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“What are brothers for?” Ryan whispered, then turned away.
* * *
When Christina and her grandfather arrived back at Tyburn, the crowd had thinned, now suspecting there would be no hanging today. The Lord Mayor and the magistrate both waited on the scaffold, as Grandfather had sent them notes requesting.
Drexell remained standing on the cart, rope looped about his neck. Sweat drizzled down his forehead. Someone had removed his coat down to his bound wrists, torn away his cravat and unfastened the top two buttons of his shirt.
Several women stood around him, calling out invitations. Christina could understand why. But in spite of his good looks and his good reasons, Drexell had lied, deceived, controlled and manipulated.
Why, then, did she still ache for him? Love him? She understood his motives—no sense in lying—but could she ever trust him again?
Her feelings were irrelevant. If this charade freed Drexell, their marriage could not continue. Christina doubted he would ever understand her, never love her enough to respect her autonomy. Certainly, all of his patience and
“understanding” during the early days of their marriage had been a ruse to win her over, earn her trust. She could never accept his emotional shackles again.
He lifted his dark, wolf-like gaze to her. A hungry mixture of pain, pleading and predatory desire filled his eyes. She lifted a cold chin and glanced away, but trembled inside.
He would not let her go easily.
Drawing in a deep breath, Christina turned to find her grandfather, the Lord Mayor and the magistrate conferring. The Lord Mayor, William Domville, shrugged and nodded. The magistrate shook his head, his vehement argument evident in his wild hand gestures. She climbed the scaffolding and walked to its far edge, glad to put distance between her and Drexell.
As Christina approached the trio, her grandfather snapped a reply to the magistrate. “I saw the miscreant myself. He spoke to me and my granddaughter. He wore the Black Dragon’s garb and commanded the Black
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Dragon’s ship. What else can one think but that Drexell Cain-Ashmont was falsely convicted?”
“You’re certain?” the magistrate pressed.
“Quite. He fits the description given in the anonymous letter perfectly—
height, facial characteristics, hair color.”
“But Lord Drakethorne’s tattoo,” the magistrate insisted. “It is very distinct, would you not agree?”
Christina held her breath, hoping Grandfather handled this point with the utmost caution.
Grandfather nodded, then added, “A tattoo alone proves nothing. Any man can mark his skin in most any Asian port.”
The magistrate shook his head in denial. “I will not turn this man free. You merely attempt to save your family from further scandal. Justice cannot be perverted in this way!”
Christina winced and bit her tongue.
“The perversion of justice would be to hang an innocent man,” the Lord Mayor jumped in. “A search of Drakethorne’s belongings found none of the accompaniments of an infamous privateer. As Manchester points out, a tattoo proves little except that fact the man was probably a drunken fool at one point in his life. I could say the same of you on several occasions, Gerald.” Domville chuckled. “That leaves us with nothing, except an anonymous letter from someone who may hate Lord Drakethorne enough to disgrace him into death.”
Manchester shrugged. “We can wait until the next Quarter Session, of course. But, based on my testimony and with the Lord Mayor’s backing, I believe the Assizes will reverse your verdict, which will leave you an unpopular man for wasting their time.”
“I do not like this sudden method of justice!” the magistrate hissed. “Such matters should be carefully considered—”
“Cain-Ashmont was convicted in twenty-five minutes based on circumstance,” Manchester pointed out.
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The Lord Mayor said, “Call off the execution and reverse his conviction, Gerald. Manchester is right. If you want to keep your post at Old Bailey, you cannot afford to have the others dislike your methods.”
With a resigned grunt, the magistrate conceded, “Fine, but our security for the seas will fall on your conscience.”
Grandfather smiled icily. “As it always does.”
The Lord Mayor made the announcement to the last of the crowd, who booed and hissed before exiting the Tyburn Fair in a trample and a cloud of dust.
The Under Sheriff cut Drex down. Christina watched her husband tear away his coat and roll the stiffness from his broad shoulders.
She released a sigh of relief. He was free.
And so was she.
But she couldn’t take her eyes off Drexell. Powerful, sleek. Utter masculine beauty personified. Their marriage, if not legally, was over in substance. When they separated, she would largely have the advantages of widowhood to set up her own house, lead her own life. She planned independence, no matter that he would fight her.
“No!” a woman screeched above the din.
Christina turned to find Lady Allyn advancing toward her grandfather. She frowned with confusion.
“Have you all become daft, to release the Black Dragon?” Lady Allyn screamed. “He is your man, I tell you. This miscreant destroyed your ships and brought fear to the greatest Navy on earth, and you set him free?”
Lord Allyn rushed to her side. “Agnes, what are you doing? They’ve released him. There is nothing further we can do.”
Lady Allyn shook off her husband’s restraining touch and pulled a gun from her reticule. Christina’s heart stopped when she pointed the barrel at Drexell.
The players on the scaffolding gasped collectively.
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“You’ve done nothing but sneer petty insults at your nephews,” Lady Allyn went on. “Did you really believe that would send them packing so you could become the next earl?” Her laugh mocked him. “You never were bright, Milton.”
She turned to Drex, thrusting her weapon closer to his heart. “You’re not fit to become Ashmont’s next earl. I tried to remove you from your father’s path, but you refused to leave and you refused to die, no matter how I attempted.”
“You tried to have me killed?”
She stepped closer, a vicious gleam in her small gray eyes. “I informed Manchester of your activities anonymously, yes.”
“You hired others to kill me, as well.”
“More than one person, including a fool named Talbot, who managed to get himself stabbed and tossed into the Thames instead,” she hissed. “After twenty-one years of marriage to a man I neither like nor respect, I will not allow you to inherit the earldom, or to make your whorish wife a countess. I was born to be countess. A grand hostess, you base-born menace.”
Behind her, Lord Allyn grabbed her arms. Agnes struggled and shrieked,
“What are you doing, Milton? I will rid us of this albatross if you will let me pull the trigger.”
Her husband struggled to control her. “Did you plan to kill Ryan as well?”
“Somebody must if you’re to become earl. Do you have the stomach for such a deed?” she panted, twisting against his hold. Her hand, still clutching the gun, flailed in the air.
“And what of Ryan’s son, Rory?” the earl asked. “Were you planning to murder a five year-old?”
She jerked from her husband. “One does what one must.”
The lady pointed the weapon at Drex again. Christina felt numb, as if the scenario were being played out in slow motion. Lady Allyn’s finger moved. A loud retort sounded in the air.
The bang shook Christina from her lethargy. She dashed to Drex’s side, expecting to see his blood spill across his chest. God, would he writhe in agony and die at her feet?
Instead, Lady Allyn collapsed, clutching her shoulder.