“That’s right.” Muriel waved to the door with the second pistol. She dropped the one she’d used; she’d been carrying its twin in her other hand, as Caro had suspected. “Off you go.”
Casting one last glance at the men slumped at her feet, she said a silent prayer and went.
“Hurry back!” Muriel called after her, then laughed.
Suppressing a shiver, Caro flew out of the front door. Dragging it shut, she looked up and down the street. Where was a hackney when one needed one?
She clattered down the steps. Should she run for Piccadilly, where hackneys were plentiful, or head in the direction she wanted to go? She paused on the pavement, then turned north and started running for Grosvenor Square.
She’d passed three houses when an unmarked black carriage slowed alongside.
A small wiry man opened the door and leaned out. “Mrs. Sutcliffe? Sligo, ma’am—I’m in the employ of His Grace of St. Ives.”
Caro stopped, stared, then leapt for the carriage. “Thank God! Take me to your master immediately!”
“Indeed, ma’am. Jeffers—home as fast as you can.”
On the way, Sligo explained that Michael had asked him to keep watch; Caro gave thanks and prayed all the harder. They rattled into Grosvenor Square minutes later—just as Devil and Honoria, dressed for the evening, were descending their front steps.
Caro all but fell from the carriage. Devil caught her. Steadied her.
She poured out her desperate tale.
Honoria knew Muriel; she paled. “Good God!”
Devil looked at Honoria. “Send word to Gabriel and Lucifer to meet us at the south end of Half Moon Street.”
“Immediately.” Honoria met Caro’s gaze, squeezed her hand. “Take care.” Turning, she hurried back up the steps.
Devil lifted Caro back into the carriage, called to the coachman, “Horseferry Road, Number Thirty-one. Fast as you can.” He leapt in, acknowledged Sligo’s nod. Sitting beside Caro, he took her hand. “Now tell me exactly what Muriel said about this will.”
They returned to the south end of Half Moon Street less than thirty minutes later. The ride back and forth had been wild, the incident in the solicitor’s office managed with ruthless dispatch.
At Devil’s suggestion, she’d played the witless female; it hadn’t been hard. Supported by Sligo, she’d entered the solicitor’s office; Devil had hung back in the shadows outside the office window. A greasy individual with an equally greasy clerk, the solicitor had had her new will ready and waiting. She’d signed; the clerk and Sligo had witnessed it, then the solicitor, rubbing his hands in unctuous delight, had handed her the “token”—a jay’s feather.
With it clutched in her hand, she’d turned to the window. Devil had entered in a swirl of dark drama and black evening cape, twitched the will from the stunned solicitor’s fingers, and ripped it to shreds.
They’d been back in the carriage, she with the feather clutched in her hand, within a minute.
She peered out of the carriage window; the light was fast fading, the sky turning purple and deep blue. Still on Piccadilly, the carriage slowed before the corner. Devil opened the door and leaned out; two large shadows detached themselves from a nearby wall and approached.
In hushed tones, they conferred. All three were against her delivering Muriel’s feather. “There has to be a better way,” Gabriel insisted.
At Devil’s request, she described the scene in the drawing room. Lucifer shook his head. “Too risky to just walk in. We need to make sure she’s still in that room.”
“I have the keys to the back door and back gate.”
All three men looked at her, then exchanged a silent glance, then Devil was helping her from the carriage.
“Stay with Jeffers,” he told Sligo. Pulling out his watch, he glanced at it. “Drive up to the house exactly fifteen minutes from now.”
Sligo looked at his own watch and nodded.
Devil shut the carriage door, took her arm; with Gabriel and Lucifer following, they walked quickly down the narrow mews that lay behind the houses on Half Moon Street.
“This is it.” She stopped before the garden gate and opened her reticule to get her keys.
Lucifer reached forward and lifted the latch—the gate opened.
They all looked at her; she stared at the gate. “The housekeeper might have left it unlocked.” That was possible, but was it likely?
Gabriel and Lucifer led the way up the garden path; despite their size, all three Cynsters moved with silent grace. The garden was overgrown—Caro caught herself making a mental note to have a gardener in, to make the place habitable now that—
She broke off the thought, looked ahead. Gabriel ducked out of sight. Lucifer crouched, then looked back and signaled. Devil drew her off the path into the shadows of a large rhododendron.
“What?” she whispered.
“There’s someone there,” Devil murmured back. “The others will take care of it.”
On the words, she heard a faint thump, a muted scuffle, then the others returned propelling a man almost as tall as they were, a hand clamped over his mouth, his arms twisted behind him.
The man’s eyes met hers—and flared.
Stepping out from the bush, she glared. “Ferdinand! What the devil are you doing here?”
He looked mulish; removing his hand, Gabriel checked Ferdinand’s face, then did something that made him gasp.
Caro suppressed a wince, but this—Ferdinand surrounded by three murderous Cynsters—was the perfect opportunity to get a straight answer. “We don’t have time to waste, Ferdinand. Tell me what you’re after—now!”
He glanced at Lucifer, then through the dimness met Devil’s gaze. Paled and looked down at her. “Letters—an exchange of letters between the duke and Sutcliffe from many years ago. The duke has been pardoned and wants to return home, but if those letters ever surface… he would be exiled again.” He paused, then went on more fervently, “You know what it’s like, Caro, at court. You know—”
She held up a hand. “Yes, I know. And yes, you can have the letters. We’ll have to find them, if they exist…” Her gaze had gone to the house, her mind to Michael and Timothy. “Call on me tomorrow and we’ll sort it out. We don’t have time for this now—something’s happening in the house we must stop. Go now—I’ll see you tomorrow.”
Ferdinand would have clutched her hand and poured out his heartfelt thanks, but Lucifer gave him a not-too-gentle shove toward the gate.
They turned their attention to the house. The lock on the back door was well oiled; it turned without a sound. The door opened easily; Caro led them through the kitchen, up the stairs, and into the narrow corridor. Stopping before the door into the hall, she looked back and noticed that Ferdinand had followed, but was hanging back and, most important, keeping quiet.
“The drawing room is three rooms forward on the right—closest to the front door,” she whispered.
They all nodded. Silently, she pushed open the door. Devil held it for her as she crept forward. He went with her; the others hung back. No sound reached them from the drawing room.
Just before the double doors, Devil closed his hands about her shoulders and halted her; he stepped silently past her, briefly looked, then rejoined her and motioned them all back beyond the service door. Once there, he softly said, “She’s sitting in a chair facing the hearth. She has a pistol in her hand—there’s another on the floor beside the chair. Michael still appears to be unconscious.” He glanced at Caro. “Breckenridge has lost a lot of blood.”
She nodded. Only distantly heard the three Cynsters conferring; dragging in a breath, she forced her ears to function—fought to ignore the hollowness in her stomach, the chill flowing through her veins.
“You’re right,” Gabriel grudgingly conceded. “If we barge in, she’s too likely to fire and we can’t guess what she’ll aim for.”
“We need a diversion,” Devil murmured back.
They looked at each other; n
othing sprang to mind. Any minute the carriage would roll up outside and Muriel would expect her to enter.
Ferdinand reached forward and tapped Gabriel on the shoulder. Gabriel glanced back, stepped back as Ferdinand joined them and whispered, “I have a suggestion. The lady with the pistol—it is Muriel Hedderwick, yes?” Caro nodded; Ferdinand went on, “Does she know these three?” Caro shook her head. Ferdinand grinned. “She knows me—she’ll recognize me. I can walk in and play the ‘crazy Portuguese,’ yes? She will let me get close—she won’t see me as a danger. I could take the pistol from her.”
Caro understood immediately—not just what he was proposing, but why. If he did this and saved Michael and Timothy, she’d be in his debt—he could claim the letters as a reward.
The Cynsters were unconvinced, but ultimately looked to her. She nodded. Decisively. “Yes. Let him try. He might pull it off, and we can’t.”
Ferdinand looked at Devil. Who nodded. “Get the pistol she’s holding—we’ll be there as soon as you’ve got your hands on it.”
With a nod in reply, Ferdinand moved past them. He paused before the door to resettle his coat, then he lifted his head, squared his shoulders, and pushed through, walking confidently, his boots ringing on the tile.
“Caro?” He called. “Where are you?”
Silently, they followed him into the front hall.
He reached the drawing room, looked in, then smiled hugely and walked in. “Ah—Mrs. Hedderwick. What a pleasant surprise. I see you, too, have come up from the country—”
The last word changed, steely purpose breaking through. They heard an outraged female gasp, then the sounds of a struggle.
Like angels of death, Gabriel and Lucifer swept in. Caro started after them. Devil caught her about the waist and held her back.
Furious, she struggled. “Damn it, St. Ives—let me go!”
“All in good time,” came the imperturbable response.
A shot rang out, echoing through the house.
Devil released her. She dashed for the door; he still got there before her, momentarily blocked her path as he scanned the room, then he let her in, and followed as she flew across the room to her fallen men.
She glimpsed Muriel struggling like a fiend; all three men were battling to restrain her. The second pistol had been kicked to the side of the room; Devil detoured and picked it up. The one that had fired lay at Muriel’s feet.
Caro fell to her knees beside Michael and Timothy. Frantically she checked Michael’s pulse, felt it steady and strong, but he didn’t respond to her touch or her voice.
Timothy’s pulse, when she found it, was thready and weak. Blood had soaked his shirt and coat and lay pooled beneath him. In his upper chest, the wound looked to have stopped bleeding. She reached to lift the wadded cravat she’d pressed over it to check—Devil stopped her.
“Best leave it.” He called to Lucifer to send Sligo for a doctor.
Glancing over, Caro saw Muriel being held down in the chair, Gabriel winding curtain cords around her to hold her there.
Across the room, Muriel’s eyes locked with hers. For one long moment, Muriel stared, then she threw back her head and screeched.
All four men flinched. When she barely paused for breath, Gabriel swore, whipped a handkerchief from his pocket, balled it and shoved it into her mouth. Reduced to raging mumbles, eyes starting, Muriel flung herself against her bonds, but they held.
The tension gripping the room eased; the men stepped back. Shrugging his coat into place, Ferdinand walked over to Caro. He looked down at Michael and Timothy, then glanced at Devil. “They will live?”
Devil had checked Michael’s head, lifted his lids; Caro had grasped the moment to shift Michael’s shoulders so she could cradle his head in her lap. Glancing at Timothy, Devil nodded grimly. “Both should. Luckily, the ball missed the lung.”
Ferdinand hesitated, then said, “It will be better if I am not here when your doctor arrives, I think.”
From her position on the floor, Caro looked up at Ferdinand. “Probably. Call on me tomorrow—the Anstruther-Wetherby house in Upper Grosvenor Street.” She smiled. “You were very brave, acting as you did.”
Ferdinand’s usual grin broke through. He shrugged. “A woman with a pistol—that is hardly a problem.”
She held his gaze. “Except when the woman is a marksman.”
He looked down at her; his grin faded. “It is a joke, yes?”
She shook her head. “Unfortunately not.”
Ferdinand muttered a curse in Portuguese. He glanced back at Muriel, still wrestling futilely with Gabriel’s knots. “Why did she do it?”
Across Michael and Timothy, Caro met Devil’s eyes. Quietly said, “I suspect we’ll never know—she’s quite mad.”
Ferdinand nodded and left. Devil remained on the floor beside Timothy and Michael; Gabriel sat on the chaise and kept a close eye on Muriel. Caro studied Michael’s face, with her eyes traced the lines that had become so familiar, stroked his hair.
Then Lucifer returned with the doctor; she stüred and, giving thanks to the gods, gave herself up to caring for the two men she held closest to her heart.
The final scene in the drama was played out in Magnus’s library. All the family involved gathered late that night to hear the full story, to understand, to be reassured, ultimately to help protect.
Michael sat in a deep armchair, his head, still distantly pounding, cushioned on a silk pillow. A bump the size of an egg on the back of his skull throbbed; he raised his glass and sipped—a cordial. Caro, sitting on the chair’s arm no more than inches away, had insisted on the tonic. All the other men were drinking brandy, but with Caro so close and Honoria on the chaise nearby, her eyes fixed on him, he had no option but to drink the ghastly stuff.
Devil was present, along with Gabriel and Lucifer and their wives, Alathea and Phyllida. Magnus sat in his favorite chair listening intently as they recounted the facts, put together the pieces. Evelyn, too, hung on their words.
“I didn’t really believe it until I remembered Muriel was a marksman.” Caro glanced at Michael. “She excels at all those things at which girls normally don’t—like driving, archery, and pistols.”
“And,” Michael grimly added, “slingshots.”
She nodded. “That, too.”
“So,” Honoria said, “when you returned to Bramshaw, Muriel told you of the Ladies’ Association meeting, insisted you attend, then when you did and the local ladies treated you, unsurprisingly, as a celebrity, she saw red?”
Caro met Michael’s gaze. “I think it was more the straw that broke the camel’s back.” She glanced at the others. “Muriel always saw herself as the rightful lady of Sutcliffe Hall. She was a true Sutcliffe, Cam-den’s firstborn—the heir of his talents if you will, but then, in marrying me and making me his hostess, he chose me over her. Bad enough. She then worked hard to be the premier lady of the district—that position was all hers. Yet despite my long absences, all I had to do was appear and the other local ladies put me on her pedestal, displacing her. Camden wounded her, but then every time I returned home, salt was rubbed into the wound.”
Michael squeezed her hand. “That wasn’t your fault.”
“No.” She looked down, after a moment raised her head and went on, “But once she started trying to get rid of me, in her usual dogged fashion, she just kept at it. Then she saw the house, and also the chance to even her old if secret score with Timothy, and…”
“However,” Magnus said, looking up at her from under his shaggy brows, “her true target, the one she wished to punish, was Camden. But he’s dead. You and Breckenridge were merely the two on whom she could vent her rancor.” Sternly, he held Caro’s gaze. “All this has been more about the loose ends of Camden Sutcliffe’s life than about either you or Breckenridge.”
Caro looked into his old eyes; after a moment, she inclined her head.
“Regardless,” Devil said, “we’re now left with the final tying of those loos
e ends.” He looked at Gabriel and Lucifer, who had taken Muriel, still bound and gagged, to her London home. “How did Hed-derwick take it?”
Gabriel grimaced. “He didn’t argue, nor even seem all that surprised.”
“He was surprised over what she’d done,” Lucifer amended, “but not surprised she’d finally done something.”
“He must have known how obsessed she was,” Gabriel said. “He was quick to take our points. He’s a quiet sort, but seems competent and decisive enough, and we left him in no doubt over what he needs to do to ensure our silence.”
“So he’s undertaken to keep her restrained?”
Gabriel nodded. “She’s immensely strong, and given her skills she’ll always be dangerous. Hedderwick has an isolated cottage on the Cornish coast he intends taking her to; she’ll be guarded night and day.”
Devil glanced at Caro. “The doctor intends to remain with Breckenridge overnight, just to make sure, but he felt certain that with time he’d recover fully.” He looked at Michael, raised a brow.
Michael nodded, winced, resettled his head carefully. “In the circumstances, we’ll need to consult with Breckenridge, and also with George Sutcliffe, but allowing any of this to become public is pointless.
Quite aside from tarnishing Camden Sutcliffe’s memory—and despite his personal shortcomings, his public service was exemplary—any formal proceedings will cause considerable anguish and difficulties for the other Sutcliffes, and even more for the Danverses.“
He glanced around the circle; no one argued. He nodded. “It’s a sorry enough tale as it is—best we end it here.”
They all agreed, drained their glasses, then, reassured that all was as well as could be, took their leave.
Michael woke in the night, in the small hours when the world lay blanketed and asleep. About him, the huge old house lay silent and still; he rested warm beneath soft covers, Caro curled against his side.