And he found this very rich, for it showed how Lady Lydia had managed to convey her urgency to these men. If they did not stop the wedding with his death, or Miss Murdock's if he were unfairly uncooperative, the very draft, the fortune, they held was worthless, for Andrew's inheritance would no longer be beneath her control, and no funds could be withdrawn on the authority of her name. And of course, she was shrewd enough to put a stop on that cheque's payment until the deed was done.
What a clever little mind the feather-headed widow of his uncle had.
What a spiteful little revenge Red himself had orchestrated, damning her if he should die on his mission.
And although Dante had not doubted his conclusions, he still sucked in a heavy breath at this indisputable revelation now held in his hands.
But he felt no elation as he glanced up from the draft, for the job ahead of him was a most unsavory task and he did not relish it or its results in the least.
He knew a great weariness. Except for a brief, uneasy doze that morning, he had been up for twenty-six or twenty-seven hours. Dragging Red's body was agony, and he was panting when he finished, but at least the storm began to abate, and the rain that fell became soft, and the dimness began to lighten and the lightning was again content to remain between the clouds and to no longer menace the trees around.
He did not bury the two men fallen, only made a mental note to himself that he would need stop at the inn and send for a constable and inform him of where the bodies lay and that he had been set upon by highwaymen in the copse. At last he moved toward his horse that had been working its way along the green blades of the sparse grass to the side of the road. He gathered its reins, pulled himself into the saddle and turned his mount toward the junction of the North road and the inn that stood there at the crossroads, of which he had, five nights ago, declared that the daughter of Squire Murdock would do for his purposes.
He rode his horse slowly, content to let it set its own pace as he dwelt on vengeance no longer, but on justice. And he now saw that justice was a far more difficult task. For justice encompassed doing the correct thing for everyone involved and not merely assuaging grief.
What a childish brat he had been to consider sacrificing himself. Either the sword of vengeance impaled to the hilt or he would have none of it at all.
And Jesus Christ! Lizzie.
She had seen the stupidity, the utter willfulness of it and still she followed him.
He turned his horse around on the road. The inn would have to wait. London would have to wait. Aunt Lydia would have one further day of gnawing her guts out wondering if she had succeeded or were about to lose all.
Lizzie could not wait. Her vow must be made void and he must explain why he no longer needed her to spur him toward life rather than death. Her serenity and acceptance had at last touched something in him and made it quiver into life on its own, and as a patient no longer needs resuscuscitated, he no longer needed her frantic ministrations.
He no longer needed her very badly. But he wanted her infinitely.
His horse entered the dimness of the copse again, and he urged it to a trot, not really worried, for he realized that she had not left her home as of yet for Andrew's carriage would have come in this direction. All the same, he understood the full enormity of her statement, and he could not relax until she rescinded it.
St. James nudged his horse into a canter. He passed the bodies of Red and his employed assassin to the side of the road. He passed around the bend and the edge of the copse was in front of him. The brighter light of the surrounding fields was startling in contrast and he wondered how long it had been since he had noticed whether the sun were shining or if the sky were blue.
But his attention was diverted as a rider galloped hard down the road toward him. He slowed his own mount to study what was what, and recognized the horse being ridden as Miss Murdock's black filly. And the rider was Andrew.
St. James halted his horse there on the edge of the copse and Andrew pulled the filly back to a trot at sight of him, and then to a walk. As he drew closer, Dante called to him, “What has happened?”
“Nothing to you, I see,” Andrew replied as he drew the filly to a halt but a few feet from his cousin and St. James did not like the angry sneer that was evident in his voice.
“Ah. I am sorry to disappoint you, Andrew, if you had been expecting me to courteously die.” He studied the younger man, then continued, “I had not realized that my death were somehow desirable to you. It had not appeared to be so three nights back.”
Andrew's jaw tightened and he ground his teeth. “I should have let you bleed to death than help you if I had known of all your treachery then, St. James.”
“Indeed?” St. James asked. “And that hand print upon your face is a part of my treachery?” His voice dropped to a dangerous tone. “What ever did you do to induce that reaction, I wonder, Andrew.
And I must ask you if it is, indeed, from my fiancé, for I confess myself ignorant of any other female on hand for you to receive it from, unless, of course, you have developed a tendress for Mrs. Herriot.”
“I should not be surprised that you would immediately jump to some filthy conclusion, cousin,” Andrew told him with derision. “But I assure you, I received it for no other reason than that I proposed to her. Which I daresay is not how you received yours when it was your turn.”
“And so that is what has you so out of temper. You have been, rather roundly I should say, refused.”
“Damn you!” Andrew sputtered. “No, damn it, it is not why I am out of temper. I am out of temper because I have found you out! You have been maneuvering about behind my back for no other purpose but to steal my inheritance.” And perhaps he himself did not know if he believed this, but it was more soothing to his ego to think that St. James had compromised Lizzie, and for no other reason than to force her into marriage, and all, of course, so that St. James could kill him and gain his inheritance (which, he had been assured, was much larger than St. James' own holdings. So maybe there was just a bit of puffed up pride as well, a blind assumption that of course, another would desire what he was lucky enough to have).
But St. James disconcerted him by laughing. “That is what you believe?” he asked, but his eyes were scornful. “As if I could even want your inheritance, let alone spend years scheming up some murderous plot to get it. You had better go back and rethink your position, Andrew,” he told him with near pity, “for you will find that upon the instance of mine and Miss Murdock's marriage that it shall be released to you.”
But Andrew only felt affront that St. James put no significance upon his coming fortune. “Oh, you would like me to believe that, wouldn't you?”
St. James had been reining his horse to go around the younger man in disgust but Andrew's words made him halt his mount.
Now they were quite close to each other, and St. James turned in his saddle to face his cousin. “I am sorry, Andrew, I did not quite catch that.”
“I said,” Andrew repeated, “I am sure you would like me to believe that.”
“And are you indicating in some manner that I am not to be believed?” St. James asked, his tone deadly quiet.
Andrew hesitated, perhaps reaching his own point of no return, but his anger and his hurt was such that he stiffened suddenly, white showing about his lips. “I'm saying that you compromised Miss Murdock to force her into wedding you. I'm saying that you have no other intention in marrying her than to gain control of my estate. I'm saying that you in all likelihood murdered my father and that you in all likelihood intend to murder me!” He thrust his chin up, daring St. James to pull his glove and initiate the challenge. St. James stared at him with blazing eyes but made no move and Andrew went further to say, “And in case it has escaped your notice, I am also calling you a liar!”
St. James balanced upon the edge of a precipice. He was nearly over-come with fury, but he reminded himself with urgency that these ideas did not spring from this lad's head of their own
accord. And to the fore-front of his mind was Lizzie and her vow. For the first time in his life he was terrified of dying, and he closed his eyes with a groan of frustration.
He opened his eyes, looked at Andrew and attempted to answer the charges against him in the order that he could recall them. “I did not murder your father. I reiterate that I do not want your inheritance and that if you were to drop dead the day I married and it were in my control, I would give it to the Sisters of an Irish orphanage before I took a penny of it. I have not compromised Miss Murdock but intend to marry her for no other reason than that I love her deeply and I daresay she loves—”
Andrew, with a snarl of anger, slapped him full across the face without even removing his glove to do the challenge in the proper manner.
St. James was rocked back in his saddle, for Andrew was taller and bulkier, and even the flat of his hand bore a deal of strength. But St. James, even as he rocked back, kicked his stirrup iron from his foot and swung his leg over the saddle pommel and his horse's neck. As he recovered from the blow he was clear to throw himself at the younger man and he did so with ferocity and the force of it bore them both from the black filly's back and onto the ground.
He had once told Effington that he had never been so short as to be unable to thrash someone that was annoying him, and he now set about proving those words correct. He landed on top of Andrew, both of them grunting at the impact. The filly danced to the side. Andrew's foot was still caught in the stirrup and he was dragged by the filly, St. James on top of him, until he managed to kick it free.
“Twisted your foot, did you?” St. James asked, panting, as he looked down into Andrew's face that had flinched. But then St. James flung his opened coat from his shoulders and powered his right fist into Andrew's jaw.
Andrew's head snapped back and his teeth clicked with the impact. He put one hand up and pushed St. James up by the throat and struggled to free his other hand, which was caught beneath St. James' knee. St. James gave a vicious chop to the inside of Andrew's arm. Andrew's elbow doubled and he gave a gasp of pain, releasing St. James' neck. At the same time he freed his other hand and brought it up in a punch to St. James' face.
St. James smashed his forehead into Andrew's nose and there was a sudden spraying of blood. Andrew clutched at St. James' chest, trying to thrust the smaller man from him despite the exploding pain in his head. But St. James would not be loosened. He knew that if Andrew managed to get atop him, he would lose his advantage over the heavier man.
Andrew clawed at his cousin's chest. St. James' shirt ripped and it enraged Andrew all the more as he remembered that it was his shirt the other man wore. The blood from his nose went into his mouth and gagged him, and in the struggling his head tilted back and it ran into his eyes as well. His satisfaction upon provoking St. James into a realm where Andrew should have been able to master him was fast leaving him, for his cousin seemed bent upon beating him as though he were the lowest of curs.
St. James was furious beyond reason. He would have never taken half the abuse that Andrew had flung at him in the way of accusations from any other man at any other time. If Andrew thought that St. James was only dangerous when he had weapons in his hands, he was fast finding himself wrong. But all the same, St. James was exhausted, his left arm was weak, and Andrew's clawing at his chest sent waves of pain up from his stitches.
If he were beating Andrew like a dog, it wasn't only because he thought the younger man needed it most badly, but because he was certain if he didn't knock Andrew unconscious soon, he wasn't going to control the battle much longer.
St. James pistoned his right fist down in as rapid of a succession of blows as he could manage while still keeping Andrew from rolling to atop him. Andrew's clawing on his chest changed. And St. James read his cousin's mind as clearly as if Andrew had spoken his intention aloud.
St. James' linen bandage half-rolled, half-ripped from his chest and he flung one more desperate punch. It landed a second too late, for Andrew dug all four fingers into the wound over St James' rib and ripped his stitches asunder.
St. James' head flung back, his hair, sticky from Andrew's blood and wet from the prior rain, plastered itself to his pale forehead. Andrew, dazed from that last, forceful punch to his head, watched St. James fall back, his torn white shirt staining with blood, spreading like high tide coming in on the shore.
The older man cursed and Andrew struggled to sit up. He was stopped in his motion by the sudden appearance of a pistol in St. James' hand.
“Jesus Christ, St. James!” Andrew said through the blood in his mouth. His hand trembled as he wiped it across his face, trying to clear his vision. “You're not going to shoot me?”
“You would doubt that I would after all your crystal clear revelations about my character?” St. James asked, his other hand clutched to his bleeding chest.
“I—uh—Good God! I didn't think I was really correct, you know,” Andrew said nervously.
“I will take that as a retraction then, thank you,” St. James said in cold fury. “Now you will forgive me if I still do not put away my weapon as I still do not quite trust you with my life, you dirty son of a bitch. I'm taking the filly back to Miss Murdock and you had better pray upon your life that I don't pass out and die before I reach her.” Which was an uncommonly bizarre statement for St. James, for quite obviously, if he were to die, then Andrew would probably not be fearing for his life.
But Andrew only nodded, for he had never seen his cousin so beside himself with rage. And as St. James kept the pistol leveled with remarkable steadiness upon him for all his pain and exhausted, weakened condition, Andrew made no attempt to help him even as that man stumbled to his feet, gathered his coat and placed it across his shoulders and then reached for the reins of the filly.
“You're leaving me Ryan's horse?” Andrew asked, anxious. “For I did twist my ankle, you know.”
“Yes, goddamn it! I'm leaving you the horse,” St. James returned. Then he turned the filly, placed his arm holding the pistol across her neck and aimed down at Andrew and struggled into the saddle. “Don't follow me, Andrew, or I swear I shall kill you.” He hesitated a panting moment and then fumbled into his coat pocket for something, pulled out a folded slip of paper and dropped it on the road between the filly's black silk legs and Andrew's sprawled out ones. “Make a trip to London and do something with your mother, for after you read that, I am sure you will understand that I will not wish to see her planted in grandmother's house upon my return. Or anywhere on English soil for that matter.” He turned the horse with a sudden jerk on the reins, kicked it into a furious gallop, and listing in the saddle with pain and fatigue, his coat sliding to reveal his blood soaked shirt, headed for Lizzie.
Andrew watched him go with sudden doubt that St. James would make it. Which seemed incredible, for his cousin always came through everything, no matter how impossible the odds seemed.
But with one angry, jealous act on Andrew's part, he realized he may indeed have killed his cousin. It suddenly seemed very cowardly to him, what he had done. It had not been a life or death struggle. If St. James had really meant to kill him, he would have shot him immediately and not bothered fighting with him in the mud of the road at all.
The paper that St. James had flung down lay in the mud of that road. Andrew struggled to his feet, wincing as he did so, his ankle swelling in his boot. His face throbbed but at least his nose had clotted. He hobbled to the paper, bent and picked it up, unfolding it as he did so.
It was a bank draft, written on an account held in trust for him. And his mother's signature was at the bottom. But the payee was puzzling and the amount was shocking enough to make him draw in a deep breath. Why ever would his mother have written out such a stupendous amount? And without even speaking to him about it! It were not as if he were two years old and could have no input on how his inheritance were being spent, for God's sake.
And how ever had St. James come across it?
Andrew looked up, b
ut St. James and the black filly were gone. He turned, found Ryan's horse that his cousin had been riding near at hand, snagged the reins with one agonizing step. He mounted with difficulty and it took him some few minutes, but when he was at last in the saddle, he turned his horse not toward the junction and the road that would take him to London, but back to follow on the heels of St. James.
Chapter Twenty-nine
Miss Murdock went above stairs to bathe and to change. And when her lady's maid, Jeannie, appeared, Miss Murdock told her that she wished no assistance but preferred to be alone and that poor young lady was left to only go and lament her troubles to Mrs. Herriot.
Mrs. Herriot was of course scandalized over this lack of consideration on Miss Murdock's part of her soon to be role in life and she determined she must go above stairs and straighten that young Miss out at once, except that the imperious banging of the Duchess's cane sounded from in the parlor. With a sigh, she turned in to that old lady instead, telling Jeannie that she must go back above stairs and pound upon the door until the young Miss had seen reason and admitted her.
So while Mrs. Herriot was hearing a loud, long and irate tirade by the Duchess on the gall of her grandson, Earl Larrimer, in ignoring her summons, Miss Murdock was being treated to the devious tactics of Jeannie to be allowed admittance in to her room, which varied from the before recommended poundings to desperate pleading.
Miss Murdock looked at the window, wondering if she could escape, swore beneath her breath that she would choke Mrs. Herriot, and applauded her father for surviving without shooting himself. Then she capitulated less than gracefully, flung the door open beneath Jeannie's knuckles and bade her to come in already and to stop that infernal banging and pleading, for she was giving her the headache.
Mrs. Herriot, who by this point was coming up the stairs on one side of the Duchess, with a summoned Soren upon the Dowager's other side, was just in time to hear this loud summation, and any lingering hopes she had maintained of milord's fiancé having a gentle nature were quite squashed.
In the Brief Eternal Silence Page 57