Lucien Tregellas (28 page)

Narrow eyes scanned the darkness. He twitched and glanced around him as if he did not entirely trust the situation into which he had just walked. ‘Tregellas is at Tintagel.' It was not a question. Farquharson knew very well that the Earl was exactly where he wanted him to be. He had watched Tregellas ride out alone four hours ago, long enough to ensure that the Earl had not changed his mind
en route
.

‘Yes, where you sent him. It was very clever of you. He really had no idea, you know.'

Farquharson could not suppress the smirk.

‘Almost as clever as the letter that you showed to LordVarington.' She tilted her head to the side, almost as if in quizzical admiration. ‘How did you manage that, with the Tregellas paper and seal, and, of course, my own writing clear upon it?'

He opened his mouth to tell her, just as she had known that he would. ‘The paper was easy enough. It did not take much to discover that Tregellas has always used Hambledon printers and suppliers of fine paper. A small bribe ensured a few sheets went missing from his last order. You, my dear, gave me the means to replicate the seal yourself, with the cold-hearted reply that you sent me. Before I broke the seal on your letter I had a friend of mine impress it in glazier's putty and use the relief to cast a new seal. Something of the detail is lost in the process, but not enough to be noticed when it is pressed roughly into molten wax.' His gaze broke from hers to scan around the room.

But there was more still to know and Madeline meant to learn it all. ‘You then had someone forge my handwriting.'

‘No.' He could not resist the invitation to brag. ‘I have in my possession a copying machine, a so-called polygraph. A most ingenious invention by Mr John Isaac Hawkins. Not designed for forgery, but useful for that purpose all the same. A pen is inserted into one side of it. A second pen positioned on the other side of the mechanism mirrors the movement of the first, to reproduce the identical letters on a fresh sheet of paper. I merely rearranged the words written by your own hand to make them read quite differently, then traced the first pen across them. The result was a letter saying what I wanted, written in the exact style of your hand.'

‘I see.' She sighed softly, knowing what it was she had to do.

He stepped back, his expression hardening. ‘Enough of this chatter. Come here, Madeline.'

There was only one way she could hope to deter the man before her. He was so sure of her aversion, wanted her to cower and tremble before him, needed her fear. Madeline would satisfy neither his expectations nor his desires, but in order to act she needed him close. ‘Will you not come to me?' She stood where she was.

He hesitated and glanced over his shoulder, as if he could not be sure that Lucien had not returned to Trethevyn by some secret route. He took first one step towards her, and then another, before stopping. ‘What trickery is this?'

‘No trickery, my lord.' She opened her palms, held them out for him to see. ‘Are you afraid?' she said.

A moue of displeasure marked his mouth. ‘It's not supposed to be like this.' His top lip curled. ‘Come here!' And his voice was rough with menace.

A soft laugh escaped Madeline and she stepped back to lean against the wall, slipping her hands into the pockets of her dressing gown as she did so.

‘No more of your games!' he snapped and made to catch her.

It seemed to Madeline that he moved in slow motion. She waited until he had almost reached her before withdrawing her right hand from its silky hiding place. She drove the unsheathed knife as fast and as hard as she could towards Farquharson's chest. She saw the blade glint as it arced through the moonlight. She heard his grunt of surprise as the tip of the knife found its mark. And just when she thought that she had him, Farquharson twisted away, grabbing her arm in the process, almost wrenching it from its socket. There was a sharp pain in her wrist where his fingers gripped, and the knife clattered to the floor. Farquharson retrieved it and then held her arms in a tight grip, pinning her against the wall while he stared down into her face. There was a snarl on his mouth, a feral darkness in his eyes. ‘Little bitch!' he cursed. ‘You would kill me!' He seemed genuinely shocked.

She said nothing. The breath was soft in her throat. She had failed. There was nothing more she could do. She knew her time had come. Farquharson would do to her what he had done to Sarah Wyatt. And curiously, now that she faced that which she most feared, she was not afraid. The fear had all been in the anticipation and the imaginings. The reality of the horror brought only a calm acceptance.

What was it that Lucien had said?
The villain thrives on pain. It gives him pleasure to watch others suffer.
Madeline understood in that moment exactly what Lucien had meant. Farquharson's hands curled tighter, biting into her skin as he dragged her across the room and threw her on to the bed. Still she felt neither pain nor fear. She looked up at the cruel contorted features. ‘There's no more pleasure to be had for you, Lord Farquharson.'

He struck her hard across the cheek as she lay there. ‘What do you know of pleasure and pain, Madeline?'

She didn't even flinch.

A bark sounded from the dressing room.

Farquharson glanced round to the closed door that separated the two rooms. ‘The dog won't bother us from in there,' he said, ‘and there's so much I have to teach you, my dear.' His hand wrapped around her throat and squeezed. The press of his arousal against her leg grew stronger.

It seemed that Madeline was not in the shell that she called her body, but had floated clear of it to rest somewhere up high beside the plasterwork of the ceiling. Was she really looking down at Farquharson throttling her? Even as she watched, he released his grip to straddle her. ‘It's too late.' The words croaked hoarse and she saw that it was her own lips that moved. ‘Your power is gone, my lord. I am not afraid.'

‘Then let me rectify matters, Madeline.' He tore the dressing gown from her. His hands moved to grasp the neckline of her nightdress, ripping down through the stark white cotton to expose the pale flesh beneath. His mouth pounced like a savage upon her breasts.

Still Madeline did not cry out. ‘All you are worthy of is pity, sir,' she said. ‘You are a man incapable of receiving or giving love.'

Max gave a whine and scratched at the dressing-room door.

From above she felt Farquharson cease his movement upon her. Watched while he raised his face to look into her own. Saw the saliva moist upon his lips and the wetness that dripped to his chin. Looked deep into that dismal grey gaze.
‘I do not fear you.'
Each word was dropped with clear enunciation into the space between them. She felt his interest shrivel.

He swallowed hard. ‘Whore!' he said and drew Lucien's knife from his pocket. ‘So thoughtful of you to provide me with your husband's knife. He won't wriggle out of prosecution so easily this time. Murder is a wicked crime, committed by a wicked man. First against his betrothed, and now against his wife. I named him well, did I not?'

Another bark, followed by some more scratching at the door.

‘You can kill me, Lord Farquharson, but no one shall believe Lucien guilty of the crime. Why, all of London knows that we eloped out of love,' she taunted.

‘Indeed?' His face was cold and hard. There was nothing of humanity in his eyes. A smile played across his mouth. ‘I think you'll find that they believe Tregellas abducted you and forced a wedding. And as for motive, I shall feel it my civic duty to publish the letter that you sent me; the letter in which you beg for rescue from a madman, and speak of your love for me.'

‘Lucien shall prove it for the fake that it is.'

‘I don't think so, Madeline,' said Farquharson. He paused and watched her. ‘They'll hang him, you know. And I shall be there to watch while he slowly expires.' He smiled and licked his lips. ‘What better fun than killing you, then watching your husband die for the crime.'

‘No!' Rage welled within her. ‘No!' she cried again. ‘Ever the coward's way, Farquharson. Ever cloak and dagger, and behind his back. You are not man enough to face him. You know he would best you a thousand times over!'

Max barked again, and from outside came the distant thud of horse's hooves.

Farquharson glanced nervously towards the windows.

Someone was riding hard and fast.

‘It's three hours from Tintagel to here,' said Farquharson as if to himself.

He touched the blade to her throat, and then in one move gently stroked its cold sharp edge against her skin.

Madeline felt its shallow bite and a wetness trickled down the sides of her neck.

The horseman was coming closer.

‘I've waited so long for this,' he said and, bending forward, licked the dribble of blood from her skin and then covered her mouth with his own. The metallic taste of blood touched upon her tongue, and then his mouth was suffocating her.

They heard the sudden crunch of gravel on the driveway and knew the horseman had reached Trethevyn. Max began to bark in earnest.

Madeline's heart leapt. It could not be, could it?

Farquharson scowled and clambered off her. Still clutching the knife, he stalked to the window that led out on to the balcony. Up the gravel driveway came a solitary horseman, riding as if his very life was at stake. The horse's eyes showed white and his great black muzzle was flecked pale with saliva. The man was leaping down from the saddle as the Baron watched. And even through the darkness Farquharson knew that it was Tregellas that had come. ‘How the hell…?' But there was no time for questions. He knew he would have to act quickly.

Madeline sat up and slowly, so as not to attract Farquharson's attention, slid towards the edge of the bed.

Farquharson was still peering out of the window. ‘He arrives in time to spoil our fun but, Madeline, not in time to prevent your death, for which he will take the blame. A crime of passion. All of London knows what has gone on between us three.' He turned then and looked at her. ‘And this time he shall not escape justice, earl or not. I shall toast you, my dear, as I watch his neck being stretched by a rope upon a gibbet.' The blade within his hand glinted in the moonlight. ‘And now, my sweet Madeline…' He began to walk towards her.

Madeline sprang from the bed and, unmindful of her nakedness, ran towards the dressing-room door. She heard Farquharson's movement behind her, felt the sudden grasp of his fingers biting hard against her shoulder. She snatched at the handle and the door to the dressing-room opened. Max's frenzied barking grew suddenly loud. She felt the rush of something against her legs, but then Farquharson was wrenching her back, throwing her towards the bed. It all happened so fast that she did not know what was happening. Her head struck against the bedstead. Waves of dizzy nausea washed over her. She lay sprawled upon the floor, struggling to get back up on to her feet, but unable to stop the world tilting enough to do so. ‘Lucien!' she cried, but her voice was weak and thick with confusion and no matter how hard she tried she could not see through the darkness that had descended upon her.

There was the thud of feet and the scamper of paws. Something moist snuffled against her face and she knew that it was Max. Madeline ceased the struggle to open her eyes and let her head rest back upon the rug.

The raucous barking had turned to a low-pitched growling.

Farquharson cursed and his boots scuffed away. She heard the opening of the window, and then the rapid sliding of its close.

And Madeline knew that she had failed, for Farquharson would escape. He could swing down from the balcony across to the roof of the front porch. And from there it was not so very far to the ground.

She pushed herself up until she was sitting. Spots danced before her eyes. Her stomach jiggled like a ship on a choppy sea. She looked up to see Farquharson out on the balcony and Max growling with his nose pressed against the glass. A black paw scraped against the pane.

‘Max,' she called. And Max ceased his noise and came to stand by her. He whined and licked her face. Her fingers caught in his smooth black fur. She eased herself back to rest against the bedstead, and shut her eyes.

There was the sudden loud crashing sound. A man cried out, followed by a bone-jarring thud. Then there was only silence.

 

Lucien was taking the stairs two at a time, leaving a trail of muddy footsteps behind, when he heard the cry and the sickening thud of a body landing hard upon the ground. His stomach turned over and the breath tore ragged in his throat as he ran full tilt towards Madeline's chamber. ‘Madeline!' he bellowed, fearing what he would find, but charging onward regardless. The door reverberated from his onslaught, swinging back open and wide. Only then did Lucien pause. Madeline was sitting on the floor, leaning against the bed. Her eyes were closed and her face was so white as to appear lifeless. Blood trickled from a gash on her forehead, and blood was dripping down her throat. And she was naked. Max sat by her side. He looked up at his master and gave a whimper. Lucien thought that he was too late.

‘Madeline,' he whispered and moved quickly to her side. Down below there were the sounds of feet running and doors banging and servants' voices. ‘Madeline!' he said again and it seemed that his heart had stopped.