A fearful sound from Matilda’s mouth tore him back into the here and now.
He saw that she had turned pale underneath her enraged blush. “We can strike a deal,” he offered. “You tell me what I want to know, and I let you go. You leave the country within twenty-four hours. Should you ever set foot on British soil again, I will deliver you to the authorities. Should you ever, in any way, try to harm my wife, her family, or myself, I will come and find you. In that case, there will be no trial for you. Am I understood?” His pulse was racing, but his face felt as if it had been carved out of stone.
She began to talk as if she never wanted to stop.
Chapter 19
Annabelle felt as if the countess would never stop talking.
Without tiring, she talked about Matilda: stories from her childhood, visits to Scotland and France, about how close she and Matilda had been. Annabelle was stunned. She could do nothing but listen and occasionally utter a sound of approval that the Countess did not seem to notice. She was lost in her own world, in which Marcus’s great love and the woman whom the countess held so preciously near, were still wandering amongst the living.
Annabelle hoped she would talk long enough for Felicity to wake up. It was like a story from Arabian Nights, only this time in reverse. It was not Scheherazade who told a story to stay alive, but it was the caliph who was telling one memory after the other. Annabelle absorbed every detail and was almost glad that the duchess seemed to have forgotten about her. The more she learned about the countess, the longer she would be able to keep her in this blissful state of remembrance should the flow of words run dry.
Knowledge is power, Annabelle reminded herself. By now, she had learned a great deal about the woman, who had – without a doubt – at the beginning of the night mixed a tranquiliser into her sherry. It was highly likely that the drug had caused her sister to excuse herself so early. Annabelle’s head felt light as air; she was coherent and awake, but nonetheless, she was unable to move. Or, perhaps it was the hypnotic voice with which the Countess of York told her life’s story. About John, the Earl of York, who had taken Marcus under his wing. About Matilda, who had fallen in love with Marcus the very first time she had laid eyes on him. About herself, who was moved to tears at the prospect of grandchildren, or at least something akin to it. About Greywood, who had also courted Matilda, and who had time and again emphasized the dangers of Marcus’s life, exposing even those he loved to unmentionable dangers.
As soon as she had spoken this sentence, the countess fell silent. Her pupils seemed huge. Nothing was left of the bright greyish-blue colour except small narrow rings which enhanced the darkness in the centre of her eyes all the more.
“Marcus loved Matilda very much,” Annabelle croaked, squeezing each word out between tight lips. “He has often told me just how happy they were.” Yes, those were the right words. The countess smiled, and her clenched hands loosened slightly. “And he also told me how much he was looking forward to their wedding. She was the love of his life and he would have gladly given it for her.” The drug was starting to wear off. With every word, it was easier to speak. If only her throat were not so incredibly dry!
“If only he had,” the countess gasped out. “But he had to chase down some criminals in France who followed him all the way to England to take revenge on him. Did he tell you what they did to my poor child?”
Annabelle shook her head. She was scared and felt like crying at the same time. Her hand was tingling, and she tried to lift it to touch the woman sitting across from her, but that did not work. Not yet. “I am so very sorry,” she whispered, feeling the tears run down her cheeks.
“They killed her as if she were nothing but an annoying insect. And then they sent my girl back to Marcus, in…” her voice broke. The countess cleared her throat, “in her own carriage. Marcus carries the guilt.”
The last sentence sounded like a court judgement. Annabelle felt ice-cold.
Finally, she understood. The Countess of York had something to do with the mysterious shadow-man whom Marcus was chasing. She looked at the woman opposite her and tasted the words on her tongue. Shadow-man. Shadow. Man. No. Not man – but shadow-woman. How could she have been so blind? She of all people, who had relentlessly complained that she was not recognised as a human being – but merely as a woman – had made the exact same mistake. She had assumed that the enemy in the darkness was a man, simply because women did not do such things. She had been wrong.
The Countess of York was the one who had tried to have Marcus killed. She was the shadow-man.
Annabelle gasped for air. The noise that escaped her throat tore the older woman from her thoughts. “I see that you are beginning to understand.” She sounded strangely satisfied. “I have always thought of you as remarkably smart. Even though it was most foolish to marry a man such as St. John.” She looked sharply at Annabelle. “Have you realised as much by now?”
The question sounded incidental. Almost too incidental, as if Annabelle’s answer did not really matter. Should she agree with the countess and affirm that her marriage had been a mistake? Or should she tell the truth and admit that she had fallen in love with Marcus? Annabelle felt that the woman opposite from her would not take kindly to a lie.
So, she took a deep breath and prayed that she could guess correctly what the countess wanted to hear. “He is a very handsome man,” she began hesitantly. The countess’s reaction was a snort. “He is a hard man, at least at first glance.”
“I did not ask you for a characterisation,” the countess shut down her attempts. “Did you not listen to what I have been telling you all night? I know Marcus better than anyone else, apart from maybe Finch and John. But John is dead and Finch… well.” There was something peculiar in the way she so abruptly ended the sentence. “Do not think for one second that I will not know if you are insincere in your response. You are trying to figure out what answer I would like to hear.”
“And if I say something that you do not like to hear?” The way the countess addressed her had changed to a less cordial tone, and so Annabelle did the same. The intimate and frightening situation she was in demanded more than just a disrespectful form of address. “What will happen to Marcus and me?”
The countess shrugged her shoulders. It was a gesture of perfect indifference. “Surely you have understood by now that I want to see him dead. He will die – one way or another. His life does not depend on your answer.” She peered past Annabelle. “It is starting to get light outside. If he is as clever as he thinks he is, he will have an idea by now in what kind of game he has gotten himself into.”
Annabelle’s thoughts were racing. She had written him a letter telling him about Hawthorne’s visit, and she had mentioned that she was going to travel to the countess’s manor today – no, that was yesterday. So, he knew where her sister and she were. However, Annabelle did not know if, in the meantime, he had succeeded in solving the mystery of the string puller’s true identity.
She still did not understand what the Countess of York had to gain by bringing Annabelle here and sedating her.
“Why am I here?” she asked straight out. There was no point in flattering or lying to the countess. Perhaps she could manage to anger her, which might give Annabelle some sort of leverage. She was starting to feel her legs again and was able to wiggle her toes. If the drug’s effect wore off as rapidly as it seemed, she would have to hold out for another ten or twenty minutes before she could move again. Escape was out of the question, as long as Felicity was staying here too, but maybe she could manage to overpower her hostess.
There had to be something she could do!
Marcus rode the horse as fiery and relentlessly as was possible without harming the animal or himself. His hope of catching up with Finch had turned into smoke, once he realised how much time had passed since Madeline’s interrogation and his subsequent return to the house. At least the little boy had successfully delivered the message and, according to Wickham, Finch had pr
omptly set off. In addition, with commendable foresight, his butler had had Marcus’s fastest horse saddled.
London was already a good hour behind him. By now, he could not have said how many carriages and farmer workers he had passed. He was focussed solely on finding his way to the countess’s estate. Needless to say, Finch knew the route from his time as a factotum to the Earl of York, and Marcus himself had visited the place three times. He believed to recognise a small village with the pompous name of Holywood Saint Mary’s, which was at root nothing more than a random collection of farmhouses. Relief flooded his body when he realized that he was less than half an hour away from the house where the Countess of York waited for him with his wife and sister-in-law.
Madeline had not been able to tell him anything else about the countess’s plans. Marcus did not trust her, but she had been afraid enough to tell him everything she knew. He pushed the French woman out of his mind and looked to his left and right. The path was lined with harvested wheat fields. In the distance stood a dead tree, once struck by lightning. It stretched its branches towards the sky like a pleading suppliant. Marcus remembered its knobby form well. He was on the right track.
Shortly after the tree, little bushes began to surround the road, and it was not even five minutes later when he slowed his exhausted black mount. The cool air of a small grove embraced him. A click of his tongue, and his horse fell into a soft trot. Marcus did not want to risk announcing his arrival from miles away. After all, he had no idea what the Countess of York was planning. He simply had to believe that Annabelle was still alive!
Whatever his opponent wanted from him, he was more than willing to give it to her – as long as she would let Annabelle go. The road narrowed and was now just wide enough for one carriage. Out of the corner of his eye he noticed some broken off branches to either side. Not too long ago, a wider vehicle had made its way through here. At the same time, he watched for Finch. He had ridden at a fast speed, and while he had not caught up to his friend, he could not be far behind him. Most likely, Finch hid near the house to intercept Marcus. He was prudent enough not to act rashly.
With his sleeve, Marcus wiped the sweat off his forehead. The noises of the forest, the chirping of birds and the occasional rustling of an animal were now, at his slow trot, easy to hear. His mouth was dry, and his throat as parched. His neck tingled. Someone was watching him.
A shot was fired.
His black horse reared up. Marcus forced his body to go limp. The fraction of seconds that passed before he could let himself fall off his horse with relative safety seemed like years to him. It was a manoeuvre that brought him dangerously close to the horse’s stomping hoofs, but he managed to roll off to the side. He hoped that the illusion of a man being hit by the bullet was believable in the distance. He almost cried out as he landed on his still injured shoulder, which he had forgotten during the ride. The ground to the side of the road was covered with moss that cushioned his fall, but not enough to prevent the biting pain.
Stars danced in front of his eyes.
He did not have to force himself to lie still, for the pain prevented any movement apart from the one essential for his survival. Inch by inch, his hand crept towards the pistol he had hidden under his spencer and pulled it out. In agony, he rolled around until he was lying sideways facing the road, his hand holding the weapon hidden by his body, so it could not be seen. At least, that’s what he hoped.
He waited. The shooter had to think that the bullet hit its target and Marcus was dead, thus making no effort to dampen the sound of his approaching steps. Marcus strained his ears.
He forced himself to keep his eyes closed and to breathe as shallow as possible. He knew the rhythm. The man who approached him was no stranger. The friend, whom he would have trusted with his life, wanted to see him dead. It was a bitter blow. The agony was almost as bad as the physical pain in his shoulder.
The footsteps slowed until they fell silent.
In his mind, Marcus pictured what Finch was doing. He would not discard his mistrust about this being a feint. He would give preference to certainty. Marcus envisioned Finch watching his motionless body from a halfway safe distance. He pushed the hurt of his betrayal into the farthest corner of his mind and silently counted backwards from five.
On three, Marcus tensed his muscles.
On two, he heard the unmistakable clicking sound of a pistol being cocked.
On one, he rolled onto his back, lifted his healthy arm with his gun, and shot at the same time as his former friend.
He let himself drop back onto his side. It did not matter on which. Marcus had had his one chance and if he had missed, then he was as good as dead.
His foe’s bullet passed close to his head and buried itself in the moss behind Marcus. In relief, he exhaled the breath he had been holding. Aware of having gained a few precious seconds, he struggled to his feet and scanned the area with his eyes.
He seemed to have hit Finch. He only saw him from behind, but it looked as if he was holding his wounded arm with the other, healthy one, close to his body. Despite his injury, he was running quickly. Marcus stumbled a few steps after him, but then decided – with gritted teeth – against a pursuit.
He would deal with Finch later.
The most important thing now was Annabelle. He could hardly wait to hold her in his arms.
“Annabelle,” he said aloud, and even to his own ears it sounded like a prayer. She was everything that mattered. He stumbled on, his legs heavy and tired like never before. It was her face alone, seared into his very soul, that prevented him from falling to his knees on the spot.
He had spent so many months, even years, plotting his revenge. How often had he imagined the moment when he would triumph over his enemies? His friend had betrayed him. The wife of his mentor and friend had deceived and lied to him. One single step separated him from everything he had to live for.
On one side, there was revenge.
On the other, life.
He chose life.
Chapter 20
All of a sudden, she knew how to distract the countess. And for that she did not even have to make up a lie! It was sufficient that she told her the truth. Annabelle forced herself to relax and keep her feet still. She leaned back into her chair, crossed her hands in her lap, and bestowed a sad smile on the countess. Even that did not require any pretence. All she had to do was to allow her feelings to come up from the depths of her heart and reach the surface.
Feverishly, she searched for the words that would pierce the countess’s heart. “I am well aware that I am nothing but the bait that is supposed to lure Marcus to come here. But what will you do when he does?” She paused for a moment, giving her opponent the opportunity to notice the new tone in her voice and her posture. “Have you posted someone on the road to ambush him from behind like a coward?”
An inconspicuous twitch in the face of the older woman showed Annabelle that she was right. Hopefully, Marcus would not be harmed! It would be unbearable if something were to happen to him!
“I pity you,” Annabelle continued. “Everything you did was for nothing. You have built your thirst for revenge on a lie.”
“That’s not true,” the countess countered. She leaned forward until her face almost touched Annabelle’s. Up close, she did look as advanced in age as Annabelle had originally assumed. It was not so much the wrinkles, but the expression of profound exhaustion in her features, which betrayed that she had long traded her zest for life with everlasting bitterness.
“Yes, it is true. It is not Marcus who is responsible for Matilda’s death.”
“Are you now going to tell me that I should have taken better care of her? That I am the one to blame?”
Annabelle shook her head. “Oh, no. If I have learned one thing over the last few days, then it is this: we cannot protect those we love the most from evil, unless we lock them in a golden cage. But that is not the way it works.” She longed for a sip of water, but there was no drink with
in reach except for the drugged sherry. “I mean something else when I speak of a lie. Marcus is not to blame for the passing of Matilda.” If she said it often enough, the statement might eventually reach the heart of the countess. “Greywood killed Matilda.”
The woman’s face distorted into a painful mask. It was an ugly sight, one that showed her true face. She had loved her goddaughter, but after Matilda’s death nothing had remained but an idol, a false ideal in the countess’s spirit. Revenge for Matilda’s death had only been an excuse to carry out her hatred. Annabelle realised this truth with such clarity that she had no doubt of its accuracy.
“That is not true! It cannot be. I have used him. I would have known if he…” She fell silent.
“I am not lying,” Annabelle declared firmly. “Greywood was a deceitful worm.” She deliberately used the harsh term. Seizing the moment, she explained in a few words what Greywood had done to her sister. With every syllable she uttered, the frame of the countess slumped down into itself further and further.
“Ask Felicity herself,” Annabelle ended her story. “My sister has no reason to lie to you. She knows nothing about St. John, Matilda, or you.” Was it a risk to bring her sister into the picture? She did not think so. The countess no longer looked dangerous to her, but more like someone who realized that she had been chasing a phantom for years. When she rose from her chair her gestures were choppy, resembling those of a marionette.
“I will…” the countess began, but she was unable to finish her sentence. This was the moment that Annabelle had yearned for – and feared.
Her head darted to her left, as Marcus stormed into the room, his gun drawn. The countess’s hand shot forward as if she wanted to grab Annabelle. In the next moment, a deafening bang split the air. The woman’s face turned rigid and expressionless. Her hand rose to her chest, where a dark red stain formed quickly. But before the countess fell to the floor, Marcus was with her, pulling her up into his arms and holding her against his chest.
The Cold Earl's Bride: A Historical Regency Romance Page 19