CHAPTER 31 #2
Wheeler took a step closer and flicked his knife in a menacing gesture. “And so must you.”
They stood facing each other, the moon flicking in and out of the shifting clouds. A gust of wind shuddered through a nearby copse of trees, rustling the leaves. A squall looked to be blowing in.
The earl held himself very still. One learned a great deal about an opponent by allowing him to make the first move. His guess was that Wheeler would use his bulk and muscle to go straight for the jugular.
With a subtle shift of weight, Wrexford balanced on the balls of his feet, ready to react in an instant to whatever attack was coming.
Wheeler dropped his arms to his side and looked away. “Perhaps you’re right. Perhaps I must face my faults—”
The blade whipped up without warning, aiming to cut an angled slice between the earl’s ribs and thrust upward to pierce the heart.
Wrexford parried the blow with a lightning-fast swing of his forearm, knocking the engineer’s knife hand up and away from his body. His own weapon darted in—the engineer’s unprotected chest was at his mercy—but merely pricked with the point to draw a tiny bead of blood.
Wheeler recoiled with a grunt. A wink of starlight showed his brow was sheened in sweat.
“Unlike you, I’m not aiming to kill,” said the earl as he reset his stance. “I’m taking you back to face justice.”
“Never!” cried Wheeler. “I don’t intend to be used as a source of entertainment for the masses by being made to dance the hangman’s jig at a public execution.”
“Then perhaps you shouldn’t have murdered three of your friends, all because you lusted for money that you didn’t even need,” said the earl. “If you’re whining for sympathy, look elsewhere. You’ll get none from me.”
A snort of rage sounded as Wheeler lowered his head and charged.
Wrexford twisted to evade the hit, but a glancing blow from the engineer’s shoulder knocked him across the width of the planking. His boots slipped on a patch of grease, and for a perilous moment he teetered on the edge, fighting for balance.
The engineer pivoted.
A rope dangling just out of reach caught the earl’s eye, undulating like a snake in the fitful breeze.
He lunged for it just as Wheeler raised his knife and charged again.
For an instant, the bristly hemp slid through his fingers, scraping the skin from his palms. But thoughts of family summoned an extra measure of resolve. His grip held as his momentum carried him over the yawning gap between the center beams and the planking on the other side.
Wrexford released his hold and dropped with a thump just as a scream rent the night.
Hitting up against nothing but air, Wheeler flapped his arms madly to stay upright. But in the next instant he tumbled head over heels into the void.
Expelling a pent-up breath, Wrexford steadied his balance enough to look down over the edge of the plank.
Jutting up from the roiling water fifteen feet below was an outcropping of rocks. Wheeler’s broken body lay face down, arms and legs spread-eagled. With a last flicker of life, he managed to roll himself onto his back, revealing the knife impaled in his chest.
A cat may have nine lives, reflected Wrexford, but we mortals possess just one.
A rasping cough—or perhaps it was a prayer—and then Wheeler was gone.
“Corruptio optimi pessimal,” murmured Wrexford, thinking of Charlotte’s frequent use of Latin aphorisms. The corruption of the best is the worst.
Wheeler’s intelligence had given him a great advantage in life, despite his humble birth. That made his decision to use it to commit unspeakable crimes seem even more terrible.
The earl stood for a moment longer, thinking about Good and Evil. This investigation had been particularly distressing. A group of like-minded friends had turned out to be a viper’s nest of greed, envy, and self-serving lies.
Has this new age of rapid-fire change and technological wizardry left concepts like loyalty and friendship in the dust?
Wrexford suddenly felt weary to the very depths of his soul.
The wind swirled, and its chill bit through his shirt.
Repressing a shiver, he turned and made his way back through the maze of ropes and struts to terra firma.
At some point during the chase—he knew not when—he had twisted his knee, and it was now aching abominably as he stumbled over the barricade, then paused to catch his breath.
At first, he thought the spectral shape rushing toward him was a figment of his black mood.
But the feel of Charlotte’s arms enfolding him in a hug was blessedly real.
Her scent . . . the texture of her hair . . . the softness of her skin.
They stood wrapped together, silently savoring their connection. Words were irrelevant. Their bodies were speaking the only language that mattered.
After feathering a last kiss to his cheek, Charlotte pulled back. “I saw Wheeler fall. Is it over?”
“Yes.” He confirmed.
“Deo gratias,” she whispered. “The carriage is waiting at the end of High Street. Give me your hand, and let us return to our family.”