Intimate Deception (34 page)

Vincent dismounted more than a block away from the house where his cousin said Fentington was hiding and made his way through the alley so he wouldn’t be seen.

Vincent knew he should have gone for his brothers-in-law first but hadn’t wanted to take the time. He was glad when Germaine volunteered to go for them. He wasn’t sure what exactly would happen when he confronted Fentington and preferred to have Wedgewood and Carmody with him.

He didn’t want to kill him if there was any other way. But Fentington hadn’t left him any other option—except one. To force him to leave England and never come back.

Vincent pulled the gun from his pocket and stepped behind a hedgerow. He stayed protected as much as he could while he moved forward. Finally the house came into view.

Parker stood behind a large elm tree to the right of the house and nodded when he saw Vincent. Vincent nodded in return, then closed the gap between them.

He followed the walk, crouching low to get his best advantage, then froze when Fentington’s voice bellowed from inside the door.

“Both of you! Step out where I can see you.”

Vincent stood, his gun still hidden in his jacket pocket. He couldn’t see Fentington, only the gun pointed at him from a crack in the door.

“Tell your lackey to step out, Raeborn.”

Vincent lifted his hand and motioned for Parker to come forward.

Parker hesitated, then moved from his hiding place. When they were both in sight, the door opened and Fentington stepped out of the house.

His clothes were dirty and disheveled, and his hair was overly long. His face was shadowed by stubble that hadn’t been shaved for weeks. For the first time ever, he wasn’t in his usual white, but in black breeches and a dingy gray waistcoat and jacket. His shirt may have been white at one time but wasn’t any longer.

“Come in,” Fentington ordered, throwing open the door. “I’d offer you tea, but I’m afraid I gave the servants the day off.”

Vincent walked through the door and stepped to the other side of the foyer.

Parker reluctantly followed.

Fentington lifted his pistol and pointed to the center of Vincent’s chest. “Drop your guns to the floor and kick them over to me.”

Vincent hesitated, then reached in his pocket and dropped his gun. Parker did the same, and they both kicked their weapons across the wood-paneled floor.

Fentington reached to pick up the gun closest to him, then turned. In one fluid motion, he raised the gun and fired.

Vincent jerked, then turned to where Parker had been.

His limp body dropped to the floor, a bullet hole in the center of his forehead, his eyes open in a deathly stare. The gun he’d attempted to pull out of his pocket was still clutched in his hand.

Vincent swallowed hard, then turned to face Fentington.

“Are you surprised?” Fentington asked.

Vincent steeled himself. Unless he could find a way to get Fentington’s gun, it wouldn’t be long and he’d be as dead as Parker. “Hardly. You forget. I’ve already been the recipient of one of your bullets.”

Fentington frowned as if he wasn’t sure what Vincent was talking about. Then a smile spread across his face. “Oh, yes. The bullet you took on your way to meet your lover.”

Vincent sucked in a deep breath but held his tongue.

Fentington walked from one side of the room to the other, all the while keeping his gun aimed in Vincent’s direction. “What would you say if I told you I didn’t shoot you?”

“I’d probably call you a liar.”

Fentington stopped in front of Vincent and stared at him, the look in his eyes turning darker, a muscle in his jaw twitching. “Look at him.” He pointed at Parker’s lifeless body lying on the floor.

Vincent turned his head and looked, then turned back toward Fentington.

Without warning, Fentington lifted his gun and fired over Vincent’s shoulder.

Vincent felt air brush against his cheek, the bullet barely missing him. The shade on a lamp sitting on a table at the far side of the room shattered. Fentington pulled another gun from his pocket.

“If I had shot you, you’d be dead. I wouldn’t have missed.”

Vincent was confused. The first uncomfortable doubts rose to the surface. “I saw you. I saw your white horse,” he said accusingly.

Fentington smiled. “I didn’t say I wasn’t there. I said I wasn’t the one who shot you.”

Fentington paced the room, and Vincent used the time to try to decipher what he was saying.

“Have you ever considered someone else might want you dead, Your Grace?”

Vincent glared at him. Fentington was forcing him to consider a possibility more reprehensible than any he could imagine. His mind rejected such a thought. “I saw you. Why else would you have been there?”

Fentington smiled. “I was watching her—your whore. I was supposed to marry her. I would have—until I found out she wasn’t pure. That she’d already given herself to someone else.” He flailed a hand through the air. “I could hardly take a harlot for my wife. Someone who’d given away what should have been mine.”

Fentington waved his gun between them. “I wanted to know who she’d given herself to. So I followed her and waited. I knew her lover would eventually come to her.” He laughed. “You can’t imagine my surprise when I discovered it was
you
.”

Fentington paced in front of him. There was a wild look in his eyes, a desperate expression on his face. This was a man who’d lost everything, including his self-respect. A man who would do anything to retaliate, to punish anyone he considered responsible for his fall.

Vincent’s heart beat faster.

“How long had she been spreading her legs for you, Raeborn? Weeks? Months? More?”

The blood roared in Vincent’s head.

“How rude of me to ask.” Fentington gave a sadistic laugh, a demented laugh. “I can hardly expect you to tell your dirty little secrets, can I?”

A malicious grin lifted the corners of Fentington’s mouth.

“You cannot imagine the joy I felt when I saw you get shot. Someone else was doing what I’d only dreamt of doing.”

Fentington stepped closer. “You deserved to die. You’d stolen the woman I was supposed to marry and embarrassed me in front of the
ton
. My reputation is ruined! I wanted you dead. Oh, how I wanted you to suffer for the damage you’d caused.” He shook his head. “But I didn’t have the courage.”

Vincent tried to digest what Fentington was saying. He wanted him to believe he hadn’t fired the gun, but it
had
to have been him. It
had
to have been.

“And do you know why?”

Fentington paced in front of him again while Vincent studied his actions. His movements were jerky and agitated. He caressed the gun in his hand as if it were a precious keepsake. Vincent’s breaths became shorter. His fear more pronounced.

“Do you?”

Vincent shook his head.

“Because no matter how great I thought your sins were, no matter how vile and insignificant I thought you were in God’s eyes, or how much I despised you, killing you would have lowered me to your level. Killing you would have made me no better than the power-wielding creature you are.
So I turned to prayer. I prayed God would snuff your life out like you had snuffed out mine.”

Fentington stepped close to Vincent and pressed the gun beneath Vincent’s chin. “Just that swiftly, I thought my prayers were being answered. While I watched you ride to meet your lover, God sent someone else to do what I was not brave enough to do. God sent another of your enemies to kill you.”

Fentington walked to the far side of the room and glared back at Vincent. “I was going to leave after he shot you. But when he stayed, so did I.”

“You saw who shot me?”

Fentington smiled. “Of course I did.”

“Who was it?”

Fentington ignored him as he continued his story. “Later, I watched him barricade the doors and set fire to the house.”

He waved his gun through the air. “I thought for sure you would all die. But you were spared again.”

The expression on his face turned harsher, more intense. “That’s when I realized that I was in as much danger as you.”

Vincent tried to follow Fentington’s reasoning but couldn’t. “How so?”

“Don’t you see? The killer wasn’t satisfied with just your death. He intended to kill your wife too.” Fentington shook his head. “He confirmed my suspicion the night he pushed her out in the street in front of that carriage.” He dragged the back of his hand across his forehead. “For as much as I wanted you dead, I didn’t want her to die too.
If something happened to her, the world would reach the same conclusion you did—that I was to blame.”

Vincent was desperate to try to make sense of what Fentington was telling him. “Why would anyone want to harm Grace?”

Fentington barked a loud laugh. “Because of the child, Your Grace.”

Vincent took a step away from Fentington. He didn’t want to understand what Fentington was implying.

Fentington laughed again. “You want it to be me, don’t you? You want me to be the one who has repeatedly tried to kill you and your wife so you don’t have to admit there is someone who hates you more than I do?”

“It
is
you!”

“Oh, Raeborn. Surely you can think of someone else who can’t let you or your heir live.”

Blood thundered inside Vincent’s head. His chest ached as he struggled to breathe. What if Fentington was telling the truth?

“Think, Your Grace. Who is the only person who would benefit from your death? The only person who will lose everything once your heir is born.
If
the child is a boy?”

Vincent shook his head.

Fentington paced the floor, then stopped beside Parker’s body. “How did you learn about Mr. Parker’s talents, Your Grace?”

Fentington laughed. “Let me guess. I’ll wager your cousin, Mr. Germaine, suggested him. Am I correct?”

Vincent swiped at the perspiration streaming down his face.

Fentington looked around the room. “Where is your cousin? He seems to be missing.”

Vincent swallowed hard. “He went for help. To get Wedgewood and Carmody, in case I needed them.”

“They should be here by now. Don’t you think?”

Vincent’s knees weakened beneath him.

Fentington pointed to the door. “Go ahead. Look. They’ve had more than enough time to arrive. Do you see them?”

Vincent didn’t go to the door. He knew he wouldn’t see them. Knew Fentington was telling the truth. That his cousin was the one who’d tried to kill him. That if Germaine wanted the Raeborn title and wealth, he would have to make sure Grace died before she could present him with an heir.

The blood drained from his head. Nothing had prepared him for the debilitating fear he felt thinking that Grace might be in danger—that he might lose her.

Vincent looked into Fentington’s face and knew beyond a doubt who wanted him dead. His heart fell like a rock to the pit of his stomach.

Fentington shook his head. “I thought I wanted you dead—but I don’t. I thought I wanted
her
to suffer for making a fool of me, but I don’t.” He paced the room, then stopped. “I visited my sister,” he said, facing Vincent. “She made me realize how unbalanced our father was. Then she made me see how closely I resembled him. The comparison made me sick. I don’t want to be anything like him. I’ve already done enough damage.”

Fentington held out his pistol for Vincent to take. “You’d best hurry. He can’t afford to let her live.”

“Thank you,” Vincent said as he grabbed Fentington’s gun and ran from the house. His lungs burned, the breath froze in his chest. What if he was already too late?

G
race didn’t know why, but an uneasy feeling gripped her and refused to let go. “How did you get in here? Why didn’t Carver announce you?”

Vincent’s cousin stood, then walked the length of the room, his footsteps slow and cautious. “I’m afraid he didn’t hear my knock, so I took the liberty of letting myself in. I hope you don’t mind?”

Grace knew there had been no knock. Just as she knew that whatever reason Vincent’s cousin had for being here was not good. “I think I prefer to be alone, Mr. Germaine. I’ll ring for Carver to show you—”

He held up his hand to stop her from rising. “I’m afraid I can’t allow you to do that.”

She took a closer look at him. His handsome face was tinged with hard lines she hadn’t noticed before; the look in his eyes had turned cold and dangerous. Her pulse raced. “Why are you here?”

The smile he gave her sent shivers down her spine.

“To stay with you while your husband takes care of the evil, sinister Baron Fentington. Of course, Raeborn thinks I’ve gone for help. To get the authorities and Wedgewood and Carmody. He’ll discover soon enough I haven’t.”

Grace stood, then took one step away from him, but Kevin Germaine reached out his hand and grabbed her upper arm to stop her from getting too far from him. Fear raced through her as she looked at his hand squeezing her arm painfully.

“I want you to leave, Mr. Germaine.”

“I’m afraid I can’t do that, Your Grace. Not until I’ve accomplished what I came to do.”

“And that is?”

“Why, kill you, of course.”