Susan Carroll (48 page)

His words brought Mandell up short. He was
horrified to realize the old man was right. Gazing into the duke's
face was like staring into some demonic mirror, a reflection of the
dark recesses of his heart. Mandell glanced down at his hands,
inches from reaching for the old man's throat. With great effort of
will, he lowered them to his sides and stepped back.

“No, your grace,” he said dully. “You are not
ruled by logic, but the bitter poison in your soul that drove you
to destroy my father and that will destroy you as well.”

The duke said nothing. He reached for his
quill and signed his name to the confession with a final flourish.
Mandell paced a few steps away, striving to regain his composure
before he could ask, “What did you do with my father after you
killed him?”

“I concealed his body in a winding sheet, and
turned him over to the parish as a wandering vagrant who had died
upon my lands. He was buried in a pauper's grave in the cemetery of
the little church near my estate. I daresay the old vicar can point
it out to you if you are sentimental enough to wish it.”

After sanding the ink dry, the duke folded
the vellum. Using the candle, he melted some red wax upon the
closure and affixed his seal to it.

“Here,” he said, holding out the signed
confession to Mandell. “This is yours. You may do as you like with
it.”

Slowly, Mandell turned and came back to the
desk. As he reached for the paper, the duke's hand closed about
Mandell's wrist. The old man's fingers were remarkably cold.

“After you mother died, Mandell,” the duke
said, “I felt that you were all that was left to me. I both cared
for you and hated you. Your physical resemblance to your father was
pure torment to me, so much so that I would often gaze at you as
you slept and think of taking up the pillow, and suffocating the
life from you.”

“After what I have learned tonight, I almost
regret that you permitted me to live,” Mandell said. He stared
pointedly at the duke's fingers until the old man released him.
Wrenching the confession out of His Grace's hand, Mandell turned
and stalked from the room.

Only when he was certain that Mandell was
gone did the duke allow himself to murmur, “But I have never had
any such regrets, my Mandell.”

The duke put away his ink, quill, and wax,
clearing the desk as he had always done. He could not tolerate
disorder nor had he ever liked servants handling his private
possessions. He rose to his feet and went to peer at the surface of
the bed with a smile of satisfaction. Mandell had forgotten to take
the pistol away with him. That simplified matters a great deal.

Going to the window, the duke forced open the
casement, taking in a reviving breath of sharp cold air. Smoothing
back the lace from his cuffs, he took up the pistol.

Moments later a shot rang out in the night as
the duke of Windermere claimed his final victim.

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

Braced by a score of pillows, Nick managed to
sit up to take his breakfast. Bending over his tray, he attacked a
large juicy beefsteak with a hearty enthusiasm that was unhampered
by the thick wadding of bandages wrapped about his shoulder.
Watching him, Sara could only marvel at his recuperative powers. It
was difficult to remember that he was the same man who had been
fetched to the doorstep of their modest townhouse only five days
ago. He had hovered on the verge of death, and Sara had prayed to a
God and all manner of saints she had not even believed in until
that moment.

Her prayers had been heard and answered by
someone, for Nick made a rapid recovery. Sara had discovered her
husband possessed a remarkable resiliency of spirit as well as
body. Whatever shock and disillusionment he had suffered from
uncovering the truth about his grandfather seemed to have healed as
swiftly as his wound. There would always be the scar creasing his
shoulder, perhaps the lines about his mouth a little deeper for
sorrow. But the sparkle in his eyes told Sara that his ultimate
faith in the reason and goodness of mankind had not dimmed. Nick
still believed.

Would that shining belief remain untarnished
when faced with a far greater disillusionment? No longer having to
fear for her husband's life, Sara had been freed to torment herself
with other worries, Mandell's warning echoing through her mind
again and again.

You would be better off telling him any
dark secrets you might harbor
.

The terrible events that had occurred that
night at Windermere Palace had but postponed the inevitable. Sara
knew that Mandell was right, yet she could not seem to summon the
courage to act upon his advice.

While Nick devoured his breakfast, she sat by
the hearthside in silence, mangling the stitches that she attempted
to set in a linen handkerchief. Nick's bedchamber was small and
close, not large enough to contain the mounting tension. But Sara
knew the tension was all locked within her. Nick remained
blissfully unaware that anything was wrong, or at least so she
thought.

She was startled when he shoved his tray to
one side and cheerfully demanded, “Out with it, Sara. What is
troubling you, my love?”

“Troubling me?” Sara tried to look
astonished. “I have no notion what you might mean, Nicholas.”

Nick grinned. “Our marriage has been brief, I
will admit. But I can always tell that when you start wreaking
havoc on some piece of unoffending fabric with a needle, it is a
sure sign that something is wrong.”

She winced at his perception. This could be
the opening she sought, but it would still be easier to laugh and
deny his words. She had been such a good liar all her life. She did
not know how to stop dissembling, had never wished to do so until
falling in love with Nick. How did one begin to tell the truth,
especially when one knew with a sense of inevitability where it
must lead? Perhaps the best course was to spare them both a great
deal of pain and begin with the end.

Plucking at the snarled threads of her
embroidery work, she said, “I was only wondering how long one could
be married and still obtain an annulment. Or barring that, how
difficult it would be to obtain a divorce.”

Nick said nothing for several moments. Sara
could feel the weight of his silence pressing upon her heart. She
heard him shift, settling back against the pillows. He said with a
quiet sigh, “Your question is not entirely unexpected and certainly
not one that I blame you for asking. My prospects when you married
me were bad enough, but after this scandal with my
grandfather—”

“No!” Sara looked up, Nick's misconception a
painful reproach to her. “It has nothing to do with that or your
prospects, but everything to do with me. There is something that I
have to tell you, and then it will be you who wishes for a
divorce.”

Nick did not receive this dramatic
pronouncement in the grave manner that Sara anticipated. His taut
features relaxed with relief. He was almost smiling, and Sara did
not know how she was going to continue, how she could do this to
him. Damn him! Did he have to look quite so adoring, so infernally
trusting?

Flinging her embroidery down, she shoved to
her feet. It seemed easier to continue when she paced restlessly
about the room, when she did not have to look Nick directly in the
eye.

“There are many things about me you don't
know, Nicholas.”

“Like the fact you are not a widow from
Yorkshire?” Nick supplied amiably when she floundered again. “That
your mother lives above a pawnshop in Bethnal Green? Or are you
more worried about telling me of your recent history with my cousin
Mandell?'

Sara whipped about to gape at Nick, stunned.
His lips quirked in a lopsided smile, his expression so fond and
foolish, Sara had to fight a strange desire to burst into
tears.

“Then you already know everything? For how
long?”

“Oh, since a day or two before our
wedding.”

“And yet you married me anyway? Who could
have told you such things about me or my family? You know more
about me than Mandell ever did.”

“My cousin never had any occasion to visit
Bethnal Green. You forget I am a frequent caller there. I was doing
some of my investigations when I was accosted by a young boy named
Palmer who tried to relieve me of my watch.”

“Davy,” Sara said darkly. “Why can't that
fool stick to robbing dead bodies? He possesses no talent for being
a pickpocket.”

“I do agree he should choose another career.
In any event, your brother must have observed our encounter in the
street that day. He assumed I had replaced Lord Mandell in your
affections and sought to use that knowledge to dissuade me from
handing him over to the magistrate. Instead David took me around to
tea at your mother's flat.”

“You met Mum, too?” Sara asked with a sinking
heart.

“Yes, and Gideon. A daunting but charming
parcel of rogues. One could do far worse for a collection of
in-laws. In time, I daresay I shall grow quite fond of all of
them.”

Sara stared at him, wondering if Nick had
lost his wits. Or perhaps it was she. She felt a sudden need to sit
down, and sank upon the foot of the bed.

“Why didn't you tell me you knew all of
this?” she asked. “Why did you let me go on lying to you?”

Nick squirmed and looked sheepish. “I
discovered all that I did purely by chance, but I was afraid you
would think I was spying on you.”

“Spying on me!” Sara gave a wild laugh.
“Nick, you had every right to do so. I tricked you, lied to you
again and again.”

“You told me you loved me. Was that
untrue?”

“No!” One hot tear escaped to cascade down
her cheek. “Those are the truest words I have ever spoken in my
whole miserable life.”

“Then nothing else matters, my dear,” Nick
said. He stretched out one hand to her, his eyes soft not with mere
forgiveness, but with a loving acceptance of all that she was.

Suppressing a tiny sob, she went to him,
allowing him to draw her into the comforting circle of his arm..
Stretching out beside him, she buried her face against his chest
and wept as she had not allowed herself to do since her days as a
small girl.

Nick patted her back, pressing kisses against
her hair. “Sara. Sara, my love, whatever is wrong now?”

“Nothing. Only I never fully appreciated what
a remarkable man you are, Nick Drummond.”

“Oh. It is most agreeable to hear that, but I
wish it would not make you cry. I do not know what I shall do with
you if you turn into one of those weepy, sentimental females.
Besides, you are getting my bandage wet.”

“S-sorry.” Sara hiccuped on a laugh and sat,
dashing the tears from her eyes.

“That is better,” Nick said, sweeping one
fingertip along the curve of her cheek. “Now I trust there shall be
no more foolish talk of divorce. There are other acts that need to
be passed in Parliament I would rather devote my energy to.”

“I know.” Sara straightened, easing herself
off the bed. “Nick, I don't want there to be any more secrets
between us.”

“Nor do I, my love.”

“Then I think it is time you did a little
plain speaking yourself.”

When Nick frowned in puzzlement, Sara went
over to the tall wardrobe which housed Nick's rainbow array of
frock coats. “Do you remember the morning after we were wed?” she
asked. “I was attempting to help you dress so that we did not have
to be intruded upon so soon by any servants.”

Sara eased open the wardrobe door and reached
far back on the top shelf. “I found this when I was looking for a
clean stock.”

She turned and held up the object that had so
unsettled her peace of mind. It was a gauntlet, fashioned to make a
man look as though he had no hand, the end curving into a
lethal-looking steel hook. She crossed the room and laid the
damning evidence upon the bed before him.

Nick fingered the gauntlet and heaved a deep
sigh. “I can explain, Sara.”

She shook her head, cutting him off. “No
explanations are necessary. I don't know what reason compelled you
to run about at night, playing at being a footpad, whether you were
trying to become a Robin of the Hood, or merely seeking to drive
home your point about the need for a better police force,”

Nick looked nonplussed. “You appear to have
taken this discovery quite calmly, my dear.”

“I have spent most of my life watching
someone I love flirt with the hangman's noose. I never expected I
would have to continue the tradition with my husband. But I
supposed I must grow resigned to being worried to death.”

“Sara—”

“I wish you would not continue on with your
activities as the Hook, but I want you to know that I shall support
you in this, the same as in any other endeavor, even if we both end
up in Newgate.”

To her astonishment and indignation, Nick
only laughed.

“Sara, Sara! Your devotion overwhelms me. I
daresay I will find myself in Newgate someday, most likely because
I have written something to annoy those damned Tories who control
the government. But I will never be arrested for anything so
dashing as being the Hook.”

Regarding her with a tender smile, Nick held
up the gauntlet. “My dear Sara, I confiscated this infernal thing
from your older brother.”

The Palmer family gathered around one of the
tables in the Running Cat tavern, the murky atmosphere suited to
the general mood. Chastity and her youngest son, Davy, sipped at
their tankards of ale, both faces as mournful as though attending a
wake. Gideon appeared unaffected by their air of discontent. He
rocked back on the legs of his chair, listening to his mother's
complaints with a kind of lazy amusement.

“I always wished Sary well,” Chastity said.
“And lord knows I tried to understand the child's mad obsession
with becoming a lady and turning respectable. But I never thought
the dire effects of Sary getting married would spill over onto us.
Nick Drummond's a pleasant enough fellow, but I could tell at the
outset he means to make a thorough pest of himself. Imagine! At our
first meeting, telling me he meant to wed my babe, then already
hinting that I should not be living over a pawnshop and drinking
gin.”