“How did you learn about me?” Timothy asked. He sounded merely interested, unconcerned.
Caro looked at the pistol in Muriel’s hand; it remained resolutely steady, pointed at her heart. It was one of a pair. She hoped Timothy and Michael realized; she knew Muriel—she was an excellent shot, and she planned carefully. She’d organized for all three of them to be there; she wouldn’t have faced them with only one pistol, and she’d kept her other hand out of sight.
“You came to tender your condolences when Helen died. I saw you and Camden walking in the gardens. You didn’t look that alike”—Muriel sneered—“except in profile. I saw the truth then. If Camden could lie with his sister-in-law, why not others? But I didn’t care, not then—I was convinced that at last, now he’d lost Helen, and he was old, after all, at last Camden would open his arms to me. I didn’t care if he called me his niece and not his daughter, but I’d trained for the position.” Muriel lifted her chin. “I was excellently well prepared to act as his hostess at the embassy.”
Slowly, her gaze swung to Caro; the murderous intent that contorted her features had both Michael and Timothy stiffening, battling the instinct to move protectively nearer.
“Instead”—the words were deep, seething with barely suppressed violence; Muriel’s chest heaved—“you caught his eye. He ran after you—a girl younger than his own daughter and totally inexperienced! He wouldn’t talk to me—refused to talk to me. He married you, and made you his hostess in my place!”
Rage poured from Muriel; she physically shook, yet the pistol remained uncompromisingly aimed. “For years—years!—all I’ve heard is how wonderful you are, not just from Camden, but from everyone! Even now, you drop by out of the blue and every lady in the Ladies’ Association falls on your neck. All they talk of is your wonderful ideas, how capable you are—they forget about me, but I’m the one who does all the hard work. I’m the one who does everything right, but you always steal my glory!”
Her voice had risen to a shriek; Caro was so shaken she could barely take in the hatred spewing out in Muriel’s words.
“Driving back from the meeting at Fordingham, I’d had enough. I realized I had to get rid of you. I’d confiscated Jimmy Biggs’s slingshot and his bag of pellets the day before; they were lying at my feet in the gig as I followed you home. I didn’t think of them until you turned off to the Manor—it was the perfect opportunity, obviously meant to be.”
Muriel’s gaze shifted to Michael. “But you saved her. I didn’t think it mattered—there were other, probably better ways. I hired two sailors to kidnap and get rid of her, but you delayed her and they grabbed Miss Trice instead. After that, I didn’t trust anyone else. I would have killed her at the fete—again you pulled her away just in time.” Muriel snarled at him; stony faced, Michael held her gaze, aware that to his right, Breckenridge was edging farther away.
“And then I sawed through the railings above the weir. She should have drowned, but yet again you pulled her out!” Her eyes glittered. “You’re a nuisance!”
She looked at Caro. “And why didn’t you come to the meeting I arranged for you? Of course, you wouldn’t have met the steering committee, but some others I’d hired, but you never came.”
Strangely, Muriel appeared to be calming; her lips curved in a travesty of a smile. “But I forgive you for that. Because of it, I came here and looked around. I’d copied the key years ago, but never used it.” Her dark eyes blazed; she drew herself up. “Once I saw this place, I realized it should be mine. I deserved it—I deserved his love—but he gave it to you. Now I want it.”
Breckenridge took another half step away.
Muriel noticed. Realized what he was doing.
Everything slowed. Michael saw her blink. Saw her cold-blooded decision to shoot—he knew Muriel was an excellent shot.
Knew, absolutely, that in seconds Breckenridge would be dead. Breckenridge, whom Caro cared about, who through no fault of his own had become a target for Muriel’s hate.
And his death wouldn’t change anything; Muriel assuredly had the second pistol loaded and primed.
He wasn’t aware of making the decision; he flung himself at Breckenridge. Took him down in a tackle as the pistol discharged.
Caro screamed.
They hit the floor. Michael registered Breckenridge’s jerk—he’d been hit—but then his own head met the heavy iron claw-foot of an elegant chaise. Light exploded through his skull.
Pain followed, washing over him in a nauseating wave.
Grimly, he clung to consciousness; he hadn’t planned this—hadn’t intended to leave Caro to face Muriel and that second pistol alone….
He felt Caro leaning over them; she’d flung herself on her knees besi
de him. Her fingers touched his face, burrowed beneath his cravat, feeling for his pulse. Then she was tugging his cravat loose.
Through a cold fog, he heard her cry, “Muriel, for God’s sake, help me! He’s bleeding.”
For a moment, he wondered, but it was Breckenridge Caro meant. She shifted to work over him, trying to staunch a wound, where he couldn’t tell. He tried to open his lids, but couldn’t. Pain battered his senses; blank unconsciousness drew closer, beating down his will.
“Stop.” Muriel’s voice was colder than ice. “Right now, Caro—I mean it.”
Caro paused, froze. Then quietly said, “There’s no point killing Michael.”
“No, that’s right. I’ll only kill Michael if you don’t do as you’re told.”
A pause ensued, then Caro asked, “What do you want me to do?”