He went on past, the brandy bottle hanging from one hand. He did not even seem to be looking for her. Shuffle peeped under the pew and wagged her tail, then hurried to catch up with her god.
The rear door opened. Dimity felt the rush of colder air, then heard his steps receding. She put both hands over her face and wept, but choked the sobs back as she heard the crash of breaking glass outside. In another moment he was coming back. Her heart seemed to stop. She waited, scarcely daring to breathe, trembling violently, but he reeled past and returned seconds later to leave her again unmolested.
She lay still, her wide eyes fixed on the underside of the pew, but she did not see the neat web a small industrious spider had spun there. Her shocked mind could comprehend only Farrar’s uncertain steps and the long deadly pistol now clasped in his hand.
Recovering her wits after a minute, she wriggled out from under the pew and ran to the rear door. The air was very chill with no breath of wind. The sky was dark grey, for the sun was not yet up, and she could not see very far. She strained her eyes, but there was no sign of movement. She went back into the house and climbed the stairs. The hall through Farrar’s wing was deserted. She went back down a few stairs, peering into the dimness of the hushed music hall. Something moved. Her heart gave a flutter of relief. She sped down the spiral, but then, hearing muffled sobs, slowed her headlong pace. The shape on the sofa was too small, and a faint mew was half drowned by the sounds of grief.
“Carlton?” she said, bending over the child. “What is the matter?”
He looked even more angelic in his long nightshirt, the kitten on his lap, but the face he raised was tear-streaked. “I’ll give her back,” he gulped. “I—I din’t think it would make him so cross. I don’t want her.” But despite that renunciation, his hand was caressing the tiny creature fiercely.
Dimity sat beside him. “Sir Anthony is not cross with you, dear,” she began.
“Yes, he is! I tried to speak to him … jus’ now. But he—he wouldn’t even answer me. He—he jus’ went off, like he wanted to—to murder someone. He’ll prob’ly never come back. It’s my fault!” He wept miserably, keeping his red-rimmed eyes fixed upon her. He was, as she had learned, a proud child, and it was some measure of his distress that he did not attempt to disguise it.
She pulled him into her arms and stroked his hair. “Carlton, it will be all right, dear. I’ll go and find him. Come, you must to your bed.”
He made no objection, picking up his kitten and allowing Dimity to lead him upstairs.
When she had tucked him into bed he blinked at her miserably through his tears. “You will bring him back, Aunty Mitten? Promise?”
She smiled. “I promise.”
* * *
The hand over Peregrine’s mouth was suffocating and he fought furiously to remove it until a familiar voice hissed an exasperated, “Will you be quiet, damn your eyes!”
Peregrine relaxed and, yawning away the vestiges of sleep, discerned his twin bending over the bed. “Piers? What’s to do? It’s the middle of the night!”
“Ten minutes past six. Tio’s awake again. And raving.”
Peregrine jerked up and flung back the covers. “Pass my foot, would you?”
Piers had already retrieved the required article and he dropped to one knee beside the bed.
Peregrine said, “Get away! I’ll do it.”
“Yes, and take till noon. I want to get after Mitten!”
Peregrine scowled at the top of his brother’s tousled head. “Well, you’re doing it all wrong, if you’d care to know. That strap comes up around my knee. Yes, that’s bet— Easy! Do you want to cut off the circulation?”
“The idea is not without virtue,” said Piers dryly, struggling with buckles. “How’s that?”
Peregrine stood carefully and took a tentative step. “Jolly good!” He snatched up his dressing gown. “Come on, don’t dawdle about. What did Tio say?”
“Started yowling about his precious cypher, so I told him to sit on his temper until I’d fetched you.”
They went along the corridor with stealth, Piers studiedly not noticing the painful hobble and making no attempt to help, though his arms fairly ached to support his twin.
The best spare bedchamber was now a blaze of light, two candelabra adding their brightness to the bedside oil lamp. Horatio, Viscount Glendenning, was propped against the pillows. He looked thin and wan and pathetic with the bandage around his auburn head, but for the first time since they had carried him here, his eyes were clear and holding the light of reason.
Vastly relieved, Peregrine hid that emotion and instead, recoiled. “Zounds, what a horrid sight!” he exclaimed. “A red gooseberry bush!”
Samuels, who had been plumping his employer’s pillows, stepped back with a chuckle.
“Never mind that, peg leg,” said his lordship, faint but irrepressible. “You told me the— Sam, you’d best leave us.”
“Now, milord,” argued the manservant. “You know very well I’m up to your larks, and there’s not no need to be protecting me.”
“True, my dear fellow,” said Glendenning. “Only, this is not a lark, you see. And the less you know of it, the better for your health. No—never argue. Off with you!”
Reluctantly, the groom left, closing the door softly behind him.
“Deuced good chap,” said Glendenning. “Still— Now, Perry, did I dream it, or did you tell me the cypher had been delivered?”
“You dreamed it,” answered Peregrine baldly.
“Lord save us!” gasped the viscount, jerking up from his pillows only to wince and add somewhat less vehemently, “Do you say the cypher is still here?”
“No.” Peregrine, who had been gingerly lowering himself onto the end of the bed, said, “You gave it to Mitten, thinking she was me, you absolute dolt. And she went haring off with it, to lead the troopers away from you.”
Very white, Glendenning looked from one twin to the other and, finding those fine young faces unwontedly stern, he whispered, “Dear God! I must have been quite out of my senses! And—I’ve been lying here like a confounded effigy, so that you could do—nothing!”
“Nothing?” snorted Peregrine. “Devil fly away with you!”
“We’ve scoured the countryside for miles around,” Piers said. “’Tis as if the earth had swallowed her up. Where in the devil is she gone, Tio?”
Glendenning groaned, “God alone knows! No—do not murder me. I—I’ve a fuzzy sort of recollection of telling someone—I thought it was you, Perry!—to deliver it. But for the life of me, I don’t know if I conveyed the complete destination. Kept sort of—drifting out, y’know.”
Piers said, “I quite understand that you were in a devilish predicament—though if you would refrain from consorting with that ruffian Treve de Villars, you’d not run yourself into such a fly-jar—but the fact is, things have gone too far for you to hold back now.”
Distraught, the viscount threw a hand across his eyes. “To have plunged Mitten into this ghastly mess! How can you forgive me? No—I do not ask it, but—” Lowering his arm, he clutched frantically at the eiderdown. “You know—you must know how deep is my affection for your sister. ’Fore heaven, I would die sooner than—”
His voice was growing shrill. Piers moved to rest a soothing hand on his shoulder. “What a fellow you are,” he said gently. “One would think we have not all three condemned Cumberland’s butchery.”
“Aye,” Peregrine agreed, “and I told you I’d help any of the poor devils did the chance afford, so do not be talking like any mangel-wurzel. You do but waste time.”
My lord flushed, and apologized meekly.
Piers regarded his flamboyant twin in astonishment. “Accepted, of course, Tio. But now you really must tell us where to search for Mitten.”
“I wish to heaven I knew how much I’d told her. I do recollect saying the cypher was to be delivered to Decimus Green, and—”
From somewhere close by, Samuels’ voice ros
e in ire. “…cannot go in there! Lord Glendenning is a sick—”
There was the sound of a brief scuffle, then the door was flung open. A tall, broad-shouldered, very good-looking young officer stalked inside. “Gentlemen,” said he, with a click of his heels, “I am under orders to search these premises and all within.”
“You may search my without,” said Peregrine, always irritated by pompousness, “but be damned if you’re going to search my within!”
A sergeant, overhearing as he entered the room, grinned.
Unamused, the captain nodded to Glendenning. “Start with this individual.”
The sergeant hurried up with a tablet and pencil. “Name?”
“Well, of course,” drawled his lordship.
The captain stepped closer to the bed and said silkily, “You will be wise, sir, to cooperate.”
“I am cooperating,” declared the viscount, injured. “Fellow asked a question. I answered. Politely.”
The twins glanced at each other, eyes full of laughter.
Smothering another grin, the sergeant asked, “What name, sir?”
“Horatio.”
“Ho-ray-sho,” muttered the sergeant, writing laboriously.
“Clement.”
“Horayshow Cle-ment. Thankee, sir, I—”
“Laindon.”
The sergeant took up his pencil again. “Lane—done,” he muttered.
“Now then, Mr. Laindon,” began the captain.
“My name is Glendenning,” said his lordship, sweetly.
Peregrine, convulsed, allowed a snort to escape him.
The captain’s fine features darkened. “I fancy you think you’re being very funny.”
“Personally,” said the viscount, “I find it hilarious, but my sire appears to like it, else why would he have chose such a revolting mouthful of—”
The sergeant, who had experienced a thought, said, “Your father wouldn’t be the Earl of Bowers-Malden, would he, milord?”
Glendenning considered this. “Well, he was the last time we met—but I suppose one cannot be sure. Things change so these—”
“Why are you here, my lord?” demanded the captain. “And what happened to your head? Simple answers if you please. I do not care to waste my time with schoolboy frivolity. Especially with a Catholic.”
Interested, Peregrine enquired, “Should you care for some schoolboy frivolity with two Protestants, sir?”
A cold glare was directed at him. “I think it might be a deal more worthwhile were I to arrest the three of you on a charge of obstructing the king’s justice. Your answer if you please, my lord. At once!”
“Let me see,” mused Glendenning. “How can I simplify it? Ah! I came here to visit my friends. And I hurt my head when they threw me down the stairs.”
“Threw you—down the stairs…?” echoed the sergeant, staring.
“Only thing to do,” said Peregrine gravely. “He complained about our cook, so—”
“Let’s have those bandages off,” snapped the captain, out of patience.
“What?” cried Peregrine, astounded.
All traces of humour vanished from Piers’ eyes. “That will be just about enough!”
“Our opinions differ,” sneered the captain. “You’ve had your games with me. Now we shall see who holds the stronger hand. Sergeant!”
The sergeant set aside tablet and pencil and moved forward uneasily.
“By God, but you’ll do no such thing!” cried Peregrine. “Glendenning’s a peer! You do not dare—”
“Rank enjoys no privilege in a treasonable matter, Mr. Cranford. A traitor was cornered near this house. He escaped and has not been seen since. However, he was wounded, and it is not beyond the bounds of possibility that the troopers were drawn off by a friend. Smartly does it, Sergeant, and—” the beautifully shaped lips curved into a benign smile, “—should you contemplate interfering, gentlemen, I’ve a full troop well trained in how to deal with—”
“My friends will not interfere,” said Glendenning, all icy hauteur. “Sergeant, you have my sympathy. Get it done.”
The sergeant proceeded with marked reluctance. Pale with wrath, the twins watched. The sergeant eased the last layer of lint away and flinched. Glendenning swore softly.
“You started it to bleed again, you dolt!” raged Piers. “Captain, his lordship and my brother engaged in some simple horseplay, and Lord Glendenning fell down the stairs and gashed his head open on that brass-bound trunk in the hall. We’ve had quite a time with him, and if you cause him to suffer a relapse, the earl will take it up with your C.O.!”
The captain snapped, “Be sure there is no message hidden in the bandages, Sergeant.”
Piers was an easy-going young man of even temperament, but he could be daunting when he was angered, and he was angered now. “My brother and I both served with His Majesty’s forces in Scotland. Your manners, sir, are not only boorish in the extreme, but completely unwarranted. I demand to know your name.”
The officer bowed slightly. “It is Lambert. Brooks Lambert.” His gaze flickered over Piers’ civilian attire. He sneered, “Out of uniform, are you, Cranford?”
“Out of the army. Which is neither your concern, nor indicative of treason, I believe. You have evidently been poorly instructed. I take leave to tell you that to attempt to intimidate an injured gentleman is not conduct befitting an officer.”
“I really am not very frightened, dear old boy,” murmured Glendenning, holding the bandage to his head.
“An emotion we share,” said Lambert. “I want each of these men stripped and searched, Sergeant.” His lip curled. “Especially, his Catholic lordship.”
Sputtering with wrath, Peregrine started forward, only to stumble. His face twisted painfully, and he caught himself by the simple expedient of clinging to the captain’s magnificence.
“Are you foxed, or what is it, Mr. Cranford?” Lambert wrenched free and as Peregrine staggered, he snarled, “Make an effort to control your feet, sir!”
“It ain’t easy,” gasped Peregrine. “Belike you could do better with one of these damned things,” and he sat on the bed and took off his artificial foot.
Appalled by any infirmity, Lambert stared, turned pale, and fled the room.
His contempt suddenly very apparent, the sergeant watched the door close, then turned to the three friends who, after an astonished silence, lapsed into scornful laughter. “Come along now, gents,” he said, grinning. “Orders his orders.”
Piers asked, “Sergeant, were I to give you my word of honour that none of us conceals anything of a treasonable nature, would you accept it?”
The sergeant scanned the aristocratic young face and steady blue eyes. “Aye, I would that, sir.” He leaned against the bedpost and folded his arms. “But—” he jerked his head to the door. “You’ll ’ave to make believe I treated you ’arsh-like. Fer my sake.”
Glendenning said wearily, “An ugly customer, is he, Sergeant?”
The sergeant hesitated, but there was that about these three that warmed his heart. “Very ugly, milord,” he whispered. “Very ugly hindeed.”
* * *
The sun was high when Anthony Farrar awoke. His first sensations were of extreme cold and a pounding headache. Groaning, he tried to turn over and a twig dug into his cheek. He opened his eyes to a bright blur that formed into trees and bracken and Shuffle lying beside him, eyes fixed on his face. He started to remember then, and sat up, propping his shoulders against the tree trunk, swearing softly, and holding his head on. Shuffle clambered onto his lap and began to lick his face, and he smiled and stroked her and told her he was all right. She wandered off and he leaned his head back and closed his eyes, letting memory have its way with him.
Mrs. Deene and Otton. The bitter confrontation with Helen. His hopeless retreat into brandy. Stupid and stupider! And something else … something more a dream than reality. Had he really mauled the trollop in the family chapel…? He put a hand over his throbbing eyes. L
ord, but he went from folly to folly! If he had raped the woman in a house of God, he was worse than Otton. His efforts to remember only made his head ache more viciously, and he lowered his hand and looked about for Shuffle.
He saw bright orange silk, a naughty expanse of very trim ankles, and a pair of hauntingly familiar cream kid high-heeled shoes. He quailed and clapped his hand over his eyes again.
Dimity relaxed her grip on the knife in her pocket that she had taken from the Armour Hall in case she was obliged to defend herself. She stepped nearer. “I brought water. If you want it.”
If he wanted it! His throat was a desert. He stretched out his hand blindly, and she put a flask into it. He drank thirstily, replaced the stopper and, very cautiously, turned his head to look up at her. She stood a short distance away, quietly composed. How any woman could look so heavenly in that hideous gown was past understanding. He saw the cold contempt in her face then, and closing his eyes again, bowed his head. “Did—did I … harm you?” he faltered.
“No. You would have, I think. But you stepped on Shuffle and forgot about me.”
He dragged himself up and clung to the tree trunk until the woods stopped spinning. He should go to her, but he wasn’t sure he could walk without making an ass of himself, so he steadied himself against the tree and with his head still downbent said as clearly as he could manage, “I— There is nothing I can say that—that will … that could— I mean, I am very, very sorry.”
She was silent, watching that untidy fair head. She could feel the bruises he had put on her, but it was hard to hold anger when honesty compelled her to admit that her actions must at the very least have baffled him; that he could scarce be blamed did he judge her a loose woman who plotted against him. And so her voice had lost some of its edge when she asked at length, “Did you read the poem?”
He looked at her fully, remorse in his darkly shadowed eyes. “Poem?”
‘Thank heaven,’ she thought. ‘He didn’t read it!’ “I know, Captain,” she said, “that whatever I am—or whatever I do, is of very little importance to you. But—I would like it very much if you would try to believe that I never met Roland Otton before last evening.”
Love Alters Not Page 19
