A Duke in the Night(74)

A muscle was working furiously at the side of August’s jaw. He was almost humming with the same barely leashed violence Clara had seen on that cliff. Only this time she wasn’t sure that he would endeavor to exercise any sort of restraint.

You don’t want me for an enemy, Stilton had said.

Clara hadn’t taken him seriously. She closed her eyes, feeling sick to her stomach. If Stilton touched a hair on the head of either one of those girls, she would kill him herself.

“Where?” August demanded.

“By my ma’s house. I can show you.”

Clara whirled around to find August already stalking toward the door, Jonas darting at his side.

“I’m coming with you,” she said, running to catch up.

“So am I,” Harland said from just behind her. “In case you don’t kill him right the first time.”

“I don’t need your help. Either of you.” August was already demanding a horse be brought around, and Harland was doing the same.

“This is my fault,” she mumbled.

“This is not your fault,” August said. “This lies solely on the shoulders of a man who failed and blames and despises me for that failure. A man whose first wife made him very wealthy when she died. A man who I suspect decided that he could do even better.”

Clara stared at him in horror, understanding dawning. “You think Stilton killed his wife?” she wheezed.

“And now he has my sister.”

Clara pressed her fingers into her eyes, making spots dance under her lids. “And Phoebe. Oh God.” She would not consider that he might kill one or both of them out of spite or hatred. Or that he would force— She stopped, dropping her hands. In truth, Clara had no idea what the man was capable of.

They’d reached the stables, and August nearly shoved the hapless groom aside to finish the task of saddling himself. Another groom was leading two other mounts out, and Harland seized the reins of one and swung himself into the saddle. Clara followed on her own mount.

“I’m not waiting for either of you two,” August snapped as he mounted. He hauled Jonas up in front of him and kicked his horse into a gallop before he’d even fully gained his seat. Harland and Clara were on his heels, panic and worry pushing them hard. Stilton had three hours on them. Three hours in which he could have— Clara cut herself off. Thinking the worst would not be helpful.

They thundered down the drive and out onto the twisting road. The wind whipped against Clara’s face, making her eyes water and tears stream down her face. Jonas must have been giving August instructions, because he was weaving his way across a series of fields and rutted cart tracks without slowing as the miles slipped by. Up ahead a half-rotten, sagging thatched roof was just visible beyond the ridge—

Clara nearly pitched over the head of her horse as the animal dropped its hind end and came to a shuddering stop in a frantic effort to avoid August’s horse, which was sliding to a stop as well. Beside her dust spewed from under the hooves of Harland’s mount as he hauled on the reins. Clara fought for her seat, bracing herself against the neck of her horse, which was now dancing sideways.

The dust slowly cleared, and Clara managed to calm her horse enough to see the figures of two women trudging up the track toward them. The one on the right was dark haired, the one on the left had tresses the color of chestnuts. They were dressed in simple gowns, but the one on the left had ominous rusty stains down the front of her skirts. August was already off his horse and running toward them. Clara dismounted hurriedly and followed him.

“Jesus, Anne,” she thought she heard him say before he engulfed his sister in an embrace. Just as quickly he drew back, his hands going to her shoulders. “Are you hurt?” he demanded.

Anne smiled at him, her expression strained but steady. “I’m not hurt.”

Beside Clara, Harland was crouching in front of Phoebe. “Do you need to sit down? Are you bleeding?” he asked urgently, touching the edge of her stained skirts. “What happened? Are you—”

“I’m fine, Dr. Hayward,” Phoebe said. “It’s not my blood.”

“Then what— Who—”

“Mr. Stilton. He might need a doctor.” A vicious satisfaction came into Phoebe’s eyes. “Or not. I don’t think he’s doing very well. His putrid coat is most assuredly ruined.”

“Ruined indeed,” Anne said, her voice steely. “But it was unavoidable given the circumstances.” The two girls exchanged a look.

“What were you thinking?” August thundered. “Why would you ever have gone with—”

“I was thinking that you and Miss Hayward were lying in a ditch somewhere, dying,” Anne snapped with a disgusted shake of her head. “Stilton arrived just as Phoebe and I were heading inside Avondale. He told us you had been in a terrible accident. You and Miss Hayward. And that you needed me, and there was no time to waste.”

“I went with her. To offer what medical assistance I could,” Phoebe added.

Anne’s eyes hardened. “I’d already met him and had no reason not to trust him,” she said, and Clara felt her stomach clench. “He played the part of the worried, anxious, helpful friend quite convincingly,” Anne continued. “He had the driver take us to an empty cottage north of town with haste. I was so terrified at the prospect of losing you, I never stopped to consider that Stilton could possibly have any ulterior motives.”