Chapter 38

Chapter Thirty-Eight

V ictoria shook from head to toe. The night air was chilly, but she had enough presence of mind to recognize that she was going into shock. Cold didn't make your heart race like hers was right now. It was pumping at a furious rate. Adrenaline coursed through her.

She'd killed a man. Shot him dead. To the moment when she eventually took her own last breath, she would remember that look of surprise on his face. The shocking realization that his life was over.

"Victoria."

Robert staggered toward her, holding his injured left arm. When he reached her, he let go and held out his right hand. He was breathing heavy as he sought to prize the pistol from her fingers. She refused to let go. "No."

"Sweetheart. Let me take the weapon."

She shook her head, rejecting his command. If he thought to be a hero, it was too bloody late. His villainy had put her in this position, but she had saved herself. And while he'd been badly wounded, he was still alive.

The Tolley Manor steward, accompanied by Stanley, appeared from out of the darkness. Jasper took one look at the dead East India agent, then at Robert, and swore. Victoria tore her gaze from the man she'd just killed and met her husband's eyes. "Yes, bloody hell is exactly what this is."

She took in the blood which now seeped from the wound in his shoulder and pulled away. Robert groaned and released his hold. The look she gave him was one of warning. If he pushed, she was more than prepared to put a bullet in him.

Jasper now cautiously approached. His steps were slow, his hands raised in surrender. This was a man who knew how to handle angry estate livestock, and not get gored. "Your Grace," he said, in a low calm voice.

Victoria remained silent. She wanted nothing more than for him to take the weapon as she didn't trust herself not to throw it hard at Robert's head.

When the steward held out his hand, she numbly handed him the pistol. "You might want to summon the local magistrate. I expect he will wish to take me into custody. Oh, and His Grace will need a physician."

She followed Jasper's gaze as it shifted from her to Robert. "His Grace is the local magistrate so that won't be necessary, Your Grace. I'll take the wagon and go make a pile with the empty barrels." He nodded toward the body. "Once that's done, I'll get a fire started."

Victoria's hand went to her mouth. The mere notion of burning a body had her stomach churning. She'd just killed a man and now they were going to cover up the crime.

Jasper turned to the estate worker who had roused him from his bed. "Stanley, take the best horse from the stables and go fetch Doctor Gibb. Tell him there has been an accident at Tolley Manor and to come quick."

Stanley gave a nod, then raced back down the laneway toward the manor house. Victoria let out a sigh of relief. The last thing she needed was for her husband to bleed to death on account of his spice smuggling.

Robert stepped closer. The expression of deep concern mixed with pain which sat on his face only served to further inflame her anger.

Stupid. Stupid fool. You could have got yourself killed.

From her coat pocket, Victoria took out the ring of keys and tossed them at his feet. "You might want to keep those in a more secure place from now on, Your Grace."

He went to bend and pick them up but halted mid move and let out a pained gasp.

Jasper bent and snatched up the keys. "I'd suggest the two of you head back to the manor house and find somewhere comfortable for His Grace to sit and await the arrival of the physician."

Leaving Jasper to deal with the sordid task of disposing of the East India agent's body, Robert and Victoria began the painful walk back home. Victoria didn't want anything to do with him. She merely shook her head and set off down the laneway, leaving him to trail behind her.

"Are you hurt? Do you need a doctor?" he asked.

"No. The only one of us stupid enough to get themselves shot was you. And from what the East India agent told me as he sat and watched me lug all the empty crates and barrels, I would say you thoroughly deserved it."

There would be no way he could talk himself out of this disastrous situation. No fancy sleight of hand that would hide the truth. Victoria likely already knew everything.

She wouldn't even look at him. He couldn't blame her. He'd failed her in every way possible. Every day he had spent with her, he'd been lying. And his web of lies had now put her in deadly peril. Forced her to do the unthinkable.

I am the worst husband ever.

To have and to hold.

He'd got the to have part of the wedding vow somewhat right, but when it came to protecting her, he was an abject failure. Holding his wounded arm, he staggered after her. "Victoria, please, let me explain."

He had just settled in beside her, when she suddenly stopped and whirled round. Her hand landed on his face at high speed, slapping him so hard that it rattled his teeth. She got a second blow in before he managed to grab her arm to defend himself.

"That's why you married me, isn't it? Not because you felt obliged after you'd touched me, but because I'd seen the stolen spices. You bloody bastard. You selfish, wretch of a man! I hate you!" she cried.

His face, his arm and shoulder, all hurt like the devil. But the words she spat at him cut deeper, right to Robert's soul. Victoria hated him. And it was all his fault.

"No." She looked ready to strike out at him once more. "It might have been that way at the start, but no. Even if you hadn't seen the spice barrels, we would have ended up together," he pleaded.

"Ended up together— and they say romance is dead," she muttered.

He'd been gifted a golden opportunity to win her love, and he'd frittered it away. Too focused on making sure he got every last victory over his enemy rather than stopping to see the amazing woman he'd made his wife.

"I'm sorry, Victoria. I'm sorry."

She met his gaze, and in the pale moonlight, he caught the sheen of tears in her eyes. As he did, a cold certainty settled in his heart. There would be no coming back from this for them. Victoria might remain his duchess, but it would be in name only.

Reaching the manor house, Victoria headed straight upstairs. She passed their bedroom. Passed the library. She went straight to Robert's study, to his private liquor cabinet. The lock provided no challenge. Picking up a fire poker, she held it by the sharp end and smashed the iron handle against the center of the door.

Wood shattered.

"What are you doing?" said Robert, leaning against the doorframe. She swung the poker again, and it broke through the wood panel. Victoria glared at him. "You would be wise to stay out of my way. I've killed one man tonight, and I have the taste for blood. You are not the only one who is in need of strong liquor."

He stood back while she continued to attack the door. Her blows only ceased when she caught sight of the key, he held out to her. She snatched it out of his hand and slid it into the lock.

Victoria dropped the poker onto the floor, then stood hands on hips, sucking in great gulps of air as she decided on her poison. Brandy. Whisky. Rum.

Who on earth outside of the British Royal Navy drinks rum, for heaven's sake?

She chose a bottle of whisky. Brandy was too sharp, and she knew it was going to take more than a glass for her to feel what she needed to feel…absolutely nothing.

The sound of glasses clinking reached her ears, and as she righted herself, Victoria turned to see Robert place two large whisky tumblers on a nearby table. He stepped back, giving her space. It was the first sensible thing he'd done since everything had gone to hell on the roadside.

Pulling the stopper from the decanter with her teeth, she proceeded to fill one of the glasses. Her hand trembled as she lifted the drink to her lips and took a long sip. Then another. All those hours of illicit sampling of her father's liquor held her in good stead. As soon as she had emptied the glass, she set it down, then poured more whisky into it.

"Vi—"

"No," she cut him off. There would be no talking. There was nothing he could say that would make any of this right. Whisky-addled oblivion was the only thing she cared about. Robert bloody Tolley. The bloody Duke of Saffron Walden. The bloody Duke of Spice. The bloody Spice Pirate. Every single one of them could go to the devil.

She set the decanter down on the table, then picked up a bottle of brandy. She filled the other glass with it and handed it to Robert. "I've seen enough bullet wounds from hunting trips in Scotland to know that Doctor Gibb is going to have to dig deep to get the shot out. You might want to start drinking now."

She made for the door, whisky bottle in hand. Her destination, the tiny sitting room off the library. A private sanctuary with a large sofa, cushions, and blankets. If the housekeeper had kept to her usual routine, the fire would've been banked, and it would only take a little work to have it roaring again.

He followed her to the doorway of the library, then stopped. "Are you going to help get me settled in our bedroom for when the doctor arrives? I don't think I can get my coat or shirt off by myself."

Victoria pushed open the door of the sitting room with her foot. She shook her head, then stepped inside. Placing the glass and the bottle of whisky on the small occasional table, she went to close the door behind her.

When it was still barely a foot open, she met his gaze. "Just pretend you don't have a wife and do it yourself. You don't seem to have an issue with letting me deal without servants in town, so quid pro quo. Oh, and here's a bit of advice—you might want to get used the idea of not being married, Your Grace. Because if you think that I'm going to stand by your side while you continue to live this way, you have another think coming."

She shut the door and locked it.

It was a long time before the sound of a muffled voice and then retreating footsteps reached her ears. What he could have possibly been thinking while he stood and stared at the sitting room door, she didn't want to consider. Tonight had broken them. And only he could put the tiny, shattered pieces back together.

Victoria's gaze fell on the whisky bottle as the awful moment she'd shot the East India Company agent dead replayed in her mind. She raised the glass to her lips and downed its contents in one go.

Any hopes she'd began to hold for a happy, settled life with Robert now lay dead, along with that poor man on the roadside.