Chapter Eighteen #2
Sophie’s heart beat faster. She had seen Kate’s writing before, on lists compiled at Lady Chadbon’s request. Sophie recognized it.
But what had the girl discovered about Colin?
That he had reason to kill the maid for her insolence and violence?
Stupid chit. Colin would never kill for such a reason.
Nor any other. He was all bluster, bless him.
More to the point, whom had Kate told? Not the magistrate, or he would have been here already. Probably not even Lady Chadbon. The fact that the letter had said tell no one was a good sign, but Sophie would have to be sure. This was all getting so complicated…
If she could be certain that Kate could harm neither Nye, then Sophie would let her live. But she would have to be prepared.
Sophie walked to the fireplace and fed the note to the flames, watching the paper curl and blacken into dust. She heard people talking quietly in the passage beyond her door—Mrs. Otteridge, she thought, and Mrs. Newman.
Glancing at her watch, she saw that she had plenty of time, so she waited until the passage was quiet again before she emerged and crept along to the main staircase.
No one saw her flit along the hall, past the orangery and the steward’s office to the gun room.
Even now, Chadbon hadn’t locked it. No doubt he’d refused to believe anyone would dare shoot at his protégé’s wife with one of his guns. Even though someone had dared to kill his maid with one of his daggers. He really was a stupid man.
A fowling piece, of course, was not the weapon for this occasion.
But there were also several pistols, together with suitable ammunition.
Sophie chose the one with two barrels. After all, last night had proven her aim was not infallible, even though Papa had claimed it was so when she was a mere girl.
She paused suddenly in loading both barrels, her flesh prickling with that feeling of being observed. She spun around but no one was there.
Holding the pistol pointed downward, hidden in the folds of her skirts, she walked out and along the passage, past the orangery and across the hall to the east wing.
Sophie had discovered the little-used parlor near the side door not long after she arrived at Chadbon Court. She always liked to know the lie of the land. The room was a little worn and neglected, perhaps used by the Chadbon children growing up.
As she flitted down the stairs, Sophie made out a dim glow showing beneath the parlor door. She paused only a moment outside it, reasserting her kind, twittery expression behind her spectacles.
Now, Kate Ambrose, show me what you know…
She pushed open the door and went in.
It was so unexpected that the blood sang in her ears. Had she got the wrong parlor? Misjudged the writing on the note? But no, it had been a feminine hand…
“Oh,” she exclaimed. “You startled me, Mr. Grande!”
*
“She went to the gun room, miss,” Grissy said in a frightened voice as she reentered Kate’s bedchamber. “Came out with a pistol! One with two barrels, too!”
Kate caught her breath. “Did she see you?”
“No, I don’t think so, but—”
“Drat him!” Kate fumed. “What does he think he can do against a gun? Pray?” And yet he must have suspected, as she had, that this was exactly what Miss Nye would do. Protect herself.
“You’re not to go after her, miss,” Grissy said firmly. “Lord Rupert’s always looked after himself just fine.”
Yes, in the past, but then, who was truly going to hurt a mere boy?
Let alone a marquis’s son. In the old days, he had been protected by his privilege.
Here, he was a nobody, a mere dispensable curate.
If Chadbon and Remington could have him charged with murder for their convenience, then Miss Nye could just as easily shoot him as Kate.
Abruptly, she said, “We need people, witnesses. Enough people have to be there to convince her there is no point in shooting Rupert.”
Grissy looked even more alarmed. “What about discretion?”
To the devil with it! But no, Grissy was right. “Where is Lord Chadbon?”
“In his study, closeted with a new visitor. A messenger, the staff think.”
“Then go to the study and bring His Lordship to the parlor—drag him there if you have to. It’s up to him to dismiss his messenger. Maybe you should bring Sir Colin too. I left him in the library, so he’s probably asleep there.” As she spoke, she was already striding across to the door.
“But where are you going?” Grissy demanded, clearly agonized.
“Don’t ask silly questions, Grissy—go!”
*
Salter, having received his succinct instructions from Mr. Grande, thought idly that “the rev” would have made a decent officer. Apart from his empathy with the men. That would have hampered him.
Squatting amongst the bushes, he watched Mr. Grande lope back into the house via the side door.
A few moments later, a light flared in the window next to it.
The curtains were open, and Salter could easily see into the room, including Mr. Grande’s face at the window.
Salter lifted his hand in acknowledgment and received a salute in return.
He swung his pack off his good shoulder. It contained his own, freshly laundered clothes, his bedding roll, and a few useful items from his army days, all tied up in oilskin. After unwrapping it all, he took his old rifle and powder horn from the center.
The rifle felt like an old friend to his first touch.
But he had begun to think of it instead as a new friend, while he’d taught himself to load and aim with one hand, using his shoulder and the short stump of his lost arm to steady the weapon.
Of course he didn’t have the speed he’d had in the old days, but his hand was steady as he systematically set about loading the rifle with powder from the horn, which he attached to his belt just like the old days, and one of the precious balls from the pouch in his pocket.
He attached that pouch to his belt too, for easy access, and crawled forward to get the best position.
By then, the light inside the room was brighter.
Neither the rev nor anyone else in there would be able to see Salter very easily, but the whole room was perfectly clear to him.
The rev stood by the fireplace, opposite the parlor door.
Salter eyed him through the sight and grunted with satisfaction. Then he settled to await the enemy.
The enemy was, apparently, a dotty old lady unafraid of firearms, a novel target for a veteran sharpshooter who hadn’t held with harming women or children in war.
However, he was only to shoot if she threatened, and Salter was confident he could hit to disable rather than kill.
Although Mr. Grande seemed to think he could talk the woman into cooperation, Salter was prepared, and in spite of himself, he felt a thrill of old battle excitement.
Perhaps it was the familiarity of the rifle, or just the novelty of being useful again.
Involuntarily, his lips twisted into a smile, but he never took his gaze off the glowing room.
The door opened and a thin woman came in, almost hopping like a bird with untidy feathers. Spectacles glinted on her face but didn’t interfere with Salter’s sight. Nevertheless, something about her made his grip slacken so that he almost dropped the rifle.
Familiarity. He had seen her before. Not clear, like this, in the glow of light, but her shape among the dark shadows of tree branches, the quick, birdlike movement of her head… He almost felt again the screaming ache in his arm as he’d failed to scramble over that wall to the glass building.
The drink had caught up with him then, and he’d fallen back to the ground on his own side of the wall. The jolt had kept him conscious and he’d loped away, imagining he was still a silent scout among the enemy.
Well, it seemed this thin, bony lady was the enemy.
With determination, Salter pulled himself together, steadying his hand and his rifle.
The lady’s right hand flapped as she spoke to the rev, but the left remained at her side, her hand hidden among her skirts. Many people were left-handed, and the very stillness of that hidden hand made Salter suspicious.
He found himself praying that the night and a day without booze had returned his reflexes to their former speed…
*
Grissy—she had been Grissy for so long to all the Hynde girls that she actually thought of herself by this name now—was torn by competing needs to obey her mistress and to protect her. For an instant, she hesitated between staircases—to follow Miss Kate, or to go to Lord Chadbon as ordered?
Then, with a breath that sounded like a sob, she flew along the passage to the servants’ stairs and hurtled down one floor at breakneck speed. She flew along the landing to His Lordship’s study, where, once more, nerves almost prevented her knocking.
Her fist froze in midair. In this house, no one disturbed His Lordship in his study when the door was closed. Even Kemp hesitated. As did Lady Chadbon herself. His Lordship’s voice within was quiet enough that Grissy could recognize it without hearing the words. Her heart thundered.
Then she thought of Kate charging in on an armed madwoman as if she were still playing some childish game with Lord Rupert, and she rapped sharply on the door, barging in even before she was granted permission to enter.
The sight before her pulled her short with horror.
From one side of his large desk heaped with papers and weighty books, Lord Chadbon glared at her with the expected outrage.
He probably didn’t even know who she was.
But what threw her far more completely than that was his visitor, who sat with his back to her.
The newcomer glanced around to see what the disturbance was. And there was no doubt that he recognized her.
His nibs, the master, Sir Gilbert Ambrose.