Heart's Demand (35 page)

He whipped away and went to the window to stare down into the yard. He was on the opposite side of the building so he couldn’t see what he was anxious to see.

Several official-looking men had ridden in with the twins. George had gotten only a quick glimpse of the visitors, but he thought it was the sheriff and the magistrate. The twins had insisted they’d sought an arrest warrant for George, but he hadn’t believed them. He’d assumed they were trying to rattle him, but they didn’t understand his resolve.

They weren’t even Scots, and George was a peer. How could they move against him? Why would anyone listen to them?

Since his encounter with them in the forest a few days earlier, he’d been in hiding, mailing fretful letters, begging for support to fight the twins’ allegations, but George had never had many friends and hadn’t received a single reply. Even his lawyer in Edinburgh had failed to respond.

“You’re terribly jumpy, George,” Susan snidely said. “Why? Is Julian’s ghost breathing down your neck?”

He whirled around and marched to the bed. “Some men have arrived.”

“Oh, good. I’ve been waiting for them.”

“Who are they?”

“I don’t know who all is coming, but I’m giving sworn testimony.”

“About what?”

“About you. What would you suppose? It’s only fitting that Julian’s oldest son recoup the title you stole from him. I plan to tell them everything—under oath.”

“You witch,” he fumed. “How can you consider it? You, who pretends to be so pious. You, who promised in our wedding vows to obey me.”

“I guess I’ve reached the limit of what I can abide.”

“I’ll be charged with murder! I’ll be hanged! I’m your husband, and you’ll be condemning me to the gallows!”

“I’m sorry, George, but I’m dying, and I really don’t care what happens to you after I’m gone.”

A strand of rage snapped inside him. He grabbed a pillow and crushed it over her face, being perfectly happy to send her on her way a bit sooner than the Lord intended. He pressed down, elation surging through him that he was finally taking action, finally reversing the futile course he’d been on since the twins had brazenly entered his castle and asserted it was their own.

Though gravely ill, she was stronger than he’d suspected she’d be. She fought back like a madwoman, clawing with her fingers, her nails raking the skin on his wrists and hands. He was so swept up in the moment that at first he didn’t detect Katherine behind him, but she sounded very shocked.

“George! What are you doing?”

He was in a manic state and couldn’t desist. Susan’s wrestling was slowing. He just needed another minute or two, and it would be over. He’d be safe from her slander.

“George!” Katherine ran over. “George! Stop it!”

She gripped him around the waist, struggling to drag him away, her determination to prevent him as powerful as his determination to continue to the end.

She was shouting, calling for help, and after a fierce yank, he was wrenched away. Susan shoved the pillow off, and she was gasping, crying.

“He tried to kill me,” she moaned. “He tried to kill me—as he killed Julian all those years ago.”

“George,” Katherine scolded, “what are you thinking? This is lunacy.”

There were boots on the stairs, stomping toward them. Was it those dastardly twins? He felt trapped. He had nowhere to go, nowhere to stay where he wouldn’t be found.

He was alone, with no sons, no heirs, and a wife who was disloyal and unfaithful. Had any man in history ever been so appallingly abused? Had any man ever been so wrongly treated?

He pushed by Katherine and as he raced out the rear of the suite, she said, “George, where are you going? Where can you hide after this…this…infamy?”

Then he heard no more. He tromped down the stairwell and burst into the courtyard.

Before sneaking to Susan’s bedchamber, he’d had a horse saddled, had packed his bags so he could ride like the wind to Edinburgh. There had to be someone who would support him against the twins, someone they hadn’t bribed, someone who would listen to George, who would believe George’s version of events.

He leapt onto the animal and kicked it into a canter. He headed for the castle gates, people scurrying out of his path. In a matter of seconds, he was speeding down a long stretch of empty road. There were tall, ancient trees on either side. He was leaned over his horse’s neck, urging it to run as if its hooves were on fire.

He glanced to the horizon, and to his consternation, there was a man some distance away, standing in the center of the road. His feet were spread, his hands clasped behind his back.

Though it was a cool afternoon, he wasn’t wearing a coat or hat. He was clean-shaven, his hair pulled into a tidy ponytail. He was attired in a flowing white shirt, tan breeches, his boots polished to a shine. A jaunty red kerchief was tied around his throat.

He stared intently at George, and the idiot didn’t move a muscle, didn’t show any sign he was worried that a horse was barreling down on him.

George sat up and began waving, yelling, but the fellow didn’t react. Was he blind?

George neared, getting closer, closer, and he blanched in horror as he saw that it was Julian. It was his brother standing there!

“You can’t be here!” he bellowed, wondering if he’d gone mad. “You’re dead! You’re dead! You can’t be here! You’re
not
here!”

Julian grinned his devil’s grin, then his form became indistinct, and he started to disappear. As the apparition faded, another gradually oozed into its place. It grew bigger and murkier until the Grim Reaper was standing where Julian had been. A black hood was draped over his face, but his glowing red eyes were visible. They were eerie, bottomless, the color of spurting blood.

There was a rumbling laugh, and George smelled a strong odor of sulfur. The horse smelled it too, and it finally seemed to notice the gruesome specter that was lurking, blocking their way.

The animal screeched with alarm, desperate to stop, but it couldn’t. George grappled with the reins but lost his seat. He flew through the air and landed very hard, his breath whooshing out of his body.

The last sounds he heard were his neck breaking, the bones in his back shattering, then he was floating in a dark void. He tried to shift about, tried to see where he was, but he was paralyzed. Suddenly the lethal phantom was hovering over him, his red eyes glowing even brighter, a sense of menace and hellfire wafting over George.

There were flames billowing from his cape, the stench of sulfur even more potent.

“We’ve been waiting for you, George,” the evil spirit hissed with a grimace that promised eternal damnation. “What took you so long to arrive?”

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

“Monsieur Valois, a pleasure to meet you.”

“Mr. Drummond.” André nodded in welcome. “What may I do for you?”

“We are advised that you are the man to talk to in Cairo when a traveler has questions about continuing on to Europe.”

“Yes, I am. And I’m happy to assist with other tasks that are within my purview while you are in the city.” He smiled a tight smile. “For a small fee of course.”

“Of course,” Mr. Drummond said.

They were in André’s receiving parlor, with André seated at his desk, and Mr. Drummond seated across. Drummond wasn’t very old, perhaps twenty-two or twenty-three, but he seemed much older. He spoke English, but had an accent André couldn’t quite place.

There was a woman with him that André supposed was his mother, although she hadn’t been introduced. She was probably in her fifties, slender, slight of stature. He suspected she’d once been very beautiful. There was still an ambiance about her that appealed to his male sensibilities.

She’d previously had magnificent golden blond hair, but it had faded with age so it was a vibrant silver color. Even though they were inside his villa, the cool walls and gardens shading the room, she wore spectacles with dark lenses, so he couldn’t see her eyes, but he imagined they would be blue.

Her most intriguing aspect was her throat. She had a huge scar on her neck as if someone had tried to execute her or as if she’d tried to commit suicide by hanging herself. She did nothing to hide the scar and was attired in a gown with the bodice cut low so the repugnant mark was clearly observable. It was almost as if she was daring people to look, daring people to note what had happened to her.

She hadn’t commented yet, and André wondered if she could. Maybe the injury to her neck had rendered her mute.

“How may I help you?” he asked Mr. Drummond.

“We have been traveling for almost two years, gradually working our way to England. We are getting closer by the day.”

“How far have you come?”

“From Botany Bay.”

“Isn’t that in Australia?”

“Yes.”

“My goodness. That’s halfway around the globe.”

“Yes, it is.”

“May I be introduced to your companion?” André inquired.

Mr. Drummond peered over at her, and though no visible sign passed between them, he replied, “I’m sorry, but no you may not.”

André was incredibly fascinated by her. Because of his position in Cairo, his connection to his aristocratic family, and his accumulated wealth, people fawned over him. They begged to be his friend, to do him favors.

André never refused any overture, and he was definitely used to groveling and flattery. He couldn’t remember when he’d last been snubbed. His vanity nearly goaded him to toss them out, but he wouldn’t give her the satisfaction.

“What route brought you to Egypt?” he asked Drummond.

“We sailed much of the distance, stopping in India and other places. Recently we landed in Africa, and we came across the desert to the Nile.”

“I’m extremely impressed. You must wish to get to England very badly.”

“I’ve never been,” Drummond said. “I’m going there to complete an important task.”

“It must be
very
important.”

“It is.”

André studied Mr. Drummond, waiting for him to explain, but he didn’t, and it was so aggravating. André traded in information, and he didn’t like anyone who could keep a secret. They always ended up confiding in him, but not Mr. Drummond.

He appeared dangerous and deadly, like a cobra that was coiled and ready to strike. He had black hair, and he was dressed in stark black clothes and boots, the dark garments adding to his sense of menace.

He reminded André of the Arabian assassins he met occasionally. They were raised from the cradle to kill. They could sneak up on a man and slice out his heart before he realized it was no longer beating. Drummond had that sort of lethal quality.

“What is it you seek from me?” André asked.

“We are on our way to Alexandria where we will book passage to London. We would like to employ the fastest ship we can. We have no desire to dally or delay, so we’d like some advice as to which captain would best suit our purposes.”

“Speed and skill will cost you.”

“Cost is no object,” Drummond claimed.

“In that case, Egypt is the perfect spot for you. Everything can be purchased here if the price is right.”

“It’s what we have been told.”

“I shall make inquiries. In the meantime I have a clerk who can aid you in buying your supplies for the journey. He’ll keep you from being cheated.”

“His assistance would be most welcome.”

“I have many acquaintances in London,” André apprised them. “Will you require letters of introduction?”

Drummond peered at his companion again, then said, “My mother is from London. She needs no introduction.”

“I see.”

So…it was mother and son, but they were a strange pair and they looked nothing alike. He doubted they were as they’d portrayed themselves to be, but they had stories they didn’t choose to share, and for once André hadn’t the ability to draw them out.

“How long were you in Australia?” he asked the woman, hoping she might answer, but she didn’t.

Mr. Drummond said, “Almost thirty years now. She was transported as a criminal.”

“I’m very sorry to hear that,” André said to the woman, “and I’m glad you survived. There have always been terrible tales about the wretched conditions and unfair treatment.”

“It was horrid,” Mr. Drummond agreed, “and
unfair
does not begin to describe it.”

The woman watched André through her tinted spectacles, and though it was peculiar, she seemed to be daring him or challenging him, but he couldn’t precisely figure out what it was she was trying to accomplish.

For a fleeting instant, he wondered if he was staring at Anne Blair. Could it be?

André had never been to England, had never met her, but she’d been renowned as a great beauty, a dynamic singer and actress. If any of those talents remained, none of them were discernible, and as quickly as the curious question had occurred to him, he shoved it away.

Thousands of women had been transported to the British penal colonies. What were the chances that Anne Blair might pop in for a visit? It was too preposterous to consider. Besides, she had to be dead, and André had never stumbled on a shred of evidence to prove she wasn’t.

Yet he couldn’t help mentioning, “I recently had an acquaintance from London staying with me. His name is Bryce Blair. He’s heir to the Radcliffe Blairs in Scotland. His parents were Anne and Julian. Might your mother remember the family from her former time in England?”

Mr. Drummond and his mother held themselves very still. If she was Anne Blair, if André had pricked at an old wound, he’d missed the mark.

Yet he couldn’t resist adding, “Bryce is a good friend and has grown to be a very fine man. If you would like his address in London, I would be happy to provide it. You’d have at least one contact there when you arrive.”

“Yes,” Mr. Drummond said, “we would like to have Mr. Blair’s address.”

André motioned to his clerk who was seated in the rear of the room, making discreet notes about the discussion so they could be referred to later on. The notes were useful should there ever be a quarrel about monies owed. André might have been descended from aristocrats, but he counted pennies like the most miserly merchant.