The Mystery of Mr Daventry (Scandalous Sons 4)

Alcock stepped forward. “Answer the lady else you’ll get my fist down yer measly throat.”

Sir Melrose denied any involvement.

“I—I might have silenced the man,” Warner wheezed, “had he not saved me the trouble and died in his sleep.”

Both men were liars. Yet every instinct fought against the idea that her father was murdered. There had been no sign of a struggle. No scratches. No bruises. Nothing to suggest foul play.

Because of the delicate nature of their work, and because of Mr Proctor’s death, Lucius had assumed the worst. Perhaps grief had formed the basis of his quest for vengeance.

“I am tired of this game, too,” Julia Dunwoody said. She walked calmly up to Mr Warner, though her shoulders were hunched and her cloak trailed the ground. She spat blood-stained spittle in his face. “I hope you rot in hell.”

“Step back, Mother.” Lucius sounded nervous. “He’s liable to kick you into the river.”

The woman smiled. “You’re a good person, Lucius, not like me.” She cupped his cheek with a surprising level of tenderness. “I’m sorry I’m not the mother you needed. But I know what these men are capable of, and I’ll not have them threaten you again.”

Julia stepped away and hugged the Scot. Then she whipped a knife from a sheath strapped to her calf and turned on Sir Melrose. “Give me the deed else I shall gut you like a fish.” She pressed the tip of the blade to the man’s chest. “Now!”

With shaking hands, Sir Melrose reached into his coat and withdrew the folded papers.

“Angus, take the deed and check the information.”

The Scot obeyed. He snatched the papers and scanned the script. “Aye, this is the deed for Millhouse.”

“Take it and leave,” Julia said, but did not lower her weapon.

“I’ll nae leave now.”

“We agreed.”

“I’ll nae leave ye.”

Julia gave a resigned sigh. “Remember how helpless I was as a child?” She coughed again. “I’m not helpless anymore, Angus.” She stared into Sir Melrose’s eyes. “I can take only one of you with me,” she said, bitterness coating every word as she plunged the blade into Sir Melrose’s chest. “And Warner has less chance of escaping the noose.”

For a few heartbeats, everyone gawped in stunned silence.

Julia grabbed hold of Sir Melrose as he sagged forward, his mouth and eyes wide with shock, with pain. With surprising strength, she held on to him as she plunged into the river.

“No!” Lucius cried. He relinquished his hold on Warner, instructed Wycliff to take the steward prisoner and dived into the river after his mother.

“Lucius!” Fear chilled Sybil to the bone. “Lucius! Merciful mother! Someone help him!”

How did a man swim with his hands bound?

How did a man swim with cold limbs?

Bower appeared through the fog. She had forgotten he’d been tasked with following Sir Melrose. The butler stripped off his coat without uttering a word and dived into the Thames.

“Trent, hold Warner.” Mr Wycliff shrugged out of his shabby coat and entered the water, too.

Angus dashed tears from his eyes. “I’d help, lass, but I cannae swim,” he said, his voice shrill with horror as he held his lantern aloft. “Julia hadnae thought the lad would follow.”

Despite her parting comments, Julia Dunwoody knew little of Lucius’ character. She didn’t know of his abiding loyalty, of his determination to see justice prevail. She didn’t know that his need to feel loved had him clinging on to the thinnest shred of hope.

From the depths of the fog, someone surfaced and gasped.

The cries of boatmen rent the air, followed by shouting and violent splashing.

Terror held Sybil in a stranglehold.