Athena's Ordeal (18 page)

"Her father. I've never know the exact conflict between Quince and the viscount, but it has been enduring."

"Ah. Well, you know what they say. 
Omnia vincit amor.
 Love conquers all."

"It has yet to conquer this hangover."

"Oh, my poor husband." She laughed but rubbed his temples. "Why did you drink so much?"

"There were reasons, believe me. But it didn't seem to have the desired effect." He sighed and leaned into her hands. "That feels good. Please don't stop."

Quince tried thrice more to intercept the viscount: once at Parliament and twice at White
’s. He finally heard that Bittlesworth had withdrawn to the country. It was hard to determine whether the seed he had planted had already taken root and caused Bittlesworth to withdraw from his regular routine, or if the viscount was simply continuing on with whatever plans he already had. Left without any further options for influencing his supposed blackmailers, Quince completed his parliamentary work and left for the country himself. Belle Fleur, of course, as it was convenient to London. His seat in Northampton was two full days away and he didn't feel that being so far from London would be wise.

Shortly after arriving at the estate he received a letter from Gideon that seemed primarily about their shared investments but cleverly mentioned a fruitless conversation with a mutual friend and the happy arrival of Jack's guest.
 Robert wasn't being helpful and Quince’s sister was safe.

Meanwhile, he missed Sabre every day.
 He mooned about in the Rose Room for much of the first day he was home, and then requested that all of her items be moved to the duchess's suite. Except for the shawl she had been wearing when she arrived, which he kept in his own room. It still smelled lightly of her scent. When he awoke each morning he looked for her before remembering she was gone. At night he would lie on the balcony staring at the stars and wish she was with him. If this was love, it was damned inconvenient.

He was beginning not to care much at all about the blackmailer. His sister was safe with Gideon. As for his mother, it was most likely the secret of her additional children the blackmailer was hoping to use, and that was something that would become public in accordance to his own plans. Whatever role Robert had in the affair was unfortunate, but he found he simply couldn't care about it anymore. His lassitude was such that he had to force himself to prepare for the trip back to London for the
Harrington ball. The ball where he had invited the blackmailer to make further contact. As the news of his brother's existence was already being fed to the papers this week, the threat of the letters didn't seem as great. Without a great deal of enthusiasm, he was packed and prepared for the trip to London two days before the ball was to occur.

"Miss Bittlesworth, may I present Miss Frederick. Miss Frederick, my good friend Miss Bittlesworth."

Sabre looked at the young girl curtsying to her and felt longing pierce through her. The child looked so much like Quince it was hard not to leave off from curtsying and simply hug her. She must be frightened. Confused. But she had enough of her brother's backbone to look reserved instead.

"It is good to meet you, Miss Bittlesworth."

Really, any moment now she would hug the girl and be done with it. Oh, sweet Lord, was she not going to be able to say anything without being choked up? This would never do. She took a deep breath before saying, "And you, Miss Frederick."

Jack was looking back and forth between them and said, "Miss Frederick, Sabre, rather, Miss Bittlesworth and I will be doing some shopping this morning so Emmy will be your companion for today. You will, of course, both stay inside?” Jack looked at the girls until they both nodded agreement. “Perhaps you two would like for us to bring you some ribbons?"

Emmy's eyes lit up. "Oh, yes, my lady. Green, if you please."

"What color do you prefer?" Jack asked the girl.

The young 'Miss Frederick' seemed to consider it as a very serious question.

"Celestial blue," Sabre announced. She stepped forward to tip the girl's chin. "To bring out those lovely eyes."

That
 succeeded in making the girl smile. "If you're sure."

Jack laughed. "Sabre is always sure."

Sabre felt her lip quiver. No, she was not always sure. Right now she was hardly sure of anything. She had thought that washing her hands of Quince's plans would lead to an eventual lessening of her concern for him. Nothing could be further than the truth. She missed him constantly, as though a splinter had buried deep into her heart and was festering. Leaving him was supposed to lessen her concerns, not increase them! Would she never be free of him? Would she never stop missing him? Worrying about him? It had been the better part of a fortnight and she still felt hollow, bereft. Perhaps she could convince Jack to visit Floris, the perfumery. Surely they would have some lemongrass scent on hand that she could purchase. But would that only prolong the agony? No, she wasn't sure of anything anymore.

The morning was clear and warm, as good a day for travel as one could hope. Quince's staff had fussed over him a bit. He had not only had a good breakfast before he left, but a basket of treats tucked under the carriage seat. His driver and footman were up top, while three outriders were arrayed around the carriage. Hopefully in two hours he would be at his London townhouse. Within twenty minutes he had started to doze when he heard rapid hoof beats riding off to the west. A moment after that the carriage rattled onto the short bridge that spanned a creek. He was drowsy and slightly irritated by being awakened.

A loud explosion rocked the carriage violently. He heard splintering wood and a horse screaming. His conveyance surged forward, and then tipped over as more explosions erupted. He tried to brace himself but was flung forcibly against the opposite seat as the carriage crashed on its side and he was unable to keep himself from falling backwards through the air. He heard glass breaking, men shouting, and suddenly all was darkness.

"Your grace? Your grace?" He felt someone shaking his arm and wondered who had decided to invade his bedroom this time. Then he noticed the noise. Men
shouting, horses stomping. A shot rang out close by and he sat up abruptly. His footman, Averton he thought, backed away quickly. Light streamed in above him where the door to the carriage was open. There was a stabbing pain in his head and he felt so horrible he thought he might cast up his accounts.

"Who is shooting at us?" the duke demanded.

Averton glanced toward the front of the carriage. "They had to put down the second carriage horse. Can you stand, your grace?"

Although moving quickly seemed unwise, Quince put a hand out and pushed himself to his feet. He stood, dizzy and trembling.

Averton looked him over. "How do you feel, your grace?"

"Furious."

He jumped up to grab the sides of the door and pulled himself out. Sitting on the carriage he surveyed the scene. It was grim. Both carriage horses appeared dead, the first most likely not surviving the explosion. The driver was on the ground, bloody, with one of the men seeing to him. Quince looked back over his shoulder at the bridge. A good portion of it had been shredded apart by the explosion and spikes of jagged wood were everywhere. It looked as though the first explosion had been under the front left wheel and left horse. It was quite likely that the second horse bolting in terror had saved his life.

"Can I help you, your grace?" Averton called up from below.

"No," Quince said, then added in a murmur, "it seems no one can."

He jumped to the ground, which jarred his aching head. But he drew himself up and approached the man crouched over the driver. "How is he?"

"He'll be fine, your grace," the outrider said, but his eyes gave a different story and encouraged no more questions. "Stanford went to fetch the doctor. Hopefully they'll be back soon."

"Averton," Quince called.

"Yes, your grace?" the young man said, having extracted himself from the carriage.

"In my trunk, there should be some laudanum. Bring it for the driver."

"Yes, your grace."

Quince looked down at the outrider. "I'm sorry, but I've forgotten your name."

"Cosgrove, your grace."

"Cosgrove, as you seem to know what you're about I will leave you here to care for him as you are able. Averton will be here to assist you. Where is the other outrider?"

"Platts is trying to track down the rider we heard running off before the explosion."

"When he returns tell him to follow me to London."

Cosgrove stood. "Your grace, you shouldn't go alone."

Quince gave him a quelling stare and would grant that the man didn't back down easily. His familiarity with treating wounds made Quince assume he was a soldier, now it seemed likely he had been an officer.

"You're bleeding, your grace. At least let me see to that first."

A delay tactic, but a good one. "It doesn't signify," Quince said and turned to gather the reins of Cosgrove's mount. At least the time to London would be shorter as a single rider. He jumped into the saddle, gritted his teeth against the pain still throbbing in his head, and set the horse to a canter.

Quince made good time and sailed through the front doors of the Home Office in under an hour. He presented his card and asked to be escorted to Robert Bittlesworth. The staff, a bit overwhelmed by both his title and rough appearance, scrambled to do his bidding. Within moments they had taken him upstairs and bowed him into a well-appointed room where Robert was speaking with another man. They both rose to greet the duke as he was announced.

Sparing not a glance at the other man, Quince focused on Robert. "I need to talk to you. Alone."

"The ambassador-"

"I don't care if he's the bloody King of Prussia." Finally looking at the second man, who seemed a bit shocked, Quince said to him, "Get out."

The ambassador and staff exited hastily. Robert frowned and came around the desk toward him. "Telford, I'm not sure what you're about-"

Quince shoved the younger man against the wall and held him there, forearm braced across Robert’s throat. "The correct address is 'your grace.' I wouldn't think that would be hard to remember. You know more of my case than you have divulged. You will tell me all or I will see to it that you are hanged." He didn't see fear in Robert's eyes, but he did see calculation.

"Yes, your grace."

There was a knock at the door of an unusual cadence and Robert said, "That is one of my agents. The knock signals that it will pertain to you. Shall I let him in?"

Quince released him and backed away. "Yes. I'll be curious to hear what he has to say."

Robert straightened his jacket and called, "Enter."

A small, nondescript man slipped in the door. He seemed shocked to see Quince and bowed low. "Your grace."

"Report," Robert said sharply.

The man's glance flicked back and forth between them. "There was an attempt on the duke's life this morning, sir. I didn't know he'd survived until now."

"What sort of an attempt?"

"At the bridge crossing on the Mimmshall, m'lord. I was following at a distance when there was an explosion at the bridge. Saw a rider galloping away. The duke’s man chased him and I followed at a distance, sir, but was unable to catch up to
them. Came here to report, sir."

Robert looked appraisingly at Quince then turned back to his agent. "Anything else?"

"No, sir."

"You are dismissed."

The man nodded and slipped through the door as quietly as he had come, leaving Quince and Robert to stare at each other. Robert finally turned to his sideboard and prepared drinks.

"Hell of a morning for you then, your grace." He handed the duke a tumbler of scotch. "How can I assist you?"

Quince swallowed a hearty amount of the liquor and took a seat. "You know how you can assist me. So out with it."

Robert sat across from the duke and rolled his own tumbler between his hands, having not yet taken a drink. Staring
 down into his scotch he said, "Sometimes I wonder, in God's accounting for your soul, what matters most. Intention, action, or result?"

"What do you mean?"
Quince asked.

"Any of those things can be good or evil. A good intention can lead to an evil action. How many have murdered in the name of the church? An evil action may lead to a good result. What if a murder saved hundreds of other lives? So which matters
most? That you meant to cause harm? Or that you caused harm? That you meant to ease suffering? Or that you eased suffering?"

"Admittedly this isn't something that I've thought about a great deal."

"Of course you haven't," Robert said with a ghost of a smile. "Angels have no need for redemption."

"Explain to me how this is salient."

"Although this affects you, it was never about you. And I certainly never intended for someone to make an attempt on your life. Especially now." He frowned down into the glass. "Especially now that Sabre's feelings are engaged."

"If it isn't about me, then who is it about, Robert?" Quince was feeling the warm pressure in his gut that told him an important truth was in the offing. "What is going on?"

Robert finally looked up at him and his expression was one that Quince couldn't place. "It's about my father."

Quince sat forward. He was beginning to wonder if he would have to physically pull the story out. "In what way?"

Robert looked down into his drink again. "He's not a good man, my father." That made him smirk. "Of course, there are people who would say that about me."

"If you want the
 viscountancy there should be easier ways to go about getting it than this."

The younger man's expression became hardened, vicious. "If I wanted him dead he would be dead, have no doubt about that. I want him to suffer. I want all of his friends to turn away from him. I want the remainder of his life to be as mean and desperate as he deserves." Robert finally took a drink
, schooling his expression back to the calm neutrality he usually displayed. "I want him exiled. And that is where you, my dear duke, come in."

Quince leaned back in the chair. "In what way?"

"You were uniquely qualified to carry this out." Robert frowned, seeming to draw into himself as though contemplating. "You have the power and authority of your title, and I knew that whatever you lacked in political clout, Gideon would be willing to lend you. It is rumored that you are one of the Prince Regeant's favorites although you eschew his company as much as you do anyone else's. It is also fairly well known that you abhor my father. Although I'm not sure why, I assume it is for many of the same reasons I do. Among them, because of The Four."

Now Quince felt a tingling along his extremities. There was both truth and danger here. "Who are the others?"

Robert shook his head. "I have only divined our fathers from the group. They were wearing masks when I saw them."

"You saw them?" It came out in a near whisper as Quince felt a dread come over himself. To hear the stories was torture enough. But to be there?

"Only the once. My father had hoped to induct me, as Draco had been inducted by his father."

"Your father isn't Draco?"

Robert shook his head. "My father is Cygnus. But he is the only one I knew by name. I suspect your father was either Ursa or Leo?"

"Leo."

Robert nodded, considering.

"So you went to one of their..." Quince
repressed his need to shudder, “parties."

The younger man looked at him keenly. "You did not?"

"No. Undoubtedly my father realized that it would not be the best fit for me to participate. When did you go?"

Robert's brow furrowed. "Ten years ago now."

"And you saw such acts of degradation that you planned for ten years to rid yourself of him?"

"Not exactly, I had decided that long before." He finishe
d his scotch. "But seeing what The Four were doing made it clear exactly what kind of man my father was. And gave me ideas on how to punish him."

Quince contemplated Robert's choice of words. Punish. "And it took this long to start your plot?"

Robert smiled. "It took this long to put together the pieces of my plot. To find the key that would unlock this solution."

"The key?"

"You. I finally uncovered a second member of The Four, your father, and that led me to you. Who better to mete out judgment than an angel?"

"And rather than ask for my help you conspired a plot against me."

"I'm usually quite good at this. It's possible that in my fervor to see this done I made mistakes. But the motivations of all the players was evident. The outcome inevitable."

"Unless they had managed to kill me this morning."

"Unless that," Robert conceded. "I was concerned how Father would react to the more direct threat of you visiting his home. Whispers, innuendos, anonymous letters. Those are easily handled at a distance. Not that I know this morning's incident was my father's doing. But it could have been."

"But we know the letters are not from your father. You wanted to see them because you think you can identify the handwriting."

This caused Robert to pause for a moment. "Yes, I know the handwriting of every lord in the realm. If one of the other Four wrote it himself I would be able to identify him."

"And so you started all this? With whispers and innuendos?"

"What could a group such as they fear more than evidence of their deeds? They were ripe for influence. I knew that fearing exposure by you would make them react. I knew that pressure from them would make you retaliate. Again, the outcome seems inevitable. My next gambit was to tip the identity of my father as one of The Four. But you already knew."

It was Quince's turn to frown and consider. "If you had told me what you wanted to do then we could have found a solution together."

Robert sneered. "Yes, I'm sure that you would have stepped up to do so."

"Most likely. Especially if you had convinced Gideon first."

"I judged that too much a risk. Sometimes you will refuse to do things just to annoy Gideon."

"Not if it's important. Whatever Charlie would do for you, I would do for Gideon. Why do you think I fished him out of the gutter so many times?"

Robert shrugged. "I couldn't be sure of that path. And certainty is something I value."

"
Well," Quince continued, "as you did not involve me or speak to Gideon, we will negotiate. You want your father exiled? I want some things in return."

"Such as?"

"Your sister."

"That's acceptable."

Quince tossed back the remainder of his scotch. "I don't plan to marry her."

The younger man narrowed his eyes but only said, "I'm sure she'll learn to adjust. What else?"

"I lost two carriage horses this morning. Perhaps two of Charlie's finest?"

"Done. What else?"

"What else would you give me?"

"Anything within reason."

Quince gained his feet and leaned over Robert's chair. "Keep your horses and know this. Giving away your sister to be kept as some man's mistress is not within reason. Even should I not survive today I can guarantee you that any attempt to give her to a man in such a way will be met with fitting punishment. It is best for you to remember that when God wants to punish the wicked he doesn't hire an assassin." He slammed his empty tumbler down on the table next to Robert, making the younger man jump. "He sends an angel."