Not wanting him to get too far with that, Alaric manufactured a sigh. “Regardless, tell me why. Why did you strangle Glynis? That’s hardly the sane thing to do if your intention was to keep the family escutcheon unblemished.”
The mention of Edward’s abiding obsession served to remind Alaric—and he hoped Constance and Percy as well—that Edward would do damned near anything to protect the family name.
For a moment, Edward plainly struggled—either against the urge to explain or simply to find the most acceptable words with which to justify his actions; he was so rarely off balance that in any other circumstances, the sight would have been priceless.
Regardless, Edward couldn’t resist Alaric’s invitation. “The stupid chit!” Edward’s lip curled. “That night, I heard Percy go down the west-wing stairs—naturally I followed, and I saw him meet her in the gazebo. From what happened, it was plain she had her claws sunk into him, so I waited until they parted and stepped into her path—literally and figuratively. I told her she would never be permitted to marry Percy—and the twit pulled out the ring Percy had given her and brandished it in my face! It was the viscountess’s ring the idiot had given her—the Lord only knows what he was thinking. Or if he thought at all. He couldn’t have married her—a flighty girl from a no-account family. Obviously, I had to save him from himself. I demanded she give me the ring, but she refused. I grabbed it, but the silly bint started screeching. I had to shut her up—” Edward broke off.
A silent second passed; Alaric wanted to look at Constance, but didn’t dare shift his gaze from Edward’s.
Then Edward shrugged. “And then she was dead.”
Alaric didn’t hide his contempt. “So you left her there for anyone to find.”
“It was better that way. Anyone could have killed her. Because I left her where she fell, her death was no threat to anyone.”
“But it was you, Edward, who killed her—a perfectly innocent, blameless young lady.”
“What gave you the right?” Constance’s voice grated with suppressed fury.
Edward sneered. “It’s perfectly obvious. The Mandevilles are an old family with a revered name. She couldn’t be allowed to reach so high—she shouldn’t have even thought of it. You and your family should have managed her better—kept her under better control. A chit like her couldn’t expect to marry into a family like the Mandevilles.”
Constance’s eyes had narrowed to shards. “So it’s her family’s fault that you murdered her?”
Alaric almost smiled; in terms of dishing out excoriating scorn, Edward was well and truly outclassed. But Alaric could now see Percy; he was creeping out of the wood directly behind Edward, but Percy was still too far away to make any difference.
Alaric focused on Edward. “What about Rosa? She recognized you, so you killed her, too?”
“I would have let her live if she hadn’t realized who she’d seen leaving the shrubbery. But in the corridor outside the billiard room, she saw something that told her the mystery man was me.” Edward paused, then amended, “At least, I think she realized, although she didn’t say anything then. But I couldn’t take the risk that she would speak to Sir Godfrey in the morning. He might not have believed her, but others might have. So she had to die, too—in the scale of such things, her life didn’t weigh against the honor of the Mandevilles.”
Constance choked. “Honor?”
“Yes, honor.” Edward’s expression grew even more supercilious. “It’s not something you or Miss Johnson would know anything about.”
Percy had reached the side of the ruined cottage; Alaric saw him bend and carefully—silently—lift a stout log from the debris.
“So now,” Alaric said, “in the name of the Mandeville honor, you’re going to kill me and Miss Whittaker.” Percy was drawing closer. Alaric had to keep Edward’s every sense locked on him. He conjured a puzzled expression. “How do you justify that, Edward? The Radleighs are older than the Mandevilles by a century or more, and the families have been allies forever.”
Edward frowned and shifted his weight. “You shouldn’t have butted in. No one asked you to meddle in the investigation. If you hadn’t, the deaths would have been accounted for by now—that fool Stonewall would have happily done as I wished, and we wouldn’t have Scotland Yard poking their noses in and threatening scandal for everyone.”
“One thing puzzles me,” Constance said; Alaric realized she could now see Percy creeping up behind Edward. “If it was the family you wanted to protect, why did you put the letters—and later intend to put the ring—into Percy’s drawer?”
Edward’s eyes were shifting from Alaric to Constance and back again, assessingly, measuringly; he replied rather vaguely, “I assumed he would have the sense to hide them, and if they were found…well, if one of the family had to be convicted, better him than me. After all, it was his fault all of this happened.”
Alaric couldn’t hide his disgust.
Edward straightened and raised his head. “I’ve made up my mind.” Something flared in his eyes. “I’ll shoot you, then strangle Miss Whittaker, and arrange things to look like you killed her, then shot yourself.”
Alaric could see the increased tension in Edward’s arm; the hand holding the pistol had started to shake, the barrel wavering. “Why would I kill her?”
Edward cut a swift glance at Constance. “Because she spurned your advances. I’ve seen the way you look at her, and I’m sure others have, too, but she’s a virtuous lady and wouldn’t welcome the attentions of a rakehell like you.”
Constance snorted. “Much you know.” Her scorn was once again given full rein.
Alaric noted that, but distantly. Percy was nearly close enough…
They needed Edward’s full attention trained on Alaric for just a few seconds more.
Alaric fabricated a massive, transparently resigned sigh. “Very well. But at least have the goodness to take the time to calm down and make it a clean shot. I have no wish to die messily.”
Edward blinked, but then nodded. “All right.” He drew in a deep breath and settled to sight along the barrel. “I’m glad you’re taking this so well—”
Using two hands, Percy heaved up the log and brought it down on Edward’s head.
The pistol discharged.
Edward’s eyes rolled up, and he crumpled to the ground.
Her heart in her throat, Constance flung herself at Alaric.
Wonder of wonders, the man stood his ground and caught and steadied her; he didn’t even stagger.
Her senses registered those facts, but her mind was awash with fear—for him. And that she might lose him—lose any chance she might have had…
His arms had come up to hold her. She pulled back and gripped his upper arms. “Are you all right?” Without waiting for a reply, she ran her hands frantically over his face, shoulders, and chest. “Where did the shot go?”
Even she heard the frantic note in her voice.
His lips curved gently, and he caught her hands, trapping them between his. “Into the trees to my left.” For a moment, he looked into her face, his gaze searching her eyes.
What she saw in his…
Her heart swelled. She threw caution to the winds, freed her hands, and framed his face and kissed him.
Passionately. With all the pent-up emotion in her soul.
Then his arms locked her to him, and he was kissing her back…
For the first time in her life, she understood what it felt like to swoon.
Confident and assured, his lips moved on hers, then his tongue stroked languidly over her lips and, when they parted, slid within to caress and claim and subtly conquer.
Sounds penetrated the fog of joy and rising desire that held them, reminding them of where they were—that they weren’t alone.
Together, they eased back—then she remembered and broke the kiss and glared at him. “You blithering idiot! Couldn’t you think of any other way to distract him besides offering yourself for target practice?”
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His slow grin reminded her that he saw her far more clearly than any other ever had. “I love you, too.”
She blushed and fell into his eyes again.
Reading her expression—open and direct as it always was—Alaric felt as if his heart had taken flight. He bent his head and brushed her lips with his. When, reluctantly, he raised his head, he couldn’t miss the stars in her eyes.
He wondered what his looked like.
He tightened his arms around her for a second, then they drew apart and looked to where Percy stood over Edward.
Edward was unconscious, sprawled on the ground. Percy still held the log in his hands, hefting it as if considering…
Alaric stiffened. “Percy?”
Gently, Constance said, “You don’t need to hit him again.”
Percy’s gaze was locked on the back of Edward’s head; his expression was tortured and torn. “He killed Glynis.” The words were condemnation and sentence.
“Yes. But you don’t need to descend to his level.” Alaric glanced toward the path to see Stokes and company approaching. “You can leave retribution to the law and Scotland Yard.”
Still, Percy stared down at Edward and gripped the log, his hands shifting as he adjusted his hold.
“And one murderer in a family is enough,” Constance said.
That seemed to penetrate Percy’s emotion-driven brain. He blinked and eased back. Then he glanced at Stokes, who, with Barnaby and Penelope, was nearing. Percy lowered the log, then opened his hands and let it fall to the ground. He stepped away from the now-groaning Edward. “You’re right.” He glanced contemptuously down at Edward. “As it is, my uncle and aunt will never live this down.”
Stokes halted beside Alaric, and Constance asked, “How did you get here so soon?”
“We never left,” Penelope said as she and Barnaby joined them. “Stokes and Barnaby wanted to hear the maid’s evidence for themselves, and I wanted to hear the footman’s testimony. We’d only just started for the stable when Mr. Radleigh raced up. We followed the trail as quickly as we could, then we caught up with the other gentlemen, and they explained Alaric’s instructions, so we fell in with them.” She waved at the four gentlemen who were stepping into the clearing from various directions. “When we got here, Edward already had his pistol out. We could see Percy sneaking up, and we didn’t want to push Edward into seizing a hostage, so we hung back.”
“Thank God you did.” Alaric looked at Stokes. “Edward Mandeville isn’t all that good at planning or even thinking things through, but as he himself said, he’s proved surprisingly adept at improvising. God alone knows what might have happened had you shown yourselves.”
Stokes clapped Alaric on the shoulder. “You seemed to have everything in hand.”
“Although,” Penelope said, head tipping consideringly to one side, “for my money, you cut things a little too fine.”
Constance snorted.
Alaric waved at Edward, who was starting to regain consciousness. “Did you hear?”
His expression grimly satisfied, Stokes nodded. “More than enough.” He glanced at the other men who, led by Monty, had gathered around Percy, some with words and others wordlessly offering support. “And if required, we have witnesses galore.”
Barnaby shifted. “To tell the truth, despite the drama—which we would all rather have done without—this has worked out for the best. There simply wasn’t and never would have been enough evidence to bring Edward to book for the murders. Everything we could gather was circumstantial. He had to do or say something—only through his own words or actions could we hope to convict him.” Barnaby’s smile wasn’t humorous. “And now we will.”
Stokes walked forward, bent, and retrieved the spent pistol. He showed it to Percy. “Is this his, or did he filch it from the Hall?”
Percy peered at the pistol, then shook his head. “It’s not one of mine.”
Stokes’s grin was lethal. “Even better.” He looked around. “Philpott? Morgan?”
“Here, sir.” The two constables came jogging up.
Stokes tipped his head at Edward, who was slowly dragging himself up to sit, one hand held to the back of his head. “Put the shackles on him and take him away. The Tabard will most likely have a cellar you can lock him in. Make sure he hasn’t anything he might use to do himself in.”
“Yes, sir!” Philpott, assisted by Morgan, quickly had Edward up on his feet, his wrists locked before him in heavy cuffs.
Stokes, with Barnaby and Penelope flanking him, told Edward what would be done with him.
Sullen, Edward made no reply, but he was still weaving on his feet.
“Once he recovers enough to find his tongue,” Constance observed, “I’m sure he’ll be claiming all sorts of justifications for what he’s done.”
“Much good will it do him,” Alaric said. He doubted he would ever forget the sight of Edward with his hands locked about Constance’s throat.
The other gentlemen were ready to head back to the Hall. Several, including Monty, urged Percy to go with them, and as host, Percy acquiesced.
Percy paused beside Alaric and met his eyes. “Thank you for letting me hit him.”
Alaric inclined his head. “Thank you for doing it in time.”
Percy glanced at Constance, but she only dipped her head in agreement.
Percy nodded and clapped Alaric on the shoulder. “I’ll see you both back at the house.”
The gentlemen and Percy led the way. The constables with their prisoner stumbling between them followed, and Stokes, Barnaby, and Penelope fell in behind them.
Hand in hand, Alaric and Constance brought up the rear, both content to amble slowly through the thickening shadows and let the evening peace of the woods enfold them, easing all lingering tensions.
After a while, catching a glimpse of Percy and the gentlemen ahead on the path, Constance murmured, “Do you think Percy will be all right? That he’ll recover?”
Alaric had been turning that very question over in his mind. After a moment of searching for the right words, he answered, “Marrying Glynis would have been good for him—I don’t think anyone who knows him and had ever been even acquainted with her could doubt that. But being married to her wouldn’t have changed him—he would still have been the old Percy we all know. However”—he paused, then went on—“I have an inkling that having Glynis taken from him—ripped from his arms, so to speak—might well be the making of Percy.”
They walked on for a moment, then he glanced down, met her eyes, and gently smiled. “We’ll see.”
Constance pondered his words, then she leaned her head against his shoulder. “Thank you. If Glynis’s death does even that much good…that will be some small comfort to the family.”
Alaric glanced at her head, resting against his shoulder, then he bent his head and placed a kiss on her curls.
And as night fell about them, they walked on—back to the Hall, back to society, back to lives that had changed forever.
* * *
When Alaric and Constance reached the Hall, they found Stokes, Barnaby, and Penelope facing a demanding audience in the drawing room. All those who had remained—the ladies and the married couples—wanted to know the details of all that had transpired.
Barnaby took the lead, with Penelope assisting, while Stokes spoke only when it was necessary to insert the gravitas now accruing to Scotland Yard.
Alaric and Constance hung back by the door and watched and listened. At one point, Constance murmured, “I’m remembering all the less-than-complimentary remarks made earlier regarding the police.”
Alaric smiled cynically. “Stokes has done well by his office. None of those here will cast such aspersions again.”
“And they’ll spread the word,” Constance added.
When Penelope outlined their speculation that, on quitting the billiard room, Edward Mandeville’s manner of settling his coat had been idiosyncratic enough to jog Rosa Cleary’s memory and identify him as
Glynis’s murderer, Monty spoke up and agreed, saying that Edward invariably jerked both lapels to settle his shoulders, stiffly tweaked his right sleeve, then his left, and finally passed his right hand over his hair before patting down the back of his collar.
Several others confirmed Monty’s description, which pleased Stokes as well as Penelope.
Eventually, the story of Edward Mandeville’s latest attempt at murder and his subsequent capture was exhaustively told.
Those of the company who hadn’t previously heard the complete accounting of his doings sat back and exchanged wide-eyed looks.
“I can’t believe it was Edward!” Mrs. Collard shook her head. “My parents know his parents—they’re so very stuffy and strict, it’s all but impossible to imagine Edward, of all people, committing such atrocious acts.”
“I don’t know.” Henry Wynne looked at Percy. “Edward was always rabbiting on about the Mandeville family and how dashed superior they were—above all of us, certainly. When I heard him in that clearing…well, it seemed all of a piece.”
Monty nodded gravely. “All the pieces fitted neatly together. It was Edward first to last.”
“Indeed,” Stokes said. “And as Mr. Mandeville has helpfully confessed in the hearing of a great many witnesses, I can assure you all that this case will be closed, and he will stand trial and be convicted in due course.”
“Where is the fiend now?” Mrs. Cripps rather anxiously asked.
“Locked up beneath the Tabard Inn,” Stokes replied. “We’ll be taking him to London tomorrow. You won’t see him again.”
People turned to each other, and the sound of avid chatter rose as they exclaimed and speculated on the likely social repercussions.
Monty had been standing along the wall beyond Constance; he came up to her and Alaric. “I say!” Monty looked thoroughly chuffed. “Quite exciting, that chase through the woods and then the action in the clearing. Mind you, I’m glad it wasn’t me looking down the barrel of Edward’s pistol.”
Alaric laconically arched his brows.
Constance humphed, but without heat. Everything had worked out, no one else had been harmed, and the murderer was in shackles.