Leslie LaFoy (51 page)

Edmund nodded in silent, irritating agreement.

Surprise and concern gave way to anger. “Didn't you arrange for a solicitor to take care of it as I asked you to?”

“No.” Ephram reached into his coat pocket and produced the paper-wrapped bundle of bills he'd been given on the dock in James City. “She was adamant about the matter and I have to admire and respect her decision. Here's your money,” he said, tossing it down on a nearby tabletop. “Handing it to a solicitor would be the same as stuffing it down a rat hole. I know that you have better uses for it than that.”

Devon stared at the bundle, his teeth clenched, his heartbeat thundering. “She's got to divorce me.”

“You know,” Ephram drawled, “even when we were boys, the only way to do things was your way. Most of the time your course is the right one for all the right reasons, so people go along with you. But you're not always right, Devon. Sometimes your way isn't the only way. This is one of those times.”

“Good God,” he railed. “This is a matter of common sense and good judgment. If she doesn't divorce me, they'll toss her into Newgate just for being the wife of a rebel. Claire is the most intelligent woman I've ever met. Why the hell is she being so stupidly stubborn?”

“That's a very good question,” his half brother calmly conceded. “But why are you asking me? Why aren't you asking Lady Claire?”

Because he wasn't strong enough to go anywhere near her. Because he loved her so much and missed her so badly that he'd sell his soul and all thirteen colonies to have her back again. And in succumbing to
selfishness, he'd be condemning her to an existence even more hellish than that inside Newgate Prison.

“He does have a point, Dev,” Edmund said.

He looked back and forth between them, seeing the expectancy in their eyes. With a snarl, he stamped to the hat rack and snatched his tricorn from the peg.

“Are you going to go find her?” Edmund asked hopefully.

“No,” he snapped, yanking open the door. “I'm going to the nearest pub and I'm going to drink myself into a goddamn stupor.”

“We'll go with you,” Edmund announced, following after him. “That way, when you finally come to your senses, you'll have someone who can at least carry you to her doorstep and beg for forgiveness.”

“There's nothing to be forgiven for,” Devon retorted. But even as he said it he knew it for the lie it was and that it was going to take an ocean of ale to drown his regrets.

C
LAIRE PACED THE PARLOR
of her rented room, from time to time glancing over at the untouched meal sitting on the table. She really should eat; she'd probably feel ever so much better, more capable if she did. But, as usual, the very suggestion made her already knotted stomach clench that much tighter. She stopped in front of the fireplace and stared into the flames, trying to calm her nerves.

It was really very simple, she told herself. All she had to do was put on her cloak and bonnet and gloves, open the door, and tell the court-appointed guard that she wanted to make a social call. He'd blink over the lateness of the hour, but he wouldn't say anything as he fell in beside her and made sure that she got to the Cavalier Inn without incident. Once she was safely there, though…

Claire swallowed and glanced at the crates and trunks stacked in the corner. She hadn't once dithered or questioned her decision while she'd packed her belongings and prepared to come to London. Her way had been clear, her goal well defined and certain in her mind. But now that she stood on the precipice of actually taking action, she was all but paralyzed by unexpected fear.

“And it's just plain silly,” she declared, squaring her shoulders and turning away from the warmth of the fire. “What's the worst that could happen?” she asked as she marched toward the coat tree beside the door.

Her step faltered in the center of the room. Devon could say that in her absence he'd discovered that he didn't love her; that he'd found another woman and given her his heart. Tears welled in her eyes and she blinked them back, assuring herself that not only was it the worst that could happen but it was also the remotest of possibilities. No, it was far more likely that Devon— her handsome, noble, self-sacrificing, stubborn husband—would have spent the last four and a half months carving his own decision in stone and would refuse to hear a word she said.

Perhaps wisdom lay in being patient a while longer, in trusting Ephram to effectively speak on her behalf. Or maybe Devon would come to his senses on his own and come to find her.

“And maybe someday pigs will fly,” she muttered. Shaking her head, she resumed her course to the coat tree. She was just lifting her cloak from the peg when she heard the low rumble of voices in the hall outside. She paused, listening, but was unable to make out any words, to identify the sounds as belonging to anyone in particular. Holding her breath, Claire glanced at the clock on the mantel. Half past ten. Ephram had said he would see Devon in the early evening. Perhaps…

A knock at the door sent her hopes flaring and her
heart into her throat. “Bless you, Ephram,” she happily whispered, putting the cloak back and then throwing open the door.

Her heart seized and her blood turned to ice.

“Good evening, dear niece. May I come in?”

EORGE SEATON-SMYTHE
didn't wait for Claire's assent. He advanced, leaving her with no choice but to hastily step back in order to stay out of his reach. She felt her heart thundering frantically in her chest, but the chaotic chatter of her thoughts was all she could hear. He'd changed so much in the months since she'd last seen him. He was dressed as magnificently as always, but he was heavier, his face ruddier, and his arms and legs seemingly even thicker and shorter than before. The greatest change, however, was in his eyes. The blue was brighter, almost transparent. And through them she saw the wild flickering of desperation and madness. Her blood chilled another painful degree.

“What are you doing here, Uncle George?” she heard herself ask.

“A rather naive question, don't you think?” he replied, pausing to push the door closed behind him.

The cold click of the key in the lock sent her thoughts racing. Where was the guard? Her uncle alone
couldn't have overpowered the younger, stronger man. Dear God, what was she going to do? She couldn't run past him. By the time she got the door unlocked and open he'd be upon her. And even if by some miracle she made it into the hall, it was a certainty that she'd be dashing into the arms of her uncle's henchmen.

Scream? The inn was old and the walls were thick. No one would hear her. And even if they did, by the time they got past the men in the hall, any rescuer would be too late to help her. She needed to slow matters down. She had to have time to think, to find herself a weapon.

It took all the control she had to force herself to inch her way toward the hearth while calmly observing, “I was told that you were under house arrest.”

“I am,” he answered with a smile broad enough to pull tight the wide, ugly scar across his forehead. “But it's a large house with many doors, and the guards at those doors are only men. One or two of them were happy to look the other way for a price. And do stay away from the hearth, Claire. I well recall the last time we had this dance.”

As did she. And he appeared to be no better armed this time than he had been the last. “You should know that Devon—my husband—is on his way here,” she bluffed, hoping her wishing him there would bring him. “You won't get away with harming me.”

“Harm?” he snorted, advancing. “Dear niece, I intend to kill you. And since your colonial bumpkin is not presently battering down the door, I'll have sufficient time to do it.”

Kill her how? she wondered. With his bare hands? Or did he have a pistol or a knife under his frock coat? A knife… “Killing me isn't going to result in the charges against you being dismissed,” she reminded him, very slowly, very nonchalantly backing toward the table and her untouched meal. “I'm not the only one the Crown has called to testify against you.”

“Betrayal is utterly unforgivable,” he declared, his watery blue gaze never leaving hers as he reached into his pocket and took another step closer.

She watched him take the end of a red silk scarf in each of his hands. So it was to be strangulation. Which would require him to be very close. Claire inched toward the table, mentally picturing the various items on it. The china was heavy. The teapot had a handle that would make it easy to swing. And there was the very stout but serviceable knife placed to the right side of the plate. Bless British beef for being as tough as it was.

“No one sells me for thirty coins and lives to enjoy them,” her uncle said, popping the fabric taut. He smiled at the sound and repeated the gesture while adding, “One of the advantages of having great wealth is that it will buy you justice in any form you so desire. I can assure you that you'll not be the only witness found dead by morrow's light, dear niece.”

“There are scores of us. You can't possibly kill us all in a single night,” she pointed out, knowing even as she did that no logic would penetrate the madness that enveloped his mind.

“Yes, that indeed would be impossible. So I decided that I'd hire the other work done and personally see to dispensing justice for only the most personal of all the betrayals. That would be you, Claire.”

“I'm honored,” she said dryly as her backside connected with the edge of the table.

“As well you should be,” her uncle replied, popping the scarf again and advancing another step. “I've already put a considerable amount of time and money into ridding myself of you. If only that idiot in Virginia had been even fairly competent.”

“Wyndom?” she asked, watching her uncle, trying to keep his attention on conversation so that it didn't wander toward a consideration of what might lie behind her and within her reach.

Slowly closing the distance between them, he shrugged. “I don't recall his name. I don't bother with such unnecessary details. I made inquiries of my people in James City, and they found a situation that perfectly fit my objectives. Had the fellow done as he was supposed to, you wouldn't have been available to answer the Crown's summons.”

Claire forced herself to swallow and remain where she was, to wait for him to come close enough. “If I might ask… why did you blackmail Devon into marrying me? Why not Wyndom?”

“My people felt that the younger Rivard—the one who ever so fortunately owed me very large sums of money—was of such weak character that he would confess everything if he was suspected of being involved in his wife's sudden demise.”

He stopped, the lower edges of his frock coat brushing against the fullness of her skirt. “The elder brother,” he went on, “knowing nothing of the larger plan, wouldn't be able to do so under the same circumstances. His only purpose was to insulate me from suspicion.”

“You won't have anyone to insulate you from tonight's crimes,” Claire said breathlessly, leaning back slightly as though she were trying to get away from him. Slipping her hands behind herself, she made a pretense of trying to use the table to keep herself from toppling over. “The Crown will know who is behind my death and the deaths of all the others. You can't get away with this.”