Page 102 of Beyond the Grave
Lincoln stepped calmly aside.
"Marguerite, push this bloody chair. Julia, a carriage, driver and footman, if you please.Now!"
"You're just going to let him go, Fitzroy?" Buchanan's high-pitched voice was almost as ear-splitting as Marguerite's.
"He's not going to get shot for him," I said hotly. "Or for you. This is a family matter, not a ministry one, and I have a mind to let you all deal with him. We're not risking our lives for any of you."
"Really, Charlie." Julia's clipped tones fell like shards of glass in the silence that followed my tirade. "There's no need for hysteria. While I'm sure Lincoln enjoys being the object of your infatuation, it's not very helpful."
I wished I could think of a retort to put her back in her place, but for once, I was speechless. That annoyed me as much as her insults.
"Julia!" Edgecombe snapped. "Retract your claws and be useful, instead of decorative, for once. Ah, the servants are here. Good."
Millard had returned upon hearing the shouting, along with two footmen. They reared back when they spotted Edgecombe with the pistol. Each of them looked to Harcourt for direction—not Julia, their mistress, or Buchanan, the other regular member of the household. That must be galling for them both.
"You!" Edgecombe barked at one of the footmen. "Tell the driver to prepare a fast vehicle. Go!" As he ran off, Edgecombe turned to the other footman. "You look strong. You'll be assisting me. Wheel this chair, since my sister refuses to get off her arse. Do it backwards so that I may keep my eye on them all. And don't try anything stupid."
Harcourt gave a slight nod, and the footman complied, taking a wide, circuitous route to the back of the wheelchair without taking his wary gaze off Edgecombe.
"You won't get far," Lincoln said as Edgecombe rolled past him and out of the drawing room. "That's a four-barrel pistol. We're more than four."
"I'd wager you're not willing to risk four lives to capture me."
"You don't know me very well if you think that."
There were several intakes of breath in the drawing room, but mine was not among them. I knew Lincoln wouldn't take such a risk. Two months ago, yes, but not anymore. Particularly when one of the lives at risk was mine. He was not the cold-hearted killer some—including himself—thought him to be.
"Perhaps I'll start with you." Edgecombe swung the pistol in Lincoln's direction to another round of gasps, this time including mine. Lincoln didn't move.
Nor did Edgecombe. The footman had stopped and stepped away, his shaking hands in the air. "Get back here, you fool!" Edgecombe shouted. The footman glanced at each of us and at Harcourt's nod, he once again took the wheelchair handles and dragged Edgecombe backwards out of the drawing room.
"If you do not shoot anyone, there is a chance you will walk free and the family will sweep this under the carpet," Lincoln told Edgecombe. "You can live as you were."
"Not bloody likely," Harcourt said in a low threat that may not have reached Edgecombe's ears. "I don't want him in my house after this. Marguerite, cease your appeals. You cannot ask that of me." His gentle pats on her back didn't placate her as she fell into a teary mess against the back of the sofa.
"Nobody has askedmewhat I wish," Buchanan said. "Where is my justice?Iwill not sweep this under the carpet." He stepped forward onto a creaking floorboard.
Edgecombe pointed the pistol at him.
"Don't shoot!" Julia shouted.
"Andrew!" Marguerite flung herself at Buchanan, her body between him and her brother. "Don't do this, John. It's madness."
"Perhaps I ought to be the one in Bedlam then." Edgecombe's harsh cackle had me thinking that he was right. The suddenly serious, cruel twist of his mouth only reinforced my opinion. "Move, Marguerite. Give me a clear shot at the prick. He deserves to have his life ended the way he ended mine."
"You're not dead, John!"
"Might as well be."
"If you kill him," Lincoln went on, in that unruffled tone of his, "you will be arrested for his murder."
"Be quiet," Edgecombe hissed. "Marguerite,move!"
Marguerite broke into hysterics against Buchanan's shoulder. He winced and patted her back as if he couldn't stand to have his borrowed clothes spoiled by her tears.
Harcourt looked away as his wife fell to pieces over her lover. Only Julia remained unmoved, and the spirit of Cleves too, as he stood near Lincoln, his presence forgotten by all except me. If only there was a dead body nearby that I could force him to enter, so he could overpower Edgecombe for us.
But there wasn't. We had to use Earthly means.
