She and Charles reached the steps, passing the man; as they climbed to the terrace, she suddenly knew-was absolutely certain-but didn’t know why. She didn’t dare look back; forcing her mind to retread the last minutes, she reviewed all she’d seen.
Charles noticed her absorption. He looked at her, caught her eyes, a question in his.
They reached the music room and stepped over the threshold; she exhaled and sank her fingers into his arm. “He’s here.” Across the room, she met Dalziel’s eyes as he rose from a chair against the wall. “He’s the gardener weeding the beds by the steps.”
“You’re sure?” Charles kept his voice low.
She nodded. “He doesn’t look the same-he’s dyed his hair-but his hands-no gardener has hands like that.”
Charles looked at Dalziel, who nodded. “Your move.”
Charles returned his nod, looked at Penny, lifted her hand to his lips. “Remember your part.”
“I will.” She squeezed his hand and let him go.
Turning, she watched as he strode back onto the terrace. She followed as far as the open French doors and reported for Dalziel and Amberly in the room behind her. “Fothergill’s gathered his things and is walking off across the lawns toward the back of the house. Charles has just reached the lawn.”
“Here-you! Wait!”
Charles’s voice reached them. Penny watched as Fothergill glanced back, realized Charles wasn’t far behind. He dropped his tools and ran.
“He’s off. Charles is following.”
Inwardly, she started to pray. They’d assumed Fothergill wouldn’t try to face Charles, but would lead him well away from the house. The grounds were extensive, with large areas devoted to gardens and stands of trees and shrubs-lots of places to hide and lose a pursuer.
If they’d assumed wrong, Charles would face Fothergill alone. Waiting, not knowing, not doing, was harder than she’d thought, but she’d accepted they had to script their play that way to leave Fothergill believing he was still in control.
So she waited and watched, and prayed.
Charles raced after Fothergill, keeping him in sight, simultaneously keeping mental track of their progress through the grounds. As they’d guessed, Fothergill was leading him away from the house; he didn’t stick to the gardens, but plunged into a wooded stretch. Charles saw him leaping down a winding path; following, he forged up the rise beyond, followed the path over the crest-and saw no one ahead of him.
Bushes closed in a little way along; Fothergill might have made their shelter in time. Charles felt certain he hadn’t. There was a minor path to the left that would lead back to the house; catching his breath, he plunged on, keeping to the major path heading away from the house. He didn’t glance back; senses on a knife-edge, he strained to hear any movement behind him-anything to suggest Fothergill was intent on becoming his pursuer and killing him.
He heard nothing. Not a rustle, not a snap. Beyond the thick bushes he moved off the path, halted and listened.
Nothing near. Closing his eyes, he concentrated, senses searching.
Faint, at some distance, he detected a large animal moving stealthily back toward the house.
Fothergill had swallowed the bait.
Lips curving in a cold smile, Charles turned and headed across the grounds; he needed to get into position for his next appearance in their play.
Once Charles had disappeared, Penny quit the doorway and went to sit beside Amberly at the pianoforte. As agreed, the marquess continued to tinkle out a melody-the lure to draw Fothergill back, to assure him his target was still there.
Dalziel had summoned reinforcements; two burly footmen and the butler, a stalwart individual, stood by the wall nearby, ready to provide additional protection if needed. By the window, Dalziel kept a silent watch over the lawns, waiting to see if Fothergill would behave as they’d predicted.
“He’s coming.”
The words were uninflected, curiously dead. Amberly dragged in a labored breath and kept his fingers moving unfalteringly over the keys; Penny briefly touched his shoulder reassuring, supporting. She looked at Dalziel. He gave no sign of being aware of anything or anyone beyond the man he was watching. Tension thrummed through him; he was a powerful, lethal animal, leashed but knowing the leash was about to be released. Poised to act.
Without sound or warning, he moved, walking to the doorway and stepping out onto the terrace.
Penny left her seat and equally silently followed; halting in the doorway, she saw Fothergill coming quickly up the steps, scanning the lawns behind him-back in the direction he’d led Charles.
Relief flooded her; Charles was still out there-Fothergill hadn’t attacked him.
Detecting no pursuit, Fothergill stepped onto the terrace, lips lifting coldly as he turned to the music room-and came face-to-face with Dalziel.
Three yards separated them.
Fothergill’s mouth opened; incomprehension filled his face. Then his eyes met Dalziel’s.
Fothergill whirled, flung himself down the steps and fled across the lawn. Toward the maze. Dalziel paused for an instant, then went after him.
Penny watched the pair race away, then Fothergill ducked through the arched gap in the high green hedges; a few seconds later, Dalziel followed.
Turning indoors to reassure the marquess, Penny wondered if Fothergill had yet realized that he was no longer running to his plan, but theirs.
At the center of the maze, Charles stood at the end of the long narrow pool farthest from the house, and waited. The maze was a symmetrical one in which it was possible to enter from one side and exit from the other. He could hear Fothergill approaching; his lips curved, not humorously. He’d predicted that in the absence of Fothergill’s favorite escape route-a shrubbery-he would instead use the maze, and he had. Whoever he was, Fothergill would shortly reach the end of his road; he and Dalziel intended to make sure of it. Cornering a man on an open lawn wasn’t easy; capturing him in a room of green twenty feet by eight feet was a great deal more certain. The yew hedges were high and densely grown; the only routes out of the rectangular court were the gap in the hedge at Charles’s back, and the other gap Fothergill was fast approaching, Dalziel on his heels.
Fothergill burst into the court-and skidded to a halt. Wide-eyed, he stared at Charles, then his gaze fell to the throwing knife Charles held in his hands.
Turning the knife lightly end over end, Charles demanded in rapid-fire French who had sent him.
Off-balance, his gaze locked on the knife, Fothergill swallowed and replied, confirming it was elements of the French bureaucracy attempting to conceal past follies.
“Attempting to cover their arses so that no one would know how gullible they’d been-how they’d been taken in, not once but countless times over the years by an English lord…is that right?”
White-lipped, Fothergill nodded.
Charles watched him like a hawk, ready to use the knife. Fothergill hadn’t yet reached for his own knife, but his fingers were flexing, tensing.
Behind him, Dalziel glided soundlessly from the shadows of the opening.
Straightening the knife in his hands, Charles waited until Fothergill glanced up; he caught his eye. “What’s your real name?”
Fothergill frowned, then answered, “Jules Fothergill.” He hesitated, then asked, “Why do you want to know?”
Charles felt all animation drain from his face. “So we know what name to put on your gravestone.”
It was done quickly, neatly, with barely a sound. Fothergill heard nothing, suspected nothing, not until the dagger passed between his ribs; Dalziel was that quiet, that efficient. That effective. Realization flashed through Fothergill’s eyes as he stared at Charles, astonished that retribution had caught up with him, then all life leached away, his eyes glazed, and his body crumpled at Dalziel’s feet.