Reticule in one hand and lamp in the other, she left her room without a backward glance. It was a long walk to the nearest town, but she could make it by morning if she pushed herself. There was no other choice but to do so.
At least the lamp oil had been recently replenished; it would burn longer than a candle and see her safely through the all-encompassing darkness of these early morning hours until dawn arrived. She kept her steps slow and silent, cognizant of the slight click of her heels upon the wood of the floor between the hall runners.
She wondered, idly, if the duke had yet succumbed to his poisoning. Wondered if there was some part of her, however small, that owed it to him to care, even a little.
The corona of light provided by the lamp moved unsteadily along the hall, its frenetic bob a result of her trembling hand. There was only the cold glint of moonlight spilling through the velvet draperies lining the windows; the narrow hall widening in the distance to a gaping chasm of darkness as it spilled into the main wing of the manor.
And then she drew to a halt as the faint light of the moon reflected upon the shine of a pair of shoes lingering at the end of the hall. She dared to lift the lamp a little closer, to reveal the villain hiding in the shadows. The light slid up a pair of legs encased in trousers, a long torso clothed in a fine linen shirt and grey waistcoat, and at last settled upon Julian’s thin, gaunt face, made ghoulish in the shadows created by the light.
He had been ghoulish enough already. And unless she missed her guess, his presence here could mean only one thing. Her husband, the duke, was dead—God rot his miserable soul. In those few seconds, as his face wrenched into surprise to find her here, Geneviève wondered how he had meant to kill her. The late duke had not been in the peak of physical health; his death would have merited no suspicion. But she—she was just nineteen. A riding accident, she supposed. Or a suicide—a young, bereaved duchess so maddened with grief to lose her husband that she had committed an unpardonable sin. Had she any levity left within her soul, she might have laughed at the thought.
She saw the moment he realized what her presence in the halls at this time of night, fully dressed, signified. She saw the moment he realized that she must have discovered his evil acts, and his face fell into lines of malicious intent.
She did not intend to die this night, regardless of what plans they had made for her.
His jaw clenched with intent, he strode for her, and she—she cast the lamp toward the floor between them. There was thecrashof shattering glass, and a sudden whoosh that prickled in her ears. Fire leapt up along the hall runner, which had become saturated in lamp oil. The flames burned hot and bright, licking at the edges of a velvet curtain, crawling up in a swift climb, eating hungrily away at the draperies.
Julian leapt back from the blaze, his face a study in wrath. “Damn you,” he hissed, unwilling to brave the fire roaring between them. Already the smoke was rising between them, crowding the narrow space. In moments he was obscured in the thick black cloud of it, but still his voice pierced it, and it emerged through the smoke which was lit by the flames from within like the voice of a demon from the very mouth of hell. “This will not save you!”
Perhaps not. But it would take time for him to find another way through the manor. And in that time, she intended to be gone.
Geneviève turned and ran even as the smoke chased her. The servants’ stairs would be safe, at the far end of the hall.
But the staff—they would smother in their beds unless she alerted them. Most of them had been kind to her, despite her origins. They, too, had known what it was to serve beneath a cruel and demanding master.
Smothering a cough in her hand, she paused to pound upon the closest door, which belonged to Patterson, the butler.
“Patterson!” she cried. “The manor is on fire!”
Cook’s door was next, and then the housekeeper’s, and the upper servants—she pounded upon all of them, hoping that the racket would rouse the servants sleeping behind even doors she had not banged upon. Sounds of movement within, which was good. The smoke was thickening even now, the fire spreading as fires were wont to do when left unchecked.
Patterson had opened his door even before she had finished pounding upon the housekeeper’s. “Good Lord,” he said in his raspy voice as strode out into the hall, clothed only in his dressing gown. “Your Grace, what has happened?”
Geneviève yanked upon his arm, dragging him with her away from the smoke. “The duke is dead,” she said. “The new duke and his sister—they’ve killed him. The manor is on fire. You must see that the staff gets out safely.” She dug into the pockets of her pelisse, found a long-forgotten silk handkerchief tucked away in one, and pressed it into his palm. “Take this, and cover your mouth. Make certain you do not breathe the smoke.”
“But, Your Grace—”
“There is no time.” Servants were already milling about, headed for the servants’ stairs at the end of the hall—but the floor would still need to be searched to ensure everyone had gotten out safely. She squeezed Patterson’s arm. Here, she could spare just a bit of regret. Patterson, especially, had always been kind to her. “I can’t stay,” she said. “They mean to kill me, too. Please—please, if you have ever had any measure of feeling for me…please do not tell them you have seen me.”
His dark eyes turned so very sad. They both knew, she thought, that there was nothing to be done for it. There was no proof of Julian’s misdeeds, and whatever there might have been would be shortly consumed by the fire. And as the new duke, Julian would be all but impervious to any accusations of wrongdoing.
Who would ever believe the young French widow over the new duke? She could run...or she could die. A choice that was not a choice at all.
His hand closed over hers. “God go with you, Your Grace.”
And Geneviève ran—away from the fire, away from the manor. And she intended to keep running, as far and as fast as she could.
Despite Patterson’s blessing, she knew the truth of it all. God had deserted her long ago.
Chapter One
London
March, 1823
Obsession. Noun. Latin root originally, borrowed later by the French. Something which dominated one’s thoughts; drove one to distraction even amidst things far more worthy of one’s concentration.
Such as the corpse laid out before his feet, which by all rights was currently entitled toallof his concentration.
