Everything happened very fast. Ringing footsteps sounded without, and a man burst through the door. John Spencer.
Before I could be startled at his sudden appearance, or wonder that he'd followed us here, he ran at Jack Sharp, howling murder, his face a mask of rage and grief.
A blade flashed in Sharp's hand. Brandon grabbed Spencer, stopping him just before he reached Sharp. Eggleston aimed his pistol at the both of them.
I saw this in a split second before I was racing up the stairs to Eggleston. Sharp pain flashed through my leg, then went numb. I hurled myself at Eggleston, even as he fired.
The shot went wide. The ball struck the chain of the heavy iron chandelier, shattering the links. Below, Brandon hurled Spencer out of the way, just as the iron wheel of the chandelier crashed down.
Eggleston screamed. Grenville, swearing hard, ran forward. John Spencer, panting, turned back in horror.
Brandon lay facedown beneath the chandelier, the arc of iron pinning him. The legs of Jack Sharp protruded from the other side of the massive thing, and he lay still beneath it, his face a mass of blood.
Eggleston screamed again. He came at me, fists waving. I ducked a blow and punched him full in the face. He went down, crying and cursing. I hit him again, and he collapsed to his hands and knees to the smooth floorboards.
I wrested the pistol from him, searched his pockets for any other weapon, then seized him by the collar and marched him down the stairs. The numbness in my leg wore off on a sudden, and the pain returned with head-spinning fervor.
"Lacey," Grenville said. He was crouching by the fallen chandelier, his hand on Brandon's shoulder.
I dropped Eggleston to the floor. He folded up into a ball and wept.
"Sharp is dead," Grenville told me.
"Brandon," I said hoarsely.
"Still alive. But this damn thing is heavy. I fear that…"
He did not finish the thought, and I did not want him to. The iron wheel lay across Brandon's lower back. The chandelier could have crushed his legs, or the organs in his body. I might be facing Louisa tonight, explaining why I had killed her husband.
John Spencer, still breathing hard, took hold of one side of the chandelier. I, too, locked my grip around the cold iron wheel, my hands shaking. Brandon lay utterly still.
Spencer and I strained to lift the thing. While we held the chandelier raised, faces reddening, Grenville grabbed Brandon under the arms and dragged him from beneath.
We rolled the chandelier away, exposing Jack Sharp's crushed and dead body. Eggleston cried out and crawled to him.
Grenville had turned Brandon over onto his back. I sat down on the floor and gently lifted Brandon's head to my lap.
His breathing was ragged and shallow. I gently slapped his face, his beard stubble scraping my fingers. "Brandon, old man," I said. "Wake up, damn you."
He did not move. His face was pasty white, and gray lined his mouth.
"Do not dare to die on me. Louisa will never forgive me." I patted his face again. "You know what she will say. 'Could you not take care of my husband any better than that, Gabriel?' And then she will look at me. You know how she does."
I kept babbling. Stupid, stupid- It had been just like him, to try to save Spencer at the expense of himself. Never risk yourself unnecessarily, he had once told me. But when it is necessary-by God, go out fighting, and make every blow count. Make your sacrifice mean something.
He had brought down a killer and saved Spencer's life and mine and Grenville's.
Grenville's muddy buff boots, buckles coated with grime, stopped next to me. His leg bent, and his knee in fine lawn breeches touched the board floor. He held a pewter cup of strong-smelling spirits. "Help me make him drink."
I raised Brandon's limp head. His hair was graying more than I'd noticed before, white strands mixing with the black. He'd be completely gray in another few years.
Grenville guided the goblet to Brandon's lips and poured a few drops of liquid inside. For a moment, Brandon lay unmoving, then his body spasmed weakly, and he coughed. Ruthlessly, Grenville poured more brandy into his mouth. Brandon coughed again, harder, then his eyelids moved and he groaned.
His light blue eyes remained blank for a moment, then his gaze fixed on me, and his pupils widened.
"Oh hell," he said. His voice was little more than a croak. "It's you."
Chapter Twenty-one
I feared John Spencer would kill Eggleston before the constable arrived. The young man was beside himself with grief. I guessed correctly that he had followed Grenville's carriage here to Hertfordshire, as he confirmed. When I had left him earlier that day, excited about Spinnet's letter and my conclusions, he had grown suspicious of me and followed.
Upon arriving at this house, he had heard the noises inside, walked around the house to see if he could discover another way in, and had found his brother lying dead in the garden.
"You killed him, you dung-eating son of a bitch," he said.
Eggleston shook his head hard. "No! I killed no one. I swear to you. Jack did it. He said Mr. Spencer was spying upon us. And he was."
We had removed Jack's bloody body to a shed outside, and laid Kenneth Spencer more reverently on the grass.
Brandon lay on his back on the hearth rug in the sitting room. One of his legs had broken. My own leg ached and throbbed, but I had not broken it, as I'd feared. I'd simply wrenched and strained the muscles. I often forgot I could no longer run about with impunity. I sat now in a chair near Brandon, resting my foot on a stool. It did not help.
We had bound Eggleston's hands with rope found in the shed and sat him on a chair. Grenville held a loaded pistol loosely in his hands. He, too, was angry enough to use it.
"I for one will be happy to see you hang," Grenville said. "For my footman, if nothing else."
Eggleston's round eyes went rounder still. "I did not shoot him! I swear to you. It was Jack."
"You'll hang for Westin's murder," I said. "Or Spinnet's. Or Captain Spencer's. Which would you like?"
Grenville shot me a puzzled look. "Westin?"
My feelings of loyalty to Lydia had dimmed, and I decided it was time for truth. "He was murdered. Stabbed in the neck. His wife pretended he'd died accidentally, because she feared the savagery of the newspapers."
Grenville's eyes widened. "Good lord. You do know how to keep secrets, Lacey."
"He is ever the champion of the ladies," Brandon said dryly from the floor.
"I do not understand this," John Spencer barked. "He murdered Colonel Westin?"
"Yes," I said. I eased my leg to a slightly less painful position, gritting my teeth as I did so. "He learned that Colonel Westin had made an appointment with you and your brother, and feared that Westin would tell you the entire truth-how he and Breckenridge had conspired to murder Colonel Spinnet back in 1812 and make it look as though he had died in the rioting at Badajoz." I looked at Eggleston. "Captain Spencer saw you shoot Spinnet deliberately, did he not? He was so horrified, he ran to try to stop you. So he died as well."
Eggleston stared. "How do you know this? Westin did not tell anyone! He swore to us."
"He kept his word," I said. "Of course, you and Breckenridge made certain of that to the last. You and he together went to see Westin the day he died, early in the morning, probably, say when you would be returning from a gaming hell and Breckenridge would be up for his early ride. You either made an appointment with Westin, or he saw you approach, but he must have let you in himself, in his dressing gown, and taken you quietly upstairs."