A Baron in Her Bed (22 page)

“Lord Strathairn was in quite a hurry.” Bemused, Lady Taylor raised her brows. “He rushed off to question the neighbors. I’ve no idea why. Lord Fortescue could hardly have been snatched from our home. He must have left of his own free will.”

“He would not have been so ill-mannered,” Horatia said.

“I’m sure he will return when it suits him.” Lord Taylor looked down his long nose at Horatia. “We know so little about the baron. We couldn’t say if this is his usual behavior.”

“Well, I do know, Lord Taylor,” Geneviève said. “My brother has impeccable manners.”

“But of course he has, Your Grace,” Lady Taylor said hastily, with an annoyed look at her husband. “Perhaps some tea?” Her hand hovered over the bell.

“
No, merci
. We shall follow in Lord Strathairn’s footsteps and question the servants in the houses along the street.”

Lord and Lady Taylor rose with obvious relief. Lady Taylor patted the lace cap that covered most of her iron-grey hair. “It is to be hoped that the baron returns very soon to lay this mystery to rest. We wouldn’t wish any scandal to attach itself to us, especially with our daughter’s first season upon us.”

Several unproductive hours later, Horatia and the duchess entered the farrier’s in the village. The densely muscled man pushed his cap back with a finger. “Just fancy carriages lined up along the road with their liveried grooms, and a couple of men in their cups is all. So many shady coves roam the heath. The Bow Street boys often bring bodies out of there.”

Horatia shivered. “Tell us everything you saw on that night.”

“I told ’is lordship I passed two men when I was walking ’ome down Hampstead Road. One cove was half carrying the other. Said ’e was drunk when I enquired. Toffs they were, probably been to the ball, so’s I minded me own business. He bundled the drunker one into a curricle and drove off like the devil.”

Horatia grasped the man’s sleeve. “What did they look like?”

“No need to rush me, miss.” He released her hand and took a step back. “I’m about to tell you. Didn’t see the drunk’s face. Tall and dark-haired, both of ’em.”

Fear clutched at Horatia’s throat like an iron hand. “But which way did they go?”

“Took the road north, but from there, I know not.”

“Guy might have been hurt,” Horatia said as the footman assisted them back into the carriage. ”I wonder who that man could be.”

“Take us to Lord Strathairn’s residence,” Geneviève
instructed the coachman.

Chapter Fifteen

Guy ate bread, sausage, and cheese with an eye on Vincent. The pistol had never wavered in his hand. If he managed to escape his brother, would he be able to find his way through the labyrinth of tunnels before Vincent shot him?

“Do you remember your childhood, Vincent? The happy times when we swam in the lake and fought duels with wooden swords?”

“Oui
. The apple fights in the orchard. And that time we set fire to Geneviève’s doll’s hair.” He laughed and shook his head. “She cried and cried.”

As the memories came, they shared them, lapsing into their native tongue. Guy indulged him and began to hope he could convince Vincent to give up his awful plan.

“You can’t do this Vincent. Don’t you see? We can have a good life, here. Together.”

Vincent frowned and shook his head. “
En ai assez
! This changes nothing. I have burned my bridges.” When he reverted to English, his persona changed. He became more intent on his purpose. Guy reluctantly accepted that Vincent was committed to his wicked plan, and the pain and the hurt of it tore through him as if he’d already been shot.

His thoughts returned to a means of escape. If he could find his way to the room under the solar, he could make for his chamber where he kept a brace of pistols. It was an enticing thought. Then they would be on equal terms, although he doubted he could shoot Vincent, if it came to it.

“Do you have any ale?”

Vincent nodded and went into the next room. He returned with a tankard. As he put it down on the table, Guy jumped up. He threw the plate of food at Vincent’s head.

Startled, Vincent put his hand to his head dropping the pistol, and Guy rushed him. He punched his brother’s solar plexus and met hard muscle, bruising his knuckles. Vincent fell to his knees and groped for the pistol, which had skidded under the table
.

Guy kicked Vincent’s rear end and knocked him flat to the floor
.

“Bastard!” Vincent cried, scrabbling for the gun. He was between Guy and the weapon and would reach it first.

Guy turned and bolted through the door into another large storeroom. Vincent had made a bed for himself there. Through another door, beyond it, he found himself in a dim rock-walled tunnel where only one candle flickered in a wall sconce. He fled down it. When the tunnel branched into two, he took the right fork. Around a corner, he skidded to a halt at a dead end. This didn’t make sense, it must lead somewhere. If this lead into the room below the solar, where was the door? Cursing at finding himself cornered, Guy ran his hands feverishly over the wall as he searched for any protrusion. There was no time to retrace his steps to the left fork which would surely lead him to the garden. Somewhere behind him came the rumble of his brother’s untroubled laughter. Vincent was confident he had him. “You can’t escape, Guy,” he called. “Surrender. Don’t make me shoot you. I don’t wish to carry a dead weight all the way to the curricle again. But I will if I have to.”

Gasping, Guy’s searching fingers alighted on a button-like protuberance. He hit it hard. A click sounded, and the door swung open. He heard Vincent curse. The passage brightened. Vincent had snatched up a candle and was coming fast.

With a grim smile, Guy leapt through and put his shoulder to the door, closing it behind him. He swung around in the pitch dark. Which way out? He trailed his hand along the wall, searching for a doorway. From the shape of the room, he became confident it was the long chamber under the solar. He paused to orient himself then stumbled forward to where he thought the steps leading up to the kitchens and solar were, and fell onto them, barking his shins. Gaining his feet, he took the stairs two at a time. His heart hammered, and his breath came in large gasps. He cursed that his strength was deserting him.

In the main house, he passed the solar, a tired dusty room where the family gathered and not used for a very long time. He could hear the clatter of plates and the chatter of the servants in the kitchen. Not wishing to endanger them, he ran to the next flight of stairs. On reaching the upper corridor, he made his way to the east wing. The butler walked towards him along the passage.

Hammond stopped dead. His cool persona dropped away, as his mouth dropped open and shut again.

“Come with me, Hammond!” Guy pushed the astonished man backwards and ran towards his chamber.

Performing a swift about-turn, Hammond huffed behind him as they raced through the house. On reaching his chamber, Guy took out his pistols and loaded one, expecting Vincent to burst through the door at any moment.

“M-my l-lord,” Hammond stammered, his cheeks crimson.

“My twin brother is here in the house. He is armed and extremely dangerous.”

“Your brother, my lord?” Hammond’s eyes widened with bewilderment. Guy couldn’t blame him, but he had no time to explain further.

With both guns loaded, Guy opened the door and peered into the corridor, surprised to find no sign of Vincent. “Take care. He intends to kill me. Keep the servants out of the way and send a footman for the magistrate.”

“Right, my lord.” Hammond scurried away towards the servants’ stairs.

With a firm grip on the pistol, Guy edged along the corridor, listening for any movement.

A servant girl emerged from a chamber. She squeaked at the sight of him in his dirty clothes and bloodied hair.

“Go and find Hammond.” He jerked his head back, indicating the way he’d come. She rushed away.

When Guy reached the main staircase, he found Vincent in the hall below, and saw the reason he had not been right on Guy’s tail. He looked up at Guy his lips stretched in a manic grin, blood dripping from his chin. He had freshened the wound on his face with the knife he held in his left hand. “Foolish of you, Guy. You should have run.”

Vincent raised his pistol.

“Your plan to kill me has failed, Vincent. The servants know.”

“I’ll make them believe I’ve killed the imposter.”

Guy leaned his shoulder against a carved timber post, which offered little protection. “Shall we both die here?”

“You won’t shoot me.”

Guy was inclined to agree with him. He had no wish to have his brother’s blood on his hands.

The explosion echoed hollowly around the huge hall. Chips of wood flew off the pillar and peppered Guy as he leapt back.

Vincent climbed the stairs, slightly off balance as he reloaded his pistol.

“I have a gun, Vincent.”

“You won’t shoot me.”

Guy took his chance and rushed him. He leapt onto Vincent, and they both tumbled down the stairs, landing hard at the bottom.

Bruised and winded, Guy retrieved his pistol and approached Vincent, where he lay crumpled and still.

Hammond and the rest of the staff appeared from different parts of the house as Guy crouched to examine him. He took his brother by the shoulders and called his name. Vincent’s head lolled, all the strength and fierce determination gone from his body. Guy lost his breath, and his throat closed. “The fall broke his neck,” he said, his voice an anguished growl.

“He looks so like you, my lord,” Hammond said in a hushed tone.

Sadness engulfed Guy like a dark shroud. He sat on the step with his head in his hands.

Two of the maids began to wail and were ushered away by a footman.

“Did you send for the magistrate, Hammond?” Guy asked, lifting his head.

“I did, my lord, he should be here soon.” Hammond opened the front door.

A horse galloped up the gravel drive.

The rider dismounted and ran up the steps.

Guy rose to his feet. “John!”

“So you are here.” Strathairn walked into the room. “What has happened?”

Strathairn stared down at Vincent. He lay on his back, the intensity in his blue eyes dimmed. “Your twin.”

“
Oui
. My brother, Vincent. We fought and fell down the stairs. His neck is broken.”

John nodded. “See to Vincent’s body first. We’ll discuss how to deal with the situation, later.” He knelt beside Vincent and drew a tiepin from his cravat. It was of a bronze bird its wings outstretched.

“What are you doing?” Guy asked with a gasp.

“We might have need of this.” John handed the tiepin to him. “An eagle. A Napoleonic symbol. Like those that sat at atop regimental flag poles.”

“To lose an eagle would bring shame to a fighting unit,” Guy said. “Vincent told me he was very close to Napoleon.” Hating to have the thing in his hands, he gave it back to John and turned to the butler. “Hammond, get two footmen to move my brother into one of the bedchambers. Wait for me in the salon, John.”

Guy went to oversee the laying out of his brother. He gazed down at the face he’d longed to see again since he was ten years old. He sat for a moment in the still room staring at nothing, his mind grappling with the horror. When he finally left the room and returned to John he was barely aware that his body ached for the pain in his heart was so intense it almost brought him to his knees. He walked to the drinks table. “Whiskey, John?”

Guy sloshed amber liquid into two tumblers and handed one to John. He sat and took a large swallow, feeling the warmth hit his cold insides. It failed to remove the hollow pain and sense of loss. He doubted anything ever would.

“So we have the spy Whitehall has been looking for,” John said.

Guy nodded, his shoulders slumped.

“He was a murderer. I believe he would have killed you, Guy.”

“I have no doubt of it.”

“The authorities will have to be informed.”

“The government?”

John shook his head. “Lord Parnham is handling it, as it’s seen as a military matter. Lord Castlereagh doesn’t wish to involve the government in these matters.”

“I see.”

“But Parnham will be disappointed.”

“Disappointed? I should think he would be relieved.”

“Vincent was to lead us to the rat’s nest.”

“You have found nothing from following the count?”

“He’s been keeping close council. Vincent would have drawn him out. He approached you believing you to be Vincent. He must have been surprised at your reaction.”

Guy gingerly touched his head. “Perhaps.”

A curricle ratted its way up the drive.

“See to that wound while I attend to the magistrate. We’ll need him to officially view the body. After that, we must return to London.”

Guy searched his friend’s sharp blue-grey eyes. He was bone tired and didn’t have the strength to argue. “As you wish. I won’t leave until Vincent is decently buried in the family crypt here in Digswell, though.”

“Yes, of course.”

Guy sighed. “What must Horatia be thinking?”

“I visited Miss Cavendish. She is concerned, naturally.”

“
Tiens.
” Guy rested his head in his hands. It had taken quite a battering of late. “I must get word to her.”

“Sorry, Parnham expects us at Whitehall,” John said. “Send a note to put Miss Cavendish’s mind at rest. But say no more.”