My Lord Murderer (18 page)

The four men tiptoed from the room and Drew closed the door softly. They all let out a prolonged sigh. “I think, gentlemen,” said Drew, “that we could
all
do with a drop or two of brandy.” And he led the way to the drawing room.

Relaxed in easy chairs grouped around the fire, the four sipped their brandies silently. Finally, Drew spoke up. “I think that one of you should tell us just what happened tonight, and then we can all go to our beds.”

“Good idea,” said Wys wearily.

Quent, after a look at Ferdie—who merely shrugged as if to say, you got us into this so you can get us out—took a deep breath and began. “Tom had brought the pistols to Ferdie’s place to show them off,” he explained, “and we were quite impressed with them. We played around with them for a bit, and then I remarked that it was a pity they wouldn’t fire.”

“I think it was I who said that,” Ferdie offered helpfully.

“No, it was I,” Quent insisted irritably. “Are you going to let me tell it, or shall I give you the floor?”

“Very well, get on with it,” Ferdie said grudgingly.

“Then Tom said, ‘Of course they can shoot!’” Quent continued, “but neither of us would believe him—”

“
I
believed him,” Ferdie cut in.

“Confound it, Ferdie, cut line! However it was, Lord Jamison, nothing would satisfy us—all right, Ferdie,
me
—nothing would satisfy me but to try the cursed things out,” Quent said in self-disgust.

“But the pistols weren’t loaded,” Drew said, confused. “They couldn’t have been. They weren’t loaded when I hung them on the wall—I checked them quite carefully—and I’ve never had occasion to load them since.”

“Well, you see…” Quent explained diffidently, “…
we
loaded them.”

“You? But how?”

“We used the powder and a bullet that we found in the storage compartment of the case,” Ferdie said.

“Storage compartment? What storage compartment?”

“Didn’t you ever notice it?” Quent asked. “There’s a little catch under the center handle that released the bottom of the box. There’s a whole compartment underneath.”

Drew put his hand to his head. “Hang it, I never noticed that!”

“Well, what happened then?” Wys asked. “Don’t tell me you decided to have a duel?”

“Nothing so silly as that,” Ferdie said quickly.

“Well, almost as silly,” Quent admitted. “We decided to shoot into a pillow. Tom put a bolster up on the mantelpiece, I loaded the gun, and then Ferdie and I struggled with it to see who would shoot.” Here he stopped and hung his head, too ashamed to go on.

“I see,” Drew said. “The gun, of course, went off in the struggle, and Tom was hit.”

“That’s how it was, sir,” said Quent miserably.

Drew got up, walked to the fireplace and stared into it. “I suppose you think I’m going to say that it could have been worse. But I’m not going to say it, because the worst is yet to come.” He turned around and looked first at Ferdie and then at Quent. “Who’s going to tell his sister?”

Ferdie and Quent exchanged looks of sheer terror. “Good Lord!” Ferdie croaked. “Not me!”

Quent lowered his eyes and remained silent. Drew sighed. “I guessed as much,” he said drily. “Wys, I don’t suppose that you—?”

Wys looked up at his friend blandly. “Don’t bother to ask,” he said promptly. “I am only an innocent bystander. Nothing to do with me, you know. Nothing at all to do with me.”

No sooner had Wys spoken than Quent leaped to his feet courageously. “I’ll do it,” he said with determination. “I’m the one who shot him, after all.”

Ferdie gaped at him admiringly. “I say, Quent, that’s very deedy!”

Drew smiled at him. “Yes, Quent, that was well done. But you’re not the only culprit.
I’m
the one who gave him the pistols in the first place. Besides, you look quite done in. Go on home, both of you. I think you’ve had punishment enough for one day.”

After the boys had taken their leave, Wys looked at his friend with a gleam of amusement. “I say, Drew,” he said in a rather good imitation of Ferdie’s voice, “that was very deedy.”

Drew grinned. “Oh, I don’t know,” he said modestly. “It shouldn’t take much courage to face her. She’s only a girl, after all. I’m almost a head taller than she is. And I outweigh her by three stone at least.”

“True,” said Wys, clapping him on the shoulder, “and spoken like a real champion!” Then the amusement faded from his eyes. “Drew,” he asked earnestly. “are you as sanguine about this as you appear to be?”

“Sanguine!” Drew exclaimed with a bitter laugh. “I’m more frightened at this moment than I’ve ever been in all my life!”

Pollard had instructed the coachman to proceed slowly on the journey back to Rowle House. It was more than an hour past midnight. The streets were deserted and the howling November wind added to the feeling of intimacy inside the carriage. Gwen was snug and comfortable wrapped in a warm pelisse, her hands tucked into a large muff and a blanket draped over her legs by the solicitous Sir George. Although the evening at the Warrentons’ had turned out quite as Gwen had expected, with Lambie prosing on about the Regent’s marital difficulties, Lord Warrenton ogling her decolletage persistently and Flora Warrenton whooping loudly at every opportunity, as if every remark were an indecent
double entendre
, Sir George had behaved in a most exemplary fashion throughout. His attentions to her were all that she could have wished, his conversation to the group in general and to her in particular was witty and in the best taste, and he several times tried, without obnoxiously forcing the issue, to turn the talk to subjects of greater depth. She was feeling so pleased with him that, even though he had placed his arm along the back of the coach seat, quite close to her shoulders, she didn’t mind at all.

“You look so lovely tonight,” he said after an almost awkward silence. “It’s difficult, when you look so enchanting, to say what I must to you.”

Gwen raised an eyebrow. “
What
must you say to me, George?”

He removed her hand from the muff and held it gently. “I … Oh, Gwen, my dear, I ought to stop seeing you!”

“George!” she said in complete surprise. “I don’t understand. Why?”

“I’ve been thinking of the future, my dear. For me it looks … well, unpromising…”

Gwen looked at him with sympathy. “Have you had a business setback? I am so sorry, George.”

George laughed mirthlessly. “If only it were
one. Everything
seems to go against me all at once. My affairs are … but I don’t wish to burden you with my problems. I haven’t the right—”

“Friendship gives you the right,” Gwen assured him gently. “You certainly have the right to confide in me. I have done so in you many times.”

George took her chin in his hand and turned her face to him. “You must know that it is more than friendship I want from you.”

Gwen knew that the statement was really a question, and it made her uncomfortable. She was an almost penniless widow and was therefore far from being besieged by suitors. Sir George was an exciting and useful escort as well as a friend of long standing. She did not want to lose him. But neither was she prepared to make their friendship into something deeper. In the past month she had learned what it was to love. Although that love was painful and gave her some of her most unhappy moments, she knew that the feelings she harbored for Pollard were not at all the same sort of thing. She did not love Sir George.

Gwen looked at him with a troubled frown. “Do not despise friendship, George,” she said earnestly. “It is something that can last through any crisis. It can sustain us through adversity such as you now endure. Why may we not remain friends?”

George noted the troubled look in her eyes and released her chin. Damnation, he thought, the girl is harder to catch than an eel. He had put himself to great effort this evening, yet she still kept her distance from him. But he must not lose patience, he cautioned himself. She was a fish worth catching. Give her line, he told himself, give her line. “I must be frank with you, Gwen, my dear,” he said aloud. “Friendship is a pale substitute for what I want. I love you. You must have seen it. I have never pretended otherwise.”

Gwen put up a restraining hand. “George, please don’t speak of it. I can’t—”

“I know, I know. I have no right. I don’t deserve—”

Gwen shook her head. “I didn’t say that. I never said you are not deserving, but…”

“There’s no need to be kind,” George said abjectly. “I know my value—or lack of it. You deserve the very best. I should not even dream of…” And he lapsed into silence, his head bowed miserably.

Gwen was touched. She put out her hand and touched his arm gently. “Oh, George,” she breathed, her voice trembling in sympathy.

He lifted his head, turned, and grasped her shoulders. “No, don’t say anything. I could not bear your pity. I should never have revealed my feelings. Forgive me. There is nothing for it now but to say goodbye.”

He turned away from her and sat gazing out of the window. Gwen sincerely felt for him. “Is there no way,” she asked at last, “for our friendship to continue?”

He did not turn. “It is better this way,” he said in a low voice.

“I don’t see why, George. Why can’t we just continue as we always have?”

He sighed and seemed to struggle with himself. “Is that what you wish?” he asked, turning to face her again.

“Yes, of course.”

“Then I haven’t the strength to refuse you,” he said with a melancholy smile. He lifted her hand to his lips. “I shall remain your friend … for a while at least.”

He was rewarded with a warm and, he thought, a relieved smile from Gwen. “I’m so glad,” she said.

A short while later he handed her down from the carriage and escorted her to the door. Neither Gwen nor Pollard noticed the phaeton waiting a few yards ahead of them. After Mitching admitted her and closed the door, George returned to the carriage, tapped his cane on the roof to signal the coachman, and settled back against the cushions contentedly. The evening had gone well. He had every reason to be quite satisfied with himself.

Sir George’s carriage could be heard clattering away down the street as Gwen handed her pelisse to the butler. It was only then that she noticed that the butler was eyeing her in some consternation. “What is it, Mitching? Is anything amiss?” she asked.

“I don’t know, my lady. Lord Jamison is awaiting you in the drawing room.”

Gwen paled. “Lord Jamison? Why did you admit him? You have my instructions in this matter.”

“Yes, my lady, but he said it was urgent.”

“Urgent? Nonsense! It’s just an excuse to … But at this time of night? Why, the man must be mad!”

“He said it was concerning Master Tom,” Mitching explained.

“Tom?” Gwen felt a stab of fear. “Is Tom in bed?”

“No, Lady Rowle,” the butler said worriedly. “That’s just it. He hasn’t come in yet.”

Gwen gasped and went quickly to the drawing room. She found Lord Jamison looking out of the window, his back to the door. She closed the door carefully, not moving further into the room, and asked in a tense voice, “What has happened to Tom?”

Drew turned. Gwen noted immediately that his expression was grim and his jaw tense. “What has happened to Tom?” she asked again, her voice more shrill.

“Gwen, don’t look like that! He’s going to be fine,” Drew said quickly, taking a few steps toward her.

“For God’s sake,
tell
me!” she cried out.

“Won’t you sit down first?” Drew suggested.

“No,” she said shortly, her eyes fixed on his face.

Drew’s eyes wavered. He had planned carefully how he would explain the accident to her, but he suddenly realized that it would be kinder to her to tell her outright—though it would undoubtedly go harder with him. “He’s been shot,” he said quickly.

Gwen swayed. In two strides he was at her side. He put an arm around her and led her to the sofa. Sitting down beside her, he spoke to her gently. “It’s nothing serious, Gwen, I promise you. A shoulder wound. The doctor says he’ll be good as new in a fortnight.”

“Where is he? I must go to him,” she said dazedly.

“He is at my house, fast asleep. I’m certain he won’t wake until tomorrow afternoon at the earliest. There’s no need to trouble before then.”

She shook her head. “No, I must—” Then she stopped and raised her head. “
Your
house? Why?” she asked, her cheeks whitening.

“It’s a rather long story—” Drew began.

“Oh, my God!” Gwen gasped. “It was a duel! Did
you
—?”

Drew stared at her stupidly for a moment. Then, realizing what was in her mind, his expression hardened. He looked at her with a bitter sneer and got to his feet. “No, Lady Rowle,” he said, turning his back to her, “
I
did not shoot your brother.”

He felt his fingers clench into fists. Damn the woman, he thought, I’d like to hit her! What a monster she must think him. He wanted nothing more than to slam out of her house and cut off all ties with her and her wretched family. He strode furiously to the door, but before he could open it, he heard a small intake of breath. The sound stayed his hand from turning the knob. It was a sound that seemed to combine helplessness and misery. His heart melted. He could not leave her frightened and distressed. He loved her, no matter what she thought of him.

With a resigned sigh, he returned to the sofa and sat down beside her. “Your brother and his friends were examining a pistol,” he said quietly. “It went off, hitting Tom in the shoulder. It was nothing more than a silly accident.”

“You’re sure he’ll be all right?” Gwen asked in a small voice.

“Yes. He’s lost some blood, of course, and he’ll have difficulty in raising his arm for a while, but he’ll suffer no permanent damage.”

“I see.” Gwen sighed in some relief. “How is it, Dr—Lord Jamison, that his friends brought him to you?”

“They were reluctant to frighten you, and, being quite frightened themselves and knowing that Tom and I were acquainted, they chose to bring him to me.”

Gwen raised her eyes to his face. “May I go to him?”

“But I’ve told you there’s no need—”

She lowered her eyes again. “I realize that this is quite awkward, but I would like to sit with him. Please. I know it is an intrusion on you—”