Danger's Kiss (38 page)

Then she closed the door, and everything changed.

As Philomena proffered the gaming box with an insincere smile and at last felt the precious key drop into her palm, she was treated to an unwelcome warning.

“I’d use that key very soon if I were you.”

She smirked.  “You don’t even know what ‘tis for.”

“
I
didn’t,” she admitted.  “But Nicholas Grimshaw did.”

For an instant, the smug smile stretched tightly on Philomena’s face, and the air seemed to freeze in her throat.  Dread pounded in her heart like a lump of lead.  “I see,” she managed to croak.

“After the shire-reeve left for work this morn, I had a visit with your husband.”

Philomena’s mouth went dry.

“He told me everything,” she continued.  “How you feigned his kidnapping and imprisoned him because he didn’t have the stomach to go along with your plans to poison his father.  How Lord William, believing his son was dead, summoned his lawyer to rewrite his will, naming not
you
, but his nephew as heir, and how ‘twas you, not Hubert Kabayn, who murdered the lawyer and destroyed that will.  How, after his father is gone, you plan to stage George’s miraculous return to claim his inheritance, which you expect he’ll share generously with you if he knows what’s best for him.”

Philomena began to tremble again as her plans unraveled before her eyes.  She glanced down at the knife, still held firmly in the wench’s hand.  Could she overpower the woman, recover her dagger, and silence the meddling bitch forever?

“Don’t even think of it,” Desirée said, tucking the gaming box under her arm and brandishing the knife.  “If I don’t return, the shire-reeve will know whom to blame.  And I don’t think you’ll be able to strip him of his title when the hangman’s noose is about your neck.”

Philomena felt sick.  All her plans...all her patience...all her devotion...were they for nothing?

Despite the panic writhing in her spine, she couldn’t lose control in front of her nemesis.  Nor could she allow fear to paralyze her.  But she needed time to think.

“The wise cheat knows when the game’s over,” the wench added.  “You’ve lost.  Give up your scheme.  Free your husband.  The fool still cares for you.  Perhaps he’ll forgive you.”  Then she bit out between clenched teeth:  “But know this.  If you continue this butchery, I’ll see you hang from the very gallows where Hubert Kabayn took his last breath.”

With that dire promise and a curt nod, the woman departed, leaving Philomena breathless and shaken.  But shock was soon replaced by rage, and once the wench was out of hearing, Philomena vented her frustration upon the room, knocking over the floor candles, shredding the bolsters on the chairs, smashing the crockery against the plaster walls.

Her only regret afterward, as she stood panting among the ruins of the solar, was that the steward hadn’t been there for her to vent her wrath upon.  Then at least she’d have been able to preserve her pretty things.

Much calmer after her outburst, she began to think more clearly.  It was preposterous to imagine that overweening maidservant might have gained the upper hand.  The world revolved around Philomena’s wishes, because she’d always managed to outwit or cajole or intimidate those who stood in her way.  She’d beaten, kidnapped, and murdered men to achieve her ends.  She wasn’t about to be outmaneuvered by the granddaughter of a common thief.

Somehow there was a way to get out of this.  Indeed, before long, an idea wormed its way into her brain.

Perhaps all was not lost.  Perhaps there was a way to preserve at least part of her plan and be rid of this bothersome wench once and for all.  It would involve expert timing, a profound sacrifice, and a good deal of risk, but in the end she might get what she’d wanted all along.

If the woman had visited George this morn...alone...and left him in the cell...

It was time to pay Lord William a final visit.

Less than an hour later, Philomena hummed a tune as she made her way from his chamber with the empty flagon.  With the amount of arsenic she’d put in his wine this time, he’d surely be dead by sundown.  She almost wished she could stay to play the grieving daughter and watch him in his final, painful throes of dying.  It was the least she deserved for having to suffer the indignity of being rebuffed as his heir in favor of his nephew.

But she had other things to tend to.

Snatching up one of the daggers from the kitchen, she donned her cloak and set out on the road toward the old Canterbury gaol at a brisk pace.  By the time she arrived at the horrible spot, she was out of breath and drenched with mist and sweat.  Wrinkling her nose, she stole into the dark, dank place once again, struck by its similarity to a tomb.  It was fitting enough, she supposed, for that was precisely what she intended.

She’d always meant to kill her poor husband eventually,
after
he’d inherited his father’s wealth.  What troubled her was killing him
before
Lord William was dead, when there was still a slim possibility that the will might be contested.  But she was out of options.  Her best hope now was to get this over with quickly.

“Gaoler!”

When the gaoler came hobbling around the corner, she longed to shove the dagger into his fat gut, for he’d doubtless been stealing George’s food for weeks now.  But she needed him as a witness, so she choked back the urge.

“M’lady,” he said in surprise.

“I’m here to see him.”

“Again?”

“What do you mean, again?”

“Your maidservant came to check on him earlier.”“Maidservant?” she demanded, feigning confusion.  “I sent no maidservant.”

He shrugged.  “She had the key.”  He narrowed his eyes in displeasure.  “And the bloody wench gave him my supper. 
My
supper.”

Philomena bit the inside of her cheek.  She thought her restraint admirable.  But she’d gotten what she wanted.  The gaoler could avow he
had
seen Desirée here this morn.

Shaking her head, she took his brand, waved him back into his hole, then proceeded to the cell, making sure the gaoler was out of hearing when she unlocked the door.

Once she secured the door behind her again and turned to face the occupant of the cell, she heard George breathe, “’Mena?”

And then he breathed no more.

She slit his throat quickly, to silence his screams.  Then, when he slumped to the floor, she stuck the brand into a holder on the wall, crouched beside his writhing body, and proceeded to stab him under the ribs several times.  Surely one of the thrusts would pierce his heart.

She tried not to think about all the blood.  It was bad enough she had to kneel in the filth of the cell, her nostrils shrinking from the stench of human waste.

At last his eyes turned filmy, and he stopped twitching.Shuddering with disgust, she tossed the dagger onto the floor and let out a shrill scream.

The gaoler came at a run.  She crawled toward the door just as he burst in.  The door shrieked open on its hinges, revealing the gruesome murder.

He gasped.  “Shite!”

Philomena clutched hysterically at the gaoler’s braies and sobbed, “He’s dead!  He’s dead!  Ah, God, he’s dead!”

The gaoler’s eyes widened with panic as he stared down at her.  “Did ye...”

“It must have been that woman!” she cried.  “Who was she?  Who came this morn?”  She let go of him and buried her face in her bloody hands.  “God’s wounds!  She killed him!  She killed my husband!”

Thankfully, the gaoler was dull enough of wit to take her at her word.  He winced at the bloody mess before him, murmuring oaths under his breath, then rubbed a thoughtful hand across his jaw.  “God’s truth, m’lady, I’m not sure who she was.”

“Oh, God!” she wailed.  “Oh, God!”

He wrinkled his brow in earnest concern.  “But she had a key, m’lady.  And I know what she looks like.”

That was all Philomena needed.  After several more obligatory sobs of faux grief, she persuaded the gaoler to come with her to the constable so that he could describe the murderess.

It was ridiculously simple.  Philomena wept piteously before the constable, bemoaning the fact that after her months-long search for her beloved husband and finally locating him where his kidnappers had locked him up, right under all their noses, she’d arrived at the old gaol only to find him murdered, and all while her father-in-law languished on his deathbed.

The gaoler knew better than to challenge her story.  He relished the idea of being the hero of the hour.  And as he described what little he recalled of the wench’s appearance
—
her dark hair, her dark cloak, her pretty mouth
—
Philomena was able to fill in the details in such a way as to irrevocably implicate the shire-reeve’s maidservant.

“Desirée Kabayn,” she breathed in revelation, resting a hand lightly atop the constable’s sleeve.  “It could have been her.  She was the granddaughter of that man who committed the murder at Torteval.”  She frowned, as if trying to make sense of everything.  Then she gave a gasp and clasped a hand to her throat.  “Could she be the one who had my husband kidnapped in the first place?”

The constable scowled.  “I doubt that.  She’s a good-natured lass.  I don’t think she...”  He trailed off, and a peculiar expression came over his face, one that drained the color from his cheeks.  “God’s blood.  She was asking me about the old gaol this morning.”

Philomena restrained a smile.  This was even better than she’d expected.  It was as if the stupid wench had looped the noose around her own neck.

She clenched her fist in the constable’s sleeve.  “Dear God, if she kidnapped and murdered my husband, what’s to stop her from killing m-...?”  She broke off with a sob, clapping a hand to her bosom.

Then she wrapped both fists in the constable’s tabard in supplication.  “Don’t let her, I pray you!  You must do something!  You must
—
“

The constable gently extricated her hands.  “Don’t fret, my lady.  I’ll take her into custody at once.”

That wasn’t good enough.  She had to be sure the shire-reeve had no opportunity to intervene on the wench’s behalf, and she wouldn’t rest until she knew Desirée Kabayn was silenced forever.

“Kind sir,” she said softly, clasping his hand in her two, “my father is dying even now.  Can you do nothing to speed retribution?  It would do his heart good to see his son’s murderer banished to hell ere he departs for heaven.”

The constable looked uncomfortable with such hasty arrangements, but he knew the sway the Torteval nobles held in Canterbury.  “The shire-reeve’s not in town, but I suppose I can round up witnesses, have a trial.  If she’s found guilty
—
”

“Can you hang her this eve?”

He recoiled, withdrawing his hand.  “This eve?  Nay, my lady!  ‘Tis hardly time to prepare.  I’ll need to summon the executioner from Rochester.”

Curse the law’s delay!  “Tomorrow then.”

His scowl deepened.  “Tomorrow?  ‘Tis the Sabbath, my lady.”

Her chin began to quiver with rage, but she let him believe she was near tears.  “I pray you, constable, grant me this one request.  The priest will delay services at my bidding.  I don’t know if my father will live past the Sabbath,” she wailed, choking on a sob.  “Please let him see justice served so he may die in peace.”

The constable was quite ill at ease.  “The shire-reeve won’t be pleased.”

“Grimshaw?”  Philomena reined back the fury rising inside her, knowing the constable wouldn’t be moved by her rage.  The easiest way to manipulate him was to insult his power.  “But constable,” she asked pointedly, “does the shire-reeve allow you no authority of your own?”

He let out a disgruntled sigh.  “Very well.  On the morrow.”

Philomena managed a grateful smile, though she would have preferred the constable string the maid up at once, ere the shire-reeve arrived home.

On the other hand, it might prove an entertaining spectacle to watch Nicholas Grimshaw forced to send his own mistress to death.  It was almost tempting to brave the rabble this once and attend the execution.  Almost.

“One more thing,” she said.  “No doubt the shire-reeve will be...reluctant...to hang his own maidservant.  Please make certain he doesn’t see the hanging orders until the last possible moment.”

As Nicholas had expected, there were only minor chastisements to administer in Chilham, which was a good thing, because he’d discovered, much to his dismay, that the key he’d confiscated from Desirée was missing.  That nimble-fingered imp had somehow managed to steal it back from him.