The Kent Heiress

by Roberta Gellis

  “Out,” Dom José ordered.

  A shudder so violent that it almost shook Sabrina off her feet passed over her. She balked, and Dom José stepped forward swiftly and struck her across the face with his left hand. She hardly felt it. Just at that moment her eyes had fallen on Charlot—what was left of Charlot. Most of his face had been torn away. Sabrina whimpered and stumbled forward toward the open door.

  Blinded by the relative darkness, Sabrina tripped on the steps and fell, saving herself from real injury by instinct. Dom José kicked her, not terribly hard but indicating that worse would follow if she did not get up. As she dragged herself upright it occurred to Sabrina that Dom José did not mean to kill her, at least not immediately. If he had, she reasoned, he would have done so at once. Why bother making her leave the house if all he meant to do was to shoot her?

  As her immediate terror receded a cold hatred took its place. It was true that William was guilty, that he had cuckolded Dom José. Sabrina did not like unfaithfulness either, but she did not think it so great a crime as to deserve death. Still, she would not have hated Dom José for avenging himself. She knew some men felt differently than she did. It was the killing of Charlot and—her heart lurched—Katy. That was senseless. And what did the lunatic want with her? She pushed that out of her mind. Whatever it was could not be good. But for the others, for her Katy, her darling Katy, and for poor Charlot with his silly pride, for them she would somehow be avenged.

  Hardly realizing what she did, Sabrina had staggered around the house to the back under Dom José’s orders. Her eyes had adjusted, and it was not really dark on the lawn. The moon was just rising she stumbled again when she entered the pathway, but recovered without falling. Various ideas flicked through her mind—seizing a stick and striking the gun from Dom José’s hand, falling and snatching up a rock to throw at him. However, the pathway itself was clear of loose branches, and it was too dark to see anything on either side of it.

  Sabrina felt desperately with her feet for loose stones and with her hands, too, when she could use them on the steeper sections. She found no stone large enough in the brief contacts with the ground that Dom José permitted. When she hesitated a few seconds longer than his impatience thought necessary, he kicked her again. She struggled ahead, sobbing more with frustration than with fear.

  Suddenly she was out in the open again on the wide lawns of La Casa des Ermidas, and whatever chance she had had on the path was gone. She thought of screaming but she would be dead long before anyone could come—if they would come. The house was all dark, except for a dim light coming through the fanlight above the back door. Besides, she was not sure Dom José’s servants would be able or willing to interfere, and none might be in the house. They might all have run away, if they knew he had killed his wife and William. Wildly trying to think of a new expedient for escaping him, Sabrina was driven forward, around the front of the house.

  “Open the door and go up the right-hand branch of the stairs,” he said. “You can scream if you like,” he added, laughing. “No one will hear.”

  “What do you want?” Sabrina whispered. “I have done you no harm. Why are you doing this?”

  “Done me no harm?” Do José snarled. “You panderer! You whore-mistress! You knew your filthy lecher of a husband was lying with my wife, and you lied for him. You helped him!”

  “Oh, my God,” Sabrina breathed. “What could I do? How could I stop him?”

  But there was little hope or conviction in her protest. She certainly was guilty in that sense. She had even been glad of William’s affair, found it amusing because it took his attention away from her. Then she remembered Katy and Charlot. They had been completely innocent. Sabrina’s trembling knees stiffened. She would not give up. Somehow she would get away and see that Dom José paid for destroying those who had never done him, or anyone else, any harm.

  She fumbled with the door, wondering whether she could turn swiftly and knock his arm aside so that he would miss if he fired. A quick glance backward showed he was too far behind her for that. Could she grapple with him if she refused to open the door and he came closer to strike her? Then Sabrina remembered the force with which he had thrown her backward in the house. He was far stronger than he looked. Her best chance, she decided, was to go in, letting him think she was terrified and helpless. In the house there would be weapons—candlesticks, chairs, tables, ornaments. But why had he brought her to his house?

  Her hopes were all disappointed. The hall was only dimly lit by a few candles, but it was far too light to consider hiding. The candles were in sconces on the walls; the furniture was too heavy for Sabrina to contemplate moving it, and there was nothing to throw. As she started up the stairs Sabrina realized he must be taking her to the bedchambers. Suddenly she felt cold and sick. Could this madman want to revenge himself on William by raping her?

  Sabrina gathered herself together to turn swiftly and throw herself down the stairs at Dom José. There was a chance that if she were quick enough, he would miss his shot and that, falling on top of him, she would stun him. And if she failed, she would rather be dead than let him… But why bring her here to do that?

  To shame William in front of his face? But that would mean that William was not dead. What if Dom José had caught him and only wounded him or tied him up? Then there would be two of them. William was no fool. No matter how helpless he was, he would try to make a sound or movement that would distract Dom José so that she could attack him. And even if William could not help, there would be endless ways to make Dom José expend his one shot if he tried to rape her with a gun in his hand. If only he did not knock her unconscious.

  With that last fear in mind, Sabrina turned around to face him when she came to the top of the stairs. He gestured impatiently toward the right with the gun, but made no comment when she backed slowly down the corridor.

  “Stop,” Dom José said. “Open the door at your right and go in.”

  He was staring at her. Sabrina began to tremble uncontrollably. Even in the dim light she could see the whites of his eyes all around the dark irises. He was mad!

  “What are you going to do?” Sabrina gasped, less able than she had thought to face a sexual assault.

  Since Dom José really had no idea what he was going to do, only that he must bring Sabrina face-to-face with her guilt so that she would suffer as he had suffered, he did not answer. However, through the madness he sensed that Sabrina was growing desperate enough to challenge him. He knew he could kill her, but it was too soon for that. She had not perceived the depth of her sin. She had not suffered enough. He stepped back and around to face her more directly and lifted the gun in threat.

  It is only my wife’s sitting room,” he said. “There is nothing to be afraid of.”

  Sabrina hardly heard the words. The staring eyes had driven her back a pace before he moved or spoke, and her hand, feeling for support, had fallen on the door latch as she asked her question. The latch turned down; the door opened a hair—opened inward! Before the thought had even formed clearly in her mind, Sabrina had leapt into the room and slammed the door behind her in Dom José’s face. She dropped to her knees at once, expecting a bullet to fly through the wood, but even as she went down her hand fumbled below the latch and found the key and turned it.

  She was barely in time. Just as the lock seated, the latch went down and there was a meaty thud as Dom José threw his weight against the door. Sabrina scuttled sideways on her hands and knees, still fearing a gunshot. Once out of line she sat back on her heels to catch her breath and think. The doors in the dower house were strong and solid. These should be no less resistant. Until Dom José brought help, the door should hold—unless he shot the lock away.

  Sabrina glanced around, but what she could see of the furniture in the dim light seemed too fragile to block the door. Beyond was the rectangular shadow of another open doorway. That had to be the bedchamber. Sabrina looked from that very questionable refuge around
the room. The quiet beyond the door to the corridor was unnerving. After that first rattle of the latch and thud, there had been no sign from her captor.

  Probably he had gone for help, Sabrina told herself. It would be useless to appeal to anyone Dom José brought, so it was up to her to save herself in the next few minutes. A wave of despair flooded over her. There was no time! And Katy was dead!

  Again rage pushed out despair. There were the windows. She could jump. She went quickly across the room and pulled back the drapes. The distance to the lawn seemed dreadfully far, and below was an expanse of stone portico rather than shrubs or soft flower beds, which could have broken her fall. It would be impossible to escape injury altogether, which would only make her more helpless.

  Again Sabrina looked around the room, this time seeing it more clearly in the moonlight. Quickly she drew the other drape. She was disappointed to find that her first guess had been correct. There was no piece of furniture heavy enough to block the door. Even the sofas were spindly. If she piled one on top of the other… Sabrina sighed. She was no weakling, but she did not think she could lift even a light sofa so high.

  There were, however, plenty of things she could use for weapons. If Dom José came in alone, she could brain him from behind the door. A warm flush of satisfaction filled Sabrina at the thought but it faded quickly. There was little chance he would be alone. Again her eyes strayed to the dark rectangle of the bedchamber door. Perhaps the bedchamber was on a corner and had windows that did not overlook the portico.

  Sabrina glanced at the outer door of the sitting room, but all was still silent. After a few steps toward the bedchamber she hesitated. Was there an entrance from the corridor directly into the bedchamber? Was Dom José waiting there for her in the dark? She shuddered, but reason soon asserted itself over fear. If there had been another entrance, surely he would already have come in that way. And why should he wait in the dark? The pistol was a far more useful threat in the light.

  Although she hated to leave the security she had, however false, Sabrina told herself that the bedchamber would be safer. There would be heavier furnishings with which she could block the door. Seizing a candelabra so that she would have something with which to strike or to throw, she darted through the door opening. Inside, she fumbled along the door, then breathed a sigh of relief when she found a key in that lock, also. There was just enough light from the silvery glow in the sitting room to make out the black bulk of the bed and several other pieces of furniture. Ears cocked for any sound from the sitting room, Sabrina crossed to where two long shadows marked draped windows.

  When the drapes were drawn, Sabrina looked around while she tried to steady her breathing. Now that she could see, she realized that the bedchamber was a better place to defend herself than the sitting room. There were closets, bulky furniture to hide behind, large pieces of cloth with which to try to envelop or trip her attacker. She went to the door and locked it, then began to shove a heavy dressing table with a tall mirror across the door. If that were battered away from the door, the mirror would crash and provide many sharp missiles to throw. If she wrapped her hand in a cloth, the fragments would provide a dagger of sorts.

  Moving the dressing table so that the mirror would not fall took some time. When she was finished, Sabrina rested for a few minutes, listening intently for sounds in the adjoining room. It was still silent, and she assumed that Dom José had not yet unlocked or forced the door. He probably would have cried out on not seeing her. If not, he was cleverer than she thought. Then she sighed. He could not surprise her in here. She would have time to think and plan for an escape.

  The first move was to find a tinderbox. If she lit all the candles in the room with the drapes drawn back, someone might see the light and wonder. It was not much chance. La Casa des Ermidas was very isolated. Nonetheless, there was a chance, and the light would give her courage. Sabrina found the tinderbox in its usual place in the drawer of a small table beside the bed. She struck the flame, lit one candle, and used that to set all the others ablaze.

  The next step must be to escape. Again Sabrina looked out the long window. There was a small metal balcony outside that blocked her view of the ground below. Would that make it easier or harder to jump? Then Sabrina laughed shakily. Why jump at all? She had read enough romances where the silly heroine eloped by climbing down a rope of knotted sheets. Sabrina had laughed at that, wondering how one could knot a sheet. Now she began to think of it seriously.

  If she could find a scissor, it would be possible to slit the sheets into thirds. That should be narrow enough to knot together and still wide enough not to tear under her weight because of the raw edges. Yes. Then she could fasten the rope to the bars of the balcony. They should be strong enough, and even if they gave way after a while, she would be closer to the ground and not have so far to fall. She cocked her head. There was still no sound from the sitting room. That was odd rather than frightening, but Sabrina would not let herself think about it. She concentrated on looking in all the places where a pair of scissors might be found.

  In the corridor, Dom José stood quite still, staring at the locked door. Although he had thrown himself against it instinctively when Sabrina escaped him, he had drawn back in the next instant with a sense of relief. He really did not want to go in there. He did not fight the feeling, nor did he think about it. In fact, his mind was curiously blank, as if everything had come to a full stop when the sitting room door was locked. He simply stood and waited, exactly for what, he did not know.

  Once he heard a dull scraping very faint and far away. He did not connect the sound with a heavy object being pushed across the floor in the bedchamber. It held no meaning for him at all and did not induce in him any concern or desire to move or do anything else. He continued to stand for a long time, watching the door dully, the now useless pistol hanging from his hand. Then, faintly, he heard a woman, scream and scream and scream.

  Like an ill-managed marionette, Dom José jerked into life. That was what he was waiting for! With each of Sabrina’s shrieks a paralyzing thorn of agony was extracted from his mind, and when the screams stopped abruptly, Dom José smiled. Now he was avenged. Now there had been terror and pain to match his own shame and suffering. He listened, but without anxiety, not for more screams but for sounds of the servants stirring. There were none. It was not surprising. If they had not heard the shots while they were awake, it was not likely they would have heard the woman screaming after he had sent them to bed in the servant’s wing.

  For one moment, in the peace revenge had brought him, Dom José became rational again. He suddenly realized what he had done—everything he had done. His mouth dried, and the breath strangled in his throat. God in Heaven, he had killed four people! Four! Francisca and her lover did not matter. Had he stopped there, he could simply have reported the matter. No one would have blamed him. But the two servants! That was murder. And his abduction of Lady Elvan…

  Thoughts of Sabrina tipped Dom José into madness again, but it was a lucid madness fixed on one idea. Everything that had happened was Sabrina’s fault. If she had not ignored, even encouraged, her husband’s lecheries, none of this would have happened. She was to blame for all four murders, and the punishment for them must fall upon her. But how? How? But of course! She was guilty of the murders. She, not he, had killed them all out of jealousy. But why tonight? Because she had not known until tonight. He had stopped at the dower house to warn her of the rumors regarding her husband and his wife. How fortunate that he had bidden his coachman set him down at the dower house. They could not have seen him go around to the back. In any case, Carlo, Pedro, Pablo, and Manuelo would not contradict him, whatever he said.

  Suddenly Dom José realized he was covered with dirt and twigs. He gave one last glance at the door—smiled again as he walked slowly away to the room that had been prepared for him. It did not matter what Lady Elvan did, whether she stayed locked in the bedchamber or came out and escaped. When he was in
his bedclothes, he would ring for the servants and rush to his wife’s door, crying that he had heard shots. But she had no gun. Ah!

  Dom José hurried down the stairs and out the front door again, unloading as he went the one pistol that still carried a charge. He laughed silently with pleasure when he saw the light from the window of Francisca’s bedchamber. It was as if Lady Elvan accepted her guilt and was trying to help him. The light showed just where he should throw down the guns.

  Then his brow wrinkled. How had she got his pistols? Ah, of course. When he stepped in to speak to her, he had laid them on the hall table. One does not, after all, go to visit a lady with pistols in one’s pockets. And then, when she became so hysterical, had made such dreadful, shameless threats, he had called her servants to care for her and had gone away quickly, forgetting all about the guns. His lips turned down in a parody of grief and concern over his carelessness. How he would sigh when he said he regretted it and that had he not forgotten, the deaths might not have occurred.

  When Dom José entered the house this time, he bolted the front door, went into the long drawing room, broke a pane on one of the French doors and unbolted it. Then he went up to his bedchamber, where he took off his clothes, shook them hard out of the window, beat them with his hands, and brushed them by rubbing his dark socks over them. There were still a few mud stains, but that would be easily explained by a stumble on the dark path. Then he washed his face and hands carefully, throwing the first lot of water out the window and washing again in a second basinful.

  His hand went out to the bellpull as soon as he had his nightclothes on, and then jerked back as if the pull were hot. He had not rumpled the bed. It would be necessary to lie in it. But when he climbed in, he stretched and groaned with exhaustion and the ache of muscles forced to unaccustomed exertion. How long should he wait he wondered, and then the question in his mind changed to how long dare he wait. He was so tired. Would it matter if he slept for an hour? No, he assured himself as he slipped into an engulfing blackness, whether she was in the room or had run away made no difference; she would be adjudged guilty.