Lord of Ice (2 page)

“You’re wrong there, old boy. Do you think I’m daft enough to name you as her guardian?” His lips thinned in a feral smile. “No,
brother,
I made certain amendments to my will while I was in the army—among men I could trust. Tell the truth, Algy. Aye, admit you killed Richard and Fanny, and tried to kill Miranda along with them, and I’ll
give
you the money.”

Algernon stared at him for a long moment. His heart was pounding, but his self-control was exquisite. Slowly, he lowered the pistol, but not to his side. Instead, he stopped at the level of Jason’s heart.

“Give my regards to Richard,” he murmured.

The gin bottle fell; the shot rang out, the pan’s flash illuminating Algernon’s narrow face and soulless eyes. Reeling back, Jason crashed to the floor, clutching his chest. Algernon lowered the pistol to his side.

Gasping for air, Jason stared, aghast, at his brother’s spotlessly polished boots as the viscount stepped over him, calmly went to the escritoire in the corner, opened the lid, and began searching through his private papers.

Reeling with pain and disbelief at his brother’s sheer evil, Jason’s first thought was that he was dying. His second was to curse himself for not protecting Miranda’s inheritance as he should have through Chancery Court, but Richard had died so suddenly, and he, eager to be off to war, had eschewed the headaches of dealing with that lumbering bureaucracy, instead putting the money in the private investment fund in Miranda’s name with himself as trustee.

She was in terrible danger. If Algy could kill his own brothers in cold blood, he would hardly scruple over his illegitimate niece. Helpless to stop him, Jason lay on the floor in a pool of his own blood.

“Ah, here we are . . . Miranda FitzHubert. Oh, dear. What’s this?” Algernon paused. “Jason, Jason, what have you done? Well, this is most unfortunate.”

Agonized, Jason looked up as Algy paced over to him slowly. The viscount tilted his head, peering down at him. His face was a blurry oval against the encroaching darkness in the room. His voice seemed oddly muffled, floating down crossly to him.

“You should not have put her name on the account, Jason. Now how am I to open it? You see what you have done? Now I shall have to get rid of your precious niece, too.”

“No!” he choked out, but Algernon’s shiny boots stalked away, returning to the desk.

Jason lay there watching his lifeblood pump out of his chest onto the floor, seeping into the dirty cracks between the planks. Through the horror, he realized his existence could now be measured in seconds, but at least he had done one thing right, he thought, picturing the severe, righteous face of the warrior he had named in his will as Miranda’s guardian—the hardest, toughest man he knew, the fearless colonel of his regiment.

Damien Knight, the earl of Winterley.
Protect her. . . .

Through the ethers, he sent out the desperate warning to his beloved brother in arms. He knew he had not erred in his choice. Damien Knight was a bloody war hero, for Christ’s sake.

There had always been a mist of legend around the man—a mysterious glow of divine favor, as though he had been born for no other purpose than to fight for his king and to defend the weak, protect the innocent. Like some knight of olden times, he was as pure of spirit as he was ferocious in battle. Jason had entrusted Miranda to him because of the man’s unassailable honor; he’d had no idea that Damien’s terrifying, almost superhuman killing skills might be called upon in his role as her guardian.

As consciousness began drifting away from him, slowing the blood in his veins, he commended her to his friend; for himself, there was nothing more that he could do. He closed his eyes, knowing it was futile to fight the leaden coldness spreading through his limbs.

“Jason?”
Algy’s crisp voice sounded muffled now, as though coming to him from a growing distance or through some shimmering, watery veil.

Beware of him, Knight. The only thing that can hurt you is a coward.
Then all thought dissolved in the peace settling over him. His fading eyes perceived an inward light of indescribable beauty. Powerless, weary, and wounded, he let it enfold him. In truth, death came as a relief to Jason Sherbrooke. The war had ruined him, disfigured him in body and soul, but now he felt no pain. He closed his eyes.
At last.

He was going home.

CHAPTER
ONE

Berkshire

With a hard-eyed stare, Damien Knight, the earl of Winterley, swung the long-handled axe up over his head and slammed it down with savage force, cleanly splitting the upright log down the middle. The sharp crack of the blow ripped across the snow-frosted field like a gunshot, rousing the squabbling blackbirds that fed upon the frozen stubbled cornstalks. His movements were smooth, his mind blissfully blank as he threw down the axe, adjusted one of his thick leather gloves, and picked up the splintered halves of wood, stacking them on the fortresslike pile that had grown over the past weeks to looming proportions, as though no amount of fuel could build a fire capable of warming him. Positioning the next log on the tree stump that served as his chopping block, he dealt it, in turn, a death blow.

He repeated this ritual again and again, concentrating intensely on the task, allowing it to absorb his tattered mind, until suddenly, in the nearby field, he noticed that something had caught his stallion’s attention.

His white warhorse was his only companion in this place. The stallion had been idly pawing through the frost, nibbling at whatever bits of grazing it could find, but now it lifted its head and pricked up its elegantly tapered ears toward the drive. Damien wiped the sweat off his brow with the back of his arm, rested his other hand on the axe’s handle, and squinted against the white glare of the mid-December day, following his horse’s stare.

The stallion let out a belligerent whinny and raced toward the fence, its ivory tail streaming out like a battle pennant. He watched the animal for a moment in simple pleasure. It must have been a month since Zeus had worn a saddle. Both of them were reverting back to a state of nature, he thought, scratching the short, rough, black beard that had grown in on his jaw. Without surprise, only a dim flicker of distress, he watched as his identical twin brother, Lord Lucien Knight, came cantering up the drive astride his fine black Andalusian.

Zeus raced alongside them on the opposite side of the fence, trumpeting challenges to the black for encroaching upon his territory. Fortunately, Lucien was too skilled a rider to lose control of his mount.

Damien dropped his chin almost to his chest and let out a sigh that misted on the crisp, cold air. He supposed his brother had come to check up on him.

He did not fancy the notion of anyone seeing him like this, but at least with his keenly perceptive twin, he did not have to pretend that he was right in the head.

Lucien and his bride of three weeks, Alice, were living in Hampshire, a two-hour ride from Damien’s ramshackle manor house, newly bestowed on him by Parliament along with his title. Not that he knew much about being an earl. His new rank seemed merely to have made him the servant of the bloody politicians. Picking up his last split logs and adding them to the woodpile, he cast an uncertain glance toward the run-down, overgrown mansion they had given him. Constructed of white-gray limestone, Bayley House, circa 1760, was modeled on a classical Greek temple with a triangular pediment atop four mighty columns. Damien thought it looked like a mausoleum.

It felt like one inside, too, sprawling hectares of empty floor bereft of furniture, cold enough to preserve a corpse. He half fancied the place was infested with ghosts, but he knew too well that it was only he who was haunted. He had neither the gold nor the energy to see the house brought back to life and properly appointed, nor did he particularly care. Spartan that he was, he did not require luxury.

Upon arriving here in November shortly after Guy Fawkes Night, he had set up camp and had been bivouacking near the fireplace in what had once been the drawing room. His fellow officers from the regiment—what few survivors there were—had scattered and returned to their families, but at least he was still surrounded by his equipment, all sixty pounds of which he had carried on his back for hundreds of miles on marches through Portugal and Spain. It comforted him: his trusty tent; his scuffed and battered tin mess kit and wooden canteen; his greatcoat for a blanket; his haversack for a pillow; a bit of cheese, biscuit, and sausage to sustain him; a few cigars. A soldier needed little else in life, except, of course, for liquor and whores, but Damien had given these up in an earnest effort to mend his fractured wits through the ascetic life.

'Sblood, though, he missed the lasses a hundred times more than the gin, he thought with a wistful sigh. Lucien could have his refined lady wife; Damien preferred low, bawdy wenches who knew how to handle a soldier. The mere thought of a soft, willing female roused his body’s starved needs, but he ignored his agonized craving for release, coolly setting the axe out of the way as his brother approached. He could not risk anything that might upset his precarious equilibrium.

Snow flew up from under the black’s prancing hoofs as Lucien reined in, vibrant and pink-cheeked with the cold, his silvery eyes sparkling with the aura of the newlywed. He sat back in the saddle for a moment, rested his right fist on his hip, and shook his head, looking Damien over in sardonic amusement. “Oh, my poor, dear brother,” he said with a lordly chuckle.

“What?” Damien growled, scowling a bit.

“How charmingly rustic. You look like some hermit woodsman. Lancelot, maybe, after he became a monk.”

Damien snorted. “So, she let you out from under the cat’s paw for a few hours, eh? When’s your curfew?”

“Only long enough for my sweet lady to remember afresh how desperately she adores me. When I return—” He flashed a wicked smile. “—the welcome home ought to be worth it.” His luxurious black wool greatcoat whirled out behind him as he dismounted with an agile movement. Smart and elegant, full of Diplomatic Corps finesse, Lucien reached into his coat and presented Damien with a newspaper as he strode toward him. “I thought you might like to see what is going on in the world.”

“Napoleon still under guard on Elba?”

“Of course.”

“That’s all I need to know.”

“Well, burn it for fuel, then, though you certainly seem well supplied in that particular. Planning on burning a witch?” Lucien looked askance at the giant woodpile.

Damien regarded him wryly and accepted yesterday’s copy of the
London Times
without further argument.

Lucien passed a shrewd glance over his face. “How goes it, brother?” he asked more softly.

Damien shrugged and turned away, abashed by his concern. “It’s quiet here. I like it.”

“And?” Lucien waited for him to report on his mental condition, but Damien dodged the unspoken inquiry, avoiding his twin’s penetrating stare.

“Needs work, of course, this old place. Fences to be mended. We’ll plant barley there”—he pointed to the fields—“oats there, wheat over there, in the spring.”
If it ever comes,
he thought.

“God, grant me patience. Do not be deliberately obtuse, please. I didn’t ask how your house is. I want to know how you’re doing. Has there been any repeat of—”

“No,” he cut him off, flashing him a warning look. He had no desire to be reminded of his hellish delirium—or bout of madness or whatever the devil it had been—on Guy Fawkes Night. He hated even thinking about it. The booming of the festival cannons and exploding fireworks had played a kind of trick on his mind, deluding him into thinking he was back at the war. For a full five or six minutes, he had lost track of reality, a horrifying state of affairs for a man so highly trained to kill.

When he thought of how easily he could have hurt someone, it made his blood run cold. He had exiled himself here since that night and did not intend to show his face in Society again until he had somehow cured himself, was no longer a threat to the very people he had sacrificed his innocence to protect, and had become once more the ironclad military hero the world expected him to be.

He noticed Lucien studying him, reading him in his all-too-knowing way, those silvery eyes flashing with formidable intelligence. “Still having nightmares?”

Damien just looked at him.

He did not want to admit it, but the ghastly dreams of blood and destruction were even more frequent now, as though his addled brain could not unburden itself of its poisons fast enough. The rage in him was a frozen river like the ice-encrusted Thames that wrapped around his property. He knew it was there, but the strangest thing was he could not quite . . . feel it. He could not feel much of anything. Six years of combat—of ignoring terror, horror, and heartbreak—had that effect on a man, he supposed.

“You really shouldn’t be alone at a time like this,” Lucien said gently.

“Yes, I should, and you know why.” Avoiding his brother’s scrutiny, he shoved some of the wood into a neater pile, then dusted a few stray bits of bark off his buff-leather trousers.

“At least you’re still coming to London for Christmas with the family, I trust?”

He nodded firmly. “I’ll be there.” As long as the too-jolly prince regent could restrain himself from sponsoring another irritating fireworks show for the city, Damien saw little reason to worry. Christmas was a holy, tranquil night; it was New Year’s Eve that tended to be raucous, accompanied by the usual rowdiness, noise, and explosives. He would return to his sanctuary at Bayley House by then. “Do you want something to drink?” he offered, belatedly remembering hospitality.

“No, thanks.” Lucien slipped his hands into the pockets of his greatcoat and looked away, squinting toward the horizon. He seemed to hesitate. “There is . . . actually another reason I’m here, Damien. The truth is . . . ah, hell,” he whispered, shutting his eyes. “I really don’t know how to tell you this.”

Damien looked over, taken aback by Lucien’s stark tone. A prickle of dread ran down his spine as his gaze took in his brother’s paling face and anguished stare. “Jesus, Lucien, what is it?” Abandoning the woodpile, Damien walked over to him, drawing off his gloves. “What’s happened? The family—”

“No, we’re all fine,” he said quickly, then lowered his head and spoke with difficulty. “I was in London on business earlier in the week when I heard. The news is all over Town. I’m so damned sorry, Damien.” Steeling himself, he lifted his head and looked into his eyes. “Sherbrooke’s dead. He was murdered Wednesday night.”

“What?”
He felt his stomach plummet with nauseating swiftness, but could only stare at his brother without comprehension.

“Apparently there was a robbery. The intruder shot him in the chest. I came as soon as I heard.” Lucien gazed at him in distress. “I know—God, I know—you’re in no condition to hear this, but I didn’t want you to find out some other way.”

Damien felt the air leave his lungs in a whoosh. “Are you sure?” he forced out.

Lucien gave a pained nod.

“Oh, God.” He turned and walked a few paces away, then stopped, blank with shock. He dragged his hand through his hair and just stood there, at a loss, staring at the bleak horizon and the winter-bare trees of the orchard on the ridge, black and gnarled, and the cold glint of the frozen river. The sun had gone behind the clouds, and where there had been bright sparkles on the snow, now there was only a white, unforgiving glare.

There was a very long silence.

Behind him, he heard Lucien’s black stallion snort and paw the ground in princely impatience. His brother murmured softly, quieting the animal, while Damien fought in silence to absorb the blow without falling to his knees in sheer despair. He had thought they were safe now. The war was over. How could he have forgotten that death, the ultimate victor, marched on?

He spun around abruptly, wrath darkening his face. “Do they know who did it?”

“No. Bow Street is still investigating. They suspect any number of known thieves in the area. I’ve taken the liberty of sending a few of my young associates to inquire into the matter.”

“Thank you.” He looked away, trembling, his face hard and expressionless, but even he was shocked by how quickly he adapted to the news. To be sure, this was an old routine by now, the death of a friend, he thought in deep, welling bitterness. There were courtesies to be carried out, rituals to be observed. He was the executor of Jason’s will. There were duties to be fulfilled. He clung to them for his sanity’s sake.

His men would need him, too, he thought. As their colonel, it fell to him to set the example of conduct, discipline, manly self-control. They still depended on him, as they had on the battlefield, to stand firm against the chaos and disequilibrium they all felt. Half a decade of their lives had passed in a roaring, blood-spattered flash of horror, and suddenly, here they were, dazed to find themselves in tranquil old England again, blooded savages thrown back into Society, where they must be gentlemen again.
By God, I have been selfish,
he thought, closing his eyes and damning himself for leaving them, coming out here to lick his wounds. If he had stayed in London, if he had looked after Sherbrooke better . . .
I should have been there
.