the garden, it was only because I’d been watching for a few days that I knew her staff let her be when she went for walks.”
Albert snorted. “You’re obviously getting soft-bellied in your old age. I bet Nora would have had no trouble whatsoever.”
“Aunt Nora is hardly your average woman.”
“No. Anyone who can follow the drum for years, then birth eight babies is a cut above the rest. Pity none were boys, but you get what you’re given and there is no point complaining.”
“She will be sorry to miss this. Did they get away in the boat all right yesterday? Where will they stay?”
“Yes, it all went very smoothly. One of my cousins up and married a Frenchman, so Nora and the girls will stay with them in Paris for as long as necessary. Besides, if something goes wrong it is better to only have one parent in prison. I’ve been putting money aside for some time now, they will be able to live in relative comfort without me.”
“Don’t say that,” Taff said fiercely. “Nothing is going to go wrong. We’ve worked too long and too bloody hard for this. Now, please bring in the food, I’m starving.”
He smiled when Albert stomped away. It was easy to see where the Bruce girls got their short tempers, how his uncle had been such a successful soldier he’d never know.
A soft moan sounded and his gaze jerked back to the dowager countess.
“So, you’ve finally decided to join us, hmmm,
my lady? You’ll probably note you are bound rather tightly, and no, I won’t be untying you. I will however, remove the gag because screaming or shouting would be completely pointless. We are in the middle of nowhere and the only people around are those who really couldn’t care less if you lived or died. Understand?”
She nodded weakly.
“All right then,” he said, removing the rolled up wad of linen from her mouth. She coughed, desperately trying to create some moisture to lubricate her no doubt bone-dry mouth, so he picked up a pitcher of well water and splashed some onto her face.
“Thank you,” she croaked, frantically licking her lips to catch the droplets, until abruptly she leaned over the side of the chaise and retched.
He tsked and poured more water into her mouth. “I must apologize for your current state of health, it wasn’t my intention to make you ill. We’ve now decided that our quarrel is not with you.”
“What do you m…mean?”
“It is my understanding you neither endorsed nor condoned your eldest son’s activities, and in fact tried to stop them.”
The dowager bowed her head, her breath coming in harsh, wheezing pants. “I loved G-Gregory. I will always l-love him, he was my firstborn child. But I think he h-hurt people. And I c-can’t forgive that.”
“He did more than hurt people, Lady Westleigh. He murdered them.”
Her head jerked up, the movement obviously too fast for her unsettled stomach as she groaned and retched a second time. Again, he gave her water. When she’d recovered she blinked owl eyes at him, although her face remained a combination of deathly pale with bright pink blotches. “Murder? No, I…the others…”
Taff laughed, although the sound contained no humor. “Oh yes, the other members of the group are heartless, murdering bastards. Or were, in the case of Major Rochland.”
“Were?”
“He’s dead. An unfortunate run-in with a dagger about a week ago. But do not think for a moment, my dear countess, that your eldest son did not kill and maim as well if not better than the others did.”
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