Rebecca didn’t know what to think as she hurried down the corridor, chaotic with departing guests. Thomas was the killer? How could that be possible? And now Kendra had disappeared, most likely gone to confront him. It was madness.
She skirted several trunks that had been packed and pushed out into the hall, awaiting footmen to load them onto carriages.
“Lady Rebecca!” Lady Atwood sailed toward her, looking irritable. “Have you seen the Duke? He should be here to see our guests off. ’Tis his duty.”
“He rode out to the hermit’s shack.”
“Whatever for?”
Rebecca wondered what the countess would say if she told her that the ornamental hermit she’d hired was the murderer—probably swoon or go into hysterics. Either way, she couldn’t deal with it now. “I haven’t the faintest idea, your Ladyship,” she lied. “If you’ll excuse me . . .”
Aware that Lady Atwood was staring after her in astonishment, Rebecca continued to hurry down the hall. As she rounded a corner, she collided with Gabriel.
“Oh, my. I beg your pardon!” she began, stepping back. Her eyes widened as she took in his appearance. She hadn’t seen him for days, not since his shocking attack on Miss Donovan, but she was stunned by the change in him. His skin was pale, stretched tight across his cheekbones, and a dark stubble roughened his jaw. Purplish shadows made his eyes look even more sunken.
Concerned, she exclaimed, “Good heavens, Gabriel. Are you all right?”
He hesitated. “I . . . I need to speak to His Grace.”
“He’s not here. He rode out with the others to see the hermit.”
“Thomas? Why?”
“Because he . . .” Rebecca shocked herself by bursting into tears. “Oh, dear!” She groped in her pocket for a handkerchief. “I beg your pardon! I’m overwrought. Miss Donovan . . . she’s gone missing.”
“What?”
She dabbed at her eyes. “The hermit may have something to do with her disappearance. He may even be responsible for all the murders!”
“No.” If possible, Gabriel seemed to pale even more. “No, Thomas is his manservant . . .”
Rebecca lowered her handkerchief and stared at Gabriel. “I beg your pardon?”
He raked a shaking hand over his hair, disheveling it even more. “God. I’ve been a fool. A bloody fool.”
Rebecca was taken aback by the look in Gabriel’s eyes: utter despair.
“If I had my wits about me, I might’ve saved the maid.”
“What are you saying, Gabriel?”
His mouth twisted. “Thomas isn’t the monster. But I know who the monster is.”
Rebecca put a hand to her throat, felt her pulse leap beneath her fingertips. “Who?”
64
Kenneth Morland stepped into the room, and smiled at her. “You are not in your best looks, Miss Donovan.”
Her heart was hammering so loudly that it was a dull roar in her ears as she regarded that handsome face above hers, unable to quell the horror as she thought of how he’d raped, tortured, and strangled the others. Her predecessors.
How can I die now? I haven’t even been born yet! she thought wildly. She struggled for calm. “What happened to you, Morland?”
Her eyes followed him as he walked over to a table that held more than a dozen flickering candles. He lifted a fabric bundle, and unrolled it. Metal glimmered in the candlelight.
Knives.
Mouth dry, Kendra jerked her gaze away from the instruments. Don’t look at them. Don’t think about it. “Something to do with your mother,” she continued. “All the girls resembled your mother when she was younger . . . you know, before she went nuts, and everything.”
He turned to look at her, his expression more puzzled than angry. “You have such a peculiar way of speaking. I daresay it is because you are an American.”
“Nuts, as in crazy. Mad. Cuckoo.” Her blood turned to ice as she watched him pick up one knife, inspect it carefully, and then set it down. Then he picked up another knife, a bigger one.
Panic broke loose inside her, splintering her control. Even though she knew it was hopeless, she strained against the handcuffs, tried to pull the chains from the wall.
Morland glanced at her, amused. “You won’t be able to get loose, Miss Donovan. You may as well accept your fate.”
Like hell. Still, she stopped moving, concentrating on her breathing, trying to work past the terror that was filling her lungs. She seemed to be drowning in it.
Her feet and legs weren’t restrained. Briefly, she fantasized about using her legs to snap his neck, like the femme fatales did in the movies. Unfortunately, the movies rarely reflected reality, and that maneuver was damned near impossible to accomplish. He’d have to be in exactly the right position. And even then, she’d only be able to disable him temporarily, probably not kill him. But it could buy her some time . . .
A small sound caught her attention. Shit. She’d forgotten about Thomas. Even if she had a chance with Morland, Thomas would intercede and finish her off. On the positive side, though, Thomas would kill her a lot quicker than Morland would.