“Nor the one you showed me. Could it be that the letters are a forgery?”
“Your lady herself confirmed that the handwriting was that of Charles de Spenser,” Sir Paul said, but Plum interrupted him before he could go further.
“I said I thought it was Charles’s writing, but I couldn’t be certain.”
“It doesn’t matter if de Spenser did write the letter,” Harry said softly. Plum was aware that Harry’s muscles were tense, as if he was coiled, ready to spring. “He mentioned nothing about Vyvyan La Blue in the letter. Which brings us back to my wife’s question — how did you know about it?”
Sir Paul’s head came up, his face filled with scorn and condemnation. “Does it matter? The fact is that your wife is a pornographer. That alone would be grounds for her arrest.”
“I think not,” Harry said smoothly. Plum eyed him warily, worried about the lack of emotion on his face. The sense of an animal about ready to spring was heightened by the way Harry moved toward Sir Paul, every movement filled with masculine grace and strength. “Plum? Who are the only people who know the identity of Vyvyan La Blue?”
“You, Thom, my friend Cordelia who would never reveal it, Mr. Belltoad the publisher, and Charles.”
Sir Paul started to protest, but Harry’s voice cut across it like a lash. “And of those five people, who do you imagine to be the most likely to tell Sir Paul who you were?”
She looked at the older man, noticing the line of perspiration across his brow. “I would imagine Charles would be the most likely.”
“That is ridiculous—”
“SILENCE!” Harry roared. His voice dropped to its normal volume, although he still spoke in that controlled manner that warned Plum he was incredibly angry. If he was suspecting the same thing she was, he had every right to be furious. “I concur with your reasoning, Plum. If we follow that idea to its logical conclusion, we must assume that in order to have heard from de Spenser the truth about Vyvyan La Blue, he must also have met Charles. Perhaps he met him last night. In the evening. As de Spenser left our home, driven out by the children, fleeing into the night like the coward he was.”
Sir Paul made an inarticulate choking sound, but said nothing.
“But how would he know Charles came to the house?” Plum asked, keeping one eye on the head of police. “How could he have seen Charles leave unless he was — oh!”
“Yes,” Harry nodded, slowly approaching Sir Paul. “He would have seen de Spenser leave only if he was passing at that moment — a coincidence so unlikely I won’t even entertain it — or if he was watching the house.”
“The children,” Plum breathed, her hands fisting as anger rose inside her. “He’s the man who kidnapped the children! He’s the one who threatened them, who tried to hurt them.”
Sir Paul stumbled backward as she lunged toward him, but Harry caught her and pulled her back before she could do more than inflict a few scratches.
“Everything you said has been the merest speculation,” Sir Paul said heavily. With a swift move he pulled a pistol from inside his coat, pulling back the hammer as he pointed it at Plum. “You have no proof, and as long as I am in charge of the police, you will not be able to buy justice with your wealth or title. Your wife will be found guilty of murder based on the evidence I supply the magistrate. She will be hanged, and you, my Lord Rosse, will be left to go on, to suffer long after justice has been carried out.”
“But why?” Plum asked Harry, her eyes on the man who stood before them. Harry looked completely bored, but she could feel the tension in the arm he slid around her.
“Sir William Stanford was Sir Paul’s brother. Why was the letter your brother sent you delayed? Or did it arrive fifteen years ago, but you took the time to make your fortune in Canada before seeking revenge?”
“So that self-righteous bastard of a valet turned it over to you after all? I should have taken care of him when I had the chance. William gave the letter to some damn fool servant who forgot about it. When he died earlier this year, the letter was found in his effects and sent on to me.” Sir Paul’s lip curled as he hurled curses at Harry. “I swore that I would have vengeance on you and your family for taking my brother’s life. You could have kept the manner of his death hidden, given him a hero’s burial, but you didn’t. You made sure that bit of scandal was on everyone’s lips, laughing at him, mocking him, mocking me for being brother to a coward. The fire in your house, the accidents I so cunningly arranged for your children — they are all on your head. I swore your family would suffer the same as I did when it became known that William took his own life. As for your wife, it was by the merest coincidence that I found out about her secret, but I fully intend to use it to bring about your destruction just as you destroyed my brother.”
“And what about me?” Harry asked calmly, as if the pistol weren’t pointed at Plum’s breast. Plum became aware that Harry’s hand against her waist was exerting pressure to pull her backward. No doubt the foolish man believed that if he shoved her behind him when he disarmed Sir Paul, he would not be shot because she was his target. That wasn’t true, of course. It was Harry he wanted to destroy. Dear Harry, normally so smart about these things, but this time, so obtuse.
Sir Paul smiled, a nasty, oily smile of pure malice that sent shivers of horror down Plum’s back. “If you do not allow me to take your wife into lawful custody, you will regrettably be shot and killed while attempting to keep me from the course of my duty. A tragedy, but alas, an unavoidable one.”
Plum knew Harry was going to strike even before he moved. His fingers tightened on her, jerking her backward as he lunged forward. She was ready for that move, however, and knowing that Sir Paul needed her alive in order to torment Harry, she threw herself between the two men shrieking, “No!” just as Harry grabbed her.
The blast from the pistol deafened her ears; the smell of gunpowder burned her eyes. Time froze as she stood in front of Harry, watching as surprise dawned in Sir Paul’s eyes. She looked down at herself, amazed to see a bloom of red on her side, quickly soaking her gown in an expanding circle.
“I was wrong,” she said somewhat bemusedly as Harry snarled an oath, jumping forward to knock the pistol from Sir Paul before grabbing him and slamming him against the wall of the library repeatedly until he hung limply in Harry’s hands. Harry threw the man down, rushing back to where Plum was gently prodding the red stain on her gown.
“I was wrong. He did shoot me. I don’t understand. I had it all figured out, but he shot me anyway. He wasn’t supposed to. Harry, I’ve been shot. Do you think I should swoon?”
“Plum, Plum, my beautiful, brave, ridiculously wonderful Plum, you may swoon if you like. I have it on the highest authority that all the best ladies who have been shot do so.” Harry swept her up in his arms, cradling her as if she was made of the costliest porcelain. The strain in his voice warmed her, driving out some of the icy pain that started to throb in her side.
“Will it harm the babe, do you think?” she asked, suddenly feeling as if Harry was a very long way from her. His voice was distant and hard to make out, and his face seemed to be dimming.
“No, the babe won’t be harmed. And neither will you. You’ll be fit as ever in just a day or two, you’ll see.”
“Oh, good. I think I’ll swoon now if you don’t mind. If all the ladies do it, I feel I should, too.” Now her voice sounded distant and strange, as if it belonged to another. She tried to cling to Harry, but couldn’t make her arms work. She relaxed against him, giving up the struggle, sinking silently into the oblivion that claimed her.