The Wyndham Legacy

  “Of course Badger made it and added the laudanum to it as well, just as we’d planned,” Trevor said. “But believe what you will, whatever romantic, honorable swill enters your minds. But didn’t you wonder at all when Badger came back here and told you that all the Colonial Wyndhams were accounted for in London? No, I can see you didn’t. Pity, but too bad.

  “Odd that you survived the bullets that day. Three bullets in your wretched bodies, but you still managed to live through it.”

  “You’re a miserable shot,” Marcus said.

  Trevor very slowly turned to him, rose to tower over him, raised the butt of his pistol and brought it down hard on his shoulder.

  “Stop it, damn you!” She was struggling, yanking hard at the ropes around her wrists, ignoring the pain that ripped through her, yanking and pulling until Marcus said, “No, Duchess, I’m all right. Just hold still, love.”

  Trevor returned to his place, an overturned crate he was using as a chair. “What a brave hero he is, don’t you agree, Duchess? Yes, my cousin Marcus needs to learn who is in charge now. Even now that he’s in exquisite pain he won’t accept that he’s finally lost. No, Marcus isn’t a man used to losing at anything. Ah, Duchess, don’t look at me like that, with blood—my blood—in your eyes. Obey your husband, just hold still. I am sorry about you, my dear, but I have no choice about this, none at all.

  “Ah, Marcus won’t even moan from the pain and he does hurt, Duchess, he does indeed. Isn’t that odd? He knows he’s going to die, yet he holds to that myth, to that absurd men’s code, whatever the hell it is, that dictates that he won’t yield and he won’t plead with me. Well, no matter.

  “Duchess, if only you hadn’t forced Marcus to marry you before that magical date of June sixteenth, I could have let you both live, or at least I would have considered it. All that lovely money, but then, Duchess, I learned you got fifty thousand pounds from your father and I wanted that too. I wanted all of it and the Wyndham legacy—which I never believed was real—and the title of earl of Chase, and now that’s what I’ll get. Everything. Now I’ll have everything. I must remember to compliment your dear mother, Marcus, on solving the mystery. I’ll do it whilst we’re all in mourning for your double tragic deaths.”

  “But you’re rich,” she said, trying desperately to clear her head, which was aching abominably, trying to understand, trying to talk to him. “You said you were very rich.”

  “Would you expect me to admit to poverty, Duchess? I jested about it to allay any suspicions either of you might have had. I was so open with both of you. No, there’s very little money left, though my family doesn’t know of it for I’ve kept it to myself, for I am the head of the American Wyndham family and very soon now I’ll be the head of the entire Wyndham family. My father—your uncle—was a wastrel, no other way to say it. He left us with food in the pantry, a little maid he’d gotten pregnant, and naught else. I was pleased he finally fell in a duel for making love to another man’s wife. I was left with no choice. I was the head of the Wyndham family. No one else. Why do you think I married Helen? And I was but twenty-two years old. She was the richest girl in Baltimore and her father was a miserable old miller when all is said and done. No more, no less.”

  “But a very rich miserable old miller.”

  “Yes, my dear, beyond rich, at least that’s what I believed at the time. I killed him then wooed Helen. She was so soft, so vulnerable in her grief, so tedious in her innocence, but I did enjoy her delicious little body until she grew large with child. Then it was easy, a fall from her mare from a spur I planted beneath the mare’s saddle, left alone in the rain to catch a chill, and it happened as I planned it to. She went into labor and both she and the brat conveniently died, leaving me a broken man.

  “But that money ran out. I was still the head of the Wyndham family. What to do? Then we heard from Mr. Wicks, bless his old man’s kindly heart. He really believed the two of you would never reconcile your differences, whatever they were. The poor old bastard had forgotten about lust and youth. And you, Duchess, you lusted after Marcus since you were a child, didn’t you? You wonder how I know that? Well, to give credit where credit is due, I must thank dear Aunt Gweneth and her lovely detailed correspondence with my mother all these years. She wrote of you, how she admired you—your serenity, your unpretentious modesty—how very well-bred you were despite your unfortunate antecedents, but how she suspected that you would set your hooks into Marcus since you couldn’t have Mark or Charlie, for they were your half-brothers, and your dear earl father wouldn’t allow that.

  “Mr. Wicks didn’t write all that much, but dear Aunt Gweneth did, every small piddling detail of her wearisome life, for she was a spinster, living off the charity of her brother and what else did she have to do? I learned about everything, about the earl’s bitterness, his hatred of you, Marcus, because you didn’t have the good taste to die with Mark and Charlie, and you, Duchess, the precious bastard whose mother he loved all his benighted adult life. Ah, how Aunt Gweneth despised your mother, Duchess, for she feared the woman’s influence. She hated her sister-in-law, but she was a known evil, wasn’t she? But your mother, what would the slut do once the countess was dead? We know, of course, he married your mother, the stupid fool, and we suppose he died a miserable man because she died first.

  “Wrenching isn’t it, all of it? Pitiful, really. But here we are and it’s all very real now and nearly to the end. Did I tell you that I wanted to leave James in America for the boy has such a kind heart, as unsuspecting of evil as Helen was, but he wanted to come, insisted, so I made the best of it, insisted he was sullen and hadn’t wanted to be here, and you believed it, even about the young lady he’d left behind in Baltimore. He had a fancy to meet you, Marcus, and you, Duchess. He doesn’t know what life can be and how it can change men and make them what they don’t really want to be.

  “James won’t learn, for I will protect him as I will Ursula. It will be only the best for both of them and they will die as innocent as they live in their innocence now.”

  Marcus thought, let him talk and talk and talk, even as he worked the knots that bound his wrists together. He’d believed Trevor would be a dandy, a fop, but he was none of those benign things. But he’d seen him as a man, a man to admire, a man to spar with, to share stories with, but he wasn’t any of those things, he was evil and somehow twisted. Marcus realized then the truth of the rhymes and said blankly, “My God, you’re the bloody monster in the clues. Always there, always waiting to do evil, to harm and to lie and to kill. That’s what the monk meant in the Duchess’s dream and that’s what the poem meant. Where there’s life there’s evil and one must always be on guard against it. You’re the evil here and you always were.”

  “Am I the monster? I don’t really like the sound of that, Marcus, dear cousin. I suppose you’re right, but still, it bothers me. I only do what I have to do. My mother is very expensive, you know. I told you, I want James and Ursula to have the very best and I couldn’t provide it except this way. If Helen had been richer . . . ah, but she wasn’t, the silly little slut. My mother adores French fashions. What was I to do? And Ursula will be beautiful very soon now, not more than two years now and she will be glorious, a woman men will want. She must have her chance, and I am the head of the Wyndham family. It is my responsibility to see that she has it.”

  “You’re not the head of the Wyndham family, I am.”

  “Not for very much longer, cousin, not for more than a few more minutes.”

  “I don’t suppose you would consider releasing us and returning to America,” Marcus said.

  Trevor laughed, threw back his head and laughed deeply, his strong throat working. “Your only release will be with your death, cousin.”

  Time, the Duchess knew, they had to have more time. The bonds about her wrists were loosening even more. He had been considerate, if such a thing could be said of him. He hadn’t tied her all that tightly. He believed her a woman, thus not a threat to him. He had
n’t bothered to tie her ankles. She had to keep him talking. She had to think, dammit. So much had happened, so much pain, and he’d been responsible for all of it.

  She looked at him until he met her gaze. His eyes softened. It scared her to death, but she said calmly enough, “So you have been planning this? For how long? And you said that Badger was your partner. How did you get together with him?”

  Trevor leaned toward her. She jerked back, unable to help it. He just grinned at her. “I find I’m fatigued, Duchess, and quite tired of talking. I believe the two of you now understand why I’m doing this. I really don’t want to kill you, Duchess, I’d much rather plow your belly until you became ugly to me, your belly all swelled out with child. Women with child should stay hidden. They’re hideous. You should have seen Helen, all white and thin save for her huge belly. It was quite repellent. I wanted to call her a spider, but I couldn’t, not until she was lying there, thrown from her mare, and then I told her what she was, what she truly was, and she screamed, not with terror from me but because the child was coming and it was ripping her apart.”

  Her bonds were free. He was seated on that overturned crate some six feet from her, a pistol dangling lazily in his right hand. What could she do?

  “Well, Marcus, tell me, dear cousin. Who is the stronger? Who is the smarter? Who fooled you completely and utterly? Ah, yes, I am the head of the Wyndham family. I am fit to be the head of the Wyndham family, more fit than you. You and your asinine honor, your Englishman’s code. It makes you blind, makes you gullible.”

  She leapt to her feet and jumped at him, clawing at his right hand, madly tearing and screaming at him.

  Marcus jumped to his feet and threw himself at Trevor. But his hands were tied, his feet were hobbled, no more than a couple of inches between the ropes that bound his ankles. Trevor knocked him off easily enough, then whirled about and threw the Duchess to the straw-covered floor. He fell on top of her.

  But he was looking at Marcus, who was standing, just barely, and he was ready to charge again. “Don’t move, cousin, or I’ll put a bullet right in her lovely mouth.”

  She felt the hard metal against her lips. He pressed harder until her mouth was open and she tasted the cold metal, felt it press against her teeth.

  Marcus took several clumsy steps back.

  “Sit down.”

  Marcus sat.

  Trevor looked down into her white face. “I enjoyed dressing you last night. You have a very lovely body, a woman’s body, but lithe and slender, curved so very nicely. Odd, but Marcus looks like me. But we’re cousins, aren’t we, so it makes sense. Large men, dark, well-made men, fashioned to impress other males and seduce women. Did I tell you that little Helen couldn’t get enough of me? She loved to touch me, to kiss me all over. Of course, I taught her how to kiss a man. I let her have her way and pleased her in return, until she bored me, then that was all I let her do, kiss me and caress me.

  “Shall I strip you before I have to kill you? No, you don’t like that thought at all, do you, Duchess? I repel you. I didn’t before but now I do. You love him, don’t you? I always believed you did, even though he was too stupid to realize his good fortune. And now it’s too late.”

  He got off her, rising slowly to his feet. “Well, you tried to take me down, Duchess. I like that. It proves you’re of my blood, not cowards, either of you. But the time has come to finish this. I will make it quick, I promise you. I’m not cruel. All you have to do is drink a bit more, and you’ll fall asleep just as you did last night. Only this time you won’t wake up. I’m going to tie each of you to your horses. Unfortunately they will both go off the rather dramatic cliff just to the east of Trellisian Valley. I don’t want to have to kill Stanley, he’s a good mount, and as the earl of Chase, I would like to ride him now and again, but I must make it believable. I’ll untie you once you’re dead at the bottom of the cliff and drive back to London. I’ll be there in the bosom of my family when we receive word of your tragic deaths.”

  “Why did you wake us up?” Marcus asked. “You could have given us enough and killed us without this charming scene you’ve played out. Ah, that’s it, isn’t it, Trevor? You wanted us to know it was you all along. You wanted to bray and brag and gloat.”

  Trevor rose, the gun raised, his face flushed, then it seemed he got control of himself again. Slowly, he sat down again on the crate. “Think what you will,” he said, then shrugged. “It doesn’t matter. The outcome will be the same. You’ll be dead and I’ll be the earl of Chase.”

  He looked from one to the other of them. “Life is so terribly uncertain, isn’t it?”

  Suddenly the Duchess began to laugh. It bubbled out of her, tears pooled in her eyes and she was nearly losing her breath she was laughing so hard.

  He jumped to his feet, waving his pistol toward her. “Damn you, shut up!”

  “Ah, but it’s so very funny,” she said and went into gales of laughter, full-bodied laughter that made Marcus so afraid he thought he’d choke on it. What the hell was she doing?

  “What the hell is so funny? Shut up, I tell you!”

  “You, Trevor.” She hiccuped and laughed more. “You. You’re so very funny. Actually, what you are is pathetic. You, the next earl of Chase? You? You’re a bloody madman, that’s what you are, insignificant, not really there as a man, just a shadow, yes, a madman, that’s what you are. Yes, you’re sad really, a loudmouthed preening cock, an ass braying like a man, a real man. You’re nothing but a dismal excuse for a man, nothing more, just an excuse.”

  And she laughed and laughed until Trevor, his face blood-red now, fury roiling through him, roared to his feet, raised the pistol, and came over her. He had the pistol in his hand and he would strike her with it, hard and again and again, she saw it in his eyes, eyes she’d believed once so warm and filled with intelligence and humor. Now they just held death and his loss of control.

  Just as he was coming down over her, she drew her legs back to her chest to give her leverage and power and she kicked him in the groin. She kicked him so hard that for an endlessly long moment, he just hung there over her, poised to strike her with that pistol butt, doing nothing at all now, not breathing, just staring down at her disbelieving, then he screamed and screamed, falling backward onto his back, clutching his groin, crying now, wailing really, the agony ripping him apart, and in those moments he was behind them, not even aware that they were there and that they were his enemies.

  “Well done, Duchess.” She saw Marcus roll over on top of Trevor, grab the pistol, and toss it to her, for his hands were tied behind his back and hers were tied in front. She caught it and held it in front of her.

  “Get off him, Marcus. Let him suffer, then we’ll see.”

  He rolled off Trevor and came up onto his feet. Slowly, he hobbled to her and sat down beside her. “Untie me if you can,” he said.

  She’d released his wrists when Trevor, finally enduring the worst of the nausea and the tearing pain, managed to sit up. He looked into the barrel of the pistol that Marcus now pointed at him.

  He cursed very softly.

  The Duchess wasn’t laughing now, but her voice was calm, not the detached, dispassionate calm of the old Duchess, but a determined calm, a nearly ferocious calm. “My wrists are nearly free, Marcus. Don’t bother with me, just keep that gun pointed at him. Just another moment. Yes, now I’m all right. Hold still and I’ll untie your ankles.”

  When they were both free, Marcus stood slowly, the pistol never wavering from Trevor’s face. He stomped his feet up and down to get the feeling back.

  “Where are we?” he asked.

  Trevor, still struggling with the grinding pain in his groin, was silent for a few more moments, then he shrugged. “I hadn’t expected you to ask me that just yet.”

  “Why the hell not? There’s nothing else to ask you. You’ve carried on about how brilliant you are, you the head of the Wyndham family, you the one who believes it his right to kill with impunity all in the cause of
your damned duty, your responsibility to your mother and brother and sister. All right, tell me, cousin. Do they truly have no idea what you’ve done?”

  “Perhaps. My mother hates both of you, naturally. Does she know? And Ursula, so sweet, at least she seems so, doesn’t she? You’ve gotten to know James, an honorable boy, don’t you think? He worships me. You’ll never know for sure now, Marcus, will you?”

  “You’re quite mad, cousin. More important, you’re sane in your madness and that is surely worse. Now you can tell me. Where are we?”

  “I’ll see you in hell before I tell you.”

  “You know something, cousin? It doesn’t really matter, because you’ll be in hell a long time before I will.”

  He raised the pistol, looked in that strong face that held too much resemblance to his own, and for that brief moment, he thought, dear God, he’s my cousin, he’s of my flesh, and he faltered. It was all Trevor needed. He kicked out at Marcus, sending grinding pain through his thigh, then lunged for the gun. Marcus wasn’t quite fast enough. He felt Trevor’s hands close around his wrist, squeezing it tightly, shaking his hand to free the gun, but he held tight.

  Their struggle was a silent one, save for the grunts and heavy, ugly breathing. The Duchess was now on her feet, her hands free of the ropes, looking for a weapon, anything. She felt no fear for herself, just this nearly deadening fear for Marcus, and knew, knew somewhere deep down, that she had to tamp down on that fear. She managed it, flooding herself with savage frenzy and urgency.

  They were on the hay-strewn floor now, still struggling for the gun, rolling over and over, panting more deeply now, sweating with exertion. She saw it then, a pitchfork, rusted with age, leaning crookedly against the far wall of the barn, looking none too sturdy, but no matter. She grabbed it—damn but it was heavy—and ran to stand over them.

  But they were rolling over and over, first Marcus with the advantage, then Trevor, evenly matched. She saw that Marcus still held the gun, but Trevor was keeping well clear of it. She was terrified of striking Marcus. She circled them, waiting, waiting, wanting to scream each time it looked like Trevor would win.