In the Brief Eternal Silence (76 page)

If one wished to quit drinking, one threw the
flask away.

If one wished to live, one lived.

In the pouring rain he moved. Like a ghoul he
dragged the body of his first victim from the road to the ditch. He
turned to Red, rolled that man over and felt through his pockets.
There was a long, small bowled pipe in one. And a small, wax lined
brown bag that contained what appeared to be opium.

Perhaps the scales tipped more in his favor.
If Red had lived, what abominable business of his would have lived
with him? Mayhaps his death made no difference at all in that
direction. But, mayhaps it did.

It hit him hard for a moment. Had it even
been a question of his life or Tyler's? Or had it been a question
of Red's? Perhaps evil being taken from the world is larger than
the question of which soldier falls in the battle to bring it
down.

Vengeance is Mine, saith the Lord.

St. James had thought for twenty-three years
that it had been his.

And he trembled, humbled. He had delayed so
long in snapping off that last shot. How much blood had Tyler lost
while he had hesitated, weighing the risks?

There had been a chance for life for him, a
chance for life for Lizzie, and even a chance for life for Tyler.
And a chance to be rid of a solid chunk of evil in the same
instance.

And he had hesitated. The man had killed his
father, his mother, his unborn sibling. He had Tyler struggling for
life, held hostage and St. James at gunpoint, and Dante had stood
there weighing the odds, the risks, the consequences.

. . . I'll relieve you of the cause of your
reluctance. . .

St. James dug through the wet, difficult
fabric of the man's pockets. He found several notebooks and he
pocketed these. He dug further, found several scraps of paper,
pocketed these. Dug once again, found a folded bank draft. This he
opened instead of pocketing it unread. It was written out for
fifteen thousand pounds on the account of the estate of Earl
Mortimer Larrimer (deceased) with Lady Lydia Larrimer signing as
trustee.

And he found this very rich, for it showed
how Lady Lydia had managed to convey her urgency to these men. If
they did not stop the wedding with his death, or Miss Murdock's if
he were unfairly uncooperative, the very draft, the fortune, they
held was worthless, for Andrew's inheritance would no longer be
beneath her control, and no funds could be withdrawn on the
authority of her name. And of course, she was shrewd enough to put
a stop on that cheque's payment until the deed was done.

What a clever little mind the feather-headed
widow of his uncle had.

What a spiteful little revenge Red himself
had orchestrated, damning her if he should die on his mission.

And although Dante had not doubted his
conclusions, he still sucked in a heavy breath at this indisputable
revelation now held in his hands.

But he felt no elation as he glanced up from
the draft, for the job ahead of him was a most unsavory task and he
did not relish it or its results in the least.

He knew a great weariness. Except for a
brief, uneasy doze that morning, he had been up for twenty-six or
twenty-seven hours. Dragging Red's body was agony, and he was
panting when he finished, but at least the storm began to abate,
and the rain that fell became soft, and the dimness began to
lighten and the lightning was again content to remain between the
clouds and to no longer menace the trees around.

He did not bury the two men fallen, only made
a mental note to himself that he would need stop at the inn and
send for a constable and inform him of where the bodies lay and
that he had been set upon by highwaymen in the copse. At last he
moved toward his horse that had been working its way along the
green blades of the sparse grass to the side of the road. He
gathered its reins, pulled himself into the saddle and turned his
mount toward the junction of the North road and the inn that stood
there at the crossroads, of which he had, five nights ago, declared
that the daughter of Squire Murdock would do for his purposes.

He rode his horse slowly, content to let it
set its own pace as he dwelt on vengeance no longer, but on
justice. And he now saw that justice was a far more difficult task.
For justice encompassed doing the correct thing for everyone
involved and not merely assuaging grief.

What a childish brat he had been to consider
sacrificing himself. Either the sword of vengeance impaled to the
hilt or he would have none of it at all.

And Jesus Christ! Lizzie.

She had seen the stupidity, the utter
willfulness of it and still she followed him.

He turned his horse around on the road. The
inn would have to wait. London would have to wait. Aunt Lydia would
have one further day of gnawing her guts out wondering if she had
succeeded or were about to lose all.

Lizzie could not wait. Her vow must be made
void and he must explain why he no longer needed her to spur him
toward life rather than death. Her serenity and acceptance had at
last touched something in him and made it quiver into life on its
own, and as a patient no longer needs resuscuscitated, he no longer
needed her frantic ministrations.

He no longer needed her very badly. But he
wanted her infinitely.

His horse entered the dimness of the copse
again, and he urged it to a trot, not really worried, for he
realized that she had not left her home as of yet for Andrew's
carriage would have come in this direction. All the same, he
understood the full enormity of her statement, and he could not
relax until she rescinded it.

St. James nudged his horse into a canter. He
passed the bodies of Red and his employed assassin to the side of
the road. He passed around the bend and the edge of the copse was
in front of him. The brighter light of the surrounding fields was
startling in contrast and he wondered how long it had been since he
had noticed whether the sun were shining or if the sky were
blue.

But his attention was diverted as a rider
galloped hard down the road toward him. He slowed his own mount to
study what was what, and recognized the horse being ridden as Miss
Murdock's black filly. And the rider was Andrew.

St. James halted his horse there on the edge
of the copse and Andrew pulled the filly back to a trot at sight of
him, and then to a walk. As he drew closer, Dante called to him,
“What has happened?”

“Nothing to you, I see,” Andrew replied as he
drew the filly to a halt but a few feet from his cousin and St.
James did not like the angry sneer that was evident in his
voice.

“Ah. I am sorry to disappoint you, Andrew, if
you had been expecting me to courteously die.” He studied the
younger man, then continued, “I had not realized that my death were
somehow desirable to you. It had not appeared to be so three nights
back.”

Andrew's jaw tightened and he ground his
teeth. “I should have let you bleed to death than help you if I had
known of all your treachery then, St. James.”

“Indeed?” St. James asked. “And that hand
print upon your face is a part of my treachery?” His voice dropped
to a dangerous tone. “What ever did you do to induce that reaction,
I wonder, Andrew.

And I must ask you if it is, indeed, from my
fiancé, for I confess myself ignorant of any other female on hand
for you to receive it from, unless, of course, you have developed a
tendress for Mrs. Herriot.”

“I should not be surprised that you would
immediately jump to some filthy conclusion, cousin,” Andrew told
him with derision. “But I assure you, I received it for no other
reason than that I proposed to her. Which I daresay is not how you
received yours when it was your turn.”

“And so that is what has you so out of
temper. You have been, rather roundly I should say, refused.”

“Damn you!” Andrew sputtered. “No, damn it,
it is not why I am out of temper. I am out of temper because I have
found you out! You have been maneuvering about behind my back for
no other purpose but to steal my inheritance.” And perhaps he
himself did not know if he believed this, but it was more soothing
to his ego to think that St. James had compromised Lizzie, and for
no other reason than to force her into marriage, and all, of
course, so that St. James could kill him and gain his inheritance
(which, he had been assured, was much larger than St. James' own
holdings. So maybe there was just a bit of puffed up pride as well,
a blind assumption that of course, another would desire what he was
lucky enough to have).

But St. James disconcerted him by laughing.
“That is what you believe?” he asked, but his eyes were scornful.
“As if I could even want your inheritance, let alone spend years
scheming up some murderous plot to get it. You had better go back
and rethink your position, Andrew,” he told him with near pity,
“for you will find that upon the instance of mine and Miss
Murdock's marriage that it shall be released to you.”

But Andrew only felt affront that St. James
put no significance upon his coming fortune. “Oh, you would like me
to believe that, wouldn't you?”

St. James had been reining his horse to go
around the younger man in disgust but Andrew's words made him halt
his mount.

Now they were quite close to each other, and
St. James turned in his saddle to face his cousin. “I am sorry,
Andrew, I did not quite catch that.”

“I said,” Andrew repeated, “I am sure you
would like me to believe that.”

“And are you indicating in some manner that I
am not to be believed?” St. James asked, his tone deadly quiet.

Andrew hesitated, perhaps reaching his own
point of no return, but his anger and his hurt was such that he
stiffened suddenly, white showing about his lips. “I'm saying that
you compromised Miss Murdock to force her into wedding you. I'm
saying that you have no other intention in marrying her than to
gain control of my estate. I'm saying that you in all likelihood
murdered my father and that you in all likelihood intend to murder
me!” He thrust his chin up, daring St. James to pull his glove and
initiate the challenge. St. James stared at him with blazing eyes
but made no move and Andrew went further to say, “And in case it
has escaped your notice, I am also calling you a liar!”

St. James balanced upon the edge of a
precipice. He was nearly over-come with fury, but he reminded
himself with urgency that these ideas did not spring from this
lad's head of their own accord. And to the fore-front of his mind
was Lizzie and her vow. For the first time in his life he was
terrified of dying, and he closed his eyes with a groan of
frustration.

He opened his eyes, looked at Andrew and
attempted to answer the charges against him in the order that he
could recall them. “I did not murder your father. I reiterate that
I do not want your inheritance and that if you were to drop dead
the day I married and it were in my control, I would give it to the
Sisters of an Irish orphanage before I took a penny of it. I have
not compromised Miss Murdock but intend to marry her for no other
reason than that I love her deeply and I daresay she loves—”

Andrew, with a snarl of anger, slapped him
full across the face without even removing his glove to do the
challenge in the proper manner.

St. James was rocked back in his saddle, for
Andrew was taller and bulkier, and even the flat of his hand bore a
deal of strength. But St. James, even as he rocked back, kicked his
stirrup iron from his foot and swung his leg over the saddle pommel
and his horse's neck. As he recovered from the blow he was clear to
throw himself at the younger man and he did so with ferocity and
the force of it bore them both from the black filly's back and onto
the ground.

He had once told Effington that he had never
been so short as to be unable to thrash someone that was annoying
him, and he now set about proving those words correct. He landed on
top of Andrew, both of them grunting at the impact. The filly
danced to the side. Andrew's foot was still caught in the stirrup
and he was dragged by the filly, St. James on top of him, until he
managed to kick it free.

“Twisted your foot, did you?” St. James
asked, panting, as he looked down into Andrew's face that had
flinched. But then St. James flung his opened coat from his
shoulders and powered his right fist into Andrew's jaw.

Andrew's head snapped back and his teeth
clicked with the impact. He put one hand up and pushed St. James up
by the throat and struggled to free his other hand, which was
caught beneath St. James' knee. St. James gave a vicious chop to
the inside of Andrew's arm. Andrew's elbow doubled and he gave a
gasp of pain, releasing St. James' neck. At the same time he freed
his other hand and brought it up in a punch to St. James' face.

St. James smashed his forehead into Andrew's
nose and there was a sudden spraying of blood. Andrew clutched at
St. James' chest, trying to thrust the smaller man from him despite
the exploding pain in his head. But St. James would not be
loosened. He knew that if Andrew managed to get atop him, he would
lose his advantage over the heavier man.

Andrew clawed at his cousin's chest. St.
James' shirt ripped and it enraged Andrew all the more as he
remembered that it was his shirt the other man wore. The blood from
his nose went into his mouth and gagged him, and in the struggling
his head tilted back and it ran into his eyes as well. His
satisfaction upon provoking St. James into a realm where Andrew
should have been able to master him was fast leaving him, for his
cousin seemed bent upon beating him as though he were the lowest of
curs.

St. James was furious beyond reason. He would
have never taken half the abuse that Andrew had flung at him in the
way of accusations from any other man at any other time. If Andrew
thought that St. James was only dangerous when he had weapons in
his hands, he was fast finding himself wrong. But all the same, St.
James was exhausted, his left arm was weak, and Andrew's clawing at
his chest sent waves of pain up from his stitches.