Page 43 of The No Good Irresistible Viscount Tipton
Blinded by visions of his fate, he stared sightless at a point beyond Rayne’s shoulder. “Your arrival is a bit premature. The hangman has not summoned me.”
“I find myself an impatient man. I am here to speed up the process.”
Doran’s expression of horror filled the silence as clearly as words would have if he had not been robbed of the ability to speak.
Rayne reached down and set the wooden case on his lap. Opening it, he withdrew a glass bottle. “A friend of mine’s creation.” He shook the bottle before Claeg’s wide eyes, mixing the contents.
“What is it?”
“A means of escape. This tincture simulates death. All the benefits of the final repose without you actually becoming nourishment for the worms.”
Doran stared at the bottle, riveted as if Rayne held a deadly coiled snake in his hand. “Why would your friend create such a substance?”
“Let’s just say I have been fascinated by near death. He thought it would amuse me.” He did not add that the man was a smuggler and had use of the drug from time to time when what he peddled was flesh.
“H-how can I believe you? For all I know, this is some trick to get me to swallow poison.” Hot, frightened eyes turned their attention to him.
“If I wanted to murder you, Claeg, I could have slipped the poison into your beer last evening. At the very least it would have saved me the trouble of convincing you.”
Doran gave him a shaky nod. He believed Rayne capable of doing it. “Devona agrees to this plan?”
“Devona is no longer your concern.”
Understanding replaced his wary expression. “My God, you do this for her. You want her for yourself.”
“She is mine, Claeg. She has been since the first night she bluffed her way into my town house.”
Doran eyed the bottle clutched in Rayne’s hand. “You must think I am a threat to you. You are taking a personal risk to get rid of me, or perhaps none at all,” he contemplated, thinking the bottle contained poison after all.
“Claeg, if Devona loved you, she would have handled the ribbons to Gretna Green herself. The only hold you have on her is guilt. Guilt because she could not love you enough.”
The direct strike of truth had Doran rubbing the emotion from his eyes. “What of my family? Amara…,” he trailed off.
When Rayne sensed he had reached the man, his expression softened. “If it comforts you, I will make certain your sister understands your choice. As for the rest…” His gesture spoke of what he thought of a man who would abandon his son and a mother’s obsessive hold. “You must never return to England,” he warned.
Doran took the bottle from Rayne. It offered him a freedom he had never dreamed to contemplate. “The choice of life or death. I never thought such power could be contained within my grasp.”
***
The funeral for Doran Claeg was a small affair. To the grief of those who loved him, a seizure had taken his young life. Mr. Tipton had been summoned by the guards to assess his condition. However, the young man had been barely breathing, Tipton had told everyone who had asked. The gold he handed the keeper for first rights to Claeg’s body had been profitable to all, even to the poor fellow who was receiving a decent burial, thanks to the Claeg family.
Welcome or not, the Bedegraynes had insisted on showing their support by standing at the grave beside the grieving family. Rayne had insisted on coming along with them. He stood by Devona, his warm, reassuring hand discreetly rubbing her lower back to remind her as she stood crying that Doran was alive and aboard a ship on his way to discover his destiny.
She appeared to be taking Claeg’s “death” a little too hard, Rayne thought, irritated that he was feeling jealous of a supposed dead man. Or perhaps she cried for another reason. Even now, she could be grieving about the deal she had struck with Rayne. His hand froze its gentle ministrations and tensed. Wondering about her reasons would likely drive him insane.
Later, as everyone moved toward the carriages, Rayne watched Brock as he grabbed Amara’s arm to force her to speak to him. She had pulled the veil from her face because of the heat. Even at this distance Rayne could see the grief and torment on her delicate features. Whatever Brock had said to her angered her. Slapping his face, she walked away; the look in her eye had Rayne automatically patting the small concealed blade he carried.
Brock approached them, the red imprint of her hand bold on his face.
“Oh, your poor cheek! Does it hurt?” Devona asked, reaching out to hug him.
“Yes. No.” Brock shook his head. “She hates me.”
“I thought we had managed to quiet the talk of that evening. I have told everyone that the two of you dragged her out of the ballroom because I was ill and needed her assistance.” She dabbed at the remaining tears on her lashes with his handkerchief.
“There was still her mother to deal with. Her mother managed to cut off all her hair because of that damn dye you talked her into!”
Devona’s hand touched her lips in shock. “I would have never thought—yes, I could. How could Lady Claeg be so cruel?”
