Dark Angel (Gentlemen of the Order 4)

“Manning told you?” Panic flashed in his eyes. His face turned ashen, and his hands shook so violently she feared he would accidentally press the trigger.

Oh, her heart was breaking, yet she managed to say, “Mr Manning enjoys seeing his victim’s face contorted in pain. When I told him I was Henry Watson’s daughter, he couldn’t wait to torture me with the truth.”

John Sands scrubbed his hand down his face. Beads of sweat formed on his brow, though it was so cold in the carriage her fingers and toes were numb.

“I don’t know what he said, but it wasn’t my fault.”

“He said it was your idea.”

“To steal valuables, not shoot the occupants. I met Manning the day your father came to town to question the countess.” He stared at a point above her head, lost in the memory of the past. “Told him I had a plan to get the money, told him I intended to follow your father home and rob his wealthy clients.”

The mind was a powerful thing. She wanted to crumple to the carriage floor and cry until there were no more tears left to shed. But the logical part of her brain kept firing questions, constructing possibilities.

Two men held up the coach. Two men fired.

One man was nervous. One man had no conscience.

Had John Sands and Mr Manning committed this evil act together?

“But Mr Manning had another plan,” she said, testing her theory.

The pathetic man trembled in his seat. He covered his mouth with his hand and made a weak, wailing sound. But no tears came. No apology. No pleas for the Lord’s forgiveness.

“When Manning told me what I owed with the added interest, I’d have had to rob Coutts bank to clear the debt.”

“And so you remembered that my father had named Aunt Margaret as his beneficiary.” A tear slid down her cold cheek. “Claiming his property and selling the house was your only option. Manning accompanied you on your quest. You shot my father, shot a devoted couple in front of their young son.”

A sob caught in her throat.

A pain ripped through her heart.

For Dante D’Angelo.

The victims were in a better place, but life was a form of purgatory, and Dante was the only one suffering.

“Good God! I didn’t shoot those poor people. Manning did. The man’s a blood-thirsty loon. He shot them for the thrill. Would have shot the boy, too, had I not intervened. I saved that boy.”

And when Dante finally caught up with him, he’d wish he hadn’t.

“You killed my father for money?” Beatrice clutched her abdomen and rocked in an attempt to ease her pain. “I’ve lived with you all these years and never knew.” She felt physically sick. “Did Aunt Margaret know?”

“Do you think I wanted to kill Henry? I told Manning I’d changed my mind, but the devil said he’d shoot Henry if I didn’t.” He reached across the narrow space and tried to grab her hand, but Beatrice jerked her arm away. “Manning would have killed us both had I not fired the shot. Then he would have come for you and Margaret, taken everything.”

“So you killed my father to save me? Am I to embrace you as the hero?” Anger gave her a sudden burst of strength. “Did Aunt Margaret know?”

“We were trying to protect—”

“Did she know!” Beatrice yelled.

“Yes, she knew!” he shouted just as loud. “She knew, but her only thoughts were for you.”

And that was why Aunt Margaret rescued a few measly notes and hid them in the chest. She could not meet her maker without leaving a clue that might lead to the truth. But after years of being controlled by John Sands, she’d lacked the courage to make a full confession. Instead, she had left it all to fate.

The hackney stopped at a turnpike next to the Green Man coaching inn. Beatrice had to push all emotions aside and focus on making her escape. She was the only person who knew the truth about Manning, and John Sands would likely shoot her than risk her telling Dante the tale.

The road narrowed slightly after the turnpike, leading them past a patchwork of fields and farmland. One could smell the nauseating stench of the tanneries banking the meadow, could see the men at work in the grey stone building in the distance.

“Where are we going?” she asked nicely—survival being her priority, not vengeance.