To Seduce a Sinner

Page 42

Finally, the princess, who had been turning the ring over in her fingers, spoke up. “Who is it who chops the vegetables for my soup, good cook?”
The cook puffed out his chest. “Why, I do, Your Highness!”
“And who is it who sets the soup upon the fire to boil?”
“I do, Your Highness!”
“And who is it who stirs the soup while it boils?”
The cook’s eyes widened. “The little kitchen boy.”
And what a commotion that caused!
“Fetch the little kitchen boy at once!” cried the king. . . .
—from LAUGHING JACK
Jasper woke the next morning and knew even before he opened his eyes that he was alone. There was a coldness in the pallet where before Melisande’s warmth had been against his side. The scent of oranges lingered faintly, but she was no longer in the room. He sighed, feeling the ache of muscles used until exhaustion. She had worn him out, but in the end, he’d heard what he wanted to know. She loved him.
Melisande loved him.
He opened his eyes on the thought. He probably didn’t deserve her love. She was an intelligent, sensitive, beautiful woman, and he was a man who had watched his best friend burn to death. In some ways, he bore scars deeper than the men who had been physically tortured. His scars were on his soul, and they still seeped blood now and again. He was hardly a worthy object of any woman’s love, let alone Melisande’s. And what was worse—what made him trusouly a cad—was that he had no intention of ever letting her go. He might not be entirely worthy of her love, but he would hold it close until the day he died. He’d not let her change her mind. Melisande’s love was a healing salve, a balm upon his scars, and he would treasure it for the rest of his life.
The thoughts made him restless, and he rolled to his feet. He didn’t bother ringing for Pynch but washed and got dressed by himself. He ran down the stairs, where he found out from Oaks that Melisande had gone to visit his mother and wouldn’t be back for an hour or more.
Jasper felt a vague disappointment, mingled with relief. The discovery of her love for him was very fresh—it was almost too sensitive to bear touch. He wandered into the breakfast room and picked up a bun, biting into it absentmindedly. But he was too restless to sit and eat. His limbs felt as if bees had entered his blood and buzzed through his veins.
He finished the roll in two more bites and strode to the front of the house. Melisande might not be back for several hours, and he couldn’t simply sit and wait. Besides, there was a chore he needed to get through, and he might as well do it now. He should finish this thing with Matthew. And if it was another dead end, as he suspected, well then maybe his lady wife was right.
Maybe it was time to let Spinner’s Falls go and let Reynaud rest in peace.
“Ask Pynch to come here, please,” Jasper said to Oaks. “And have two horses brought ’round.”
He paced the hall as he waited.
Pynch appeared from the back of the house. “My lord?”
“I’m going to talk to Matthew Horn,” Jasper said. He gestured for Pynch to follow as he strode out the doors. “I want you to accompany me in case of . . .” He waved his hand vaguely.
The valet understood. “Of course, my lord.”
The two men mounted the waiting horses, and Jasper nudged his bay into a trot. The day was a grim gray. Low clouds hung overhead, threatening rain.
“I don’t like this,” he muttered as he rode. “Horn is a gentleman from a good family, and I consider him a friend. If our suspicions are correct . . .” He trailed off, shaking his head. “It will be bad. Very bad.”
Pynch didn’t answer, and they rode the remainder of the way in silence. Jasper did not relish this task, but it must be done. If Horn was the traitor, he must be brought to some kind of justice.
A half hour later, Jasper pulled his horse to a halt in front of Matthew Horn’s town house. He looked at the old bricks and thought of the family that had lived here for generations. Horn’s mother was an invalid, confined to this house now. God, this was a nasty business. Jasper sighed and dismounted his horse, then climbed the steps grimly. He knocked at the door and waited, conscious that Pynch stood on a step just below him.
There was a long pause. The house was still, no sound coming from within. Jasper took a step back, glancing up at the windows above. Nothing stirred. He frowned and knocked again, more forcefully this time. Where were the servants? Had Horn told them not to let him in?
He was raising his hand to pound once more when the door creaked open. A harried-looking young footman looked out.
“Is your master at home?” Jasper asked.
“I believe so, sir.”
Jasper cocked his head. “Then will you let us in so I may see him?”
The footman flushed. “Of course, sir.” He held the door wide. “If you’ll wait in the library, sir, I’ll fetch Mr. Horn.”
“Thank you.” Jasper entered the room with Pynch and looked about.
Everything was the same as the last time he’d visited Matthew. A clock ticked on the mantelpiece, and from the street came the muted sounds of carriages. Jasper strolled to the map that was missing Italy to examine it while they waited. The map hung beside two large wing chairs and a table in a corner. As he neared, he heard a sort of whimper. Pynch started toward him even as Jasper leaned over a chair to look in the corner.
Two people were on the floor behind the chairs, a woman cradling a man in her lap. She rocked back and forth steadily, a whispered whimper coming from her lips. The man’s coat was fouled with blood, and a dagger still protruded from his chest. He was quite obviously dead.
“What has happened here?” Jasper asked.
The woman raised her eyes. She was pretty, her eyes a lovely blue, but her face was bone-white, her lips colorless.
“He said we would have a fortune,” she said. “Enough money to go to the country and open a tavern of our own. He said that he’d marry me and we would be rich.”
She dropped her eyes again, quietly rocking.
“It’s the butler, my lord,” Pynch said from behind him. “Mr. Horn’s butler—the one I talked to.”
“Pynch, go get help,” Jasper ordered. “And see that Horn is all right.”
“All right?” The woman laughed as Pynch ran from the room. “He was the one who did this. Stabbed my man and shoved him back here like so much rubbish.”
Jasper stared blankly at her. “What?”
“My man found a letter,” the woman whispered. “A letter to a French gentleman. My man said Mr. Horn sold secrets to the French during the war in the Colonies. He said we would make a fortune selling the letter back to the master. And then we could open a tavern in the country.”
Jasper squatted by her. “He tried to blackmail Horn?”
She nodded. “We’d be rich, he said. I hid behind the curtain when he asked to talk to Mr. Horn. To tell him about the letter. But Mr. Horn . . .”
Her words trailed into a low keening.
“Matthew did this?” Jasper finally grasped the full horror. The butler’s head lolled on his bloody chest.
“My lord,” Pynch said from behind him.
Jasper looked up. “What?”
“The other servants say Mr. Horn is nowhere to be found.”
“He went looking for the letter,” the woman said.
Jasper frowned at her. “I thought your man, the butler, had it.”
“Nay.” The woman shook her head. “He was too smart to have it on him.”
“Where is it, then?”
“The master won’t find it,” the woman said dreamily. “I hid it well. I sent it to my sister in the country.”
“Good God,” Jasper said. “Where is your sister? She might be in danger.”
“He won’t look there,” the woman whispered. “My man never spoke her name. He only said who had told him to look through the papers in Mr. Horn’s desk.”
“Who?” Jasper whispered in dawning horror.
The woman looked up and smiled sweetly. “Mr. Pynch.”
“My lord, Mr. Horn knows I am your valet.” Pynch was white as a sheet. “If he knows that—”
Jasper was already scrambling to his feet, racing desperately for the door, but he still heard the rest of Pynch’s sentence.
“—then he will think that you have the letter.”
The letter. The letter he didn’t have. The letter Matthew would naturally think was in his house. His house where his darling wife had no doubt returned by this time. Alone and unprotected and thinking Matthew was his friend.
Dear God in heaven. Melisande.
“MY MOTHER IS an invalid,” Matthew Horn said to Melisande, and she nodded because she didn’t know what else to do. “She cannot be moved at all, let alone flee to France.”
Melisande swallowed and said carefully, “I’m sorry.”
But that was the wrong thing to say. Mr. Horn jerked the pistol he held against her side and Melisande flinched. She really couldn’t help it. She’d never liked guns—hated the loud explosion when they fired—and her flesh cringed at the thought of a ball tearing through her. It would hurt. A lot. She was a coward, she knew, but she simply couldn’t help it.
She was terrified.
Mr. Horn had been a little strange when he’d come to the door. He’d seemed agitated. When he’d been shown into her sitting room, she’d wondered whether he might’ve been drinking, even though it was still not noon.
Then he’d demanded to see Vale, and when she’d told him that her husband was not at home, he’d insisted on her showing him Vale’s study. She hadn’t liked that, but by then she’d begun to suspect something was wrong. When he’d rummaged in Jasper’s desk, she’d started for the door intending to summon Oaks and have Mr. Horn forcibly rem£rn eguoved. Which was when the man had pulled the pistol from his pocket. It was only then, while staring at the big pistol in his hand, that she’d seen the dark stain on his sleeve. As he moved more papers with that hand, she noticed that his sleeve left a dark red smear behind.
It was as if he’d dipped his coat sleeve in blood.
Melisande shuddered and tried to calm her wild thoughts. She didn’t know if the stain was blood, so it was no use becoming hysterical over what might be a misunderstanding on her part. Soon Vale would be home, and he would take care of things. Except he didn’t know Mr. Horn had a pistol. He might come in the door and be taken completely unawares. Mr. Horn’s mania seemed focused on Jasper. What if he intended to hurt him?
Melisande took a breath. “What is it you look for?”
Mr. Horn knocked all the papers from the desk. They fell in a scattered heap, some of the smaller papers fluttering like landing birds. “A letter. My letter. Vale stole it from me. Where is it?”
“I . . . I don’t—”
He pressed closer to her, the gun between them, and caught her face in his left hand, squeezing painfully. His eyes sparkled with tears. “He’s a thief and a blackmailer. I thought he was my friend. I thought . . .” He squeezed his eyes shut and then opened them to glare at her and say fiercely, “I’ll not be ruined by him, do you hear? Tell me where the paper is, where he might’ve hid it, or I’ll feel no sorrow in killing you.”
Melisande trembled. He was going to kill her. She had no illusions that she would live through this. But if Jasper came home now, he might be killed as well. That realization marshaled her thoughts. The farther Mr. Horn was from the front door, the more time Vale would have to realize the danger when he returned home.
She licked her lips. “His bedroom. I . . . I think in his bedroom.”
Without a word, Mr. Horn grasped her by the back of the neck and shoved her into the hall ahead of him. The pistol was still pressed to her side. The hall seemed deserted, and Melisande gave a prayer of thanks. She didn’t know how Mr. Horn would react to a servant. He might very well shoot anyone he saw.