“He is superbly intelligent, your Grace, and there is nothing wearisome about the time I spend with him, believe me.”
“I do. It was a foolish remark on my part, for ’tis very obvious that animal is the only living thing for whom you have a particle of affection.”
“Say rather one of two living things, sir.” Having said which, Mathieson caught his breath and wondered in a near panic why he should have been so stupidly rash.
The duke stared in astonishment at the hurriedly averted but very red cheek. Surely this young scoundrel was not admitting to a fondness for—himself? He probed carefully, “An you have found your lady, my boy, I think it improper that you rush about kissing every wench who—”
In a gruff, unwontedly halting voice, Mathieson said, “I— did not mean that—I have not found my … lady, your Grace.” A twinkle brightened his eyes. “In the singular, that is. Which is as well, for I likely could not support her if I did so.”
‘Good God!’ thought the duke, undeceived by the frivolity. And more moved than he would have admitted, he drawled, “I was under the impression I had indicated a willingness to provide you with adequate funds for your own and—er, other support.”
“You did, sir, and I thank you. But—it is not necessary.”
His grandfather’s expression at once assumed its customary cool serenity, but Mathieson knew that he had offended. Feeling a clumsy oaf, he asked hurriedly, “Am I permitted to see your work? I had not known you’ve a penchant for art.”
“But then, we know so little of each other—you and I, dear boy.”
Was there a touch of wistfulness to the voice now? Nonsense! More of the duke’s biting sarcasm, most likely. Which being the case, he drawled, “I think you know all there is to know of me, your Grace.”
A moment’s pause, then Marbury stood and started towards his easel, Mathieson, horse, and dog following.
The painting was near completion and depicted not the charming rural scene, but the head and shoulders of a young woman. Her dark hair hung in glistening ringlets about a pair of snowy, dimpled shoulders. She was half-turning to smile from the canvas, and her beauty was breathtaking, the features daintily formed, the green eyes great pools of bewitching mischief.
Entranced, Mathieson gazed in silence. The duke, covertly watching him, gave a shy little cough. “’Tis not necessary that you feel obliged to utter polite falsehoods, Roland.”
“She is—exquisite … I’ve the feeling I have met her somewhere. Who is she?”
“A lady who was dear to my heart once. Long ago.” Wistfulness was in the voice now, beyond doubting. “I have always to be in the hills before I attempt to put her on canvas, for the last time I saw her was in the mountains …”
Mathieson said an awed and sincere, “Jove, but you have a rare talent, sir. You must have cared for her very deeply. But she was not my grand-mère, I think?”
The duke’s head flung up. “She most assuredly was not! But—care for her? Aye, I cared for her! As you will someday care for a lady. God grant that when you do, Fate is kinder than she has been to me!”
The mouth was twisted with cynicism, the flush now was of rage, and in the eyes so fierce a glare that Mathieson was aghast and in an effort to alleviate his faux pas said with a grin, “Fate has been sufficiently kind, thank you, duke. I have cared for only one lady in my life, and she was wise enough to choose another. I doubt I shall ever find her like again and, faith, but I’m not at all sure I want to.”
“If you can speak of it so lightly, you did not really love at all. But the day will dawn, I warn you, when your heart will be given. You are more a Mathieson than a de Fleury, thank heaven, and we’re an odd breed. Our women are passionate creatures and tend to have many loves. Our men love once and if they lose their lady, may have their—diversions, but never love again.”
The slight to his mama’s family had brought a quick frown to Mathieson’s brows and his chin lifted haughtily. “Then I will cling to the hope that I never find my love, for surely she would be a lady of Quality, and as surely would have nothing to do with a man of my reputation. I’m much better off with old Rump and a carefree life.”
“Is it so carefree? Or have you gone hungry for your pride?”
“Hunger ’tis said, is good for the soul.”
The nonchalant shrug, the bland air of indifference infuriated the duke. “Why—in the name of heaven?”
Mathieson hesitated, then replied, “Not so long ago, sir, you warned me to expect nothing from you. You named me, as I recall, a heartless, soulless, mercenary rake and opportunist.”
From under his brows Marbury scanned the six feet of arrogant defiance that was all he had left in the way of immediate family. “I was explicit, I see. Still, I referred, I believe, to your hope of a legacy. Not to your present needs.”
“Because my obvious poverty would be an embarrassment, sir?” Mathieson’s lip curled. “I can appreciate that. But—I manage. One way and another.”
“True. ’Tis the ‘another’ that disturbs.”
“I have no wish to disturb you, duke. But nor will I avail myself of your—charity …” The older man’s eyes flashed fire and his jaw set, but Mathieson stood his ground. “Loathsome as may be my moral standards, I neither break my given word, nor ignore my obligations. If I should please you, sir, by leaving England, it will not be to escape any condition you might impose on me in return for an allowance. I am everything you think me, and more. But I have not yet sunk so low as to accept the bounty of a man who brought bitter sorrow to a lady I loved very deeply.”
Marbury stiffened and stood as straight as did his tall grandson, and because he had, like any good general, taken the higher ground, Mathieson was still obliged to look up to him. “I am impressed, dear lad,” said the duke with the faintest suggestion of a sneer. “No, really, I am impressed. You would appear to not only have a few scruples, but to harbour a conception at least of the meaning of loyalty.” His voice became steely. “Am I correct in thinking that you also have the insufferable presumption to condemn me on your mother’s account?”
Gad but the man had a tongue like an asp! Through his teeth, Mathieson snarled, “You presumed to judge her. And she was a saint!”
“Had Juliette de Fleury been a saint she’d not have attempted the ruin of an inexperienced boy! Her mistake was that her victim’s father had already been so ruined, and recognized her for what she was!”
“That is not so! Quite the reverse in—”
“Do—not—dare,” interpolated the duke very softly, “take that tone to me!”
All his life Mathieson had feared and respected this man. All his life he had secretly yearned to be accepted by him. But now he was too angry to care, and he flashed back just as softly, “I dare, your Grace, to defend my mother. Against any man living, I will defend her! I collect you really believe what you say, but in this instance, you are wrong. The truth, sir, is that my father seduced and ruined her!”
“In which case, you are indeed your father’s son! How many girls have you seduced and ruined, my pure defender of the innocent? Ten? A dozen? More perhaps?”
Mutually enraged, the two men glared at each other.
“Many more, sir,” drawled Mathieson, his voice quivering with passion. “Faith, but my by-blows fairly treble the population! You can tell ’em,” he held out his left hand “by the fingers.”
Now it chanced that down through the centuries certain men of the House of Mathieson were born with a small defect, this being that the middle and third fingers of the left hand were identical in length, instead of only the middle finger being longer than the others. It was such a small flaw that few people had even noticed it, but the duke himself had inherited this peculiarity.
His Grace’s breath hissed through his teeth. He stood very still, staring down at his grandson’s hand. Then he moved a step closer. Through a long moment of almost unbearable tension Mathieson was sure he was going to be slapped for such imperti
nence, and he thought, ‘Hit me, you arrogant, opinionated old devil! See if I give one damn!’ But in that moment, looking into the cold, proud features of this noble kinsman, he suffered a sharp and contrary pang of remorse.
“You compound insolence, sir,” said Marbury in that same hushed yet awful voice.
Mathieson’s head bowed. “Yes. Your pardon, duke.”
“How regrettable it is, that even when we do occasionally meet, ’tis only to quarrel. You may leave now.” Marbury turned away and seated himself at the easel once more, and Beast sank down beside him and arranged his head comfortably upon the worn boot.
Mathieson said his farewells in a polite, colourless voice and strode off, refusing to allow himself to limp.
The duke’s eyes followed the lithe erect figure, noting the slight cavalry swagger to the walk. “What a great pity, Beast,” he murmured sadly, “that Dudley was so very young when that mercenary little Frenchwoman lured him to Paris and broke his heart so that he would not even acknowledge their son. By the time I found Roland, the wretched trollop had thoroughly poisoned the boy’s mind ’gainst his family. And how splendid he might have been, instead of so utterly immoral, so lacking a single particle of decency.”
Beast offering nothing more comforting than a snore, Marbury sighed and turned wistfully to the beauteous face on the canvas. “I’m an old fool,” he confessed. “But—just sometimes, you know, I cannot help but think of … what might have been.”
He took up his brush but did not use it, continuing to gaze at the canvas, remembering. A deep voice echoed in his thoughts; ‘one of two living things, your Grace …’ A slow smile crept into his eyes. Perhaps, after all, there was a faint vestige of affection in that merciless young devil …
“Hmmnn …” murmured the duke, and gently removed his foot from under Beast’s heavy head.
After a hearty luncheon Mathieson went somewhat apprehensively into the yard, but there was no sign of his noble grandsire. The old boy had taken himself off. Without a word. Natural enough, and just as well, of course. But he kicked a stone across the cobbles with brooding concentration until Rumpelstiltskin’s friendly whicker lifted his spirits. The stallion had been rubbed down, fed and watered, and was well rested, and in a very few minutes Mathieson was riding out of the yard and into the hills.
Late afternoon found him following a high ridge, still keeping to cover wherever possible, and irritable because he had as yet seen no sign of his quarry. Of course, with the weather as bad as it had been last evening, it was possible that he had outdistanced MacTavish. That worry, which came more and more frequently, made him glance back the way he had come, but there was no sign of anyone save for a farm labourer, made small with distance, plodding along behind a plough.
Turning again, Mathieson tensed, every nerve suddenly alert. Down the slope to his right a solitary horse was grazing. A saddled but riderless bay mare, the reins trailing. He guided Rumpelstiltskin into a copse of beeches, whispered a command that he stay, and dismounted. His ankle all but forgotten, he moved swiftly and silently to reconnoitre. There was no sign of a rider. Perhaps MacTavish had left his bride in some safe haven and gone on alone. The Scot had, Mathieson knew, taken a tidy blow on the head last week. Perhaps, in riding, he had exhausted himself and toppled from the saddle. But even if that remotely possible sequence of events had taken place, where was he? Also, MacTavish had an eye for a horse, and this animal was a rawboned mare of poor conformation and advanced years. Of course, MacTavish might have been obliged to hire whatever was available. At all events, decided Mathieson, circling the mare, it behooved him to proceed with caution. Opposite him now was a shallow depression, much overgrown by shrubs and stunted trees. Perhaps MacTavish had spotted him and was lying in wait, musket aimed.
“Thomas,” whispered Mathieson, “are you at work this afternoon?” One could but hope that saints did not slough off their obligations on Sunday afternoons and go fishing (as had been the case in his nightmare), just when they were most needed.
There was a wide stretch of open grassland between himself and the depression, but, taking advantage of the flurryings of the branches during a sustained wind gust, he ran across the turf and down into the depression. He discovered too late that it was much deeper than it had appeared. The “shrubs” he had seen were in fact the tops of small trees, and the “stunted” trees now appeared as healthy specimens twenty- or thirty-feet tall. He shot down a near vertical slope, but his frantic attempt to hold his balance failed as his game ankle gave out under him, and he tripped and rolled helplessly, crashing into various obstructions until brought up short by a violent collision with some immovable object. The breath knocked out of him, he lay there, hoping dizzily that MacTavish was not advancing on him with sword drawn, and thankful that he did not appear to have broken any bones during his precipitous descent.
Despite the absence of any major discomfort, he was groaning painfully, which was an affront to his pride. His attempt to choke off the sounds, failed. This was puzzling, and he lay there, frowning up into the tossing branches of the tree, wondering if he was more seriously hurt than he realized.
Gradually, his befuddled head cleared and with a return of rational thought it was borne in upon him that the sounds he heard did not emanate from his own throat. He propped himself on one elbow and, peering about, discerned one of the objects with which he had collided. It lay some way up the bank—the huddled figure of a man. The Scot? Mathieson gathered himself together, stumbled to his feet, and reeled to the prone victim.
“Rob? I’d no intent to …” But as he drew nearer his words faltered to a stop. The man was pitiably emaciated; unkempt, unshaven, a living skeleton clad in ragged coat and breeches, his long dark hair tangled about a cadaverous face lit by two blue eyes that blinked from darkly shadowed hollows. From the white lips of this pathetic creature a name was whispered incredulously. “R-Roly …?”
“Good God!” Mathieson dropped to one knee. “Are you … not—” Again, his sentence went unfinished as he stared into that ravaged face. It could not be! The eyes were the same, but—dear heaven! “Bill …?” he breathed, horrified.
A quivering smile dawned. A claw-like hand trembled out to touch his arm. Mathieson was so stunned he could not speak for an instant, but his own strong fingers closed over that feeble clasp. “My … poor fellow!” he faltered. “What on earth …? Were you set upon, or—”
He gestured, impatient with himself. William Bond, whom he last had seen wearing the dashing uniform of a lieutenant of light cavalry, was in terrible straits. Old Bill, to whom he owed more than he could ever repay, without whom he would surely have died three years ago in that ghastly Flanders hut! Bill must have medical attention! And soon! He clambered up. “Hang on, old sportsman. I’ve some brandy in my saddlebags. I’ll—”
Bond gave a feeble wave of the hand. “No … time … Roly, I’m … done … but—”
“No, no!” argued Mathieson, appalled, but kneeling again. “We’ll have you to a doctor, and you’ll be well in no time! Can you get up if I help?” He slid an arm under his friend and was further dismayed by the ease with which he was able to lift those fragile shoulders. A well-built fellow had been Bond. A sportsman to his fingertips, full of energy and laughter and mischief. What on earth could have happened to him? He was of good family, and, even if he’d lost his entire inheritance, it was hard to conceive that in only three years he could have come to such a tragic pass.
Bond’s coat fell open then, and Mathieson caught a glimpse of a darkly stained bandage. He ceased his efforts at once. “You’re hurt! Whatever—” And he caught his breath to the awareness that there might be a tragically logical explanation for the tattered clothing; the dirty bandages. “Mon Dieu! Bill—never say—” He groaned. “You infernal lamebrain! You’re involved with those blasted rebels!”
Another faint grin tugged at the pallid lips. “I … am Catholic, Roly. Half Scots. Was out with … with Charlie …”
&nbs
p; Stunned, Mathieson stared down at him. Bill? Dear old Bill—an accursed stupid Jacobite? And, Lord, but he looked as if his life was measured in seconds! A lump rose in his throat. “To hell with that,” he said gruffly. “I’m going after the brandy!”
The thin hand tightened on his arm. “No,” Bond panted. “Desperate. Need—your help. Don’t leave … me …”
Mathieson bit his lip and sat down, cradling Bond in his arms, trying to shield him from the wind. “Anything you ask, my pippin,” he said in a voice that very few people had ever heard. “I’ll not leave you. Only tell me what you would have me do. Then we must find you a doctor.”
“No—use,” sighed Bond wearily. “Thank God you … came … Sorry to involve—”
“Idiot. D’you think I’ll ever forget how you came back for me across enemy lines? D’you think I’ve forgotten how you hauled me all that way—got me to that clean farm and decent care?”
“Clean! Place was … little better than—than your hovel. ’Sides, you’d’ve … done … same. This means—frightful risk and—”
“Risk my eye! But for you I’d not have had these three years! Name it, Bill. Do you want me to get you home? Must I take news to your mama?”
The untidy head stirred weakly against his arm. The voice was fainter now. “Letter hidden … must tell friends … where ’tis …”
A letter? Mathieson’s thoughts raced. When instructions for a more secure storage of the treasure had been sent down from Scotland, it had been by way of four coded poems, each containing part of the message. The cyphers had been carried by four different couriers, and a desperate race they had run, with the soldiers, the populace, and a crew of bounty hunters hard after them. But the cyphers had all been delivered safely, he knew that much. Only one thing remained—the list of those who had contributed the gold and valuables to the Jacobite Cause. All the couriers had been relentlessly hunted, with large rewards offered for their capture, but the man carrying the list rated the highest reward and bore the heaviest responsibility. With the uneasy suspicion that poor Bill was the fifth courier, he looked down.
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