“If you think it best,” said Yseut, her tone dubious. “Do you want to encourage him, Miss?”
“Not at all,” said Rowena sharply. “But I will not convince him of that by being deliberately rude to him. He has not noticed when I have
Writ in Blood
443
been/’ She began to unfasten her smock. “But it is tempting, to say or do something so scandalous that he would be shocked into taking the scales from his eyes,” she admitted with a faint smile, then added, “He would probably decide it was incumbent upon him to rectify my manners. So, it would be best to provide him minimal courtesy and then to speed him on his way.”
“Yes, Miss,” said Yseut, and went down to the ground floor to relay Rowena s unenthusiastic greeting and to offer him the choice of tea or coffee.
“Why, coffee, if you will, with milk and sugar,” said Rupert, looking very natty in his new slate-and-tan tweed jacket. His shirt was a pale-blue—a daring departure for him—and his deep-brown flannel slacks were neatly creased. His tie had Corpus Christi colors, and his cufflinks displayed the college s arms. He went into the front room, shaking his head at what he considered the extravagance of a canalside house, and sat down on the Empire couch upholstered in honey-colored linen, two shades darker than the draperies. The butlers table in front of the couch had bright brass fittings—Rupert approved of it, for it reminded him of Longacres. He glanced around at the rest of the furnishings, shaking his head at the eclectic styles represented: a Chinese chest of polished wood on short, bowed:legs next to a fifty-year-old Dutch chair; the other chair was of the Queen Anne period, reupholstered in a modern Viennese print; a long Japanese scroll on the south wall depicting a waterfall contrasted with the modern end tables flanking the couch, each with an Art Nouveau lamp on it, and the carpet from Bokhara. Most of these items had been purchased one at a time over the last four months, and each item had been selected by Rowena after careful consideration: what Rupert saw as deplorable inconsistency, Rowena regarded as harmoniously diverse.
Yseut brought the coffee in a tall, white pot with a single cup accompanying it on the tray, milk and sugar already in it. She set this down on the butlers table and curtsied. “Your coffee, Mister Bowen.”
“Thank you, Ysabel,” said Rupert, unaware of his mistake in her name. “Won’t Miss Pearce-Manning be having coffee, too?”
“She did not say so,” Yseut answered, continuing awkwardly, “I have work to do,” as she withdrew, going back to the rear of the house, and to her continued preparations for supper.
Rupert poured himself coffee, annoyed that Yseut had not put the sugar bowl and creamer on the tray so he could have more than one cup. He sipped at the cup and decided it was a bit too hot.
Five minutes later, Rowena came into the room, still tugging her
Chelsea Quinn Yarbro
bolero jacket into place over her blouse. “Good afternoon, Rupert,” she said brusquely. She had not changed from the neat, practical gored skirt she had put on in the morning, and the addition of the jacket was as much for the cool afternoon as for appearances; she had small pearl earrings on, but no other jewelry, and there was a faint odor of turpentine about her, leftover from her work. “I didn’t expect you.” She would not apologize for keeping him waiting, though she knew he considered himself entitled to it.
Rupert rose and extended his hand to her, aware that she expected it instead of anything more familiar. “I’ve missed you.”
She knew she was supposed to say the same thing, but could not bring herself to do it. “Did you have a good crossing?”
He frowned a little. “The weather was mild—as it is here, and we made excellent time.” His face softened. “It’s good to see you, Rowena.” “I wish I could say the same,” she replied at her most blunt. “I did not expect guests. I was counting on having another hour to work.” She sat down in the Queen Anne chair. “If you had sent a note, we could have arranged a more convenient time.”
“My, you are petulant today,” he chided her with an affectionate smile delivered from his full height. “Artistic temperament; I will have to get used to it.”
“I don’t see why you should,” she countered.
“Oh, come now, Rowena,” he said indulgently. “You have had your chance to spread your wings, but now it is time to return to the nest.” He felt rather proud of this analogy; he had worked it out during the Channel crossing, and was pleased to have found such an adroit way to use it. “If you stay here in Amsterdam much longer, you will be thought eccentric.” His smiled faded, “And if you are hoping to encourage that foreigner, I would hope you would have more respect for yourself—” She slid one leg over the other as she interrupted. “What I do, and where, and when, and with whom, are no business of yours, Rupert.” “Is he still in Bavaria?” he asked innocently. “Oh, that’s what I was told by his neighbor when I stopped round at his flat to have a talk with him.”
“You what?” she demanded, and could find no words to express the extent of her outrage. “What right—”
“You know what right I have, Rowena,” he reminded her. “Do you really think Ragoczy has a Schloss in Bavaria? The address is ‘Near Hausham’—whatever that means. This Schloss may well turn out to be little more than a cabin on the mountain.”
“Stop it,” she said very quietly but with great force. “You have gone
Writ in Blood
445
too far. I will not listen to more of this petty jealousy, which is wholly unmerited. Say what you want about Ragoczy: you will lessen yourself in my eyes and discredit him not a whit. You and I are not going to marry, and that is not because of Ragoczy. It is my decision. Were he to ask, I would refuse him as well. This is not a whim, or a ploy. I am not trying to catch your attention by being coy. I have done all I can think of to make it clear to you. I wish you would believe me.” Her golden eyes shone with ill-concealed indignation. “Go home, Rupert, if you are so interested in nests. Wait a year or two and offer for my sister. Penelope adores you, and she will be thrilled to be your wife. And she will be just what you want her to be, which I never shall.”
Rupert sat down once again and added some coffee to his cup. “How can you say such a thing to me?” he marveled, shifting his cup and saucer from one hand to the other, “When you know that you are everything I want in a wife. My family adores you. And yours would like nothing better. And—”
“I am nothing of the sort, and well you would know it if you could bring yourself to listen to me when I talk to you. I am not going to marry anyone, Rupert. I wish you would abandon this suit of yours. You would do better for yourself with another female. I am never more your friend than when I tell you this.” She kept her tone steady and her temper under control.
He smiled gently. “You are trying to vex me, but I will not permit it. I know you too well to listen to you when you are in one of your crochets.”
“Don’t let’s start this again.” Rowena folded her arms, wishing she had the courage to tell him to leave.
“I am not starting anything, I am offering you a land of truce,” Rupert protested, and offered the excuse he had hit upon for his visit. “My purpose in coming here was to invite you for a ride in my new Darracq. It’s an open racer. I understand it will do over sixty miles an hour, though I’ve only had it to fifty-five. You’ll like it.”
Little as she wanted to admit it, Rowena was intrigued. “You’re offering me a handsome bribe,” she corrected him.
“It is not a bribe at all; come, it’s parked around the corner. We can be off at once,” Rupert said, offense giving way to persuasion. “I know you enjoy automobiling, and I thought, in such congenial activity, we might better resolve our differences. I am trying to settle something that has remained unfinished.”
“There is nothing unfinished between us, Rupert,” said Rowena firmly. “I have told you my decision, and there is nothing left to discuss.”
“But there is, you know,” he said, ref
using to be goaded into an argument.
“Only in your mind,” Rowena informed him, the pleasure at the prospect of riding in an open racing motor car evaporating. “I have spoken to you as clearly as I may without deliberately giving offense.”
There was a rattling crash in the kitchen; Rupert looked up. “Good Lord, what was that?”
“By the sound of it, Yseut dropped a bowl again.” She was annoyed for the interruption as well as the undoubted loss of a bowl; she hoped it was one of the plain ironstone ones and not any of those she particularly liked.
“Should I go—” he offered, about to get to his feet.
Under other circumstances, that was precisely what Rowena would have done; now that Rupert had implied it should be done, Rowena said, “Why embarrass her? Cooks and housekeepers break things from time to time. So do I. So do you. I cannot recall the number of teacups I have ruined over the years. A bowl is no major loss, after all. Leave her be, Rupert.”
He sat down reluctantly. “If you insist. She is your housekeeper, as you have been good enough to remind me. And I am certain you will hold her to account for the price of the item.”
There was a scuffling sound at the back of the house. Both Rupert and Rowena were silent for a moment, until the sound stopped.
“What I do and do not do in my own house is my concern, Rupert, and not yours,” Rowena reminded him, her efforts to control her temper losing ground to her irritation with him.
“You are too lenient, my dear. Any losses should be charged against her wages. To do anything else encourages laxness.” He smiled confidently, and decided to make the most of his opportunity. “Do not jump all over me when I say this: once we are married you will leave such decisions to me.”
She sat upright. “We are not going to be married. Rupert, how much more plainly can I say it? I am not going to marry you. I will never marry you.”
The force of her voice took him aback. “You are overwrought, Rowena. It comes from working too hard—”
A masked figure in nondescript dark clothes appeared in the door; swearing in German, the man rushed into the room as Rupert got to his feet, turning the parlor to chaos in an instant; everything seemed to happen at once, as if time itself had been stunned by the appearance of the sinister man.
Writ in Blood
447
Rowena screamed in objuration and leaped up, aghast at this invasion of her home. In an instant she was looking around desperately for something with which to drive the intruder away: it did not occur to her that Rupert might decide to dispatch the marauder. She had just decided on a large Oriental umbrella stand by the door when Rupert, with a roar, dropped his cup and saucer and rushed directly at the man; he overset the butler’s table in the fury of his attack, splintering one of the legs and destroying the tall coffeepot as he launched himself directly into the chest of the masked man, fists up and ready
Their tussle was close-fought and nasty. Both men were determined to hurt each other as badly as possible; Rupert had a slight advantage in height, but the disadvantage of his background, which still enforced certain codes of sportsmanship. His masked opponent had no such compunction, and quickly began to get the better of Rupert, breaking his nose and then driving his knee into Rupert’s kidneys while Rupert flailed in a vain attempt to land a sporting blow on the others face.
Rowena gave herself an inward command to keep her wits; giving way to panic would serve no purpose but the attacker’s. She picked up the umbrella stand, and hefted it, finding its porcelain weight reassuring as she prepared to drub the unknown man with it. Then she realized a second man, masked and in the same sort of dark-grey trousers and jackets found on half the workmen in Amsterdam, was standing in the door, a small pistol in his hand. She swung around and with all her strength threw the umbrella stand at the second man.
It struck with gratifying impact, cracking where it hit. The second man, who had been raising his pistol, staggered, cursing in Dutch as he tried to steady himself; he did not drop the pistol.
“Rowena!” Rupert shouted breathlessly, having struggled to his knees. “Run!” He was rewarded for this by a two-handed blow to his chest that rocked him onto his side with an audible cracking of bone.
The man with the pistol was clinging to the doorframe, a patch of blood visible on his mask at the top of his forehead. He thrust out his arm to block any escape from the room. Unsteady as he was, he had the significant advantage of his weapon, and it was enough to make Rowena hesitate.
Rupert’s opponent had Rupert down and was methodically kicking him in the ribs and back; Rupert groaned and tried to draw himself up into a ball, but the punishment continued.
“You’ll kill him,” warned the man with the pistol, and Rowena gave a quiet shriek at these words, and flung herself at the unarmed man, prepared to do what damage she could, as much to save herself as Ru-
pert. Her first assumption of robbery had given way to something far worse.
Reighert rounded on her and struck her a savage blow on the side of her face before she could reach him, sending her reeling. He was panting as he regained his balance and pulled off his mask. “Damn bitch wanted ... to scratch my eyes out,” he muttered, looking down at the pair sprawled on the floor. He rubbed his chin where a bruise was already forming. “That fellow. Its his own fucking fault. He shouldn’t have been here.”
As if to punctuate this, Rupert moaned and tried to speak through a split upper lip and two broken teeth.
“What about the woman?” Bernard asked in Dutch-flavored German, adding, “I think she cracked my skull.”
“Then its a good thing she’s unconscious. We won’t have to drug her until we’re on the train.” He took a deep breath while he made a rapid assessment of the damage Rupert had done: he would have some spectacular bruises and a long cut on his cheek, but nothing of real harm. Still, he would make certain the Englishman did not forget him before he left. Relieved, he straightened up. “Come on. We haven’t got much time. We’ll miss the Innsbruck connection if we’re not on the express to Basel.”
“Don’t worry. You have the tickets already and we have forty-five minutes yet,” Bernard said as he took a step forward, one hand to the growing lump above his brow. He swallowed hard. “I don’t think I can bend over. I’ll vomit.”
Reighert shot him a look of disgust. “Then remain where you are,” he said sharply. “I do not want to have three lumps to deal with. Four, if you count the housekeeper. Too bad we had to kill her. At least we can leave the Englishman here. Why did he have to be in this house, of all places? It’s on him that he’s hurt.” He ignored the shambles of the room—the broken butler’s table, the overturned Dutch chair, the cracked umbrella stand, the coffee soaking into the crumpled carpet, the spatters of blood on the Chinese chest and the couch, the two smashed lamps which had fallen from the end tables—and reached down to tug Rowena onto her back.
“I’ll take care of her after you’re on the train with the Englishwoman; it’s what was planned,” Bernard said, his attention apparently wandering as he glanced toward the rear of the house. “I’ll change, so if anyone sees me, they’ll recall that Yseult has been stepping out with a new beau, and will recognize me in that context. She has been telling all her cronies that I am courting her, which has the other biddies eaten up
Writ in Blood
449
with envy, or so she told me. That she should ride in my motor car will surprise no one, assuming anyone notices.” His speech was a bit slurred, and he held his head at a strange angle, but seemed coherent enough. “I’ll make sure no one finds her, ever.”
“Fine,” said Reighert, pulling out the rope wrapped around his waist; it had saved him from some of Ruperts most punishing efforts, and now would be used for the purpose Reighert had originally intended. As he began to secure Rowena’s hands, he said to Bernard, “The wheeled-chair. Bring it from the kitchen. And make sure the rear door is closed.” “And the blanket?” Bernard asked as he st
epped back, swaying slightly.
On the floor, Rupert stirred, and one bloodshot and livid eye half-opened: aside from a single glance, Reighert ignored him. “Of course the blanket. How else shall we make her an invalid without a blanket around her?” He continued to knot the rope, drawing it down the front of her body to her feet; he looped one ankle, then the other. “Well? Get on with it. It’s a long way to the Baron s lodge.”
Steadying himself against the walls, Bernard went to retrieve the wheeled-chair with the blanket draped over the back of it. He did his best not to look at Yseult’s body slumped against the stove. He leaned heavily on the wheeled-chair as he negotiated it around the obstacles in the kitchen and then down the hall to the parlor.
“Took you enough time,” complained Reighert as he lugged Rowena into the chair and secured her with the leather belt attached to the chair, making sure she would remain fairly upright. Then he carefully wrapped the blanket around her before looking closely at Bernard. “I’d better drive. You look pasty. And for God’s sake, take off the mask. Anyone looking in would see you.”
“Oh. Right.” He tugged his mask off, revealing the full extent of the blow Rowena had delivered with the umbrella stand: blood soaked the side of his face, his skin was the color of whey, his prominent blue eyes were almost froglike and sunk in ashen shadows that would soon turn to bruises, and there was a small, brilliant stain of red on the white of his right eye, below the bruise and swelling.
“You’ll need to have that looked at,” said Reighert. “After you dispose of the housekeeper. Say you were struck by a barge crane. That would account for the damage done, and who’s to question it.”
“Certainly,” said Bernard, and held onto the wheeled chair, beginning to push it toward the rear of the house where the Humber waited. He blinked as he walked, to keep his vision steady.
Writ in blood : a novel of Saint-Germain Page 59
