“I had no clear line of fire,” Netherby said. “It looked as though he was approaching with his son in all good faith. Dorchester saw otherwise and got off a shot. Though his was not the first, and if I am not much mistaken, it merely grazed Rochford’s gun hand and forced him to drop the pistol. We did agree there were to be no deaths if they could be avoided.”
“Who, then?” Bertie demanded as they all strode off into the trees. “Egad, but that man has a loud voice.”
That man, Gabriel could see, was Anthony Rochford, bent over the body of his father, and clearly distraught.
“It is time we discovered the answer to that question,” Netherby said, and Gabriel looked toward three men standing on the far side of the body, two of whom—Dirkson and Bertrand Lamarr—had a firm hold upon the arms of the third man, who stood tall and proud between them, a pistol at his feet.
“Mr. Ginsberg,” Gabriel said.
“I am not going anywhere,” the man said, shaking off the hold of the other two men. “I will take my trial. And I will die like a man. I will die satisfied, knowing that I have been preceded from this life by the scoundrel who debauched my daughter and murdered my son.” His voice was firm and distinct even though Anthony Rochford was still wailing and sobbing.
“He murdered my father,” he said. “He killed my father.”
“He felled a man who was about to murder the Earl of Lyndale,” Netherby said in that same cold, authoritative voice. “And there were four witnesses. This was not murder, Mr. Ginsberg. This was a shot fired to save the life of an innocent, unarmed man.”
“But for you, Mr. Ginsberg,” Dorchester said, “Lyndale might be dead now, killed in the same way as your son was killed.”
“You will not hang, Mr. Ginsberg,” Riverdale said. “You will not even stand trial. After the inevitable inquiry, which will very probably not take long at all, you will be able to go home to your daughter and live in some sort of peace at last.”
“Was that your man who was watching Rochford’s house last night?” Netherby asked him.
“Not my man,” Ginsberg replied. “Me. I spotted your man in time to duck into a better hiding place. I followed Rochford here today.”
Gabriel went down on one knee on the grass beside the body of his second cousin. He spread a hand across the back of Anthony Rochford. “You will need to be brave for your mother’s sake,” he said. “She is going to need you, Anthony.”
The wailing stopped. The sobbing did not. Gabriel patted his back, closed his eyes, and swallowed against a lump in his throat. There was Jessica’s family. And then there was his own. But it included other cousins—female ones. First cousins, daughters of Uncle Julius. And his family included Marjorie Rochford. And Anthony himself. Perhaps . . .
But these were strange thoughts to be having while he was kneeling over the body of the man who would have murdered him in cold blood.
He continued to pat Anthony’s back while he sobbed and hiccuped.
“I d-did not kn-know,” he managed to say, “that he h-had b-brought a g-g-gun with him.”
They had duly visited the Tower of London and spent all of half an hour there. They spent more time at Westminster Abbey, partly because they sat down for a while to rest. They conversed without stopping, commenting with great enthusiasm upon all they saw. Mary declared more than once that her breath was quite taken away, and Great-aunt Edith observed that it was really quite delightful to see such national treasures through fresh eyes that had not grown a bit jaded from seeing them so much. Grandmama injected a note of reality by reminding them of some of the grim history behind those breathtaking places, especially the Tower. Jessica agreed wholeheartedly with everything that was said. She was having awonderfultime, she assured everyone whenever she was silent too long and her grandmother looked at her with a frown.
Oh yes, everyone agreed, they wereallhaving a wonderful time.
There was to be no duel.
No guns.
No deaths.
No one even whispered any of those things, of course. They were too busy having a wonderful time.
And then they arrived at the tearoom, which was to be the climax of their day out, with its fine china tea service, its delicate crustless sandwiches, its scones and strawberry preserves and clotted cream, and its dainty pastries and cakes of all kinds.
“What a wonderful banquet!” Mary exclaimed. “Oh, Iambeing spoiled.”
Yes, wonderful, they all agreed. And Grandmama nodded graciously to the other occupants of the rooms, mostly ladies.
It had perhaps not been the best choice of tearoom, Jessica decided within minutes of arriving. For of course most of the members of thetonnow present in London had attended that costume ball last evening. And any who had not would have read about it in the morning papers. Any few who had missed both would have been exposed to gossip all day. Their story must be at the very top of everyone’s list.
Everyone wanted to smile and nod at Jessica. A few bolder souls approached their table with the same basic message—“I will not interrupt your tea, Lady Lyndale, butdoallow me to congratulate you and tell you how delightful it is that the earl, your husband, has returned as though from the dead. I knew from the first time I saw him as Mr. Thorne, the American gentleman, that there was something very special, evenaristocratic, about him.”
Everyone’s smiles and nods had to be acknowledged. Everyone who approached had to be thanked. Never had Jessica been more thankful for herLady Jessica Archerpersona, though she had not even known until very recently that such a thing existed. Perhaps she had realized it only at Richmond Park when Gabriel had wanted to marrythat personand she had been upset that he had hadno ideawho the real Jessica Archer was.
There was to be no duel.
