In Pursuit of a Scandalous Lady (24 page)

I
n the darkness, Julian made it at last to the front entrance of the manor. He crouched beside a bush that grew just to the right of the door, breathing heavily. He felt his upper arm, but he didn't think it was bleeding too badly. A bullet had grazed him, but he'd made the man pay. It was a shame the pistol was already discharged, for he could have used it. He still carried it, hoping it would at least intimidate someone into making a mistake.

They were yet hunting him in the park, but he'd managed to elude them although several had fired at him. Windebank hadn't chosen them for their aim, thank God.

He reached for the front door and found it unlocked. Of course, Windebank wanted him to come in. There were probably other men inside, just waiting for him. They'd be covering every entrance, so there was no point in trying another.

Still crouched low, he opened the door and swung it
wide. Nothing happened. He dived in, rolling sideways, and slammed into a sideboard with a grunt. Still, nothing happened. The front hall was as richly decorated as he remembered, with doors off it leading into a drawing room and a music room. A hallway veered to the left, to another wing of the house.

And at last he heard something coming from that hallway. Could it be shouts? Bent low, he ran for the arched entrance and paused, peering around the corner. Most of the doors were closed, but at the end of the hall, where a library took up much of the wing, the door was open. The shouting came from within.

He could imagine that Windebank wouldn't want the servants as an audience for his crimes, but where were all the guards?

“Enough!”

This time the distant shout was a bellow, and he recognized his uncle's voice. Crouching low, Julian ran down the corridor, his back tense as he expected one of the doors to open. But that never happened. He reached the wall outside the library and kept his back to it, useless pistol in hand.

“Florence, she's goading you!” Windebank cried.

Julian could hear a grunt or two, then the crash of a vase.

“Go get help!” Windebank commanded.

Julian tensed, and a man rushed out. Julian used the pistol to hit him hard on the back of the head, and he
went down. He recognized the face of the man who'd been following them since London, and felt a momentary satisfaction to see him lying still and bleeding.

Whatever was going on inside the library, no one seemed to have noticed what Julian had done. He dragged the man into the next room, a parlor, and locked him inside.

Back in the corridor, he could distinctly hear Windebank's exasperated voice. “Florence, the girl was only trying to get my attention. She's lying. Eastfield would never prefer her over you.”

“I'm not lying.”

Julian closed his eyes in relief as he heard Rebecca's calm voice. Much as he'd told himself that his uncle wouldn't dare harm her until he had the diamond, there was always a small part of him that had lived in fear.

Lady Florence gave an unearthly scream that made his hackles rise. It was the perfect distraction. He burst into the room. He only had a moment to take in the scene—Rebecca on the far side of the sofa, Windebank between her and the door, trying to calm his wife, who paced and muttered with agitation. Then Windebank saw him and pulled a dueling pistol from his coat pocket. He backed up against a desk, away from the door, but instead of aiming at Julian, he lined Rebecca up in his sights.

“No!” Julian shouted.

“You know I'll kill her now that you're here,” Win
debank said in a harried voice. “Put the pistol down and then don't move.” His eyes darted about the room, lingering on his wife and Julian before returning to Rebecca.

Julian slowly lowered the pistol to the floor, then straightened. “I'm not moving. The same can't be said of your wife.”

Lady Florence continued to pace and mutter, as if she had no idea that anything had changed. Julian could have easily reached her, but that would only give Windebank an excuse to shoot.

What was wrong with Lady Florence? Her face wore a confused, almost devious expression, and her lips continued to move rapidly as she carried on a silent conversation with herself. She didn't look at Julian or her husband, only darted the occasional furious glance at Rebecca. Now Julian remembered his uncle's words when he'd lingered in the hall, that Rebecca had been goading Lady Florence about Roger Eastfield. Was Lady Florence at the center of Windebank's lust for the diamond? And had it somehow unhinged her mind?

Windebank's eyes darted back and forth between the two women. His wife must be distracting him. Julian glanced at Rebecca, and she met his gaze, her expression serene. He wished he could somehow show her how grateful he was that she was alive, that she'd used her wits to help him—that he loved her, and she wasn't to take another risk again.

“Just give the diamond to me and the worst will be over,” Windebank said, the gun unmoving on Rebecca.

“I don't believe you,” Julian said.

“He plans to kill us,” Rebecca said.

Windebank grimaced. “You don't have a choice. I have the gun.”

“And two possible targets, but only one bullet. You shoot Rebecca, and you know I'll kill you—and if your wife happens to get in my way, it will be your fault.”

Again, Windebank's gaze shot to Lady Florence. “None of this is her fault.”

“Why not?”

“Because her mind is not what it once was.”

“It's been this way for a long time,” Rebecca said. “They've become masters at hiding it. Somehow the diamond helps keep her sane.”

Windebank groaned. “Parkhurst wasn't selling it, the fool. It was just kept locked away. But around my wife's neck, it protected my family, kept our children safe, kept her mind whole.”

“That's a lot to ask of a pretty rock,” Julian said.

“It was for everyone's good!” Windebank insisted.

“But not for my father,” Julian countered, suddenly furious. “You killed him to keep your secret.”

“It was an accident!”

“I don't believe it! Or else you'd have spoken up from the beginning. It wasn't a suicide, it wasn't a hunting accident.”

Windebank hesitated, and for a moment, the pistol trembled in his hand. “The old fool came at me, though he had ten years on me and I had a gun.”

“He wanted what was his.”

“Florence was his
sister
! But he still wouldn't listen. We struggled and the gun just…went off.”

Julian almost winced as he imagined his father's death. He wondered if it were true, that Windebank's first murder was accidental rather than deliberate. He saw Rebecca's look of sympathy, but Lady Florence paid no attention to the recitation of her husband's sins. She mumbled and gestured and paced, providing a better distraction than Julian ever could.

“While you had the Scandalous Lady for years,” Julian said, “you watched my father's memory soiled and you said nothing.”

“He tarnished his own image long before he received the jewel!”

And that could not be disputed. But it was beside the point. If Julian's father would have lived, he could have helped turn around his own estate, would have made better choices—but that was the past, and since nothing could be changed, Julian wouldn't live there anymore.

The gun sagged a bit, but then Windebank steadied it on Rebecca. “I just wanted the diamond back. I was so desperate that it might help again, before my children could see and fear what their mother was hiding. I saw it on Miss Leland's neck at a ball, and then I saw it in the
painting. I knew Eastfield was back in London. I had to know the truth of what he'd done with it. I could hardly go to Miss Leland's family and demand answers.”

“I know Roger admitted to you that he'd had an affair with your wife, and that she'd given him the jewel.”

“He lied!” Windebank shouted.

He was sweating now, his expression frantic. The gun wavered between Rebecca and Julian, for Windebank noticed that Lady Florence had stopped pacing, her body still, although she hadn't yet looked up.

“You tried to keep their affair hidden,” Julian said, “tried to keep the jewel, but it didn't help your wife get better, it only led you to murder.”

“I didn't mean to!”

“You hit him with a vase!”

“You have no proof of that.”

“His mother told us everything before she died.”

“If Eastfield would have simply shut up, stopped lying, he'd still be alive. Why did he provoke me that way?” Windebank asked beseechingly of his wife.

She blinked at him.

“Then you had the house burned and killed even more people,” Julian said with contempt. “How many people have to die for the Scandalous Lady? It can't bring back my father, I know that. Only honest work resurrected my family, and you can't say that about yourself. You use murder and deception to get what you want.”

The gun wobbled again. “It all got out of control. I tried so hard to make everything work perfectly…each piece fit together…”

Here was a man who thought he could take care of everything, without any help. Julian saw himself in that fixation, and he didn't like what he saw.

Lady Florence began to move again, and not in her frantic pacing mode. She was watching Rebecca, her head tilted thoughtfully. Her husband's gaze kept jerking to her. Julian held still, biding his time.

“I was bored with it, you know,” Lady Florence said, her voice almost singsong.

Windebank went tense, but Julian spoke before he could. “Bored with what, Aunt Florence?”

“The Scandalous Lady, of course,” she said, wearing a dreamy smile. “What a name for a diamond.” She giggled.

“Don't, Florence,” Windebank whispered.

Julian caught Rebecca's gaze and tried to instill patience in her, so that she did nothing foolish. She gave a small shrug, as if she didn't know what he wanted.

Windebank was focused on his wife now, the gun pointed somewhere between Rebecca and Julian.

“I was bored, bored, bored,” Lady Florence said, playing with a strand of her hair that had fallen to her shoulder. “I gave it to Roger when I was done sleeping with him.”

Windebank looked appalled, as if it had never oc
curred to him that Eastfield wasn't lying about the affair. Had he really trusted his unstable wife—or had he only wanted desperately to believe in her after all the crimes he'd committed for her?

Windebank had turned so much of his attention to his wife that even the gun now wavered on her more than on Rebecca and Julian.

And Rebecca had begun to move, taking tiny infrequent steps toward the hearth. Julian barely looked at her, afraid to draw Windebank's attention her way. Julian was beside himself with fury and fear, wondering what foolish risk she might take.

“Florence, be quiet,” Windebank said, sounding as if it took everything in him to keep his quivering voice calm. “None of that is true. You know I'd do anything for you. Julian has the Scandalous Lady. I'll have it for you soon. But you must keep quiet, so I can deal with this.”

Julian wasn't certain she was listening, for her eyes seemed unfocused, and she wore a faint smile.

“You're a fool, Harold,” Lady Florence said.

Windebank gaped at her.

“You couldn't make me happy, and I never loved you anyway.”

His grimace full of torment and fury, Windebank took a step toward his wife.

The rest happened so quickly that Julian could barely process it. He saw Rebecca lunge for the fireplace poker.
Windebank caught the movement and whirled around, gun raised. Julian felt too slow as he dived at Windebank. He was too far away, he wouldn't be able to stop him—

And then Lady Florence slammed a heavy vase onto her husband's head. The gun went off as Julian landed hard at Windebank's feet, rolling, looking for Rebecca in fear. Thankfully, she was still standing as the mirror above the fireplace shattered behind her. Windebank crumpled and lay still right in front of Julian.

Julian vaulted to his feet, and then his arms were around Rebecca. They clung to each other for only a brief moment.

She whispered, “Your aunt.”

Still keeping an arm about Rebecca, he turned to see Lady Florence standing over her husband's inert form, wringing her hands.

“There's so much blood,” she said, giving them a dazed look. “How did this happen?”

Julian went to her. “Sit down with Miss Leland, Aunt Florence, while I see to Uncle Harold.”

She nodded and let Rebecca lead her to a sofa on the other side of the room. “Do I know you, Miss Leland?”

“Surely you know my mother, Lady Rosa Leland?”

“Oh, yes, of course!”

Feeling like Lady Florence was sane for the moment, Julian dropped to his knees beside his uncle. Blood
flowed from a wound in his head, making a small puddle in the carpet. But he was still breathing. Julian looked about for something to staunch the blood and settled on a silk table runner from a nearby coffee table and wrapped it about Windebank's head.

The door slammed open and several people burst in. Julian grabbed the pistol just in case, but kept it low. Some of his tension eased when he saw that several of the newcomers were women, dressed as servants.

A man came forward. “We heard the gunshot. Who are you, sir? Has Mr. Windebank been shot?”

“I hit him with the vase,” Lady Florence volunteered.

And since the broken vase was in pieces all about Windebank, the man seemed to ratchet back his anxiety, although he turned a confused gaze on Julian.

“I am Dudley, the butler. And you are…” His voice died away as Julian rose to his feet. “Lord Parkhurst! Forgive me for not recognizing you immediately.”

“Send for the physician, Dudley.”

The butler turned to speak to one of the footmen hanging back near the door.

“Station several men outside the nearest parlor,” Julian continued. “I've imprisoned a man there who will need to be questioned by the authorities. Send for a groomsman from the stable. I'll need him to go for Chief Constable Bulmer in Lincoln.”