The Laird (Captive Hearts) (43 page)

In his personal hell, Christian Donatus Severn, eighth Duke of Mercia, considered the pedagogic days the worst of a horrific lot—also the most precious. The days when his captors used his suffering to teach the arcane art of interrogation might cost him his sanity, even his honor, but they also ensured he would some day, some night, some eternity if necessary, have that sweetest of satisfactions—
revenge
.

“You see before you the mortal form of a once great and powerful man, Corporal,” Girard said, pacing slowly between the table his prisoner had been lashed to and the damp stone wall where the corporal stood at attention.

Girard was a stranger to hurry, a necessary trait in a torturer. A big, dark, lean acolyte of the Corsican, Girard lived in Christian’s awareness the way consumption dwelled in the minds of those it afflicted.

“Our duke is still great, to my mind,” Girard went on, “because His Grace has not, as the English say, broken.”

Girard blathered on in his subtly accented French, and Christian translated easily. As Girard’s ironic praise and patriotic devotion blended in a curiously mesmerizing patter, Girard’s superior, Henri Anduvoir, lurked in the shadows.

Girard made a science of extracting truth from those reluctant to part with it, and pain was only one tool at his disposal.

Anduvoir, on the other hand, was a simpler and in some ways more-evil soul, plainly addicted to hurting others for his own entertainment.

Christian filled his mind with the lovely truth that someday Anduvoir, too, would be made to suffer.

“
Yet.
Our duke has not broken yet,” Girard went on. “I challenge you, Corporal, to devise the torment that will break him, but be mindful that our challenge grows the longer His Grace is silent. When God put Mercia into our hands months ago, we sought to know through which pass Wellington would move his troops. We know now, so what is the point of the exercise? Why not simply toss this living carcass to the wolves?”

Yes, please God, why not?

And then another thought intruded on Christian’s efforts to distance himself from the goings-on in that cell: Was Girard letting slip that Wellington had, in fact, moved troops into France itself? Girard played a diabolical game of cat and mouse, hope and despair, in a role that blended tormenter and protector.

“We yet enjoy His Grace’s charming company because the duke serves another purpose,” Girard prosed on. “He did not break, so we must conclude he is sent here to teach us the breaking of a strong man. One might say, an inhumanly strong man. Now…”

A boot scraped, and Christian divined that Anduvoir had come out of his shadows, a reptile in search of his favorite variety of heat.

“Enough lecturing, Colonel Girard. Your pet has not told us of troop movements. In fact, the man no longer talks at all, do you,
mon
duc
?” Anduvoir sucked a slow drag of his cigar, then gently placed the moist end against Christian’s lips. “I long for the sound of a hearty English scream. Long for it desperately.”

Christian turned his head away in response.

“A quiet man, our duke.” Anduvoir expelled smoke through his nose. “Or perhaps, not so quiet.”

He laid the burning tip of the cigar against the soft skin inside Christian’s elbow with the same care he’d put it to his prisoner’s mouth, letting a small silence mark the moment when the scent of scorched flesh rose.

The blinding, searing pain howled from Christian’s arm to his mind, where it joined the memory of a thousand similar pains and coalesced into one roaring chant:

Revenge!

***

“Lord Greendale was a man of great influence,” Dr. Martin said, clearing his throat in a manner Gilly was coming to loathe.

“His lordship enjoyed very great influence,” Gilly concurred, eyes down, as befit a widow.

The bad news came exactly as expected: “You should prepare for an inquest, my lady.”

“An inquest?” Gilly gestured for her guest to take a seat, eight years of marriage to Greendale having taught her to produce an appearance of calm at will. “Theophilus, the man of great influence was universally disliked, approaching his threescore and ten, and the victim of an apoplexy in the midst of a formal dinner for twenty-eight of his most trusted toadies. What will an inquest serve?”

“Countess, you must not speak so freely, even to me. I will certainly be put under oath and questioned at length. I cannot imagine what the wrong words in the hands of the lawyers will do to your reputation.”

His
wrong words, over which he’d have no control, of course. A just God would afflict such a physician with a slow, painful death.

“Reputation matters little if one is to swing for murder.”

“It won’t come to that,” Martin said, but he remained poised by the door, bag in hand, as if lingering in Gilly’s presence might taint him not with her guilt—for she was innocent of wrongdoing toward her late spouse—but with her vulnerability to accusations.

“What am I to be charged with?” Stupidity, certainly, for having married Greendale, but Gilly’s family had been adamant—“You’ll be a countess!”—and she’d been so young…

Dr. Martin smoothed a soft hand over snow-white hair. “You are not accused of anything.”

His lengthy, silent examination of the framed verses of Psalm 23 hanging over the sideboard confirmed that Gilly would, indeed, face suspicion. Her life had become a series of accusations grounded in nothing more than an old man’s febrile imagination.

Because the physician was eyeing the door, Gilly fired off the most important question, and to Hades with dignity.

“Who’s behind this, Theophilus? My husband is not yet put in the ground, and already you’re telling me of an inquest.”

“Lord Greendale himself apparently told his heir to see to the formalities.”

And to think Gilly had prayed for her husband’s recovery. “Easterbrook ordered this? He’s still in France or Spain or somewhere serving the Crown.”

“Easterbrook would have left instructions with his solicitors, and they would in turn have been in communication with King’s Counsel and the local magistrate.”

Men.
Always so organized when bent on aggravation and aspersion.

“Shall you have some tea, Theophilus? It’s good and hot.”

“Thank you, my lady, but no.” Martin turned toward the door, then hesitated, hand on the latch.

“You needn’t tarry, Theophilus. You’ve served the family loyally, and that has been far from easy.” He’d served the family discreetly, too. Very discreetly. “I suppose I’ll see you at the inquest.”

He nodded once and slipped away.

As Gilly’s tea grew tepid in the pot, she sat down with pen and ink, and begged an interview with Gervaise Stoneleigh, the coldest, most astute, most
expensive
barrister ever to turn down Greendale’s coin.

And that decision very likely saved her life.

From
The Traitor

The bullet whistled past Sebastian’s ear, coming within an inch of solving all of his problems, and half an inch of making a significant mess instead.

“Die, goddamn you!” Lieutenant Lord Hector Pierpont fired his second shot, but rage apparently made the man careless. A venerable oak lost a few bare twigs to the field of honor.

“I shall die,
bien
sûr
,” Sebastian said, a prayer as much as a promise. “But not today.”

He took aim on Pierpont’s lapel. An English officer to his very bones, Pierpont stood still, eyes closed, waiting for death to claim him. In the frosty air, his breath clouded before him in the same shallow pants that might have characterized postcoital exertion.

Such
drama.
Sebastian cocked his elbow and dealt another wound to the innocent oak branches. “And neither shall you die today. It was war, Pierpont. For the sake of your womenfolk, let it be over.”

Sebastian fired the second bullet overhead to punctuate that sentiment, also to ensure no loaded weapons remained within Pierpont’s ambit. When Pierpont opened his eyes, Sebastian gazed into loathing so intense as to confirm his lordship would rather be dead than suffer any more of Sebastian’s clemency.

Sebastian walked up to him and spoke quietly enough that the seconds could not hear.

“You gave away nothing. What little scraps you threw me had long since reached the ears of French intelligence. Go home, kiss your wife, and give her more babies, but leave me and mine in peace. Next time, I will not delope,
mon
ami
.”

He slapped Pierpont lightly on the cheek, a small, friendly reminder of other blows, and walked away.

Michael Brodie snatched the pistol from Sebastian’s grasp, took Sebastian by the arm, and led him toward their horses. “You’ve had your fun, now come along like a good baron.”

“Insubordinate, you are. I thought the English were bad, but you Irish give the term realms of meaning Dr. Johnson never dreamed.”

“You are
English
, lest we forget the reason yon righteous arse wants to perforate your heart at thirty paces. Get on the horse, Baron, and I’m only half-Irish.”

“You fret,
Michel
, and one wants to strike you for it. The English are violent with their servants,
non
? Perhaps today I will be English after all.”

Michael climbed aboard his bay, and Sebastian swung up on Fable.

Burnished red eyebrows lowered into a scowl. “You would ride a white horse,” Michael groused. “Might as well paint a target on your back and send a boy ahead to warn all and sundry the Traitor Baron approaches.”

Sebastian nudged his horse forward.

“Fable was black as the infernal pit when he was born. I cannot help what my horse decides to do with his hair. That is between him and his God. Stop looking over your shoulder,
Michel
. Pierpont was an officer. He will not shoot me in the back, and he will not blame you for sparing all others the burden of seconding me.”

“How many duels does that make, your lordship? Four? Five? One of these honorable former officers will put paid to your existence, and where will Lady Freddy be, then?”

He took out a flask and imbibed a hefty swallow, suggesting his nerves were truly in bad repair.

“You should not worry. These men do not want to kill me any more than I wanted to kill them.”

***

In Millicent Danforth’s experience, the elderly came in two varieties: fearful and brave. Her grandmother had been fearful, asking for tisanes or tea, for cosseting and humoring. Like a small child, Grandmother had wanted distracting from the inevitability of her own demise.

By contrast, Lady Frederica, Baroness St. Clair, viewed her eventual death as a diversion. She would threaten the help with it, lament it gently with her friends, and use it as an excuse for blunt speech.

“You are to be a companion, not a nursemaid. You will not vex me with your presence when I attend my correspondence after breakfast. You will appear at my side when I take the landau out for a turn in the park. Shall you write this down?”

Milly returned her prospective employer’s beady-eyed glower calmly.

“I will not bother you after breakfast unless you ask it of me. I will join you when you take the air in the park. I believe I can recall that much, my lady. What will my other duties involve?”

“You will dine with me in the evening and endure the company of my rascal of a nephew if he deigns to join us. What, I ask you, is so enticing about a rare beefsteak and an undercooked potato with a side of gossip? I can provide that here, as well as a superior cellar, but no, the boy must away to his flower-lovers’ club. Though he’s well-mannered enough that he won’t terrorize you—or no more than I will. Are you sure you don’t need to write any of this down?”

Yes, Milly was quite sure. “I gather you are a list maker, my lady?”

Blue eyes lit up as her ladyship reached for the teapot.

“Yes! I am never so happy as when I’m organizing. I should have been a general, the late baron used to say. Do you enjoy the opera? One hopes you do, because nothing is more unendurable than the opera if one hasn’t a taste for it.”

Her ladyship chattered on about London openings she’d attended, the crowd in attendance, and the various solos, duets, and ensemble numbers. Her diatribe was like a conversational stiff wind, banging the windows open all at once, setting curtains flapping, papers flying, and lapdogs barking.

“You’re not drinking your tea, Miss Danforth.”

“I am attending your ladyship’s recitation of my duties.”

The baroness clinked her teacup down on its saucer. “You were estimating the value of this tea service. Jasperware is more practical, but it’s so heavy. I prefer the Sèvres, and Sebastian likes it too.”

“The service is pretty,” Milly observed. They were using the older style of Sèvres, more easily broken, but also impressively hued. “Meissen or Dresden aren’t as decorative, though they are sturdier.”

The baroness used silver tongs to put a flaky golden croissant on a plate. “So you are a lady fallen on hard times?”

She was a lady who’d blundered. Paid companions did not need to know that fifteen years ago, Sèvres was made without kaolin, fired at a lower temperature, and capable of taking a wider and more bold palette of hues as a result.