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She couldn’t breathe.
All she could do was watch, horrified, paralyzed, her fingers still locked behind the windowpane, as another shot rang out and Henry was flung forward heavily, to fall against the side of the coach, then slide away from her, to the ground.
“Henry—no!” Lady Gwendolyn reached for the latch, disregarding the earl’s warning, forgetting her child, not caring for her own safety. She threw open the door her husband, her protector, had closed behind him a minute earlier—a lifetime ago.
Her hands braced on either side of the opening, she struggled with the damning reality of seeing her husband lying just below her feet, his body facedown in the mud, a dark, ominous stain spreading on the back of his jacket. “Henry. Oh, my dear God—Henry!”
She raised her head and screamed at the highwaymen, her voice high-pitched with mounting hysteria. “We gave you all our money—all our jewelry. We gave you everything! And you killed him. There was no reason, no need. Why? Why did you do this?”
The man who had discharged his second pistol into the seventh earl of Witham stripped away his dark mask, revealing wickedly grinning features as he advanced in Lady Gwendolyn’s direction. “Good evening, Gwen. Beastly weather, isn’t it?”
She stared at the man as his face was revealed in the flickering light of the coach lamps, unable to understand either his presence or his actions. She then looked down at her husband’s body and shuddered convulsively before turning uncomprehending eyes back to Lord Henry’s killer. “But why? Why?”
She continued to watch as the man—this man she knew, this man she had trusted—took another step forward and slowly pulled a third long-barreled weapon from his belt….
BOOK ONE
A QUESTION OF HONOR
October 1815
Chance is a nickname for Providence.
Sébastien R. N. Chamfort
CHAPTER ONE
We die only once, and for such a long time!
Molière
LORD JAMES BLAKELY trusted his nephew did not view the scene now unfolding for his benefit as particularly jolly. Such interludes were by right supposed to be off-putting, damn it, deadly solemn and hung heavy with foreboding. Later—once the body had grown stiff and cold—there would be ample time for Morgan Blakely to perform a jig on his grave.
If he could.
For now, however, Lord James, in his own way, and in his own good time, would dance.
He had set up the particulars for this occasion with infinite care—planned his starring role down to the last detail. The gloomy, barnlike bedchamber suited his purpose perfectly, for he knew it had never been the most advantageous stage setting for any save moribund frolic.
Lord James had long ago opted to take his physical pleasures in somewhat less inhibiting surroundings, the more baseborn his partner the better. That sort of female did not take exception when the play turned rough. At least they had never shown their distaste—not for the heavy blunt he’d paid down to indulge his appetites.
And if he’d ruined one or two of the round-heeled bitches for the business, well, what of it? Nothing lasted. Nothing lived forever.
And he should know. He could see the demons gathering now, hovering in a far corner, high against the ceiling, rubbing their clawlike hands together and licking slimy, reptilian lips; eager to snatch him up, slash out his soul, and pitch it down, down, into the very bowels of the earth.
But not yet. No. He still had time. He still had something he had to do; a last, perfect mischief that would render his damnation tolerable.
Lord James moistened his parched, fever-cracked lips and looked about the room, searching out his audience of one.
The chamber was particularly musty this October evening, its bog-water green velvet draperies shut tight, its heavy Tudor furniture hulking ponderously against the tapestry-hung walls, the wretchedly ineffectual fire in the oversized grate hissing rather than crackling.
The price of good wood could beggar a man. The smoke and sizzle of green wood might make living plaguey uncomfortable, but it was more than good enough to die by.
The world outside the drafty windows couldn’t have been any more appropriate, nature helping him with his scene-setting. It had been raining all day; a heavy, drenching, reminiscent downpour that had set all the usual damp patches on the ceiling to showing themselves to disadvantage while lending to the stale, musty air another aroma to ponder: mildew.
The only sound Lord James heard was that of rainwater splashing tinnily into a half dozen pails set at irregular intervals on the threadbare carpet—along with his own decidedly evil chuckling and intermittent coughing, as he had just completed entertaining his guest with a little tale about a liaison he’d once had with the local rat catcher’s daughter.
Vulgarity was so comforting, such a glaringly human vice in the midst of this tawdry business of dying. He, Lord James Blakely, rapidly fading but still cheerfully malevolent, would do his damnedest to make his passing as miserable for his guest as possible. He might be only a few days or hours away from being put to bed with a shovel, but was that any reason to alter by so much as a hair the habits of a lifetime?
“The rat catcher’s daughter. My congratulations, Uncle, for you are nothing if not consistent,” Morgan Blakely said now, as Lord James went off in another paroxysm of high-pitched giggles. “I have always so enjoyed your feeble attempts at humor. You really should have written them all down somewhere, for the sake of posterity, you understand. But then, you did write some things down, didn’t you, some little tidbits of information—and then forwarded them directly to France via one of the less discriminating smuggling gangs that frequent the coast.”
Lord James’s face blanched, his enjoyment decimated, and he looked furtively at his nephew. “You know about that?” he asked, his handkerchief still pressed to his mouth, a string of spittle dribbling from his chin.
Morgan spoke in a deadly sweet drawl, his distaste for his uncle maddeningly obvious in the relaxed stance of his long, leanly muscled body. “Dear me, yes,” he answered, smiling for the first time since he’d entered the bedchamber.
Lord James gritted his teeth, shaking with fury. “When? How?”
“Must I really indulge you? Oh, very well. I have known since before Waterloo, since shortly after my return from France. As for the how of it—you do remember my mission during the war, don’t you, my area of operation? Tell me, Uncle—was the money you received for selling secrets all the sweeter for the thought that the information you forwarded to Bonaparte could have meant the end of your brother’s son? I’ve occasionally wondered about that possibility—in idle moments, you understand.”
Morgan knew. Cold-hearted bastard! If only I had my pistol, I’d shoot him square between those mocking devil-black eyes, and consign him to hell before me!
But Lord James didn’t have his pistol. He was dying; defenseless in front of the man he had planned to bring low, now with more reason than simple hate to goad him. Was there no justice? No justice at all?
Lord James’s eyes slid away from his nephew’s face. He felt himself growing weaker by the moment, and still he had not begun to tell Morgan the reason he had summoned him. Instead, Morgan had taken center stage, had muddled the plot with a last-minute alteration to the script. Lord James had wondered why his contacts on the Continent had dried up three years ago—and with them nearly his sole source of income. Morgan had done it. His own nephew!
Yet why was he surprised? Shouldn’t he have known that Morgan was behind it—his maddeningly secretive nephew with the heart of stone and ice water in his veins?
Suddenly it became important to Lord James that his nephew understand the horrors he had been through, the very valid reasons for his treason. “This house took all my money, always has. Decrepit pile, the bane of every younger son! Why else do you think I agreed to work with Bonaparte? But my contact stopped asking for my help, stopped sending all that lovely money.” He tried to lift himself onto his elbows. “Because of you. All because of you!”
Morgan raised a perfectly manicured finger to stroke at one ebony eyebrow. “Ah, your contact, at the War Office. Thorndyke, wasn’t it? Yes, that was his name. George Thorndyke. He became very useful, once we were able to supply him with secrets we wished passed along—through other channels, of course. I could not have the family name involved. Having one’s own uncle hanging from a gibbet could be a tad embarrassing, you understand. I did tell you that poor Thorndyke is dead these past two months or more, didn’t I? I know you’ve been out of touch here in Sussex, dying and all.”
“Thorndyke’s dead?” Lord James narrowed his eyes as he glared at Morgan. “What did you do?”
“Uncle—how you wound me. You know I am not a man of violence. Thorndyke died suddenly. Hanged himself in his study only hours after I left him, as a matter of fact. And we’d had such a lovely visit, too. It was a most depressing funeral. You can count yourself lucky to have missed it.”
Lord James’s once large frame, now ravaged by illness, seemed to shrink even more under his nephew’s casually spoken words. It didn’t matter now. He couldn’t be hurt now, carted away for treason. Yet he had to know. “Who else? Who else knows?”
“Actually,” Morgan answered, “nobody.” He pulled over a chair and positioned it at his uncle’s bedside before sitting down. “I thought it prudent to keep your dirty linen in the cupboard.”
“Your father,” Lord James spat grudgingly, his ravaged face pinched into a condescending sneer. “Your endlessly ungrateful idiot of a father. You did it for him.”
“For my father, yes,” Morgan answered shortly. “I discovered that, at the time, I wasn’t willing to sacrifice his good name in order to exercise a paltry justice on you. But that is neither here nor there now, as your sadly wasted body has saved me from suffering through another interview such as the one I had with Thorndyke—just to tie up all the loose ends now that the war is over, you understand. Dearest Uncle James—and I trust I have deduced correctly: that is a death rattle I hear in your throat, isn’t it?”
Lord James looked at his nephew, seeing the dangerous facade the world saw, the darkly handsome, impeccably dressed gentleman of fashion whose sartorial splendor could never quite disguise the fact that Morgan Blakely could be a very, very dangerous man.
“I’ve always hated you, Morgan. If it weren’t for you, I would have inherited all my brother’s wealth. I had so counted on that. Instead, all my plans have come to naught. And now I am dying, while my holy brother still lives, mumbling his prayers on his makeshift altar while you live high on the Blakely money. There is no justice in this world.”
“I see no need to make my father any major part of this discussion.”
Lord James’s temper flared. “Of course you don’t! I thought I had summoned you—but you were coming anyway, weren’t you? To be sure of my death? And you’re here to watch me die, not to discuss my hypocrite brother. My brother! Loves his God more as each new dawn brings him closer to his own day of reckoning. Funny. Don’t remember Willy spouting scripture when we were young and tumbling everything in sight. Even shared a couple of ’em.”
“That will be enough.”
Lord James ignored his nephew’s warning and continued: “Hung like a stallion, your sainted father, just like you. Hypocrite! That’s what our Willy is. You don’t like his praying and penance any better than I, do you, nevvy? Serves no purpose, does it, when we both know there is no God. You and me, we know. Only the devil, nevvy, only the devil. Believe it, nevvy. There is a devil. It’s him or nothing. He’s sent some of his fellows on ahead to welcome me. See ’em? Over there—hanging from the ceiling like bloody bats. The sight would set Willy straight on his knees for sure, bargaining for angels.”
A muscle twitched spasmodically in Morgan’s cheek. “Your mind is going, Uncle, otherwise I would have to take you to task for your obscenity. However, I see no crushing need to remain here and listen to your ramblings. If you wanted me here for some purpose other than to allow me the faint titillation of watching you shuffle off this mortal coil I suggest you organize your thoughts and get on with it.”
“Ah, yes. Indeed, let us return to the reason for your presence, and hang this distasteful business about spies and Thorndyke and your so damnable, so patient revenges. Poor nevvy—this is one death scene you cannot manipulate to your own designs. Morgan Blakely is not omnipotent this night!”
Morgan inclined his head, not in acquiescence but in obvious condescension.
Nevertheless, the smile was back on Lord James’s face, not that it was an improvement, for years of dissipation had taken a permanent toll even before this last illness struck him down. But all was not lost. His darts had begun to hit home. His adversary was attempting to leave the field—although not before telling him about Thorndyke, not before indulging himself with at least one surgically precise parting shot. Well, he had taken that shot, and now it was time to get to the real crux of this bizarre meeting.
“All in good time, nevvy. You had me worried there for a moment, admitting that you had allowed sentiment to keep you from turning me over to the government, but you’re still the same, all right! Cold to the bone. No wonder we hate each other so—we’re two peas in a pod. Killed your share and more, haven’t you? And liked it, too, didn’t you, boy? The devil’s deep in you, just as he is in me.”
His smile faded and he became intense, for he knew he was about to close in for the kill. “But you’ve got bits of your mother stuck in you, too. A soft side, a silly, worthless part of you that actually cares. That’s why I sent for you. You’re vulnerable, and I like that. I can use that. Listen closely, nevvy. You think you know me, but you don’t. Selling secrets to Boney was child’s play, something to do to pass the time. How do you think I’ve survived all these years? I ran through my wife’s money in less time than it took to bury her along with the puling brat she’d died trying to birth—good riddance to bad rubbish—and I had to poke about, looking for another, more reliable source of income.”
Morgan held out his left hand and inspected his fingertips, frowning over a small cut at the tip of his index finger. “How utterly fascinating, Uncle. I am, of course, hanging breathless on your every word,” he drawled with patently deliberate nonchalance.
“Damned impertinent bastard!” Lord James accused hotly, struggling to rise from his pillows. “Never have I met your like! Never!”
“No, no,” Morgan corrected, his tone insultingly amiable. “I’m your image, Uncle, remember? ‘Cold to the bone,’ as I believe you said. Oh, dear. Is that the gong calling me to dinner? What a fortunate escape. Never fear that I shall find my meal inadequate. I took the precaution of bringing a basket with me from Clayhill.” He rose slowly, pushing the chair back to its former position, the cool precision of his movements galling Lord James. “If you should chance to expire while I’m dining, please consider this our last tender farewell. Good evening, Uncle.”
Morgan was nearly at the door before Lord James spoke again, for it took him that long to regain his breath after his last outburst. He had to say this now—say what he wanted to say, what had to be said—or else Morgan would be gone for good, and James would have died for nothing. If he could not leave behind some festering evidence of his malevolence, the only legacy of a childless, bitter man, it would be as if he had never lived….
“That’s it. Run away. No one can capture the Unicorn!” he called out, his voice loud in the quiet room. He lay back against the pillows, listening to the drops of rainwater splash into the pan nearest the bed, waiting for Morgan’s response, but not really expecting any.
“I’ve always thought it the height of irony that you were the Unicorn,” he continued when he felt enough time had elapsed to build the suspense he desired. “England’s greatest spy. My nemesis. And so modest about it. If I had not broken the codes that made up the messages I delivered to the smugglers, I might never have guessed. Even Wellington never figured out which was which, did he? Pompous, posturing dolt! But I recognized you immediately, recognized myself as I could have been—would have been if Saint Willy hadn’t been born first. So, yes. Yes! I did know my treason could mean the death of you. It was part of the joy of the moment! Jeremy’s death was no more than an accident of good fortune. But the war is over. Napoleon is banished. And still you cling to your secrecy, still you stand quietly and allow another to claim all your glory.”
Lord James paused for a moment, then smiled. “I hold the key to that man’s destruction, nevvy,” he continued quietly, liking the hint of menace in his voice. “Would you like it? What would you and your patient revenge do with the perfect tool for that man’s destruction? Shall that key be my parting gift to you, your legacy?” He lifted one skeletal hand, indicating the bedchamber and all of the house. “Along with this decrepit pile, of course.”
“You’re lying,” Morgan said, his hand on the door latch, his back still turned toward the bed. “You have nothing I want. You were a most deplorable traitor, Uncle, barely worth the effort it took to ferret you out. You say you knew my identity, yet you seemed surprised to learn that I, in turn, had caught you out. But I will admit your dramatics are interesting, if a trifle lacking in style—especially that little bit about Jeremy. Perhaps you should have devoted yourself instead to penny press fiction.”
His nephew didn’t believe him! He was going to leave!
Sudden panic lent Lord James new strength. “I’m not lying, damn you! Think, nevvy. As the twig is bent! Willy can tell you. I was always what I am now, capable of anything for the sake of a few gold pieces. Trading in secrets was my only mistake, a miscalculation of old age and greed, but not my only source of income. I was better when I was younger, sharper.”
“Hence this splendor in which you live, Uncle,” Morgan taunted, spreading his hands as if to encompass the faded ugliness of the bedchamber before opening the door. “I’ll ask one of the servants to come sit with you. Obviously you are now slipping toward delirium.”
“No! I’m telling the truth. I swear it.” James clawed his way to the side of the bed, the better to see his nephew, the better to allow his nephew to see him. “You cannot know all the things I’ve done, the vile, dastardly crimes I’ve committed.”
“Cannot and do not care to know.”
Lord James sneered. “Oh, nevvy, how far you have to fall from that perfidious pinnacle of indifference you perch on. You do care. You will care, because I hold all the cards now, all the answers to your schemes that you still do not admit to, even to yourself. You want revenge, nevvy. Damnation, man, you may even deserve it!”
“Perhaps you’re right. But it will be in my own time, Uncle, and in my own way.”
“Of course. I should have realized that you wouldn’t wish my help, even if I am trying, in this feeble way, to atone for any indirect connection I might have had with dear Jeremy’s death. I understand, nevvy.” Lord James began to pick at the coverlet, his eyes averted from Morgan. “But then, there is still the matter of the child.”
Lord James held his breath as Morgan let go of the latch and turned, his dark eyes narrowed as he stared straight into his uncle’s grinning face. “Child? What child?”
“What? Did you say something, nevvy? I cannot hear you very well, and the room grows dim. Come closer, nevvy. Come close so that I can give you my last confession.”
He heard Morgan’s footsteps and smiled into the frayed collar of his nightshirt. He counted to ten, slowly, then began to speak once more. “Once upon a time,” he began, then chuckled at his own wit, the laughter turning into a wet cough that left bits of blood on his already soiled handkerchief.
“Once upon a time, nevvy,” he continued, “there was a man like me, a man who found himself where he should not be, while another man, a lesser man, usurped his rightful place. We met, this man and I, no more than once or twice, and we bemoaned our fate together over several bottles of wine. Perhaps more than several bottles.”
“Go on,” Morgan urged, pulling the chair back over beside the bed. “Continue your fairy tale.”
Lord James shot his nephew a searing look, reveling in the lack of necessity to hood his dislike for the younger man. “I have every intention of continuing,” he said shortly. “We chatted idly, without real purpose—until the day the man’s circumstances changed and it became imperative for him to take steps to protect himself. He tried to enlist my help, but I refused. Why should I do for him what I might have done for myself?” He shook his head. “I only wonder why I never did it for myself when I was younger…when we all were younger. I only wonder….”
Morgan stood. “And I can only wonder, Uncle, why I am allowing a perfectly good roasted chicken to continue to lie downstairs untasted in my dinner basket.”
“No! Don’t go! You must hear the rest. I did not help the man, but I know what he did.” Lord James lowered his voice conspiratorially. “I followed after and watched—then fired my pistol to scare them off before they’d finished. He was even so stupid as to lift his mask and show his face, to crow about his success, so that he knew I saw him plain. That was a great help to me, almost as great a help as the child. After all, nevvy, what good is it to know something if you cannot turn a profit from it, hmm?”
“Uncle, I haven’t the faintest notion what you’re talking about.”
“Of course you don’t,” Lord James agreed, feeling very satisfied with himself. “As one of those Greeks scribbled so long ago, nevvy, ‘The fox knows many things, but the hedgehog knows one great thing.’ You look surprised. Did you think I was a total barbarian? I know something of the classics. You, nevvy, are like the fox, but I am the hedgehog. Blackmail, which depends on knowing a single great thing, would never occur to you. But it occurred to me.”
Lord James rubbed his palms together, gleefully remembering the long-ago night of his greatest brilliance. He could see it as clearly as he could see his nephew’s strained features. Maybe more clearly. “I waited until after the shot that silenced the woman before I fired my own pistol, frightening them off. And then I waited longer still, until I was sure they had gone, before riding in. I found the child on the ground—muddy, her mother’s blood mixing with the mud and rainwater on her face and little dress. The father was half sunk in the mud—back shot! But I digress. Bit me, the little hellion did, when I pulled her away from the bodies just as her mother breathed her last. I could have killed the child then—snapped her neck like a dried goose bone—but I didn’t. I needed her, you see.”
“The child?” Morgan’s voice was hushed, as if he wished to ask the question but did not want to interrupt. Which was as it should have been. It was time the boy paid his uncle a little respect.
“Yes, of course, the child. I put her in a safe place. Not a very nice place, I suppose, but you must remember—I could just as easily have disposed of her. Suddenly I had all the money I needed, although the fool never knew it was his occasional drinking companion who was taking a share of his new wealth. All the money I could ever want, delivered to a safe address at the beginning of each new quarter. Such a gentlemanly, civilized arrangement—for a time.”
He stopped his story once more, to cough, and to contemplate the injustices of his life.
“The payments stopped a few years ago,” he continued swiftly, not caring for this part of the story, “when the man demanded more proof and ordered me to produce her. I couldn’t, for they told me she had reached her teens and left the orphanage where I had so gladly deposited her that first night. That was careless of me, wasn’t it, nevvy? Misplacing the brat like that, if in truth she had left the orphanage. Luckily I already had Thorndyke—or unluckily, depending upon how you consider the thing. But this is the chit’s house by rights, not yours as is stated in my will, considering that the blunt I got from blackmailing her parents’ killer is what kept this place going for so long. This hulking money-eater and several grand estates scattered all over England that were deeded in her name by her father—all are hers. She’s a rich orphan, this missing heiress I spared in my generosity.”
“You have proof of this dastardly crime, I imagine?”
“Proof? Imbecile! You demand proof from a dying man?” Lord James could not hide his elation, sure all his hooks had sunk home with deadly accuracy. Now, at last, his little play was falling out as he had planned. It almost made his dying worthwhile, to be able to leave the noble Morgan behind to ruin his life trying desperately to right his uncle’s wrong.
Now it was time to reel out the line a few feet before hauling his newly caught fish in once more. “Never mind, Morgan. I shouldn’t have mentioned it,” he said, pressing back against the pillows. “Obviously you’re not interested in my heartfelt confession. Why would you want to help me atone, in this the house of my death?”
Morgan rose from the chair, his cool composure discarded, his eyes flashing fire. Grabbing hold of his uncle’s nightshirt with both hands, he half dragged him up from the bed so that Lord James had to turn his head to hide a triumphant smile. “Enough of this nonsense! This is no game we’re playing, not anymore. No more dancing around the facts, Uncle. I need to hear you say the name. I need to hear the proof from your own lips. Damn you, man, answer me!”
Now, Lord James thought. Now is the time to take my exit—now, while he believes me. He began to cough, racking coughs that had him spitting small specks of blood that tasted of rust and maybe even the dirt that would soon cover his mortal shell. There were two Morgans hovering above him, menacing him with their flashing dark eyes. Defiance flashed in Lord James’s own eyes. “You—you’re the smart one, nevvy. You already know the names!”
Morgan’s desire to kill was apparent, but Lord James knew his nephew’s need for information would take priority, leashing his bloodlust, at least for the moment. “The child? Is she still alive? Surely you must know something. Where could she have gone?”
“A whorehouse, if she was smart,” Lord James answered, feebly trying to push his nephew’s hands away. “Chopping turnips in someone’s kitchen if she was stupid. Unless she’s dead. You know the way of orphanages. It’s a hard life. Even harder than mine has been. Maybe that’s why I lost touch. Or maybe I was lied to. Maybe the little brat is feeding worms. What were you hoping for, Unicorn—to lay your head in the lap of a virgin? I’d like that too, for you’d have to die to do it.”
Morgan released his grip on the nightshirt, which allowed James to slump back against the pillows, gasping for breath. “You’re lying, old man. Your story is full of holes. I don’t believe a word you’re saying. You’ve just taken bits of well-known truth and conveniently twisted them around for your own evil motives.”
Was he lying? Lord James couldn’t remember. He had told so many lies. Was this the truth? Yes. Yes, of course it was the truth. He hadn’t made this story up, designed it from bits of truth woven together with clever lies, to fashion a tapestry of revenge against his brother’s son. Had he? Oh, Christ—had he?
But wait. He remembered now. He had proof!
