The room was in a turmoil, the spectators coming belatedly to the awareness that they, too, had been used in this infamous plot.
Over the uproar Lord Green, pale now and having a hunted look, bellowed, “And are we asked to believe that every previous witness has lied? Can you explain, your Grace, why a soldier would swear to have seen the prisoner brutally shoot down his cousin, if that were untrue? Bailiff! Let us have Goodwin and Shortbridge in here again!”
The bailiff was absent for a very few moments, and returned in a state of great agitation with the word that both corporal and sergeant seemed to have slipped away.
“Scarce to be wondered at,” said the duke scornfully, “since both were paid impostors!”
“I shall require proof of that, sir,” raged my lord, becoming ever more pale.
“It most certainly shall be proven,” said Major Rhodes. “And those responsible will be brought to justice!” Again his cold gaze turned with deliberation to Phillip Ellsworth, who shrank, sick and terrified, before that condemning glare. “However,” Rhodes added, “we must first, I think, verify Captain Farrar’s actions that day. He did indeed catch his cousin. Harding refused to return to duty and fought to escape. When Anthony tried to detain him, in his terror, he turned on him. It was Harding shot you down, Farrar! I saw that much before I was hit myself!”
The babble of excitement that greeted this shocking revelation came only very dimly to Farrar’s ears. The courtroom was a blur, and the effort to hold his head up now quite beyond him. He thought he heard Peregrine shout and Mitten’s dear voice scream his name, but his tired mind was unable to cope with any more. He was possessed by a terrible fear that this might only be a dream and that he would waken to find Lambert still attempting to force a confession from him. His frantic prayer that it was not so was smothered by an overwhelming exhaustion that swiftly and inexorably dragged him down and down into a stifling emptiness.
The last thing he heard was what sounded like the distant and distressful howling of a large dog …
XX
His Grace, the Duke of Marbury, leaned back in the satin brocade chair in the luxurious cream saloon of Dominer, his favourite house, and gazed over loosely interlocked hands at the handsome bastard who was his grandson.
Impressive in blue and black, Roland Fairleigh Mathieson (who for various reasons went by the name of Otton) shifted uncomfortably in his chair. The silence was becoming nerve-racking; he still did not know why he had been summoned to an estate that usually closed its doors against him, and, perhaps because his conscience was never entirely easy when in the presence of his formidable grandfather, he said with strained lightness, “A penny for your thoughts, sir.”
“I was wondering,” murmured his Grace, “whether your nature might have been—different, had you been born on the right side of the blanket.”
Otton flinched inwardly, flushed, and answered with a shrug, “I fancy not, your Grace. My traits are all inbred, I suspect.”
For just an instant the duke’s fine hand clenched. “Touché.”
Otton’s flush deepened, but he met the duke’s gaze with a certain arrogant defiance.
“Despite those—ah, inbred traits,” his Grace resumed, “I must confess I was rather taken aback by Farrar’s attitude when he ousted you from his home. You did, after all, see service together. One might think—”
Otton gestured with faint impatience. “Much I care what he thinks of me.”
“Hmmn. And yet, Roland, I could wish you had remained in the army. Farrar is a most gallant young fellow and—”
“Is paid a pittance,” his grandson again interrupted, misliking this topic. “In return for which his life was near forfeited and his only reward was a letter of commendation that he never received.” He gave a scornful bark of laughter. “When I venture my life, your Grace, it is only after having been well paid! I do not consider Farrar to have the best of that bargain!”
The duke sighed. “Do you—ever—bestir yourself for other than gold? Is not surprising that you have not a friend in the world.”
This was not perfectly true, but Otton chose not to dispute it. “Only a fool works without pay, sir,” he said disdainfully. “And friends are a questionable asset, at best.”
“So you prefer your horse.”
The sneer in the dark eyes was replaced by a softer expression. “Rump is one in a million. A far better conversationalist and more loyal friend than most men.”
“One cannot but wonder,” murmured the duke, “that you pushed him so hard the night you rode to enlist my aid in Farrar’s behalf.”
Otton tensed, catching his breath. He had blundered into yet another of the traps this man was so adept at constructing.
“Or,” went on the duke silkily, “why you would have bothered at all, considering that you care so little for him, or his treatment of you.” His grandson maintaining an enigmatic silence, he went on, “I fancy you have heard about the poor fellow?”
“If you refer to his having been exonerated of all guilt—”
“I refer to the fact that he is gravely ill. He has never regained consciousness, you know. Steel is a good man, and says that from Farrar’s delirium it appears he is unable to accept his sudden vindication; that his mind fears the trial was no more than a dream and shrinks from returning to a reality in which he is as deep sunk in guilt and disgrace as before.” He frowned at one cuticle and pushed it back carefully. “It would help, I fancy, were his lady at his side. He calls for her, but she will not come. Odd, is it not? She appeared so devoted.” His eyes lifted then, and Otton saw the glare in them and nerved himself.
“Most odd,” he said, his voice a little strained. “But I quite fail to see—”
“Do not fence with me, sir!” Marbury stood, frowning down at this regrettable kinsman. “You will find me no mean swordsman, I do assure you, for I am not near so old and decrepit as you suppose!”
The voice was a whiplash that brought Otton to his feet with somewhat less than his customary grace. “Indeed, Duke, I—”
“Should by this time know that I have spies everywhere! I have learned, for example, that Miss Cranford visited your rooms the night Farrar was arrested. Why?”
“To—er, to beg that I find you, and—”
“And help a man for whom you cared nothing? ‘Only a fool works for no pay,’ remember?”
Otton moistened his lips. “There—there are, circumstances, your Grace, that must change any man’s mind, even—”
“Even such a heartless, soulless, mercenary rake and opportunist as Roland Fairleigh Mathieson? Oh, I think not!” The duke stepped closer. “How pale you are become, dear boy! Guilt, perchance?”
Otton fought to collect his shredding nerves. “Not—at all. I—”
Marbury took another pace, and his grandson, retreating, collided with a table and stopped of necessity.
“What did you have of that poor, terrified child, my most unvaliant soldier? Her virtue, perhaps? Is that why she will not go to the man she loves, even though he lies ill and crying out for her?”
“No!” gasped Otton. “Sir—I swear—”
Marbury’s lip curled. “You? Upon what would you swear? Your honour? You have none! Your God? Hah!”
Very white, Otton said, “Upon the thing I hold most dear—my mother’s memory! I swear I did not violate the girl, nor force her in any way—”
“To do—what?” The duke stood very close now, and Otton, unable to escape, faced him in silence, but he could not meet that piercing gaze and his eyes fell.
“I know what you are about, you greedy money grubber!” said Marbury with icy contempt. “As always, you seek an easy path to riches. Miss Cranford must have had something you wanted—something perhaps that she was sworn not to reveal, is that it? ’Sdeath, but you are even lower than I suspected! That any kin of mine should stoop to terrorize a loving, grief-stricken lady!” He stepped back, pale with wrath. “The very sight of you offends! Go! Take your only
friend, and go!”
Otton’s bowed head lifted. “Sir—I—I did not terrorize the lady. I beg—”
“Oh, I believe that last! You would beg and crawl to be named one of my beneficiaries, would you not?” Marbury shook a white finger under his grandson’s aquiline nose. “Now hear me, Roland. If you—ever—expect anything from my estate, you will undo whatever mischief you have done! If that fine boy dies—or that gentle girl is denied the happiness she so richly deserves … Heaven, help you—you’ll get not a penny! Now—out!”
Otton did indeed want something from Marbury, but not even to himself would he admit how desperately he longed for his grandfather’s affection and respect. Even so, his hand went out pleadingly. “Sir, I promise—”
“Pah! Out!”
Otton bowed and left him.
Riding through a glory of sunset, he told Rumpelstiltskin all about it. “Wicked old devil,” he said, without much heat. “Did you ever, Rump, hear of a man stooping so low as to set spies—spies—on his own grandson?” He stroked the chestnut’s silken neck. “You may be thankful that I am your only relative,” he added bitterly.
Rumpelstiltskin, feeling that something was expected of him, tossed his head.
His master was silent for a little while. Then, “Damn and blast!” he muttered. And at the crossroad, turned to the east.
* * *
The afternoon was still, and Muse Manor drowsed peacefully under the hot August sunshine, the curtains at the open lattices billowing occasionally to the touch of a warm and fitful breeze. The smell of baking bread drifted tantalizingly from the kitchen, and Dimity smiled as she heard Peregrine’s new peg leg tapping along the hall. She selected a snowy white rose, snipped it neatly just above the seventh leaf-cluster, and held it for a moment, admiring the perfection of the softly furled petals and the sweet fragrance of the bloom.
Peregrine was much more at ease with the “foot” Florian had carved for him. At first professing indignation because he “clumped about like a one-legged pirate,” he had come, she suspected, to be rather proud of his new leg. It had also become something of an indicator of his mood, for when he was in a pet his stamps were rapid and loud, whereas when he was content his steps were lighter.
It was becoming quite hot in the sun. She took up her basket of blossoms, moved into the shade, and sat down for a minute on the old bench by the Mimosa tree. She sighed, staring blindly at the roses. How was he today? Better, surely. It was, after all, nigh two weeks since the trial. Lady Helen had sent word asking that she come—had said he was calling for her—but that had been a week ago. A terrible week, during which she had been all but driven out of her senses, longing to go to him, and knowing she dare not. When she went to The Palfreys it must be to confess her betrayal. And that was news he should not hear—not yet. She would have to go, eventually, when he was more fully recovered. She bit her lip. Whatever would he say to her? How would he feel? Conscience whispered, “Whatever he says, you know how he will feel. He will know you did it for his sake. He has just been given back his honour, and now he will surely think his good name tarnished again by the terrible thing you did. He will never forgive you. Never want to see you again!” She closed her eyes. It was done. And he was alive. But in saving him, she had lost him. There could be no doubt, for she knew him so well and, understanding the relentless Code by which he lived, adored him the more because of his stern adherence to it.
Peregrine and Piers had obviously put another interpretation on her refusal to return to The Palfreys. They believed that she feared to implicate Farrar in the Jacobite business. She had made no attempt to enlighten them, striving to appear content, and they had been so careful to avoid all mention of the matter. But she had caught Peregrine sometimes watching her anxiously, or Piers would give her one of his searching looks, and she would know that they were worrying. Perhaps they were watching her now. A fine picture she must present!
She looked up swiftly and saw at once that she was no longer alone for the westering sun painted a shadow onto the lawn beside her. A tall shadow. A slim gentleman with a sword at his side and a tricorne in one hand. Her heart began to pound wildly. She closed her eyes for a second, trying not to tremble and to quiet the hurrying of her breath. Standing then, she turned and gave a gasp.
Instead of the beloved features, the green eyes and fair hair she had been sure she would see, she encountered a breathtakingly handsome dark face, black, curling hair, twinkling eyes of jet, and a shapely mouth that trembled on a smile.
Her hand fluttered to her throat. “You!”
Otton swept her a low bow. “Neither flattering nor original,” he said scoldingly. “I had expected a warmer welcome.”
“Oh! I am so sorry! Of—of course you are welcome.” Apprehensive, she tried not to show it, and waved him to the bench. He waited respectfully until she was seated, then sat beside her. ‘Too close, wretched man,’ she thought and, edging as far away as was possible, went on, “I have wanted so to be able to thank you. It is—it is only due to you that Sir Anthony was not—did not die that dreadful day! How you ever managed to find your grandpapa and bring him to us in time—”
“With the very greatest difficulty,” he interrupted, managing in some incredible fashion to have both halved the distance between them and acquired possession of her hand. “I have, dear Mistress Mitten,” he lifted and kissed her fingers, “a superb horse. The fastest in all the Southland, I do believe.” Dimity rather hurriedly reclaiming her hand, he looked at her soulfully and appended with a sigh, “But—my grandsire is not—er, enamoured of me, as you know. It took all my powers of persuasion to win my way into his august presence.”
“Oh,” said Dimity, feeling the most ungrateful wretch alive. “Then—I must be doubly thankful for your invaluable assistance. He was—he is—superb!”
“He is. And you should.”
She blushed before his really very naughty eyes and looked away.
“But you are not,” he observed, moving even closer.
Dimity drew a deep breath. “Captain Otton—”
“Roland,” he murmured, twining a glossy ringlet about one finger.
“You and I struck a—a business arrangement,” she went on, removing the ringlet.
“Of which you are deeply ashamed,” he said with sudden gravity.
She winced and shrank a little.
Otton lifted her chin. “Poor gentle child,” he said in a tone she would not have believed him capable of. “How innocent you are. Is a rare quality. I vow I quite envy Farrar. You—mean to tell him, of course.”
She looked at him steadily, wondering at the compassion she read in his eyes. “I have no choice. I—I can only pray, he will forgive me.”
“Confession is good for the soul,” he agreed musingly. “Of the confessor.”
Her eyes, which had fallen again, shot up at this and scanned him anxiously.
“But it can play hob with the one hearing the confession,” he finished. “Besides, there is no need for you to so immolate yourself at poor Tony’s expense, and—”
“Immolate!” she gasped, indignant. “At his expense? But I must—”
“Destroy the happiness he has only just found?” He shook his head. “I am not the man to be much concerned with the troubles of others, and your beloved was far from kind to me. However, I will admit he has had more than his share of misery. If you insist upon piously relieving your conscience, ma’am, you will break his heart, plunge him back into despair, and ruin your every chance for a rich and joyful life together.”
Dimity’s eyes filled with tears. She said in a low voice, “Do you think I do not know that?”
“Besides which,” said Otton, “there is not the need for such nobility. No, be still and listen to me. I have already learned a good deal of what I wish to know about the treasure, but your cypher was, alas, quite worthless. There were, as you know, four such messages sent out. Even could I discover the key to the one you gave me, I would have only
a small part of an apparently long message. As it is, I have wasted some very expensive candles during the hours of darkness, trying to make head or tail of it, to no avail. So, to all intents and purposes you have done nothing.”
She lifted tragic, despairing eyes to his, and he went on, “I mean the rebs no harm, I promise you. I am out only for the gold. I would never betray them to the military, for I—”
Why his arms were about her, or how it had occurred, seemed very unimportant. On a sob, Dimity faltered, “B-But—I betrayed them! I cannot be silent. I cannot let him go on thinking me pure and—and worthy to be his wife when—”
“Then you shall have to confess.” He drew her closer and said earnestly, “Unless you are willing to bear the greater burden and remain silent. And it will be the greater burden, my sweet Miss Cranford. Besides, consider poor Farrar’s alternatives. Would he call me out? No doubt of that. I am no braggart, m’dear, and will confess to you that I have been bested with the sword. Once. I have seen Farrar fence, and he is excellent. Only—not in my class. And—in despite everything, I really have no desire to kill him.”
She was briefly silent, huddled in his arms, torn by doubt and longing with all her heart to accept his solution. Still clinging to his cravat, she looked up. “Is it true? Is it really true? Will you give me your word of honour as a gentleman that you did not decode it and that you will never repeat what you know? That you will never betray any of them?”
Love Alters Not Page 37
