England, October 1875
Having heard the baying of the duke’s hounds, the small hunting party spread out. The duke’s cousin, Matthew, moved to the left, while Edmund Huntington, the duke of Gravenworth, veered off to the right. The duchess chose to remain in the center. If all went well, the dogs would soon flush a worthy stag from the protection of the forest, momentarily disturbing the morning fog still clinging to the edges of the meadow.
A superb horsewoman, Antoinette set her frisky gray splendidly. As always, her mohair riding habit and hat mirrored the current Parisian fashion. However, her thoughts were not on horsemanship, fashion or the hunt.
As Antoinette drew her rifle from the confines of the saddle scabbard, a momentary frown creased her smooth brow, the only indication of the pain the effort caused. At least her clothes hid the bruises Edmund had inflicted last night.
Resting the weapon across her lap, the duchess glared at her husband’s back. Before Edmund had pulled ahead, she had seen his nostrils flare. He was already anticipating the kill. Antoinette’s full mouth spread into a contemptuous smile as she curled her finger around the trigger. Finally she raised the weapon to her shoulder and waited for the stag, already desperate to elude the dogs and death. But as if guided by some unknown force, she slowly moved the tip of the barrel until the back of her husband’s head came within her line of vision.
Five years of mistreatment flashed through her mind. From Edmund she had learned the meaning of loathing. How many nights had she prayed that some misfortune would befall him? She could end his tyranny here and now. All she had to do was squeeze the trigger.
A stag suddenly leaped into the clearing, not six feet from where Edmund had positioned himself. He fired his weapon, but the magnificent beast didn’t falter. The duke had again missed his target.
An unusual calmness befell Antoinette. as she looked back down the barrel of her rifle…still pointed at her husband. Could she kill him? Was she capable of such a monstrous act? It would be so easy.
A shot exploded in her ear. Her eyes became large green orbs as she watched Edmund sway in the saddle then slowly slide to the ground, the blood from the hole in his back already staining his yellow hunting jacket.
For a brief moment, Antoinette felt a sense of satisfaction. The next moment she was consumed with the horror at what she had done. The weapon slipped from her hand and fell helpless onto the ground. Pulling her gaze from the motionless body on the grass, she looked at Matthew. She desperately needed to explain that it had been an accident. “I…I…” Words failed her.
As Matthew put his rifle away, Antoinette could see his thin lips were spread in a sardonic smile of satisfaction. Suddenly she questioned whether she had indeed been the perpetrator.or Matthew?
“You murdered His Grace!” she called accusingly.
“I?” Matthew asked, his face mirroring surprise.
No! Antoinette thought. She couldn’t have committed the act. There was no sense of guilt within her. Suddenly, she realized the precariousness of her situation. If Matthew had committed the crime, he wouldn’t want to leave a witness behind. She yanked her mount about. She had to reach the hunting lodge and safety.
A swift kick sent the big gelding into motion, but Antoinette’s hesitation had allowed Matthew enough time to close the distance between them. His strong hand grabbed her horse’s reins near the bit, causing the animal’s head to be jerked about. It took all of Antoinette’s skill to keep her seat as the horse tugged, danced and kicked. Desperately Antoinette whipped at the hand holding the reins, but Matthew’s grip was firm. Finally she gave up her effort at freedom.
“You shot Edmund in the back!” she again accused:
Matthew’s smile didn’t reach his steely eyes. “Come, come, my dear. It was a poacher who shot him. Right?”
“There was no poacher.”
“Either a poacher,” Matthew said, and raised a meaningful brow, “or you.”
Antoinette’s throat filled with bile.
“Who else hated Edmund enough to shoot him? It certainly couldn’t be me. I would have taken care of the matter a long time ago.”
Antoinette raised a shaking hand to her throat. “No one will believe me guilty of so vile an act,” she said with far more conviction than she felt.
“Ah, but they will. Would it not be easier for the ton to believe that you were ridding yourself of a husband you despised while securing your unborn child’s inheritance, than for me, who gains considerably less, to have committed the crime?” He released the reins.
As frantic as she felt, Antoinette knew escape was impossible. “I…I suppose it must have been a poacher.” Her mind had become a sea of confusion.
“I’m pleased to see your recollection of this little mishap coincides with mine. I’ve always known you to be a wise woman, my dear. Actually, you did the world a service by putting an end to dear Edmund.” Matthew watched a crow fly by. “Just think. Had my father not been born six minutes later than Edmund’s father, I would be the duke. Ah, but as my father always said, trickery abounded that fateful night. He was the firstborn twin, you know, but because his coloring was not dark like the Huntington line, it was claimed that he was second.”
Antoinette had heard the story many times. Too many times.
Matthew pressed the soles of his boots against the stirrups and stretched his legs. “Now you carry Edmund’s child which again prevents me from claiming what should be mine. That leaves me, or perhaps I should say you, with two choices. Either marry me or die for your crime.”
The duchess opened her mouth to speak, but no words came forth. Marry him? All she could do was nod her consent.
“Good. One week after Edmund’s funeral we shall announce our betrothal.”
Antoinette gasped. “The town would believe the child I carry to be yours!”
“Exactly.”
A shudder crawled up Antoinette’s spine, causing the pounding in her head to increase. Her eyes desperately scanned the woods for any sign of help, though she knew none would be forthcoming.
“And of course with the child being mine, I will gain the dukedom,” Matthew continued. “I shall become your protector, so to speak. Now, my dear, we must make haste to inform the servants of the terrible atrocity that has taken place this fateful day.”
Your Grace, there is a messenger here to see you.”
“Thank you, Mrs. Cuthwell.” Ann went to the narrow entrance and accepted the message. As soon as she returned to the warm parlor she opened the missive and perused the letter from her father. It stated
that, after a lengthy meeting between her father and
uncle, the duke of Wilmington, it had been decided that she should join their brother’s son, Beau Falkner, in America and await the birth of her child. If she delivered a son, he would be the next duke of Gravenworth, thereby thwarting Matthew’s attempts to gain the title. Should the child be a daughter, then other arrangements would have to be made. Passage had already been booked on the Dolphin, one of the fine sailing vessels owned by W. T. Honeycutt, a close friend of her uncle. Funds had also been provided.
Ann crumpled the paper in her hand and stood watching the heavy raindrops strike the cottage windowpane. The dark, low clouds blotted out the sunlight, making it appear more like dusk than morning. A perfect cover for the daring plan she had been contemplating.