What Wild Moonlight (38 page)

She turned to Jeremy and said, “They’re not here.”

He gave a light shrug. “What a shame. We must have missed them.”

“I suppose we ought to return to the jousting fields.”

“Yes, I suppose we ought,” he agreed. But rather than turn back to the entrance, he moved toward a display of bottles and vials. He dipped his hand in a bowl and thoughtfully rubbed the powder contained therein between his fingertips. “Did you know that the science of alchemy dates back to the times of the ancient Egyptians?” he asked. “For centuries mankind has been attempting to discover the secret formula to what is known as the Philosopher’s Stone. This magic substance, it was thought, could be dissolved and the liquid derived from it would turn any common metal into gold. A tiny drop of the substance, when taken internally, would convert old age into eternal youth and beauty. Fantastic, isn’t it?”

Katya hid her impatience with a polite smile. “Yes, it is.”

“The middle ages were a fascinating time. Your ancestors should have been quite at home then. Magicians flourished, as did gypsies. They professed an ability to predict the future, were capable of striking the unlucky with curses, made charms and talismans of good fortune, and sold powders that were thought to inspire love or hatred in those who consumed them. They helped to spread the belief that a man’s destiny was written in the stars, or revealed within the palm of his hand.” He paused, shaking his head. “And all the while those who practiced pure science were hunted and condemned.”

She frowned. “You’re not exactly putting my ancestors in the most flattering of light, are you?”

“Perhaps not.” He sighed. “So much ignorance and superstition. But I suppose you’re right—it can’t all be blamed on gypsies and magicians. Do you know what truly causes ignorance? People being too ready to believe anything they’re told. One must consistently question the so-called facts, don’t you agree?”

“Yes, I do. Now if you don’t mind—”

“You look beautiful tonight, Katya.”

Not only was his remark totally unexpected, something about his tone chilled her. “We should leave,” she repeated, more firmly this tame.

“How that costume becomes you. A bride, is it? Lovely.”

Katya moved toward the cave entrance, but Jeremy Cooke was there first, blocking her exit.

“Are you frightened?”

Her heart slammed against her ribs as her every instinct shouted for her to run. But she had nothing to gain by showing her fear. Tilting her chin, she replied curtly, “Don’t be preposterous. Of course I’m not.”

A small smile curved his lips as he took a step closer. “Perhaps you should be.”

Nicholas frantically scanned the thinning crowd looking for Katya. She was gone, had disappeared entirely in the wake of the
Tarasque.
His gut tightened in horrified disbelief. She had to be here. He had been watching her intently, his gaze never straying as she had been whirled and twirled by the murmur who had claimed her hand. Although he hadn’t taken his eyes off her, she seemed to have vanished as completely and inexplicably as she did when she was onstage.

Dammit! Where?

A tight coil of panic and dread knotted in his belly. He had been attempting all night to draw out the person who had been out to destroy him—now he was terrified that he had succeeded. Was he too late? He banished the thought, refusing to let it take hold.

Move!
his mind screamed.
Find her!
With that simple, elemental thought taking precedence over any other, his legs obeyed, carrying him off toward the spot where he had last seen her.

Katya took a deep breath as her eyes darted past Jeremy’s shoulder, looking for a way out But there was nothing beyond the mouth of the cave, nothing but a narrow path that ran along the face of the cliff and a sheer drop to the sea below.

Even as she was seeking a way out, disbelief was registering in her mind. Jeremy Cooke? Was he the one who had been behind the murders and the theft of her scroll? It seemed impossible to believe, yet why else would he have brought her there? As she considered this, a tiny bud of relief blossomed inside her, swelling within her chest until it temporarily replaced her fear.

It wasn’t Nicholas. It
wasn’t
Nicholas. That realization gave her the strength she needed. Hiding her emotions for the moment, she studied Jeremy coolly, assuming an expression of haughty disdain. “If this is meant to be a joke, Jeremy, I find it in rather poor taste, don’t you?”

“I think we both know that it’s no joke, now, don’t we?”

She brought up her chin. “I don’t know that at all.”

“Come now, Katya, you’re not stupid. Except perhaps for your taste in men.” He thought for a moment then smiled, lifting his shoulders in a languid shrug. “But then every woman has at least one fatal flaw, doesn’t she?”

Katya studied him in silence, forcing herself to remain calm and to logically consider her options, eliminating every possibility one by one. Her first choice was to simply call his bluff and walk away. Unlikely, but certainly worth a try. Her second choice? To stall him until help arrived. Again unlikely as the caves were so remote from the rest of the festivities and no one had seen her enter. Her third and final option was one of last resort—to use physical violence to escape.

Deciding to attempt to exercise her first option, she said shortly, “I’ve had enough of this.” It came as no surprise, however, when Jeremy blocked her exit as she tried to sweep past him and gain the narrow ledge outside.

“I’m afraid I can’t let you leave yet, Katya.”

“Just how do you intend to keep me here?”

“With this if I have to,” he said, flourishing a gun from the inside of his cape. “But I sincerely hope you won’t be so foolish as to force me to use it.” He gestured to a rickety chair that stood beside a table. “Do make yourself comfortable.”

Acting meekly obedient, she sat down in the chair.

“Now where were we?” Jeremy said, as a satisfied smile crossed his lips. “Ah yes, women’s fatal flaws. Would you like to hear Allyson Whitney’s fatal flaw?”

Katya studied him silently as a feeling of sinking dread filled her belly.

“The lovely Miss Whitney was truly a creature of greed. Do you know how much I had to promise her in return for the simple task of removing Nicholas’s scroll from his home? Fifty thousand pounds—as if I had that kind of money.”

“So you killed her instead,” Katya said, her voice a mere whisper.

“Not personally, of course. It’s amazing how simple it is to find people willing to carry out that sort of nasty work, particularly in London. And for sums considerably less than fifty thousand pounds, mind you.”

“And what about Richard? Did you have him killed as well?”

“Yes.” A troubled frown creased his brow. “Unfortunately the French are much more difficult to deal with when it comes to crimes of that nature. Stubborn and entirely unreasonable. I wanted a body. Physical proof that Richard Duvall was dead. Instead they chose to countermand my instructions and shove him off a cliff. I had to take their word—the word of two thieving murderers—that he was in fact dead. In truth, I’m still not entirely satisfied.”

“How difficult that must be for you.”

“Sarcasm doesn’t become you, Katya.”

“Tell me about my parents.”

“Ah. Your parents. Now that was regrettable. They seemed like such pleasant people.” He shrugged. “Do you know how long it took me to trace the scroll to your mother? Years, Katya, years. Your ancestors were not easily found. But I persevered and my hard work was rewarded. In fact, I almost had the scroll in my hands until Monsieur Remy received your letter. After all I went through you snatched the scroll out from under me. Not very kind of you, was it?” He studied her with a quizzical frown. “Does Nicholas know who you are, by the way? Rosskaya and all that?”

“You’re sick, Jeremy,” she replied quietly. “You need help—a doctor.”

“On the contrary, I’m not sick at all. I’m angry. Very, very angry.”

“At whom?”

“Nicholas, of course,” he replied, in a tone that was almost cheerful. “The Lord of Barrington. I’ve hated him for decades—I’ve made it my life’s work, if you will.”

“Why? Because he canceled the funds for your father’s research?”

A flash of dark rage showed on his face. “There, you see, Katya, you’re ignorant. You’re choosing to be ignorant. All you have to do is ask yourself a few simple questions.”

“What questions should I ask?”

He moved toward her. Using the barrel of his gun, he lifted the delicate gold chain she wore. She barely suppressed a shudder of revulsion as the cold steel pressed against her throat. “Let’s begin with this pretty little necklace you’re wearing, shall we?” he said. “It’s been passed down through my family for generations, did you know that?”

“Your family?”

“Yes, my family. All the DuValenti men give it to the women they love.”

In the midst of the shock and horror that enveloped her, Katya felt a momentary surge of joy as his words echoed through her head. All the DuValenti men give it to the women they love.

Nicholas had given it to her.

“Did you ask where the necklace came from?” Jeremy railed, drawing her attention back to him. “Or did you just blindly accept it—the way you blindly accepted the fact that Nicholas was William Duvall’s firstborn son? My mother should have worn it, not Nicholas’s.”

Katya’s eyes widened as comprehension slowly dawned. “Louisa,” she breathed.

Jeremy pulled back his gun as a flicker of interest showed in his eyes. His dark eyes, she thought. Eyes that were so similar to Nicholas’s. How many times had she seen him from behind and thought he was Nicholas? His height, his build, his dark hair. And without his glasses, the facial resemblance was even more apparent.

“You know of my mother?” he asked.

Uncertain of his reaction, she replied cautiously, “Yes, I do. The Comtesse told me about her just a few days ago. She said that Louisa was the only woman her brother truly loved.”

She had hoped the words might offer some consolation. Instead, they only seemed to make him more furious. “Loved?” he spit out. “He never loved her. He abandoned her—and me. She was never good enough for him, or should I say, not good enough for him to marry. Bedding her was something altogether different, wasn’t it?” He paused for a moment, pacing angrily before her. “When Lord Barrington discovered that my mother was carrying his child he arranged her hand in marriage to Rodney Cooke, a man desperate enough for money to agree to take part in the deception.”

“What do you mean, desperate for money?”

“He paid him. He paid him to marry my mother and keep his mouth shut. It was all done very discreetly, of course. One lump sum after the wedding vows were exchanged, one tidy check each month thereafter. All done under the guise of funding Rodney Cooke’s scholarly research. There never was any research, of course. For that matter, I don’t know if the man could even read—I certainly never saw him do so. Rodney Cooke spent his days knocking my mother and me about and his nights locked away in his study getting completely soused.” Vile disgust showed on his face for a long moment, then he slowly composed himself. “But none of that mattered to William Harrison Duvall, did it? The only thing he wanted to ensure was that the world never know that his firstborn son was an unwanted, lowborn bastard.”

A wave of profound sadness washed over Katya. She studied him silently, lost for words.

“Now do you understand?” he demanded. “None of this is random. It’s not as though I’m a madman roaming the streets. Do you see how meticulous I’ve been, down to the very last detail? Everything I’ve done has been done in order to teach Nicholas Duvall a lesson.”

“What lesson could any of this possibly be teaching him?”

“Loss,” he answered curtly. “Nicholas Duvall’s presence not only humiliates me, but deprives me of my birthright as well. From the day he was born he has taken everything that should have been mine. Therefore it is my duty to teach him about loss.”

“You’re holding Nicholas responsible for the mistakes of his father?”

“I was held responsible, wasn’t I?” he demanded. “Now it’s his turn to suffer. I want to see him lose everything. His mistress. His brother. His lands, his title, his reputation. Everything that should have been mine.” He lifted his gun and waved it carelessly in her direction. “The woman he loves.”

“That was you the other night in the theater,” she said flatly. “I found Nicholas’s cuff link shortly before my gun misfired.”

“Clever girl. But I had hoped the authorities would find that incriminating bit of evidence—after your unfortunate demise, of course.” He began to pace before the mouth of the cave once again, moving with almost frantic, jerky gestures. “Actually, the fact that you lived worked out in my favor. Divine intervention, if you will. This is much better. Neater. Nicholas should be here at any moment. When he arrives I’ll confront him with the fact that I’m his older brother. He’ll fly into a rage and try to kill me. Unfortunately, he’ll shoot you instead. Then I’ll be forced to kill him in self-defense.” He tapped his gun nervously against his thigh as a victorious smile flashed across his face. “An altogether fitting end to the Lord of Scandal, don’t you think?”

Katya studied him across the flickering lights of the cave. So the legends had been right after all, she realized.
Beware the Maltese
. The DuValentis’ firstborn son. But Jeremy was William Duvall’s firstborn son, not Nicholas.

The emotions she had felt earlier, the shock, the rage, the pity, the horror, all slowly evaporated, leaving nothing in their place but a grim will to stop him. Her gaze darted to the table by which she sat, examining the surface for some kind of weapon. But she found nothing but bowls of various sizes. As she surveyed the contents—charcoal, brimstone, and saltpeter—a rush of hope surged through her. While Jeremy ranted, she pulled a soft linen handkerchief from the kirtle of her costume and filled it with a generous pinch from each bowl, moving with the same poise and discretion she might have displayed onstage.