Virginia Henley (9 page)

Kit stepped back in horror, but at that moment Colonel Stevenson quickly intervened. “No, no, Harding. The scene must not be disturbed until we establish exactly what happened here. The body must not be touched until the Coroner has pronounced him dead.”

Nicholas saw his twin’s deathly pallor and the terrified look in his eyes. He feared that Kit would either begin to confess his hatred for their father or pass out from shock, and he knew he had to get him away from the body. “Christopher and I will be up at the house, Colonel. The accident has unnerved us. I shall inform Lord Staines that you need him immediately, then I will answer any questions the two of you may have.” Nick turned to Hart and Rupert, who had just arrived and stood gaping helplessly. “Will you see to the horses?” he asked quietly, then moved to his brother’s side and touched his arm as a signal that they should leave.

 

Mr. Burke took one look at the twins’ faces as they entered the hall and knew something terrible had happened. “Whatever is amiss?”

“There’s been a hunting accident,” Nick said quickly.

Kit ran his hand distractedly through his hair, over and over again, trying to brush back the curl that fell over his forehead. “Father’s dead!”

Mr. Burke stared and shook his head in disbelief.

“Burke, would you be good enough to inform Lord Staines that he is needed at the accident scene? Rupert will show him.” With a steadying hand on his brother’s elbow, Nick guided him up to his bedchamber. Kit, shaking from head to foot, stumbled on the stairs as his legs threatened to give out under him.

The moment they were inside the chamber, Nick locked the door and shoved his brother into a leather chair.

“Whiskey,” Kit muttered.

Nicholas poured water from the jug and washed his father’s blood from his hands. Then he went to a cabinet and sniffed at the contents of two decanters. “Brandy will do you better at the moment . . . it’s a restorative.” He splashed the golden liquor into a goblet and brought it to his brother.

Kit tossed the fiery liquid down his throat and gasped as it took his breath away. He shook his head as if to clear it. “I cannot believe he’s dead! Any minute I expect him to come crashing through the door, raving and shouting his orders, browbeating me into a bloody betrothal.”

“Kit, we haven’t much time. They’ll be here with their questions very shortly.”

“They won’t question
me
! It was
your
gun!
You
admitted doing it. . . . They won’t question me, will they?” he asked desperately.

“They might, Christopher. They may ask if you witnessed the accident.” In a calm voice Nick explained, “They are within their rights to ask anything they wish. They are investigating the death of Lord Hatton, a Baron of the Realm.”

“
I
am Lord Hatton!”

Nicholas stared at his twin, thinking it a strange thing for him to say. “So you are,” he said slowly. Nick suddenly had second thoughts. He never should have given in to his brother’s pleading to take the blame upon himself. It was time that Christopher took responsibility for his own actions. He was a man grown; it was high time he started acting like one.

“You won’t change your story?” Kit demanded fearfully. “You’ve always been there for me. . . . We’re in this together, Nick, always together, right?”

Nicholas let out a long, slow breath, knowing he would capitulate. “I won’t change my story. It would draw suspicion to both of us—they might begin to think we conspired to kill him.”

“It was an
accident,
Nick. You
do
believe me?”

Nicholas knew his twin had left him no choice in the matter. “Yes, I believe you.”

 

As Alexandra rode into the courtyard, she saw a small group of hunters who were accompanied by two grooms transporting something heavy from the woods. For a moment she thought they carried a stag, but then she saw the red hunting jacket and realized it was a man. She spotted Rupert leading Renegade into the stables and spurred her mount to catch up with him.

“There’s been an accident.” Her hand covered her thudding heart as she searched Rupert’s ashen face. “Kit’s been injured—the black threw him!”

“No, no, Alex. It’s Lord Hatton. He’s been shot.”

“Oh, no! Is he badly injured?”

“He’s dead, Alex,” Rupert said through stiff, bloodless lips.

Alexandra sat stunned as she watched the grooms carry the body into Hatton Hall. Her very first thought was of the shouting match she had overheard this morning between Lord Hatton and his son.
Nicholas, no!
Her heart contracted.
Nick would be blamed—Nick was always blamed.
She rejected the thought instantly, then her own words about the house party came back to her. She had said to Nick,
“Keep your fingers crossed for something scandalous.”
Alexandra closed her eyes as guilty remorse washed over her.

 

Nicholas opened his brother’s bedchamber door and admitted the two men who knocked. The questions by Colonel Stevenson, Justice of the Peace, were perfunctory. He completely ignored Christopher Hatton and addressed Nicholas. “Tell me what happened.”

Nick looked the colonel directly in the eye. “There was a stag. I thought I had a clear view. Father rode directly into my path as I fired.”

The colonel held out a gun. “Is this Heylin pistol yours?”

Nick did not hesitate. “Yes, sir.”

The colonel nodded to Lord Staines, who had brought a death certificate with him. Neville wrote
accident
against the cause of death, then signed it in his capacity as County Coroner. Colonel Stevenson added his signature as witness, and that put an end to the legalities. In a trice the matter was set right and tight as a drum; all clean, and legal, and above board. The gentlemen offered the twins their condolences and departed.

The members of the upper class were adept at cleaning up their own messes; they happened on a regular basis. Appearances were what mattered most to Society, and took precedence over any other consideration. Once the legalities were airtight, however, the gossip and conjecture of the
beau monde
would run rampant. The upper class was addicted to blood sport.

When Stevenson and Staines departed, Kit asked eagerly, “Is that it? Is it over?”

“Perhaps the legalities are over, but there is a plethora of things to do, arrangements to make, plans for the burial—”

Kit recoiled. “I can’t face any of that!” He strode to the cabinet and filled his glass with whiskey.

“Things have to be faced,” Nick insisted. “We have to go down and see what they’ve done with Father’s body. And we can’t just ignore a houseful of guests.”

Kit took three gulps of his whiskey. “Let the servants look after the bloody guests.”

“The people who serve us will be overwhelmed. They’ll be looking to us for direction.”

Kit lifted his gaze from his glass and looked into his brother’s eyes. “I’m still shaking. Since you’re so cool and calm, you give them direction.”

Nick threw his twin a look of contempt as he watched him lift his glass to his lips. Kit despised their father, yet he had many of Henry Hatton’s weaknesses. He got dog-bitten-drunk far too often. Nick rubbed the tension from the back of his neck. Perhaps he was expecting too much of his brother. He’d just gone through the horrendous ordeal of causing a fatal accident, and the guilt of it must be eating him alive. Kit would need time to come to terms with it all. “I’ll go down and cope with things.”

 

Lord Staines tapped on Lady Longford’s chamber door and entered discreetly. “It is as we feared, my dearest. The accident was fatal. Henry was shot through the heart. I’ve just signed the death certificate.”

“Well, it’s a wonder he wasn’t shot years ago. Who shot him? Was it Annabelle’s husband?” she asked bluntly.

“Dottie, my dearest, I shall never get used to the outrageous things you say.” He took her hand as if to soften the news. “Hatton was accidentally killed by his own son.”

Her hand went to her throat. “Not Christopher?” “No, it wasn’t his heir; it was Nicholas. It is best that I go to the courthouse and file this death certificate immediately. I want everything tidy, with no loose ends; it’s the least I can do for the Hattons. Rupert is coming to take you home; I do apologize for not escorting you, my dearest.”

“
Tush,
Neville, it is only the next estate after all. I am perfectly capable of managing.”

When he had gone, Dottie sat down heavily in a padded boudoir chair and stared into space.
I am perfectly capable of managing . . . capable of managing . . .

managing . . .
She had been managing for as long as she could remember. She had laid her plans so carefully, so cunningly. At long last she had secured her beloved Alexandra’s future by manipulating Henry Hatton into agreeing to the betrothal between his heir and her granddaughter. Now, only hours before it became a
fait accompli,
it had all been swept away. Fate was a hideous bitch!

It was all a
charade
. . . the great wealth, the investments, her insistence that Alexandra have a Season. Even her eccentricity was an invention to explain away the oddities and disparities of appearing to be rich as Croesus, when not a groat remained in her bank account at Barclays. So long as she was able to keep up the facade, Society would fawn upon her, but Dottie knew time was running out, and she was almost at her wit’s end.

Oh, it had all been true once upon a time. She had married the wealthiest lord in Bucks County, Viscount Longford. Her husband had then proceeded to squander his fortune on the gaming tables and notorious women. Fortunately, Russell had drunk himself to death before all the money ran out, leaving Dottie with magnificent Longford Manor.

She clenched her fists with outrage at the thought of Johnny Sheffield, her untitled lout of a son-in-law who had gone through her daughter’s dowry like a dose of salts. No wonder Margaret had left him, but she had also left two penniless children behind in the wake of her shipwrecked marriage.
It was my fault. I should have taken a firmer hand with Margaret and insisted she marry a man of wealth and title!
She vowed again that she would not let the same fate overtake Alexandra.

Her sharp mind rapidly went over her alternatives. One thing was certain: There would be no betrothal announced tonight. Still, she clung to her hopes doggedly, refusing to allow them to be snuffed out like a guttering candle. Perhaps, after a short period of mourning, a quiet wedding could be arranged. She straightened her wig with an impatient tug, and resolved to discuss the matter with Christopher before she left. As she packed she looked on the bright side—perhaps the Thomas Lawrence paintings had sold.

Alexandra opened Dottie’s chamber door, breathless from rushing up three flights of stairs. “Have you heard about the terrible accident?” She did not wait for her grandmother’s answer, but rushed on, “I cannot find Nicholas . . . I’ve looked everywhere. I must go to him! He’ll need to talk with someone.”

“Alexandra, come and sit down for a moment. Lord Staines has gone to the courthouse to file the death certificate. He certified it as an accidental death, so there will be no legal complications for Nicholas. Go and pack your things, darling. Rupert is taking us home.”

Alexandra decided that it was best not to argue with her grandmother, but her resolve hardened. She had no intention of leaving until she had spoken with Nicholas.

 

“Mr. Burke, I shall be forever grateful to you for stepping in and directing the servants in our family’s hour of misfortune.” Nicholas knew the words sounded stilted, but he meant them with all his heart. He thanked Meg Riley for her ministrations to his father’s body. Cleaning up the wound, and bathing the corpse, must have been no easy task for the aging nursemaid. The valet too had played his part, selecting the clothes in which Lord Hatton was now laid out and disposing of his hunting attire.

Nicholas said decisively, “We’ll leave him lie here in his bedchamber until the coffin I’ve ordered arrives, then we will move him to the library for the customary viewing. I’ve sent word to the church; let me know when Reverend Doyle arrives, so we can make the burial arrangements.”

Mr. Burke nodded his understanding and departed with the valet. Meg Riley placed her hand on Nicholas’s sleeve to comfort him, but her eyes welled up with tears over the disaster that had befallen the young man she loved most in all the world, and she could find no words. Nicholas covered her worn hand with his and squeezed firmly, infusing her with his strength. “It will be all right, Meg. Go and get some rest.”

As Nick stood looking down at his father, he expected to feel only numbness, but to his own amazement he realized that he was in mourning. He mourned the lifetime of rejection his father had shown him. He mourned the love and acceptance for which he had strived so hard but never achieved. And he mourned the fact that matters could never be set right between them, for their time had all run out.

As Nicholas descended the great curving staircase that led down to the vaulted foyer, he saw that it was crowded with guests who were awaiting their carriages. They were leaving
en masse,
and apparently couldn’t get away fast enough. The Duchess of Rutland’s voice carried clearly up to him. “Devilish queer! It staggers the senses to think that he not only caused his mother’s death but twenty-one years to the very day, he has killed his father!”

A cynical smile tugged at the corner of Nick’s mouth. Surely he had not expected compassion from these people? He squared his shoulders and descended into the vipers’ nest, bracing himself for their artificial condolences. Yet it was suddenly brought home to him that he still deeply mourned the mother he had never known, who had died giving him life.

After the guests departed, Nick ran upstairs to check on his brother before the minister arrived. What he found did not completely surprise him. The room was in disarray, with clothes strewn everywhere. The whiskey decanter as well as the one that had held the brandy lay empty upon the carpet. Kit lay sprawled across his bed in a drunken stupor. Nick decided there was no earthly point in trying to revive him. It was probably best to let him sleep it off.