And it wasn’t, he reminded himself virtuously, as if he’d never let Asher know about the contents of the packet. He would…just not right now.
While his initial thought had been to ride up to London with his letter and the packet and place the whole thing safely in the hands of his solicitor, as the days passed, he procrastinated. What was the hurry? he asked himself. The ugly incident with Ormsby had been an aberration. He didn’t really believe that his life had been in danger, did he? It was ridiculous. He had nothing to fear from the marquis and there was no need for him to hotfoot it to London. Besides, he was enjoying himself in his new home.
This time of year London was hot and thin of convivial company, he reminded himself. Oh, he could probably find a few friends at the Horse Guards for a friendly game of cards, but by now even the least member of the ton had deserted the city for the country. In September, the start of the “little season” would be much better.
Yet for all his procrastination and whitewashing of those moments when Ormsby’s fingers had closed around his throat, choking him, Denning couldn’t quite shake the feeling that Ormsby was, perhaps, much more dangerous than he wanted to believe. The thought of Ormsby stealing the packet had also taken strong hold of his mind, making him rethink his decision.
Ormsby could have no idea where he had placed the packet; he could have concealed it anywhere within the house. Remembering Ormsby’s lingering gaze on Jane’s desk, Denning got up and walked to the bookcase. Even if Ormsby tore Jane’s desk apart he’d not find what he searched for, but if he didn’t find it there, logic said, he’d start casting about for another hiding place. Would an intruder look further in this room or assume the evidence was in another part of the house? The packet was hidden but was it hidden well enough to escape the probing eyes of a thief?
Growing increasingly uneasy with his hiding place, Denning opened the bookcase and took out Chaucer’s works. Holding the book in his hands, he shook his head. He’d have to find a better place.
With the book in hand he left the study and walked slowly up the stairs to his bedroom. Opening the drawer of the marble-topped table next to his bed, he gently placed the book inside. It was unlikely a thief could steal it with him sleeping only inches away, so tonight was taken care of. But the daylight hours presented another problem—he could hardly walk around with the book in his hand all day. For a day or two, he could keep the book nearby, but after that…
He sighed. Convenient or not, he was going to have to go to London. He would send Beckham off to London tomorrow at first light with his luggage and a letter to his solicitor warning of his impending arrival: he would follow at a more leisurely pace on Thursday and meet with him Friday afternoon.
It was only after his plans were clear in his head that he admitted that he would be relieved once the evidence was no longer in his hands…and he warned Ormsby that upon his death, his solicitor had orders to open the packet immediately. Ormsby wouldn’t dare touch him then. He smiled. In fact Ormsby would take great care that he stayed hearty and hale, because if he didn’t…
With Will Dockery planted amongst the servants at Rosevale, Ormsby learned of Denning’s planned trip to London within hours of Beckham’s departure the next morning. His expression thoughtful, he tossed a coin at Dockery and sent him back to Rosevale.
Wandering through the much-remarked-upon flower gardens planted by a mother he could hardly remember, Ormsby smiled to himself. It had taxed his patience beyond bearing to simply go to earth and wait, but he’d always known that sooner or later Denning would give himself away. And his patience had paid off. The colonel was about to fall into his hands like a ripe plum.
More than once since that black day Denning had revealed what he had found, Ormsby had been aware that there was really only one way to solve his problem. If Asher Cordell was no longer alive…He grimaced. Killing Asher would give him great satisfaction, but Denning was, he had finally decided, his most pressing concern. In time, he would kill that cocky bastard Asher, too, but first there was Denning….
From the beginning Ormsby had faced two problems. Killing Denning and gaining possession of those damning papers. With his blackmailer gone and the proof destroyed, all his worries would disappear like dandelion fluff blown on a spring breeze. An ugly gleam entered his eyes. He regretted little he’d ever done in his life and he bitterly, most bitterly regretted that he had not strangled Jane Manley decades ago.
With an effort he tore his thoughts away from matters beyond his control and focused on the situation before him. Killing Denning would be simple, but laying his hands on Jane’s letters and the rest of it, would not be quite so easy. Denning could have hidden the evidence anywhere and with Denning dead and having no idea where or when the proof of his treachery might resurface, Ormsby decided sourly, would be like standing in front of a canon for the rest of his life waiting for the fuse to be lit.
His hand clenched into a fist. He didn’t intend to spend his remaining days always wondering when someone else might find proof that would prove very, very unpleasant for him. Right from the beginning he’d considered breaking in to first, Apple Hill, and then latterly Rosevale and searching for the papers, but he’d known, without having a clue where Denning kept them, that sort of endeavor would fail—and put the wind up Denning. And so he had endured the white-hot rage, the clawing humiliation, and suffered the colonel’s blackmail.
Some of the tension eased from his body. But that, he reminded himself, smiling again, was all at end. This time of year, Denning’s trip to London could have only one purpose: to take Jane’s papers to a safer place. Ormsby nearly laughed aloud. By the time the sun set Thursday evening, his troubles would be over. He was certain he’d have no trouble laying his hands on that damnable, damnable evidence that Denning had so inconveniently discovered. Familiar with his quarry, Ormsby knew that Denning wouldn’t trust the papers to anyone else—he’d have them with him. And this time, the marquis would handle the situation himself….
Ormsby was correct: Denning did have the packet with him. Still hidden in the Chaucer book, it was now neatly packed in a small black leather valise that sat on the floor of the gig near his foot.
Not in any hurry, Denning pulled away midmorning on Thursday, his smart black and scarlet vehicle drawn by a frisky gray stallion he’d purchased only a few weeks previously. Jingo was known to be hot at hand. The vicar and the squire both had warned him about the stallion’s personality, but confident in his skills and preferring a spirited animal to one of a calmer temperament, Denning was looking forward to testing the gray’s mettle.
Bowling along under the green canopy of oak, beech and ash trees that lined the country lane, the colonel was anticipating a pleasant, uneventful journey. He knew of a comfortable inn several miles this side of London and planned to stay the night there before traveling on to the city in the morning. The inn employed a plump little serving maid who had proven inventive and accommodating in the past and he saw no reason why she would prove less so tonight.
He was grinning, delighting in Jingo’s fluid, ground-covering trot—and the gray’s attempts to get the bit between his teeth, when some six miles later they swept around a curve and came upon a lone rider. Denning’s hands tightened fractionally on the reins, intending to temper in some of Jingo’s enthusiasm as they approached the newcomer on the narrow lane.
The gray took strong exception to Denning’s pull on the reins. The stallion’s pace obediently slackened, but he tossed his head and fought against the bit, half rearing and generally making his displeasure known.
Concentrating on his horse, Denning paid little attention to the approaching rider and it was only when the horseman came abreast of the gig that he felt that first quiver of unease. There was something…the black, broad-brimmed hat pulled so low that it half obscured the man’s face? The heavy, dark, concealing cloak worn on a warm summer day?
When the newcomer brought his horse next to the gig, despite the attempts of di
sguise, Denning recognized him. Ormsby. A thrill of fright snaked through him and heedless of Jingo’s antics, he dropped one of the reins and fumbled for the small pistol he carried in his vest beneath his elegant bottle green jacket.
“Don’t be a fool!” hissed Ormsby, leveling his own pistol at him. “I mean you no harm…but we have to talk.”
The sight of a pistol aimed at his breast stilled Denning’s movements for the moment. “You’re the fool,” Denning snapped, “if you think that I believe that! You’re pointing a bloody pistol at me.”
“Only to gain your cooperation,” Ormsby said, casting a quick look around to assure himself that the road remained empty. It was market day and while most of the farmers were already at the village with their goods at this hour, there was always a stray or two that ambled in late.
“And that you’ll not have,” Denning replied, his fingers inching toward his pistol. “Now move away.”
It was a standoff. Denning wasn’t budging and Ormsby wasn’t prepared to shoot him in such a public setting, though he did plan to murder him…once he had Denning in the small, secluded glen just a scant distance through the trees that edged the lane. For a long, tense moment they stared at each other.
With only one rein controlling him, Jingo’s agitated behavior worsened, his hooves beating out an impatient tattoo on the road, his head constantly whipping against the remaining rein: he was ripe for disaster. The gig rocked back and forth from the stallion’s violent movements and Denning knew it was only a matter of minutes before the gray ditched him.
A faint high-pitched sound drifted toward the two men from beyond the curve in the road behind Denning and as the noise grew in intensity, Ormsby glanced uncertainly in that direction. A second later he realized what he was hearing: pigs.
The cacophony of squeals and grunts became louder, filling the air, and a half dozen or so big red pigs ambled into view. Ormsby cursed under his breath. Just what he needed, a bloody farmer driving his pigs to market.
The instant Ormsby’s gaze left him, Denning’s fingers closed round his pistol and in one swift action, dragged it free of his jacket. Ormsby caught the movement from the corner of his eye and swung his attention back to Denning, just as Denning got off a quick shot.
Ormsby’s reaction was instinctive; he fired back. Denning’s bullet missed, but Ormsby’s did not. The remaining rein fell from Denning’s hand and he groaned, clutching his chest as a horrifying blotch of blood bloomed across his white linen shirt and buff waistcoat.
The first of the pigs were only a few feet behind the gig and more were spilling around the curve, followed by a pair of farmers, when the shots were exchanged. The squealing, grunting pigs and the pistol fire were too much for Jingo and the stallion bolted, lunging forward and galloping down the road as if chased by a pack of wolves, the reins slapping in the air behind him.
Ormsby spared a harassed glance at the disappearing gig and, cursing virulently, he stuffed his pistol into the waist of his breeches, swung his horse around and plunged into the forest. Desperate to put distance between himself and the site of the shooting, Ormsby spurred his horse to a reckless pace and they careened through the forest. A mile from the road, he remembered the hat and cloak and with fumbling fingers tore off the hat and sent it flying. The cloak followed, falling in a black heap on the forest floor near a huge old oak.
His heart banging frantically in his chest, he fought to catch his breath as his horse dodged through the woods. Truly frightened for the first time in his whole spoiled life, Ormsby was light-headed, terrified that he might have been recognized. Had the pig farmers seen his features clear enough to identify him? Was word already flying through the neighborhood that the Marquis of Ormsby had shot Colonel Denning down in cold blood? Would he find himself a hunted man? Good God, how had things gone so very, very wrong?
But by the time he came out of the forest several minutes later a scant half mile from Ormsby Place, he had himself better under control. That first debilitating flare of fright had passed and he had regained command of his thoughts.
Only mere seconds had passed, he reminded himself, before he had disappeared into the forest. The pig farmers had been some distance away; the most they would have seen as he had left the road was a fleeting glimpse of a horse and rider. The black hat and cloak had effectively hidden his features and covered his build and clothing. He’d been riding a plain bay gelding of no distinction, chosen this morning for precisely that reason.
Feeling more assured with every passing moment, he was able to hand over his horse to the stable boy without an outward sign of the turmoil that roiled in his gut. Reaching the house, he told his butler that he was not at home and disappeared into his study.
Despite the hour he poured himself a snifter of brandy, cursing again when he noticed his fingers trembling. Forsaking the swirling of the amber liquor in the crystal snifter and the enjoyment of the heady scent, he gulped down a big draught of the brandy.
As the pleasant burn from his throat to his chest ebbed, he took a deep breath and looked around with pride at the handsome room. He had nothing to worry about. He was Ormsby. Why would anyone connect him with something as unsavory as common murder on a country lane? Besides, who would believe a pair of ignorant farmers over the powerful Marquis of Ormsby? The notion was nonsensical!
The brandy warming his belly, his sense of well-being increasing, a flush of satisfaction rose within him. At least that troublesome Denning was taken care of. He’d not have to worry about him any longer. But Denning, he reminded himself sickly, had been only one of his problems….
An icy shaft slid down his spine. Denning was dead, but Jane’s papers were still out there. Somewhere.
Jingo traveled nearly four miles before he came across any other traffic on the road. Having dropped back to an erratic canter from his initial breakneck gallop, the sweat-flecked stallion slowed to a walk as he approached a cart traveling toward him.
Mrs. Birrel was driving the dark green cart home, having just come from the marketplace. The vicarage stable boy, Perkin, had accompanied her to carry any items she might buy and was sitting beside her in the cart. It was he who recognized Jingo.
“That’s the colonel’s new horse!” he cried as Jingo walked aimlessly down the road.
Further inspection revealed the trailing reins and almost as one, their eyes swung to the occupant of the gig. During the wild ride, Denning had fallen over onto his side; one arm was hanging down, his hand resting limply on the small black valise on the floor of the gig.
“Oh, my goodness! Catch that animal before he runs away!” commanded Mrs. Birrel as she jerked her own horse, a nice, quiet little chestnut mare, to an abrupt halt.
Perkin scrambled from the cart and cautiously approached the horse, but there was nothing to fear now; Jingo had left his fidgets behind him some time ago. The gray stood quietly as Perkin walked up to him and carefully captured the bridle. A moment later Perkin had the reins in his hands, Jingo standing docilely beside him.
Mrs. Birrel alighted from the cart, tied the mare to a small tree at the side of the road and hurried to the gig. That something was terribly wrong was obvious from Denning’s position, but expecting he had suffered a stroke or such, after receiving no response to the calling of his name and admonishing Perkin to hold the gray firmly, she lifted her skirts and gingerly clambered aboard the gig.
With gentle hands she pulled Denning upright, gasping at the sight of his blood-soaked shirt and waistcoat. Her eyes huge, she looked at Perkin, who was peering interestedly around Jingo.
“Move the gig from the road and tie the horse to a tree,” she ordered calmly, despite her trepidation. The colonel’s face was pale and he lay still and heavy in the gig beside her. Mrs. Birrel feared that he was dead and from the amount of blood that stained his clothes, she knew immediately that there was foul play afoot.
Perkin positioned the gig off to the side of the road and securely tied Jingo to an oak sapling. Mrs. Bi
rrel was considering her move when the sound of an approaching vehicle came to her ear.
Mrs. Birrel looked behind her and to her relief she recognized the driver of the small chaise drawn by a pair of bays trotting down the road. It was the squire accompanied by his wife.
Even before Mrs. Birrel called to him, the squire realized that something was amiss. Stopping his horses abreast of where Denning’s gig stood at the side of the road, Ripley called out, “Is there trouble, Mrs. Birrel? May we help you?”
“Oh, Squire! Thank heavens you are here,” Mrs. Birrel cried in great agitation. “It is Colonel Denning—I fear someone has murdered him!”
“Upon my soul! Never say so,” exclaimed the squire, shocked.
There was a flurry of activity. Driving the Birrel cart, Perkin was sent to the village to find the surgeon and return with him posthaste. The squire parked his vehicle near the side of the road in front of Denning’s gig and he and his wife quickly dismounted from the chaise. Hurrying back to the gig, they were able to see for themselves the amount of blood covering Denning’s chest. The three exchanged shaken glances.
A muffled sound from the seeming corpse startled them and to everyone’s horrified astonishment, Denning’s eyes flew open. “Ash…er. You…must,” he mumbled weakly. He shuddered, took a labored breath and began again, “Asher must…” Denning’s eyes closed, his breathing seemed to stop, but then with an agonizing effort, he forced his eyes open once more and said thinly, “Saucer boo…poem.”
Mrs. Birrel tried to hush him, saying urgently, “Save your strength. The surgeon is on his way here.”
His gaze fixed pleadingly on Mrs. Birrel’s, he paid her no heed and gasped, “I wronged…him. Or…by…” He gathered his fading senses and, fighting for breath, he said, “Tell Asher. Tell Asher…” He could not go on and his eyes fluttered shut.
Passion Becomes Her Page 29