“Foul play would appear to be in his interests rather than mine at present, though Dougie, I regret to inform you, is not long for this world.” He peered into the saddle room. “Damn it. It’s black as Hades in there.”
Henry Allen, cold-blooded murderer of innocents, was apparently afraid of the dark, thank God.
***
Astrid conversed with a homicidal lunatic, as if the man had come to call at teatime. Through the cracked door, Andrew had a narrow view of the barn aisle and could see his wife tethered by the hands as she was dragged toward the saddle room. Her captor was solidly built, though not as tall as Andrew.
Not as tall as Douglas Allen either. The dim lighting of the barn’s interior shrouded the man’s features when he turned to head down the aisle toward the saddle room, hauling Astrid behind him.
The saddle room held weapons—knives for trimming and repairing harness, farrier’s tools, and other items a man might use to take the life of a small, defenseless woman.
Astrid stumbled, and Andrew nearly bolted through the door to catch her. She righted herself, grousing at the fellow who dragged her through the gloom.
Andrew considered working his way around the barn from the outside, but the door from the saddle room on the outside barn wall might well be locked. The element of surprise was his only advantage, and he could not squander it. When Andrew might have slipped into the barn, the fellow contemplating Astrid’s murder yanked the saddle-room door closed and came stalking back up the aisle, forcing Andrew to give up his vantage point as well.
He eased the barn door closed the two inches he’d dared open it, just as the crunch of snow behind him warned him he was no longer alone.
“Greymoor, what in God’s name is going on?”
The voice was clipped, irritated, and far from welcome, for what murderer ever worked alone when he might recruit a willing accomplice?
***
“Your immediate family seems to suffer from a propensity for fatal accidents,” Astrid observed. Henry tugged her along, and she had no choice but to trot along behind him, like an obedient dog.
“They do, bless them. Father was my first stroke of genius, and then when Herbert became too… obstreperous, he was the next to go. I blush to admit I started a few rumors suggesting Herbert might have taken his own life—a diversionary tactic, of course.”
Henry passed the reins to one hand to fiddle with a lantern hanging from a crossbeam. “You are the first person to connect those two deaths, and they occurred in exactly the same fashion. Herbert moved, damn him, and ruined my shot, but it did the job, nonetheless.”
“And you think you can also murder Douglas, leaving you with the title?”
“Not a doubt in my mind—this one’s empty, bugger it.” Henry tossed the lamp aside, the resulting crash making the horses restive. “I will be creative, maybe sabotage his curricle, though I rather fancy it myself. I might hire somebody to call him out and anticipate the count just the least, most unfortunate bit—that sort of thing happens all the time.”
Something nudged at Astrid’s awareness, a flicker of light near the barn door, a shift in the air. Magic peered at the door too, suggesting Astrid hadn’t imagined whatever caught her eye. The horse also ignored his hay. Despite the cold, despite being as devoted to his fodder as any equine.
Keep talking.
Henry straightened and gave her his boyish smile. “You know, Astrid, the most difficult thing for me has been managing this whole business without having anyone—not one soul—to appreciate the genius of it. You should consider yourself honored. I would not be surprised if intelligent younger sons weren’t getting away with murder much more frequently than the world suspects. Now where”—he gave the reins a savage yank—“will I find a damned lantern with oil in it?”
“I don’t know, Henry. I am not familiar with Heathgate’s stables. When I need a mount, I summon a groom to fetch me one.”
Henry leered at her and stroked himself through his breeches with his free hand. “And do you need a mount now? We probably have time, and I can assure you, my attentions will make you forget Herbert—or that strutting pain in the arse, Greymoor—ever touched you. You complicated things too much when you married that one, Astrid.”
Her life had been saved at least twice over when she’d married Andrew—Astrid was more sure of that now than she’d ever been.
Henry stroked himself again, and nausea welled anew. Astrid could contemplate death more easily than she could defilement by this incarnation of evil, but if Henry wasted only ten minutes raping her, that was ten more minutes when a groom, stableboy, or somebody else might come along.