The Handmaiden's Necklace

Four

Ten days passed with only a few brief communications with Jonas McPhee. As Rafe waited for answers, he conducted his life as he had before, attending the usual soirées and house parties, spending most of his evenings at White’s, his gentlemen’s club, making an occasional stop of a more private nature, at Madame Fontaneau’s House of Pleasure.

In the old days, his best friends, Ethan Sharpe and Cord Easton, would have accompanied him, drinking and gaming, paying a visit to the ladies, though Cord had usually preferred the company of his mistress.

But Ethan and Cord were married now, happily so, each of them devoted husbands, and each with a son. Rafe intended his future would be the same. Though his marriage to Mary Rose wouldn’t be a love match, it was imperative that Rafe produce an heir. The Sheffield fortune was large, its land and holdings vast and complex.

Since he had no brothers, if he died without a son to carry on the name, the fortune and title would pass to his cousin, Arthur Bartholomew. Artie was a wastrel of the very worst sort, a dedicated rake whose main objective in life was to spend every guinea that passed into his hands. He whored, drank and gambled in excess, and seemed determined to debauch his way into an early grave.

Arthur was the reason Rafe’s mother had been so persistent in her efforts to see her son wed, and in truth, he couldn’t blame her. Like his aunts and cousins, his mother was dependent on an income from the vast Sheffield fortune to take care of her and the rest of the family. It was Rafe’s responsibility to see that the fortune passed into hands that would insure its existence for present and future generations.

To make sure that happened, Rafe was determined to marry and set up his nursery. He needed sons—more than one—to fulfill his duty. Beyond that, he looked forward to having a family of his own. He was ready for that to happen. Had been ready, he supposed, since his betrothal to Danielle, though after her betrayal, for a number of years the notion had been nearly abhorrent.

The memory sent his mind in that direction. He was still thinking of Danielle an hour later when he received a message from Jonas McPhee requesting a meeting that evening. From the tone of the note, Rafe believed he had uncovered important information.

It was almost nine o’clock when the butler showed McPhee into the study, where Rafe prowled impatiently in front of his big rosewood desk.

“Good evening, Your Grace. I had hoped to come earlier, but there were some last-minute details I needed to verify before I presented my information.”

“That’s quite all right, Jonas. I appreciate your being so thorough. I presume, then, that you have brought news.”

“I’m afraid so, Your Grace.”

At the words, Rafe’s stomach constricted. From the look on the runner’s face, he wasn’t going to like what Jonas had to say. He motioned for McPhee to sit down in one of the leather chairs in front of his desk, then took his usual place across from him.

“All right, let’s have it.”

“To put it simply, sir, on the evening in question five years ago, it appears you were duped.”

The words drew the knot in his stomach even tighter. “In what way?”

“This acquaintance of yours, Oliver Randall, who was involved in the events that transpired, had apparently been harboring a secret animosity against you for years.”

“Animosity is a very strong word. We were friends. Never all that close, but I never sensed any blatant dislike on his part.”

“Were you aware of his feelings for your betrothed?”

“Yes. I knew he was in love with Danielle, that he had been for years. Mostly I felt sorry for him.”

“Until you saw them together that night.”

“That is correct. I found them in Danielle’s bedchamber. I found him naked in her bed.”

“There is no question he was there. A number of the guests who were attending the weeklong house party verified the events of the evening…as far as they knew. A number of them heard the commotion and ran down the hall to Miss Duval’s bedchamber. They saw you there, saw Oliver Randall in Miss Duval’s bed. All of them, including you yourself, came to the same conclusion.”

“You seem to be suggesting that all of us were wrong.”

“Tell me again how it was you found the note.”

Rafe allowed his memory to return to the painful events of that night. “One of the footmen brought it to me after supper. He said he had found it on the floor of Lord Oliver’s study. He said that he knew Miss Duval and I were betrothed and he didn’t believe what was going on between Miss Duval and Lord Oliver was right.”

“Do you recall the name of the footman?”

“No, only that I rewarded him handsomely for his honesty and vowed to keep his involvement in the affair a secret.”

“The footman’s name was Willard Coote. He was also paid quite handsomely by Lord Oliver, who instructed him to bring you the note.”

Rafe frowned. “That doesn’t make sense. Why would Oliver wish to be caught with Danielle?”

“It makes sense if you understand how determined Lord Oliver was to insure you and Danielle Duval never wed. I believe he hoped that eventually he might win her for himself but, of course, that never happened. Mostly, I think he wanted to hurt you as badly as he possibly could.”

Rafe mulled that over, his mind spinning, trying to fit the pieces together. “I’m afraid I still don’t understand. Why would Oliver wish to hurt me?”

“There is no doubt he was jealous. But that appears to be only one of the reasons for his animosity toward you. In time, I should be able to discover the balance of his motivations.”

Rafe straightened in his chair, his mind swarming with images of Oliver and Danielle together that night. “That won’t be necessary, at least not at present. For the moment, what I need to know is if you are certain—without the slightest doubt—that Danielle Duval was innocent of the accusations made against her that night.”

In answer, McPhee dug into the pocket of his rumpled, slightly frayed tailcoat. “There is a final bit of evidence I can give you.” He laid the note Rafe had given him out on the desk. “This is the message the footman gave you that evening.”

“Yes.”

McPhee unfolded a piece of foolscap and set it down next to the note. “And here is a letter written by Miss Duval. I believe it provides the final proof.” Jonas leaned over the papers. “As you can see, Your Grace, the handwriting is similar, but if you look closely, you will notice it is not exactly the same.”

Rafe followed each line, assessing the similarities and differences between the letter and the note. There was no denying the handwriting, though close, was not quite the same.

“Note the signature.”

Again Rafe compared the two. The signature was definitely a better forgery, the letters practiced more often, perhaps, but again, there were slight differences in the script.

“I don’t believe Miss Duval wrote the note to Oliver Randall,” Jonas said. “I believe Lord Oliver wrote it himself, wadded it up to look as if it had been read and discarded, then ordered his footman to bring the note to you later that evening.”

Rafe’s hand shook as he picked up the letter McPhee had brought. It was from Dani, addressed to her aunt. In it, she described the awful events of that night and begged her aunt to believe she was innocent of the accusations made against her.

“Where did you get this?”

“I paid a visit to Miss Duval’s aunt, Lady Wycombe. The countess wished to cooperate fully in the matter of proving her niece’s innocence. She arranged for several samples of her niece’s handwriting to be brought to me from Wycombe Park.”

Rafe set the letter down next to the note. “Danielle wrote to me again and again, but I never…I never opened any of her letters. I was so sure, so certain of what I had seen.”

“Considering how well the events of that night had been planned, that is understandable, Your Grace.”

Rafe clamped down on his jaw so hard an ache throbbed in the back of his neck. He shoved back his chair and stood up. “Where is he?”

McPhee stood up, as well. “Lord Oliver is currently in residence at the town house of his father, Lord Caverly. He is in London for the season.”

Rafe rounded the desk, his pulse racing, his anger building moment by moment. He bit down hard on his temper.

“Thank you, Jonas. You’ve done your usual fine job of uncovering the facts. I’m only sorry I didn’t know you five years ago. Perhaps if I had hired you back then, my life would have turned out far differently.”

“I am sorry, Your Grace.”

“No one could be sorrier than I.” Rafe walked McPhee to the door of his study. “Have your bill sent to my accountant.”

McPhee simply nodded. “Perhaps it is not too late to mend the damage, Your Grace.”

A fresh jolt of anger tore through him, his rage becoming so strong he feared it would spin out of control. “Five years is a very long time,” he said with deadly menace. “But of one thing you may be certain—it will soon be too late for Oliver Randall.”

The knock came early on Oliver’s door. At the firm, insistent pounding, he dragged himself from sleep, silently cursing whoever roused him at such an ungodly hour. He was surprised when his valet walked in, a terrified look on his face.

“What is it, Burgess? And whatever it is, it had better be important. I was sleeping like a babe until you started banging on the door.”

“There are three men downstairs, my lord. They insist on seeing you. Jennings told them it was too early for callers. He tried to turn them away, but they refused to leave. They said the matter could not wait. Jennings came to me and asked that I awaken you.” The small, black-haired valet held up a green silk dressing gown for Oliver to put on.

“Don’t be an idiot. I can hardly speak to them in that. I’ll have to dress. Whoever it is will simply have to wait.”

“The men said if you don’t come down in the next five minutes, they are going to come up and get you.”

“What? They dare to threaten me? What matter could be of such import these men have arrived at my home at such an indecent hour demanding to see me? Did Jennings give you their names?”

“Yes, my lord. The Duke of Sheffield, the Marquess of Belford, and the Earl of Brant.”

A shiver of alarm went through him. Sheffield was here. And with him two of London’s most powerful men. The reason for their visit didn’t bear thinking about. Better to wait and see.

Burgess held out the robe again and this time Oliver stuck his arm through the sleeve. “Well, get down there and tell them I am on my way. Show them into the drawing room.”

“Yes, my lord.”

They were there waiting when the butler pulled open the tall double doors and Oliver walked in, trying to maintain some semblance of dignity while wearing his dressing gown and slippers. It unnerved him a good bit more to see that the three men were standing, not sitting, as he walked into the drawing room.

“Good morning, Your Grace, my lords.”

“Ollie,” the duke said, an unmistakable edge to his voice.

“I assume your business is a matter of some urgency, since you have appeared on my doorstep at such a disreputable hour.”

Sheffield stepped forward. Oliver hadn’t seen Rafael Saunders in years, had made it a point, in fact, to keep his distance. Now he was here in his house, a man several inches taller and more powerfully built. A handsome man of wealth and power beyond anything Oliver would ever know.

“I’ve come in regard to a personal matter,” the duke said. “A matter that should have been resolved five years ago. I believe you know to which matter I refer.”

Oliver frowned. None of this was making any sense. “I thought what happened was all in the past. Surely you are not here to resurrect old infamies, not after all of these years.”

“Actually, I am here to defend Danielle Duval’s honor, as I should have done five years ago. You see, I made the mistake of believing you and not her. It is a mistake I mean to rectify—once and for all.”

“W-what are you talking about?”

Instead of answering, Rafe pulled a white cotton glove out of the inside pocket of his morning coat. He slapped the glove hard across Oliver’s cheeks, first one and then the other. “Danielle Duval was innocent of any wrongdoing the night I found the two of you together, but you, sir, were not. Now you will pay for the damage you’ve done and the lives you have ruined. You have the choice of weapons.”

“I don’t…I don’t know what you are talking about.”

“Actually, you do. As you are the one who forged the note I received and paid the footman, Willard Coote, to see it delivered, you know exactly what I mean. I’ll expect you to meet me tomorrow at dawn on the knoll at Green Park. These men will act as my seconds. If you refuse, as you did before, I will find you and shoot you where you stand. Now choose your weapon.”

So…the truth had finally come out. Oliver had begun to believe it never would, begun to think he had won the game completely. Now, five years later, he wondered if the price he would pay for the revenge he had attained would be worth it.

“Pistols,” he said finally. “You may count on my arrival at Green Park at dawn.”

“One last question…Ollie. Why did you do it? What did I do to you to deserve such a cruel form of punishment?”

A corner of Oliver’s mouth twisted up. “You were simply you, Rafael. From the time we were children, you were taller and smarter and better looking. You were heir to a dukedom that included a fabulous fortune. You were a better athlete, a more charming guest, a better lover. Every woman wanted to marry you. When Danielle fell under your spell, I was determined you would never have her.” His smile turned harsh. “And so I destroyed any chance for you to have the one thing you truly wanted.”

The duke exploded, grabbing the lapels of Oliver’s robe and hauling him up on his toes. “I’m going to kill you, Oliver. You may have accomplished what you set out to, but you are going to pay for what you have done.”

Both the earl and marquess rushed forward.

“Let him go, Rafael,” Brant said, his golden eyes burning into the cold blue eyes that belonged to his friend. “You’ll have your vengeance in the morning.”

“Give him time to ponder his fate,” said the black-haired Marquess of Belford, as if he knew the sort of fear time could breed.

The strong fingers squeezing his robe together beneath his chin slowly loosened.

“Time to go,” Belford said to the duke. “By now the servants have probably called a watchman. As Cord says, tomorrow is another day.”

Sheffield released him, shoving him away so hard he crashed into the mantel on the fireplace, sending a jolt of pain up his arm. But Oliver’s fear was slowly fading, replaced by an iron resolve. He had prepared himself for this day. Perhaps fate had given him a final chance to win the game.

“We’ll see who winds up dead,” Oliver taunted as the three men started for the door. “I’m not the same weak man I was five years ago.”

The men ignored him, just continued out of the drawing room, Belford limping slightly, an old wound perhaps. Oliver wasn’t acquainted with him well enough to know.

The door closed in the entry as the men left the house, and Oliver sank down on the brocade sofa. So he would face the Duke of Sheffield at last. There was a time he’d been sure this day would come. He had bought a set of dueling pistols and practiced with them daily, until he had become a very skillful marksman.

For the past few years, he had begun to think he wouldn’t need the weapons. Now it appeared that he would.

Oliver almost smiled. Rafael wanted vengeance. Oliver knew the feeling well. In a way, he was glad Rafe knew what had happened that night. It would make his victory all the sweeter. Tomorrow, if he got lucky, he would see his nemesis dead.

A thin fog hung over the knoll. The grass was deep and wet, forming beads of dew on the men’s leather boots. The first thin rays of dawn spread over the horizon, enough to outline the two black carriages parked at the edge of the grassy field below.

Ethan stood next to Cord beneath a tall sycamore tree, next to the two men who had accompanied Lord Oliver Randall. In the open space at the top of the knoll, his best friend, Rafael Saunders, Duke of Sheffield, stood back to back with the man who had ruined his life, Oliver Randall, third son of the Marquess of Caverly.

Randall was perhaps two inches shorter than Rafe, with a slightly leaner build, auburn hair and brown eyes. He had nothing of the power and command that Rafe always seemed to have, and yet Ethan hoped his friend hadn’t underestimated his enemy.

Word was, Oliver Randall was a very skillful marksman, one of the best in London.

Then again, so was Rafe.

The countdown began, Cord calling out the numbers, the men taking long strides away from each other as the steps were counted off. “Five. Six. Seven. Eight. Nine. Ten.”

Both men turned at exactly the same instant, casting their bodies into profile. They lifted their long-barreled, silver-etched dueling pistols and fired.

Two distinct shots rang out, echoing over the knoll. For several seconds neither man moved, then Oliver Randall swayed on his feet and went down, crumpling into the wet grass on the knoll.

His seconds ran forward, two faint shadows in the purple rays of dawn, along with the surgeon, Neil McCauley, a friend who had agreed to come along. Both Cord and Ethan started toward the men, Ethan’s blood still pumping, though some of his worry began to fade as he saw Rafe standing there, apparently unharmed.

Then he spotted the bright patch of blood that appeared on Rafael’s sleeve, though Rafe didn’t seem to notice. Instead he strode toward Oliver Randall.

Bent over the injured man, Dr. McCauley looked up at the duke. “It’s bad. I’m not sure he’ll make it.”

“Do the best you can,” Rafe said. Turning, he strode toward Ethan, who caught up with him at the edge of the knoll.

“How badly are you injured?” Ethan asked, shoving back a strand of wavy black hair that fell across his forehead.