by Corwin, Amy
Then, to her horror, the door behind him opened.
“Ah, here we are at last,” her attacker said with satisfaction. “I was wondering when our audience would arrive. You can scream now—it will not make a bit of difference, I assure you.”
Then, to her utter astonishment Nathaniel entered, a frown hardening his normally cheerful face. Her eyes were drawn to his as relief shook her.
He had come for her, at last!
****
Nathaniel noted Charlotte’s desperate look, but his gaze was drawn to the man standing next to her, Sir Henry. Tensing, Nathaniel focused on Bolton and prepared for a confrontation that had been brewing for days.
“So this is where you are hiding,” Nathaniel said, anger hardening as he took in Bolton’s smug face. Risking a glance toward Charlotte, he stiffened at the sight of her torn bodice.
Thank God, he had found her in time.
All evening he had been edgy, ever since he had discussed his idea with Cheery. His friend had visited him late in the afternoon and Nathaniel had proposed the notion that had been brewing in the back of his mind for hours.
He thought his uncle might be right: the murderer might be killing women with the express purpose of making Nathaniel suffer.
Which put Charlotte in peril. It was almost too bad they had rescued her from her kidnappers when they did. She had been safer in Dacy’s attic than attending Society functions.
Oddly, Cheery agreed. In fact, he had come to warn Nathaniel to watch Charlotte closely when they went in public, hoping they might flush the madman out of hiding.
“Your Grace.” Sir Henry bowed. “You are interrupting a private affair.”
Nathaniel’s eyes raked over him before he pointedly ignored him and transferred his attention to Charlotte. “Are you hurt, Miss Haywood?”
She shook her head while he studied her. There was a large, red swelling along her jaw and her blue eyes were suspiciously bright.
The bastard had hit her!
Her hands trembled as she tried to hold her bodice together.
His temper smoked like a white-hot sword plunged into a barrel of water. Then a curious calm filled him. “Get out, Charlotte,” Nathaniel said through stiff lips.
“Charlotte?” Bolton mimicked him. “I am afraid you assume too much, Your Grace. My betrothed will remain, this is none of your affair.”
“I am not your betrothed!” Charlotte exclaimed, although she kept her fingers to her mouth. It obviously hurt her to speak.
“You are mistaken, Bolton. She has done me the honor of accepting my proposal. In fact, we intend to make the official announcement tomorrow.” He didn’t shift his gaze to Charlotte. He was sure she would protest, but she remained silent. “And I believe I have a previous argument with you.”
“And I with you, Your Grace. I must insist the heiress goes with me.” He fumbled with his walking stick before extracting a thin sword with a flourish.
Eyes on the sword, Nathaniel grabbed Charlotte’s wrist and thrust her toward the door. “Get out! Now!”
To his dismay, she wrenched away. “I am not leaving you!”
“I am not asking you to leave me, I am telling you to go for help. Cheery is here somewhere. Find him.”
Bolton danced closer and made a quick feint aimed at Nathaniel’s face.
Nathaniel raised an arm and jumped back, struggling to remove his jacket. “I am unarmed!”
His forearm burned. A trickle of blood ran down his wrist. He wrenched his coat off, thankful to see Charlotte edging toward the door.
“It does not matter to me!” Sir Henry replied. When he saw Charlotte’s movement, he dashed forward to thrust his sword in front of her, blocking her from the door. “I don’t believe you should leave, my dear,” he said, standing in front of the entrance.
While Bolton’s attention was on Charlotte, Nathaniel grabbed a chair. Bolton turned and slashed at him, but the slender sword cut uselessly at the chair legs. When Bolton pulled back to search for an opening, Nathaniel smashed the chair against the floor, shattering it. He picked up one of the legs and faced his adversary.
Bolton smirked and lunged, sure of his quarry.
Nathaniel parried and abruptly followed up by swinging the chair leg around and grazing Bolton’s forehead. The stocky man tripped backward, but nimbly recovered. He daubed his handkerchief at his forehead and studied Nathaniel.
“That will not help you. You will be dead, and her fortune will be mine. Why not simply walk away? What does it matter to you?”
“It matters to me in that I imagine Charlotte might have an opinion, and I dislike seeing force used against a woman.”
“Yes,” she lisped through her swollen lips. “I despise you!”
Nathaniel glanced at her in surprise, afraid she was speaking to him.
She caught his gaze and gestured impatiently toward Bolton. “Him! I loathe him, you idiot! Watch what you are about!”
He turned his head to find Bolton aiming another thrust at his face. He blocked with his makeshift club at the last minute. In the opening created by his parry, he sent a sharp left to Bolton’s chin. Bolton staggered backward while Nathaniel shook his left hand, numbed by the blow.
It felt like he had broken his knuckles against Bolton’s sharp chin.
The blow only angered Bolton. With a roar he ran forward, his sword singing through the air. Nathaniel tensed and waited, raising the chair leg.
Bolton threw everything he had into his charge. His weight and speed pushed Nathaniel back.
Then Nathaniel’s shoes slipped on the uncarpeted floor. He staggered but managed to keep to his feet, his eyes fixed on the blade just inches from his nose. The wood in his hand quivered from the blow, the shattering force of it running up his arm.
If only he had a decent weapon!
Nathaniel drew back the chair leg and smashed it into the sword. It rattled against the wood, shaving off splinters, however Bolton was so infuriated that he continued flailing the air, the blade whipping past Nathaniel’s face.
Nathaniel hit him again with a vicious upper-cut and brought the chair leg around, aiming at Bolton’s chin.
His foot slipped during the swing and his blow went wild. Instead of hitting Bolton’s chin, the club smashed into his neck.
Stunned, Bolton dropped his sword and stumbled backward with his hands gripping his throat. He gagged and fell to his knees, the air whistling strangely as he wheezed and gasped.
Nathaniel moved forward a step and kicked the sword away. He tensed when Charlotte grasped his sleeve. They watched as Bolton slowly toppled forward.
“Is he….” Charlotte whispered.
Nathaniel bent down on one knee, rolling Bolton over.
His throat was crushed.
“Yes,” Nathaniel said. “He’s dead.”
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Murder is where a person of sound memory and discretion unlawfully kills any human being with malice aforethought. — Constable’s Pocket Guide
Charlotte stood aside while Nathaniel knelt over Sir Henry Bolton, checking him for signs of life. She rested her hand on Nathaniel’s shoulder, leaning against him, feeling the heat and strength beneath her palm.
“Are you hurt?”
“No.” He briefly caressed her hand with his fingers.
They were still standing over the body when Mr. Gaunt sauntered into the room. “So this is where you are. I have been searching all…What has happened?”
He moved forward and bent over the body. He held his hand over Bolton’s nose and mouth for several minutes, a frown creasing his face.
“I have killed him,” Nathaniel said.
Turning Bolton’s head, Mr. Gaunt examined his crushed Adam’s apple. He glanced up at Nathaniel. “You hit him with a chair?”
“No—just the leg.” Nathaniel held up the stick of wood, turning it to expose the chips and gouges from Bolton’s sword.
“He saved my life,” Charlotte added quickly. “He wa
s protecting me. He did not murder him.” She paused, carefully considering her next statement. “Self-defense. He acted to preserve our lives, and he had only a chair leg to defend himself against Bolton’s sword.”
“So I see. Just a moment.” Mr. Gaunt got up and went to the door. He spoke quietly to someone before turning back. “I have sent for Bow Street. Again.”
“What are you doing here, Mr. Gaunt?” Charlotte asked.
He exchanged glances with Nathaniel before answering. “His Grace thought your reentrance into Society might cause some excitement.”
She choked and cleared her throat. “You—you hoped I would be attacked?”
“No, not at all,” Nathaniel replied, grabbing her hand. She tried to break his grasp, but he refused to let her go. His gaze probed hers desperately. “I would never have let him hurt you.”
“Really? What were you doing, then, while Sir Henry was pressing his suit so aggressively?”
As if embarrassed, Nathaniel cast his gaze in Mr. Gaunt’s direction. “I lost track of Cheery for a moment.”
“Mr. Gaunt or Knighton,” Cheery murmured. “I wish you would remember my name.”
“He might have—he certainly tried to….” She stuttered to a stop. “You might have been considerate enough to warn me.”
“We were not entirely sure, Miss Haywood,” Mr. Gaunt replied. “In fact, I am still surprised he tried so soon after your reappearance.”
“I gather he was pressed for funds,” she said dryly, trying not to lose her temper at being used as a lure to catch Bolton. She eyed Nathaniel. “And I suppose you did not employ this dreadful creature to kidnap me?”
“No—never. Cannot, or rather, could not stand the man.” He looked relieved. “We really should have guessed it was him—I knew he was short of funds.” Nathaniel said, almost looking contrite, but failing.
“Why?” she asked.
Nathaniel chuckled grimly. “He was rather annoyed when my uncle won—that is when Uncle John became your guardian. Bolton was hoping to be your guardian.”
“Or my husband. Although I don’t see how on earth he could have become my guardian. I am certain we are not related in any way.” Charlotte flinched when Nathaniel’s grip on her hand tightened. “Ouch! Your Grace, please, you are crushing my hand.”
He released her only to put an arm around her waist. When Mr. Gaunt eyed them and raised a dark brow, Nathaniel pulled her even closer and said, “We’re betrothed.”
Charlotte opened her mouth to protest and then gave up. It seemed churlish, not to mention useless, to protest. After all, it was not as if either of them actually expected to end up wed. Or at least, wedded to one another.
Certainly, a duke would eventually marry to beget heirs, but she had no such duty.
Before Mr. Gaunt could reply, Mr. Archer, Lady Victoria, and several other gentlemen pushed through the door.
“There you are, Miss Haywood,” Lady Victoria called before coming to a halt when she caught sight of the corpse on the floor. She paled. Mr. Archer put an arm around her and forced her face into his shoulder, murmuring reassurances into her hair.
“Excuse me,” the man behind Archer said as he came around him. “Mr. Gaunt, Your Grace. Is this the man you suspected of kidnapping Miss Haywood?”
“Yes,” Mr. Gaunt said.
Mr. Clark of Bow Street knelt down to study the body.
“I have made a few inquires,” Mr. Gaunt continued. “I will supply you with my notes for your report. Sir Henry Bolton was heavily in debt. There were a number of gaming wagers he was unable to meet. In fact, I understand he is, or was, within days of losing his estate in Shropshire.”
Mr. Clark sat back on his heels. His sharp, brown eyes took in Nathaniel’s arm around Charlotte’s waist.
A warm flush rose to her cheeks. She fiddled with her torn bodice, pulling the fabric more closely around her neck. Nathaniel’s arm pulled her closer and she turned into him, wishing she could escape Mr. Clark’s curious gaze.
“Young lady,” Mr. Clark said, “is this the man who kidnapped you?”
“Yes. I remember his voice.”
“You did not see his face?”
“No. He wore a flour sack with holes cut for the eyes. However, I will never forget his voice.” She stepped forward to press her point. “I could not be mistaken. And tonight he tried to abduct me again. He even acknowledged he was the man who had tried before.”
Mr. Clark gave a brief, half-smile. “So you were not visiting His Grace’s sister after all?”
“No, of course not,” Nathaniel said, drawing her back into the shelter of his embrace. “We did not want to needlessly expose Miss Haywood to speculation and gossip. And I expect she will not suffer from any idle speculation now, correct,” he added pointedly, his glance taking in the occupants of the room. “Suffice it to say, Sir Henry cast aspersions upon my character and viciously attacked me while I was unarmed. Unfortunately, he met with an accident when I attempted to defend myself.”
Standing up, Mr. Clark brushed his hands together and began writing notes in his ever-present leather notebook. “Shall we go back to the kidnapping for just one moment? Miss Haywood was held at the Dacy residence, is this correct?”
“Yes. We understand that someone acquainted with the household managed to secrete her in the attic. They then started a rumor that there was a ghost haunting the rooms to keep the curious away.”
“And who would this enterprising individual be?”
“I could not identify the second man. I am sorry,” Charlotte interrupted.
There were a lot of confusing aspects to her recent kidnapping, but she was sure of one thing: she refused to implicate Red Smythe and Rose. In fact, she still intended to help Red purchase his tavern.
Her spirits trembled and plummeted, leaving a hollow space inside her. With only a third of her fortune remaining, it would be difficult enough to travel to Egypt, how could she do anything for either Red or Rose?
Perhaps she could convince them to marry and act as her servants on her expedition to Cairo. She could promise to reward them with a small sum afterward if travel wasn’t too awfully expensive. Red might still eventually get his tavern.
“So this other individual also wore a mask?” Mr. Clark asked.
“Yes, at first.”
“And later?”
“I have not seen the man since. Perhaps after His Grace released me from the attic, the other man escaped from England. I certainly would not remain here if I thought I would soon be brought to justice.”
“Perhaps. Now, Miss Haywood, regarding this latest outrage against your person, how did this come about?”
She relayed the story again. Mr. Clark took copious notes and only interrupted for the occasional, clarifying question.
“And His Grace defended you with this chair leg?” Mr. Clark asked.
“Yes, he did,” Charlotte agreed. “Sir Henry was infuriated by his interference and tried to kill us both.”
“I see. Well, I believe that is all the information I require.” He grinned widely for the first time, revealing several broken and missing teeth. “You are a fortunate young lady, Miss Haywood, for it appears we may also have the monster who recently did away with Lady Anne and Miss Mooreland.”
“I beg your pardon?” Charlotte asked, staring at him.
“Well, it is plain to see, is it not?” He nodded to Nathaniel. “I have never been one of those who held with the ‘Deadly Duke’ theory, myself—if you will pardon the expression, Your Grace. While His Grace is a well-known female-hater, I have always felt he was too good-natured to do away with the ladies.”
“Oh, yes. I do so agreed,” Charlotte said. She bit her lip when Nathaniel ruthlessly squeezed her waist. “He is very much the misogynist, but his disposition is simply not that of a killer. He is really very sweet—if you are not a female, that is.”
“Precisely,” Mr. Clark agreed, rolling to the balls of his feet and then tipping back onto his hee
ls. “Any good judge of character would agree.”
“So you never suspected His Grace?” Charlotte asked in disbelief.
“Oh, I would not say that. In fact, there was a general feeling at Bow Street that we might have to arrange the detainment of His Grace within the next day or so. Public outrage, you know. Very bad.” Mr. Clark cast a stern eye in Nathaniel’s direction. “And there was a great deal of evidence, Your Grace. Awkward, that.”
Mr. Gaunt stepped forward, his face unreadable. “What about Sir Henry?”
Mr. Clark shook his head. “He had the motivation. He must have tried to convince the poor girls to marry him and when they refused, he killed them.”
“Most of the witnesses I spoke to indicated he was not alone in Lady Beatrice’s garden,” Nathaniel said slowly. “I am not sure he is the guilty party.”
“I would have to agree there, Mr. Clark. He was a horse’s ass, but I cannot find anything to suggest he was a murderer,” Mr. Gaunt interrupted.
“Are you saying we have two madmen in London?” Mr. Clark asked incredulously.
“I would suggest that there are a great deal more than just two. At a guess,” Mr. Gaunt stated in a heavily ironic voice.
Charlotte stifled a hysterical giggle. When she glanced at the others, she realized she was the only one who heard him.
“I have to agree,” Nathaniel said. “I cannot believe Sir Henry had the nerve to kill those two women. It took a great deal of bravura to murder them in what amounted to a public place. Anyone could have seen him.” Nathaniel shook his head. “No—he did not have that kind of courage.”
Charlotte shivered. The more she considered all the objections, the more she had to agree. She knew Sir Henry had tried to kidnap her in an attempt to obtain her fortune either through ransom or marriage. He had even threatened to kill her after they were wed. However, he was a sly little man who would not have the nerve to murder two women in public where he could have been seen.
And even if he needed their money, why would he kill women he had not even married? Murder before the wedding would gain him nothing.