“I ain’t answering no questions,” he spat at her. “I’ll tell the gov’ner, I will. Tell him his old lady was asking me questions in the middle of the night.”
“Spare me your threats, Mr. Ward. Now, you shall answer my questions.”
“HELP! HELP!” the man screamed at the top of his lungs.
Celine shook her head, annoyed with him. “Your efforts are futile. No one can hear your screams, Mr. Ward. First question: Were you on the island of Martinique on the twenty-eighth of July 1786?”
“Aye,” the man answered. “I were there.”
“Did you on that evening kill the Marquis Gaspard Devereaux on his way to board his ship to return to France?”
“Aye,” the man said, his eyes glassy and unable to focus. “Squealed like a pig, he did.”
Celine closed her eyes for a moment, inhaling and setting her jaw. Anger coursed through her. Yet she restrained herself, pressing on with her questioning. “Why did you kill him?”
“To rob him.”
“Who ordered you to do this?” she questioned.
“No one, missus.” Damien's heart sank at the man’s answer. They had miscalculated. Celine’s father had been killed in a simple robbery in this chain of events. He stared at the floor, awaiting the wrath of Celine Northcott to be turned onto them.
Celine continued; her comments still directed toward the man. “Did someone order you to kill the Marquis Devereaux and claim the motivation was robbery?”
“I killed him and robbed him for a few coins,” the man repeated.
Celine fumed but held her temper. “I do not wish to hear your concocted story. I want the truth. Did someone order you to kill the Marquis Devereaux and claim the motivation was robbery? Search the depths of your feeble mind and answer me.”
The man remained silent.
“Tell me, Mr. Ward. I insist you tell me. Did someone order you to kill the Marquis Devereaux and claim your motivation was robbery?”
The man’s mouth opened and closed, but no sounds came out. “Answer me, Mr. Ward. Who is responsible?”
“I can’t,” the man moaned.
Celine grasped his face, squishing his lips between her thumb and fingers. “You can and you must. You are compelled to tell me. Who is responsible? Who gave the order for you to kill Marquis Devereaux?” Damien glanced to Michael. His eyes were wide as he watched the scene unfold in front of him.
“He did,” the man gasped out.
“Say his name. Who?” she barked at him.
The man swallowed hard. “I can’t, missus, don’t make me.”
“WHO?” her shrill voice inquired.
“Marcus Northcott,” he whimpered.
Celine trembled with anger. “Say it again.”
“Marcus Northcott,” he repeated. She stood, crossing her arms, staring into space, considering her next move.
“Thank you, Mr. Ward. And now you shall discuss this incident no further.” Celine waved a hand over his throat before snapping her fingers. The shackles fell open, and the man stood, trembling. “Go.”
“Wait!” Damien exclaimed. “He could go out and tell anyone what we did!”
Celine raised her eyebrow at him. “Ask him to describe the incident to you,” she suggested.
Damien, wide-eyed, glanced between her and the others.
“Did you tell Duchess Northcott about why you killed her father?” Michael asked.
The man opened his mouth to answer, but no sound emerged. Celine gave them a curt smile. “I assure you, he’s quite mute. Now go, Mr. Ward, before I change my mind to a more permanent punishment.”
The man raced from the room. Celine stalked to the back, retrieving her gloves. She pulled her hood over her. “Gentlemen, our business is concluded here,” she stated, pulling her gloves on. “We have established the validity of your claims.”
“Celine,” Damien said, approaching her and placing a hand on her arm. “I’m sorry.”
“I’ve no need for your apologies, Mr. Carlyle,” Celine responded. “What I require is the information you have to share. It is obvious you have knowledge of many things concerning my life. I must learn what you know.” She turned to Alexander. “You shall call upon me tomorrow, Mr. Buckley. You will offer an invitation to your country home in gratitude for the invitation I provided to Lord Blackburn’s ball. I shall accept and travel to stay there in two days, where we may discuss the matter freely. Are we clear?”
Alexander glanced to the others. “Uh, yes, Duchess Northcott,” he stammered, amazed at the turn of events.
“If we are to work together, please, call me Celine,” she stated.
“What about the Duke?” Damien asked.
“That is my affair, Mr. Carlyle.”
“Call me Damien, please,” Damien replied.
“Damien,” she said, nodding with a tight-lipped smile.
“I shall expect you tomorrow afternoon, Mr. Buckley.” Celine stepped toward the exit.
“Wait, Celine,” Gray responded. “Perhaps I should walk you to your residence. This part of town can be dangerous.”
“Thank you, Mr. Buckley. However, I do not require your protection. I am capable of defending myself.”
“Call me Gray, please,” he replied. “For companionship, then.”
“I’m afraid I wouldn’t make for a very good companion at this moment, Gray,” Celine admitted.
“That does not put me off,” Gray answered.
“Then you are welcome to join me,” Celine responded. “Gentlemen, good night,” she said to the others before stalking from the room. Gray followed her.
Michael, Damien and Alexander glanced at each other for a moment. “I suppose we should return home,” Alexander suggested when he gained his voice.
Damien and Michael nodded their agreement. They left the pub, beginning their walk home. A few minutes into their walk, Damien spoke. “Okay, wow!” he exclaimed. “Since no one else wants to say it, I’ll say it.”
“Ah, yeah!” Michael agreed. “For a second there, I assumed we were done. When he kept saying ‘I robbed him’ and wouldn’t admit it.”
“Then all of a sudden he just names him. Marcus Northcott did it. I was sweating bullets before that, too,” Damien admitted.
“Gentlemen, I must admit, I continue to be shocked at the events unfolding,” Alexander responded.
“At least it worked out,” Damien replied. “I’m glad for that. We felt awful about what happened last night.” Damien stopped walking. “If we had cost you your business or worse, I couldn’t have lived with myself.”
“I appreciate your sentiments, Damien,” Alexander
