“Because of you. Because I accused her—”
“She was upset because of Gladstone. Don’t you know how he tortured her?”
“He hurt Cecilia? You were protecting her. He was bleeding. She—”
“She will try to kill Gladstone and will fail if you don’t do it for her. You’re a supreme marksman. I taught you well. Get to it. Kill Gladstone.”
Felton squinted at his father. “You’re serious. Why are you like this? You’re going to die. Why are you lying?”
“It’s my habit to antagonize you, but I’m deadly serious. Cecilia wants Gladstone dead. He deserves it. The man who does it will have her heart. I’m trying to help you and her. One of us should live to love her.”
The man clutched at his chest and shook.
Felton wanted his father to suffer for every twisted thing the man ever did, but he’d not stand idle. Instead, he went and put his hands to the man’s shoulders, steadying him against the pillows. Only the smallest inkling in his head wanted to smother the devil.
“Jane!” he called. “Get the goat’s doctor.”
With a gasp, the duke started laughing. “You’re not weak, Gantry. You’re my legacy. She needs you to be strong. Be me. Kill her enemy. Get our woman back.”
Other than Napoleon’s forces and the informant who led to Johnson’s death, the only person Felton wanted to kill was the man in this bed. Felton flung his hands away like he’d touched hell’s fire. “You’re insane.”
“Then tell her I want to see her. And that Jeremiah Gladstone will be here in two weeks to say his goodbyes. I’ll find a way to do what she wants. I will also get her the Demerara information. She’ll know what I mean.”
“Running shadow networks while you’ve a foot in the grave.”
“Tell her and she’ll be here. She’ll come back to me.”
This was Tramel’s master play, bits of truth wrapped in lies. “I’m leaving with the painting. Pass in peace.”
* * *
Felton had given each of his girls a goodbye embrace and was halfway down the stairs, when Jane chased him. “Gantry, stop. The painting. Father’s mumbling about a painting.”
“Must be on my way, sister.”
“But he could die, Felton.”
If he said he didn’t care, that would be mostly true. There was always a part of a son that wanted honor in his father’s eyes. Felton shook himself of the sentiment. He was foolish, just like Tramel said. “It takes a great deal to kill a bull. There’s more time.”
He looked over the stair railing where his extended family would soon gather, pretending to mourn. Would Cecilia come just to kill Gladstone? What had Gladstone done to warrant death?
“Felton, please stay. I need you.”
“You can run this house until I’m back. That’s what you’ve wanted to do, control my house or the one that will be mine. And I’m retrieving Cecilia per Tramel’s orders.”
Jane shook her fists. “How can you both still be so devoted to a woman who left each of you?”
“Just lucky, I guess.” He trotted down the final treads.
“Felton!”
“She’s some kind of woman, sis. It’s not a competition though. You can be too when you’re not fretting about who gets applause.”
He left his sister with her reddening cheeks and climbed into his carriage. Felton needed to get to Cecilia and dissuade her from murder. Tramel lied a lot, but not about Cilia.
If she indeed wanted Gladstone dead, his crime must be egregious.
He sat back against the seat holding the wonderful Port Royal painting.
