Andrew Lord of Despair(106)
“Now out!” Henry barked.
After a long moment’s pause, Andrew slowly emerged from the barn and stood in front of the door, his hands raised and clasped behind his head. The posture was humiliating, one forced on soldiers taken prisoner.
“You have only one blade,” Andrew pointed out. “You might as well bury it in my heart, Henry. There’s no love lost between my wife and me, and I doubt she’d testify against you. In fact, you could probably depart the scene and blame my death on her.”
“Oh, Greymoor.” Henry sounded positively gleeful. “I do admire this display of coolheaded reason, but it won’t serve. Astrid, I’m afraid we’re back to setting the barn on fire.”
“Henry…” Astrid raised her left hand, as if fending off a swoon. She sagged against his arm for further effect, but as her hand approached her face, she opened her fingers and flung a handful of sugar directly into Henry’s eyes.
“Astrid, down!” Andrew bellowed.
She rolled herself into the snow as Andrew dove at Henry and wrenched the knife from his hand.
“Hold still!” Andrew roared, sending the knife sailing across the stable yard. “Hold still, or by God I’ll murder you with my bare hands.”
He had Henry in a choking hold, his elbow hooked around the shorter man’s throat.
“Andrew, you can’t kill him,” Astrid panted, struggling to her feet. “He’s Douglas’s only brother, and he’s not—”
“He’s not sane,” Douglas said, emerging from the barn, his pistol cocked and aimed at Henry. “He’s cheerful, charming, good company, and willing to kill for the privilege of a viscountcy I neither need nor want.”
Henry seemed to grow smaller as Andrew dropped his arm and took a step away. “Douglas. You weren’t supposed to find out. You were supposed to be dull old Douglas, until—”
“And you weren’t supposed to leave Mother alone. I am slow, Henry. A plodding embarrassment of a brother, I know, and a pathetic excuse for a viscount, but the staff at least follows my directions when I tell them to report to me the comings and goings of family.”
While Astrid watched, Henry’s bewilderment shifted, his expression lightened, and foreboding gripped her by the throat. “Andrew, watch—”
She’d left the warning too late. Henry darted forward, snatched the gun from Douglas, and as Andrew bundled Astrid off to the side, the sharp report of a sizable pistol reverberated through the stable yard.
Douglas’s tortured, “Dear God, no,” reached Astrid’s ears while Andrew’s arms tightened around her.
“Don’t look,” Andrew rasped as he pushed her face against his shoulder. “Dear heart, please spare yourself and don’t look.”
Twenty
“What made you come out to the stables?” Astrid asked.
She feared Andrew’s reply, because when one person asked a question and the other provided an answer, it could be construed as a conversation, particularly when those two people were alone before a roaring fire in the Willowdale library.
Since Henry Allen had… died earlier that day, Andrew had not left her side. He’d kept an arm around her, a hand on her arm, or his fingers clasped with hers. He reminded her of a wolf, bedding down with its mate to maintain bodily contact through the long, cold night.
But they’d spoken little. Andrew had summoned Gareth and told him in terse language what had transpired. Gareth, after a few moments of outrage that his household would be further troubled while the marchioness’s health was imperiled, had calmed down and set about dealing with the practicalities.
Andrew had sent for the magistrate and the estate carpenter, who would measure Henry for his coffin. With Douglas’s consent, he’d directed that a place be made for Henry’s remains in an unused, unheated parlor, and dispatched notes to Lady Heathgate and to the Allen solicitors. A groom tore off for London to fetch changes of clothing for Douglas and David, and to determine the whereabouts of Lady Amery.
Douglas had been assigned a guest room, and David had been assigned to watching over Douglas, lest the events of the day result in any more pointless tragedies.
Between Andrew, Gareth, and David, it was agreed that Henry’s death would be labeled an accident, rather than a suicide, damp weather being notorious for making guns unreliable, even in the hands of men accustomed to their use.
Andrew seemed to share Astrid’s reluctance to begin a dialogue, for he took his time forming an answer to her inquiry regarding his trip to the stables.
“Gareth and I had been roughhousing in the playroom,” he said slowly, “and talking. Talking about… the past. I wanted to be in the saddle, wanted to go for a good gallop and clear my head. Cook told me you’d taken yourself out to the barn, but what about you? What drew you to the stables?”