As if sensing the unasked question on everyone’s mind, Rathbourne easily explained away the absence of the two youngest members of the household. If anyone doubted his glib explanation, no one ventured to contradict him to his face.
“Is Armand in the suds again?” Cavanaugh asked Deirdre in an amused undertone. They had removed to the tapestry room to linger over tea and a tray of Mrs. Petrie’s mouth-watering sweets. Rathbourne was fully occupied in reminiscing with Mrs. Dewinters about mutual acquaintances in Paris. Their low laughter was exclusive and exuded a familiarity of long standing. Deirdre’s jaundiced eye took in the actress’s long-sleeved creation in scarlet silk which suited her dark, dramatic beauty to perfection.
She became aware of Tony’s interested gaze. “Need you ask?” she replied, and she refilled his empty cup from the gleaming silver teapot on the low polished rosewood table at her elbow.
“Don’t look so serious. It’s nothing new, after all.”
Deirdre flicked a wrathful glance at her husband. “This is different, Tony. There can never be a reconciliation after today.”
His expression grew grave. “Is Armand confined to his room?” he asked softly.
“No. To the stables. He’ll be gone in a day or two. Tony, why is Mrs. Dewinters here?”
“I didn’t invite her,” he answered quickly. “And nothing would have induced me to bring her if I had thought for one moment that her affair with Rathbourne wasn’t over.”
“He denies that there is anything between them.”
“Then believe him.”
“You don’t, so why should I?”
There was no chance for further conversation, for Rathbourne was on his feet and peremptorily demanding that all the gentlemen repair to the billiards room for a game of billiards before retiring. The Dowager rose also, stifled a yawn, and made her excuses, saying that she had been ready for bed for an age.
The door closed, leaving Mrs. Dewinters and Deirdre the only occupants of the room.
“How was your stay in Paris?” Deirdre intoned politely, wondering how she could ever have thought to make a friend of the beautiful creature who sat so at ease and so totally unconcerned for the havoc she had wrecked in her life.
Mrs. Dewinters’s expression softened. “Paris,” she said, “is the city for lovers. I was fortunate to have as my guide a man who had spent some time there and knew the city intimately.”
Deirdre recalled Rathbourne’s malicious jibe that he had learned the art of lovemaking in the brothels of Paris, and her smile became fixed. “Your decision to remove to Paris was very sudden, was it not?” she asked with a creditable attempt at civility.
“Not really. I was hoping he would send for me, and he did.”
“And did he induce you to come to Belmont also?”
Mrs. Dewinters looked at Deirdre oddly. “No, he tried to prevent it. But I felt impelled to disregard his wishes in this matter.” She set her cup and saucer aside and said with a puzzled frown, “Gareth has told you about us, has he not?”
This was too much for Deirdre. Her smile faded and she said scathingly, “My dear, it seems that the whole world knew before I did.”
“But this is ridiculous. You can’t be jealous. I know that he paid you some attention when you first arrived in Brussels, but you must have seen how it was between us.”
This last brought Deirdre to her feet. “Certainly I saw how it was. You are welcome to him. I think you deserve each other. Do help yourself to more tea, and it goes without saying, to anything else which has taken your fancy. What a stupid thing to say—you already have.” She sailed with regal dignity past the open-mouthed actress, and made for the door. On the threshold, she turned back and said over her shoulder, “If you should chance to see my husband before I do, which I make no doubt you will, you may tell him I’ve gone out for a breath of fresh air. The stench of carnations in this room is practically suffocating! And furthermore,” she added pettishly, her eyes sweeping the diminutive actress from head to toe, “long sleeves may be all the crack on the continent, but in England, that fashion fell flat on its face. So, you see, Serena doesn’t know everything.” And Deirdre swept out of the room in a rustle of skirts.
Mrs. Dewinters looked after her hostess for a long bewildered moment, then comprehension gradually dawned. “Rathbourne,” she warned the empty room in withering accents. “Damn you, Rathbourne! You’ve done it again!”
Chapter Twenty-Six
Though the night was balmy, and there was not a cloud in the sky to shade the glitter of the full moon as it frosted the castle walls with its silvery reflection, Deirdre did not linger in her solitary walk around the perimeter of the bailey. Rathbourne, who was used to accompanying her every evening before they turned in, did not put in an appearance, and Deirdre told herself firmly that it was no less than she expected, and she almost convinced herself that she wasn’t disappointed in the least at his desertion. In other circumstances, her fertile imagination would have peopled the courtyard with knights on their magnificent destriers preparing to ride off to the Crusades, with fair ladies on the ramparts throwing down their favors to their chosen champions. But her thoughts on this night were far from pleasant and soon turned from Rathbourne and his immutable dislike of Armand to the scene in the tapestry room with Mrs. Dewinters. That her husband had transferred his affections to the actress never once entered Deirdre’s head, but it made her blood boil to think how easily he had reverted to form in Paris when she was not present to act as a restraint on his baser nature.
When she finally retired to her bedchamber, there was no comfort to be found there either. She sent Martha away and, without bothering to undress, lay down on the bed, trying to bring her fragmented thoughts into some semblance of order. But she was in no mood to be rational. She was buffeted by a whirlwind of emotions which left her feeling like a rag doll that had had the stuffing knocked out of it. “If this is love,” she thought miserably, “I wish it had never been invented,” and she began to imagine a world that had never been infected by that bane of humanity, deciding that it must be a very happy place indeed.
She must have dozed, because she came to herself with a start. For a long moment she thought that she was back in her room at the Hotel d’Angleterre and that she had been awakened by the sound of the guns in the distance. Something wasn’t right. She got swiftly to her feet and opened the bedroom door. Sounds of muffled voices reached her ears. She quickened her pace along the corridor till she came to the gallery which overlooked the Great Hall. Her hand rested lightly on the balustrade, and she looked down. Servants were hurrying about, but her eyes were drawn to a settee before the huge stone fireplace. O’Toole was bending over a half-swooning Rathbourne, whose face was as white as a sheet. She watched as Rathbourne’s dark jacket was eased over his shoulders. One arm of his white linen shirt was soaked crimson with blood.
Deirdre gave a little cry, then went racing down the stairs at breakneck speed and flung herself across the hall till she was on her knees before her husband. O’Toole moved back a pace, and Deirdre’s nimble fingers began to undo the small pearl buttons of Rathbourne’s shirt.
“What happened?” she asked O’Toole as she worked to remove the bloodied garment.
Rathbourne struggled to a sitting position. “It’s a scratch, nothing more,” he said weakly, and pushed her hand away. “Why weren’t you in the bailey? I waited for you to join me for our walk. You didn’t appear.”
Deirdre heard the petulance in his voice, and a wave of relief washed over her. She managed a weak smile. An injured man who could take his wife to task over some paltry transgression could not, in her opinion, be at death’s door. She splayed both hands over his chest and pushed him back into the cushions. “O’Toole, get brandy,” she said in a no-nonsense voice. “Oh, Beecham, thank you.” She took a bowl of hot water and clean towels from the butler’s hands and set them on the floor at her knees. As she worked on Rathbourne’s arm, she gave a spate of orders to waiting
servants and they moved quickly to do her bidding. Rathbourne watched her through half-lidded eyes.
“This wound was caused by a gunshot,” said Deirdre at last, and her fingers stilled. “The ball went clean through your arm. You’re very fortunate. What happened?”
The doors to the Great Hall were flung open and Tony Cavanaugh, with Guy Landron close behind, came in at a run.
“What the devil is going on?” asked Guy Landron tersely. “I heard a shot. My God, Gareth, who did this to you?”
Deirdre took the glass of brandy which O’Toole had procured and pressed it to Rathbourne’s lips. Her stern manner persuaded him that it would be futile to argue. He drank it back in a few swallows. O’Toole took the empty glass, and Deirdre immediately began to dress her husband’s wound.
Tony was impatient for answers. “I was on the ramparts, having a quiet smoke before turning in, when I heard the shot. What the devil happened?”
“You didn’t by any chance see who did it, did you?” asked Rathbourne, his eyes never wavering from his wife’s tense face.
“No! All I saw as I ran down the stairs was Armand running toward the gatehouse. I say, do you think he might be after the blighter who did this to you?”
“Oh no, I don’t think so for a minute.” Rathbourne’s eyes locked on Deirdre’s and her hand bandaging his arm shook.
“Tony,” she interposed quietly, “are you sure it was Armand you saw? Did you get a clear view of him?”
He looked curiously at Deirdre’s intent expression. “Well, no! It was so dark. I might easily have been mistaken,” he said a little too quickly, and Rathbourne’s soft expletive silenced him.
Deirdre shook her head, but Rathbourne went on with devastating calm, “You heard him threaten me earlier.”
“I heard you both threaten each other!” she cried defensively. It was as if they were the only two people in the room. “Gareth, no,” she said, her eyes pleading for understanding. “Armand is incapable of such an act.”
He didn’t argue the point, but struggled to his feet and eased into the fresh shirt O’Toole had brought for him. Deirdre sat back on her heels and watched miserably as he donned his dark coat.
“You should see a doctor,” she said, but her words made no impression on him.
“Fetch St. Jean,” he said to O’Toole curtly, and the groom, with an uneasy glance in the general direction of Deirdre, turned on his heel and swiftly left the hall.
It was a full half hour before he returned, and the intelligence he brought to his master appeared to damn Armand even more. The boy was nowhere to be found, and the pistol which O’Toole kept in the tackroom was gone also. Only Rathbourne could meet Deirdre’s eyes.
“Are you satisfied now?” he asked with an edge of impatience in his voice.
“No! But I see that it satisfies you.” She rose to her feet and stood to her full height, a suggestion of defiance in her posture, giving him back look for look. “What do you intend to do?”
Rathbourne did not trouble to answer her. He turned to O’Toole. “Rouse the stable hands and the gardeners. I want every available man ready in five minutes. We’ll flush him out if we do this systematically. He won’t get far.”
Tony laid a restraining hand on his cousin’s arm. “Perhaps I should stay with Deirdre,” he suggested, his eyes clouding with worry. “She shouldn’t be left alone at a time like this.”
Deirdre flashed him a grateful glance.
“She won’t be,” Rathbourne turned to Beecham. “Get the Dowager. Tell her to stay with her ladyship.” His gaze traveled to Landron and Lord Tony. “If you wouldn’t mind, gentlemen, I’d like a word in private with my wife. I’ll be with you directly.”
He watched them go and turned back to Deirdre, his expression somber. “I want you to stay out of this, whatever happens.” His voice was harsh, forceful but not angry.
Deirdre looked at him, her eyes wide with misery. “Nothing will ever convince me that my brother would attack you in this way. This was the act of a coward. Whatever else Armand is, he is not that.”
Her words, she could see, were wasted on him in his ugly mood.
“If he is innocent, he has nothing to fear. That I do promise.”
“And if he is guilty? Will you show compassion?”
The words lay between them like some sort of test. Again, he said nothing and Deirdre sank down on the sofa. Her demeanor was one of abject resignation, as if she had bowed to the inevitable.
Rathbourne was not sure if he trusted this new docility in his wife. But events were moving quickly and time was of the essence. He said impatiently, “Just trust me, for God’s sake. Surely that’s not too much to ask? Stay here, in the Hall, till I return. And that’s an order!”
When she heard the Great Hall doors crash to at his back, her head came up, and her body tensed for action. She remained poised, ready for flight for a moment longer, then she was off like a shot up the great stairs to her room.
The pistol was kept for safekeeping in the bottom of a trunk in the dressing room she shared with Rathbourne. It was a keepsake of Waterloo—a grim reminder of that long night’s vigil when she had stood guard over her brother. She had never thought she might ever have need of it again. Against the flat of her hand, its weight was very reassuring. She checked to see if it was loaded. For a long reflective moment she stared at the weapon in her hand, then she moved with decision, her steps taking her to the stairs and the great doors that led to the courtyard.
The castle walls were ablaze with the light from scores of pitch torches which servants were hastening to secure in their brackets. Their flickering light, abetted by the full moon and clear sky, made some impression on what in normal circumstances would have been a forbidding darkness. From the entrance steps of the Great Hall, Deirdre could see men gathering at the gatehouse, and Rathbourne’s commanding voice rang out as he issued orders to his subordinates. Fearful that she might be seen, and having no wish to retreat to the Great Hall where it was very possible that Beecham had returned with the Dowager, she moved stealthily, keeping to the castle walls and finally reaching her destination—a flight of steep stone steps which would take her up to the ramparts of the North Tower. When she came out on the castle walls, she paused, shoulders hunched over, laboring to regain her breath after the hard climb. After a moment or two, she leaned out over the stone parapet and looked down. The North Tower was to the right of the gatehouse and barbican and an excellent lookout in times past when Belmont had been under siege. The throng of men in the bailey was thinning as they moved purposefully out through the castle gate. Deirdre moved quickly to the other side of the ramparts. She watched them as they disappeared into the trees, some with lanterns in their hands, others like link boys brandishing pitch torches high above their heads. More lights were coming from the stables and she waited till the two parties of men converged.
Wearily, she sagged against the hard wall of the parapet and sank slowly to her haunches. From her high perch, she had an unobstructed view of the countryside for miles around. By following the path of the torches, it was her design to keep track of what was going on. If Armand was caught, she was sure he would be brought to either the castle or the stables and she had no intention of allowing her husband or anyone else for that matter to exclude her from what she knew would be a stormy interview. Her mind refused to take her beyond that point.
She had meant every word she had said to Rathbourne. His assailant could not possibly have been Armand. The boy was a hot-tempered hellion; she had never denied it. But this attack on Rathbourne was the act of a coward, or perhaps, she thought hopefully, it had been an accident and the perpetrator was too ashamed to admit to it. Rathbourne was known to have a foul temper and a rough tongue, and the servants’ respect for their master, so she had observed, was based more on fear than on affection. The more she thought about it, the more reasonable her explanation appeared to her.
She remembered, then, that Armand had been seen in the bai
ley at the time of the attack, and her confidence faltered. If the boy had seen something, why hadn’t he come forward?
She leaned her head back on the parapet and closed her eyes, and her thoughts went spinning off in every direction trying to find some plausible explanation to exonerate Armand’s odd behavior. Some memory teased her mind. She concentrated on it, and by degrees, it sharpened and came slowly into focus. It was the day after Waterloo, when she had confessed to Armand that she had suspected him of turning traitor. She remembered that he had humbled her by his outraged profession of innocence. His words came back to her.
“You actually thought that I could betray my family, my friends, my country, my name? And I thought you knew me!”
She breathed more easily, and something deep within her let go, as if a hand squeezing her heart had suddenly relaxed its hold. He was innocent! If she had ever doubted it, she knew it now. He was incapable of such a craven murder attempt, just as she had told Rathbourne! But how to convince her husband of that fact!
Her eyes opened slowly, and the hot tears were released to course down her cheeks. The stars overhead, the same stars which had watched over the destiny of succeeding generations of Cavanaughs for centuries, seemed remote and uncaring of her fate. She moved her head slightly, as if to avoid their cold, dispassionate stare, and her glance passed idly over the bulwark of the North Tower then came back with a start. A light was shining from one of the lookout embrasures. She was almost certain it had not been there a few moments before. Deirdre scrambled to her feet and quickly covered the few steps along the rampart walk that took her to the door of the disused guard room of the tower. She wrenched the door open and almost screamed her fright. Instinctively, she brought up the pistol in her hand. “Tony!” she exclaimed, and her voice throbbed with relief. Tony Cavanaugh looked to be almost as startled as she.
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