He checked, puzzled. “Good Gad, I should hope so! You are in it, Mrs. Deene. This is Fayre Hall.”
Then there could be no further room for doubt although that this could be the man she was to entrust with the life-and-death cypher was incomprehensible. And how ridiculous that she should feel so. Because Tio was such an honourable man did not ensure that every Jacobite sympathizer would be well-bred. Nor did the fact that this man had been responsible for killing Shuffle make him an ineligible recipient of the cypher.
Nonetheless, she said, “Mr. Green—how could you have done so dreadful a thing? How could you have sent your dogs to attack that poor little spaniel?”
“I most certainly did not do so, dear lady.” He put up his glass and surveyed her through it, the magnified eye alight with sly amusement. “I am fond of animals.”
Appalled, she stammered, “Then—then you meant to kill Farrar! My God!”
The frown returned to his petulant face. “You would find it very difficult to prove such a thing! For my part, ma’am, I think it incredible that so—er, peerless a creature as yourself should protest the matter. You’re busily intent upon defrauding him yourself, by what Ellsworth tells me!” His eyes narrowed. “Is your message to do with that business? Are you come at this ungodly hour and in that—er, costume because dear Anthony has—er, tossed you out upon your delicious derrière?” He strolled nearer.
His smile held the element of lust she was beginning to recognize. She retreated once more. She had obviously misunderstood when she’d thought Tio said “fair” and “all”; he must have been trying to say Fayre Hall. Certainly, it was near Romsey, and this creature was Mr. Green. But she felt intuitively that something was not right, and so said in desperation, “Are you expecting a message, sir? A—very special message, perhaps?”
He paused, looking at her narrowly. “Curse me, but I am! Though I’ll own you are not the person I’d thought would deliver it! ’Tis an extreme—delicate matter.”
“And highly dangerous, Mr. Green.”
He nodded and lowered his voice. “You’re a cool one, I’ll admit. Have you it about you?”
Her hand slipped instinctively to her bodice.
Green laughed softly and sprang, seizing her in a crushing embrace. “No, but you must give me the pleasure of collecting it, ma’am.”
Dimity had often heard her grandfather remark that clothes make the man. During the course of this nightmare adventure she had learned beyond all doubting that the adage also applied to females. Struggling furiously, she made a mental vow that for so long as she lived she would never again wear a plunging neckline.
A voice of ice cut across her squeals of indignation. “Green!”
Dimity’s heart seemed to stop beating, and she felt the man who held her give a sort of jolt before he released her and spun around.
Anthony Farrar stood just inside the open window to the garden. His head was slightly lowered, his unblinking stare fixed with deadly menace on Green, every inch of his tall figure poised for violent action.
Green whispered his name and made a mad dash for the desk and the pistol that lay there.
As fast as he moved, Farrar was faster. His face contorted with the lust for vengeance, he launched himself across the room, catching Green at the knees and bringing him crashing down. Farrar rolled, smooth and catlike and was on his feet while Green still sprawled. Frantic, Green kicked out and Farrar reeled back. Scrambling up, Green made another wild dive for the desk, but Farrar was after him. One hand caught Green by the shoulder and wrenched him around, the other came up explosively to connect under his chin and send him hurtling across the desk and to the floor beyond it. Farrar vaulted lightly over the desk, but Green was not one to fight fair. Blood streaking from the side of his mouth, he was on his knees, bringing up the pistol which had gone down with him, his thumb pulling back the hammer, a murderous triumph in his eyes. Farrar made a lightning snatch for the pistol and wrenched it aside. Green’s left fist swung with the strength of desperation and landed hard beside Farrar’s ear, staggering him. Farrar’s left arm was considerably weakened, and it was all he could do for a minute to hang onto Green’s wrist with both hands and keep the pistol pointing away from him.
Getting his second wind, Green snatched up the heavy marble Standish and flailed it at the point where throat and shoulder meet, and Farrar, unable to breathe for an instant, saw stars. He hunched his shoulders up and hung on dazedly through a rain of blows. Driven to his knees, he lost his hold on Green’s wrist. With a triumphant shout, Green whipped the pistol around, but the mists were clearing from Farrar’s mind. He lurched up and with all his strength rammed his head into Green’s midriff. Green said an explosive “Ooosh!” and doubled over. He clung to Farrar and both men went down. Farrar landed on top and caught Green by the throat.
“You filthy … slug,” he panted, tightening his grip. “You didn’t have the backbone … to come after me yourself. You trained those hounds to do your … dirty work! If you blamed me for—for Harding’s death, why didn’t you—call me out like … a man?”
Consciousness fading, his eyes starting from his head, Green abandoned the fruitless attempt to dislodge Farrar’s merciless hold. He managed to grasp the fallen Standish and with all his remaining strength swung it upward. It struck home just below Farrar’s left elbow and his arm became useless, the pain sickening him.
Sobbing for breath, Green snatched up the pistol and brought the muzzle into line with Farrar’s heart.
Dimity screamed at the top of her lungs, and Green’s hand jerked. Farrar flung himself sideways. The explosion was deafening, but the ball smashed harmlessly into the wall.
Green howled curses and fled weavingly. Farrar staggered in relentless pursuit. Green reached the bell pull and tugged it desperately, a split second before Farrar’s knotted first connected solidly with his jaw. He went down and lay sprawled and moaning, his arms flapping about helplessly. Farrar advised his victim in acid if breathless terms of his deplorable ancestry. “My little … spaniel,” he finished unsteadily, “was worth … ten of you, you unutterable worm!” Having said which, he stepped onto the middle of Green’s waistcoat and proceeded to wipe his boots with great deliberation on that already ravaged garment while Green shrieked and gasped out obscenities.
The butler and three footmen sprinted in.
Dimity screamed, “Tony!”
Farrar was slowed and he turned too late. The footmen grabbed him by the arms and dragged him from the writhing and bloody creature that was their master.
“Kill … him!” sobbed Green, clutching his stomach. “Set the … dogs … on the—stinking—swine!”
The servants eyed each other uneasily.
Struggling to free himself, Farrar panted, “Do your own dirty work, for once! Send your seconds to me and I’ll oblige … the world by blowing your slimy head off.”
The butler contemplated his employer’s gobbling hysteria and took matters into his own hands. Snatching up the pistol, he brought the butt down hard on the back of Farrar’s head.
Dimity gave a sob of horror as Farrar slumped and hung loosely in the grip of the footmen.
“Take him out to his horse,” the butler growled, “and get him off our land.” Green being so obliging as to faint at this point, he added, “Best be quick about it, or we’ll have the master forcing us to throw him to those damned great hounds. And that’s murder, and you know who’d swing on Tyburn for it!”
The two men nodded sombrely and dragged Farrar’s limp body out. The butler and the remaining footman started to lift Green.
Recovering from the shock that had held her motionless, Dimity hurried to bend over the battered Green with every appearance of deep concern. “Is—is he … dead?”
“Not quite, ma’am.” The butler directed a sly wink at his underling. “But I’d say he got the worst of it.”
“Sir Anthony done the master up tidy,” agreed the footman cheerfully.
Green op
ened his eyes and blinked at Dimity without recognition.
She touched his cheek caressingly. “Poor Rafe,” she cooed, and bent lower to kiss him as she slipped her other hand into his coat pocket.
“Wh—what…?” he groaned.
“It’s in your coat pocket,” she whispered, her lips at his ear.
The butler rolled disgusted eyes at the footman. “Best stand clear now, if you please, ma’am.”
She watched them carry Green from the room. Then, with the feeling that a great weight had been lifted from her shoulders, she turned to the window, only to stop and stare at a miniature which had fallen from the desk. She snatched it up. The artist had tried, but there could be no mistaking that fleshy face and cruel little eyes. Nor could there be any doubt about the resemblance. Rafe’s eyes were different, but there was the same large nose and chin, the coarseness to the features, the thick lips. “My lord” was Lord Hibbard Green, and his son was the man Farrar had caught cheating at school. “Farrar!” she thought, and throwing down the miniature, ran to the window, clambered through it and, picking up her skirts, ran to the trap into which Farrar had been thrown.
Green’s servants were starting back to the house and they eyed Dimity curiously as she came up. “Get him away as fast as may be,” one of them called over his shoulder. “If the master wakes up, he’ll set the dogs loose for certain!”
Younce muttered something under his breath and assisted Dimity into the trap.
Farrar was sprawled unconscious on the narrow seat. Frightened, she touched his still face and asked, “Is he badly hurt, do you think?”
“He’s not going to snuff it, ma’am. He’s come through worse. But we must get him out of this. I’ll ride his horse, if you can manage to drive.” He propped Farrar against the seatback making room for Dimity.
She took up the reins. “I can manage, but this will never do. He’ll fall out. Try if you can lay him across my knees.”
Younce struggled until Farrar lay face down as she suggested. “Got himself properly whipped,” he muttered glumly.
“From behind,” said Dimity with vehemence. “And you should only see Mr. Green!” He checked and looked at her, his eyes brightening. “Is this all right, ma’am? I’m afraid your gown—”
“Never mind about my gown. That’s much better. Now hurry! Hurry!”
He jumped from the trap and went over to the solemn-eyed stableboy who was with difficulty holding the big grey. Dimity slapped the reins on the back of the roan and the animal started off at a trot. Seconds later, a shout rang out, and the stallion shot past, Younce clinging to his back and sending a startled look at her before he was borne from view. She urged the roan to greater speed and followed. The trap jolted along, and Farrar’s head slid helplessly. She put her arm across him to keep him from falling and prayed they would get safely back to The Palfreys before Green sent his dogs after them.
She judged that ten minutes had passed, and she was beginning to be really afraid that Farrar was seriously injured, when she heard a smothered moan and then he clutched her knee, dragged himself up a little, and peered at her in bewilderment. A contusion was darkening along the right side of his jaw, the cut above his eye had broken open and bled profusely, and the side of his mouth was lacerated, adding its mite to his gory countenance.
Appalled, she said, “Oh, you do look dreadful! I am very sorry, but I did not dare stop and try to help you. Is there a stream where you can wash?”
His hand was still on her knee. He stared down at it and said feebly, “You did help me. The Lord only knows … why.” He snatched his hand away then, and gave her an aghast look, a faint tinge of colour staining his white face. “Good God! Your—your pardon! I—”
She said calmly, “Don’t be silly.”
He blinked at her. “I cannot think how you got me away, but—” He broke off, frowning, then asked in a firmer voice, “Where are you taking me, ma’am?”
“Home, I hope. Why? Am I going the wrong way?”
With an obvious effort, he pulled himself upright. “Not—if you wish to go to Fordingbridge. Give me the reins.”
She hesitated, but he seemed capable, for all there was a frown between his brows and he was so pale. She handed him the reins. “I may have taken the wrong turn at the crossroads. There was no sign and I’ve a dreadful sense of direction. Your groom was carried off by your great Polly.” She checked and asked inconsequently, “Why do you call him that?”
“I don’t.” He turned the roan off the road, swore under his breath as the trap bounced, and added, “His name’s Poli, which is French … and means—”
Dimity smiled. “He did not look very refined when he went charging off with your poor servant hanging on for dear life!”
Farrar drew rein in the shade of some trees at the foot of a broad hill. He stared at Dimity for a moment, then climbed from the trap. “There’s a stream—” he began in a fading voice, and swayed, clutching dizzily at the tall wheel.
Dimity scrambled down and tethered the roan to a shrub. Farrar was trudging off erratically. She followed and took his arm. He stopped and looked blearily down at her. “Be damned if I can make you out,” he muttered.
“I know. And I can tell you the truth now. Oh dear, you are feeling poorly! Can you manage if you lean on me?”
He managed, but when they reached the stream, he sat down abruptly on the bank and closed his eyes, looking so close to swooning that she abandoned formality and ransacked his pockets until she found his large handkerchief. She dipped it in the stream. When she turned back with icy water dripping from the linen, Farrar’s head was bowed into his hands. She pulled his shoulders back and began gently to bathe his face. The cold water restored him, and in a short while he opened his eyes and said faintly, “If you could be so good as to wet it again, I’ll put it on this cricket ball on the back of my skull.”
She rinsed out the handkerchief and folded it into a square. Farrar’s head was downbent again. She untied the black velvet riband, spread the fair hair and found the large lump. Thanks to the thickness of his hair, the skin was unbroken but it was already starting to bruise. With caution, she laid the handkerchief over the injury.
Farrar gave a groaning sigh and reached up to hold it in place. “Thank you. Though why you should help me instead of staying with … your lover, I—”
“Oh, he is only one of many,” she said, kneeling beside him and watching his battered face with compassion.
He tilted his head back, looking at her, his eyes narrowed painfully.
“Poor soul,” she said. “I know you must feel dreadfully. I remember when one of my brothers was struck on the head by a falling tree branch, and it hurt so badly he was sick.”
“I echo his feelings,” he said threadily, “but perhaps I may refrain from being sick if you will relate the next chapter.”
Dimity settled herself more comfortably, unable to blame him for the dry scepticism in his tone.
“Oh, Gad,” he exclaimed, then, “I’ve bled all over your gown. My apologies.”
She glanced down. “It is not my gown.”
“Ahh…” breathed Farrar.
“Nor am I Catherine Deene,” she went on. “And Carlton is not my nephew.” He watched her steadily and she reached up to dab her handkerchief at the cut on his brow. “A dear friend had asked me to deliver a message of great importance. He was—taken ill, you see, and could not deliver it himself. His … enemies were determined to prevent me from completing my task, and I was very afraid they would find me.” She paused uneasily. It did not sound nearly as convincing as when she’d rehearsed it on the way here. She peeped at Farrar and met a sardonic grin, so hurried on, “When the accident happened—”
“Which one? My life—since you came into it—seems to have been one long accident!”
“I know.” She gave him a repentant look. “I am truly sorry. I mean the accident when the Portsmouth Machine turned over. I was stunned, and when I woke up they had mistaken me
for Mrs. Deene because her reticule had become draped over my arm.”
“So you let them keep on thinking it, for fear your—er, friend’s enemies—or is it your enemy’s friends? … would find you.”
“Yes. And because I had no papers with me.”
“Thus, you were glad to hide at The Palfreys. But—are you not anxious to complete your mission?”
“I have. Today.”
He stared at her. “Do you mean that your message was for that creature I just—argued with?”
“Yes. But I had never met him, you see, and I’d no idea he was the son of that horrible man we met in Salisbury. He is—no?”
“Yes. Rafe’s father is Lord Hibbard Green. And your—er, message is safely delivered?”
“At last! I am free. I don’t have to pretend any more!”
“Egad—what a melodrama!” He frowned. “Then—where is the real Mrs. Deene?”
“Recovering, I’m afraid— Oh dear! I don’t mean that exactly, but she will probably be coming to claim Carlton at any hour. She lies at a hedge tavern near Winchester where we were carried after the wreck.”
“I see. Then—you cannot know whether Carlton is, or is not, my legal nephew?”
“No. He is a very dear little boy, though, do you not think?”
“Very dear! As witness my broken coach and shattered bridge—to say nothing of his confounded House Tour!”
Dimity chuckled. “Yes—and the paints you bought him, and the time you have spent trying to teach him how to go on. You likely thought I did not notice.”
Farrar was experiencing the inevitable reaction from his debauched night and violent morning. His head pounded savagely, and his arm felt even worse than it had yesterday. He knew a grim sense of satisfaction because he had in some small measure punished Green for his beloved Shuffle’s death, but that loss was still too terrible a thing to be faced, and he escaped it by allowing another realization to please him. If what she said was truth this time, this beautiful and courageous girl was not engaged in trying to defraud him, and may well have had a reason for some of the outrageous things she had done; certainly for those disgraceful gowns. With the startled awareness that he had been staring at her, he said, “Your pardon—what did you say?”
Love Alters Not Page 21
