Chapter 19

19

Drake felt the moment called for whiskey rather than lawn games. He convinced the guests to return to the house, to enjoy their luncheon before the men indulged in cigars and billiards while the women organised a rousing game of whist. As the weather was beginning to turn, the entire party agreed to such a capital plan. All very civilised. And boring as hell. Perfect for Drake, Killian, and Reynard to slink away and reconvene in his study.

‘Who is speaking to Lady St George?’ Drake poured three fingers for each of them.

Reynard took his glass from Drake with his left hand and sipped. ‘I’m having his valet give her a note. St George was called into town for business. She is to stay here until the wedding. He will return as soon as he is able or meet her back in London once the wedding party ends. It buys us a few days.’

‘I feel sorry for her. This will be a great shock.’ Killian settled himself on Drake’s leather couch, warming his whiskey in his large hand.

‘Or a great relief.’ Drake took the wing-backed chair. He tried not to think of what he and Millie had done in this room only a few days prior. He tried not to think of her at all with so much left unsaid between them, but it was impossible. ‘What are we going to do with these women? I don’t believe they are completely wrong. And they have the blessing of Queen Victoria, who is our sovereign.’

‘But they do not have the blessing of the prime minister, who is our direct commander,’ Killian pointed out.

‘Do you think Russell knows the Queen is working against him?’ Reynard joined Killian on the opposite side of the couch.

‘Perhaps. One doesn’t confront the Queen, even if you are the prime minister. It is a fine kettle of fish we find ourselves in, gentlemen.’ Killian sipped his whiskey. ‘I haven’t even congratulated you on the wedding yet. Major General Beaufort Drake falls prey to his worst enemy. A woman.’ Killian’s eyes sparkled with mischief.

‘Ah. Here it comes. I knew you didn’t come here to support me. You just wanted to rub this in my face.’ Drake clenched his jaw.

‘At least you found a woman who is your equal, Drake. Her knife-throwing skills will come in handy when you need to rid yourself of pesky mothers-in-law.’ Reynard laughed.

‘I recall being told on many occasions – by you in fact – that hell would freeze before you married. I hope you’re wearing woollen smalls, Drake. It looks like you might lose your bollocks to frostbite.’

‘You are a bastard, Killian,’ Drake growled.

Killian’s smile was bright enough to blind him. ‘It’s good to be back with friends.’

Millie, Ivy, and Hannah sat in a close huddle while Philippa, Lady Bradford, Patricia, and Victoria played whist.

‘Millie, are you really going to marry Drake? I can hardly believe it. The man despises women. And you were dead set against marrying. Do you need help escaping? I’m sure Philippa, Ivy, and I can arrange something.’ Hannah looked to Ivy, who nodded.

‘I don’t know.’ She wished they were alone in her room without Patricia’s sharp glance raking over her every few minutes. ‘I love him.’ Saying the words aloud shook something loose in her core. ‘I love him, but is that enough? I won’t compromise my goals. If he wants me, he’ll have to accept my need to work with Philippa, to continue our mission. Killian has done that with you, right?’ Millie was desperate for some kind of reassurance. She looked at Hannah hopefully.

‘He accepts me, but I think it’s still a struggle. Men don’t want to admit they aren’t needed to keep us safe. Because safety is a lie in this job. None of us will ever have that security. So, if we don’t need them to keep us safe, they worry we might not need them at all.’ Hannah squeezed Millie’s hand. ‘The truth is, I don’t need Killian to survive, but I want him. And having him in my life allows me to thrive in ways I wouldn’t without him. The question is, do you feel the same about Drake? Do you want him? Does he help you thrive?’

Ivy shook her head. ‘I won’t depend on anyone for my happiness but myself.’

Hannah nodded. ‘And that’s wonderful for you, Ivy. Some souls are meant to remain single and free. Others are only free when they find their partner. The question is, which one are you, Millie?’

Millie shook her head. ‘I’ve no idea. Can we focus on something a little less complicated? Like how we’re going to get St George to reveal his accomplice. The masked man I wounded is still out there somewhere. Watching. Waiting. I can feel it.’ She rubbed the goosebumps breaking out on her arm. ‘That is one problem we can solve.’

‘I think you have the best chance of getting him to talk, Millie.’ Ivy nodded, her fair hair catching the dying sunlight through the window and shining like gossamer strands. ‘He knows you. You have a history together. There must be something you can leverage.’

His pride.

‘Franklin cares about his reputation more than anything else. If I can convince him betraying his brethren will save his skin, I think he’ll tell me. But it won’t work unless we’re alone. He would never take such a risk with anyone else watching.’ Millie bit her lip, trying to imagine how she could weasel the truth out of a weasel.

Ivy tapped her fingers on her skirt. ‘I agree. He always wants to look superior. Lead him down that path.’

‘Yes. Tell him he’s better than the other Devil’s Sons. Far more worthy of pardon. Appeal to his vanity. You can do this, Millie. In actuality, you may be the only one,’ Hannah agreed.

Millie nodded, feeling the truth of their words in her bones. ‘I’ll go before dinner. Will you make my excuses if I’m late? Whatever happens, keep the men at the table.’

‘Consider it done.’ Hannah smiled.

‘We have this, Millie. I promise.’ Ivy’s pale-blue eyes flashed with purpose.

Millie dressed carefully for dinner. She wore an evening gown of decadent chocolate velvet, almost perfectly matching her eyes. Gold thread wove through the material in intricate patterns, catching the light and glittering. Her hair blazed in contrast to the rich colour of her gown. The neckline was low enough to raise a few brows. If she were to capture St George in a silken web, it couldn’t hurt to maximise her assets. They were hers, after all.

She used the servants’ stairs to make her way down to the kitchen and found the staircase leading to the wine cellar where St George was imprisoned.

Fear sharpened her nerves.

I can do this. I’m just asking a few questions. And he’s tied up. What harm can Franklin do to me?

Slowly, she descended.

The room was dank and almost pitch black. A small candle burned in the far corner, but it took Millie’s eyes a few moments to adjust. When they did, she gasped, pressing her hand against her lips to stop the scream.

Franklin St George hung from a rope tied around a ceiling brace.

He was very dead.

Millie rushed to him, but there was nothing she could do.

Despite his atrocious actions, his horrific behaviour toward her, and the crimes he had committed, grief filled her.

Franklin was her childhood friend. Her teenage infatuation. Her first love, regardless of how unworthy he may have been. She wanted to hate him. Not mourn his death.

But now he was gone, and sorrow was an unwelcome surprise.

The scrape of a boot alerted her. She wasn’t alone.

Emotion took a step back for survival.

She loosened the blade at her wrist, holding it in her palm as she turned to face a murderer.

‘Miss Millicent. What are you doing down here?’ Reynard Renquist’s famous smile flashed in the dark as he blocked the stairs.

‘Reynard. I could ask you the same.’

He raised a gun. In his left hand.

Because I already wounded his right.

Because Renquist is the masked man.

Renquist was working with Franklin.

Renquist is the murderer.

Each truth crashed over her like wild waves, stealing her breath.

‘Drop the blade, Miss Millicent. I didn’t mind killing St George, but I’d hate to shoot you. It won’t stop me, though. I have very few choices left, you see.’ The pistol was pointed directly at her heart. If she let her blade fly now, she ran the risk of a bullet to her chest.

He lifted his right hand. ‘Ah-ah. I don’t think I need another demonstration of your throwing skills. Drop the blade. Now.’

Shit!

‘And before you do something rash, know I’m just as good a shot with my left hand as I am with my right. Your major general insisted all his men could hit a target at one hundred paces with either hand. Awfully dedicated soldier, Drake. I owe him my life on more than one occasion, although I doubt it was worth his effort. I’ll only say this once more. Drop it. Now.’

Millie bit her lip.

Renquist cocked his gun.

With a frustrated growl, she let the blade drop. She had four others. This wasn’t over yet.

‘I must admit, your aim is better than I expected, especially for a lady. Made it damned difficult to hoist that idiot up with only my left hand. Still, I managed. Couldn’t have him blabbing about the Devil’s Sons, could I?’

‘You work for the Devil’s Sons? Renquist, why?’

He laughed, though it was not a joyful sound. ‘Sometimes, we do things because we must. In the war, I committed untold sins under the banner of patriotism. Now, I do it for my own security. I don’t know why atrocities in war create heroes, but the same actions done for personal gain make men monsters.’ His lips twisted in a grimace. Millie worried he might actually start to cry. She was torn between pity and rage.

Rage won.

‘How could you betray Drake? Killian? The prime minister?’ Millie needed to stall, but she also wanted to know. Drake, Killian, and Renquist had gone through hell together. They were brothers in arms. It made no sense.

‘I told you.’ Renquist took a step closer to her, his golden eyes hardening. ‘Don’t dig into my depths. There is nothing good there. The war took everything from me. As a second son, I don’t have a title to fall back on. Nothing Drake or Killian can do about that. I’ll be damned if I go to my friends for charity. And Prime Minister Russell’s wages won’t hold off my debtors. But the Devil’s Sons have powerful leaders. Leaders who reward their faithful. I’ve always been a good foot soldier. They value my skills. And what else can I do? I’m useless outside of charming silly ladies in a ballroom and killing silly men in a war.’

Millie shook her head. ‘You’re better than this, Reynard. I know it.’

His bark of laughter created a cold shiver of fear down her spine. ‘You know nothing.’ His lips trembled as he shook his head. ‘I was right when I called you Drake’s equal. You are equally matched in the misguided belief that people hold honour higher than personal gain.’

‘Personal gain at the price of your soul?’ Maybe appealing to his eternal damnation would make an impression.

‘My soul was damned the day I put on that bloody uniform.’ A single tear tracked down his face. He swiped it away. ‘My father wanted me to enlist, so I did. He died before I came home. Didn’t even get to tell me how proud he was of his soldier son. And what did all that sacrifice bring me besides one unending nightmare of untold horrors?’

Pity made a second play at Millie’s heart. The man was so broken. So lost. It didn’t excuse his actions, but it did make her ache for him. ‘So, what now? You killed St George because he knew your role in this. Am I next? Would you sink so low as to kill a defenceless woman?’ Hardly true, but she needed to keep him talking until a window of opportunity presented itself to overpower him, or escape.

Reynard’s eyes widened, and he shook his head. ‘I told you. I don’t want to hurt you, Miss Millicent. I didn’t want to hurt any of those poor girls. Wanting something and doing it are very different things. But I have a solution.’ He smiled, and it was like watching someone put on a mask. His face creased into familiar, charming lines, but his eyes were wild. ‘Thanks to your little sleuthing mission, I am now in need of a new girl to deliver to the Devils. You’re older than we like, but you’re also a lady of quality. I bet we could still get a pretty profit. And then I don’t have to kill you. See? Everyone wins.’

Reynard’s version of everyone winning was very different from her own. She had another blade strapped to her left wrist, one on each thigh, and a last strapped to her left ankle. If she could just get him to lower his bloody pistol, she could try to disarm him.

‘And you think I’ll go quietly?’

He shrugged, the pistol shifting with his movements, but still aimed at her torso. ‘It’s the only way, Miss Millicent. Unless you force me to shoot you, and as I said, I really don’t want to do that.’

Anger washed through her, taking the fear and pity away and replacing it with cold purpose. ‘You use your circumstances as an excuse, but in truth, you are just being weak, Reynard. There is a better path, but you turn away because this is easier. You doom helpless women to a life worse than death, all so you can afford your excesses.’

There was a dip in the floor behind Reynard. If she could get him to back up just a step, he would hit it, perhaps lose his balance, and give her the moment she needed.

Reynard broke into sobs, but his pistol never faltered. ‘Yes. I do. And I feel so much shame about it.’ He sniffed, wiping his face again and shaking his head. He cleared his throat, his emotional outburst spent. The man was vacillating so quickly between intense rage, hopelessness, and odd optimism, Millie couldn’t keep up. Perhaps the war had broken more than his honour. Perhaps it had stolen his sanity. ‘And I have suffered too, Miss Millicent. Never doubt that. Perhaps it is selfish, but in the end, I would rather live in comfort. I deserve that after sacrificing so much.’

Fucking arse of a toad!

Wounding him wouldn’t be enough. He was committed to his path. Nothing she said or did would sway him. If she aimed for his left hand, he’d likely rush her. In hand-to-hand combat, she stood little chance against a man his size who knew how to grapple. And he would. Drake would have been sure his men were all well taught in physical combat.

But could she actually take his life? Wounding a man and killing one were very different things. She would only get one chance.

Drake hated being dressed like a doll. He refused the services of a valet for that reason. Instead, he stood in front of the mirror, tying a simple knot in his cravat and glaring at the stubble on his cheeks. He could shave before dinner; there was time. Still an hour yet before he needed to suffer through a tedious meal.

He hated to admit it, but knowing Killian cut his honeymoon short just to stand with Drake as he faced his biggest fear – marriage – warmed him in an area near his heart. It was good to have friends like Reynard and Killian.

A snag caught in his mind as he reflected on their afternoon together in Drake’s study.

Reynard wasn’t left-handed. Drake had forced him to practise shooting with that hand because his right was his dominant. But when he had reached for his whiskey, he used his left hand. In fact, as Drake recalled the details of their time together, he used his left hand exclusively.

Odd.

And the comment he made about Millie. What did he say?

Her knife-throwing skills… How would he know Millie threw knives?

Unless she’d thrown one at him.

While he was masked.

In the hunting shack.

‘Fuck!’

It all became so stupidly obvious. Reynard Renquist, fellow soldier, compatriot, and friend, was the masked killer.

Drake ran for the door.

Millie took a tentative step forward, hoping Renquist would step back. Instead, he tightened his grip on the pistol, his hand shaking slightly.

‘Stay back.’

She put both hands out. ‘Reynard, surely, we can work this out. I know the war wasn’t easy for any of you. You’re right. You deserve peace after so much conflict. Can’t we come to an agreement?’

‘You don’t understand!’ he screamed, his hand shaking so badly, Millie feared he might accidentally fire. ‘It’s too late for me. I’m one of the monsters now. Unredeemable. Father would be so proud.’ He laughed, a chilling, high-pitched sound. The features once making him so handsome, twisted in pained rage.

And then he stepped back.

His heel hit the dip.

He bobbled.

This was her chance.

Millie released the blade on her wrist, feeling its heft in her palm.

Renquist fell to his knees. The pistol dropped to his side and he covered his face. Tears and snot streamed down his cheeks. His heart-wrenching sobs stayed her hand.

‘Dear God. Renquist.’ Pity once more took centre stage. She hunkered down next to him, her free hand patting his shoulder while she still clasped the blade in her left. ‘We’ll figure something out.’ She wished her words were true.

‘It’s too late for me. Too fucking late.’ Reynard’s words were muffled, his hands covering his face.

The stairs creaked, shattering the moment.

Reynard dropped his hands, his gaze moving from the stairs to Millie.

Before she could react, he grabbed her with his strong left arm while scrabbling for the pistol with his right. He cried out in pain from his wound, but it didn’t stop him pulling her up as he stood and twisted her around. His left arm banded around her chest like a vice while his injured right hand pressed the muzzle of the gun to her ribs.

Drake stepped into the cellar.

‘Let her go, Reynard.’

‘No! She’s coming with me. I’ll kill her, Drake. If you don’t let me pass, I’ll fucking kill her right now. My hand might be too damaged to aim, but I can still pull a trigger.’

Drake’s wild gaze flitted to Millie. He had a gun in his hand, but he put it down on the floor, kicking it out of the way. ‘Don’t! Please don’t. Let her go and I won’t raise a hand against you. You can walk out of here a free man. I swear it!’

‘Like you swore victory would be ours in the war? Your promises are as empty as my pockets, Drake.’ Reynard was screaming again. Millie cringed away from the force of his words.

She needed to think. She couldn’t let Reynard escape. Nor would she put Drake in danger. Levelling her gaze on Drake, a strange calm descended. Everything slowed, like a raindrop creeping down the windowpane.

Widen your stance.

Centre your weight.

Concentrate on your breath.

In a fast, smooth movement, she bent at the waist, thrusting her back into his pelvis, creating space between them before ramming her head back, slamming it into his nose. Stars flashed in her vision, but she bit down hard on her cheek, forcing herself to focus. The blade pressed into her palm. His grip loosened, and Millie spun, lifting her left hand in an arc that swept across Reynard’s windpipe.

A warm spray of blood covered her face as Reynard fell.

Dear God. I killed him.