Devil's Bride (55 page)

“The gig?” Devil sat back. “Charles went with her?”

“Aye—he wanted to make sure she didn't lose her way.”

Slamming a mental door on the chill fear that howled inside him, Devil flicked a glance at Vane. “Coming?”

“Nothing on earth could stop me.”

They made straight for the cottage; there was no one there. Tethering their horses down the bridle path leading south, opposite the one Charles and Honoria would use, they scouted the area. Within the wood facing the cottage, they discovered a ditch, deep enough to hide them. It ringed the clearing on either side of the track from the lane. They were considering how best to use it when hoofbeats approached. Scrambling into the ditch, they watched.

Charles rode up. He dismounted by the stable, checked that Honoria was still following, then led his horse inside.

Halting the gig before the cottage, Honoria made no attempt to leave it. The instant Charles was out of sight, she looked wildly about. Both action and expression spoke of real fear.

In the ditch twenty-five yards away, Devil swore softly. “This time, I
am
going to beat you!” He didn't dare wave; he would bet his entire fortune Charles had come armed. Both he and Vane had loaded weapons in their hands, but he wanted no shooting with Honoria in the line of fire.

Dusting his hands, Charles came out of the stable. He frowned when he saw Honoria still in the gig, the reins lax in her hands. “I would have thought you'd be eager to see your husband.” He waved to the cottage.

Honoria met his cold gaze. “I
am
keen to see him.” She knew in her bones Devil was not in the cottage—for one fleeting instant, she'd thought he was in the wood, close, but she'd seen nothing. But he had to be coming—and she'd gone far enough with Charles. Charles slowed, his frown deepening. Drawing a deep breath, Honoria straightened her shoulders. “But he's not in the cottage.”

Charles stilled; for one instant, there was no expression of any sort on his face. Then his brows rose, condescendingly superior. “You're overset.” Stepping to the gig's side, he reached for her arm.

“No!” Honoria jerked back. The planes of Charles's face shifted. What she saw in his eyes had her swallowing her panic; this was no time to lose her head. “We
know
. Did you think we wouldn't realize? We know you've been trying to kill Devil—we know you killed Tolly.”

Charles paused; as she watched, the veneer of civilization peeled, layer by layer from his face, revealing an expression of blank calculation, dead to any human emotion. “Knowing,” Charles said, his voice unnaturally level, “isn't going to save you.”

Honoria believed him—her only hope was to keep him talking until Devil arrived. “We know about your man Holthorpe—and about the sailors you set on Devil, about the poison in the brandy.” What else did they know? Her recital wouldn't hold Charles for long. Fired by fear, she tilted her head and frowned. “We know everything you've done, but we don't know why you did it. You killed Tolly so he wouldn't warn Devil that you planned to kill him. But
why
are you so intent on taking the title?”

Desperate, she called up everything she'd ever felt about Charles, every intuitive hint she'd gleaned. “It isn't for money—you're rich enough as it is. You want the title, but you hold the family in contempt. Why, then, do you want to be their head?” She paused, hoping he would read true interest in her face. “What deep reason drives you?”

Charles regarded her without expression; Honoria felt her heart slow. Then he lifted one brow in typically arrogant Cynster style. “You're very perceptive, my dear.” He smiled, a slight curve of his lips. “And, as you'll die shortly, I don't suppose there's any harm telling you.” He looked directly into her eyes. “My name may be Cynster, but I've never been one of them—I've always felt closer to my mother's family. They're all dead now.”

Bracing one hand on the gig, Charles looked into the wood, his eyes glowing. “I'm the last of the Butterworths—an infinitely superior breed, not that any Cynsters would admit that.” His lips curved mockingly. “Soon, they won't have a choice. Once I take over the reins, I plan to change the family entirely—not just in the behavior associated with our name, but I'll change the name, too.” He looked at Honoria. “There's nothing to stop me.”

Honoria stared in openmouthed amazement. Smiling, Charles nodded. “Oh, yes—it can be done. But that was how it was meant to be—the Butterworths were destined to become the main line; my mother was to be the duchess. That's why she married Arthur.”

“But—” Honoria blinked. “What about . . .”

“Sylvester's father?” Charles's expression turned petulant. “Mama didn't expect him to marry. When she married Arthur, it seemed all clear—eventually Arthur would inherit, then his son. Me.” His frown grew black. “Then that slut Helena wriggled her hips and Uncle Sebastian fell for it, and Sylvester was born. But even then, my mother knew all would eventually be well—after Devil, Helena couldn't have any more brats, which left father, then me, next in line.” Charles trapped Honoria's gaze. “Do you want to know why I left it so long? Why I waited until now to make away with Sylvester?”

Honoria nodded.

Charles sighed. “I was explaining that point to Mama, to her portrait, when Tolly came in that night. I didn't hear him—that cretin Holthorpe let him show himself in. Fitting enough that because of his laziness, Holthorpe had to die.” His voice had turned vicious; Charles blinked, then refocused on Honoria. “As I told Mama, I needed a reason—I couldn't simply kill Sylvester and hope no one noticed. When he was young, Vane was always with him—the accidents I engineered never worked. I waited, but they never grew apart. Worse—Richard joined them, then the rest.” Charles's lips curled. “The Bar Cynster.” His voice strengthened, his features hardened. “They've been a thorn in my side for years. I want Sylvester dead in a way that will wean them,
and
the rest of the family, from their adulation. I want the title—I want the
power
.” His eyes glowed. “Over them all.”

Abruptly, his face changed, his features leaching of all expression. “I promised Mama I'd take the title, even if she wasn't here to see it. The Butterworths were always meant to triumph—I explained to her why I'd held off for so long and why I thought, perhaps, with Devil becoming so restless, the time might, at last, have come.”

Again, he was with his past; Honoria sat perfectly still, content to have his attention elsewhere. The next instant, he turned on her viciously. “But then
you
came—and my time ran out
completely
!”

Honoria shrank back; the horse shifted, coat flickering. Charles's eyes blazed; for an instant, she thought he might strike her.

Instead, with a visible effort, he drew back, struggling to control his features. When he was again composed, he continued, his tone conversational: “Initially, I thought you too intelligent to fall for Devil's tricks.” His gaze flicked her contemptuously. “I was wrong. I warned you marrying Sylvester was a mistake. You'll lose your life because of it, but you were too stupid to listen. I'm not going to risk being moved further from my goal. Arthur's old—he'll be no trouble. But if you and any son you bear survive Devil, I'll have all the rest of them to contend with—they'll never let Devil's son out of their sight!”

Clutching the back of the gig tightly, Honoria kept her eyes locked on Charles's, and prayed that either Devil or Vane had arrived in time to hear at least some of his ranting. He'd taken the rope she'd handed him and run, unreeling enough to hang himself twice over.

Charles drew a deep breath and looked away, into the woods. He straightened; letting go of the gig, he tugged his coat into place.

Honoria grabbed the moment to look around—she still had the feeling someone was watching. But not even a twig shifted in the wood.

She'd achieved her primary objective. Her disappearance and death would give proof enough of Charles's guilt; Melton could testify Charles had lured her away. Devil would be safe—free of Charles and his endless machinations. But she'd much rather be alive to share the celebrations, and to enjoy their child. She definitely didn't want to die.

Charles grabbed her—Honoria shrieked. Dropping the reins, she struggled, but he was far too strong. He hauled her from the gig.

They wrestled, waltzing in the leaves carpeting the clearing. Snorting, the grey backed; Charles bumped the gig. The horse bolted, the gig rattling behind it. Honoria saw it go, caught by a sense of
de´ja` vu
. Another grey horse bolting with another gig, this time leaving her stranded with the murderer, not his victim.
She
was to be the next victim.

Locking one arm about her throat, Charles hauled her upright.

“
Charles!
”

Devil's roar filled the clearing; Honoria nearly fainted. She looked wildly about; holding her before him, Charles swung her this way, then that, but couldn't locate Devil's position. Charles cursed; the next instant, Honoria felt the hard muzzle of a pistol pressing beneath her left breast.

“Come out, Sylvester—or do you want to see your wife shot before your eyes?”

Pushing her head back, Honoria glimpsed Charles's face, full of gloating, his eyes glittering wildly. Frantic, she tried struggling; Charles squeezed her throat. Raising his elbow, he forced her chin up; she had to stretch on her toes, losing all purchase on the ground.

“Devil?” Honoria spoke to the sky. “Don't you
dare
come out—do you hear? I'll never forgive you if you do—so don't.” Panic gripped her, sinking its talons deep; black shadows danced across her eyes. “I don't want you to save me. You'll have other children, there's no need to save me.”

Her voice broke; tears choked her. A dull roaring filled her ears. She didn't want to be saved if the price was his life.

In the ditch, Devil checked his pistol. Vane, brows nearly reaching his hairline, stared at him. “
Other
children?”

Devil swore through his teeth. “Fine time she picks to announce her condition.”

“You
knew
?”

“One of the prime requirements of being a duke—you have to be able to count.” His face grimly set, Devil stuck his pistol into the back of his waistband and resettled his coat. “Make for the other end of the ditch, beyond the track.”

Honoria was babbling hysterically; he couldn't afford to listen. He pulled Tolly's hip flask from his pocket; he'd carried it since Louise had given it back to him, a reminder of his unavenged cousin. Working feverishly, he wriggled the flask into the inside left breast pocket of his coat; swearing softly, he carefully ripped the lining—finally, the flask slid in. Resettling his coat, he checked the position of the flask.

Vane stared. “I don't believe this.”

“Believe it,” Devil advised. He looked up; Honoria was still in full spate. Charles, his pistol at her breast, scanned the wood.

“I don't suppose there's any point trying to talk you out of it?” On his back, Vane checked his pistol. When Devil made no reply, he sighed. “I didn't think so.”

“Sylvester?”

“Here, Charles.”

The answer allowed Charles to face in their general direction. “Stand up. And don't bring any pistol with you.”

“You do realize,” Vane hissed, wriggling onto his stomach, “that this wild idea of yours has the potential to severely dint the family's vaunted invincibility?”

“How so?” Devil unbuttoned his coat, making sure the buttons hung well clear of his left side.

“When Charles kills you, I'll kill Charles, then your mother will kill me for allowing Charles to kill you. This madness of yours looks set to account for three of us in one fell swoop.”

Devil snorted. “You're starting to sound like Honoria.”

“A woman of sound sense.”

Getting ready to stand, Devil shot a last glance at Vane. “Cover my back?”

Vane met his gaze. “Don't I always?” Then he swung about; crouched low, he started for the far end of the ditch.

Devil watched him go, drew in a long breath, then stood.

Charles saw him—he tightened his hold on Honoria.

“Let her go, Charles.” Devil kept his voice even; the last thing he wanted was to panic Charles—the one he was counting on to shoot straight. “It's me you want, not her.” He started forward, stepping over the scrubby undergrowth, sidestepping new canes and saplings. He didn't look at Honoria.

“Go back!” she screamed. “
Go away!
” Her voice broke on a sob. “Please . . . no.” She was crying in earnest. “No . . .
No!
” Shaking her head, she gulped back sobs, her eyes pleading, her voice trailing away.

Devil walked steadily forward. He neared the edge of the clearing and Charles smiled—a smugly victorious smile. Abruptly, he flung Honoria away.

She screamed as she fell; Devil heard the scuffling of leaves as she frantically tried to free her feet from her skirts. Calmly, he stepped into the clearing. Charles raised his arm, took careful aim—and shot him through the heart.

The impact was greater than he'd expected; it rocked him back on his heels. He staggered back, hung motionless for a split second—the second in which he realized he was still alive, that Charles had clung to habit and aimed for his heart, not his head, that Tolly's hip-flask had been up to the task—then he let himself fall, slipping his right hand under the back of his coat as he went down. He landed on his left hip and shoulder; beneath him, his right hand held his pistol, already free of his waistband. Artistically, he groaned and rolled onto his back, his boots closest to Charles. All that remained was for Honoria—for once in her life—to behave as he expected.