Before his mother could take more than a dozen steps towards the door, it was flung open, hitting against the wall with a bang. For the briefest of moments, Fischer was framed in the doorway, his frightened gaze scanning the chamber, before he collapsed to his knees, falling through the opened doorway. In that moment, Silverton jerked his right hand back to its binding, attempting to hide that he had been freed.
Lady Silverton let out a scream at the sight of the fallen Fischer, although from Silverton’s position he struggled to see what had happened to his manservant to cause his fall. But he could well guess.
Behind Fischer, the aggravated figure of Charles appeared. Charles held a pistol and a sword in each hand, and the latter seemed to be dripping with Fischer’s blood. It was clear he had run the manservant through the back when he had entered the room.
“You are gifted,” Charles mused as he stepped over Fischer, his eyes locked on his brother as he spoke, “at attracting the most loyal of servants, it seems. It is a trait I share, however. Of course, you realised about Sprot. But you must also know I took particular care to have your servant Walsh so far in debt, it is a miracle he has not been arrested yet.”
Tension at his father-in-law’s name entered and wedged itself like a splinter into Silverton’s mind. He strained to see if Fischer was alive, whilst also attempting to show no special favour to the mention of Walsh’s debt. It was better, he reasoned, to pull Charles away from Fischer, so he sat up as far as he could without revealing his loosened knot. “The man gambles, what of it? Everyone must have their vices. Your vices are worse. I think we can all agree on that.”
“Oh, aren’t you a holy saviour? Judging us all?” jeered Charles. He stood in the centre of the bedchamber now, a repugnant smile curving his mouth. “Your morality has done you little good. If Walsh were to tell anyone, I know how to manipulate him.” He lifted the sword and pointed it at the dowager, who had been watching Fischer, her eyes wide. “No, do not go to him. You will do as I say.”
“Your trouble is with me,” Silverton tried again. If he could draw Charles across to him, it would provide him with the chance of grabbing the man by the throat. But Charles, it seemed, was done with being distracted.
“No. Apparently, my problem is that you wed. Your bride...” He shot back without lifting his eyes from Fischer. “Now let me see.” Charles laid his pistol down on a nearby table as he crouched down next to Fischer. “Perhaps this man can be of some assistance in clearing a few matters up. A little more about the poor unfortunate damsel who would be so unwise as to tie herself to you.” Charles bent down and rolled Fischer onto his back. The man emitted a groan. “Here,” Charles said, his voice almost tender, passing Fischer his own cravat, the snowy white material lowered down to his side. “Hold it against the wound. It will help stem the bleeding.”
There was a small pause, in which Fischer seemed to comply, and then Charles continued, “I am prepared to offer you a deal.” He leant closer over Fischer as he spoke, his tone lulling and almost musical as to lure Fischer over. “I need to know more about my brother’s wife. Your master’s wife. I already know that the girl is called Maeve. That is an Irish name. Did he marry some Gaelic harlot, maybe an actress or similar?” He shot a look over his shoulder at Silverton. “Anything to stop me inheriting. I can see you considered it.” Charles’s face gleamed with triumph lit by an unnatural light. “After all, who else would accept you in such lethal circumstances—you’re not too appealing, nor is your famously difficult temperament. I can see it now. How Father would be humiliated by your choice.”
Calm, it doesn’t matter what he says, all that matters is he never finds Maeve.Silverton bit down his retort. He could hold his peace for the entirety if it meant his twin continued to think his wife was an actress or opera singer. Let Charles think his wife was anything or anyone, so that she would be safe.
“How much did you have to pay her?” With a giddy laugh, Charles wiped his mouth with his free hand. His budding excitement was getting the better of him as he was carried off with his imaginings of what he had reduced his brother to. Then he turned his gaze back to the injured Fischer. “Now, if you let me know who she is, where she is… I might not have to kill her.” Charles pressed down with his sword on what must have been Fischer’s wound because the man screamed, the sound rending the air. “You tell me about her, and I won’t have to do that again.”
“She’ll stop you,” Fischer said. He sounded close to fainting.
“So, you know her then. And she’s close by?” Charles asked. “What a mine of interesting information you could be to me. Do you know how long it will take for you to lose consciousness? It’s longer than you would think.”
From where Silverton lay, useless and only partly free, he could not make out anything Fischer said or any movement he made, but it was enough for Charles to lean back and let out a knowing sigh as if in the affirmative.
“Well, that is good to know, in which case I should probably be prepared.” Charles lifted his sword as if to drive it down into Fischer when Lady Silverton let out another noise.
When no one was looking, the dowager had stood and darted across the chamber. With a speed that seemed to surprise everyone, she had snatched up the pistol Charles had discarded, which she now attempted to use.
“Please don’t kill anyone.” Lady Silverton lifted the gun halfway up, but her hands shook as she tried to level it, clearly with no will to shoot anyone, let alone her son. “You promised it would be as it was before. The three of us. Just as it used to be. I don’t want anyone to die. Charlie, you promised me…”
“Mother, now is not the time.”
With a small sound halfway between a moan and a sob, Lady Silverton let out a desperate groan as if she finally realised that she had been tricked. With a pathetic little drop of her head, she started lowering the pistol back down. Before it was entirely back at her side, however, there came an audible shifting from the floor below, as the scrape of a door being opened echoed loudly through the confines of the Hall. The unmistakeable noise of something, or rather someone, trying to prise their way inside.
“Is that your bride who has come a knocking?” Charles asked. He turned back to the bed and was cocking an eyebrow at Silverton with the arrogance of a man who has nearly all the cards he needs to win. “Or perhaps it is one of your Set?” Charles strode across and snatched the pistol from Lady Silverton’s unresisting grip. “Let me go and make sure dear Maeve receives a warm, family welcome.”
CHAPTER20
Almost as soon as Grace left her, Maeve knew that entering this house was a mistake. The way she knew when she had stitched a piece of her embroidery incorrectly, or played a wrong note on the pianoforte. Of course in this instance, the consequences were far deadlier than either of those two things, but the longer she hesitated or considered her choices the more lethal it would be. Her husband’s study was located to the front of the building. Getting there meant cutting through the large kitchen, up the servant’s stairs, and along the hallway. She’d heard her father describe it often enough and knew the front of the Hall personally. Once she was up the stairs, she knew where she needed to go.
Her hand reached out and steadied itself against the table. She lifted the kitchen knife and knew it was more useful than either the pan or the poker.
The weapon in her right hand was an alien beast, unnaturally held away from her. Verne’s wife, Olympe, had once proudly spoken of using weapons to fight off assailants. Nothing could be further from Maeve’s desires. But for Silverton, she would venture into the building.
All the fragile, wistful hopes she had created seemed very far away as she forced her feet to carry her forwards and up the stone stairs. Once, what felt like a lifetime ago, Silverton had told her that the oldest parts of Silver Hall dated back to the reformation, and some of the stonework was originally part of a pulled down monastery. Maeve paused on top of what seemed to be an ancient stone staircase and wondered if monks and nuns from centuries back were watching her. She hoped and prayed they were sympathetic.
The hallway was dim when she reached it, stepping from the shaded cool passageway which would run down to the empty servant’s quarters. But from higher up in the Hall, up the stairs, on the second or third floors, she could hear raised voices.
First things first, she steeled herself. Find a pistol. Hope it is a flintlock since that was the one she was most familiar with. Load it and be ready. Maeve’s stomach spasmed unpleasantly, although whether that was nerves, her pregnancy, or fear she wasn’t sure. A desire wormed its way through her to both bolt up the stairs, to see if Silverton was safe and well, but another part of her wanted to run from the Hall as if she were a child, hoping to find her papa.
Tilting her head, Maeve edged forward. She could hear the muffled sound of words, and then the distinct noise of footsteps. Someone was heading her way from the top of the Hall, and if she stayed where she was, that person would find her within minutes. From where she was positioned, all she would have to do was move into the main hallway and then walk towards the study. It was just ten doors away from her.
So as fast as she could, Maeve hiked up her skirts and dashed down the hallway, darting in and out of the half-light as she ran, past the windows and the doors to various other rooms, then pausing briefly to shove one of them open, hoping this might prove a distraction. When she reached the study doorway, she pushed against the wood, and the fraction of a second it took before it gave way scared her witless. Then, she was back inside Silverton’s study. The place where she had first met her husband, only a few months back. The door had opened without too much noise, and Maeve eased it closed behind her. It would be safe to search now.
Panting, she leant back against the door frame, her eyes moving around the room, looking for the most obvious places to begin her search for a gun. Where precisely had Silverton hidden his pistols?
