“Yes, sir!” The boy ran to obey.
“I had not planned such a spellbound audience for my meeting with our unconscious friend, I must admit,” Dagonet continued. “But fortuna favet fortibus, does it not, cousin? Fortune favors the bold.”
Archibald struggled in with two leather buckets sloshing over with slimy water. “Here you are, sir,” he said, and saluted.
“Well done, Mr. Piggot,” Dagonet replied. “Now let us test the wisdom of the old French saying: Il ne faut pas éveiller le chat qui dort. Or, since we English prefer dogs to cats: Let sleeping dogs lie. Though we may live to regret this action.”
A bucket of icy water was dumped unceremoniously over the reverberating head of John Catchpole. He moaned and shook his jowls. Archibald Piggot fled the room.
“I enjoy doing foolish things, George,” Dagonet continued. “Or else I should never risk waking this slumbering mountain.”
The second bucket followed the first. John Catchpole sat up and bellowed. With a great paw he made as if to wipe away the slime that ran down his face, and only succeeded in thumping himself in the chin with the wine jug that was still attached to his finger. He bellowed again, then his red eyes swept around the room and blinked as they took in its occupants.
“Feeling more the thing, Mr. Catchpole?” Dagonet asked politely. “Or do you require another bucket? Please don’t get up! I have the most dreadful itch in my trigger finger.”
The bloodshot eyes glared at the powerful figure who held a fine pistol aimed so casually at his waistcoat buttons.
“Well, now,” John Catchpole said with a grin. “If it ain’t Devil Dagonet to the life!”
“The very same, dear John.”
“You were ever a hand with a pistol, weren’t you?” Catchpole said. “Never saw a prettier hand with a horse neither. Still ride like Old Nick was on your tail?”
“If the occasion warrants, sir.”
John Catchpole shook his head again. Slime rippled down his greasy coat.
“Now, what would you be wanting with poor old John after all these years?”
“An accounting, sir. I would prefer more privacy, as perhaps you would, also, but this importunate audience dogs our coattails. What happened on that much regretted day when Millicent Trumble was found floating in Lion Court Lake?”
“Well, maybe I’m not of a mind to recall that. It being such a long time ago and all.”
“But you will recall, my friend, and you will recall the truth. I have gathered enough information about your recent activities to string you up at the Old Bailey several times over. Not to mention your clumsy attempt to blackmail my hapless cousin here. You knew that it was George who had won the fair Milly, didn’t you? Unfortunately the information will not embarrass my cousin, since this fact is well known to us all.”
Catherine caught her breath. George was gaping at his cousin in open astonishment.
“You will see,” Dagonet continued, “that everyone in this room is cognizant of that unfortunate fact.”
Catchpole looked Annie and Catherine in the face. They did obviously know about George’s involvement with the serving girl.
“Thus,” Dagonet went on, “there are no grounds for blackmailing Sir George Montagu. You might as well take it like a man, and realize that your dreams of riches from that quarter are now dissolving like smoke.”
Catchpole scowled. “What did you want to know?”
“Just the facts, dear sir. The simple facts. What happened when Milly died?”
Chapter 18
There was a dead silence in the room. Catherine, her breath sticking in her throat, held Annie firmly beside her. George sat as if riveted to his chair, his breathing coming fast, and his face a sickly hue in the candlelight. Only Dagonet appeared unmoved. He propped himself casually on the edge of the table, while the sea-green gaze rested without malice or expectation on the hulking form of John Catchpole. It seemed as if he would be content to wait all the rest of the night. It was not long before the silence was broken. Catchpole began to laugh.
“There’s nothing to tell!” he exclaimed. “Nothing that ain’t already known. I swear it on my mother’s grave. I was coming up from the lower pastures past the lake, when I see Milly Trumble a-floating in the reeds. She looked kind of peaceful, like, but her neck was all bruised. She’d been murdered all right. At first I thought it was Sir George did it, like the little girl said. I had kept my eyes open about the place. Sir Henry Montagu liked an accounting of what was going on. I knew the girl had been fooling about with his son, and he wasn’t too pleased when I told him, neither.”
George gulped. “What the deuce! You blackguard! You told father, eh?”
“And he gave me a tidy sum to keep it to myself, too. Of course, I found out later that you’d been in Fernbridge all day with your mother. The kid’s wrong; it wasn’t you.”
“Then who?” breathed Catherine.
“Well, she had another lover, didn’t she? I caught her running about one night when George was away. She tossed her head at me and gave me some cheek, so I never found out who he was, but there was another fellow sharing our Milly with George, right enough. When I came up past the lake and found you in the woods, passed out cold and with a wine bottle in your hand, I figured it was you, Mr. de Dagonet. Sir George seemed happy enough to agree. That’s all I know and all I’ve ever known, God help me.”
Dagonet burst out laughing. “Parturiunt montes, nascetur ridiculus mus! The mountains labor, only to bring forth a ridiculous mouse, indeed! You were cuckolded, George. Simple Milly Trumble was making a cuckold out of you. But it wasn’t me, Mr. Catchpole. I was not amongst the number to enjoy the fair Milly. Perhaps some lad in the stable? Anyway, I suppose we shall never know and I am as guilty of being there and of letting it happen as always! You have led me a merry dance, sir, and caused a great deal of trouble, for such a tiny rodent of information.”
“Isn’t there anything else?” Annie cried, her face bleak with disappointment.
“I’m afraid not, Miss Annabella,” Dagonet said, suddenly grave. “You must take me as I am, it seems. Anyway, you do accept now that it wasn’t Sir George Montagu who killed Millicent Trumble, don’t you?”
“Yes,” Annie said. “But it wasn’t you, either. I still won’t believe it. There was some other fellow. The Catchpole man says so.”
“And it’s information that is beyond our reach. You can stop looking green, George. I shall not inherit Lion Court, after all, and you may marry the undoubtedly charming Miss Ponsonby — that is the name that rumor is linking so solidly with yours, isn’t it? — without threat. Mr. Catchpole knows that if he approaches you again, he will answer to me and the judges at the Old Bailey for it.”
Catherine could feel the disappointment turning in her stomach. For all this time they had thought John Catchpole held some vital piece of information. She was as sure as Dagonet that Catchpole was telling the truth, and so they had nothing to show for all their trouble. Catchpole had become a petty criminal, but he was not a murderer. He had thought to blackmail George over his involvement with Millicent, and Dagonet had effectively scotched that. How could Dagonet be so generous to George as to protect him from Catchpole’s blackmail attempts? Meanwhile, nothing had changed. Dagonet was still guilty of the seduction and death of Milly Trumble in the eyes of his grandfather, and he intended to let that stand.
She stood up. “I must get Annie back home. Lady Brooke will be worried.”
They drove back in silence. Archibald Piggot stood up behind with the tiger, and Annie sat squeezed between Dagonet and Catherine, her sister’s arm round her shoulders. George had not uttered a word of thanks for being extricated from the clutches of a potential blackmailer, and had ridden off as if he were the hero of the hour. John Catchpole they abandoned to his bottle.
Dagonet left the sisters at Brooke House. After a quick bath and change of clothes, he went straight to one of the worst gaming hells that he knew. He was as entertaining
and merry as the dandies had come to expect and he stripped the entire table of their wealth, before staggering home in the early morning, considerably the worse for the lack of a night’s sleep and a little too much excellent wine.
He was not to tumble unmolested into his bed.
As he entered the study at his lodging, tugging off his perfectly cut jacket and loosening the folds of his cravat, he stopped short. Someone already sat in his favorite chair by the fire. It was Percival Blythe, Marquis of Somerdale, his maternal grandfather and owner of Lion Court.
The old man rose as Dagonet entered. He shook his cane. His face was puce with rage, and the white hair stood up around his head like a halo.
“You damned rogue, sir!” he shouted. “The servant girl wasn’t enough, eh? You’ve had to embroil Miss Catherine Hunter in your progress into the sewer.”
Dagonet felt the blood drain from his face, but he shrugged his arms back into his jacket and straightened his cravat.
“My lord,” he said calmly, and bowed. “It has been some years. To what do I owe the pleasure of this sudden visit?”
“Don’t come over cool with me, you insolent devil!” The cane shook dangerously close to Dagonet’s set face. “What made you marry her ? She’s a damned fine girl, sir, and deserves better than a gambler and a libertine.”
“I couldn’t agree more, my lord. I assume you have had a visit from dear Mrs. Clay and heard all about our little encounter at the Rose and Crown.”
“Charlotte Clay is a vicious busybody and I’m ashamed to admit that she’s my granddaughter, sir, but you’ll not deny that what she told me is true?”
“That I compromised Miss Hunter at the finest hostel in Marlborough and was obliged to marry her? It is true, my lord. You would rather I had not married her?”
“Does she care for you?”
“I have no reason to believe that she does.”
“Then you can be damned, as far as I’m concerned, sir!”
“Then nothing much has changed, has it, my lord? Perhaps if you have nothing further to offer but insults, we might be better to close this conversation. I have been out all night and would prefer my regrettably lonely bed at this moment.”
“I don’t see how you can look me in the eye, sir! You will release Miss Hunter from this marriage in a way that will secure her good name.”
“The marriage was in itself an attempt to do so,” Dagonet said dryly.
The marquis continued as if his grandson had not spoken. “And if you do it like a gentleman, I’ll see that she wants for nothing. I’m fond of the girl, dammit. She’ll lack nothing that money can buy, and I’ll find her a decent husband.”
The marquis was trembling. It was more difficult than he had thought to face down the man that his once favorite grandson had become. He had been profoundly shocked, all those years ago, when he had learned that after assuring him otherwise, Dagonet had seduced Millicent Trumble, but he had tried to put it out of his mind. Now, however, the results of several years of insinuations and poisonous comments from George and Charlotte were having their effect. Mrs. Clay had come straight from the Rose and Crown with the tale. Miss Hunter was a decent girl and the daughter of the local vicar. It was unforgivable for Dagonet to have compromised her. The marriage made it all the worse, if Catherine had been forced into it. The marquis felt it his duty to make sure that his grandson could do no more harm.
“There is only one solution that will put it all to rights,” he insisted, even as pain crushed his heart.
Dagonet dropped into the chair opposite the old man. “A welcome thought, my lord, I admit. Do you suggest that I put a bullet into my head, and thus relieve the world and Mrs. de Dagonet of my unwelcome presence?”
“I suggest that you try to redeem the past by acting with honor for a change. I shall make sure the opportunity comes your way. Can you offer me anything that would change my opinion of you?”
Dagonet laughed aloud. “I wish that I could, my lord. But disappointment is destined to be both our lots tonight. Now if you have nothing further to say, I am going to bed.”
Lord Somerdale heaved himself to his feet. Taking up his cane, he thumped from the room.
Dagonet heard the door slam behind his grandfather. For a moment, he did not move. Then he turned and went into his bedchamber. Catching sight of his own reflection in the mirror, he stopped and smiled ruefully to himself.
“Well, now, Devil Dagonet,” he said aloud. “Would she be better off a widow, do you think?”
* * * *
Catherine was amazed a few days later to be similarly honored with a morning visit from the Marquis of Somerdale. Particularly as he was accompanied by both of his Montagu grandchildren.
Charlotte swept into the drawing room at Brooke House in a rustle of starched satin. She had hurried up well ahead of the others.
“My dear Mrs. de Dagonet,” she effused, as if they were old friends. “I hope you will forgive me if I have been slow to congratulate you on your wedding. It came as such a shock to us all, as you can imagine, I’m sure. We do not admit your husband as a member of the family, but as the sister of Lady Brooke, you are always beyond reproach. I hope you don’t mind if I speak plain? As Mr. Clay always used to say, ‘Speak what’s on your mind and you will be understood.’”
“I’m sure those were wise words, Mrs. Clay,” Catherine replied, trying to suppress a smile.
“It’s very odd, of course, that you stay here at Brooke House, but we in the family can understand. You are quite pale. You don’t look at all well. Mr. Clay was a man of the greatest propriety and sensibility and he always noticed when one didn’t look altogether the thing. I remember him when we were staying at Lion Court that last time insisting that I have a room of my own, since I looked unwell, he thought. He was always everything that was considerate.”
She was interrupted by the arrival of Lord Somerdale, who due to another attack of the gout, had been helped up the stairs by Sir George Montagu. The marquis beamed at Catherine as they entered, but she was not surprised to see George avoid her eye.
“Wouldn’t come up to London without seeing you, my dear,” the old man barked, as Catherine hurried to supply a padded footstool for his sore leg. “Had George and Charlotte bring me round from Somerdale House.”
“Let me ring for some refreshment, my lord,” Catherine said, going to the bell. “I am most honored that you would visit.”
“Wanted a word, young lady. I’m here to let you know that I intend to secure your future, and make sure that grandson of mine doesn’t bother you again.”
Catherine wasn’t sure what the old man meant, but she was unable to pursue the subject since Amelia and David came in to pay their respects to the visitors. Conversation became general, until the guests rose to leave.
As Catherine made her good-byes to the marquis, he leaned close and said gruffly, “You’re a fine young woman, my dear. I’ve spoken with Dagonet. I’m going to ensure that he gets the opportunity to do the right thing this time.”
She had no idea what he intended, but she was relieved to see the party leave. Morning visits from the Montagus and the Marquis of Somerdale were not her idea of the most pleasant way to spend one’s time. She wanted to be alone to think through everything she had learned about Millicent Trumble. There must be something they had all missed.
* * * *
Hobart’s Club was not one of the most fashionable of the gaming establishments of London, but Dagonet could be assured of always finding a suitable crowd of young bloods there, eager to loosen their purses over a game of hazard. He moved through the crowd nodding to his acquaintance and exchanging slightly barbed witticisms with some of the bolder players. He was known to be a genial companion and a demon player, but there was a certain undercurrent of opinion that he would be a dangerous man to cross.
There was a general ripple of apprehension, therefore, when the young Viscount Hammond deliberately stood up and, blocking Dagonet’s path, belligerently dem
anded that he stop and give an accounting of himself.
“Whatever do you mean?” Dagonet asked quietly.
“You’re a very clever fellow at the tables, aren’t you, sir?”
“I hope I may give the other gentlemen a good game, sir. They say that next to the pleasure of winning at hazard, the next greatest pleasure is losing.”
“But you don’t lose often, do you?”
“La critique est aisée, et l’art est difficile.”
Dagonet bowed insolently and made as if to move on, but the viscount who was by now extremely red in the face, caught him by the lapel.
“Damn your French, sir!”
Lord Kendal had approached the two men and propped himself nonchalantly on the edge of the nearest table. He took a delicate pinch of snuff from an exquisite gilt box.
“Mr. de Dagonet comments that it is easy to criticize, sir, but art is difficult. Hazard presents the highest opportunity for art. Don’t you agree, Viscount?”
“I say that there is more cunning than art in his skill, sir,” the youth insisted. “Lady Luck never smiled so long on one player without a little assistance from the backs of the cards or a weight in the dice.”
“I think you are drunk, sir,” Dagonet said calmly. “Perhaps you should cool yourself before you say more than you mean?”
“I mean you’re a cheat, sir!”
A deadly silence fell over the room. No other outcome could possibly arise from this exchange than a fatal meeting with their seconds at dawn. Every man in the room unconsciously held his breath, waiting for Dagonet’s wrath to flatten the importunate accuser.
The reply was made casually, however, and while gently removing the viscount’s fingers from his coat, Dagonet’s eyes showed nothing but amusement.
“And the liquor agrees, no doubt.”
Scandal's Reward Page 19
