The Sinner (29 page)

Luke flicked the reins and headed the coach back to the stables. Fleur used the moment of privacy to embrace Dante.

“I almost fainted from worry up in that chamber. I kept listening for sounds, of Mr. Smith returning or Gregory hurting you or your doing something reckless. I could not move, I was listening and praying so hard. I kept hoping I would hear a coach coming, bringing help—”

His kiss quieted her outpouring. “One did come, and all is well now.”

She laughed. “The county will be talking about it for weeks.”

“We will give out a story to satisfy curiosity. There is no reason for the true one to be known. He is gone and nothing will be served by letting the truth be told.”

The image of Gregory sprawled on the drawing-room floor flashed in front of her. She had only caught a glimpse before Dante spread the blanket, but there had been an expression of utter astonishment on Gregory’s face.

She snuggled deeper against his body and within his circling embrace. She closed her eyes and savored everything about him, even the scent of his damp wool coat. She allowed his warmth to conquer every chill and fear and saturate her mind until all sad images left it.

“Did he explain it to you? Did he say who it was?” she asked.

“He said it was not his fault, that was all. You were correct, I think. He did not have it in him to kill. Whatever happened at that cottage, it was not at his initiative.”

“Except that he had it in him to pay Mr. Smith to try and kill me.”

“Yes. For that alone, I am glad he is dead.” He lifted her chin and kissed her lips again. Slowly. Sweetly. “When I go back to that house in the morning, I may not return with the wagon. There is something I must tend to there first.”

“What?”

“A small matter.” He turned with her surrounded by his arm. “Now, let us find a chamber where we can be alone. I want to hold you in my arms and forget about Farthingstone until morning.”

chapter
27

L
oving a good woman provokes change in even the least angelic of men.

Dante was contemplating that astonishing truth the next day when he heard the horse outside Farthingstone’s house. He closed the steward’s account book, which he had been perusing in the library, and placed Farthingstone’s pistol on top of it on the table beside the divan where he sat. Next to the pistol he laid the letter that he had found in Farthingstone’s coat.

The silent house echoed with boot steps, first hurried, then very slow. Pauses indicated that the chambers were being checked.

The library door opened. A dark head stuck in.

“Farthingstone?”

“He is not here, Siddel.”

The head snapped around. The door swung wide. Siddel’s glance darted around to ensure they were alone.

“Where is he?”

“He expired. Fate was kind to him.”

Siddel exhaled with great relief. “Kind to you as well, I am happy to see.”

“You worried for my safety?”

Siddel took a chair and made a display of calming himself. “He sent me an express post of the most alarming nature, rambling about your threat to him. I feared he would do something very rash.”

“I did not think you had enough acquaintance with each other to inspire such a letter.”

“I advised him on occasion. I do not know why he would write to me, but having perceived his state of mind I could hardly—”

“You did not ride all this way to save me and my wife, Siddel. Quite the opposite.”

Siddel straightened with indignation. “That is a damnable thing to say. Of course I—”

“You could not risk his going in the dock if that body in the cottage was discovered. He would speak of you, and of the money he has been paying you all these years for your silence. You would hang right after he did.”

Siddel’s face went very blank. He revealed no consternation at learning the story was out. His gaze slid from Dante to the account book and the pistol and the folded paper.

“He left an explanation,” Dante said, pointing to the paper. “I think it was just written, probably yesterday morning. I suspect that if you had not come, he would have taken his own life and seen that you followed him to hell.”

Siddel’s gaze locked on the paper. “There is no proof.”

“The confession of a dying man is considered very strong evidence. He also admitted most of it to me. Not the part about your encouraging him to kill my wife, of course. That is only in the letter.”

Siddel laughed. “Your swearing evidence is the least of my concerns.”

“For all my sins, I am not known as a liar. The court will believe me, since I gain nothing either way.”

Siddel thought that over, then lowered his lids. “I assume that if you do gain something, it will make a difference.”

Dante did not reply.

“What do you want?”

“I want to know what happened ten years ago.”

Siddel settled deeper into his chair, the image of a man back in control of matters. “Actually, it was thirteen. My uncle was dying. I was his heir, and I was eager to see his illness conclude. Imagine my annoyance when he called me to his deathbed and told me there was almost nothing left. The man had inherited a handsome fortune but had squandered it.”

“That must have been disappointing.”

“Hellish. However, he made a deathbed confession to me. He told me a story of an event from years ago. From when he and Farthingstone were partners in sin.”

“He told you about the cottage. Who is buried there?”

“Since you know that someone is—my uncle often visited Farthingstone when they were much younger. There would be scandalous debauches in this house. In addition, they formed a casual liaison with a woman in the area who would enter their games. She lived in that cottage, where she cared for the simpleton sister of the woman who owned the neighboring estate.

“They would go over to enjoy the favors of this woman late at night when the idiot was asleep. Only one day they got very drunk earlier than normal and they decided to pay a visit in the evening. The woman put her charge upstairs, and things were well under way when this half-wit comes down, looking for her doll.”

“Hardly worth killing for. No one would have comprehended if she told, assuming she even understood what she saw.”

“Oh, it wasn’t that. My uncle was very drunk. The simpleton struck him as rather pretty. He had his way with her.”

Dante found Siddel’s telling of this story sickening. The man was completely dispassionate as he described the sordid crime.

“How did she die?”

Siddel shrugged. “She was confused and docile with Uncle, but when he was done and Farthingstone was about to take his turn, she went mad. Screaming, fighting. My uncle sought to silence her. He succeeded rather too well.”

That was what Fleur had seen through that window when she ran to play with her friend that evening. The blood had not been that of childbirth, but a virgin’s blood on a woman’s thighs, and maybe other blood too. Her aunt Peg had then disappeared.

Shock had confused the episodes in her mind quickly and obscured the meaning of it all. If she had spoken of it immediately, things may have been different. But her child’s guilt would not allow that, and the shock had done its work to protect her.

“Years later bones were found and everyone accepted that they were that woman’s remains. No doubt Farthingstone had encouraged that assumption,” Dante said.

“He was relieved to. And that is what happened thirteen years ago,” Siddel said. “I inherited a legacy.”

“Your means to blackmail, you mean.”

“It was in the caretaker’s and Farthingstone’s interest to keep silent, of course. The crime was theirs too. Farthingstone knew that. When I told him what my uncle had revealed, he actually offered the money.”

“When it appeared that Fleur was going to have that cottage torn down and foundations dug for a school, it was in your interest to make sure it did not happen. The payments from Farthingstone would stop if he was exposed. As would those from Cavanaugh, if that railroad partnership ever succeeded.”

Siddel’s face fell. “Cavanaugh? I have no idea what—”

“I know all about my wife’s Grand Project. Cavanaugh’s patrons would not want it to be successful,” Dante said. “Your situation is not good, Siddel. I hope that you have been laying aside some money, because both of your incomes have abruptly ceased. Once this letter is given to the magistrate, your position becomes dire.”

Siddel smiled. It gave his face an unpleasant countenance, because the smile itself was half a sneer. “I do not think so. As I was riding here, it occurred to me that you will probably want to continue Farthingstone’s payments. You will definitely not want that letter to land me in the dock.”

“There is nothing you have that I would pay for.”

“I think there is. Your dead brother’s good name, for example. Your own honor, for another.”

Dante studied the man’s slyly contented expression. Blotches of white heat began breaking in him. He fought to control it.

For Fleur’s sake, he had decided not to broach this part of it, much as he wanted to. His responsibility for her outweighed any to the dead.

“You do not appear surprised,” Siddel said, with admiration.

“No.”

“You are smarter than I thought.”

“You should get on your horse and run. I hear that Russia is pleasant in the summer, even if the winters are hell.”

“Russia? My, you are clever. You have seen it all. It was my indiscreet slip about the duel that alerted you, wasn’t it? I thought that I saw something in your eyes besides insult.”

“Yes.”

“I do not favor living abroad. Nor, I suspect, is Nancy half as lovely as she was when you and I and so many others queued up for her. I do not think she will be very useful at all in getting young men to do things that unearth their family secrets.”

This reference to the woman who waited in Russia made the heat spread. Siddel’s taunt about young men had been direct and vicious.

The fury wanted to consume him. The icy cold that would freeze out good sense already loomed on its edges.

“If I choose not to run, what can you do? Give Farthingstone’s letter in evidence against me? See me on trial? Who knows what I will confess to then. Or perhaps you will tell Laclere about my other doings and get him to call me out.” Siddel began laughing. “I can see it. Laclere and I meeting, and the world assuming that he did so to protect
your
honor. I will let it be known how your wife has secretly met with me.”

The heat burned away all rationality, furiously demanding that he deal with this man once and for all.

“Or maybe I will give out the story of that attack on you and say Laclere concluded I was responsible.”

“If you know about it, you were.”

“Your questions to Cavanaugh were making him concerned. You were becoming a nuisance. However, the world will only know that your brother is fighting a duel because you are too much a coward to do so.” He grinned. “Nothing new there.”

Cold blasted over the fire, killing it and its fury, replacing it with a dangerous calm.

He would enjoy killing this man. He had been preparing to do so for a decade.

Siddel’s expectant expression was one of a man who assumed he would survive. “Farthingstone’s letter must be mine if I win,” he said.

Dante tucked the letter inside his coat. He picked up the pistol. “Of course. Let us find you a weapon.”

Siddel reached under his coat. “As it happens, I have one right here.”

“Then let us go outside.”

Side by side, pistols in hand, they walked out to the reception hall. Ice crystallized inside Dante as they moved. The satisfaction he would soon know made him euphoric. Not only Siddel would die. Memories and resentments would too. An old guilt would be expiated.

Siddel opened the door.

The sun was streaking through the clouds and the rain had turned the earth redolent with lovely smells. As if carried by the fresh breeze, an image came to Dante, breaking through the ice with its warmth.

It was a picture of Fleur proposing at the sponging house, trusting against all evidence that he would protect her and honor his word to her. It was Fleur in his arms, opening with a love that made life worth living, that gave it purpose. It was Fleur carrying their child, needing his strength as her worst fears loomed.

Siddel had paused, and Dante realized he had as well.

“We have visitors,” Siddel said.

That pulled Dante back from his thoughts. He discovered that both fire and ice had left him. So had the justice of this duel. If he did this, it would be for all the wrong reasons.

He looked down the lane. Two riders, a quarter mile away, approached at a good pace.

“Witnesses would be useful,” Siddel said. “Whoever they are, they will do.”

Dante stepped outside the house. He gestured to Siddel’s horse. “Take it and run. I will see that you are not followed.”

“I am not riding anywhere.”

“Then you will hang. I will not play your executioner, much as I want to.”

“It will all come out. Do not think it won’t.”

“Then let it come out. I am not going to kill you. It will change nothing if I do.”

“You are a coward.”

“If we meet you are a dead man. Now, go.”

Siddel’s swagger left him. He looked frantically at the riders, then at his horse. “I must demand that letter first.”

Dante watched the riders get nearer. “Leave while you can or—”

The crack silenced him. An impact on his left shoulder made him stagger. Fiery pain sliced through his chest.

Astonished, he swerved to see Siddel toss aside his smoking pistol and stride toward him with murder in his eyes. Siddel’s gaze was fixed on Dante’s own pistol.

Dante raised his gun and fired.

Dante stared at Siddel’s body. His own legs held him up, but he had no sense of why, since he could barely feel them there. On the edge of his consciousness he vaguely heard horses approaching at a hard gallop.

“Damnation,” a familiar voice roared.

A horse stopped nearby and suddenly Vergil was beside him, taking his weight in his arms.

“Morning, Verg.”

“Hell. Don’t talk.” Vergil lowered him to sit on the ground. “When Burchard’s man reported Siddel had left London on the northern road, St. John and I decided to follow, but I never thought Siddel had murder on his mind.”

Dante did not much care what had brought Vergil here. He did not care about anything at all, actually. The pain was getting worse, and fog had entered his head.

St. John joined them, stepping over Siddel’s body to kneel down and examine the wound. “It was so close the ball went through, but we need to stanch the bleeding.” He began pulling Dante’s coat off. “I asked you to watch your back, Duclairc.”

Before St. John succeeded in stripping off the coat, Dante pulled out Farthingstone’s letter and handed it to his brother.

The fog closed in and turned black.