Page 107 of The Scarred Duchess
Darcy now had dozens of questions.Does Fitzwilliam enjoy the killing? Is that why he remains affiliated with his men? Refusing to sell his commission? Does repetition numb the shock of the act? Does it get easier?He decided the answers would provide him much angst and no resolution. But the moment called for gratitude.
“Mrs Reynolds will appreciate you respecting the rugs and upholsteries. The lawn, however, is a different tale.”
Fitzwilliam laughed. “As is your kitchen’s cutting garden.” He drained his glass. “I did exorcise some demons, though. Mother suspects, but she is too good to raise the question.”
They reverted to silence. Darcy shuddered as he recalled Fitzwilliam’s wartime tactics—burn everything; leave nothing the enemy could use, including the wounded. He exhaled.
“Thank you for not burning Pemberley.”
Fitzwilliam stood and stretched. “Did you truly believe I would raze the home of my best friend and brother of the heart?”
Darcy shook his head, unsure of what to say. So, emulating his cousin, he chose silence.
CHAPTER FIFTY-TWO
“Welcome, good sir. I am Morton, the owner here. How may the Coventry be of service?”
Kelly looked about the common room. It was clean and crowded for an early afternoon. He had seen a single carriage outside. The food must be good. “I need a meal and a room.”
“Of course, of course. Our beds are soft and the rooms clean. Please sign the ledger.”
Kelly held up his right hand, the missing fingers prominent, and took the pen offered to him. That done, Morton gestured to a corner table.
Kelly sat down and within a few minutes, a matronly woman brought him a bowl of stew and half a loaf of bread. “More where that came from, should you desire.”
“My thanks, ma’am.”
He took a spoonful of the delicious-smelling stew.
“Mind if I sit at your table?”
Kelly looked up. The man was lean and had bland, neutral features and was holding his own bowl of stew. Most of the tables were occupied. “Be my guest.”
When his bowl was scraped clean, he looked up and saw his dining companion had also finished. “I’ll be on my way. Good day to you.” Kelly pushed his chair back. It did not move.
Another man, his most prominent feature a black eyepatch, sat down in the other empty chair. “We been waiting on you.”
Kelly tried to rise but a pair of very large hands pushed down on his shoulders, then squeezed them. Hard. Wincing, he glanced to his left shoulder; the hand was horribly scarred.
“We have a few questions for you,” said a fourth man, a milky-white scar slashing down from an eye to his lips.
“Go on, then,” he growled.
His dining companion spun a knife through his fingers. The one-eyed man across from him pulled out a blade. It was obvious it was very sharp and the man wielding it was intimate with its use. “I’m only going to ask you once.”
Kelly nodded. The tables near him had emptied of diners. In fact, the entire place seemed vacant.
“Was that you and the carriage wreck in St Albans in ’07?”
Bloody hell.Kelly’s mouth was suddenly dry. Very dry.He nodded.
“Give a dog an ill name and he’ll soon be hanged,” the fourth man said aloud.
So, this is how my life ends; my ancestor’s admonishment my epitaph.
The wedding of the Duke and Duchess of Somerset was perhaps the year’s most anticipated event. The couple, especially Jane, had summoned up a great deal of interest from the public: a young duke, recently elevated to his title after the deaths of the previous duke and his heir, was marrying the Diamond of the Season. Even the officiant, the Archbishop of Canterbury, appeared expectant when he arrived at Matlock House and knocked on the door the future duchess was certainly behind. A young girl opened it and immediately genuflected.
“Your Excellency,” she whispered, her eyes cast downward.
