Then Comes Murder

A Shot in the Dark (part one)

Jacob Thornton-Spencer had always considered himself to be a somewhat rational man. Like most, he had his moments of pride and stupidity and passion, but, at his core, he was not ruled by them. Not when it mattered, at least.

Jacob thought of himself that way, that is, until meeting Eleanor Fane.

The woman threatened to burn away every last thread of reason.

He hadn't meant to speak so harshly regarding marriage. Jacob had never made his aversion to the institution of it all a secret, but he'd never spoken so frankly of his dislike. Moreover, it wasn't as if the thought of Nora Fane waiting for him at the end of a voyage was not appealing. The image of her wry smile from tangled sheets, the sound of her low voice, the sharp intuition in her storm-cloud eyes. Hell, it was more than appealing.

It was so damn appealing, for that matter, that Jacob could not ignore the flush of color at her throat as her mouth twisted in wavering reply. He knew he should apologize or explain: that would be the gentlemanly thing to do.

He could bow and smile and say something idiotic. Like Alton, he could try puffing out his feathers and awarding his most syrup-dripping smile. Well you see, Lady Eleanor, while you drive me mad with desire, I am unworthy of your hand.

He could grin roguishly and emulate George. If there was anyone who could smooth over a mis-said word, it was his older brother. That is to say, Nora, while I won't stand before a priest, I'd happily march to the ends of the earth for you.

Or perhaps he could explain with unforgiving honesty. How many happy marriages do you know? Margaret married a vile brute who had the decency to die early in their marriage. The Grays loathe each other. Caroline and George, for all their love, are ill-suited. My parents live to make the other miserable. Your father is a widow, is he not? What has marriage brought him except sorrow?

Jacob could have said anything, but he could not forget the taste of her breath, the feel of her skin, the sound of her gasps.

He could have said anything.

But he did not.

As if they had never parted in the rose garden, their lips met with crushing familiarity. Mouth against her neck, Jacob lifted Nora into his arms, forced her back to the wall. Their candles hissed as they dropped to the floor. Her sigh was hot in his ear, her fingers firmly twisted in his hair.

It was in these stolen moments with her, their skin against skin, that he forgot reason and purpose and pride...everything save the taste of her. A tiny voice in his mind reasoned that he was taking advantage. No matter how bold the woman might be, she had been faced with the insane and impossible and attempted to face it unflinchingly. There was no way her nerves were unaffected. Hell, Jacob felt his nerves fraying under the circumstances, and he'd seen death and battle and mayhem.

That tiny voice died as Nora wrapped her legs around his waist. What did reason matter?

To Hell with the consequences.

A sound—sharp and angry thunder—rattled the windows.

They paused, frozen in shock.

Not thunder. Jacob frowned. He pulled away reluctantly. No, this was too close, too brittle to be the storm.

Before the marrow-freezing echo of it faded, Jacob realized that Nora had stilled and stiffened. She'd released her grip of him and lowered her feet to the floor. Even in the darkness, he could see that her ear was perked towards the dark hall. Her lips were twisted into a confused frown.

They both knew the sound: not thunder, but the crack of ammunition.

"Do you think—"

Nora's whisper trailed into silence. She paled as flinty understanding sparked in her gray eyes. Her mouth suddenly dipped with heavy worry. That weighted understanding did not yet meet him. How could it? The sound did not make sense.

Jacob imagined the scent of metallic sulfur, the weight of cold iron his his hands, but he felt as if his thoughts and body were not longer connected. There was only one room in the manor that boasted a pistol. He could see it in his mind's eye. It was decorative, and unloaded, he'd always assumed, the mounted flintlock that glinted from its spot above the mantle. A prize some distant forefather had won in battle, his father had loved to boast. A double-barrel flintlock that posed no threat, save for to rust.

"The study," Jacob breathed. In his own ears, his voice sounded distant, as if underwater. "It had to have come from the study."

His heart hammered as wildly as it had his first days at target practice, his first hunt. His fingers trembled with that same tremor. Jacob clenched his fists. The sound of munitions on the seas had never startled him, left him so confused, a phantom caught between worlds. It felt foreign and wrong to hear the crack of gunpowder in his childhood home, no matter how unhappy it had been. It was impossible, he told himself: who in their right mind would fire a pistol in the middle of the night?

Before his thoughts caught up with his legs, Jacob realized he was running down the dark hall. It did not matter that he was near blind in the darkness, he knew the length of this black place like he knew the scars on his hands. He was faintly aware of Nora trailing him, her longs strides only a step behind his. She was saying something, as they ran, but Jacob no longer heard any sound save the steady racing of his heart.

Tucked around the bend of one of the private staircases, the study was barely twenty meters from the duke's chambers. Its dark-oak doors were closed. No light peaked from beneath them.

Jacob froze before them. He swallowed.

He could not explain the bite of fear that had settled in his blood, but it was there, sharp and insistent, just the same.

Nora was unflinching next to him. Though her dark hair was wild, her dress mussed, she looked every bit the stalwart general. Her jaw was tight, her chin held high. With a curt nod, as if she were convincing herself of her own courage, Nora twisted the handle.

The doors opened soundlessly. There was little light from the floor-to-ceiling windows; any beam of stubborn moonlight was suffocated by the storm's dark grip. A streak of lightening, framed in the rain-streaked panes, flashed across the night sky and illuminated the darkness.

Jacob could see a slumped figure on the floor. A dark stain pooled around it.

A thousand memories bludgeoned him. George and Charlie laughing over cigars. Running though the grounds, shrieking with wildness and freedom. George teaching him to ride; and then Jacob teaching Charlie. All of them bragging and laughing over their embellished victories, their more-embellished defeats. His mother smiling as they wrestled. Placing wagers over silly fights. Placing wagers over horses. Smothering their grins. Hiding sugar-crusted hands behind their backs when Mrs. Bell cried that her cakes had been stolen. Fighting over girls. Fighting over women. The perfect face of Caroline Howard.

And then the memories shuddered and faded to a sickening, roaring silence.

Stiller and paler than he had ever been in life, lay his brother.