“As would I, had you only taken me into your confidence!”
Boothe smiled, but said sternly, “The least you know of it, the better, at present! And you are to mention no word of this to my aunt—or anyone else!”
“Of course. How can you think me so henwitted? Do I know this poor fugitive?”
“You’ll not get an answer to that, my girl. Next you’ll be wheedling at me for his name—the which you shall not have, either!”
“All right, all right! Do go on. Did you find your friend in Newcastle?”
“No, blast it! I missed him by a day only. He had been all but caught and had to run for his life. I sought high and low, and came so near calling attention to myself that I finally had to buy a confounded slug of a hunter, only to try and fool the military. Egad! Wait till you see him! The most deceitful damned— Oh, well. Never mind about that. I had lost so much time pulling the wool over the eyes of a blasted persistent lieutenant, that I gave up, finally. My hope then was that—er, Jason might have headed for London and my rooms. He had not, of course, but I come back to Town and waited. Didn’t know what else to do. It occurred to me that he might go to your house, so I stayed there, and Forty kept an eye on my flat. When Forty came to John Street after the duel, it was to tell me he’d received word that Jason had been hounded towards Bedfordshire. We decided that your being at Ward Marching would serve as a perfect explanation for our presence there.”
“So that is why you urged me to return!”
“That is why. Forty and I come up, and rode hither and yon, trying to keep as much in the open as possible, just as I’d done up north, hoping the poor fellow would spot us. Instead, de Villars found me.”
Intent, she asked, “Accidentally?”
“No, as a matter of fact. He is already up to his neck in—Never mind. At all events, his great-uncle what’s-his-name—”
“Geoffrey? Lord Boudreaux?”
“That’s it. What a dashed fine old sportsman! He was also anxious for our rebel, and had sent word to de Villars to be on the lookout for him. Yesterday morning when I went into the village, Treve suddenly rid at me from a copse. Scared the wits out of me, I don’t mind telling you! He warned me that Broadbent was in the vicinity and poor Jason heading this way and very likely to run right into a trap. We agreed to separate. Forty came here, I went north, and de Villars to the west. By purest luck, I found my man at sundown, but it was hell for leather then, and good old Jason so wrung out I could scarce keep him in the saddle.”
“How awful! Poor soul. Had you planned to rendezvous with de Villars?”
“Well, of course I had. D’ye take me for a cloth head? I was almost there, too, when Jason tumbled head first from his horse. The troopers were close behind, and with this stupid blasted arm I could not lift him. Jupiter! I thought we were done for, I can tell you! Then Treve came up. He boosted Jason into his own saddle, for Jason’s hack was nigh foundered, and told me to head for the hiding place we had decided upon earlier, and that he would lead the troopers off. I knew he had little chance. I was barely clear when they shot the poor hack, and then shot Treve. I started back, but I knew the horse would not carry all of us, and I damned well had to get Jason clear.” He was silent for a moment, his lips tightly gripped together.
Rebecca waited breathlessly, her heart racing.
“I saw Treve trying to get away,” muttered Boothe. “I could tell he would not last long.” He swore under his breath. “I doubt I have ever felt quite so wretched in my life.”
Rebecca leaned back in her chair. “And this—Jason?”
“Is safe. For the time, at least. No, really, Becky. He is tucked away where they could never find him, and with some of Boudreaux’s loyal people caring for him.”
She nodded. Then, smiling faintly, said, “De Villars once told me that any man so stupid as to embrace the cause of Bonnie Prince Charlie in effect deserved the retribution that must follow.”
Snowden laughed. “Did he so? What a complete hand he is! Speaking of which—” He stood again. “I must go down and lend a hand. Treve is likely feeling as queer as Dick’s hatband by this time.”
When Boothe strolled into the breakfast parlour a few moments later, however, he found de Villars lounging in his chair, laughing at some remark of Ward’s. Of the other guests, only Kadenworthy and Glendenning were present. Captain Holt sat next to de Villars. He was smiling, but very obviously on the alert.
“I wish I might have been your man,” drawled de Villars. “For I vow ’twould break the monotony of life. I am like to die of boredom.”
“Do you allow this impertinent clod to so criticize your hospitality, Ward?” enquired Boothe, sitting down, and very conscious of Ward’s pallor and the two spots of colour high on de Villars’ cheekbones.
“I am resigned,” said Ward in a brittle voice. “Besides which, one must excuse a man who surely is still well over the oar.”
“Indeed I am not,” de Villars said aggrievedly. “Do I look bosky, Holt?”
The captain scanned the flushed features and shadowed eyes. “A touch, perhaps. Though I do not recall that you were in your cups at the ball. In fact…” He took up a fork and toyed with it idly. “I do not recall your appearing, at all.” As he spoke his glance shot keenly to de Villars. He was disappointed. A look of elation came over the sardonic features.
“I win!” exclaimed de Villars, thumping one fist exultantly on the table. “He did not recognize me! Pay up, my Peter.” And he reached out, snapping his fingers.
A pulse beating nervously under his eye, Sir Peter managed to grumble, “I shall write you a draft.”
Holt scowled from one to the other, his hoped-for promotion seeming to fade with each passing second.
“Treve was a lackey,” Boothe chortled.
“And tendered you a tray, mon capitaine,” de Villars lied with an air of triumph.
“Indeed,” said Holt silkily. “Of what?”
Ward’s face became even whiter. Holt was not a drinking man, but de Villars could not know that. His heart pounded sickeningly.
De Villars shrugged. “Lord knows. I’ll admit I do not recall last night very clearly.”
“Well, I recall,” said Rebecca teasingly, coming to join them at that moment. “And I saw the captain refuse your offering, de Villars.”
The men stood as she entered. She saw de Villars flinch slightly, but his head was turned from the captain’s relentless surveillance, and she kept her own smile intact as she begged that they be seated. Sir Peter pulled out a chair, and occupying it she said, “’Twas a glass of champagne, Captain. And I remember thinking how admirable it was that you would not take strong spirits whilst on duty.”
“The captain never takes strong spirits,” said Sir Peter, his tense gaze meeting de Villars’ calm one.
“And I was not on duty at that time,” said the captain. “But I am now and must be on my way.”
Six anxious hearts were eased by this statement, but even as he seemed about to leave, Holt turned back. “By the by, de Villars. I understand you are related to Lord Boudreaux.”
“The head of my house, Captain. Are you acquainted?”
His face cold and closed, Holt said, “Not well. But I suspect he is a Jacobite sympathizer.”
Very aware of how narrowly he was watched, de Villars shrugged. “I wish you might prove it,” he said dryly. “He disinherited me years agone, sad to tell.”
“Did he so?” The captain’s brows lifted. “You are to be congratulated, sir.” And as if to make amends for his former coolness, he smiled and clapped de Villars heartily on the shoulder.
It was the left shoulder. De Villars’ face convulsed.
Rebecca’s heart seemed to leap into her throat and choke her.
“Now—curse you for a … clumsy clod,” groaned de Villars, clutching his brow with a shaking hand. “Oh! My poor head!”
Kadenworthy laughed although he was suddenly deathly pale. “And you not bosky this morning, e
h?”
Glendenning sighed. “To my sorrow, I know exactly how you feel, Treve.”
The captain said an amused, “You had best give him the hair of the dog that bit him, Sir Peter. Good morrow, ma’am. Gentlemen…” And he walked out, Ward ushering him politely from the room.
De Villars leant back in his chair. “The devil!” he gasped. “That was a close run thing!”
* * *
The Midsummer’s Eve Ball had provided Sir Peter’s guests with a supply of on-dits that they would be able to recount for weeks to come. The fact of their host’s obvious tendre for Mrs. Rebecca Parrish, and of my Lord Kadenworthy’s sudden infatuation for the lady, were also well worth the sharing. The military involvement had, however, brought with it memories of the recent and tragic flare-up of the Rebellion and, disturbed, the guests did not linger. By early afternoon many of those who had overnighted at the mansion were preparing to depart. Lord Kadenworthy, the Boudreauxes, the Streets, Mrs. Monahan, Mr. Melton, and Lord Graham Fortescue were among those who remained. Neither Major Broadbent nor Captain Holt returned, but the presence of the several individuals who were unaware of what had actually transpired in the blue ante-room on Midsummer’s Eve forbade that the matter be discussed. After a late luncheon, Rebecca and her aunt retired to the cottage and found Anthony and Patience awaiting them in a fever of excitement. They had seen the soldiers and, much to their delight, the cottage had been searched. Millie had been cross, but had thought the sergeant in charge of the search party was “quite a nice chap.” “I think he must have liked her, too,” said Anthony brightly, “for he has been here twice this morning.”
Rebecca exchanged a swift, scared look with her aunt.
Not to be outdone, Patience chirped, “I helpt-ted the tholdierth look everywhere, ma’am. I wath a good helper. They telled me.”
Again, the ladies looked at one another in horror. Chilled, Rebecca gulped, “Oh, Aunt! This wretched slaughter! Will it never end?”
She was shaking visibly. Mrs. Boothe thought, “Poor girl, she has been through too much these past few days.” “You are tired, love,” she said gently. “Go and lie down upon your bed and rest. ’Twill make you feel better.”
Rebecca went to her room, but not to her bed. Sitting by the open window, gazing across the verdant grounds, she sought a peace of mind that eluded her. Peter Ward had looked at her with deeper admiration after the ball. He would offer now, she was sure of it. And his offer would mean security, a luxurious future, and no more worries over bills for either her or Anthony. But insidiously came the recollection of de Villars weaving into the ante-room. Of his gallantry, so opposed to Ward’s— Desperate, she cut off that thought, but she could not banish the memory of de Villars, hurt and helpless; of that dauntless grin; of the awed worship in his eyes when he had looked up at her from his pillow. Tears blurred her own eyes. She bowed her head into her hands and wept. And when the storm was over, she was too exhausted to evade the truth any longer. She loved. For the first time in her life, she really loved. But she loved the wrong man. It would not do! If de Villars offered again, as he very well might, she could not accept. She must not accept!
Sighing, she glanced at the distant loom of the great house. That could be her future home. Anthony’s future home. No, she would not think of Trevelyan de Villars anymore. She would concentrate on her future—a serene future with Sir Peter to stand ever between her and a sometimes cruel world. De Villars’ voice rang in memory. “I was hoping a vulture might captivate him.” She laughed brokenly and then again burst into tears.
She did not see de Villars again that day, but Lady Ward whispered that he was uncomfortable and troubled of his wound. Rebecca’s fears for him mounted. They would not dare to summon an apothecary, for Hilary or that miserable captain would learn of it. Treve must be suffering miserably. Suppose the wound became putrid? Suppose he was feverish? Suppose he died—before she could see him again? Frantic, she sought out her brother. Boothe scolded that she was fretting needlessly. “Old Treve” was made of steel and doing splendidly, by what Letitia had been able to tell him. He would be fine as fivepence by tomorrow. Later, a solemn and tired-looking Letitia told her that her cousin was at last asleep but had passed a miserable day and would probably be confined to his bed for at least a week.
The evening dragged past. The Monahan and Kadenworthy chattered brightly. The Streets, innocently unaware of the tense undercurrent to the easy conversation, contributed their joint observations in such a way as to amuse all and were never in the least offended by that amusement. Sir Peter looked at ease again, and his usual distinguished self. He carefully divided his attentions among Rebecca, Rosemary Monahan, and an unusually subdued Lady Ward. Snowden spent most of the evening hovering about Letitia Boudreaux and her brother. On the one occasion Ward dared to broach the subject of their ordeal, he was showing Rebecca a superb engraving of a pheasant, and being safely removed from the rest of the company, murmured softly, “You seem weary, dear ma’am. I trust you do not worry unnecessarily over de Villars. Have no fears on that score. I shall see to it that he gets safely away, I promise you. And very soon.”
“Soon?” she asked anxiously. “Is he well enough?”
“Oh, assuredly. The sooner the better!” He met her rather shocked eyes and added a hasty, “For all our sakes! Indeed, he himself is desperate to be gone. The poor fellow is plagued with guilt and keeps telling me he bitterly repents his foolishness.” He smiled. “As though I would blame him. I’ll own that when I told you I would not fail any friend claiming sanctuary here, I never dreamed you would so bravely aid me.”
Speechless, Rebecca stared at him, and was not a little relieved when Lady Ward called testily that they must come and make up another table for cards.
Sleep was long in coming that night, and Rebecca awoke feeling listless and worried. The final touches were being applied to her toilette when Evans came up to announce that ma’am was wanted in the parlour. Before Millie could discover who waited, the abigail’s cheerful countenance was whisked away.
“Birdwit!” snorted Millie, threading a riband through Rebecca’s curls.
Going downstairs, Rebecca decided that her early caller was probably Kadenworthy, his nose out of curl because Sir Peter had outmanoeuvered him last evening and led her back to the cottage whilst his lordship was lost in a game of chess with Fitz Boudreaux. She went smiling into the parlour and halted with a shocked gasp. Trevelyan de Villars, booted and spurred, stood by the mantel.
“Good gracious!” she exclaimed. “You should not be so soon up, sir!”
He spun to face her, his eyes brightening. He did not carry his arm in a sling, but of course he would not dare, and perhaps there was not the need, for he looked surprisingly well, and there was in fact a good colour in his face. Nonetheless, she crossed to him, saying anxiously, “You cannot be thinking of riding out?” Polite phrases, yet her heart was pounding madly, and her earlier resolution to give him no encouragement had vanished in the first instant of seeing him. She knew very well why he was here. He had come to thank her for saving his life. He had come to beg her to forgive his earlier naughtiness and plead with her to be his wife. And the anticipation of hearing those dear words was causing her pulse to flutter ever more wildly, her breathing to become erratic, and such a soaring joy to take possession of her that she dare not think what she would say when he asked her.
De Villars, noted Corinthian and whip and man about town, had not been at a loss for words any time these past ten years. He was at a loss for words now. Looking into this girl’s bewitching face, he felt like an inexperienced youth again and said clumsily, “Oh, I am perfectly fit, never fear. But I must—must leave at once, for I’ve an—er, prior engagement, you see, that— I mean—there are certain claims upon me that I cannot—ah, neglect.”
Rebecca stiffened. How nervous he was; how unlike the suave, self-assured man she knew. “A prior engagement?” A woman, no doubt! What a fool to have supposed that he
meant to offer! She stepped back. “You should be laid down upon your bed for at least a sennight, Mr. de Villars.”
He sensed that he had offended. The concern in her eyes had been replaced by storm clouds. His own fault, of course. In an effort to banish the vexation from her face, he said with his easy grin, “There was a time, ma’am, when I would have voiced a most improper response to such a remark.”
She blushed and turned away. This was more in his usual style, to be sure. But it was scarcely the speech of a worshipful swain. It would seem that if the gentleman intended to offer her anything, it was a slip on the shoulder, not a marriage ring! She felt bruised and hurt, and said, “I am quite sure you must know many places where such remarks would be well received.”
De Villars bit his lip. He was bungling this badly. If only his confounded head did not feel so completely detached from the rest of him. “I felt I must come and thank you,” he said, absently taking up his whip from the sideboard.
That movement convinced Rebecca that he was in a passion to be gone. She glanced outside. His coach stood waiting on the drivepath, a groom holding the spirited horses. A woman’s hand rested on the open window, and on that hand was a ring shaped in the form of a golden dragon. Rosemary Monahan’s ring. Feeling as though she had been struck, Rebecca stared at that white hand. She had saved The Wicked Rake’s life! And at considerable risk to her own. And he could scarce be bothered to thank her, so eager was he to be off with his bird of paradise! At any other time she might have openly taxed him with it, but the tensions of the past few days had wrought more havoc with her nerves than she knew. Tears of mortification stung her eyes as she recalled her earlier hopeful idiocy, and she could only pray he would not have the satisfaction of knowing what a fool she had been. She swung around and said airily, “Oh, pray do not refine on such a trivial thing, sir. I would have done the same for any hunted creature.”
The Wagered Widow Page 27
