No Hiding For The Guilty (The Heart of a Hero Book 5)

by Vanessa Riley

  "I found it," Phipps said. Dressed in a garnet and cream livery with his hair curled and freshly powdered, his man came out of the closet holding a long tailcoat. "Not a casualty of the moths."

  He walked over swinging and shaking the jacket. "A search of our guests' belongings has found nothing out of the ordinary—a few guns, a few knives and lots of female trappings in a sea of portmanteaus. Nev did have more flintlocks in his bags."

  Nev, from what Hugh recalled, was a brash officer with big dreams to win the war on his shoulders alone. "He must be expecting trouble. No one ever said he was stupid. And, what do you expect when officers travel with their wives?" Hugh adjusted the knot of his cravat. Third time was the charm. "Now, a perfect tie. I guess being out of practice has consequences as there would be if you were caught elbow deep in petticoats."

  "To be sure, Bannerman. Pity your practice comes from trying to catch a murderer. I don't think The Almeida Killer has arrived yet. But he could be working with someone here."

  "Very much so. And now that word has spread that everyone even Wellesley might be at Sandon, the killer will be here. I feel it. Before the weekend is done, we will know the fiend's name." Adjusting the billowy material of his shirt beneath his onyx waistcoat, Hugh noted the way the fabrics draped, each hiding several sins, a smudge of gluttony, powder burns and a scar. Old battles, old sins. Sighing, he hung Henry's watch from his pocket. "Our guests have settled in. The Almeida Killer hasn't struck. Isadel hasn't killed Moldona. Good so far."

  Straightening Hugh's collar, Phipps stood near him at the mirror. "I saw you return from a walk with Mrs. Moldona on your arm. Miss Armijo followed behind."

  Sliding on the ebony evening coat with its fine silver threads on the buttons, Hugh shrugged. "Betsy Moldona is very much the same. Still lovely, still mourning Henry."

  "Your brother was a good young man."

  "Yes, yes he was. But he wouldn't want any of us mourning him like this. I realize it now. He'd want us to take his humor and zest for life and keep marching. He'd want us to see that even though things didn't go as we planned, there are still blessings."

  A smile lit on Phipps's serious face all the way to his bag laden eyes. "Master Henry would enjoy the way you have Sandon looking. I dare say he'd approve of your mistress's influence."

  "It's faux fiancé now."

  Phipps's lips puckered to an o-shape as he marched back to the closet. "A little elevation for our chef? She deserves it."

  In the looking glass, Hugh studied his reflection, one of strength, with a complexion that seemed healthy, even rosy. "I mashed together enough truth to hopefully satisfy Mrs. Moldona and any others who might not want her to attend our little gathering."

  "By saying you're to be wed…" His man still rummaged in the deep closet, but his voice pierced. "This marriage to our chef feels more natural."

  Not wanting to examine his own motives too closely, Hugh wrenched at his neck. "I suppose. I surely didn't work into our disguise that she was bequeathed to me like a ward. More or less. This wouldn't stop Mrs. Moldona or any of the other wives from feeling uncomfortable with Miss Armijo joining our little party. Why choose a lesser guise for her when we can shoot for lucky stars? If one would count pretending to be engaged to a sick man as being on the top."

  Returning to his side, Phipps held out a wooden box. "This is just as you requested. Your mother's pearl necklace and the other gift. Are you sure you want to give it to Miss Armijo? She's still seeking revenge."

  Clasping the smooth wood betwixt his palms, he pulled it close to his chest. "She deserves a chance to choose. Shall she choose life or death? It's her right."

  "I suspect you think she'll choose correctly. Your brother would approve of Isadel Armijo because she took a dying man and helped him choose to live again."

  Phipps moved to the door and stopped. "I saw Mrs. Moldona had you penned up on the patio."

  She hadn't changed much since the last time Hugh saw her when he wished her well on her elopement. "We'd just seen Henry's grave."

  "Many things can happen in two years, and to be honest, she's never been that attentive. Master Henry or Moldona always occupied her. Was it different, once you mentioned our chef?"

  Memories were a dangerous thing. They should make things fuzzier not clearer, not when Hugh lost his brother trying to impress Betsy. "Maybe she needs someone to listen. Perhaps Moldona slipped up and she found out about his womanizing. It's a shame if he's broken her heart. She doesn't deserve that."

  "Hugh Bannerman, Mrs. Moldona is married to your enemy. Your father struggled with his morals, but he never once took up with a married woman."

  "Why would he with Elizabeth taking care of his every need?"

  "You may not have approved but when two unattached adults find love, is it wrong? Is it wrong when the love does not come from a conventional situation?"

  Phipps didn't seem to be talking about Elizabeth and Hugh's late father. "Timing is not my friend. We have a murderer to stop before he strikes again. Whether Betsy Moldona has finally figured out that her husband is unworthy is none of my concern. This weekend is to draw out a killer's hand."

  Phipps nodded. "And beyond this weekend, what is your concern, your past or your fiancé?"

  When the door closed, Hugh put down the box and pumped his fingers. The skin had healed with no open wounds, but there was still swelling. If his days numbered a year, was that enough for a woman full of life?

  At any rate, his hands had enough strength to stop the killer. Of that Hugh had no doubts.

  Chapter Twelve: Dinner and A Song

  Isadel sat still as a watched pot as Lady Rhodes' maid yanked and pulled at her tresses to form another el bollo, a twisted bun. "This chignon looks well on you, Miss Armijo. If you need anything, ma'am, send for me."

  Agreeing with the maid who'd called her a barbarian, Isadel sighed inside. The news of her false engagement spread fast. Even those who mocked her now acted differential.

  The maid left, and Isadel was sure she wouldn't think of her as wanton but lucky. Well, maybe she was in this pretend world.

  She sighed again. This was Hugh's doing, that big impulsive spy. Isadel knew in her heart she cared for him deeply but playing pretend to catch a killer of English soldiers did little to cheer her. Resting her head on a palm, Isadel was a failure. She'd waltz on Hugh's arm, speak politely to his friend, the man who ruined Isadel's world. How was this to be done? Even flirtatious Agueda would never do such.

  A noise from the adjacent room, perhaps footfalls and a closing door meant Hugh was alone. She was alone but she couldn't move, couldn't even conceive of doing anything else but sitting in her chair and hoping the night would end quickly without her ever coming down and having to see Moldona.

  A tap on the door made her bolt up. "Isadel, let me have a look at you."

  After the way she slobbered all over him, she couldn't see him either. "I'm not ready."

  "Even more incentive to look at you."

  She heard his confident tones and could picture his lopsided grin as he said it.

  He knocked on the door but didn't open it. "I was mostly joking. But I have a present for you before we go down to dinner."

  "You go and check on your guests."

  "Isadel, come to me and don't be afraid. I know you were pretending earlier. Perhaps to tweak my nose or you saw Mrs. Moldona coming. It's fine. All in a spy's work."

  Call it ego, but to hear him belittle her mixed up emotions stung. She stood up and swept to the door. "You think my kiss was for show?"

  "Yes." Thud. It sounded as if he sat or sank against the door. "And I'd love for you to show me again."

  His laugh, full throated and bubbly, made the tension in her shoulders lessen. She opened the door to give him a few choice words, but he flopped onto her translucent silver slippers. "Are you ready to go down to dinner, my dear?"

  "Did you hurt yourself, Bannerman?"

  He loosened his cravat as he stared up at h
er. "I don't want our guests to come up here, so it is essential that we go down."

  "Can't we say your mistre…fiancé is not well?"

  "Tell me what this is, Isadel."

  "I'm all dressed up in this fancy wear." Her voice sounded so pathetic and strained even worse than when she tried to sound English. It made her ears hurt. She started again trying to hide her desperation. "I want to wear my father's coat when I see his murderer again."

  "Well, for one it's not appropriate for ladies to wear menswear to dinner." He put an arm behind his neck as a deeper smile crossed his lips.

  "What, Bannerman?"

  "I suddenly know why I like cream in my coffee. Or is it coffee in my cream."

  Her cheeks grew hot against her will. "You should go down. I'll come later. Maybe when dessert is served."

  He tapped the crystal beads that floated about the hem of her snowy gown. "You are quite striking. Elizabeth knows how to pair the perfect cap sleeves with such toned arms. Every girl should take up kneading bread."

  She sidestepped him and let his head bang to the floor. "Will you stop?"

  He righted himself and leaned against the threshold very much as he'd done at the closet in the tower. "If we go down, we'll go down together, Isadel. Or we can wait here until the Almeida Killer strikes."

  "You'll need to be downstairs so you can see him coming."

  "Not without my bold chef. Can you send her along?"

  She spun to him with arms folded. "You shouldn't be on the floor. Up with you."

  "There she is, but am I to admire her from afar?"

  Regretting what would happen if she came close enough to see the gold flecks in his hazel eyes, she neared with caution and lowered her palm to him. "Up."

  Stretching, he fished in his pocket. "Let me put my gloves on first."

  Not wanting to delay him any further, she bent and tugged on his arm.

  His gaze wrestled with hers. She felt it sneak past and settle on the beading edging her scalloped neckline. The hairs on her neck to the upsweep of her bolle chignon raised in anticipation of a kiss.

  "You are a wondrous beauty, Isadel Armijo." He stood up and towered over her, commanding her full attention.

  "With your hair up in curly ringlets, tendrils swinging down to your shoulders, I want to play in them, loop them about my fingers and draw you close."

  "No one's stopping you."

  She took his bare hands and put his fingers on her cheek. "I know the seeds will cure you. I'm not afraid of you."

  "But you are afraid of going downstairs? I want my kitchen goddess by my side."

  "Just for a dinner? You can make do."

  "Not only for one dinner or one night."

  She kissed his fingertips like she wanted to kiss him, full forced. "You should go before one of us says something we both will regret."

  "I don't regret anything with you, but I know you can't say the same, Isadel. You didn't come here for me. You didn't choose to live because of me. Everything you want is downstairs."

  Surprised at his words, she squinted up at him. "I came for revenge, to be taught how to kill."

  "Is that still what you want? I want what is left of my life to be yours."

  Still holding his gaze, she pulled his hand to her heart. "I want two things. I want you well, living a long life, but I still wanted Moldona dead. How can I be happy when Agueda can never be happy?"

  "She wouldn't want you to suffer any more than Henry would want me to suffer. That song you hum, your mother's tune. I found something similar in Henry's papers. He wanted his world tour to include missionary work. He was influenced by George Liele, the man who wrote your song. The words: Life is the hour which God has given to escape from hell and fly to heaven. You and I, it's time to escape the prisons of guilt we've built."

  She wanted to break free, but couldn't grasp his outstretched hand. "I've journeyed to this moment. I must try. I sat and listened in fear. Papa's last admonition was to stay put. I did and they died. He's gone and this is my one chance to right this wrong."

  Hugh bent and picked up a wooden box and handed it to her. "Then this might help. Open it."

  She took it then gave it a shake. The dull stiff tone gave nothing away.

  His lopsided grin showed for a moment then settled into a serious line. "It's not black powder. Something more your style."

  The hinge of the box squeaked as she pried the lid open. She looked up at him and saw his smile. The reflection of a small pearl necklace shone in his eyes.

  A pearl bigger than Agueda's. Her throat closed. She couldn't speak.

  Hugh lifted the pearls to her neck and fastened them. He took full advantage of touching her skin, making her shiver with each stroke of his fingertips. "This will serve you well but maybe not as well as what else is in the box."

  She poked inside and touched a gold metal stick. "What is this?"

  He took the object from her and pushed the small button on the handle. A sharp knife about four inches in length flipped out of it. "Voila." He hit the button again and the blade retracted. "This is my little gift to you. My very first spy knife."

  "You used it on one of your missions?"

  He shrugged. "An unlucky footpad in London. But you will be the first to kill with it. If you are going to take revenge, it needs to be with a weapon you are very comfortable with. No onion has a chance around you, and neither will Moldona."

  "I don't like your jokes." She pushed the knife away. "Put this away."

  He took her hand and shoved it close to his chest. "When you kill with a knife you shove it between the ribs, between the second and the third is the most effective, just like I told you."

  "I don't want to kill you, Bannerman."

  "Why not? I was an English soldier. One who fought and killed thousands in Spain. Might've killed a cousin to you. War isn't fair. There is no time to ask questions. Like Almeida, the fighting was horrific, death was everywhere and when one side wins they can be as ugly in victory."

  "Are you excusing Moldona, the man who slaughtered my family?"

  "No, not at all. If you are sure he is guilty, you do what you must. You have to choose and be confident in your choice.

  She slacked her hold on the knife and dropped it. "How do I do that? The repercussion will fall on you."

  He stuck the knife in her silky reticule. "Don't fret about me. I'm a big boy who can take care of myself. You came to me, not for dinner, not to have found a special spot in mine and Phipps's hearts. You are here to kill. There's a horse with a pouch of money saddled with supplies in the last stall in the stable. Do what you came to do. Don't hesitate. Then leave in the confusion."

  The weight of the knife made her satiny reticule spin then droop about her wrist. "You will let me do this? I thought you said I wasn't capable of killing."

  "Every man has a breaking point. I suppose it's the same for a woman. It's not what I want for you, and I've vowed to never kill again, so I won't do this for you. You must do it and live with the consequences. I had a choice long ago, to turn in a man to my commanders for causing a deadly explosion that would have been death to him. It would have ended his career. I chose to forgive."

  "I can't forgive Moldona."

  "Then Isadel, you can't forgive me. I didn't report him at Almeida. That's why he took a command at Badajoz. Moldona may or may not be your killer, but he was there because of me."

  It couldn't be true. Her lips trembled. "Bannerman?"

  He tucked her hand about his arm then pulled on his gloves. "Those seeds when they arrive. Do I chew them or make a paste?"

  "Make a weak tea from some. A paste with the rest, then apply it directly to any wound or lesion." She swallowed her tears, her stomach shrinking from his admission. She couldn't let him see her confusion, so she focused on the steps in front of her.

  "I don't know why I asked about the seeds. With you gone, it won't…I won't do it right." He tugged one of his slipping gloves up, making the taut fabric snap. "Do
esn't matter. You have exactly what you want, just don't hate me, Isadel. I bear a lot of guilt. The weight of failing you would be too much."

  Towing her from his room, he stopped at the top of the stairs. The music and conversations below touched her almost at the same time as his gloved hand flicked a curl behind her ear. "Maybe the Almeida Killer will take his revenge before the weekend is done. Then no one will be left to prosecute you. I will have peace knowing you have peace."

  Was he hoping for the killer to win? Her heart squeezed tight. Air could barely siphon between her faltering lips.

  They headed down the treads, and he plastered a smile that she knew to be fake across his face.

  He'd given Isadel everything she needed to exact revenge, but now everything she thought she wanted dwarfed to the haunting notion of her giant Bannerman seeking death.

  Gold plates, blue Wedgwood dishes, shiny silver forks, and crystal goblets — the dining room hadn't look so well in years. Yet, how was Hugh to stomach the jellied dessert molded into a heart after consuming the dry pheasant? He should take joy in Sandon looking so well, that the commanders, his colleagues, had taken the time to come, and that all talk of the Almeida Killer wouldn't happen until they were dismissed from the ladies.

  But he couldn't.

  The meal paled after enjoying Isadel's wonderful creations, and it didn't help his digestion watching his chef make small talk with someone she believed killed her father. Why Elizabeth had set the Moldona's to Isadel's left was beyond his imagination?

  Yet, the chef sat at his side, chin raised, looking resplendent, but to know her was to know her rage. Her long neck looked very well, very nibble worthy draped in pearls. The high neckline of her gown should imply modesty, but did nothing to soften the scream of her curves. Her waist was small but more than enough for a big man to hold onto, but Hugh's rare temper flared when he saw Moldona admiring the same.