“Our next move is to make our own plans, which must include all the right actions to make Charles believe his plan is succeeding. In any good play, the villain only reveals himself in the last scene; Charles won’t appear unless we, the intended victims, play out the earlier scenes correctly.” Devil glanced at Vane, leaning forward, intent, then looked at Honoria, calmly expectant by his side. He smiled, coldly. “We’ve already completed the opening scene in our melodrama. For the next . . .”
At six o’clock the next morning, wreathed in mist, two tall figures, pistol in hand, faced each other on Paddington Green. Their seconds stood aside; a scrap of white drifted down. Two shots rang out. One of the principals crumpled to the ground; the other, clothed in black, waited while the doctor swooped down on his patient, then handed his pistol to his second and stiffly turned away.
He and his second climbed into a black, unmarked carriage and departed the scene.
The third scene in the tragedy was played out later that morning.
Gentlefolk taking their morning stroll in Grosvenor Square—nurses and their charges, governesses and young misses, old and young alike—all witnessed the unexpected sight of the St. Ives traveling carriage rolling into the square. It drew up before St. Ives House; an army of footmen descended to strap on a mountain of luggage.
Diverted, many watched, wondering, then the door opened; His Grace of St. Ives, his face like stone, appeared, leading a heavily veiled woman. Given her height, there were few who did not recognize his duchess; her stiff manner and the way she held her head led most to speculate that there’d been some falling-out, some possibly scandalous rift in what had, until then, appeared a remarkably felicitous relationship.
Before a host of round eyes, the duke handed the duchess into the carriage and followed her in. A footman shut the door; the coachman whipped up his horses.
The word was winging, on whispers uttered with wide eyes, on hushed confidences traded behind elegantly gloved hands, long before the carriage had quit the fashionable precincts. The St. Iveses had left London unexpectedly, just before the beginning of the Season. What was the ton to think?
Predictably, the ton thought—and said—precisely what had been intended.
Four powerful blacks drew the St. Ives carriage rapidly into Cambridgeshire. Leaning against Devil’s shoulder, Honoria watched the countryside flash by. “I’ve been thinking.”
Devil opened his eyes only enough to look down at her. “Oh?”
“We’ll have to give a formal ball as soon as we return to town. To dispel the mistaken impression we’ve been at such pains to instill.”
Devil’s lips twitched. “You’ll have to invite Chillingworth, of course.”
Honoria flicked him a warning glance. “I suppose that’s unavoidable.”
“Quite.” Devil studied the weak sunlight playing across her features. “Incidentally, I should warn you that, despite its being midnight, it’s possible someone might have seen me at the palace last night.” The unknown Cynster had proved to be Charles; the madam’s story had been utterly convincing.
Honoria lifted a haughty shoulder. “If any should think to mention your presence there to me, I can assure you they’ll meet with a very cool reception.”
Observing the imperious tilt of her chin, Devil decided it was unlikely even the most thick-skinned gabblemonger would dare—his wife was fast becoming as matriarchally intimidating as his mother.
“Do you think anyone was watching at Paddington Green this morning?” Honoria asked.
“Gabriel spotted a fellow resembling Charles’s new man, Smiggs.”
“So we assume Charles knows you and Chillingworth met?”
“It’s a reasonable bet.” Devil settled her more comfortably against him. “Try to rest.” When she looked at him blankly, he added: “Tomorrow might be exhausting.”
Honoria frowned vaguely. “I’m not sleepy.” She looked away and so missed Devil’s exasperated grimace.
After a moment, he ventured: “I just thought—”
“When do you think Charles’ll appear?”
Devil inwardly sighed. “Either tonight, in which case he’ll come up to the house and announce his presence, or sometime tomorrow, in which case he might not.” When was she going to tell him? “I’ll send a couple of grooms to Cambridge, to warn us the instant he arrives there.”
“You think he’ll use his usual route?”
“There’s no reason for him to do otherwise.” Studying her profile, noting her firm, not to say resolute, chin, Devil stated: “Incidentally, whatever transpires, you’ll need to keep one point uppermost in your mind.”
Tilting her head, Honoria blinked up at him. “What?”
“You’re to obey my orders without question. And if I’m not about, then I’ll have your promise that you’ll do what Vane tells you, without giving him a headache in the process.”
Honoria searched his eyes, then looked forward. “Very well. I’ll abide by your edicts. And Vane’s in your absence.”
Devil drew her back against him and touched his lips to her hair. “Thank you.” Beneath his confident facade, he was deeply uneasy. The need to allow Charles to act and thus incriminate himself, to have to follow his lead and so enter the fray with no plan at all, was risky enough; having Honoria involved made it a hundred times worse. Tightening his hold on her, he settled his cheek on her hair. “We’ll need to work together—rely on each other, and Vane—if we’re going to spike Charles’s guns.”
Clasping her hands over his at her waist, Honoria humphed. “Given guns are Charles’s favorite weapon, we may literally have to do so.”
Devil closed his eyes and prayed it wouldn’t come to that. To his relief, Honoria nodded off, lulled by the swaying of the carriage and the mild sunshine bathing the countryside. She woke as the carriage halted before the front steps of the Place.
“Ho-hum.” Stifling a yawn, Honoria allowed Devil to lift her down.
Webster was there to greet them. “No trouble, Your Grace?”
“None.” Devil glanced around. “Where’s Vane?” Vane had left for Cambridgeshire the instant they’d quit Paddington Green; Webster and Mrs. Hull had left Grosvenor Square at first light.
“Trouble with the windmill at Trotter’s Field.” Webster directed the footmen to the luggage. “Master Vane was here when Kirby reported it—he went to take a look.”
Devil met Honoria’s eye. “I should go and check. It’s only a few fields away—I won’t be long.”
Honoria waved him away. “Go and shake the fidgets from that black demon of yours. He’s probably scented your return—he’ll be pawing up the pasture with impatience.”
Devil chuckled. Capturing her hand, he pressed a kiss to her wrist. “I’ll be back within the hour.”
Honoria watched him stride away, then, with a contented sigh, trod up the steps to her home. And it was home—she felt it immediately she entered. Throwing off her bonnet, she smiled at Mrs. Hull, passing with a bowl of open bulbs for the drawing room. Drawing a deep breath, she felt calm strength infuse her—the strength of generations of Cynster women.
She took tea in the back parlor, then, restless, wandered the downstairs rooms, reacquainting herself with the views. Returning to the hall, she paused. It was too early to change for dinner.
Two minutes later, she was climbing the summerhouse steps. Settling on the wickerwork settee, she studied the house, the imposing facade that had so impressed her at first sight. Recalling how Devil had hauled her along that day, she grinned. The thought of her husband increased her restlessness; he’d been gone for nearly an hour.
Rising, she left the summerhouse and headed for the stables. There was no one about when she entered the yard, but the stables were never unmanned. The stablelads would be out exercising her husband’s prize cattle; the older men were probably assisting with the broken mill. Melton, however, would be hiding somewhere; he would come if she called, but otherwise tended to remain out of sight.
>
Honoria entered the main stable block—neither Devil nor Sulieman was there. Unperturbed, she spent the next five minutes communing with her mare. Then she heard hoof-beats. Lifting her head, she listened—a horse clattered into the yard. Smiling, she fed the mare one last dried apple, then, dusting her hands on her skirts, walked quickly back down the stable and swung through the archway into the yard.
And ran into a man.
She fell back, eyes widening, a shriek stuck in her throat.
“Your pardon, my dear. I didn’t mean to startle you.” With a brief, self-deprecatory smile, Charles stepped back.
“Ah . . .” One hand pressed to her palpitating heart, Honoria couldn’t think what to say. Where was Devil? Or Vane? They who were supposed to tell her the plan? “I . . . er . . .”
Charles frowned. “I’ve truly overset you. I apologize. But I fear I bring grave news.”
The blood drained from Honoria’s face. “What news?”
“I’m afraid . . .” Lips pinched, Charles’s gaze swept her face. “There’s been an accident,” he finally said. “Sylves-ter’s hurt—he’s asking for you.”
Eyes wide, Honoria searched his face. Was it true—or was this the first step in his final scene? If Devil was hurt, she didn’t care—she would go to him regardless. But was Charles lying? She steadied her breathing, and tried to rein in her racing heart. “Where? Where is he?”
“At the cottage in the wood.”
She blinked. “The one where Tolly died?”
“Alas, yes.” Charles looked grave. “An unhappy place.”
Indeed—but the broken windmill was in the opposite direction. “Oh dear.” Striving for blankness, Honoria wrung her hands, something she’d never done in her life. In Devil’s and Vane’s absence, she’d have to script the scene herself. Delaying tactics came first. “I feel quite faint.”
Charles frowned. “There’s no time for that.” When she tottered sideways and slumped against the stable wall, his frown deepened. “I wouldn’t have thought you the sort to have the vapors.”
Unfortunately, Honoria had no idea what succumbing to the vapors entailed. “What—what happened? To Devil?”
“He’s been shot.” Charles scowled with what was obviously supposed to be cousinly feeling. “Clearly some blackguard with a grudge against the family is using the wood as his cover.”
The blackguard was facing her; Honoria struggled to hide her reaction. “How badly is he hurt?”
“Severely.” Charles reached for her. “You must come quickly—God knows how long he’ll last.”
He grasped her elbow; Honoria fought the impulse to twist free. Then she felt the strength in his grip and was not sure she could. Half-lifting her, Charles propelled her into the stables. “We have to hurry. Which horse is yours?”
Honoria shook her head. “I can’t ride.”
Charles glanced at her sharply. “What do you mean?”
Pregnant women did not ride. Honoria blinked blankly.
“I’m nervous of horses.” As far as she could recall, Charles had never seen her ride. “And Devil’s horses are impossible.” She managed to wriggle her elbow free. “We’ll have to take the gig.”
“Gig!” Charles’s scowl was quite real. “There’s no time for that!”
“But—but—then I won’t be able to go!” Honoria stood in middle of the stable and stared at him helplessly. Pathetically. Charles glared at her; she wrung her hands.
He ground his teeth. “Oh—very well!” He flung out of the stable and headed for the barn.
Honoria stopped in the yard. As soon as Charles disappeared into the barn, she searched, scanning the connecting yards, peering into the dimness of the opposite stable block. Where was Melton? Then she heard the rumble of wheels. “Damn!”
She scurried back across the yard. Her role was clear—she should go along with Charles’s plan and let him incriminate himself. Panic feathered her nerves and tickled her spine; mentally, she stiffened it. They had to catch Charles—he was like a sword hanging over their heads, Devil’s, hers, and the child she carried. But how would Devil rescue her if he didn’t know where she was? Weakly, she slumped against the stable wall.
And saw Melton in the shadows of the stable directly opposite.
Honoria swallowed a whoop of joy; she hurriedly blanked her features as Charles maneuvered a light gig from the barn.
He threw her a black scowl. “Come hold the shafts while I fetch a horse.”
Softening her chin, hiding any hint of resolution, Honoria limply complied. Charles entered the stable; Honoria glanced at the one opposite. Melton’s cap was just visible through the open stable door; he was hugging the shadows to one side of the entrance.
Then Charles was back, leading a strong grey. “Hold the shafts steady.”
Honoria dropped them once, then surreptitiously jostled the horse so he shouldered them loose again. Face set grimly, Charles worked frantically, buckling the harness, clearly conscious of time passing. Honoria fervently hoped she’d judged that commodity correctly, and that Devil would not decide to go for a longer ride.
Charles tugged on the final buckle, then stood back, scanning the rig. For one instant, his expression was unguarded—the smile that twisted his lips, oozing anticipation, Honoria could have done without. In that instant, she saw the killer behind the mask.
Melton might be old but his hearing was acute, which was how he so successfully avoided Devil. Honoria fixed Charles with her most helpless look. “Is Keenan with Devil?” She kept her expression vague, distracted. “You did say he’s at Keenan’s cottage, didn’t you?”
“Yes, but Keenan’s not there.” Charles sorted the reins.
“You mean he’s alone?” Honoria let her eyes grow round. “Dying in Keenan’s cottage all alone?”
“Yes!” Charles grabbed her arm and all but forced her into the gig. “He’s dying there while you’re having hysterics here.” He shoved the reins into her hands. “We have to hurry.”
Honoria waited until he was mounted on his chestnut, turning toward the stable entrance before asking: “Are you going to ride back direct?”
Charles frowned back at her. “Direct?”
“Well . . .” She gestured weakly at the gig. “This can’t go through the arch in the wall—I’ll have to leave by the main gate and then find the bridle path back to the cottage.” Charles audibly ground his teeth. “I had better,” he said, enunciating slowly, “stay with you. Or else you might get lost.”
Dumbly, Honoria nodded. Meekly, she clicked the reins and set the gig rolling. She’d done all she could—delayed by all means she dared. The rest was up to Devil.
Chapter 25
Devil knew something was desperately wrong the instant he spied Melton, standing beneath the stable yard arch, wildly waving his cap. Cursing, he set his heels to Sulieman’s sides; Vane’s exclamation died behind him, then hooves thundered as Vane followed in his wake.
“What?” he asked, hauling Sulieman to a sliding halt. “Master Charles.” Melton clutched his cap to his chest.
“Your lady went with him—he told her you were shot and a-dying in Keenan’s cottage.”
Devil swore. “How long since they left?”
“Five minutes, no more. But your lady’s a bright one—she insisted on taking the gig.”
“The gig?” Devil sat back. “Charles went with her?”
“Aye—he wanted to make sure she didn’t lose her way.”
Slamming a mental door on the chill fear that howled inside him, Devil flicked a glance at Vane. “Coming?”
“Nothing on earth could stop me.”
They made straight for the cottage; there was no one there. Tethering their horses down the bridle path leading south, opposite the one Charles and Honoria would use, they scouted the area. Within the wood facing the cottage, they discovered a ditch, deep enough to hide them. It ringed the clearing on either side of the track from the lane. They were considering how best to use it
when hoofbeats approached. Scrambling into the ditch, they watched.
Charles rode up. He dismounted by the stable, checked that Honoria was still following, then led his horse inside.
Halting the gig before the cottage, Honoria made no attempt to leave it. The instant Charles was out of sight, she looked wildly about. Both action and expression spoke of real fear.
In the ditch twenty-five yards away, Devil swore softly. “This time, I am going to beat you!” He didn’t dare wave; he would bet his entire fortune Charles had come armed. Both he and Vane had loaded weapons in their hands, but he wanted no shooting with Honoria in the line of fire.
Dusting his hands, Charles came out of the stable. He frowned when he saw Honoria still in the gig, the reins lax in her hands. “I would have thought you’d be eager to see your husband.” He waved to the cottage.
Honoria met his cold gaze. “I am keen to see him.” She knew in her bones Devil was not in the cottage—for one fleeting instant, she’d thought he was in the wood, close, but she’d seen nothing. But he had to be coming—and she’d gone far enough with Charles. Charles slowed, his frown deepening. Drawing a deep breath, Honoria straightened her shoulders. “But he’s not in the cottage.”
Charles stilled; for one instant, there was no expression of any sort on his face. Then his brows rose, condescendingly superior. “You’re overset.” Stepping to the gig’s side, he reached for her arm.
“No!” Honoria jerked back. The planes of Charles’s face shifted. What she saw in his eyes had her swallowing her panic; this was no time to lose her head. “We know. Did you think we wouldn’t realize? We know you’ve been trying to kill Devil—we know you killed Tolly.”
Charles paused; as she watched, the veneer of civilization peeled, layer by layer from his face, revealing an expression of blank calculation, dead to any human emotion. “Knowing,” Charles said, his voice unnaturally level, “isn’t going to save you.”
Honoria believed him—her only hope was to keep him talking until Devil arrived. “We know about your man Holthorpe—and about the sailors you set on Devil, about the poison in the brandy.” What else did they know? Her recital wouldn’t hold Charles for long. Fired by fear, she tilted her head and frowned. “We know everything you’ve done, but we don’t know why you did it. You killed Tolly so he wouldn’t warn Devil that you planned to kill him. But why are you so intent on taking the title?”