What the Marquess Sees (25 page)

His brother was not so well controlled, despite his admitted knowledge of the need to remain level headed. Years of resentment had clearly taken their toll on his brother’s mind. Even in the dark, Dansbury could see Edward’s eyes were wild with madness. His entire body fairly shook with crazed anger. It would be his downfall.

The only question in Dansbury’s mind now was…could he do it? Could he take his own brother’s life if he had to? Despite everything.

His brother carried on with his ramblings. “I never mourned their loss, you know. Mother coddled you from the start, sparing no affection for me. As if you were the golden child. I was livid when she refused to take you with us, for I had hoped to put you, too, in a watery grave. And father was weak, a coward. You weakened his taste for vengeance. After you, he couldn’t stomach what needed to be done to fulfill the Society’s goals so he decided to sell us out. Had he not done that, I would have been able to live my life as I was meant to. And you wouldn’t have a bloody thing!

“But,” the man chuckled wildly, “I’m here to rectify the situation. To set things to rights, so to speak. To take back what is mine—what should have always been mine—by taking your life.”

“But it is yours. Since you are still alive. Technically you are Dansbury.”

That gave his brother pause, but he was too far gone down the path to insanity to understand this.

“Just shut up! You’re trying to trick me.” Spittle flew from his mouth as he spat out his angry words. “I have to do this; you are to blame for the fact that I have had to live my life in the shadows. For Father being weak. For Mother not loving me. Don’t you see? It is all your fault, and I mean to make you suffer for it. Too bad you’re unarmed and unable to defend yourself.”

“He’s not!” yelled Beatryce from out of nowhere as she tossed him his own sword. Clever woman. He’d kiss her later for that.

Dansbury caught his sword with ease and stood tall, the advantage all his. His brother lunged in anger. In madness. Whatever. It was his first mistake. Dansbury parried the thrust with ease.

Then, the fight began in earnest. Swords clanged loudly in the night air—ringing through the trees and into the valley below. His brother was a surprisingly good swordsman for all his insanity. But he was sloppy. Dansbury fought his brother off with ease as he tried to determine the best way to incapacitate him in order to take him back to Stonebridge without fatally wounding him.

Thrust. Parry. Slash. Advance. Retreat. Their swords clashed, the sound of steel echoing in the night.

Ten minutes later, Edward was visibly weakening; his energy almost spent. Dansbury was still strong for he wasted no move, thus conserving his energy. It was only a matter of moments and he would have the madman.

But all of the sudden Edward looked beyond Dansbury’s shoulder and yelled, “Shoot her!”

Bang.

At the sound of a gun being discharged, Dansbury spun with a shouted, “No!” But there was nobody there besides Beatryce. And she was fine.

He turned back around to face his brother, but Edward was gone. The bloody bastard had duped him. Damn him, the coward.

“Come back, you bastard, and face me like a man!” Dansbury yelled to the trees. He didn’t bother to chase the man; he would not leave Beatryce unprotected in case someone else was around. Despite her capabilities.

God. His brother had turned out to be a weak man. He supposed psychosis would do that to a man.

Dansbury turned back around and sought out Beatryce. There she stood, a beacon in the night; moonlight highlighting her pale hair and features. Damn, she was beautiful to behold.

But she stood there, arms crossed, shivering in the cold; this brave, strong woman. He went to her and pulled her into his arms. “Let’s go.”

She just nodded in agreement. Despite her strength, he still set her on his own horse after tying hers to his. Then he mounted behind her. He needed to have her near. She was shaken. Badly. Perhaps they both were.

Just as he began to turn the horse toward home, he spotted a man a fair distance into the woods. It broke his heart to see this man, their traitor, who had finally deigned to show his face.

The turncoat nodded at Dansbury once as if to say…what? “All’s good? I approve?”

To hell with that. Dansbury pointed back at the traitor and said, “You. Are a dead man.” His sign language was unmistakable.

Because in truth, Kelly’s life was now forfeit.

“Each night, when I go to sleep, I die. And the next morning, when I wake up, I am reborn.”

― Mahatma Gandhi

“You were right. My brother, Edward, is alive.” Dansbury walked into the library, where Ambrose awaited news. He crossed directly to a sideboard and poured himself a glass of whisky.

Ambrose stood. “Cliff. I’m sorry.”

Cliff took a sip of the fiery brew and turned to face his longtime friend. “Don’t. There’s no need. As children, he was unbelievably cruel. We were not close because of it. As an adult, he’s simply unworthy, even of my pity. Certainly not my empathy.” Dansbury shook his head as he walked over to take a seat in one of the club chairs by the fire, opposite where Ambrose had been sitting. Ambrose retook his seat.

“You know. I had always felt somewhat ashamed for never truly mourning Edward’s death as I was expected to. I mean, we are meant to love our siblings unconditionally aren’t we? And a very small part of me does carry some measure of guilt for not caring one way or the other about my own brother’s life or demise or whatever we are to call it now.” He took another sip of his drink and stared off into the burning flames. “…But I haven’t mourned him; I do not mourn him, and I find I quite simply detest him.”

Ambrose leaned forward in his seat and steepled his hands. “We don’t get to choose our family. Just because someone carries your blood doesn’t make them a good person or similar to you in temperament at all. These things happen. You are not less of a man because of it.”

“Yea, I know it.”

“I take it, since he’s not here and you haven’t said otherwise, he is still alive?”

Cliff looked at his friend. “Yea. He is. The coward distracted me and fled when it was clear he was going to lose our fight.” Dansbury opened and closed his left fist, it was a touch sore. He must have bruised it during their scuffle.

“Distracted? You?” Ambrose’s infernal brow shot up.

Cliff looked away. “It is unimportant. Anyway, he appears to be our assassin and the man who murdered the Earl of Swindon. He was prepared to murder both myself and Lady Beatryce tonight. And…” he looked back at Ambrose “…he appears to be mad.”

“Mad as in…”

“As in a prime candidate for Bedlam.”

“I see.”

“I believe he is tortured by the fact that he had to give up his birthright in order to remain in hiding all this time. At least, his eyes seemed to go wild with madness when he spoke about it.”

“It is possible…and probable.”

Dansbury didn’t mention that Edward knew Lady Beatryce. That fact would remain private if at all possible. Besides, the point was completely irrelevant to their investigation, at least at this time. “It does make him somewhat dangerous because he is unpredictable.”

“Of course.”

“And he is reasonably skilled with weapons. He gave me a good run with his sword.”

“That is saying something considering you are the best.”

Dansbury shrugged, a habit he’d picked up from his many trips abroad working for the Crown.

“What of Lady Beatryce? Where is she?”

“In her room.”

“And?”

“And she was magnificent.”

“Cliff…”

He shot his friend a pointed look. “Don’t. I told you earlier, she is not up for discussion.”

“I remember. But do you remember…”

“I remember, all right? I just…I know what I’m doing, so leave off.”

“Well, you spent a good six months warning me off the very same woman, I only thought to return the favor.”

“There’s no need. I know her. Besides, it’s irrelevant. I’m not about to marry her.”

“Sure.” It didn’t take a genius to hear the sarcasm and, more importantly, doubt in Ambrose’s voice.

“Can we get back on topic?” Before he took out his frustration on his best friend by tackling him to the floor and using his face for target practice for his fists.

Ambrose nodded his head for him to continue.

“We have another problem. Kelly is working with the Society. He’s our traitor.”

“You’re sure?”

He just looked as his friend as if to ask,
Are you really questioning my judgment after all these years?

Ambrose chuckled. “Right. Forget I asked. Just tell me what happened.”

“Kelly was on lookout in the woods. He was the distraction Edward used to get away. Kelly shot his gun into the air on cue, to make me think he’d shot at Lady Beatryce. As I turned to look, my brother ran away. I didn’t want to leave Lady Beatryce behind without knowing who else might have been hiding in the woods, thus I did not pursue.”

“I’m surprised by that. There was a time in the past when you would have done anything to get your man.”

“Yes, well.” The two men cleared their throats. Cliff took another sip of his drink. “There’s still time yet.”

“Why do you think Kelly let you see him? You and I both know you only saw Kelly because he wanted you to.”

“Good question. It was deuced strange. He nodded to me as if to say, ‘well done.’”

“And your response?”

Cliff grinned into his glass before taking another sip. “My answer might have been a tad…strong.”

Ambrose just looked at him with that infernal brow raised. Again.

“I might have told him he was a dead man and made an unmistakable rude gesture in his general direction.”

The duke shook his head and chuckled lightly, but he spoke in all seriousness. “It is odd, and something we’ll have to consider. So, what is your recommendation?”

“I plan to scout the area. I don’t think my brother is very far away. Then, we lure him out and take him. After that, we go after Kelly”

“Good. We’ll start in the morning.”

“I’ll be ready.” Cliff tossed back the remainder of his drink.

Now to hear from Lady Beatryce exactly how she knew his brother, Edward. After he fortified himself with another drink. Or two.

* * * *

She was unresponsive. Immobile. Lifeless. Even the loud grunting above did not appear to break through her indifference. Her bed shook in spasmodic waves. She ignored it all.

Her headboard hit the wall with one overzealous thrust, and the landscape hanging there rattled its protest. Yet she did not wince. Not even a flinch. And the sweat that dripped down from above, hitting her face and sliding down into her ear, did nothing to turn her gaze from the miniature of her mother on her bedside table.

Oh, Mama. Make it stop. Please, make it stop.

Lady Beatryce willed her mother to intervene, but it was no use. Besides, the damage was done. She was no longer a maid.

Oh, Mama…Would you have warned me about this? Would you have cried? Helped me? Stopped him? Stopped them all?

Oh, but her questions were pointless; Mother had died giving birth to her little more than thirteen years before.

Beatryce cleared her mind and concentrated on the small, gilt-framed portrait next to her bed. Her mother’s likeness conveyed strength and a certain protective amount of aloofness. She wanted to harness that power. Breathe it. Live it. Own it.

She cried, despite her efforts not to. Her tears were silent trails of moisture on her youthful cheeks. Mother’s portrait stood solemnly erect on the table, but she could no longer make out the details through her watery veil. She stared at it anyway.

Lady Beatryce had fallen.

Suddenly, her room caught on fire. As if by magic, everything—the bed, the paintings, the wall, her mother’s portrait, even the man raping her—was immediately engulfed in flames. She could feel the heat and smell and see the smoke heavy in the air, swirling around and above columns of fire. Yet she breathed with ease as if the air were clear.

Even her very skin was on fire, though she didn’t feel any pain. She simply knew she burned with the certainty only found in dreams, where even odd things made perfect sense.

Then, everything went black. Not black, like standing outside in the dark where you can still make out the vague outline of things around you, but black as in nothing existed. The air was no longer hot nor cold; it was nothing. No breeze stirred, no sound could be heard. She couldn’t even hear herself breathe or hear the beating of her heart. And the smell of smoke was curiously absent.

There was absolutely nothing around her but a dark abyss. She couldn’t even discern whether or not her eyes were open or whether or not she even had a body. She tried to move, but she could not even tell if she had or could or did. She was nothing but a thought.

After a few moments, or an eternity, she could scarcely tell which, a small pinpoint of light appeared. It began to expand, and it grew in size until she could see everything around her once more.

She was hovering a few feet off the ground, floating as if on a cloud. She looked down. There was a small, peculiar pile of ashes on the ground beneath her, different from normal for the ashes were creamy blonde in color, like the color of her hair. The clump was perfectly formed and about the size of a small anthill.

She looked around. She was outside now, that much she could tell, and she was in a forest, or what was left of one. Everything within sight had been burned. The trunks of trees still smoldered and the smell and sight of smoke clung to the air. For some reason, the smell didn’t bother her, quite the contrary; the smell made her feel alive, renewed. Birds chirped in the distance and the air felt warm, like spring.

Her surroundings were unfamiliar to her. Was she at Bloomfield Park? She certainly wasn’t near her old home where the dream had begun.