Awakening His Duchess (41 page)

“Yes, there are. There are many who think Lord Arrington’s
death suspicious. I am above suspicion in his case because I was not here.”

“But he looked like he was killed by a horse.”

She closed her eyes and breathed in. An admission. Finally.
“If Beau
and
the duke pass in short order, I will be the one they look
at because
my
son stands to gain. Whatever is done to rid the world of
Beau must leave no trace. That is why it should be my medicinal herbs when he
is in the throes of his illness. He should never get a poison because there are
tests that can be done. It is too risky.”

Henri put his hand on her thigh and she nearly jumped out of
her skin. “I cannot wait until we will get to the inn.”

“Soon, my darling,” she said, and she didn’t have to fake
the huskiness as her throat went dry. “But tell me how you manage to poison the
duke for it excites me that you are so clever.”

“The duke, he likes his Havana cigars.”

The cigars, not the brandy. But it was just as ingenious. No
one else in the household would smoke the duke’s cigars. Surely Beau with the
weakness of his lungs would not share in them.

Henri frowned with the half of his face that could move. The
other side under the scar remained slack. If he had thought Etienne had no
value to him other than to get her back...

The question screamed for release until she couldn’t hold it
back, could only try to infuse an airy lightness. “Henri, what did you do to
Etienne?”

Chapter Twenty-Two

Beau was ready to tear Henri’s limbs off. Not only had he
taken Etienne, he was touching Yvette while calmly discussing murdering his
brothers, his father and him. Obviously he’d tried before. The only thing
stopping Beau from ripping the bastard apart was that he was trapped under the
seat, the wooden compartment confining him.

His side hurt from lying on the wood in one position so
long. He couldn’t shift positions because he’d jostle the seat and Henri might
realize he was there.

They had to be getting close though Henri had been coy, not
revealing where he’d left Etienne no matter how much Yvette cajoled and prodded
him.

And although she did a good job of keeping her voice
modulated, he could hear the strain and a touch of panic in her tones. But
Henri, even though he spoke faster and slower in a mockery of excitement or
desire, his tone was the same throughout in a way that was flat and oddly
chilling.

“Did you leave him in Wingate? Do you have a room at the
inn?” Yvette asked.

Beau wished he could hold her, give her strength. She
wouldn’t have to put up with Henri too much longer. Once they knew where
Etienne was, he was getting out of this crazy confined space and doing whatever
he had to do to stop Henri.

“Turn right here,” said Henri, his voice giving nothing
away.

“The inn is this way,” Yvette said.

Beau wasn’t certain if she was giving him landmarks so he’d
know where they were or if she was still trying to wheedle a confirmation or
denial from Henri. But she had chattered seemingly nonsensically about
landmarks along the way. He knew exactly where they were.

“What do you think all those people are doing in front of
the inn?” Yvette mused.

“Drive past,” ordered Henri, but it was the first time his
voice seemed to show any emotion. Fear?

Beau tried to see beyond the little stretch of road under
the curricle that was his entire range of vision.

“That’s him!” a woman shrieked. “That hat, that scar. How
could he leave a child to die like that?”

Beau’s spine tightened and his blood went cold. Was Etienne
dead?

“Henri,” hissed Yvette.

“Go. Go. Faster.”

There was scuffling on the seat above him. Shouts filled the
air. “Stop!” “Tie him up and choke him on a gag.”

“Henri, what did you do?” Yvette’s voice was high and
panicked and shot through Beau like a thousand stabbing knives.

The curricle rattled as the speed increased.

“Pull up! Halt, I say,” said a man chasing them in the road.

Beau had had enough.

“Yvette, jump!” Beau twisted, positioning his feet on the
seat’s underside and shoving.

“Putain de merde!”
Henri shouted.

A shot blasted. Yvette screamed. Beau’s heart jolted. He
flipped up the bench seat as material ripped and the two seat occupants were
thrown. Beau flayed as the light flooded his eyes. Henri landed across the
dashboard. Something thudded on the road. Yvette?

Please let her be all right. Beau didn’t have time to check.
The horse galloped ahead. He couldn’t look as he forced limbs stiff with disuse
to shove out of the compartment. He grabbed the fowling piece and put it to the
back of Henri’s head before the man had a chance to collect himself.

“Move and I’ll blow your brains all over the road.”

Given the frantic fleeing of the uncontrolled horse, not
shooting Henri might be more of a trick. Beau spread his legs wide and used
every inch of energy to retain his balance. He didn’t hesitate to press the
muzzle of the gun into Henri’s skull and use him for stability.

But if the man had already discharged his pistol, Beau would
be shooting an unarmed man...in the back of the head. Bloody hell, he’d hoped
to have a reason to kill the man.

“Stop the horse!” said Henri.

But after listening to the man gloat for the last hour over
his cleverness in killing his brothers and poisoning the duke so he might be
dying too, Beau wasn’t going to risk Henri being able to turn the tables on
him. The horse would tire of running eventually.

“Put your hands on the foot board,” Beau told him.

Henri hesitated.

“Now.” Beau shoved the fowling piece harder into the back of
his neck. “I’m not going to miss.”

Henri kicked blindly. He tried to roll to the side. Beau
plunked down on the edge of the seat. Shoving with his foot he pinned the
slighter man to the dashboard. He barely kept himself from firing, but he
wasn’t going to risk a wild shot.

God, he hadn’t heard Yvette. Please let her be all right.

“You better pray that neither Yvette or Etienne is hurt,” he
told the man.

The countryside around them blurred as they raced away from the
town. Chickens squawked and ran out of the roadway as the horse thundered
forward. A jolt of the curricle suggested one of the birds hadn’t managed to
escape. Henri grabbed the board as if afraid he was going to be chucked out.

“That wasn’t so hard, now was it?”

“Stop the horse before we are killed,” said Henri.

True, if the horse veered off the road they might take a bad
tumble in the ditch, but Henri was truly the only one in danger of being
killed.

“The jig is up. Will you surrender?” asked Beau.

“Yvette is mine, you bastard. She has always been mine,”
Henri said in his odd monotone. “I did everything to have her, ruined her
father, rid myself of my wife. The bokor was to kill you. Why are you not
dead?”

Had he taken on Yvette’s interrogation? “She was never
yours,” Beau said coldly. “She was always far too good for you. Put your hand
back on the board.”

Beau pushed with his boot in the middle of the man’s back.

“I try to reach the reins,” said Henri.

A cold chill went down Beau’s spine as he realized he hadn’t
seen Henri’s left hand at all. He’d been watching his right.

“Put your hands on the board. Both of them.”

The curricle bumped over a rut and tossed them. Henri
twisted and flipped back with his pistol in his left hand, black powder
tracking down the barrel from a hasty reloading.

 
*~*~*

“Are you all right, my lady?” said a woman coming out of her
gate to check where Yvette had landed in the middle of the road.

No, she wasn’t all right. Her body didn’t feel as if it
belonged to her anymore and her breath had been knocked out of her when she hit
the ground. She pointed after the disappearing curricle. “Follow. Them.”

Footsteps thundered up the road from the inn.

She needed to go back to the inn and learn what the cries
were about. But how could she let Beau go? And what she’d heard when they
passed the inn pressed her flat like a sugar press draining all the juice from
the stalks. Was Etienne dead? Choked to death on a gag? She shook from head to
toe.

Why wasn’t Beau stopping the runaway horse? Had Henri shot
him before he was free of the underside of the seat?
Mon Dieu
, if Beau
was injured, dead, it would all be her fault.

“Here, you’ve torn your dress,” said the woman, trying to
help Yvette to her feet.

A man on a horse thundered up. “Madam—”

“Go. Catch them.” What if it was too late? Her chest felt as
if a thousand horses were tromping on her, but she struggled to her feet so he
wouldn’t stop to help her.

The man spurred his horse and a second man passed her on
foot.

“The scarred one is a murderer. The other is Lord Arrington.
Please help him.” She turned back toward the inn. “My son,” she whispered.

“He’s—”

Two gunshots rang out in quick succession. It was if a shot
had gone through her heart and torn out her soul. Her legs folded under her and
she collapsed back to the dusty lane.

 
*~*~*

Beau wanted to laugh. To have both of them fire shots from
less than two feet away from each other and neither one score mortal wounds was
beyond ridiculous. But such was the way of things. At least he had winged his
opponent.

However the shots had terrified the horse and he was running
hell for leather now.

Henri’s face was red. Blood dripped from his ear where
Beau’s shot had clipped him. “You have more lives than a cat.”

“Only one,” said Beau.

Henri swung the pistol at his temple. Beau ducked and pulled
the man down. He almost flipped him out the back of the curricle, but he didn’t
want Henri getting away. Nor could he risk his discovering the loaded pistols
underneath Yvette’s clothes in her bag. He rolled, taking both of them to the
floorboard and pinning Henri underneath him.

The Frenchman squirmed, but Beau had spent too many years
laboring to be overpowered by him. He leaned his forearm into his windpipe
until Henri was clawing at his arm, his eyes popping out and his face turning
purple. The curricle was still bouncing along and there were shouts from
behind. Help, Beau hoped.

Hooking his arm in Henri’s he flipped the man to his stomach
and pushed his gun out of the curricle.

Henri gasped in ragged pants.

With a knee in Henri’s spine, Beau almost regretted that he
wouldn’t be able to reach one of the loaded pistols on the boot. “Put your
hands behind you.”

He yanked loose the folds of his cravat and unwound it from
his neck. He didn’t know that he’d ever get comfortable wearing the damn things
again, and right now it was the handiest thing he had for tying Henri’s hands.

“Aren’t you going to kill me?”

“I can’t. You’re not armed now.”

Henri barked a laugh that sounded anything but amused. “You are
a fool.”

“No. I am a civilized man and this is England where there
are laws and rules of behavior. We don’t have a man poisoned because we lose a
woman to him. We don’t steal other people’s children, and we don’t shoot
unarmed men—no matter how much they deserve it.”

“You were supposed to die. I paid to have you killed.”

“I guess I was worth more to the bokor as a slave.”

Henri laughed again. “You have nothing. Yvette is my wife
and you cannot claim Etienne as your son.”

“Who do you think will believe you?” asked Beau. “You’re a
Frenchman who has confessed to two murders here and a dozen elsewhere. I am a
future duke. She is my wife and has been all along. But nonetheless you shall
have a fair trial. Because we are civilized here.”

Beau succeeded in getting the cravat wound tightly around
Henri’s hands and used his teeth to pull the knot tight. He was aware a man on
horseback had thundered past and was alongside the runaway horse, slowing it
and talking calmly to it. The only thing left was to return to the village with
his prisoner.

But as he yanked Henri off the floorboard and put him on the
seat, his thoughts harkened back to Yvette and Etienne.

“Are my wife and son all right?” he called to the man
holding the horse’s harness.

“Your wife is well enough. Sent me after you.”

“You better pray Etienne is well,” Beau told Henri. “Because
if he isn’t, you’ll pay dearly.” He dropped closer and whispered in Henri’s
undamaged ear so the man on horseback couldn’t hear. “I was in Saint-Domingue
long enough to learn your ways.”

 
*~*~*

Yvette covered her face with her shaking hands. “
Je vous
salue, Marie, pleine de grâce. Le Seigneur est avec vous...”

“My lady, here, let me get you off the road.”

She felt sick and unable to go forward or back. Either way
was the wrong way. She didn’t want to repeat the night of the revolution, run
to Beau and discover him dead or run to where she thought Etienne was at the
inn and discover him dead.

Because she dared to believe she could love Beau again,
everyone was ripped from her again.

Her stomach churned and she thought she might lose its
contents. She held out her palm, warding off the woman who was trying to help.

But praying was a useless endeavor. What was done was done.
The words died. The saints had never answered her prayers except possibly to
return Beau to her and then rip out her heart again.

The village woman caught her hand.

“My son.”

The woman blanched and looked back toward the church.

Had they already taken him there for last rites? Yvette’s mind
swirled. She rose to her feet. She had to do the right thing, the dignified
thing, what the wife of a future duke would do. But she shriveled inside as she
tried to find the strength to function even if it was just the shell of her
body while the inside was filled with screams and laments.