39

 

Justain caught Madeline and yanked her to the ground. A single slug whipped past. It would’ve killed her for sure.

“Are you mad, lass?” Another spray of bullets hit their maple tree. Fire pumped through his veins. “Are you trying to get killed?”

“Yes, if it will save you.”

“You aren’t sacrificing yourself.” Justain shoved Madeline low among the knurled roots. “Listen to me; I need you to stay put. Will you do as I ask? This is a command. Will you?”

She nodded.

He loaded his blunderbuss and secured the hammer. Then he rotated and showcased the flintlock to Devlin. Would his cousin put down his ministering to take a life?

As if hearing Justain’s thought, Devlin raised his hands. “Toss them.”

He pitched his trusted flintlock, along with a sack of bullet packets. “Devlin’s the best shot in Devon. He’ll protect you and Lady Glaston if things get out of hand.

“You mean when you’re killed.” She dropped her head to her knees.

More shots assailed their tree.

Justain raised her palm to his chest. “You won’t be a widow today. I intend to have a long complicated life with you. Cheer, woman. Life with me won’t be so bad.” He sucked in a deep breath and leaped into the tall grass. Justain drew his weapon.

Another bullet exploded.

Justain smashed his chest flat to the ground. He took cover behind a rock and refilled his gun. The blunderbuss proved excellent for fast close-range skirmishes, but unlike his flintlock, this small gun’s long-range accuracy was questionable. He needed speed and luck to fulfill his promise to Madeline. Even with Devlin, he was out numbered.

Justain waited thirty seconds and then fired. He felled the rampaging man less than twenty feet from his head. “I’m winning this fight.” He crawled up a mound and shot again.

A cursing yell cut through the tense breeze. He had cut down another bandit.

A boom sounded across the wide part of the clearing, attacking their tree again. “Please stay where I left you.”

As he pivoted to check on Madeline, the pepper of a bullet flew past his ear. Someone had marked him. He rolled, sinking down behind a tree root. If Justain hadn’t pivoted toward his wife, the bullet would’ve penetrated his temple. He would be dead.

He glanced back at Madeline. Her onyx mourner’s shrouds bulged from the bottom of the tree. His wife remained unharmed.

Another gun sounded. It was Justain’s flintlock. He knew the music of that barrel. Devlin struck someone in the far tree line. A burly man stumbled forward, brandishing a silver musket. Barrow.

One arm drooped to Barrow’s side. Devlin had wounded him, but the villain hadn’t been put down. The blackguard drew his weapon and aimed at Justain.

“This ends now, Barrow.” Justain waited for his sight to fill. Concentrate. It would take too long to tamp and reload. Steady. If he missed, his promise to Madeline would be broken. Aim. His finger hovered over the trigger.

Fire. The bloated beast dropped backward, from the impact. The lead shot hit him between the eyes. The mighty goliath fell.

Another weapon discharged—a rifle’s belch.

“Lord Devonshire!” Jonathan ran from a thick grove of trees. He had blasted a bandit. The body slipped down the slope.

Justain searched for his cousin. “Devlin, get my wife, everyone to the main house!” He didn’t recognize his own voice.

The area cleared as the faithful of Hampshire, the poor sheep, disappeared from Avington’s rich land. If another bandit existed other than the four felled, he could’ve easily disappeared in the confusion. “Well, at least you’re done, aye, Barrow.”

Jonathan waved the all clear signal. “No one’s hiding in the brush, and the ridge is being scoured by Masterson.” He met Justain near the first bandit. “I sent a groom for the constable.” His hands shook as he yanked at his navy coat.

“Are you injured, Winton?”

“All these people?” His copper eyes seemed glassy. “This could have been worse than Dorset.”

“Jonathan, are you wounded?”

He rubbed his face. “No, sir.”

“We handled this, Jonathan. You, Devlin, and I, we prevented Barrow from claiming another innocent shield.”

Justain took the rifle from him, secured the hammer, and slung it over his shoulder. “Let’s drag this man down to the others.”

A scar wrapped the dead bandit’s forearm, a hot-ore sear.

“Look, Winton, if you had any doubts about Barrow’s involvement with Tilford, the proof is here, another ore miner.”

They pulled the fiend to his mate, two more to go.

“Let’s get the one in the tree line and save Barrow to the end. It’ll take us both to move the load of evil.”

A breeze picked up, dissipating the odour of gunpowder. Justain tugged out a handkerchief to wipe his brow. He put his boot on the third bandit’s stomach and rolled him over. “Mr. Kent!”

“What’s he doing here? How did he know Barrow?” Jonathan stooped down and pushed Kent’s silver flintlock away. The St. James crest shined on the metal. “Maybe he heard the commotion and decided to join in the rout.”

Justain rubbed his forehead and pictured the battle, squinting, seeking Kent’s vantage point. “He kept shooting towards Madeline, even when I was away from the maple.” Justain stood, scratching his head. “Even when I proved a closer target.”

“Well, you said Kent was crazed.” Jonathan grabbed an arm and tugged.

“He came from up north when Madeline and I arrived at Avington. That’s what the duchess said…Jonathan, undo his cuffs.”

Justain pushed Kent’s cinnamon coat sleeves up as Jonathan unbuttoned the cinched shirt fabric.

The fiend’s arms held a tiny melt scar, a miner’s injury.

They dragged Kent to the line now making three.

“Kent’s in league with Barrow? How would they know each other?” Jonathan shook the dust from his hands. “Doesn’t make sense?”

Justain took up one of the bandit’s guns. “They all bear silver muskets. Muskets with the St. James crest. They used the duke’s own weapons?”

“You suspect a larger conspiracy?” The steward’s mouth shrank to a dot.

“We’ll know in a minute.” Justain straightened and led his steward to the last assailant. The events of the past three months sifted in Justain’s head. “This butcher, Barrow, knows every lowlife in Mother England.”

The two men rolled the portly fiend onto his back. A fatty-cheeked man with a melt scar on his jaw and lifeless eyes stared ahead.

It wasn’t Barrow. The size and girth of the man was similar. From a distance, Justain had thought it was the murderer. But up close, this wasn’t the smooth face of his brother’s killer.

“Another miner?” Jonathan picked up the man’s silver musket and pointed it to the trees. “Barrow’s got to be around here somewhere.”

“Put the gun down. This isn’t Barrow’s handiwork.” Justain sighed into his palm. “I suspect none of this was Barrow.”

“If it’s not Barrow…” Jonathan plopped onto the ground. “What does this mean?”

Justain wiped his brow again. “It means my personal demon still lives. Let’s search the rabble.” He bit his lip. Richard’s death still hadn’t been appeased.

Yet, the puzzle in his head stood complete. “Jonathan, when I ordered my Berlin carriage, how long did it take for delivery?”

Jonathan stooped and checked the pockets of the decedents. “About two months.”

“Madeline said the duke had three shiny chestnut carriages. One was stolen from the Tilford Coaching Inn.”

“That leaves two.” Jonathan reared back on his heels. “But there are three parked near the stables.”

“Kent brought it back after the attack. The duchess said some of their family mined.” He grabbed his steward’s arm. “This is about Madeline. This has all been about Madeline.”

Jonathan’s copper eyes grew wide, then squinted. “Sir?”

“Kent was jilted by Madeline. He must’ve followed her from Hampshire. Planned to kidnap or kill her…at Tilford. If I hadn’t.” Justain cleared his throat. “Hadn’t invited Madeline into my carriage, she would’ve been in this madman’s clutches. She’d be dead.”

“Good thing you were there looking for the informant.”

His chest tightened, and Justain looked to the peaceful hills. “I was meant to be there. Meant to be a part of her life.”

“Sir, are you all right?”

Justain kicked Kent’s arm. “Look at his stained fingertips. The man is hopped up on opiates. When I evicted him, I found a ton of Dover pills.” Stained fingers. The duke’s fingers. Mama’s fingers. Opium! Kent poisoned the duke with opium. That’s why he hadn’t dreaded detection. Kent knew the duke would die.

Justain wanted to darken his own daylights for being so blind.

 

****

 

The wild tones of rampant gossip vibrated through the walls of the orangery, the grand ballroom of the west wing. At least the duke’s service held some dignity.

Meriwether had taken his guns and greatcoat and refreshed Justain’s face and hands with lemony water. Justain trudged inside, hoping he wouldn’t stand out.

The duchess passed him at the threshold. “You made a mockery of my husband’s funeral.”

“No, Mr. Kent did. He decided to show up after all.” Justain whispered to keep from feeding the rumour-hungry crowd. “He’s responsible for everything.”

“Are you sure?” Her black eyes didn’t flinch.

Justain nodded.

“I suppose you must tell everyone and further shame us.” She twisted her bracelets. Her coal-black eyes darted. A chill seemed to exude from her stone countenance.

Did she care at all? Could bitterness push one to that place? If it could, Justain needed to flush his system of it.

“I’ll be in my room.” She waltzed past, her shiny satin skirt swishing down the hall.

He pressed further into the gilded room. A perimeter of silence surrounded Justain, as mourners ended their conversation to give him their full appraisal. The gawking, open mouths and whispers were worse than the violet lines of Almack’s.

But where were his wife and cousin?