Lord John and the Hand of Devils by Diana Gabaldon Read Free Book Online Page A

insures the initiate’s silence and his loyalty to the brotherhood.”
    A great coldness was creeping through Grey’s limbs, making them stiff and heavy.
    “And you have…have done this?”
    “Yes.” Everett contemplated the form on the bed for a moment, one finger gently stroking the blade. At last he shook his head and sighed, murmuring to himself once more. “No, I think not.”
    He raised his eyes to Grey’s, clear and shining in the lamplight. “I would have spared you, I think, were it not for Bob Gerald.”
    The glass felt slick in Grey’s hand, but he forced himself to speak calmly.
    “So you did know him. Was it you who killed him?”
    Everett nodded slowly, not taking his gaze from Grey’s.
    “It is ironic, is it not?” he said softly. “I desired membership in this brotherhood, whose watchword is vice, whose credo is wickedness—and yet had Bob Gerald told them what I am, they would have turned upon me like wolves. They hold all abomination dear—save one.”
    “And Robert Gerald knew what you were? Yet he did not speak your name as he died.”
    George shrugged, but his mouth twitched uneasily.
    “He was a pretty lad, I thought—but I was wrong. No, he didn’t know my name, but we met here—at Medmenham. It would have made no difference, had they not chosen him to join us. Were he to come again, though, and see me here…”
    “He would not have come again. He refused the invitation.”
    George’s eyes narrowed, gauging his truth; then he shrugged.
    “Perhaps if I had known that, he need not have died. And if he had not died, you would not have been chosen yourself—would not have come? No. Well, there’s irony again for you, I suppose. And still—I think I would have killed him under any circumstance; it was too dangerous.”
    Grey had been keeping a watchful eye on the knife. He moved, unobtrusively, seeking to get the corner of the table betwixt himself and Everett.
    “And the broadsheets? That was your doing?” He could, he thought, seize the table and throw it into Everett’s legs, then try to overpower him. Disarmed, they were well-matched in strength.
    “No, Whitehead’s. He’s the poet, after all.” George smiled and stepped back, out of range. “They thought perhaps to take advantage of Gerald’s death to discomfit Sir Richard—and chose that method, knowing nothing of his killer or the motive for his death. The greatest irony of all, is it not?”
    George had moved the flagon out of reach. Grey stood half naked, with no weapon to hand save a glass of wine.
    “So you intend now to procure my silence by claiming I am the murderer of this poor young woman?” Grey demanded, jerking his head toward the still figure on the bed. “What happened to her?”
    “Accident,” Everett said. “The women are drugged; she must have vomited in her sleep and choked to death. But blackmail? No, that isn’t what I mean to do.”
    Everett squinted at the bed, then at Grey, measuring distance.
    “You sought to use a noose for your sacrificial duty—some mislike blood—and though you succeeded, the girl managed to seize the knife and wound you, severely enough that you bled to death before I could return to aid you. Tragic accident; such a pity. Move a little closer to the bed, John.”
    Never think a man is helpless, only because he’s fettered.
Grey flung his wine into Everett’s face, then smashed his glass against the stones of the wall. He whirled on a heel and lunged upward, jabbing with all his might.
    Everett grunted, one side of his handsome face laid open, spraying blood. He growled deep in his throat, baring bloody teeth, and ripped the blade across the air where Grey had stood a moment before. Half blinded by blood and snarling like a beast, he lunged and swung again. Grey ducked, was hit by a flying wrist, and fell across the woman’s body. He rolled sideways, but was trapped by the folds of his robe.
    The knife gleamed overhead. In desperation, he threw up his legs