Alexandra gaped at Francesca in dumbfounded silence.
The Countess of Mont Claire had always been a stranger to gravitas, so to see her porcelain skin stretched so tightly over her tense expression was alarming. She’d been possessed of a lean build since girlhood, but her strong cheekbones cut an even more dramatic angle and the cleft in her chin was more pronounced. Alexandra worried she’d not been eating.
As she clutched at the collar of her black silk robe, Francesca’s countenance whitened to iridescent, setting her russet hair ablaze. “I don’t know what to do.”
“We should sit down for this.” Cecelia took one of her hands, and Alexandra the other, pulling the distressed woman to the gold velvet settee across from the fire. “Would you like tea?”
“I tell you my life may be in danger, and you offer me tea?” Francesca regarded them as though they’d lost their minds.
Unperturbed, Cecelia made certain they were settled before gliding back toward the sideboard and preparing three cups. “Am I to take it that you decline?” She delicately poured the liquid over the tea strainer in each, before reaching for the sugar cubes.
Francesca huffed, then muttered, “Three cubes.”
Cecelia had already plopped three into the first cup, two into Alexandra’s and one into hers. The preparation had been the same for almost fifteen years, now.
She returned to distribute the saucers before settling herself in a graceful flourish, arranging her spectacles just so. “All right. Now let’s do hear what calamity you’ve found yourself embroiled in.”
Once Francesca found herself on the settee in the company of her trusted friends, she lost the bluster in her sails. She curled around her cup of tea like a vagrant would a fire on a winter’s night.
“I’m not even certain where to start.” She exhaled wearily. “I haven’t allowed myself a moment’s sleep the entire three days I’ve been at Castle Redmayne.”
“Why are we here, Frank?” Alexandra asked over a careful sip of the amber liquid. “How is it possible you’re getting married? And to someone you suspect of murder?”
Francesca’s hand began to tremble, and she set her saucer down, untouched. “I didn’t know of the betrothal contract until Redmayne summoned me.”
“Summoned you?” Alexandra couldn’t imagine strong-willed Francesca ever answering anything close to a summons.
“I would have declined,” she admitted. “But I needed a reason to find a way into the castle. How else am I to ascertain if his family was responsible?”
“What makes you think they were?” Cecelia gulped down her cup of tea and poured another.
“Because, when I read the betrothal contract, I found something I couldn’t ignore…”
“Which is?” Alexandra tucked her slippers beneath her, worrying the inside of her lip with her teeth.
“The date the contract was signed, was the very day prior to the massacre at Mont Claire,” Francesca revealed.
Ever skeptical, Alexandra asked, “Have you any other evidence against them? The timing is suspicious but wouldn’t bear water in court.”
Francesca shook her head and let out a heavy, exhausted breath. “Every night, I’ve been scouring the castle, poring over various documents and historical texts, even the diaries and ledgers of the late Duke of Redmayne, and I’d found very little. But then I realized I’d been investigating the wrong Redmayne.”
“Your betrothed, you mean?” Cecelia puzzled, conducting some hasty maths in her head. “He would have been all of … twelve when your family was killed.”
Francesca became more animated, leaning forward to declare, “The mother, Gwyneth. She has a son from a previous marriage, one who was adopted by Redmayne, but could never be his ducal heir. Gwyneth’s first husband was a Scotsman and, as it turns out, in line to inherit the Mont Claire title. I need to not only find out how close he was to inherit, but I’d also need to ascertain malicious intent on her part.”
“Or on the part of the son.” Alexandra placed a chilling puzzle piece in place. “Where is he now? And who is he? I suddenly wish I paid more attention to the haute ton.”
Francesca leaned forward conspiratorially. “He sits on the Queen’s Bench as Justice of the High Court.”
Cecelia gasped. “You mean—”
“Yes. The High Court justice rumored to be the empire’s next Lord Chancellor. Sir Cassius Ramsay.”
“I’ve heard of His Worship.” Cecelia made a face and set her tea down as if it had put her off. “He’s said to be all fire and brimstone. Forbidding, merciless, and utterly moralistic.”
Francesca shuddered. “Sounds horrifying.”
Cecelia nodded her agreement. “The Vicar Teague plans to vote for him, if that’s any indication.”
It was all they needed.
“It certainly would help Ramsay’s chances at a chancellorship with the traditionalists if he were to inherit an earldom,” Alexandra ventured.
“It certainly would.” Francesca’s eyes sparkled with spite.
“Which gives him ample motive,” Cecelia said.
Alexandra went to the sideboard and poured them all a spot of brandy, thinking that the news of the night certainly called for something stronger than tea.
And the worst was yet to come. She’d yet to reveal her blackmailer.
Francesca appeared both doubtful and indecisive as she mulled over her problem. “At the time of the massacre, Ramsay would have been seventeen. Almost eighteen. Old enough to commit a murder, but I wouldn’t dare say old enough to instigate such a concentrated effort.”
“The question remains, why, after all this time, would you be summoned to wed his younger brother? Does Redmayne really want to marry you? Or did Ramsay orchestrate the entire thing to lure you here in order to cut the last branch from the Cavendish family tree?”
“There really is no way of knowing until we find evidence.” Cecelia brooded as she finished the plait in her hair. “It was right of you to call us here.”
“And find it, we shall.” Alexandra handed the ladies their brandies and touched the rim of her glass to theirs. “You shan’t be alone until we’ve uncoiled the mystery and discovered the culprit.”
“Have you entirely eliminated the theory that the Duke of Redmayne simply fancies you and would like you to be his duchess?” Cecelia asked.
Alexandra gave her a fond smile. Cecelia’s logic often battled with her innate sense of goodness and romantic naïveté. It was so beyond her to be anything but kind and honest that she forever fought the notion that others could be capable of brutality.
A grimace preceded Francesca’s own distinctive eye roll. “That man is as fond of me as he would be of a rash on his arse, which is another reason I suspect his motives for marriage. Why wait until I’m a verified spinster before calling me to heel?”
It was an excellent question, Alexandra had to admit. “What is he like?”
Francesca stuck out her tongue. “He’s not at all like a gentleman of his status should be. More concerned with hunting and horses and hounds than being a duke.”
“I should think you’d like that,” Cecelia said. “You love hunting and horses. And … probably hounds. Who doesn’t like hounds? Is he handsome?”
Francesca shrugged, taking a generous swallow of her brandy. “He might have been once but now he’s just a brutish old boor. Big, dark, and hairy. I hardly see him but he’s dressed like a barbarian, rushing from one venture to another.” Francesca made a face. “You’ll meet him tomorrow, and see for yourselves how incredibly ill-suited we are. Were we to marry, our life would be years and years of senseless battles, him trying to put me in my place, and me trying to murder him in his sleep. I’m telling you, I won’t do it.”
“You won’t have to,” Alexandra soothed. “We’ll help you out of this mess, one way or another.”
“Our first order of business is to find a way into the duchess’s locked rooms,” Cecelia said. “Hopefully before the masquerade in two days’ time. It’s better if this is all sorted out before your betrothal to Redmayne becomes public.”
“I agree.” Alexandra expelled a troubled breath. “But how?”
“Tomorrow morning, Redmayne and I meet in his study with the solicitors,” Francesca said. “I’ve gleaned that Redmayne keeps the key there in a box. I can pilfer it then and we can sneak away to the family wing during the masquerade.”
“It seems too great a risk to take it right in front of his nose,” Alexandra protested.
“You forget I’ve been a gypsy as well as a lady. I perfected sleight of hand much faster than I did French.” Francesca held up Alexandra’s bracelet with a victorious smile.
“I had no idea you were so skilled!” Cecelia clapped delighted hands as Alexandra set her teacup down so Francesca could fasten the small gold chain back on.
Cecelia yawned, stretching her voluptuous body in one lithe motion. Alexandra became certain all the men Cecelia studied with must struggle to keep their minds on mathematical figures, when her figure was on display.
“I’d almost hoped you’d fallen in love. Despite our vow,” Cecelia confessed. “I find I should have liked to be Aunt Cecelia.” She pursed her lips in a sly smile. “Or Uncle Cecil.”
“Not to a Redmayne git, you wouldn’t,” Francesca snorted. “They’re all inelegant Viking brutes with more strength than sense.”
“Yes, but we’d teach them to be proper little heathens, wouldn’t we?” Cecelia’s eyes danced with mischief.
“Can you imagine? Me with a brood?” A shudder appeared to slide all the way down Francesca’s spine. “I’d much rather remain a spinster until death, I’ll thank you to remember.”
Her friend’s laughter spilled warmth over Alexandra’s unsettled soul, the effect much like a languid bath.
Tomorrow, she promised herself. They could only handle one murderous crisis at a time. Tomorrow she’d reveal her own treacherous secret, and hope the women remembered this moment, because “until death” might just be sooner than they all thought.
To soothe the pervasive restlessness in his blood, Piers escaped the hoard of guests the next morning and unleashed Mercury on the Maynemouth Moors. He set off from the stables at a slow canter, warming Merc’s muscles for a hard ride. If he turned right, he’d follow the lowland moors to the village. And so he pointed the stallion’s head left, climbing and descending the soft slopes along the cliffs over toward the ruins of the old Redmayne fortress at Torcliff’s edge. It was only a mile or so across gentle hills, and from there he could unleash Mercury’s full speed over Dawlish Moor.
If he skirted the forest, he’d avoid the hunting party that had left before dawn, many of them still a bit knackered from the night before.
Mercury kicked dew from the vibrant clover and thick, mossy grasses beneath him, pumping his powerful neck as he cantered higher along the sea cliffs toward Torcliff’s edge. The skeleton of the medieval Redmayne fortress slowly crumbled over a black cliff edifice into a hungry sea.
The ruin of a time when these shores were invaded, by forces of strong, greedy men.
Until one family was powerful enough to stop them and waves of marauders and enemies broke upon Redmayne strength.
As Piers galloped closer, he noted movement among the white and gray stones. Curious, he dismounted to investigate, climbing the old steps to the fortress tower, which claimed no ceiling but the sky.
Who would wander up this far at such an early hour? Not the hunters, surely. They’d stick to the forests on the other side of Tormund’s Bluff, opposite the sea.
Puzzling patterns of colorful skirts twirled into the old courtyard as a trio of ladies, their chins all tilted to the sky, frolicked like a tumble of exuberant schoolgirls.
A feminine exclamation struck a chord of enthusiastic recognition in Piers that traveled all the way down to his sex. “Look at this place! It’s a thousand years if it’s a day. I’m itching to dig into the walls, to see what secrets are buried here.”
Alexandra Lane.
The sight of her took the rhythm from his step, and he nearly tripped on a barnacle-crusted stone.
The sound of her unselfconscious laugh pilfered the breath from his lungs.
And when she’d noticed his approach, something hot and guilty in her garnet eyes stole a full beat from his heart.
What a little thief she turned out to be.
Awareness pulsed through the brined air between them.
She sank into the safety of her compatriots, rousing them from their investigation of a nest residing in a crumbling embrasure.
He’d not recognized Lady Francesca Cavendish until he’d joined them in the old courtyard, which was now little more than a meadow.
“Your Grace,” the countess greeted in surprise. “I thought our appointment wasn’t for another hour or so.”
“Ladies.” He bowed.
Alexandra’s auburn brows drew together with an expression both astonished and troubled. “Your … Grace?”
Their gazes shifted in unison. They’d both noted the glint of metal from behind the old portcullis. The movement of a forearm. The unmistakable click of a hammer.
“Get down!” he bellowed.
Alexandra hurled her body toward the other two women, knocking them back just as a pistol blast joined the din of the hunting rifles in the distance.
Most of the guests awake at this hour were shooting pheasant in the forest beyond the grounds.
A brilliant time for a murder.
All three women had appeared to avoid injury. They scrambled to their feet and ran for what had once been the medieval armory, now a crumbling wall covered in ivy.
Piers launched himself at the gunman, breaking his firing arm before the volley had finished echoing through the stones.
The subsequent violence was, admittedly, self-indulgent, but Piers couldn’t stop his fists from slamming into the face of the assailant again and again.
And once more.
As the skin of his knuckles split against a stranger’s jaw, Piers tried to think of a more satisfying sensation than the impact of flesh and the crunch of bone beneath his fists.
Nothing came to mind.
There was fucking, he supposed. But he could think of no lover, mistress, nor whore who provided the kind of unadulterated release as did delivering a well-deserved beating.
Not these days, anyhow.
Power. In this arena, the physical one, he wielded it. He studied it. He became power. Primal and potent. It no longer had to be something he danced with. Something he was shackled to. Something to run to the farthest corners of Blighty to escape.
Strength gathered in his sinews and flowed through the arrangement of his motion. It bulged in the cords and ropes of muscle he’d built maneuvering through countries where the environs were just as lethal as the locals and the lions.
And almost as lethal as he.
Almost.
Beneath the gray stone grandeur of Castle Redmayne, it had been easy to forget that this was a power available to him.
Until the fucking warthog of a man beneath his blows had given him the perfect excuse to unleash it.
“There’s another on the hill!” someone warned.
Piers hauled the man around to use as a human shield, ducking to reclaim the pistol his victim had dropped in the moss. He sighted the figure on the hill, drew a bead, and fired.
The man dropped, taking two more bullets to the torso before he hit the ground.
Piers threw the sack of blood and rubbish on the stones of the ruins and pressed the burning end of the pistol against the assailant’s head, ignoring his cry of pain. “Tell me what you’re doing here before I send you to hell,” he demanded from between clenched teeth. An unholy fury thrummed beneath his skin, setting it ablaze.
A few garbled noises bubbled around blood and spittle escaping the blighter’s open mouth.
“It appears you’ve broken his jaw too inexorably for him to confess at the moment.” The clear, unperturbed voice of Lady Francesca pulled him around once more. “Though we are lucky you stumbled upon us, if that is, in fact, what you did.”
At first, Piers thought it was the haze of red, which often accompanied violence, that touched the three women before him with such unparalleled brilliance.
He checked to make certain. Yes, the stones beneath his boots were gray, the moss clinging to them alternately umber and olive and russet. The ocean winds ruffled waves of verdant grass in the distance, and the sky stretched blue above them.
No, the scarlet hue of blood rage had receded. These women were simply … vibrant.
Vibrant redheads to the last one.
Piers blinked past Lady Francesca to Alexandra. His gaze slipped over her supple body, remembering every place his hands had been only yesterday.
Her fists curled tightly at the sides of her slim, midnight-blue skirts, and she gawked at him from eyes so owlish, he could see the whites all the way around the pupils. She wore some sort of stunning female equivalent to a man’s suit, complete with a silk cravat trimmed with lace, a high-necked blouse, and a fitted vest.
Inexplicably, he ached to rip away the starched, scholarly layers. To ascertain injury, if nothing else.
Her breasts rose and fell at double the rate of her companions’, and her eyes flashed gold in the dappled sunlight.
Piers told himself his cock was at attention because violence was sometimes just as physically arousing as vice.
He told himself that twice, before attempting to speak.
“Are you hurt?” he asked.
Her features were ashen, her lips devoid of the lush color he’d so admired before.
Francesca gave him her usual tight-lipped smile. “We’re no worse for wear, Your Grace, I assure you.”
He had to remember that his question should have been directed at all of them.
At the Countess of Mont Claire, in particular.
“Francesca?” Alexandra whispered the unfinished question to Lady Francesca, but her eyes never left his bleeding knuckles, which had begun to smart like the very devil.
“Oh yes.” Francesca stepped closer, examining the roughshod figure writhing on the ground before she leveled an inscrutable cat-eyed gaze on him. “Ladies, allow me to introduce His Grace, Piers Gedrick Atherton, the Duke of Redmayne, and my fiancé.”