CHAPTER 31
Mist rose up from the river, fogging the footpath as it narrowed and snaked through the trees. Wrexford could hear the low rush of water against the banks as he quickened his pace.
Clouds scudded across the night sky, darkening the shadows that flitted all around. Still, just a few minutes ago, as the path crested a rise before dropping back down toward the river, Wrexford had caught a glimpse of his quarry silhouetted in a flicker of moonlight.
His guess had been right. Wheeler was heading for Windsor Bridge, where he had been overseeing extensive renovations to the structure, as requested by the Prince Regent, who adored pomp and pageantry and wished to have a more regal look to the main route for traveling from Windsor Castle to the royal palaces in London.
It was a clever choice for making his escape.
Crossing over to the vast grounds surrounding the castle would make it easy to move around unseen, and the various stables and outbuildings offered ample opportunity to steal a horse.
By dawn, Wheeler could be miles away, with a multitude of choices for reaching the coast and slipping away to the Continent.
The thought spurred Wrexford to greater speed.
Milton’s murderer must not be allowed to cross the bridge.
Wheeler was heavyset and not a speedy runner.
The earl’s long-legged stride gave him the advantage.
Spotting a shortcut, he raced across a swath of meadowland, then plunged down a steep embankment, gaining precious ground.
As the path flattened and followed the contours of the river, he could see Wheeler up ahead.
His quarry turned for an instant to look behind him and stumbled before regaining his stride.
Wrexford kept up his relentless pursuit. He knew from his military experience that panic would take its toll on Wheeler, both mentally and physically. When the confrontation came, that would give him an advantage.
The gap between them was closing.
“Give yourself up,” he called. “I won’t let you escape.”
Wheeler lowered his head and kept running.
The breeze had freshened, dispelling the silvery vapor, and suddenly the dark skeleton of the bridge renovation loomed up on the hill just ahead.
Wheeler raced into a large work area where iron girders and wooden beams sat on trestles covered with canvas tarps.
Blocks of stone were stacked in an adjacent section, while another part of the clearing was filled with coils of rope, lengths of chains, and a storage shed for tools.
Zigzagging through the raw materials, Wheeler headed for the half-finished structure spanning the river. He scrambled over the barrier of timbers and chains blocking man and beast from the danger ahead and headed out into the spiderweb of rope handholds strung up as a safety net for the workers.
Wrexford peeled off his coat and flung it aside before jumping on one of the rough-cut logs and hauling himself up and over the obstacle.
Another few steps gained on his quarry.
Wheeler stumbled as the footing turned more treacherous. The paving of the old bridge had been torn away in order to widen it, and temporary planking had been placed for the work being done. Grabbing up a loose rock, he turned and heaved it at Wrexford.
The earl ducked it with ease. “My raggle-taggle urchins can throw better than you do,” he called. “Or has fear tied your muscles in knots?”
Wheeler turned and grabbed a handhold on the main guide rope, then picked his way with sure-footed grace to the outer beam. A flash of steel cut through the darkness, followed by a low laugh as the engineer tossed the severed length of rope into the rushing water below.
“You see, you’re not quite as clever as you think, milord!” he called. “And by the by, my muscles are functioning perfectly.”
Wrexford quickly surveyed the surroundings to gauge his options.
A glance up showed that a single thick manila line had been strung from the iron support stanchion next to him to one up ahead where the current work was being done.
A pulley rigged with a heavy metal hook for moving buckets back and forth was tethered to a ring just above his head.
Wrexford yanked it free and grabbed hold of the hook.
Whoosh!
The wind whistled through his hair as he flew along the length of rope. Wheeler made a grab for him, but Wrexford kicked the engineer’s hands away and continued on another twenty feet before dropping down to the widely spaced planks with perfect timing to keep his balance.
“The only way to cross to the other side is to crawl along that one old outer beam left from the original bridge.” The earl pointed to a horizontal length of rusty metal to his left that trailed off into the darkness. “And I’m not about to let you try it.”
Wheeler shifted his stance and didn’t answer right away.
No doubt the gears are turning inside his head, thought Wrexford. His adversary looked to have regained his sangfroid. It would be a mistake, he reminded himself, to underestimate the man.
“Tell me, how is it that you have appeared here when you were locked away in an impregnable cell?” called Wheeler. “I refuse to believe that Fenway would betray me. But the only other explanation is that you’re some otherworldly wraith, capable of walking through walls of stone.”
“Perhaps I’m an avenging angel,” answered Wrexford, feeling no compunction to reveal his secret. “You’ve committed a great evil, and so you must pay for your sins.”
“Do you actually believe that Good always triumphs over Evil?” shot back Wheeler. “Surely you are not that na?ve.”
“It is an elemental battle—the light and dark sides of human nature are constantly at war,” the earl replied. “I’ve won enough battles to remain optimistic. So I like my chances.” A pause. “Do you?”
The question seemed to take Wheeler aback. He hesitated just an instant before dismissing it with a curt laugh. But the telltale pause revealed a hint of doubt.
And in the heat of a clash, Wrexford believed that the engineer’s doubt would work against him.
“The fact is, I do like my chances.” Wheeler brandished his knife. “For I know that you are not armed, while I am. And you’re well aware that I’m not afraid to use my blade to take a life, if need be.”
“You may try.” Wrexford revealed Raven’s knife and snapped it open. “Since I believe in fighting fair, be advised that I am armed. And I, too, can be lethal with a blade if I so choose.”
“Anyone who fights fair is a bloody fool,” called Wheeler as he shuffled to his left—and suddenly hurled an open can of turpentine at the earl’s head.
Wrexford ducked, but the liquid hit him full in the face. Blinded, he staggered back, his eyes feeling on fire. He heard the creak of the planking. Wheeler was moving . . .
Think! Recalling his surroundings, Wrexford retreated, angling his steps to the right, where one of the stone support pillars rose up from the river. He took cover behind it, blotting his eyes with his shirtsleeve and then blinking furiously to clear his vision.
If the engineer was pragmatic, he would seize the opportunity to escape rather than allow hubris to color his judgment and demand a mano a mano victory.
The light brush of boot leather on wood was suddenly audible as the breeze died for a moment.
A wise move. By the sound of it, Wheeler was creeping toward the opposite side of the bridge where the existing beam offered a path to freedom.
Though his eyes were still blurry, the earl eased away from the pillar, and after another few rapid-fire blinks he spotted the engineer creeping stealthily through the maze of ropes and netting.
“Give it up,” called Wrexford. “I’m not going to let you escape.”
Wheeler carefully worked his way up a barricade of thin netting, and though it sagged and threatened to snap, which would have resulted in a fatal fall onto the rocks jutting up from the water, he dropped down to safety.
“I don’t see how you are going to stop me.”
The earl was already moving. Several sections of the bridge expansion’s skeleton had been bolted into place, and a narrow strut—barely wider than the palm of a hand—offered a chance to put himself between the engineer and the Windsor Castle grounds.
Without breaking his stride, Wrexford stepped on the thin piece of iron and kept going, trusting his balance . . .
And Clotho, the Spinner of Fate, who seemed to have a soft spot for him.
Ignoring Wheeler’s yelp of dismay and the sudden gust of wind that tugged at his shirt, the earl hurried over the last few feet of danger and leapt to solid footing on a section of planking.
“As you see, there’s nothing wrong with my balance—or my footing in high places,” he called.
“Damn you,” cried Wheeler in frustration. “Why the devil do you care so deeply about vengeance for Milton? His personal flaws were legion.”
“I don’t care about vengeance, I care about principle.” A smile. “It’s nothing personal, Wheeler. It’s all about justice.”
A look of disbelief spasmed over Wheeler’s face. “You are willing to risk your life over an abstract ideal?”
Wrexford thought about all the light and love he was putting in jeopardy—Charlotte . . . the Weasels . . . the family’s inner circle of dear friends—and felt his heart clench. Would such a sacrifice be worth it?
“Principles are what challenge us to rise above our own selfish needs and desires and do the right thing. And they matter most when things are complicated and confusing,” he replied.
“The difference between Good and Evil is rarely black and white. And so for me, drawing a moral line in the sand is what keeps the Darkness from taking hold of our hearts.”
“You are welcome to bask in platitudes,” snapped Wheeler. “I prefer the more tangible pleasures that money can buy.”
“You are free to decide what is important to you,” said Wrexford. “But the choices you make have consequences. You don’t have the right to decide who deserves to live and who deserves to die. And so you must answer for your actions.”