Page 55 of To Dare the Devil

Max arrived back at the Hall to discover a hive of activity as the staff readied the house for a long absence and his impending departure. He handed his hat and gloves into Jarvis’ keeping and shrugged off his coat as he strode towards his office. As he walked, he noticed an odd little lump in a dark corner under the stairs. Frowning, he walked to it and bent to pick it up. His heart turned over as he saw the frayed and faded doll. His daughter’s. No. No, he must not think of her that way, for he’d lost the right to do so. She belonged to Grace and to Sterling Oak. Oak was her father, a good one too. A better one than him. A strong, honourable man who would do all in his power to see Beatrice was safe and happy, and that… that was a good thing.

Though he knew it was foolish, Max raised the doll to his nose and inhaled. A lump formed in his throat as the innocent scent brought his actions crashing down upon his head once more. He wasn’t sorry, he reminded himself. They wouldn't have been happy together, he and Grace. They were not suited, but Kathy… Max, could have made her happy, could have made a life with her.

For a moment, he allowed himself the foolish and painful glimpse of a dream where Kathy was his wife and they had a family of their own, a daughter who would look at him and see something worthy of loving. But that was nonsense. He had rejected such a future with everything he’d done, and Kathy was lost to him. So he’d better get on with leaving London. Yet he couldn’t breathe, and he needed to, needed to gulp down a lungful of clean air before he choked, so he could rid himself of the tightness in his chest. He hurried to the back of the house and out into the gardens, fighting to calm the rising misery that threatened to drag him under. His feet had taken him far from the house before he even realised he was still carrying the doll.

Damn. Beatrice would be distraught without it. He must give it to someone to return it discreetly to Grace’s household. They could pretend they’d found it on the street outside her parents’ house. That would do. Before he could turn back to the house, a voice hailed him.

“You’re hard to kill, my lord.”

Max froze, staring with shock at the intruder, who had emerged from behind a tree. He was a tall, wiry man, in his early forties, if he had to guess. A gentleman, going on the quality of his dress and his accent, though fallen on hard times, or perhaps too distraught to care about shaving or the fact his boots were scuffed and worn. There was fatigue in the man’s expression, a determined glaze to his bloodshot eyes that did not bode well, though the knife in his hand was a rather more definite clue as to his intentions.

“It was you,” Max said, discovering to his surprise that he was entirely calm, his overwhelming emotion only a deep curiosity, for he did not recognise the fellow at all.

The man shrugged, an almost apologetic gesture. “It was, and I made a mess of it. I was certain I had struck true, but that’s life. The best laid plans of mice and men, et cetera, but I shall do the thing properly this time,” he said, his voice pleasant, conversational.

Well, wasn’t this nice? Two gentlemen having a little chat in the garden.

“Why?” Max asked, eyeing the knife. The scar on his side throbbed with remembered pain. He wasn’t certain he cared so much about dying, not now, but he did not much relish the idea of enduring such agony again, and certainly not another damned fever. If he was going to die, he too hoped the fool would do it properly this time.

“Why?” The fellow laughed, shaking his head. “Because you took my life, my lord. You tupped my wife and turned her head until she didn’t want me anymore. She got a taste for the high life and is some duke’s plaything now. But you did that. You took a good girl and spoiled her, because you could, because that’s what men like you do.”

Max felt revulsion churn in his stomach. Had he done that?

“Who?” he asked, his heart thudding as he moved away, one slow step at a time. The man with the knife smiled and advanced, eating up the distance between them.

“Mrs Linda Franklin,” he said, moving faster now, his determination to destroy Max a fanatical gleam in his eyes. “My wife.”

Max thought fast, turning the name around in his mind.

“Don’t remember, my lord? Must be difficult, what with all the wives and whores that have passed through your bed, eh? Let me help you. Linda is a pretty, plump little redhead, nice tits. Does that narrow the count a little?”

His mind was racing so hard it took Max a moment to realise. A redhead? No, wait. “It wasn’t me,” he said in relief. Redheads were Kilbane’s weakness, not his. “It wasn’t me.”

“Oh, of course not. It was another fellow, I’m sure,” Mr Franklin sneered. “Who would that be?”

Well, he could hardly set a madman on Kilbane and besides, he didn’t think it much mattered to this man now. If he remembered rightly, Linda Franklin had offered her charms to half the damned ton with enthusiasm, and he very much doubted Kilbane had been the first. He certainly would not have needed to do much seducing, but Max did not think it was politic to mention that to the man with the knife.

“Don’t lie to me. I know it was you, the Frenchman told me so. He saw you together.”

The Frenchman? Louis?

“The comte saw us?” he asked in confusion.

Franklin snorted in disgust. “Not that pretty creature, no. He’s not the only Frenchman in London you know, though you’d think it, the way people carry on over him. No, this Frenchman is grotesque. Burnt in a fire, I reckon, though even he seems obsessed with that handsome devil. Always wanting news of him.” He shook his head, waving the knife in a dismissive gesture. “Never mind that. I’m not supposed to speak of him.”

Max frowned, trying to puzzle out who he meant. What other Frenchman did he mean, and why was he obsessed with Louis César? And what the hell did this madman think this had to do with Max, anyway?

Belatedly, Max realised he was still carrying the doll and set it carefully down on the grass, moving away from it. This was going to get messy, and he’d not have the child’s most precious possession damaged in the struggle.

The two men circled each other, Max finding he was strangely calm, a fatalistic sense of peace steeling over him. He did not intend to die today if he could help it, but if he did, ah, well….

From over his shoulder, Max heard shouts and the crash of doors slamming open as his staff noticed what was happening. He did not dare turn to look, but he heard people running, shouts of appalled concern. Mr Franklin stilled, his eyes growing wide.

“Damnation,” he muttered, taking a step backwards. He glared at Max in fury. “This isn’t over,” he warned him, pointing the knife at him before turning to run.

Max followed, taking to his heels as the man ran flat out around the side of the house. Christ, he was fast, he’d give him that. The fellow hurtled through a gate and into the kitchen garden, knocking over a wheelbarrow and running heedlessly through neat rows of carrots and lettuce as a gardener bellowed with fury. Franklin didn’t heed the shouting any more than Max did, following the madman’s erratic path as he smashed into a trellis of sweet peas and brought the whole thing crashing down before stumbling to his feet again. Max lunged for him, but the bastard was light on his feet and took off, out of the gate that led onto the path to Vane Hall’s grand entrance.

Franklin ran straight past the front of the house, heading towards the driveway on the far side, and skidded to a halt, deliberating as he regarded the waiting carriage he’d run past, and yet another coming up the drive, followed swiftly by a man on horseback. Max did not have time to wonder where all these people had come from, only to see the swift calculation in Franklin’s eyes as he realised Max was too far away, and his staff were crowding behind him and fanning out across the entrance until his path to freedom was cut off. He was trapped, his plan to hurt Max beyond his reach. Then Max saw Grace hurrying down the front steps to the waiting carriage. She was between them, oblivious to the danger she was in. He saw the moment Franklin decided, believing Grace was important to him. Max had taken his woman, so—