Farrar, watching her with the eyes of love, said gravely, “Yes. It is quite hopeless, my dear.” She flinched and started to speak, but he put his fingers over her lips and said, his voice low and husky with emotion, “You will never—never know how unspeakably dark my life was, until you came. You can never begin to imagine what it meant to me to learn to laugh again. To see your disgust of me begin to fade into—I dare to think—a kinder feeling. Now,” he lowered his hand, “what is it that you are unable to find?”
Fighting tears, she said quaveringly, “Yes, I think— I mean—Oh, I cannot find Carlton anywhere. I have searched and searched, but—”
“Sir … Uncle…”
They both turned in response to that desperate, gasping voice. Carlton, dishevelled and very red in the face, staggered across the hall and reached out to Farrar. “Nasty … Captain,” he gulped. “Coming. Ran … miles…”
Holding the boy’s hands strongly, Farrar sent a strained glance to Dimity.
“Tony!” she whispered, the colour draining from her cheeks, “Ah, no! My God, no!”
Horses were clattering along the drivepath. She heard Captain Holt’s harsh voice and her heart shrank. Leonard and two footmen hastened to the front doors. Farrar lifted the somnolent kitten from his shoulder and handed it to the tearful child.
Carlton pleaded, “Go, sir! Run quick, and you—you might—”
“Thank you,” said Farrar, “but—to run away does not seem to serve very well. If I should have to leave for a while, you take care of her for me, please.”
The boy took the yawning kitten, but could not speak.
Farrar reached out and Dimity flew to take his hand. He pressed her fingers to his lips, turned his cheek against them for an instant, then walked swiftly into the hall.
Captain Holt marched through the front doors, waving aside Leonard’s attempted intervention.
Aware that his aunt had come halfway down the spiral staircase and paused there, Farrar said quietly, “Captain, I am—”
Holt’s cold eyes had widened when they saw the oddly decorated waistcoat and bruised features, but he now interposed, “You are the victim of a fraud, sir! This woman is not Mrs. Catherine Deene. Her name is Miss Dimity Clement.”
For an instant, Farrar was weak with relief.
Dimity, on the other hand, felt quite sick.
“You will be so good, madam,” the officer growled, “as to explain your reasons for the impersonation. And to produce your identification papers. At once!”
“I see no need for you to take that tone with the lady,” frowned Farrar, recovering his wits.
“What you see is of no slightest interest to me, sir,” snapped Holt. “Since you are obviously not startled by the news of her imposture, perhaps you are in this with her. Faith, but it’d not astound—”
Taken aback, Farrar demanded, “In—what?”
“A dangerous rebel was cornered six nights ago on the North Downs. He managed to give our men the slip, although he was known to be wounded. He last was seen riding near Basingstoke, and—”
“And you think that this lady might be your rebel? Jove, sir, but you’ve a fervid imagination!”
Holt flushed and said grittily, “I think she might well have given him aid. Why else would she hide by stealing the identity of another lady?” His chin jutting, he growled, “Have you a better explanation, Miss Clement? You would do well to tell the truth, else it will go hard on you and your accomplices!”
Her brothers and Tio must not come under suspicion. And there was the cypher—above all, that little document must be kept safe. It would mean more lies, but …
“Well, ma’am?” grated Holt. “Your papers?”
Lady Helen was coming to them, and the servants stood about, watching anxiously. There was not a doubt in her mind but that Farrar would fight to get her clear if it came down to that, and he had sufficient trouble. She gathered her courage. “I have no papers,” she admitted. “I left my home in such a flame I brought only my horse and my purse.”
“A likely story,” sneered Holt. “A lady riding alone after dark and in the howling storm there was on that night!”
“I had to ride after dark. ’Twas the only way I could escape my brothers. They—they would never have let me come.”
“Indeed? And where is this magical disappearing horse, pray tell?”
“A gypsy lad stabled him for me in Short Shrift.”
“Describe the animal, if you please.”
“He is a tall bay stallion named Odin.”
The sergeant who had followed Holt volunteered, “The reb rode a big black, sir.”
“I am aware of that,” flared Holt testily. “Your tale makes little sense, madam. There remain the matters of the stolen child, the stolen identity, your masquerade here. For what reason save but to hide yourself?”
Her heart aching, she said, “I had meant to come here from the start. I just never dreamed to be given so golden an opportunity.”
Farrar turned his head and stared at her.
“And may we be favoured with the real name of so designing a lady?” asked Holt, ironically.
She bit her lip. “I am Miss Dimity Cranford.” From the corner of her eye she saw Farrar’s right hand clench tight, and rushed on, “My twin brothers fought in Captain Farrar’s battery at the Battle of Prestonpans. One of them was maimed for life because—”
“Oho…!” said Holt, with a suddenly amused glance at the rigid and motionless Farrar. “So you’d vengeance in mind, had you, ma’am? Commendable. What exactly had you hoped to accomplish, eventually?”
“You underestimate the lady. She has accomplished her objective.” Farrar bowed cynically. “You are a splendid actress, Miss Cranford.”
The grin faded from Holt’s face. He eyed Dimity narrowly. “Is she indeed?” he murmured.
He was not convinced. Somehow, her tone harsher than she guessed, Dimity said, “It is nigh to a year since Prestonpans, Captain Holt. We lost two dear friends there, and my brother was—was a splendid athlete. He will never walk easily again. That this—” she gestured scornfully towards Farrar “—this creature should be allowed to go free is a national disgrace!”
Confused and frightened, Carlton came to stand directly in front of her and tug at her hand. “But—but Aunty Mitten—” he pleaded.
“Be quiet. You do not understand,” she said sharply, and squeezed his hand in a silent, desperate warning.
Holt looked from the tall hauteur of the girl to Farrar’s set white face, and burst into a hearty laugh. “By Jupiter, ma’am, but you’ve more than your share of gumption! I’ll wager your brothers will have your ears for this, but were you my sister, I’d be dashed proud, I can tell you! As for you, sir,” he turned to Farrar, “the boy’s aunt has recovered and will be here very soon, I’ve no doubt. And when that one descends on you, you will assuredly wish Miss Cranford had really been Mrs. Deene!”
Farrar looked at him without comment.
Not for the first time, something in those steady eyes made Holt uneasy. He bowed to Dimity. “I offer you my escort, Miss Cranford. You’ll have no wish to stay here.”
“I shall be quite safe with Lady Helen, thank you. I have sent off a letter to my brothers, you see, and expect them momentarily, so there is no need for me to delay you whilst I pack.”
As it chanced, Holt was most anxious to ride over to Fayre Hall to nose about a little. He was fond of Roland, but it did not pay to let that one have too long a rein. He hesitated.
Farrar, torn between rage and a bitter desolation, kept his eyes fixed on the stained-glass window. He knew that he had brought all this on himself, and it was as well it should end now and in just this fashion.
Lady Helen said, “I will vouch for Mrs.—Miss Cranford’s safety, Captain. I cannot but be in sympathy with her, you know.”
At this, Farrar’s iron control faltered. He jerked his head away and walked swiftly from the room.
Holt said dubiously
, “You are sure, ma’am? He would not … er…?”
“Take out his anger on us? No. Whatever else, my nephew would never harm a woman.”
“Very well, my lady, I’ll take you at your word. As a matter of fact, there is another matter I’ve to attend to. Miss Cranford—my deepest respects.”
“Thank you, Captain. Pray tell Mrs. Deene that I shall replace her wardrobe at my very first opportunity.”
He glanced at Carlton. “What about the boy? I doubt Mrs. Deene is well enough to cope, but—”
Lady Helen said, “He may stay here until his aunt is able to claim him.”
“You are very good, ma’am.” Saluting, he bade them good day and marched outside, followed by his men.
Through a taut silence Dimity hurried to the window, watched them ride from sight, then ran up the steps. In the music hall the servants stood about in little knots, staring at her. She flew to where Cissie and Rodgers whispered together. “Where is the master?”
Rodgers said with frank hostility, “Ahem—reckon you’ve done about enough to him, miss. I’ll say nought.”
Dimity glanced up. Jordan stood on the stairs watching her with a troubled face. He hesitated, then jerked his head towards the back of the house. With a grateful smile she fled.
The chapel was empty. Nor was there any sign of his tall figure in the stableyard. She ran across the park for a short way, then turned into the rose gardens at the west side of the house.
Farrar stood gazing at the sundial, his shoulders very straight, his hands clasped loosely behind him.
With a flurry of skirts, Dimity flew to his side. “Anthony—you must have understood! Please say you understood!”
He turned to her, his eyes blank and expressionless. “Deceit on deceit. Lie on lie,” he drawled. “Are you done now, Madame Vengeance? Did you plan to make me fall in love with you and then—deride me? Or is this just the first step in my chastisement?”
“No! No! Tony—please. You must listen!”
He beat away the frantic hands that sought to grasp his arm, and turned on her in a sudden blaze of fury. “Listen is it? Madam, I have listened till my ears ring with it! I’ll give you credit for one thing—you wrapped me round your little finger easily enough. Like a—a blind fool, I thought I’d found—” The harsh words ceased. His mouth twisted into a bitter smile. “Which would have been most unfair, after all. You are to be congratulated, Miss Cranford. Your woman’s wiles are—stronger than … than the whole damned army!”
He turned away, a dreary resignation replacing that searing wrath. And he looked so haggard, so lost that she ran in front of him and, desperate, begged, “Tony—my dearest, if you will just—”
Anguished by the form of endearment, he seized her arms and shook her savagely. “For the love of God, go away from here! Enjoy your triumph and leave me be!”
“No! I haven’t—”
A wild thunder of hooves, shouts of wrath, and Dimity gave a shriek. “Piers! Perry! Oh, thank heaven!”
Piers was out of the saddle while his mare yet ran. He landed, staggering, and raced at Farrar, his face murderous. “Unhand my sister, damn your eyes!”
“No!” screamed Dimity, as Farrar thrust her clear.
Piers’ fist whipped back. With another squeal, Dimity threw herself at Farrar and clung desperately.
“Get away … dammit!” grated Farrar, struggling.
“Let her go, you blackguard,” roared Peregrine, scrambling erratically from the saddle, “or I’ll— Blast and damn, my foot’s gone again! Piers—grass the dirty villain!”
“Mitten,” raged Piers, dancing about. “Can’t you get out of the way?”
Lord Glendenning, very pale, rode up and more or less slid from the saddle. “Mitten—thank heaven you’re safe,” he gasped, clinging to the stirrup. “Take your filthy hands—off her, Farrar!”
“I am—trying,” groaned Farrar, tugging at Dimity’s hands fast clasped behind his neck.
“What’re you messing about at, Piers?” howled Peregrine, sitting on the lawn wrestling with a buckle. “Kill the bastard!”
“Well, curse it all, I will, can I just get Mitten away. He won’t let her go!”
“Hiding behind … a girl…” gasped my lord, swaying and livid. He advanced, lifting one wavering fist. “I challenge you … Captain…” and he struck Piers in the eye and fainted.
“Ow!” yelled Piers.
“Tio!” sobbed Dimity.
“I accept your challenge,” said Farrar, beginning to grin, despite himself.
“And mine, blast your eyes!” groaned Piers.
“And mine,” raged Peregrine. “So soon as I get my foot on.”
“Could we call a truce,” suggested Farrar, “so that someone can help poor Glendenning?”
“All right, Perry?” called Piers, clutching his eye. “Tio’s gone off again.”
“Yes, of course. Mitten—did this libertine harm you?”
“No, no,” said Dimity, running to kneel beside Glendenning. “I am so grateful that dear Tio is alive, but—oh, how ill he looks. You should never have brought him!”
“Brought him!” Piers crossed to blink down at Glendenning. “I’d like to have seen anyone keep him from coming. Silly idiot.”
“Farrar,” called Peregrine. “Give a hand here, will you?”
Farrar went over and knelt beside him. He stared at the mutilated leg for a minute, then looked up into the thin young face. “Charged to my account, I fancy,” he said quietly. “I’m most terribly sorry, Cranford.”
“I got off lucky, compared to some of my friends,” Peregrine said rather brutally. “However, we can remedy that when I blow a hole through you.” Farrar gave him a measuring look, and he added apologetically, “I know you have the choice of weapons, sir, but—I can’t very well use a smallsword, you see.”
“Of course,” agreed Farrar politely. “Only I’m afraid you shall have to wait your turn.”
“I claim first chance at you,” said Peregrine. “My brother won’t mind. Oh, that’s very good. Thank you.” He stood, and with Farrar’s aid limped to where Dimity and Piers ministered to Glendenning. “Piers, old lad, you’ll not object do I have first crack at— My God!”
They all stared at him.
“Mitten!” he gasped, scarlet. “What the devil are you wearing?”
Piers, who had been kneeling behind his sister, had his first full view as she turned to look up at Peregrine. “The deuce!” he exclaimed, flinging a shielding arm across the embarrassment. “Farrar! Turn your prying eyes away! Mitten, take that disgraceful thing off, at once!”
Glendenning, who had opened his eyes, said feebly, “Better not, Mitten.” And with a faint grin murmured, “Matter of fact, I think it jolly—er, becoming.”
“Becoming for a skirt,” said Peregrine, taking off his coat and wrapping it primly around Dimity. “But where in the deuce is the top piece? By Jove, Farrar, but you’ll pay for shaming my sister. How dare you put such a wicked frock on her?”
“What leads you to suppose I had a hand in what your sister wears?” asked Farrar in a rather unfortunate turn of phrase.
“By God, I’d best not find you had a hand in—” cried Peregrine, then broke off, turning an even deeper shade of red. “Ah, th-that is to say—”
“You’ve said too much already,” interposed Glendenning faintly. “Mitten—forgive me for interrupting these tangled threads, but—did you deliver my—er, message?”
She tore her gaze from Farrar’s fascinated expression. “What? Oh—yes, Tio. Never fret.”
“Thank the good Lord,” he sighed.
Farrar bent over him. “Shall I send for a hurdle, Tio? Or would you prefer we carry you?”
“I think I can manage, if you’ll just help me up.”
Farrar slipped an arm about him and lifted cautiously. Supporting Glendenning on the other side, Piers said, “I’m sorry, Perry. You asked me something, I think?”
Farrar said, “He wants
to know if he can have first crack at fighting me. I’m afraid he cannot. I’m already booked for the morning.”
“Well, that’s a fine state of affairs, I must say,” grumbled Peregrine. “With whom?”
“Your sister’s friend, Rafe. What happened to you, Tio?” And a sudden crazily logical explanation for all Dimity’s falsehoods causing his heart to leap, he added, “Nothing to do with de Villars, I hope?”
“’Fraid so,” murmured his lordship, who had pushed himself too soon and too hard in the desperate search for Dimity. “Be safer if you … do not take me in your house.”
“Take you in it?” snorted Peregrine. “I should rather think we shall not take you in it! I can scarce wait to know for how long my sister has been in it, and you may be sure I’ll have a few words to say to you, Mitten, at which time, among other things, I shall require to know who is this ‘Rafe’ fella.”
Farrar put in quickly, “He is a neighbour who meant to kill me, but killed my dog instead, which is why—”
The small party came to an abrupt halt at this, the twins staring in shocked disbelief.
“Killed your dog?” gasped Peregrine. “I should hope you mean to fight the beastly fellow! Sorry, Mitten, but whether or not he is a friend of yours, anyone who’d kill another man’s dog ain’t fit to go!”
“Of course he is not a friend, silly,” she said. “He’s Tio’s friend, not mine. I never met him until I came here, and I must say, Tio dear, he is a very nasty man.”
Lord Glendenning, whose dizzied head had sunk onto his chest, raised it and blinked at the blurred shape he rather supposed was Dimity. “Don’t mean to—to contradict, m’dear,” he faltered, “but—I’m not acquainted with anyone named Rafe, that … I can recall.”
“Well, that’s not his true name, of course,” she said, with an uneasy glance to Farrar, “but—you know who I mean. He’s the—er, gentleman you sent me to find. Mr. Green…”
“Oh—damme!” groaned Peregrine.
Glendenning’s hand clamped hard onto Farrar’s supporting arm. He gasped, “D-devil he … is! By God, Mitten—what have you done?”
Paling, she stammered, “Well, I-I … Oh Tio, you said ‘Fayre’ and ‘Hall’—and D-Decimus Green, and—”
Love Alters Not Page 24
