The Love Affair of an English Lord (25 page)

She stared at the clusters of people assembled on the church porch, around the footpath. Servants and gentry, young and old.

Sir Edgar was not here.

“It's happening right now,” she said, gazing toward the main road. “While I stand here like a ninnyhammer listening to my aunt talk about her haunted shoe. They're together at this very moment.”

Her uncle was suddenly at her elbow, his face grave. “What is it?”

“I—” She shook her head, her instincts struggling against the promise she had made. “I cannot tell you.”

“Tell me,” he said. His voice was very low. “I know he is alive if that is what you are trying to hide from me.”

“What?” she whispered, her face turning gray.

“I know Stratfield survived the attempt on his life, and I believe I know who wanted him dead. What I do not know is how
you
became involved with him, Chloe. Your aunt watched all your comings and goings from the house like a hawk. How could you possibly have established a friendship with the man from your room?”

Chloe stared miserably at the row of uneven crosses in the churchyard. “It doesn't seem possible, does it?”

“How?”

“Well, he fell into the situation, so to speak.”

“Fell?”

“Umm.”

“Into . . . the—”

“The trunk of my underthings from London, all right? Now you know the sordid details. He did not plan it. I didn't plan it. In fact, I was sitting in my room, minding my own business, on the road to reform—”

“Your room,” Sir Humphrey said, hitting the heel of his hand on his forehead. “I should have guessed. It wasn't Devon, was it? It was Stratfield. You . . . oh, how could you, Chloe?”

“Are we going to stand here berating my behavior all day?” she demanded. “Dominic is with Edgar right now.”

He took her arm. “No. I shall berate you on the way home.”

He marched her past Pamela and her friends, all of whom gave Chloe a sympathetic smile. Chloe could only assume that they assumed she had gotten into trouble again, and—

“Why don't we take the carriage, Uncle Humphrey?”

“Because your aunt will not walk a mile in her haunted shoe, that's why, and because I know a shortcut that is much faster.”

“Shouldn't we at least tell her that we are leaving?” Chloe asked with an anxious glance over her shoulder.

“And spoil her dramatic moment?” Sir Humphrey shook his head. “We'll leave word with the driver to bring her and Pamela home. Wait here.”

“But—”

Chloe stood alone on the footpath as he hurried off toward the line of waiting carriages. In the distance she could see the tips of the trees that encircled Stratfield Hall. Of course Dominic would have planned the details of his revenge down to the hour.

He couldn't confront Edgar at night, when the servants might hear a disturbance, or the sound of a pistol shot would carry in the silence. He had chosen instead a Sunday morning while everyone was at church.

“All right,” Sir Humphrey said, huffing a little for breath as he rejoined her. “We want to be gone before anyone asks to come with us.”

Chloe fell into step with his brisk strides. “What are we going to do?”

His mouth firmed. “
You
are doing nothing, young lady. It seems to me you have done quite enough already. I shudder to think how I shall explain this to your aunt, let alone the rest of your family.”

A chill seeped into Chloe's bones. “Do you really
have
to tell them?”

“I'm afraid you have crossed the line this time, Chloe. A kiss behind a parked carriage is one thing.”

“You might as well put a noose around my neck,” she said glumly. “Or toss me on a ship to be transported to the colonies.”

“I doubt the colonies would know what to do with you.”

“Uncle Humphrey,” she said in despair, “I thought
you
understood. I did only what I had to do.”

He decimated a crop of toadstools with his walking stick. “You might have sought my help, Chloe.”

“He wouldn't let me.”

“But he let you help him?”

“He didn't want to do that either. But when I found out about Brandon—”

“Brandon?”

“Dominic believes that Edgar had Brandon and Samuel killed in Nepal because they found out he had betrayed the British army to the French. Edgar planned the ambush.”

“Dear God.”

“He doesn't have a conscience, Uncle Humphrey.”

“Dominic,” he said, shaking his head in dismay. “On a first-name basis with a ghost now, are we?”

“How did you find out he was still alive, Uncle Humphrey?”

“His gamekeeper Finley and I put our heads together. I had suspected for some time that Stratfield's death was not as simple as it appeared. Finley and I both felt that more than a mere poacher was haunting the woods.”

“
Haunting
is the word.”

“After Finley and I talked, he did a little investigating inside the house late at night. He knew his master was alive but would not betray him for the world.”

“As his uncle did,” she murmured.

“Yes.” He threw her an irate look. “Which does not excuse the fact or explain why
you
became involved with him.”

“It doesn't, does it?”

Chloe felt a little breathless by this time, from practically running through the tall grass, from defending her position, from trying to convince herself that Dominic was not fighting for his life while she and her uncle argued with each other.

“I thought you and I understood each other, Chloe. I thought you were on the path to reform.”

“I thought so, too, Uncle Humphrey.”

He grunted. “And hiding a man in your room was supposed to help you in exactly
what
way?”

Chapter 23

All through the night Dominic had played a game of cat and mouse with Edgar. Leaving one tantalizing clue after another, he had laid a trail from his bedchamber to the secret passage in the long gallery, through the narrow tunnels beneath his house to the underground dungeon where he had plotted his revenge.

Now, on this quiet Sunday morning, he would end the game. The estate was empty; only the black swans gliding on the lake remained in place to witness what would happen. The neighbors had trundled off to church; the long-winded parson had just begun his sermon.

Chloe was probably fidgeting in her pew, perhaps even flirting with that fool Justin to alleviate her boredom. Dominic had watched through the telescope to see her climb into the carriage with her relatives. The carriage had not returned. At least he could act knowing that she was safe with her family.

Adrian stood guard inside the gatehouse.

Edgar was so close now that Dominic could hear him breathe, could feel the vibrations of his cautious footsteps on the secret staircase that led to Dominic's lair.

“Where are you, damn it?” his uncle muttered into the airless void. “Come out and show me your face. Let this be done in the open.”

“Why?” Dominic called up quietly. “Why, when you have worked in darkness for years to destroy so many lives?”

He heard Edgar hesitate, sensed him studying the shadowed chasm below him to discern Dominic's exact location. “What nonsense is this, Dominic? Why are you hiding from me?”

“I'm not hiding, Edgar. I am merely waiting for my guest to arrive.”

“Why?”

“To give you a chance to explain yourself, to deny what we both know is true.”

Edgar hesitated. “I deny nothing.”

“Turn yourself in, or I shall take you in myself.”

Edgar forced a laugh, descending another step. “A gun is so much more efficient than a dagger.” He lifted his right hand steadily; the ebony barrel of a dueling pistol gleamed in the dark. “I should have used this the first time on you.”

Dominic slowly uncurled his body from his crouching position in the corner. “But how efficient is a gun with a safety that has been jammed, Edgar?” he asked slowly.

Edgar's voice shook in fury. “I had my pistols locked away—”

“In
my
desk. Did you forget that you are only a guest here? A most unwelcome one, at that.”

Panicking, Edgar raised the pistol to Dominic's face and pulled the trigger, only to fling it to the steps when it failed to fire.

“You're insane, Dominic. Who but a madman would hide in the walls of his own house? I should have you put away. After all, you staged your own murder in order to seduce the poor sleeping women of this village. You are a certified lunatic.”

“Without doubt. Perhaps it is a family trait that we both share.”

“Go to hell.”

Dominic laughed at the unintended irony of his uncle's words. “Where do you think we are?”

“I should have cut your heart out that night.”

“And kept it in a casket under your pillows?” Dominic's voice was almost detached. “Who was coming here to meet you last night, Edgar? Who helped you betray your country?”

Edgar did not answer.

“I know why you had my brother and Brandon killed.”

Edgar paused. “They knew, too, but it didn't help them.”

“How many people were involved?”

Edgar laughed bitterly. “Why? Do you think you and your Boscastle friends can conquer the world? Your brother believed that Brandon Boscastle would protect him, and they both died.”

Dominic would not allow the taunt to weaken him, knowing that Edgar would pay for that, too. Involving the Boscastle family only made him more determined to bring his uncle to justice.

“I hoped you would turn yourself in, Edgar.”

“I'd rather see us both dead.”

“All right. Here.” Dominic threw a sword into the air. “Catch. This will be our final lesson. Do you remember our practices? You made me fight you blindfolded. It was an excellent discipline for fencing in the dark.”

Edgar cursed in anger, his hand lifting reflexively to grasp the hilt. “Do you really think to beat me?” He descended the remaining stairs with cautious grace. “I taught you everything you know about fencing. I studied your weaknesses, Dominic. I learned your vulnerabilities.”

Dominic drew his sword. “One fights with the mind as well as the body, is that not what you used to tell me?”

“I'm flattered that you remember.” Moving with an agility that belied his age, he opened with a straight thrust and disengaged inward. “The pity of it is that I have studied other techniques since your schoolroom days.”

“Show me.”

Edgar circled the shadowed form in front of him. Once in Paris he had been a
maître d'armes,
which was when Dominic suspected he had made his French connections. “Samuel thought he could bring me down, too. Do you know exactly how he died?”

Dominic did not waver. There was no emotional manipulation or mental torment that could break his concentration now. He had come back from the grave for this moment. He had sat in this unbreathable hole for weeks, picturing the exact scene as it unfolded before him. He had planned how he would execute each move. He had prepared himself for every eventuality.

Not even hearing the vile description of how Samuel had been ambushed and brutally killed could distract him. Edgar's taunts fell on his mind like raindrops on a stone, not penetrating his hardened emotions at all.

“Do you know what his body looked like when he was found, Dominic?” Edgar asked, attacking with feint and disengaging.

Dominic balanced his weight and lunged. “Perhaps you should be more concerned with how you will look when we are done.”

 

Edgar had stripped down to his boots, shirt, and pantaloons. He had not slept all night. For hours he had been following clues that confirmed what the backward village of Chistlebury had claimed all along.

Stratfield was haunting his own home. His spirit would not rest until he had confronted his killer.

Of course what this village of peasants did not know was that Dominic had never been laid to rest. Edgar had been unable to attend the funeral because he was allegedly in Wales at the time of the murder. To be present at the burial would have aroused suspicion, and Edgar had foolishly assumed that Dominic could not possibly have survived the slashing he had dealt him.

But the stubborn bastard had refused to die, unlike his two brothers who had very obligingly gone to the grave. Michael, of an accident in which Edgar had played no part. Samuel, by the assassins he'd hired in Nepal.

It was in the midst of war-ravaged Portugal at Corunna that Samuel, nothing more than an inexperienced messenger boy at the time, had discovered that Edgar was trading military secrets to the French.

Samuel and his brash young friend Lord Brandon Boscastle had followed Edgar one morning to a small village church and caught him in conversation with a Portuguese priest who in secret was working for the French.

The two men had confronted Edgar in private that same day, requesting a clarification of why Edgar had met secretly with a priest, and conversed in French.

Edgar confessed that his family had descended from a long line of Roman Catholics. He did not practice his faith in the open; in fact, he had converted to the Church of England to become a soldier, but in a moment of weakness he had thought a few prayers would not hurt. Samuel should understand; he was, after all, his own nephew, and the family descended from a line of Roman Catholics.

It was a plausible explanation.

Samuel and Brandon had even appeared to accept the story at face value and never questioned him again. A few years later, when Edgar angrily resigned his commission in the army to accept a better-paying post with the Honourable East India Company, the adventurous pair asked to again join his regiment.

Edgar had not dreamed that the seemingly boyish young soldiers had been commissioned by British Intelligence to spy on him, to gather information proving he had sold information to the French after he had been bypassed for the promotion he believed that he deserved.

A young inexperienced aristocrat who'd won Wellington's favor had gotten the job that Edgar coveted. The years he'd worked so diligently for the army counted for nothing.

Now, ironically, with Dominic's death, Edgar had stood poised to receive everything he had earned. A title, land, riches. Damn it to hell, he had
killed
his own kin for his reward.

It did not bother him at all that he would kill Dominic for a second time.