Page 52 of Nature of the Crime
“Where are we going?”
“And ruin the surprise?” St. John said. “Tsk tsk, Your Grace. Come along.”
A hard jab between her shoulder blades got her stumbling forward. She shot the innkeeper a glare, but St. John latched onto her arm and dragged her swiftly to a door that exited behind the inn. A horse and wagon waited there, the wagon bed covered by a sheet of tarpaulin.
“Climb underneath,” he ordered, hoisting her onto a back step and all but shoving her under the sheet. He would be at the reins, apparently. “And if you get the urge to scurry off at any point, just be aware that Becky’s life depends upon your compliance.”
He brought the tarpaulin down, concealing her as she lay on her side, the musty smell of fish and aged, wet wood assaulting her nostrils. He did have Becky then. If Audrey slid out the back and tried to call for help or run, St. John would likely bolt. And Audrey would not discover where he had taken her. Indecision plagued her as St. John cracked the reins and started them on their journey. He’d been correct: he did not have much time. Greer would soon suspect something was amiss, and she would make her way to the kitchen.
Unless she’d been sipping from the same dosed tea as Carrigan. She’d stumbled when rising from the sofa just now. Audrey prayed for her maid’s safety as the wagon rattled down a few streets, shaking her to the bone as she lay there, utterly thwarted. She gritted her teeth, hating the feeling. Instinct tempted her to slide to the edge of the wagon and jump free when it slowed to turn in a new direction. However, she did not believe St. John was bluffing about Becky, or his threats against her. She had to trust her instinct about that.
So, against all good sense and urges of self-preservation, she remained. The world outside her little space grew steadily calmer as St. John drove. The sounds of the harborside—indistinct voices, the clatter of passing wagon wheels, gulls keening over the water—quietened. Meanwhile, Audreyshivered. The startling turn of events had given her an electric jolt and kept her mind spinning, and off the fact that she had not been given the opportunity to don her fur-lined pelisse, gloves, or hat. Now, however, the cold made itself known. What did St. John intend? And how the devil was she going to save herself?
She took steady breaths. Panic would not do her a singular favor. She’d been in dire situations before; had she allowed herself to become rattled then, she may have missed the opportunities that presented themselves which had allowed her to extricate herself. She would need every possible advantage if she was to make it through this ordeal, and that meant keeping her wits about her.
After several more minutes, the wagon slowed, and then came to a complete halt. When she heard St. John shuffling about and coming around the back, her shivering increased. He threw back the panel of tarpaulin.
“Well done, duchess. Or should I say dowager duchess?” he said while unwinding his scarf. His face came into view, along with a mean sneer. “No, I think not. We both know the ugly truth, don’t we?”
He had not changed very much in appearance. A year or so younger than Audrey, he’d had a soft and polished exterior when she’d last seen him in London; the look most young men acquired during university. He’d been handsome, and she’d understood Philip’s attraction to him. Now, however, his soft, pampered looks had sharpened. Grown rough and windblown. With no valet to turn out his clothing or give him a close shave, he appeared like the rest of the working men in Dover that Audrey had seen.
They’d arrived at a beach. The crescent of rock and shell was deserted except for a small skiff, drawn up onto the sand. Her shivering worsened as the sea wind blew in and cut straight through her dress.
“I’m frozen to the bone,” she said, her voice uneven from wracking chills. He laughed, though she could not see what was so humorous. But then, after a moment’s consideration, he reached into the wagon and grabbed the flannel blanket he’d covered his legs with.
“Not that this will you do you much good,” he said as he lobbed it toward her. Audrey caught it, wondering what in the world that could mean.
“Where are we going? Where is Becky?” she asked, wrapping the flannel around her shoulders. It was better than nothing, though she still shivered.
St. John grabbed her arm and dragged her toward the foam-crusted shoreline and the skiff. She dug in her heels as she realized what he meant to do, but she was no match for his strength. His fingers bruised her arm as he continued to tug her onward. Without an ounce of grace or care, he prodded and pushed her into the little boat. She landed atop a mound of canvas and rope.
He gripped the bow and pushed, moving the skiff into the lapping waves.
“Why are you doing this, St. John?”
His boots and lower legs splashed into the water as he eased them into the shallows.
“You ruined me,” he said after he’d hauled himself into the skiff. He took up the oars without pause. “Philipruined me. I plan to return the favor.”
“By luring him here?” she said against the slap of the oars in the water. He’d begun to row them away from the beach. If only Lieutenant Edmunds had agreed to search the shoreline for smugglers caves! That had to be their destination. “By creating a scandal around my name and hoping it reaches him wherever he is on the Continent? Perhaps even in America? You’re delusional, St. John. It won’t work!”
“I admit, it wasn’t my plan in the beginning. Unfortunately, I’ve had to adjust certain features. But I believe you are correct, Your Grace. A scandal around your name isn’t enough.”
As he continued to row, Audrey quaked with ceaseless chills. The flannel wasn’t doing much at all to keep her warm. She looked around the skiff for anything she might be able to cover up with—or better yet, use as a weapon. There wasn’t much: the mound of heavy canvas she’d landed on, a spooling length of rope, a lantern to hook onto a post and bracket at the bow of the skiff. There could be something else underneath the canvas, but she doubted St. John would sit idly by while she searched. Besides, her fingers were cramped into tight balls as she gripped the flannel blanket around her shoulders.
With powerful strokes of the oars, he rowed them out of the small bay. They pitched over the waves skipping in toward the rocky base of the cliffs. Had the winds been any stronger, they would have been blown straight onto the rocks too.
“Why did you poison Mr. Vaillancourt?” she asked. “Simply because you could not pay his fee?”
“Nothing as dissolute as that. He’d done his job, and I’d have paid him eventually. But when we met in Calais, I realized I needed to redesign my plan. Vaillancourt was a loose end.” St. John spoke blithely, as if there was nothingdissoluteabout killing a loose end to silence it.
Mr. Vaillancourt had known too much, pure and simple.
“And Lord Burton, too, I imagine,” she said as the waves helped to propel their skiff along the periphery of the chalky cliffs.
St. John snorted in derision and threw his voice against the sounds of the winds and surf. “Burton’s moral compass was decidedly less pristine than Vaillancourt’s, but he was no diamond when under pressure. After Vaillancourt needed tobe dealt with, he couldn’t handle the scrutiny. He would have folded.”
Case in point, the manifest he’d gone to fetch for the inquest.
