His eyes slid over Lord John’s body. Then as he always would, he looked up and sought Grace. Drawn and shaken, she huddled in the Earl of Wyndhurst’s arms. Once more, her strong resemblance to the older man struck him.
Why did she turn to someone else for comfort? Couldn’t she see that Matthew starved for her merest touch? She must know how he longed to hold her.
“Egad, Sheene, that’s the best damned shooting I’ve ever seen!” the duke said. “I take my hat off to you.”
“I couldn’t let him harm her,” Matthew said in a flat voice. Jesus, he felt flat.
With a deliberate movement, he set the gun down on the table to which he’d been bound so often. It gradually seeped into his mind that nobody would restrain him again. The thought seemed distant, unimportant, as though it applied to someone else.
Lord John was dead. Monks was dead. Filey would face justice. Matthew should be shouting to the skies.
When he’d imagined his release, he’d pictured himself incandescent with joy. But his emotions felt frozen.
“Remove this rogue. The law will deal with him,” the duke told the men who held Filey.
“I were but Lord John’s servant, Your Grace. I did nowt but what I were told,” Filey said in his cringing way. He wasn’t wasting any grief on his employer or his long-term colleague, Matthew noted sardonically.
“That’s not true. He’s guilty and I will see he’s punished.” Matthew had promised himself he’d kill this brute. Now his taste for spilling blood had faded. As far as he was concerned, the courts could decide Filey’s fate. If the evidence against Lord John was as convincing as the duke claimed, Filey would hang.
He hardly cared. All that mattered was Grace. He fought the urge to rip her from the earl’s grasp.
After the armed men hauled Filey away, the duke glanced around the room with displeasure. “I can hardly breathe. Newby, open the windows. Fenwick, find some clothing for Lord Sheene. He can’t appear at Windsor in his shirtsleeves. He can wash and shave when we change horses.”
Windsor? What was this? “Your Grace, what are your plans?”
The duke glanced at Matthew then over to where Grace huddled in the Earl of Wyndhurst’s arms. “I’ll explain on the road. Time is of the essence. His Majesty awaits. Jones and Perrett, remove the bodies. It’s a confounded charnel house. Then I require privacy with Lord Sheene, Lord Wyndhurst, and this lady.”
The servants cleared the room. Cool air rushed in and teased at the edges of Matthew’s strange detachment. He struggled to accept the startling truth that he was free. His enemies were routed. His nightmare was over.
When they were alone
at last, he extended his hand to the duke. “Sir, I thank you for your intervention. May I know to whom I owe my gratitude?”
“Of course,” the duke said, shaking Matthew’s hand with hearty strength.
“Lord Sheene.” Grace stepped away from the earl and toward him. Still not close enough to touch, though, damn it.
The formality of address struck him as discordant even while her husky voice fell on his yearning soul like balm on a wound. He supposed like her mask, her use of his title was designed to preserve her reputation.
No, that couldn’t be right. The men present must know who she was.
Bafflement surged anew. What game was she playing? He forced himself to concentrate on what she said even though his deepest instinct was to snatch her up and kiss her until she stopped treating him like a distant acquaintance.
Her mouth turned up in a faint smile as she gestured to the duke. “Allow me to introduce my godfather, the Duke of Kermonde.”
Her godfather? His father’s old friend Kermonde? He’d had no idea her connections stretched so high.
Grace turned to the other man. “And my father, the Earl of Wyndhurst.”
Astonishment held Matthew silent. In a night of surprises, this was perhaps the greatest. His indigent widow belonged to one of the grandest families in England. He could barely believe it. Even while he managed a creditable bow, he struggled to make sense of everything. His muscles, still stiff from his long captivity, protested the movement but he ignored the twinge of discomfort. “Your Grace. My lord.”
“Are you hurt, Sheene?” Kermonde clapped him on the back and he almost groaned. “No need to test your sanity. Any man who shoots like that doesn’t have bees in his brain box. We have doctors here if you want them. They can poke and pry at you in the carriage if you feel need of their services.”
Doctors? He didn’t want doctors. He wanted Grace. Grace who already glided away to take her father’s arm. Grace who he noticed was dressed in the height of fashion. Grace who had touched him briefly when he was in chains, but who now left him bereft.
He didn’t understand. He was free. She was here. Why the hell wasn’t she in his arms? “Grace?” he asked dazedly.
But it was Kermonde who spoke. “You must see Lady Grace cannot stay. The risk of scandal is too great if her link to this matter becomes public.”