Jacquie D'Alessandro - [Regency Historical 04]

by Never A Lady

  “Prussic acid, I presume,” he murmured, nodding toward the drink.

  She inclined her head in acknowledgment.

  “A favorite of yours, but sadly, not of Malloran or his footman, Walters.”

  She shrugged. “Walters would have met his end anyway. Malloran simply got in the way. After his party, I accompanied him to his study, where he found a note.” Her lips curved upward in a travesty of a smile. “It took me a while to figure who wrote that bothersome missive, but I finally succeeded.”

  Sick dread slicked down his spine. Keeping his expression and tone completely impassive, he asked, “Who wrote it?”

  “Madame Larchmont, as you well know. She’s proven a very annoying complication.”

  “So you tried to kill her with the urn.”

  “Yes. Unfortunately, she has the devil’s own luck.”

  “Why Wexhall? Why me?”

  Her eyes filled with cold hate. “You killed my husband.”

  The words, uttered in the raspy whisper he knew Alexandra would have recognized, hung in the tense air between them, and his mind raced with the implication. He’d killed only one man. But she couldn’t know that. And he needed to throw her off-balance.

  He shrugged. “I’ve killed many men. Who was your husband?”

  A dark flush washed over her face. “Richard Davenport.”

  “Ah. The cowardly traitor.”

  Fury flashed across her features. “He was loyal to France.”

  “Precisely what made him a traitor.” His gaze flicked over her in a deliberately insulting way. “His wife’s name was not Miranda, nor was she of noble birth. Who are you?”

  She raised her chin. “Sophie. His French-born wife.”

  “I see. Thus his sudden change of loyalties. Your English accent is impeccable.”

  “Thank you. I’m good with voices and worked hard to perfect it.”

  “And the real Lady Miranda?”

  “Resides in the rural outreaches of Newcastle.”

  A faint sound reached his ears. Glass breaking? He coughed to cover the noise, but she didn’t appear to notice, and continued, “Lady Malloran hasn’t seen Lady Miranda since she was a mere child, and was only too delighted to welcome her long-distance, nearly forgotten relative to stay during the Season. My mission would be complete before anyone realized I was an imposter.”

  “And your mission was…?”

  “To kill the man who murdered my husband and the man who ordered you to do so.”

  “Richard died five years ago. Why have you waited so long?”

  Something flickered in her gaze. “When I heard Richard was dead, I was sick with grief. I lost the baby I was carrying. It took me many months to recover. I had much time to reflect. Richard had told me all about his work for the Crown, about Wexhall and you. The mission Wexhall assigned you two together. When he died, I knew you were responsible. And that you would die for taking everything from me. My husband, my child.” Her voice shook with hatred. “Once I recovered, I needed to plan. Carefully. It took time.” She inclined her head. “And here we are.”

  “You cannot believe you will walk away from this alive.”

  “On the contrary, I have every confidence I shall do so. Who would suspect sweet Lady Miranda of such heinous deeds? And even if they did, Wexhall is already gone. You’re about to die. Madame Larchmont will be dead by morning. Then, Lady Miranda will simply disappear, and Sophie shall once again emerge.” She gave the snifter a final swirl then set it on the table. Stepping away, she jerked her head toward the liquor. “Drink it.”

  “Thanks, but I’m not thirsty.”

  “If you don’t drink it, I’ll shoot you. The poison is a much less painful way to die.”

  “As you’re clearly concerned for my comfort.”

  No sooner had he spoken than he heard a very faint, very familiar click, and his heart stuttered. A lock tumbler falling into place. Nathan? Or one of Wexhall’s men? He prayed it was the latter and not his brother walking into this mess. Hopefully whoever it was, was armed.

  Keeping his gaze steady on Sophie’s, he moved slowly toward the table, cutting an angle, trying to force her to turn her back to the door in order to keep her weapon aimed at his chest. As he’d hoped, she pivoted, just as the door behind her slowly opened several inches.

  “Would you care to join me for a drink?” he asked, nodding toward the decanters. “I’d be delighted to share.”

  “Just drink it,” she snapped. “No sudden moves.”

  He opened his mouth to respond, but the words died in his throat. For it wasn’t Nathan or one of Wexhall’s trained men who slipped into the room.

  It was Robbie.

  Heart pounding with barely suppressed terror, Alex crouched low on the flagstone terrace outside Colin’s study, grateful for the protection offered by the sheer curtains pulled across the French windows and praying the moon would remain behind the clouds. While straining to hear the conversation between Colin and Lady Miranda, she carefully manipulated her hairpin in the lock, grim satisfaction filling her when she felt it give. To her ears, the imperceptible click of the lock opening sounded like the crack of a whip, and her gaze flew to Lady Miranda who’d pivoted and now, unfortunately, had a better view of the French windows. But no matter. The door was unlocked, and Alex had the element of surprise on her side. All she and Colin needed was a distraction, and between the two of them, they would be able to disarm her. Reaching down, she slipped her knife from her boot and palmed the warm metal.

  “Just drink it,” Lady Miranda’s harsh words came muffled through the glass. “No sudden moves.”

  Lower your hands, she mentally instructed Colin. That’s it. A little more…

  She gripped the door handle, ready to pounce, when a movement caught her eye. Her gaze shifted away from Colin, and her blood froze.

  Robbie crept into the room, one small hand tucked into his pocket, his fingers no doubt curled around some sort of makeshift weapon. Lady Miranda must have sensed something, for she flicked a glance toward the child, but her hand holding the gun at Colin never wavered.

  “Whether this urchin dies after I kill you, entirely depends on you, Lord Sutton,” Alex heard her say. “Tell him to remove his hand from his pocket and move where I can see him.”

  “I’ll not let you harm the boy,” came Colin’s tight reply.

  “Then tell him. Now.”

  Alex turned the brass handle and opened the door a crack.

  “Do as she says, Robbie,” came Colin’s quiet reply.

  She watched Robbie slide his hand from his pocket, then move forward. Her breathing halted when he planted himself directly between Lady Miranda and Colin.

  “Stand behind me, Robbie,” Colin said sharply. “Now.”

  Robbie hesitated for a heartbeat, then ran behind Colin.

  “You can’t protect him,” Lady Miranda sneered.

  “With my last breath, I shall,” Colin said in an icy voice Alex had never heard him use. “Robbie,” he said in a gentler but still firm tone, “if Lady Miranda shoots me, you run. As fast as you can. Don’t stop. Just run.”

  Robbie nodded, his forehead bumping the back of Colin’s thigh.

  Alex’s gaze swiveled to Lady Miranda, who appeared more than a little flustered.

  “Drink the brandy,” she ordered.

  Alex watched him slowly reach for the snifter and knew it was now or never. Drawing what she prayed wouldn’t be her final breath, she rushed into the room.

  Twenty-one

  Colin’s fingers had just closed around the brandy snifter when the French windows burst open and Alex, resembling a wild-eyed, knife-toting avenging angel of fury, rushed through the opening with a feral growl. The distraction was all he needed. Crouching low, he unsheathed his knife with one hand and pushed Robbie to the floor with the other, uttering a terse, “Stay down.”

  In the same instant, Sophie turned toward Alex, her face a mask of frozen surprise. As if in slow motion, he w
atched her hand holding the pistol swing toward Alex. With a lightning flick of his wrist, his knife flew, burying itself to the hilt in her chest through the black cape just as a pistol shot exploded. For several heartbeats no one moved, the tableau burning itself into his brain. Then the pistol dropped from Sophie’s fingers, hitting the rug with a dull thud, followed by Sophie herself.

  Colin jumped to his feet and rushed forward. He paused just long enough to ascertain that Sophie was dead, then continued forward.

  “Alexandra…” She turned toward him, and his heart froze. Blood, in a rapidly growing stain, marred the front of her gown. Just as he reached for her, her knees buckled. Catching her against him, he gently laid her on the floor.

  “Miss Alex!” cried Robbie. He fell to his knees next to Colin. “Is she…is she…?”

  “She’s alive,” Colin said, fighting back the panic that threatened to overwhelm him. “Go to the Wexhall home. Get Doctor Nathan Oliver. Tell him Alexandra’s been shot.” His gaze met the boy’s terrified eyes. “Hurry, Robbie.”

  The boy was gone in a flash. Colin fit his fingers into the blood-soaked gash in the sleeve of her gown and ripped the material open. Blood pumped from a jagged wound and his stomach turned over. Tearing at the fastenings on his shirt, he yanked off the garment, wadded the material and pressed it against the wound.

  “Alexandra,” he said, his voice breaking on her name. “Darling, can you hear me?”

  She remained motionless, her face waxy pale.

  “Ellis!” he bellowed. Surely one of the servants would arrive shortly—the pistol shot had to have awakened them. Seconds later he heard rapid footsteps. Looking up, he saw Ellis in the doorway, panting, his hastily tied robe gaping open to reveal a long nightshirt.

  “She’s been shot,” Colin said, shifting his gaze back to Alexandra. “Nathan’s on his way. Boil water, get bandages—whatever you think he’ll need.”

  “Yes, my lord.”

  After Ellis’s footsteps faded away, he leaned down, until his lips hovered just above her ear. The metallic scent of blood filled his nostrils, and he squeezed his eyes shut, pretending he smelled her glorious fragrance of oranges instead.

  “You are not allowed to die,” he whispered fiercely. “Do you hear me? I absolutely forbid it. You know how I’m accustomed to getting what I want. Of course you know. You’re very fond of telling me how vexing it is.”

  He leaned back, his gaze roaming her face, looking for any sign of consciousness. Finding none. Sick, mind-numbing fear strangled him. His free hand grasped hers, absorbing the sensation of her bare, callused palm touching his.

  “Well, how’s this for vexing…” he could barely speak around the lump in his throat. “I want you to open your eyes. I want you to smile at me. I want to feed you frosted cakes and marzipan. I want to buy you enough gowns to fill an entire room. I want to make every dream you’ve ever had come true. I want to tell you how much you mean to me…how much I love you…” His voice broke. “Please let me do all those things, Alexandra.” His gaze shifted to his now-blood-soaked shirt, and terror struck him anew. “Please…”

  The sound of voices and rapid footsteps sounded in the corridor, and he looked up. Nathan, grim-faced, carrying his black medical bag, rushed across the room, followed by a wide-eyed, out-of-breath Robbie.

  “She’s bleeding from a wound in her upper arm,” Colin reported tersely. “Ellis is bringing hot water and bandages.”

  Nathan nodded, dropping to his knees beside him. “I have bandage strips in my bag. Get them for me.”

  Colin relinquished his spot next to Alexandra and retrieved the strips Nathan requested. He watched his brother remove the wadded, blood-soaked shirt, and his insides cramped with fear.

  “Is she going to…die?” He could barely say the word.

  After a rapid examination, Nathan said, “I’m going to do everything I can to ensure she doesn’t. It’s a flesh wound. A bad one, but her injury could have been much worse.”

  He pressed a fresh strip of linen to the wound, then his gaze shifted to Sophie.

  “She’s dead,” Colin said. “I’ll tell you everything later.” His hands clenched. “She killed Wexhall.”

  “No, she didn’t. He’s alive, but he cracked a rib when he fell, and he’ll have a hell of a headache for several days. Good thing he has such a bloody hard head.” Nathan calmly exchanged the blood-soaked bandage for a clean one, then said, “You need to get the magistrate.”

  “I’m not leaving her.”

  Ellis arrive with an armful of bandages followed by John, who bore two large buckets of steaming water. After they’d set the supplies next to Nathan, Colin instructed John to fetch the magistrate.

  That done, he turned and saw Robbie standing in the corner, watching the proceedings with wide, terrified eyes. Bloody hell, he knew exactly how the boy felt. He walked to the child, who tore his gaze away from Alexandra to look up at him.

  “Miss Alex will be all right?” the boy asked in a small, quavering voice.

  Colin crouched down in front of him and looked into his eyes. “Nathan is the best doctor I know. He’s also my brother.”

  Robbie swallowed. “There’s an awful lot of blood.”

  “I know. But I guess she has a lot more.” At least he hoped she did. “You were very brave tonight, Robbie.”

  Robbie sniffled, then wiped his nose with the back of his hand. “I had to try to help Miss Alex.” Then his bottom lip trembled. “But all I did was get ’er shot.”

  Colin shook his head. “That’s not true. You got the doctor here faster than anyone else could have. And your being here tonight saved my life. You have my gratitude. I’m in your debt.” He slowly extended his hand.

  Robbie studied the outstretched hand for several long seconds, then, after rubbing his grubby palm on his equally grubby pant leg, extended his arm. The boy’s hand felt so small in his. A lump lodged in his throat, smote by this child’s hesitant touch more effectively than a knife in his gut.

  “Ain’t never shook hands with no fancy bloke before,” Robbie muttered.

  He cleared his throat to dislodge the tightness. “And I’ve never shook hands with such a brave young hero before.”

  Robbie withdrew his hand, then slipped it into his pocket. “This here’s yors,” he said extending his small fist. “I weren’t stealin’ it. I just took it to use fer a weapon, in case I needed it.” He unfurled his fingers. A solid crystal egg that normally resided on the table in the foyer rested in his dirty palm.

  Colin offered him a smile, and wished he could rumple the boy’s hair but suspected it was still too soon to attempt such familiarity. “Very smart,” he said taking the egg.

  “I broke yer fancy window,” he mumbled. “Couldn’t pick the lock on the front door.” He jerked his thumb toward the door leading to the corridor. “That one were easy.”

  “And lucky for us, too. Don’t worry about the glass, Robbie. Things like that can easily be fixed.” His gaze shifted to Alexandra. “By breaking it, you saved something far more precious that could never be replaced.”

  Twenty–two

  Two nights after Lord Wexhall’s memorable party, Alex sat across from Colin in his elegant carriage, trying to gauge his mood. He’d been acting strangely ever since she’d awakened early yesterday morning to be greeted by the sight of his pale, whisker-shadowed face and a hellfire of pain burning in her shoulder. Memory had rushed back and, after assuring her that Robbie was unharmed, he’d explained everything. When he’d finished, she glanced around her guest bedchamber at the Wexhall town house, and asked, “How did I get back here?”

  “I carried you. Nathan wanted you close by, so he could keep an eye on you, and given our…situation I thought it best you not spend the night at my town house.”

  “Of course,” she’d murmured, trying very hard not to feel hurt and failing miserably, which was ridiculous. Their affair was over. And with the murders solved, there was nothing left for them to discuss.
Still, his absence hurt her. Nathan, Lady Victoria, Lord Wexhall, even Robbie and Emma had visited her—more than once—but not Colin. When she’d casually asked Nathan about him while he changed her dressing, he’d just vaguely murmured, “He’s busy.”

  Yes, now that there was no longer any threat hanging over him or a lover to distract him, he was no doubt figuring out whom to marry. Which is the way it should be, her inner voice reminded her. The way it must be. But that didn’t make the razor-sharp pain any less eviscerating.

  Logan Jennsen had personally delivered a magnificent arrangement of red roses earlier today. He hadn’t stayed long, but before departing had said, “It’s obvious to me there’s something between you and Sutton. But know that my friendship is unconditional. And that you have a choice.”

  His words had touched her, but he was wrong. There was no choice because Colin was not an option. But clearly Logan was. And he was a good man…

  But then, at four o’clock this afternoon, the largest bouquet she’d ever seen had been delivered to her, along with a note written in a bold, masculine script: There’s something I’d like to show you this evening, if you’re feeling up to a short excursion. If so, I’ll see you at eight o’clock. Colin.

  She knew she should say no, but she simply couldn’t. Not when she wanted so badly to spend one more evening with him. He’d arrived promptly at eight, and although her bound shoulder ached, the pain was bearable, and she was not only desperate to get out of the house, but insatiably curious as to what he wished to show her. Yet after a few polite comments regarding her health and the weather, he’d lapsed into silence and now stared out the window with his usual unreadable expression.

  Several minutes later, the carriage stopped, and when she looked out, her breathing hitched.

  “Vauxhall?” she murmured.

  He pulled his attention from the window and looked at her. His eyes were serious but frustratingly gave no clue as to his thoughts. “I wanted to show you how beautiful the gardens are at night this time of year. The lanterns, the night-blooming flowers. With the weather so perfect, I thought you might enjoy an evening stroll.”