The Mark of the Midnight Manzanilla A Pink Carnation Novel (42 page)

Lucien set the glass down on the edge of the table. “I’ll just wait for Sally.” There was an acid taste at the back of his mouth. “I wouldn’t want to spoil the . . . surprise.”

“I’m sure she’ll be along.” Uncle Henry’s smile had acquired a fixed look, as false and waxen as the marzipan peaches on the platters. He nudged the glass towards Lucien. “You have your champagne. I’m sure Miss Fitzhugh won’t mind your starting without her.”

Standing over the body of Fanny Logan, all those weeks ago, Sally had quoted Hamlet. Now another line from the play rose unbidden in Lucien’s mind.

Give me the cup. . . . There’s yet some liquor left
.

That had been an uncle too. An uncle who had dropped poison in the king’s ear. An uncle who had usurped the kingdom.

No. Every instinct in Lucien’s body warred with what his brain already knew, old affection pitted in a losing battle against cold logic. Not Uncle Henry. Not the man who had—tried to—raise him. Lucien would never have said that Uncle Henry loved him as his own, but he’d always believed that he cared for him, in his own casual way.

But Uncle Henry had never cared for any human being as much as he did for Hullingden.

The realization reverberated to the depths of Lucien’s soul. He felt like a crystal ball, about to shatter. Or like a hunted animal, pinned in its covert.

“I’ve never much liked champagne,” said Lucien casually. “I’ve always preferred brandy. You have it, Uncle.”

“Oh, no,” said Uncle Henry, and there was that fixed smile on his face as he held out the glass of champagne, smiling, smiling, pushing the glass forward. “This is yours.”

“Don’t drink that!” A voice rang out behind them. “It’s poisoned.”

Uncle Henry whirled, champagne sloshing over the rim of the glass, down the folds of his toga, onto the stone flags of the floor. “Miss Fitzhugh!”

Sally stood in the archway, her spangled silk tunic glittering in the candlelight. In her hands, she held a miniature gilt bow, one gilded arrow trained on Uncle Henry.

Lucien felt a crazy smile spreading across his face. “Sally.”

Sally acknowledged his presence with a sharp nod, all her attention focused on Uncle Henry. “Drop that glass and step away from my duke.”

“Very amusing, Miss Fitzhugh,” said Uncle Henry with a forced smile. “That is quite a cunning little accessory to your costume. If you’re quite finished playing with it, why don’t you come in and join us?”

Sally narrowed her eyes at Lucien’s uncle. “I’m a crack archer. I can hit a bonnet at fifty paces.”

“Then,” said Uncle Henry, “it is fortunate that I’m not wearing one.” He winked at Lucien, in a conspiracy of men.

Sally held the bow steady, but her eyes shifted desperately towards Lucien. “It was your uncle all along,” she said rapidly. “He spread those rumors. He killed Fanny Logan. He’s told everyone that you’re mad—dangerous. This is his final attempt to finish you off.”

Uncle Henry made a choking noise. “My dear Miss Fitzhugh! I don’t know what to say.”

“You’ve said enough already,” said Sally fiercely. “He told everyone that you were a vampire. He was the one who spread the rumor about your being kept in an attic. I shouldn’t be surprised if he was the one who killed your parents.”

Uncle Henry’s smile slipped. “Really, Miss Fitzhugh. You have been spending far too much time with Mrs. Reid.”

Sally’s teeth dug into her lower lip. She looked to Lucien, her expression imploring. “He wanted us off on a wild-goose chase, running after imaginary spies. But it was him all along.”

“And you’ve come to rescue me.” Lucien didn’t know whether to laugh or weep or go down on one knee.

“It’s absurd,” said Uncle Henry firmly, and part of Lucien wanted to believe him, to believe that Sally was mistaken, that the man who had raised him couldn’t contemplate his death.

“Lucien?” said Sally, and he saw her arm start to quiver, just a little.

“Lucien,” said Uncle Henry sharply. “
Lucien
. Who are you going to believe? Your own uncle or the sister of a known idiot?”

Sally bristled. “Turnip is hardly an idiot.” She turned to Lucien. “He’s occasionally a little . . . literal. That’s all.”

Uncle Henry raised a brow. “Do you see what I mean?”

“Yes,” Lucien said slowly.

Sally’s arm faltered.

“What’s in the champagne, Uncle Henry?” Lucien demanded, his voice hard, and he saw relief blaze across Sally’s face, relief and an expression of joy so bright it made him dizzy. “Is it manzanilla extract? Or did you have the decency to at least choose something a little less painful?”

“You’re as mad as she is!” Looking from one to the other, Uncle Henry gave a gusty laugh. “Lucien! Do you really think I would do anything to hurt you?”

“Yes,” Sally answered for him.

Lucien kept his eyes trained on his uncle, on the man who had put him on his first pony, the man who had taught him to use a gun.

It would have been easier had Uncle Henry leered or jeered, had he twirled his cloak, or suddenly developed a squint; instead, he looked and sounded just as he always had—the same frank voice, the same fond smile.

There was a pain in the pit of Lucien’s stomach, betrayal and confusion and a horrible fear he couldn’t quite name.

“Did you kill my father?”

Uncle Henry stood his ground. His hand slipped between the folds of his toga. “I loved your father.”

“Did you kill my father?”
Lucien’s voice rang off the dome of the folly, clashing against the crystal of the glasses, waking the echoes in the still depths of the pool beside which his parents had died.

Uncle Henry looked away. There were lines that Lucien had never noticed before at the corners of his mouth. “Your father treated me like a lapdog,” he said shortly. Lucien must have made some movement, because Uncle Henry looked up quickly, his expression bitter. “You think I didn’t know that that was what he called me? He made no secret of it. But I didn’t mind,” he added hastily. “We had our arrangement.”

Uncle Henry looked at Lucien, and behind his uncle’s eyes, Lucien saw a man he didn’t recognize. “Your father was never meant to marry.”

As if from very far away, Lucien heard the whisper of Sally’s tunic against the floor, felt her hand on his arm, steadying him.

Without looking, he groped for her hand, grasping it like a lifeline. “Have you always hated me?”

Uncle Henry looked at him in surprise. “I never hated you. You always were a good boy.” The words sounded like an elegy.

Sally tugged on Lucien’s arm, drawing him back with her. “I think it’s time for us to go.”

“Oh, no,” said Uncle Henry kindly. “I’m afraid you won’t be going anywhere at all.”

He drew his hand from the folds of his Roman costume, revealing a pistol that was anything but antique.

“You see, I have other plans for you.”

Chapter Twenty-seven

Sally grabbed for her bow, loosing her golden arrow.

It plunked harmlessly into the silver champagne cooler.

“Really, Miss Fitzhugh.” Lord Henry looked at her reproachfully. “There’s no need for such histrionics.”

“I would say that being murdered is every need,” retorted Sally indignantly.

“‘Murder’ is such a strong word,” said Lord Henry conversationally, his pistol trained on Sally’s chest with an easy competence that suggested his aim might be somewhat better than Sally’s.

Sally knew she ought to have paid more attention to the archery at their archery lessons rather than hiding behind a tree with the latest
Cosmopolitan Ladies’ Book
.

“I’m sure this is all a misunderstanding,” Lucien said soothingly, moving carefully forward.

Sally, with a twist of the heart, realized exactly what he was trying to do. He was trying to step in front of her, to shield her with his body.

“Yes,” agreed Uncle Henry, moving to keep his pistol trained on Sally. “Miss Fitzhugh was never meant to be here. However,” he added, with a cheerfulness that Sally found highly unnerving, “this might just be even better. It will make a very affecting scene. The duke, having, in a fit of mania, poisoned his betrothed, slays himself in remorse. Shakespeare couldn’t do better.”

“I’ve never liked those plays where everyone dies in the end,” said Lucien. From the corner of her eye, Sally saw him flick his wrist, such a tiny movement that she thought she had imagined it, until he did it again.

“Yes, it clutters up the stage awfully.” Sally’s eyes met Lucien’s, and what she saw there warmed her to the core. Whatever happened, they were a team, working in concert.

She would just prefer to be a team in life, rather than death.

“Like
Romeo and Juliet
,” Sally said at random, edging slightly towards the right, as Lucien had indicated. “I’ve never understood why everyone loves that play so. The hero and heroine are annoying and the ending is depressing.”

Lord Henry swung the pistol in her direction. “Stop right there, Miss Fitzhugh.”

Sally stopped. She opened her eyes wide. “You wouldn’t want to spoil your affecting scene by shooting me. Bullet holes are
so
uncouth.”

“At this point,” said Lord Henry, “I am prepared to take that risk.”

There was something in his expression that said he meant it.

“I imagine,” said Sally kindly, attempting to keep his attention away from Lucien, “that it must be very provoking to have quite so many of your plans go awry.”

“I understand that I have you to thank for that.” Lord Henry didn’t sound at all thankful.

Sally felt for an arrow in what she hoped was a subtle fashion. “One does what one can.”

“Not any longer,” said Lord Henry, and cocked his pistol. “I have a new plan. Duke shoots his betrothed and then shoots himself in a fit of remorse. It’s not as tidy as poison, but it will serve.”

“Let her go.” Lucien’s voice rang out from two yards to Sally’s left. He held up his empty hands. “Take me. That’s what you want. She’s nothing to do with anything.”

Lord Henry’s pistol swung away from Sally. “I might just,” said Lord Henry, and took aim.

There was no time to notch an arrow. Sally grabbed for the first thing she found in her quiver.

“Kill, Lady Florence!” she shouted, and flung the outraged stoat at Lord Henry’s head.

It worked rather better than Sally had expected. Lord Henry dropped to his knees, flinging up his arms to shield his head as ten pounds of furious fur and muscle landed on his shoulder, claws scrabbling for purchase in the fabric of his toga.

The pistol clattered to the ground, going off with an explosion that filled the room with acrid black smoke. The pistol ball ricocheted off the silver wine cooler. Sally didn’t wait to see where it went. She flung herself on the floor, only to be mashed to the ground by a heavy male form as Lucien flung himself on top of her.

“Down!” he barked, holding out his arms to shield her.

“Umph,” said Sally, which, if she was thinking about it, translated a little to “I love you” and a lot to “Ouch, you’re squishing me.”

An uncanny howl rose from Lord Henry, spiraling to a soprano shriek as Lady Florence bit down hard on the back of his neck.

In the middle of it all, there was the sound of feet pounding against the flagstones and shouting and jostling and someone yelling, “Sit on him! Sit on him! Before he gets away!” followed by an indignant “Agnes! That was my foot!”

“Sorry,” said Agnes’s familiar voice.

“I say,” came Sally’s brother’s voice, sounding rather more cheerful than the situation warranted. “Are those puddings?”

“Don’t eat anything!” Sally attempted to lift her smoke-grimed face from the floor and encountered an expanse of scratchy red velvet blocking her view. “I think the cavalry has arrived,” she croaked into Lucien’s chest.

Lucien rolled off her. “I think it has,” he agreed.

Struggling to a sitting position, Sally saw a series of scratches on Lucien’s face, including a rather nasty one above his right eye, which was oozing blood in a piratical fashion.

Sally touched a finger to the corner of the scratch. “Are you all right?” she asked.

She wasn’t referring to his wounds. Not those wounds, at any rate.

Lucien glanced back over his shoulder, where his uncle was curled in an unhappy ball on the floor, Agnes sitting on his chest, Lizzy standing guard over him with her scepter at the ready, as Lady Florence complacently licked her own tail.

“I will be,” he said, and Sally opened her mouth to tell him not to be stoic, when he silenced her by adding, with a look that made her go warm down to her toes, “Thanks to you.”

Sally did her best to shrug, which wasn’t as easy as one would think when one was partially prone, in a dress that showed an alarming tendency to slip off her shoulder, one strap having been ruptured in the fray.

“Well. You know,” said Sally, looking up at him with her heart in her eyes, “anyone would have done the same.”

“You say that,” said Lucien, holding out a hand to help her up. “I do not think it means what you think it means.”

His hand closed over hers, large and firm and safe. He was safe now, Sally realized. It was all over. The villain had been apprehended. The mystery was solved.