Lord Wraybourne's Betrothed (28 page)

“Let me appeal to your logic, Hever. There is no way you can escape your guilt. Though I found you an unlikely suspect when the evidence began to point to you, I had to try this experiment to test out my hypothesis. Miss Hamilton was sure she could identify her assailant if she could be close to him. She has identified you. And you have now obligingly admitted your guilt. Let my sister go.”

“I have done no such thing,” retorted the baronet, his eyes flashing around the room.

Jane could see his whole body trembling with fear or rage or insanity, she knew not which.

“I am defending myself from an armed madman!” he cried.

“We are not alone,” remarked Lord Wraybourne. “Do you really think I would murder you before so many? If that is your fear, it is pointless. Let Sophie go!”

There was command in his voice, but Hever’s hand only tightened more compulsively on his captive’s hair. Jane saw Sophie swallow a scream. Jane had to force herself not to call out or leap to some pointless action. She could imagine how much worse it must be for Lord Wraybourne.

“Who knows what a madman might do?” Hever yelled.

He must have relaxed his hand a little, for Sophie twisted her head and sank her sharp teeth into his wrist. The next moment, she screamed as he yanked her head back at a vicious angle.

“Vixen! Whore!” he spat into her terrified face, seeming to forget for a moment the other people in the room.

Lord Wraybourne took a step then halted as the movement brought the baronet’s attention back to him. Jane perceived a stir of movement from the corner of her eye and she saw the Versailles lady rise smoothly from her seat. “Sit down, Madam!” Sir Edwin snapped.

“You poor man,” said the husky voice as the lady disobeyed and drifted closer to the center of the room. “No wonder you are distraught. But you should be kind to little Sophie. She has done you no harm.”

Sir Edwin’s face contorted with rage, and spittle flecked his mouth. Jane suddenly realized that he
was
insane, and real fear for Sophie chilled her.

“She has sneered at me!” he choked. Horrified, Jane recognized the hoarse voice.

“I would have married her, saved her, but she laughed at me! Now she prances before the world, showing her body. But would she give me one kiss?”

Hever’s eyes never left Lord Wraybourne, but Jane noticed that the lady was slowly edging towards the table upon which Lord Wraybourne had put the pistol. But what could she do with it if she reached it?

“She is a filthy whore,” Sir Edwin whispered, spittle drooling down his chin.

Jane no longer had a fragment of doubt. Sir Edwin had been her whispering tormentor.

“She is not worthy of the love of a decent man!” he snarled, with a gloating look at Lord Wraybourne, whose eyes glared murderous rage.

A thunderous noise filled the room, and it seemed to Jane that everything moved in slow motion for a moment as Sir Edwin let Sophie go. Jane, horror-struck, saw the elegant lady with the smoking pistol in her hand. Then the pistol was thrown down, and she raced, along with Lord Wraybourne, to Sophie, who had fainted. Jane, suspended in shocked disbelief, recognized Lord Randal and realized he had shot Sir Edwin.

The next thing she clearly knew, she was standing in the breakfast room with trembling, white-faced Miss Hamilton and Lord Wraybourne, who was not in much better condition. Jane supposed, with objective calmness, that she must look the same herself. They were huddled together, both giving and taking comfort from the embrace. Jane had the strange notion that shots were continuing to sound somewhere and wondered if it could be an echo in her mind of that dreadful, thundering moment.

Lord Wraybourne pulled away. “I must go, Jane. Randal will have got Sophie out of sight, and there were no servants close by. But something must be done before Hever is discovered.” He ran a shaking hand over his face. “I never intended . . . You should not have seen that. . . .”

Jane quieted him with a hand on his. “We will manage,” she said. “Go and do what you must. He was the whisperer.”

“Yes.” He kissed her roughly. “My dear delight. You have reserves I never dreamed of. If that had been you, instead of Sophie, I think
I
would have risked the shot.”

She touched his cheek gently. “Remember that, David.”

He was caught by the intensity of her voice. “What do you mean?”

“I know it isn’t what you would want, David, but Sophie loves Lord Randal. I believe now that he loves her too. I think they may be each other’s only chance for true happiness.”

“No,” he protested. “Randal would just lead her into further imprudence.”

Jane said nothing, merely looked at him. He sighed and rubbed at his face again, as if attempting to draw blood back to his pallor. “Stay here. I’ll return as soon as I can.”

Stella Hamilton was trembling with shock. Jane, marvelling at her own calm, rang the bell repeatedly until a harried maid answered the summons. She then ordered tea.

“And, Riddle,” she asked, “can I hear banging noises?”

“Bless you, yes, Miss. It’s the fireworks. Such a bang there was a while ago. The staff are watching from the side, Miss.”

Jane correctly interpreted this as a hint of complaint against people wanting tea in the breakfast parlor when there were such exciting goings-on but she hardened her heart.

“Miss Hamilton is not well. She must have a restorative, Riddle, as soon as may be.”

As the door closed behind the disgruntled maid, Jane let herself go and sat down on the nearest chair with a thump, to sink her swimming head in her hands.

 

Lord Wraybourne returned to the anteroom to find it deserted except for Sir Edwin’s corpse. Randal had carried Sophie away. The urge to follow them and protect his sister was very strong. Yet, David knew he had to handle matters here first. He locked the door from the inside, then went to open the second door which led into the library.

Mr. Moulton-Scrope looked up from the study of his brandy. “Not quite the
dénouement
we planned but satisfactory.”

“I fear Maria is likely to be a trifle cross,” agreed his nephew as he helped himself to cognac and took a healthy gulp. His voice was normal but the golden liquid shivered in his hand. “Thank heaven Randal is a dead shot! The man was completely unhinged. God knows what he would have done.”

“Must have been a pretty shot. I could only listen, of course. What in the name of Hades was Lord Randal doing in a dress, by the way? Part of the plan?”

“Oh God, no. Just his mischief. I could have throttled him when he waltzed in to upset everything, but as it happened it saved the day. Ironically, it was only because Sir Edwin despised women that he ignored Randal until it was too late. What the hell is that damned banging? I thought it was my ears.”

“Fireworks. Opportune, I must say. It’s the only reason I’ve been sitting here waiting for you. They must have disguised the sound of the shot.”

“What do we do now?” asked Lord Wraybourne.

Mr. Moulton-Scrope heaved himself out of his chair and walked into the other room. “Suicide, don’t you think?”

He then placed the pistol by the corpse’s hand and continued to chat in a calming, natural voice. “Ashby insisted on carrying Sophie off before she regained consciousness. I didn’t interfere, though you know my opinion of the scoundrel. You
did
say you trusted him,” he added when he saw the tightening of his nephew’s face.

“I only wondered whether he had anything on under the dress,” said Lord Wraybourne with a slight smile.

Having assured themselves that the scene was set, the two men returned to the library. Lord Wraybourne saw his uncle lock the door and place the key in his pocket at the same time as he became aware of the relative silence that signalled the end of the pyrotechnics.

“No need for you to be involved in this at all, my boy,” said Mr. Moulton-Scrope amiably. “I am sure that you have other matters to attend to.” Which was one way of looking at things, thought Lord Wraybourne as he went to the door. He hesitated a moment but saw that his uncle was waiting until he had left before pulling the bell to summon the servants.

Outside, David waited in concealment for a little while to make sure that all went off well, but he should have known that his uncle was equal to the task.

David heard his authoritative voice. “Get a spare key, Nuttall. Hurry. I heard a shot and both the doors are locked!”

Within minutes the door was opened and the exclamations of horror told him the “tragedy” had been revealed. When Maria had arrived and started screaming and a number of domestics followed their mistress’s example, David decided that he could make himself scarce.

He hesitated in the hall. He wanted to go and assure himself that Jane was coping adequately with the evening’s events, but he also needed to find his sister and Lord Randal. Reluctantly, he ran upstairs to his sister’s room. Outside her door, he paused for a moment. What would he do if he were confronted with something improper? He ran tired hands through his hair. The last thing he wanted was to have to call out his friend. The temptation to walk away from the door was enormous, but Lord Wraybourne resolutely turned the handle and went in.

A lamp softly illuminated the scene. Lord Randal was sitting in a large winged chair with Sophie wrapped in a blanket in his arms. His upper body was bare, silky smooth as a Greek statue, but at least, noted Lord Wraybourne, he had on the black tights which had been part of his first costume.

Sophie started and, seeing her brother, would have sat up but Lord Randal gently stayed her and she relaxed again into the protection of his arms. No one spoke as Lord Wraybourne quietly closed the door. His eyes took in the evidence of the room. The blue damask bed-cover was smooth and untouched. Randal’s head rested on the high back of the chair, and there was a slight smile on his lips, rueful and self-mocking. His eyes met his friend’s unflinchingly.

Shock and suffering had marked Sophie’s face. Yet there was a tranquillity to it which struck Lord Wraybourne with considerable force. Not only did he know that he could not bring himself to take that peace from her, but he realized that it would not be in Jane’s eyes at this moment. For all that she had coped so marvelously, she would need him now.

He took a deep breath and suddenly understood, with surprise, that he was happy with the situation overall. The feeling of lightness was so strong in the room that he could almost see it hovering in the air around them. When he spoke, his own voice sounded improperly loud.

“Hever committed suicide. Uncle Henry is handling everything. I must go to Jane.”

A gentle smile curved Sophie’s lips, and the two in the chair seemed to relax and blend even closer together. Without further words, Lord Wraybourne left them that way.

L
ORD WRAYBOURNE MANAGED to slip into the breakfast room without being noticed by the guests and servants milling excitedly in the hall outside the library. He found Jane and Stella apparently composed and sipping delicately at tea. It was only as he came close and the aroma assailed him that he realized the tea was strongly laced with brandy. Jane saw his lips twitch and wondered how he could be amused at such a time.

“How is Sophie?” she asked, surprised that it seemed to take some effort to form the words correctly.

“Doing well,” Lord Wraybourne replied, sitting down beside Jane at the table. “But I think I should send up some of the brew you are imbibing. It seems highly effective.”

“Oh yes,” she agreed, happily. “Riddle suggested it. She said her grandmother used it in times of difficulty, and it does seem to make problems a great deal less unpleasant—as well as being delicious.” She looked around, noticing that it also took some effort to focus her eyes, or perhaps it was only that the candles needed trimming. “I believe we only have two cups or I would offer you some.”

Stella Hamilton spoke suddenly, enunciating very clearly. “I am most pleased that Sir Edwin is dead.”

“So am I,” said Lord Wraybourne, leaning back and relaxing for what seemed like the first time in hours. “It was not quite as we planned it, but he had to die.”

“We?” asked Jane and Stella together.

“Uncle Henry was in the library, listening to everything. We couldn’t let the thing go to trial, so the idea was that we would convince Hever that he had no hope and then leave him alone. Ideally, he would shoot himself but if he didn’t—and I had no faith he would have the courage—then Uncle Henry was going to go in and do it for him.”

“Mr. Moulton-Scrope?” squeaked Jane. He had always seemed a pillar of society.

“Orders from the top. As soon as we were sure Hever was the man, he had to die. Like a mad dog. For a while, despite the evidence, it seemed so unlikely. As it was, he was so near the brink of insanity that I think any little thing would have pushed him over. But Sophie was the ideal last straw, as it happened, though I would never have used her as a weapon. He hated all women, I think, but he had come to see her as the epitome. I suspect his affronts to you, Jane, were as a substitute for Sophie. Since he hoped to make her his wife, his twisted mind would not allow him to insult her directly.” He sighed. “I must escort Stella home, Jane. Where will I find you when I return?”

Jane was disinclined to move. “Here, I think. I do not wish to join the ball again.”

“Everyone will be leaving soon, now Sir Edwin has been found. I will come back here, but I think I should take away your magic potion if you are to be coherent when I return.”

Jane stared at him. “Am I drunk? Good heavens. What would my mother say? But I can quite see why so many gentlemen do it so often,” she added with a giggle.

Her betrothed shook his head and took charge of the brandy bottle as well as Miss Hamilton, who moved with slow and careful dignity as he escorted her from the room. Jane enjoyed the solitude. She watched the play of the candle flames and the curl of the smoke. She was aware of distant noises but no one came to disturb her privacy. She really should be more upset, she thought.