Chapter 16

Oliver arrived home in the early hours of the morning, weary but satisfied with his efforts. By tomorrow, he would have the situation well in hand, and then he could turn his mind to saving his marriage and his wife. After sharing his suspicions with her father and brother, his mind had eased considerably. He could think clearly again, the fog of anger and confusion that had obfuscated his mind clearing fast. But he had spent time contacting and on occasion rousing from sleep the people he needed to set his plans in action.

He was too late to wake her now. She’d probably been asleep for hours. His brother would be in bed, too.

Although he was buzzing with triumph, he forced himself to get ready and go to bed. Tomorrow would probably prove tiring as well as exhilarating. Perhaps, he thought before he fell asleep, he’d talk to Dru about her moving back up here. She must be lonely in that big bed downstairs. He was certainly lonely here.

Something stirring in his room woke him from what had turned out a deep slumber. He rolled over, blearily opening his eyes. Dawn filtered in through a crack in the curtains. Was it his valet, making preparations for the day ahead? Robinson knew better than that. The servants were under strict instructions not to enter Oliver’s room until he woke.

Irritably, he reached for the watch on his nightstand. “Who’s there?”

“Me.”

Oliver stilled. The last person he expected. “Charles? How did you get in here?”

With a rattle, his brother dragged the curtain back from one half of the window. Light flooded into the room, cold and gray. Charles leaning heavily on their father’s cane, the sentimental memento he liked to keep by his side. Now Oliver knew why.

Confusion filled him, and then cautious delight. “Charles? You can walk?” Jerked into full wakefulness, Oliver pushed himself up. He stared at Charles. He hadn’t realized how tall his brother had grown. The last time he’d seen him upright was before the accident, when he’d been sixteen.

“This is marvelous!” Questions bubbled up in his delighted mind. “Are you tired? Do you need to sit?”

“No.” Charles gazed at Oliver, his gaze cold.

“How long have you been walking?”

“For a while.” Charles watched him closely, emotionlessly. He looked as if he had shed a skin and left it behind. His smiles, his affability, his constant patience were nowhere in evidence. “Only Burnett knows. I told him I wanted to make sure I could do it properly before I revealed myself.” Then he did smile, and Oliver wished he had not, because he’d never seen a chillier expression. “So consider this the time.”

“Good God, man, this is wonderful! You’ve been practicing?”

“Of course, but I wanted to be able to walk without this thing.” He wobbled the cane. “Unfortunately, I have had to bring my plans forward. Why did you marry that woman, Oliver?”

“Drusilla?” Oliver frowned. “I need to make an heir. You can’t take on the burden of the dukedom.”

Charles gave a crack of laughter. The small sound broke the air, but the atmosphere immediately closed around them again, like a blanket hiding secrets. “Can’t I? You’ve made a tedious, plodding job of it. Now it’s my turn to take over.”

“What?” Thoroughly confused, Oliver flung back the covers, preparing to stand and find his robe. The day was chillier than he’d expected. Charles wore only a thin nightshirt, similar to his own. Had the exercise made him hot?

A sickening click stilled his movements. Charles lifted his hand, a pistol gleaming dully in the growing light. His movement betrayed another weapon tucked into the waistband of his breeches. “Don’t move. You loved Drusilla, didn’t you? And such problems she gave you, too. I had to stop you sharing her bed. When I discovered the existence of the book, she provided me with the perfect excuse.” He stifled a yawn, his jaw tensing with the effort.

He was mad. He had to be. The long years of solitude had disturbed his mind. Oliver had to be very careful. He needed to secure that weapon, one of the dueling pistols that customarily sat in his dressing room. Those pistols had hair triggers.

Wait— Oliver never left them loaded. Could he risk crossing the room? If he was wrong, he would die. Charles couldn’t possibly miss at this range.

“You know what I wanted?” Charles said, as if engaging in everyday conversation. His voice remained smooth and melodic. Sunlight illuminated the left side of his body, as if he were an angel. Charles still appeared perfect, at least from the front. From the side, as Oliver knew only too well, his skull was misshapen, flat and pitted. That was the reason Charles always wore a wig or an elaborate cap. Except for today.

Oliver kept his attention on the gun. “No, tell me.”

“I wanted you to die without marrying. The succession would be nice and clean, then, and I could take my place as the duke. You took too many decisions without me. But no more.” This time he bared his teeth in a ghastly grin. “You’re going to kill yourself because of Dru’s death. So sad, they will all say.”

Dru’s death? “Charles, what have you done?” Terror filled him, not for himself but for his wife, the woman he loved so very much. Charles was mad. Completely insane. What he said made sense, if a person did not know the truth. Even if someone knew, what he said made twisted logic. “Nobody will believe you.”

He needed to get to Dru, to discover what Charles had done.

“Of course they will. I’ve thought it all through. Burnett should be back soon.”

As if answering a cue, a shuffle came from the door. Oliver turned his head to see Burnett, similarly equipped with a pistol, the twin of the one Charles held.

Dear God. “What have you done with Drusilla?” Terror clutched at his stomach, twisting it into a knot. He forced himself into calmness, as much as he could manage. He had to think clearly.

“Burnett took her out to the docks. He should have disposed of her by now.”

“Did you take care of the duchess?” Charles demanded.

“Yes, my lord.”

“She’s dead?”

Oliver flinched. If he got out of this, he’d kill them both. No question about that.

“No, my lord. She’s taken care of.”

Charles raised the pitch of his voice slightly. Enough to make Oliver take notice. “What do you mean? She’s not dead?”

So there was a chance. Oliver kept a knife in the drawer in his nightstand. Mainly to trim wicks, open letters, and such, but if he could get to it, he might stand a chance. Unfortunately, with two guns trained on him, he would have much less opportunity of escaping with his life. One, and he might have taken what fate offered. If Burnett had not said Dru was not dead, he’d have been far more reckless. He watched and waited for the first opportunity to take Charles off guard. He was standing closer and was a better target. If he hurled himself at Charles’s legs, he could take him down.

Could he do it? Yes, yes he could, if it meant saving Dru. Himself, he cared less about.

He prepared to spring, curling his feet back, preparing to go up on his knees, the better to propel himself off the bed. He could get there with one firm shove on the mattress, or near enough to reach his brother.

“Now, now,” Burnett said, as if talking to a child. His tone was soothing, conciliatory. “Put the weapon down, my lord.”

“Call me ‘your grace’,” Charles said. He glanced at the manservant, frowning. “You’re pointing the gun in the wrong direction.”

“No, sir, no, I’m not. Put it down, please.” He sounded patient, quiet. “We can get you back to your room and nobody the wiser. The maids’ll be up soon.”

“You knew he could walk?” Oliver said.

“Yes, sir, but he ordered me not to tell. I didn’t know he was planning this. I swear. I followed his plans, but in the end I couldn’t do it.” Sorrow infused his voice. “I can’t kill another human being. I did what I could to stop it from happening.”

Oliver stared at Charles, who glared at his servant. It was like looking at a stranger. He didn’t know this man at all.

Burnett motioned with his weapon. “Drop the gun, my lord.”

Charles ignored him. “When I kill my brother, what will you do, Burnett?”

“I’ll have to tell them. I’m sorry, my lord, but you can’t go around killing people and get away with it.”

Oliver breathed out very slowly, watching Charles carefully, waiting for his opportunity. Relief filled him. A witness would surely make Charles think twice.

“You do not want to be responsible for a person’s death, my lord,” Burnett said in the same level tone.

Charles’s voice turned smooth. “You think not?” Moving his arm to one side, he fired. The explosion, coming so suddenly in the quiet room, deafened Oliver.

The thump meant Charles had reached his mark. Burnett was either dead or injured. But he had no time to turn and check. This was his chance, the only one he would get. He propelled himself off the bed, lunging head first to his target. He met hard flesh as he brought his brother down.

Charles’s roar of anger echoed around the room, but Oliver ignored it, going for the pistol Charles had just drawn from his belt. Oliver put his knee on Charles’s thigh and pressed, pinning him to the floor. A punch to the side of his head made Oliver grit his teeth and hold on, but his grip on Charles’s arm weakened, and his brother wrenched himself free.

Ignoring his brother’s shout, Oliver reached out, gripped Charles’s shoulder and slid his hand down to the pistol.

The sound of thundering feet came from the hallway and into the room. Charles lifted his head and pushed up, sending Oliver off-balance.

Oliver sat, risking a shot, and swung his fist. He caught Charles under the chin, snapping his brother’s head back and to one side.

Charles remained still, unconscious or dead.

Oliver grabbed the pistol from Charles’s slack grip and sprang to his feet. He met his valet’s clear gaze from where the man kneeled on the floor next to Burnett. Robinson shook his head. He didn’t have to say any more. A footman stood by Oliver, staring down at Charles.

“Take my brother back to his room,” Oliver said, his voice remarkably steady. “Guard him. He is dangerous, so secure him if you need to. Search him for anything he can use as a weapon, and do not allow him to leave his bed. He can walk.”

The footman swore, a sign of his extreme agitation. “Sorry, so sorry, your grace.”

Oliver waved his apology away. “I’m glad you came, Whatmough. Get him tucked into bed before he comes around, if you can. Secure his wrists loosely to the bedposts, and don’t allow him anything, not even a drink of water.” His mouth flattened. “However sweetly he begs for it.”

They would have to call in the authorities. Oliver had no intention of tucking this event away, not allowing it to be made public. This matter must be dealt with properly, or Charles would use that, too. His eyes were wide open now. He should not have allowed his brother to interfere in his marriage. But he had loved Charles and felt deeply guilty about the accident. That guilt had crippled him as much as it had Charles, but in a different way.

What had Burnett said? He’d “taken care” of Dru, but she wasn’t dead. Wasn’t dead? What the hell did he mean by that?

The thought propelled him out of the room, now filling with servants, perturbed and confused. He raced downstairs and flung open the door to Dru’s room.

The bed was empty.

Only one person would know where his wife was, now Burnett was dead. Charles would not be unconscious for long, Oliver determined.

Charles’s rooms contained four servants, three of them who had never entered the suite before. “Where is he?” Oliver demanded. Someone held out his robe, and he shrugged into it, belatedly aware he still only wore his nightshirt. He strode into Charles’s room. “Is he awake?”

One of Charles’s other assistants, Atkinson, got to his feet as Oliver entered the room. “He is unconscious but resting peacefully, your grace.”

“Wake him.”

The man blinked at Oliver’s insistent tone.

“He killed Burnett and would have killed me, had I not stopped him. Did nobody tell you?”

Atkinson shook his head. Charles had never seen the man bareheaded before. Without hat or wig, the man appeared completely different, a bruiser rather than a footman. His bald head gleamed in the light of two branches of candles. “They brought him here and said he was not to leave this room, sir. Is Mr. Burnett really dead?”

“I fear he is.” Oliver crossed to the bed and gazed at his brother dispassionately. “All his displays of affection, all his pretenses, and I never noticed they were all meaningless. My brother has no soul, Atkinson.”

“Yes, sir.” Atkinson did not sound surprised.

“You knew?”

“I suspected, sir. When the family were not present, he did not care for anyone. He showed no emotion.”

“Hmm.” He used emotion to fool them. The accident had obviously removed more from Charles than the use of his legs.

He gave Charles an openhanded slap across his face. Not hard, although he longed to batter him into oblivion. Bitterness filled his heart, blending with regret that he had nearly thrown everything away.

Charles’s eyes snapped open. He could have been awake all along. Not that Oliver cared.

“Where’s my wife?”

Charles smiled. “Wouldn’t you like to know?”

Oliver slapped him again, a little harder. “You will tell me.”

The blow jerked Charles’s head to one side, but other than that, he behaved as if Oliver had not touched him. “I should have been duke. You know that. I know it, too. It is my turn. My dukedom.”

“You’d ruin it.”

Charles shrugged. He was lying flat on his back, only his head supported by the pillows. He lifted his hand, signaling his servant. Oliver snapped his fingers at Atkinson, refusing to let him close.

“It is mine by right of succession. Then you married that slut. I managed to separate you, but not until the damage was done. Unless she’s had her courses?” He raised his brows, expecting an answer.

Oliver didn’t know. Nor did he care. He wanted Dru back, needed her. Nothing else would do. Nobody else would serve. “Did you interfere with the carriage and her horse?”

A sneer curled Charles’s lips. “Burnett did. He was sweet on the maid, did you know? She stole the manuscript for him, and he brought it to me.”

“Even that? You did even that?”

“It worked, didn’t it? You hated her when that thing went into print. If we couldn’t hurt her before she got to your bed, we’d do it after. Except he betrayed me. I thought better of Burnett.”

He refused to say any more. His brother had planned to kill Dru to stop her bearing an heir to the dukedom. To him.

What had he done? “Where is she? What have you done with my wife?”