by Diane Farr
“Stow it!” recommended Mr. Montague. He crossed one leg gracefully over the other. “By the by, I am glad to see you up and about. You must be feeling better this morning than I thought you would be.”
Kilverton grinned wryly. “I am on the mend again, thank you. But my shoulder aches damnably, and the truth is I was too uncomfortable to stay in bed.”
“Well, what the devil were you about, driving your curricle all over the kingdom yesterday?” Ned pointed out reasonably. “It hasn’t been more than three weeks since you fought off those footpads. Might have known you’d be knocked into horsenails.”
Kilverton made as if to struggle upright “Look here, Ned!” he warned. “If you mean to read me a lecture, Bradshaw can show you the door! How the deuce was I to know there would be an accident? I was in a capital way until the horses bolted—and if you can tell me how I might have prevented that—”
“What kind of chaw-bacon do you take me for?” demanded Mr. Montague, aggrieved. “Is it likely I’d ring a peal over you? Now, Kilverton, take a damper! Here I am on an errand of mercy, visiting the invalid, and you get on your high ropes the instant I express my concern for your welfare! You must be in pretty queer stirrups after all.”
“I am, a bit,” admitted Kilverton, sinking back into the chair.
Ned regarded him shrewdly. “Hm! It’s all very well for you to talk of me tossing on my pallet, but if you ask me, it’s you who looks as if he hadn’t slept. Are you going to tell me some hoaxing tale about being kept awake on a bed of pain, or shall we talk about what’s really bothering you? Aye, and bothering me as well!”
For a startled moment, Kilverton wondered how his friend knew about his sudden and overwhelming desire to terminate his betrothal to Lady Elizabeth. Then he realized Ned had something quite different on his mind. “Ah,” he said quietly. He set down the packet of letters and invitations in his hand, and looked quizzically at his companion. “I believe I can guess what you are about to say.”
“I imagine you can,” said Mr. Montague grimly. “I would be interested to know what your family makes of this shocking run of ill-luck that has been dogging you lately.”
“What do you make of it?” countered Kilverton.
Mr. Montague shrugged impatiently. “I told you three weeks ago what I made of it! Good God, man, only a mutton-head could fail to see what is in the wind.”
Kilverton was amused. “Yes, you were full of hints and dark warnings, as I recall. On the strength of two completely separate attacks by obvious criminals—and despite no discernible connection between the incidents—you have leapt to the conclusion that a plot exists against my life. Now I see you have come here this morning to convince me my curricle accident was somehow engineered—doubtless by the same mastermind who failed in his other two attempts! Much obliged to you, Neddie, but we do not dwell between the covers of one of Mrs. Radcliffe’s romances.”
Mr. Montague did not smile. “And you, on the other hand, will try to convince me such a suspicion has never crossed your mind. You won’t succeed.”
He watched with narrowed eyes as Lord Kilverton opened his mouth, and then shut it again. “Just so!” said Mr. Montague grimly. “You, too, have wondered.”
Kilverton spread his hands deprecatingly. “But, Ned, I am the best of good fellows! Who would want to see me dead? I protest, I haven’t an enemy in the world.”
Ned snorted derisively. “Yes, I know you expect me to contradict you! But it’s because you are, in fact, the best of good fellows that we needn’t look far for a suspect. Had you pursued a more ramshackle way of life, dear boy, we might have had to sift through a dozen possibilities. As it is, only one name occurs to me. I am a little acquainted with your uncle, Kilverton—a curst rum touch! And there’s nothing he’d like better than to see you underground.”
Lord Kilverton sighed. “Let us have this in plain English, if you please,” he said. “You are of the opinion that my Uncle Oswald would like to have me—er—removed from his path.”
“Naturally. You are very much in his way.”
“I have been in his way for eight-and-twenty years, but let us, by all means, agree to overlook that! You are here to tell me my uncle has been rendered desperate by the news of my impending nuptials, and is attempting to arrange a fatal accident for me before I am able to marry and produce—ah—additional impediments.”
“Not to wrap it up in clean linen—yes!”
Mr. Montague appeared perfectly serious. Kilverton could not repress a chuckle. “It won’t fadge, Ned! My death does nothing for my uncle while my father is alive. Or do you suppose he means to play the same trick on both of us? Even my enterprising Uncle Oswald might find it difficult to leapfrog into the title through two accidental deaths. Too smoky by half!”
Mr. Montague hesitated, glancing doubtfully at his friend. He seemed to be searching for the most delicate way to voice his opinion. “I don’t suppose he would go so far as to plot Lord Selcroft’s death,” he said finally. “But, Richard,” he added gently, “do you think he would need to?”
Kilverton pondered this for a moment “I see. You believe the shock of my death is meant to drive my father into his grave as well.”
“I know you don’t like to think so, but I’m afraid your sudden death might have that effect, Richard. And even if it did not—” Mr. Montague broke off, looking uncomfortable.
Kilverton quietly finished the sentence for him. “Even if the shock did not immediately carry my father off, Uncle Oswald would not have long to wait. It is common knowledge that my father’s health is failing, and he cannot be expected to live many years more.”
Mr. Montague nodded. “And in the meantime, with you out of the way, your uncle would be established unshakably as Selcroft’s heir. His creditors would once again smile upon him, I daresay. If one were reasonably certain of inheriting the Selcroft fortune within a few years, it would be possible to live quite handsomely upon the expectation. Quite a tidy little scheme, in fact.”
Kilverton frowned. “It is preposterous!”
Ned leaned forward earnestly. “Let us say, rather, it is monstrous! He may have been contemplating something of this kind for years, you know, hoping that fate would intervene on his behalf and it would not be necessary for him to act. Your betrothal has forced his hand.”
Kilverton settled back in his chair as if preparing to listen to an agreeable tale. “Well, you are clearly agog to share your insights with me, and I would be loath to deprive you of any pleasure, Ned. I am willing to be entertained.” His voice lowered to a conspiratorial whisper. “Pray illuminate for me the dark forces your powerful intellect detected at work during yesterday’s curricle accident—but of course I must not refer to it as an ‘accident’—yesterday’s sinister attempt on my life, rather! I depend on you to unmask the evil machinations of my wicked uncle.”
Mr. Montague grinned, but refused to be dissuaded by his friend’s theatrics. “I own it doesn’t sound as likely at ten o’clock in the morning as it did at dead of night!” he admitted. “But I mean to tell you what I think, and if you choose to laugh, you may. If I cannot convince you to have a care, I hope you will convince me there is no need. Either way, I’ll rest easier.”
Kilverton waved a languid hand. “Tell me, then. You plainly doubted my account of yesterday’s events. Did my cousin’s theory fail to quiet your alarms?”
“Poachers!” Mr. Montague snorted derisively. “A likely story! A dashed chuckleheaded poacher, I must say! He fires not once, but twice—in the clear light of day, within a stone’s throw of the King’s Road, and barely outside the grounds of a royal park. And we’re to believe this fatwit is a curst bad shot, too, for instead of aiming at his game he fires across the road—again, not once, but twice! Oh, and he’s also the kind of ugly customer who funks it when he’s caused an accident, and leaves his victims to bleed in the road.”
“Yes a clumsy individual,” agreed Kilverton meditatively. “I fancy such a man’s effor
ts to poach are not generally crowned with success. One wonders why he did not come forth, while we were distracted with our hurts, and steal the horses. It seems absurd for him to take such pains and then leave with nothing in his sack.”
Mr. Montague could not repress a grin at the picture of a rustic in gaiters stuffing Kilverton’s bays into a leather sack, but again refused to be drawn from his point. “I do consider it fortunate, you know, that he did not come out to finish what he had begun. I suppose his orders did not include actually putting a bullet through your head.”
“Either that, or he is a delicate, well-bred fellow; perhaps he did not care to shoot me in the presence of Miss Campbell.”
“Now, that reminds me of another point I wish to make!” Mr. Montague exclaimed, again leaning forward eagerly. “It Strikes me, Richard, that if the rogue had been hired in London and told to lie in ambush for a party of persons he did not know, he must have been furnished with a description of you, and Mullins, and the curricle, and the horses—but not Miss Campbell!”
For the first time, an arrested expression crossed Kilverton’s face, and he swore softly. Mr. Montague nodded with satisfaction. “Yes, I rather thought that hadn’t occurred to you!” he said, pleased. “The fellow may have had any number of instructions, but he was not absolutely certain he had the right party! Imagine his consternation when he peeked out from his hiding place and got a good look at the scene. He was told there would be a brunette beside you on the box.”
Lord Kilverton stared unseeingly out the window, his mind moving swiftly. “Then once again I find myself indebted to Miss Campbell for preserving my life,” he said softly. “Really, it becomes almost embarrassing.”
Mr. Montague was not attending. “Richard! I say!” he exclaimed, as a sudden thought occurred to him. “If Lady Elizabeth had been riding with you, she might also have been targeted.”
“Almost certainly, if we are supposing your theory about my uncle to be correct,” replied Kilverton calmly. “If Uncle Oswald failed to remove me, but succeeded in removing my fiancée, his purpose would be equally well-served. Either way, my marriage is postponed indefinitely.” He thought for a moment, and smiled to himself. “As far as my uncle knows, at any rate.”
“Good God!” cried Mr. Montague, too much shocked by the idea of Oswald Kilverton plotting the death of Lady Elizabeth Delacourt to puzzle out the meaning of this last cryptic remark.
“But you know, Ned—again, just indulging your theory—I don’t think the accomplice necessarily bungled the job. After all, had a bullet killed me there would certainly have been an inquest, and all sorts of dust kicked up. It’s possible he was instructed only to frighten my horses, and was not aiming at either myself or my companion.”
“He fired two shots.”
“Yes, but now I recall the second shot was fired just as I was beginning to get my horses in hand. So if his purpose was to make them bolt, the first shot did not succeed. Once the second shot was fired, of course, I had no hope of controlling them.”
Mr. Montague frowned over this for a moment, then shook his head. “I don’t see it, Richard,” he argued. “That might serve if the purpose were to frighten you, or injure you, but how could it be expected to kill you? Your uncle must know you are no mere whipster. To a man of your skill and strength, a runaway team would not guarantee an accident. And it surely would not guarantee an accident severe enough to jeopardize your life.”
“You are overlooking two important points,” said Kilverton thoughtfully. “If you are right that the attack on me a few weeks ago was also arranged by my uncle, he would be aware that I suffered a fairly severe shoulder injury at that time.”
“By Jove, yes!” cried Mr. Montague, leaping up in his excitement. “He had good reason to believe you couldn’t hold a bolting team! That also explains why he arranged the accident for the end of the day. He made sure you were already tired from a day of driving!”
While his friend took a hasty turn around the room, Kilverton placed his fingertips together and addressed his next remark to his hands. “That brings me to my second point. It was safe to assume he could frighten my horses, but he could not be sure how long it would take me to get them back under control—supposing I could control them at all. If I happened to be stronger than he bargained for, his scheme would come to nothing.” He kept his voice carefully neutral. “Perhaps, under the circumstances, he took steps to ensure that my curricle could not withstand more than a few seconds of high speed.”
Mr. Montague halted in his perambulations. “The wheel!” he gasped.
Lord Kilverton nodded pensively. “The wheel,” he agreed softly. “I own, I feel rather uncomfortable about that wheel. I am not a fanciful fellow, Ned, but I am almost tempted to suspect foul play.”
“I should jolly well think you might!” exclaimed Mr. Montague, appalled. He sank back onto the sofa and stared, unseeing, into the fire. “I can’t imagine why it didn’t strike me before! A dashed unlikely thing to happen of itself, by love! He must have hired this fellow to loosen the nuts while we were at Richmond Park, then lie in wait for your curricle, and—why, this is beyond everything!” Ned struck a fist fiercely into the palm of his hand. “If you are not convinced, Kilverton, I am. Your uncle must be brought to book.”
Kilverton shook his head, smiling faintly. “We have no evidence.”
“Rot! Send someone to examine the curricle. You’ll have your precious evidence soon enough.”
“Evidence of what? That the wheel came off? It will be difficult to prove the nuts were loosened, and impossible to bring it home to my uncle! What a fool I would look, hurling such an ill-founded accusation at him! I don’t propose to make such a cake of myself.”
“But you are in danger, do you not agree?”
Kilverton frowned wearily. “No,” he replied quietly. “I have wondered, of course—but I tell myself it is absurd. I ask you, Ned, even if my uncle wished my death—a most uncomfortable supposition—how could he ever bring it off without suspicion falling upon himself?”
“He couldn’t!” said Ned positively, ticking the facts off on his fingers. “His reputation is unscrupulous, he is generally more feared than liked around town, it is common knowledge he is estranged from every other member of your family, it is also common knowledge he has been under the hatches for years, and your death puts him next in line for both title and fortune. His name will be the first on everyone’s lips if it comes to light you have been murdered. But, you know, if he succeeds in making your death appear accidental, or the result of a random crime, it will never be investigated as a murder. People may suspect whatever they wish—he will still inherit.”
Kilverton’s brows climbed, and he laughed unwillingly. “You are very persuasive! Now if you will tell me how my uncle knew I would be driving my curricle to Richmond yesterday, I will congratulate you! He couldn’t possibly have had a hand in yesterday’s adventure. Do you suppose Sir Egbert divulged the details of my party to his father? That’s a bird that won’t fly, Ned! My cousin and my uncle are far from intimate—in fact, I believe they would not be on speaking terms if my cousin did not have such a pious regard for filial obligation. Sir Egbert’s father is a constant thorn in his puritanical flesh! I have often thought he would dearly love to cut my uncle’s acquaintance—but alas, the idea offends Egbert’s strict notions of propriety. Can one imagine the respectable Egbert eagerly helping his detestable father to acquire a title through fair means or foul?”
“It’s a title he would eventually inherit, remember.” But Mr. Montague looked doubtful even as he spoke.
A gleam of speculative interest lit Kilverton’s face for a moment; then he sighed regretfully. “No, I’m afraid I must acquit my worthy cousin of conspiring with his father to bring about my demise. Not even for the sake of his own inheritance! A pity—the picture it conjures up is almost irresistible. But the thought of Oswald Kilverton as the Earl of Selcroft would be nearly as repugnant to Egbert as it is to me. Vic
e rewarded, in fact! Every feeling revolts!” He laughed ruefully. “You see where this leaves your theory, Ned? My uncle did not know about my expedition to Richmond yesterday. So how could he have planned an ambush?”
Mr. Montague looked uncomfortable. “Well, I’m afraid this is the very thing I came to tell you,” he explained. “Just as I was falling asleep last night, it hit me. No need for Sir Egbert to divulge anything about your driving party. Your Uncle Oswald had it from me!”
Kilverton closed his eyes for a pregnant moment. “Ned!” he uttered faintly. “Can it be possible? Have I been mistaken in you all these years?”
“Very likely!” retorted Ned. “Now stop blathering and listen to me, for I was never more serious in my life! I was in White’s the other day and someone happened to invite me to some rubbishing breakfast or other, and the date fixed for it was yesterday. Well, I told him I was engaged to drive to Richmond with a party, and I’m dashed certain I mentioned the party was of your devising. I may have said more; I don’t precisely recall. And what occurred to me as I was dropping off last night was that your uncle had been standing with a party of his cronies just behind me at the time. That fairly flummoxed me, you can imagine! I don’t know how I can have been so careless.”
“I daresay you are not much in the habit yet of suspecting murderous plots being hatched everywhere you go,” said Kilverton soothingly. “Pray do not blame yourself! I am sure you will approach even the sacrosanct portals of White’s with the deepest caution and cunning from now on.”
“Well, you may choose to laugh, but I cannot! He may have been listening, you know—he was with that prosy old bore, Omberfield, and it would not be wonderful if his attention had wandered. Besides, if it has become an object with him to plot against your life, he must be on the lookout for information about your movements. Now, consider, Richard! He knows I would be the very person most likely to drop such information—so he places himself behind me expressly to overhear just such a tidbit—nothing easier! Your uncle probably knew all about your precious scheme to drive to Richmond, and once he knew that, it was obvious you’d take your curricle. The matter then arranges itself—d’you see?”
