no one could hear him.
“I serve the greatest good of this country, and I do it well,” Giles flared.
“You serve yourself, and you are an egotist,” replied the figure. A slow, wry smile touched cruel lips. “But you are about to perform a far greater service. After all, as you have written, we must all be willing to sacrifice.”
Giles Brandon’s eyes widened.
Only now did he see the weapon.
“No!” he roared.
“You will serve your country, and I promise you, your eulogy will be…brilliant.”
Fight! he told himself.
He was a big man.
But, sadly, not an agile one.
He was barely aware when his feeble attempts at defense were thwarted. He didn’t even feel the pain.
He was aware of his own terrible scream…
Thoughts, madly, insanely, rushed through his head.
The pen was mightier than the sword. But a well-honed knife in the hands of a madman…
He felt the hot spill of his own blood; the darkness that had encircled the little haven of light surrounding his desk began to encroach. It flooded his eyes with gray and shadow. And then…
He reached for the paper on his desk. His article. Brilliant. Oh, yes, he was brilliant. His hands spasmed; his fingers shook.
He touched the paper.
He heard his own scream growing fainter, fading….
Scream, he ordered his mouth, his throat, but his body disobeyed.
He choked and gurgled, a horrible gasping sound.
That, too, went unheard beyond the walls of his office, isolated so that a mind such as his would go undisturbed by the annoying clatter of humanity.
Outside the world went on, the sound of hoofbeats on cobblestones and pavement loud. An automobile horn blasted. Music blared from one of the restaurants. A horse whinnied….
And behind the heavy draperies, in the office far from the street, all was finally silent.
Giles Brandon’s blood seeped into the fine Middle Eastern carpet as he stared with unseeing eyes.
He heard his heartbeat slowing.
Thump, thump…thump…
And then no more.
He died in quiet, in the silence he had craved, his last thought still an insistence that he was all powerful, the pen, mightier than the sword….
But flesh was weak and a knife sharp.
CHAPTER ONE
“DOWN WITH THE MONARCHY!”
Ally Grayson could hear the shouting as the carriage slowed. They were passing along the main street of the small village of Sutton, and she had suspected, even as they neared the town, that there might be trouble. Both saddened by the mood of the country and curious, she drew back the curtain of the carriage window.
People were milling about in an angry mood bearing placards that read “End the Reign of Thieves!” and “Royal Murder!” Some trudged the street in silence; others shouted angrily before the fine redbrick building that housed the sheriff’s office.
Sour stares met the carriage, but no one moved against it. Ally was on her way to see her godfather, Brian Stirling, Earl of Carlyle, an admired and beloved figure despite the fact he was an ardent supporter of sad and aging Victoria. No one would wield a finger against him, his property or those beneath his protection, as his carriage proclaimed her to be.
Still, the tension in the streets was ugly.
Ally saw several people she recognized. Just outside one of the decaying Tudor houses that were so common in the area, she could see the journalist Thane Grier, not taking part in any way but observing avidly. She took time to observe him herself. He was a tall, handsome man, eager to move up in the world and be recognized as a writer of note. She wasn’t at all certain what his opinion on the matter at hand might be, nor would he himself think it mattered. She thought—having read many of his articles—he would report objectively. He was not so determined to be an essayist as he was to be known for his acute eye and sound evaluation of the facts.
“See here!” came a shout from the sheriff himself as he emerged onto the steps in front of his office. “You will all stop this nonsense and go about your business!” he roared. “By God, what have we come to? Circus shows?”
Ally felt sore that the sheriff, Sir Angus Cunningham, would have the power to quiet the crowd. He was a war hero who had been knighted for his service in India. A big man, tall, broad-shouldered—and in the process of acquiring an ample girth—he had a head full of snow-white hair, muttonchops and a distinguished mustache.
Even so, there were a few more rumblings, despite the sheriff’s words. “Murder,” a woman cried out weakly. “Two men murdered—and them men who spoke out against the waste in Her Majesty’s court. Something must be done about a queen who condones—no, orders—such heinous and foul deeds.”
Ally couldn’t see the woman’s face. She was clad in black, a veil observing her features. She was wearing widow’s weeds. She did recognize the woman standing next to her, who tried to hush her and draw her into her arms. It was Elizabeth Harrington Prine, widow of Jack Prine, a valiant soldier who had died in South Africa. Through her husband, she owned thousands of acres just west of the forest surrounding the village.
“Murder!” the woman in black shouted again.
Sir Angus didn’t get a chance to reply. He was joined on the steps by an ally in the cause of justice, the elderly Lord Lionel Wittburg. Wittburg was taller but thinner, and his hair was pale silver rather than solid white. His reputation, however, reached back almost as long as the queen’s reign, and the country had always loved him as a stalwart soldier. He echoed the words that were in Ally’s own mind. “How dare you?”
But though he spoke the words full force, Ally sensed he was about to start crying, and she knew why. Hudson Porter—a man with whom he had little in common but who had been a dear comrade from his days in India—was one of the anti-monarchists who had so recently been slain.
A third man joined them. He was far younger, very attractive, a gentleman often seen on the society pages— a man who had the ability to charm those around him. “Please, this is unseemly behavior for good Englishmen. And women,” he added with a roguish smile. “There is no call for this, no need for this.” He was Sir Andrew Harrington, cousin of the widow trying to give solace to the woman in black. Hudson Porter had not been married, Ally knew, so the woman could not be his widow. A sister, cousin…lover? The other activist who had been slain, Dirk Dunswoody, had been eighty years old if a day at the time of his murder, and in all those years he had remained a bachelor, studying law and medicine, traveling abroad with the queen’s army for much of that time. Why he had turned so violently against the monarchy, no one knew, unless it was because he had felt
