“You were at the marquess’s side the night of the Duchess of Richmond’s ball,” Charles Locke said to Anne as they bumped along in the carriage on the road to Slocombe House. Sarah’s husband had kindly agreed to accompany Anne and Prudence on the long journey south. “Did you see Droughtmoor fire the pistol?”
Anne tried to sort through her memories of that event. So much had whirled past her in the evening hours following the revelation of Ruel’s letter to his father. On hearing that Mr. Walker was alive, Prudence immediately had decided that she, too, would travel to Slocombe House. Sarah had volunteered her husband’s assistance and protection.
As Sarah sent for Charles to return from his offices at Locke & Son Tea Company, Anne and Prudence had hurried to pack their trunks. Mary Heathhill had begged the two women to delay their journey until the next morning, for everyone knew the danger of traveling England’s roadways at night.
They had reluctantly agreed, but with daylight came the dreadful news that Mr. Heathhill’s health had worsened. While Sarah rushed to her sister’s side, Prudence made the difficult decision to leave them. She would go with Charles Locke and Anne to Devon, assure herself of Mr. Walker’s safety, and then return immediately to London.
Anne could hardly endure the endless carriage ride. She longed to see Ruel, yet she dreaded his reaction to the news Sir Alexander must be telling him even now—that his wife was alive, but she intended to marry someone else. Unable to sleep the night before, Anne had written to Monsieur Robidoux to inform him of the situation and to sever any personal connection between them.
“I can hardly remember how Ruel was shot that night in Brussels,” she told Mr. Locke. “At the news of Napoleon taking Charleroi, everyone began rushing through the corridors of Richmond’s house, out the doors, and into the streets. I recall Mr. Walker shouting something—a warning, I suppose. I smelled black powder. And then Ruel fell to the floor.”
“Did you actually see Droughtmoor?” Charles asked.
“Not in the crowd, but I have no doubt he was the assassin. Earlier that evening, I heard him challenge Ruel to a duel. When news of the war broke out, Ruel told him their assignation the following morning would be impossible, and Droughtmoor vowed to have his revenge. The next thing I knew, Ruel lay bleeding in my arms.”
Charles clenched his teeth for a moment. “Lady Black- thorne, I must inform you that the assassin was not Drought-moor.”
“How can you be certain?”
“The newspaper accounts were clear. More than one witness vouched for his innocence. Barkham, Wimberley—”
“Droughtmoor’s accomplices. Of course they defended him! You must have had your information from Miss Pickworth, sir, for it is clearly prejudicial.”
“Miss Pickworth’s version of the event is reliable. The Duke of Richmond bore witness on behalf of Lord Drought-moor, as well. The duke was given intelligence of a hostile exchange between the men. He followed Droughtmoor outside to have a word with him, meaning to forestall any duel of honor on foreign soil. The duke was speaking with Drought-moor in the roadway when word of Blackthorne’s shooting came.”
“Then it must have been Barkham or Wimberley.”
“Both were with the duke.” Charles shook his head as he regarded her. “Someone else shot your husband, Lady Blackthorne. He has been fired at more than once, as you well know. Have you any idea who might want him dead?”
A sickening chill surged through Anne as she remembered the earlier incident involving Ruel. Everyone had assumed the spurned gamekeeper wanted to kill Anne. But that man, too, had an alibi. Then she thought of the family meeting when the Duchess of Marston had reviled Ruel and voiced her wish that he had perished at Waterloo.
“The duchess?” she whispered. “Could his own mother have hired an assassin?”
Charles lifted his eyebrows. “She minces no words concerning her dislike for her older son.”
“No,” Prudence spoke up. “It was not the duchess.”
“How can you be certain?” Anne asked.
“I shall speak plainly,” Prudence said. “I never wanted to tell you this information, for it is only rumor. I know you revile gossip, but now I must be frank. It is said that the Duchess of Marston is not the mother of the marquess. When the duke’s wife failed to bear him an heir, he took a mistress. Ruel is reportedly the son of a housemaid who died at his birth.”
“A housemaid?” Anne murmured, recalling the duchess’s angry denouncement of her. “No wonder she despised me.”
“When Sir Alexander was born to the duchess,” Prudence went on, “his mother doted upon him.”
“But this rumor only enhances my suspicion that she may have paid someone to shoot Ruel!”
“No, she would never harm the marquess. The duchess disdains her husband’s older son, but she has tolerated him as heir apparent for too many years. If she had wanted him dead, she would have seen to it long ago.”
Anne nodded. “The man who shot Ruel is someone else. Someone who stands to gain by my husband’s death.”
Prudence stared at her. “Can you be thinking—”
“Sir Alexander,” Anne said.
“Surely not,” Charles protested. “I have heard Sir Alexander express nothing but the deepest affection for his brother. He rushed to Devon the moment he heard Ruel was alive.”
“Sir Alexander is a cruel man and not to be trusted,” Anne declared as dread drained the blood from her face. “His mother’s favoritism poisoned him. The news that Ruel was alive infuriated the duchess. I saw her—heard her words of rage. She was livid that her younger son had lost the title and fortune she wished for him.”
“Angry enough to urge Alex to murder Ruel?”
“I believe Sir Alexander is capable of such evil even without a push from his mother. Mr. Locke, you and your Society witnessed only his public facade. In private, I saw his true character too many times to believe him incapable of such action. He had the motive and the opportunity.”
“Lady Blackthorne,” Charles said in a low voice. “Sir Alexander will arrive at Slocombe House long before us. If Ruel believes his brother loves him . . .”
“Sir Alexander will kill him.” She swallowed. “For all his impenetrable exterior, Ruel is a gentle, kind man at heart. Lacking his mother’s love, he has become both hardened and vulnerable at the same time. No one knows the chinks in Ruel’s armor better than his brother.” Her fingers tightened on her shawl as she thought about what might happen. “Even if I arrive in time to caution him, he may not believe what I tell him.”
Charles Locke regarded her for a moment without speaking. Then he took her hand. “Lady Blackthorne, do you love your husband as you vowed you did?”
“At first the marriage was nothing more than an arrangement between us. I thought of it as another of his games. He called it a bargain.” She looked away. “I learned to love Ruel. These past months . . . thinking him dead . . . have been unbearable. The truth is, I care nothing about where we live or what his properties and connections in the
ton
may be. I love him. I love Ruel, and if . . . if I lose him again—”
“You must make him believe in your love,” Prudence said. “Anne, he will trust you.”
“I agree with Miss Watson,” Charles said. “Nothing but the most profound assurance of your own devotion may convince him of his brother’s evil wishes.”
By the time the carriage arrived at Tiverton in Devon, Anne had completely restored the panel of lace she had removed from her bloodied blue gown. Prudence had changed her mind a hundred times—glad she had chosen to accompany Anne to Devon, and then despising herself for abandoning her sisters when Mary’s husband had grown so ill.
Prudence peppered Anne with questions that had no answers. Would Mr. Walker be glad to see her? Might he want to continue working at his smithy in Tiverton for the rest of his life? Could she possibly live so far from her dear sisters? Would he be willing to move to London to be near her? Did Anne believe he would consider marrying Prudence despite her youth? Ought she to set her sights on some other man instead?
Anne knew little beyond her own fear and constant preoccupation with prayer for Ruel’s safety. As the carriage horses were watered at an inn in Tiverton, Charles Locke learned that Alexander Chouteau had passed through only hours before.
Carriages were prone to breaking down, Anne knew, and horses sometimed pulled up lame or lost a shoe. Might she catch up to Sir Alexander? Might she stop him? She brushed aside Prudence’s suggestion that they stop at the blacksmith’s cottage. The smithy appeared deserted as they drove past it on their way through Tiverton.
Never had Anne known such apprehension. Prudence twisted her gloves until they began to shred, and even Mr. Locke could not stop drumming his fingers on the carriage seat.
“Do you think they will both be here, Anne?” Prudence asked. “Your husband
and
Mr. Walker, I mean?”
Anne took Prudence’s gloves away and dropped them into her own reticule. “It is the presence of Sir Alexander that troubles me the most,” she said. “We shall know everything soon enough.”
The carriage finally drew up to the front of the imposing stone house. Mr. Locke helped Anne and Prudence step down while the footman unloaded their trunks. In moments, they were standing at the door.
“Yes, sir?” The servant who answered their knock ignored Anne and Prudence and looked questioningly at Mr. Locke.
“The Marquess of Blackthorne?” Charles asked. “Is he here?”
“And Mr. Walker?” Prudence put in. “Where are they?”
“Have you a calling card, sir?” He continued to address Charles.
“Tell the marquess that his wife, the Marchioness of Blackthorne, has just arrived.”
The footman finally noticed Anne, and his eyes widened. “I beg your pardon. Will you not come in?” He stepped aside and ushered the women into the cool entry hall before starting up the long staircase.
Anne’s heart leapt for the first time since she had heard the duke read from Ruel’s letter. She was not too late! He was here! Would he want her? Would he recognize her? Oh, she looked terrible.
“Prudence, my hair. Is it—”
“Anne?”
She looked to the top of the stairs. He stood outlined in the morning sun, tall, raven-haired, magnificent. White shirt, black trousers. Leather boots. A pen dropped from his fingers to the carpeted landing.
“Anne?” he repeated.
All these hours, and she had not planned what to say. Had not imagined how it would be to actually see him again.
“I am here, Ruel,” she said. “I have come from France.”
Nostrils flaring, he gripped the banister as he started down the stairs. His gray eyes burned silver. “Anne, is it really you?”
She left Prudence’s side. “I thought you had died at Waterloo—”
“But it was you—”
“No, I was alive. I . . . we went to France and—”
“You are not dead?”
“No, but I thought you were until the duke—”
“Thank God!” He leapt down the last five steps, tore across the hall, caught her up in his arms, and swung her around and around. “This is a miracle! Anne! Dear Lord, You have brought her to me!”
Laughing, crying, she clung to him. “I cannot believe it! You are alive!”
“God has given you back to me! A second chance!”
“Ruel, I was certain I should never see you again. So many weeks—”
“An eternity.” He let her slide down until her feet touched the floor. Searching her eyes, he shook his head. “You are beautiful.”
She thought of the miles she had come, the wrinkles in her dress and tangles in her hair, and none of it mattered. To him she was beautiful. Beautiful!
“I believed I could never hold you in my arms again,” he murmured. “I saw you dead on that battlefield. Your blue dress was drenched in blood. You lay lifeless, as did your friend. The horses were mangled and the cart badly damaged. How many times I have recalled the scene in my mind. Your mouth open . . . your eyes rolled back. . . . You were dead, Anne.”
She shook her head. “Prudence and I lay unconscious for many hours. It was night when we became sensible again, and the battle still raged. Our ears had been deafened by the blast of the cannonball, but we could see the fallen men lying all around us. We had no doubt you and Mr. Walker were among the dead at Waterloo.”
“You were mistaken. After finding your bodies there on the front line, we knew we had no choice but to flee the battleground. Walker insisted we run. He said otherwise we would be killed, too.” He gripped her shoulders. “Anne, I have grieved you more than you can know.”
“And I you. Prudence and I concluded that you and Mr. Walker had been killed, for we thought surely you would not have abandoned us.” She turned, seeking her friend.
“Where is Mr. Walker?” Prudence asked as she stepped forward.
“He has been living in Tiverton at his cottage,” Ruel said.
“He has forgotten me. Oh, Anne, I knew it!”
Anne gathered her friend close. “Ruel, I beg you to send for Mr. Walker. He must be told that Prudence lives.”
Nodding, Ruel summoned a footman. As he gave instructions for a rider to take a message to the blacksmith in Tiverton, he paused and turned to gaze at Anne.
Her arms around Prudence, Anne looked into his eyes and saw what she had never imagined possible. He loved her. Wholly, without the slightest hint of hesitancy, he loved her. And how very dearly she loved him, too.