Dedicated Villain

by Patricia Veryan

  Hessell looked at him thoughtfully. “Sorry I am ter tell yer, sir, but—I’d say very littel, melor’. Very littel indeed.”

  For a moment, Marbury could scarcely breathe.

  He wasn’t really surprised when the door opened once more.

  His face pallid and distracted, Kildwick ushered a young damsel inside. She was tiny and fascinatingly pretty, rather than beautiful. Dismissing the shattered butler with an airy wave of her hand, she entered, followed by two men, one of whom was well known to the duke. The girl’s rather narrow green eyes flashed around the assembled company. She advanced on Marbury, hand outstretched.

  “Good afternoon, your Grace. I am gauche so you must forgive that I cannot wait to be formal. My name is Fiona Bradford and I am your grandson’s betrothed. I believe you know Lord Briley, and this is Mr. Cuthbert Potterby.”

  Dazed, the duke bowed over her hand.

  Even as he touched her fingertips to his lips, she went on swiftly, “Hello, Grandmama. Have they heard aught of Roland? Oh, my God! They have!”

  Marbury straightened and slipped an arm about this frail yet dynamic little miss. Snatches of thought slipped through his mind. He might have known Roland would choose so unconventional a lady; he was glad of it … So she was Clorinda’s granddaughter; that was good … But if she was deeply in love, would she be able to withstand the shock of what he must tell her …?

  A few minutes later, he had his answer.

  Her face white as death, her voice shaking, Fiona looked up at those who watched her so compassionately. “I—have a plan,” she said. “’Tis very simple, so it just may work. Have you any onions, your Grace?”

  They had killed poor old Rump … If it had been just the sergeant who’d come in with that news, there might still have been some hope, for the sergeant, hard as was his fist, had seemed a decent sort somehow. But all three of them had come and in obvious trepidation confessed that the big stallion had outdistanced them; that in obedience to orders, they’d all shot at him, and that he’d stumbled, and … and almost gone down … but had run on until he’d apparently been unable to see the quarry …

  Lying very still in the corner of the cold barn where they had thrown him, his every breath a shallow tortuous rasp, Mathieson felt the slow burn of tears again. Poor old Rump … He hadn’t rated that kind of death. He’d done nothing bad …

  The news had seemed to drive Lambert berserk. He had given up more subtle methods, and used his boots again … After that, very little was clear … Intervals of horrible agony interspersed with Lambert’s voice, roaring his stupid questions. And the boots … But the moments of consciousness were shorter, thank God, and they must fear he was dying, because now they gave him time between their savageries … This was just such a respite, and already, heaven help him, it was done … They were coming back … He could hear the boots—so shiny, so incredibly vicious coming straight at him. He shrank as far as he was able, knowing it was not far enough, trying to drag his hands up to protect whatever was left of his face.

  Waiting in trembling terror, he thought that when Brooks kicked him again he would go out at last … bound from this hell to another. Only the other hell would not be so frightful, even if it was physically worse, because it would not be men who subjected him to unending torment, it would be something evil and cruel, but not human, and thus more endurable. The steps had ceased. Through the pause, his shrinking mind prepared him. Any second now … be ready. Don’t scream—for God’s sake, don’t give him that satisfaction. He wondered he had a mind at all, and knew his sanity hung by a thread, sustained only by the memory of a pert little laughing face, and the love in a pair of entrancing green eyes … A face he would never see again, even if by some misguided miracle he survived this nightmare, because by now, Lambert’s boot had blinded him …

  Something touched his shoulder and he jerked back, sobbing out an involuntary plea that they not hurt him any more, and despising his weakness, even as the faint, halting words were torn from him.

  “My poor old pippin—what a meth you’re in! Here—have a pull at thith …”

  He was delirious. His mind really had gone at last! That low-pitched voice could not be … But he breathed a feeble, “Thad …?”

  “Righto! But we can’t chat now, old lad. Here—take it. Roly? Can’t you thee what—” A gasp, and then with compassion. “No—of courth—you cannot. Here, then …”

  A cold touch at his swollen lips. It was very hard to drink; he managed, then coughed to the bite of the brandy, and was muffling groans while strong but very gentle arms cradled him, and Thad’s voice murmured encouragement.

  “Are you—mad?” he whispered, as soon as he was able. “Go! You’ll … you’ll be … taken! Dragoons … everywhere.”

  “Then we mutht pop along, my tulip. No, don’t argue.” His lordship’s voice rose very slightly. “Over here, Cuthbert …! I’m afraid we’re going to lift you, Roly. We’ll try to be careful, but we have to move quickly, you know.”

  He heard a rustling, then a muffled, “Christ! Is that—” and Thad’s voice, soft and oddly uneven, “Yeth. I’m afraid he—he can’t thee … Only till we get him cleaned up, you know. But—we’ll have to carry the—the old cawker …”

  Another hand touched him. He shrank, gasping.

  Cuthbert muttered, “Holy—! Thad—his back! Those filthy bastards! How can we—”

  “No choice, dear boy. Careful, now. Up, Roly …”

  He was too weak to point out that they should save themselves because he had no wish to live, and it was a waste of effort. It was such a superb effort. He was overcome to think that they would do this—risk this—for his sake! He tried to thank them, but then they were lifting him and it was pure hell. He couldn’t help … he couldn’t walk … he couldn’t see … And he simply couldn’t bear any more. Sighing faintly, he gave up and let himself slide deep and ever deeper into a stifling and complete emptiness …

  19

  Dominer was under siege. All through the night lights blazed in many windows of the central block and in the principal guest suite on the first floor. By the light of day carriages raced at intervals along the wide drive-path, and the most skilled of the west country physicians trod quickly up the steps and passed under the graceful portico to the doors that already stood wide to receive them; for the bell had been taken down lest its clamour disturb the sufferer who lay in the great tester bed of the sumptuous guest suite. Across the circular sweep of the Great Hall each physician trod with gravity and confidence, ushered along by soft-voiced servants. Up the famous spiral stairs, and into the quiet bedchamber they went. And after a while, down they came again, faces pale and eyes grim, and made their shaken way back to their carriages, never to return.

  Other carriages came, and coaches, and riders, for rumour had spread its wings, and it was known far and wide that milord duke’s bastard grandson lay dying in the lovely old house, and that his Grace (who had never thought well of the young man) now, after the strange fashion of humanity, was crushed by grief. Some of those who brought their cards, or flowers, or fruit, were close friends who could not be denied, and verified their fondness by staying but a few moments. Most, however, were informed that his Grace was at the bedside, and could not receive them, though their expressions of sympathy were deeply valued. The great double doors were closed without a sound; the footmen crept away again, and the lackeys who remained on watch at the side windows, whispered together, glancing around from time to time at the nurses who came softly down the beautiful staircase looking tired and despondent, and the nurses who tiptoed up, exchanging a few anxious words with those they relieved, and shaking their heads as they continued to their tasks.

  On the fourth day there came another carriage through the rain, splattered with mud from its long journey, the solitary occupant a tall thin gentleman of middle age with an air of faint exasperation and a militant eye. The footman who handed him down received his leather bag, and the two lackeys who ope
ned the doors exchanged knowing glances. Another doctor. His Grace refused to accept the verdicts he already had been given, but clung stubbornly to the hope that so obviously was vain. Marbury was well loved by those who served him, and watching this latest physician’s rapid ascent of the stairs, the lackeys sighed.

  Forty minutes later, Marbury ushered the doctor into his study, waited with unfailing courtesy until he was seated with a glass of Madeira in his hand, then asked the inevitable question.

  James Knight started to reply, glanced curiously at the composed features of the aristocrat, and hesitated. It was difficult to believe that this suave and polished gentleman with the tired eyes and the cool but anxious voice was the same Marbury reputed to be such a tiger when aroused, his acid tongue feared by all. He appeared to have himself well in hand at the moment, but he was no longer young, and a few times, when it had been necessary to move that poor devil upstairs, the faint moans uttered by the semi-conscious man had caused my lord duke’s fine hands to tremble.

  Reading his thoughts, Marbury said quietly, “I brought you down here, Knight, because I was impressed by the splendid job you did with young Kit Aynsworth. I want the truth however—not a polite gibberish that says nothing.”

  Knight frowned. He was not cowed by rank, and he said in his harsh deliberate voice, “I’ll own I was flattered when you summoned me. But the reason I left my other patients to come here, Duke, was because your man told me something of the nature of your grandson’s injuries, and I hoped I might be able to help.”

  The duke’s chin lifted imperceptibly. The chilly blue eyes and the narrow hazel ones met in mutual challenge.

  Knight sighed then and a faint smile dawned. “I’m sorry if I’m prickly. Damned tired. What did your local men tell you?”

  “That—he is … dying.”

  The cool voice shook on the last word. Knight felt angry and helpless. He said in a very different voice, “Sir—I can only marvel he is still alive. He must have been in perfect condition, but youth and a fine body can only prevail to a point. The flogging alone might well have proved fatal. The wound in his arm is relatively trivial of itself, but he has lost much blood. Three fingers of his right hand, his nose, and four ribs are broken; I suspect a concussion; his entire body is covered with bruises and contusions; there are several bad burns on his left arm, and …” he paused, his lips tightening.

  “And—he is blinded.” Marbury gulped at his glass, then asked huskily, “If—if he does live, is there the slightest hope he will ever see again?”

  Knight stared at his knees. “Your Grace—I wish I could give you a kinder answer, but—alas, I am no deity. The young man cannot live. I doubt he will last the night out. You must—”

  “Give up?” The duke slammed a clenched fist on the top of his desk and his pale eyes blazed defiance. “By God, but I’ll not! I’ll have you know, sir, that the Mathiesons are fighters! And—”

  “And—is he fighting, sir?”

  Marbury stared. The light faded from his eyes to be replaced by misery. His shoulders slumped. He whispered, “No. He—wants death … poor lad.”

  “So I thought. Sir—who could blame him? You’ve seen how he suffers. And when he is moved, however carefully—Lord! In his place, I’d want to die too. As soon as may be!”

  “There’s always … hope,” muttered the duke stubbornly.

  Knight sighed, finished his wine, and stood. “I must get back to Town, sir, I’ve many patients waiting.”

  “Nonsense!” Marbury’s lifetime of schooling in the behaviour demanded of an aristocrat enabled him to put aside grief. With quiet courtesy he argued, “It’s raining, and you cannot hope to reach Town tonight. You shall stay for dinner and a warm bed, and in the morning you can start back.”

  “Thank you. I’ll not say no to a good meal, but then I really must go. With luck I may reach Devizes before the light fails.”

  Together, they walked to the door. The doctor paused to turn back and look at the portrait that hung above the mantel. He shook his head wonderingly. “Is that really—what he looked like?”

  “Yes.”

  “Good God! Sir—whoever did this should be—”

  Marbury smiled a slow and rather terrible smile. “I do assure you, doctor, that the matter will be dealt with.”

  Knight nodded and almost could feel sorry for whoever had perpetrated such atrocities. He put out his hand. “You are anxious to get back upstairs, your Grace. Do not think you must stay with me. I shall do.”

  They shook hands. Gratefully, Marbury gave the doctor into the care of the butler who waited in the wide, lovely hall, then turned his own steps to the stairs.

  A few paces, and the doctor looked back. “Sir,” he counselled gently. “Let him go easily. ’Twould be kinder.”

  Marbury turned to face him. He made a slight bow and continued on his way without a word.

  Dr. Knight sighed, and went frowning to the small dining room where, unexpectedly, he found several anxious people waiting for him.

  With his foot on the bottom stair and his fingers resting on the banister rail, my lord duke halted. Was he being harsh by urging Roland to keep on fighting? Would it be kinder not to prolong his sufferings through what might well be a doomed effort? His head bowed and he so far forgot himself as to put a hand across his eyes.

  Small, warm fingers closed over his own on the rail. He jerked his head up and beheld a weary but very sweet face, the shadowed eyes full of compassion.

  “Do not give up, Muffin dear,” murmured Lady Clorinda. “Fiona won’t.”

  He managed a smile. “Thank God for Fiona,” he replied, offering his arm, and together they went up the stairs.

  The battle was joined again. On the one hand prayers, the devoted nurses, every possible care and potion, softly whispered words of love and encouragement. On the other, weakness, shock, pain, and despair. Surely, the forces marshalled against defeat must prevail, thought Marbury. Surely, the doctors were wrong. But as the weary hours passed it began to seem to him that there was yet another force in that quiet room. A dark and shadowy, yet not unkind presence, that hovered in the far corner; waiting. He began to fear that corner, and to dread looking in that direction. But with each day it seemed to him that the dark figure drew a little nearer to the bed, and his fear intensified.

  Gradually, it dawned on Roland that he was waking again. So he was alive still, which was as disappointing as it was savage. The pain was merciless; there was scarcely a part of him that didn’t hurt—his left eye the worst, for it sent spasmodic shafts of agony through his head so that it was all he could do not to cry out. But his back was almost as bad, and even to draw breath was torture. This time he was lying on his back, whereas before he had always been face down. Wretchedly uncomfortable, he tried to ease his position, but was unable to move, save to lift his right hand half an inch, which not only required an enormous effort, but at once reminded him that Lambert had stamped on it.

  All this misery brought a confused thought that perhaps he really was dead after all. But however hell might be furnished, he could not think that he would be provided a soft bed to lie on. And this must be a bed; he could feel smooth sheets, and smell lavender. How long had he been here? Days, surely, for he could remember blurred earlier awakenings that were too intolerable to have endured for long. Awakenings in which agony of body was joined by agony of mind. Somehow, in spite of everything, he’d at first clung to the hope that his inability to see had been a temporary thing; that perhaps the blood from his cuts had sealed his eyelids, but his return to consciousness had been accompanied by a complete blackness for which there could be only one explanation. He was blind. And very probably hideously disfigured. The initial acceptance of those terrible facts had all but driven him into madness. His tottering mind had found a degree of comfort in the realization that he was dying, and he was grateful, for life now could mean only misery and despair. But there were people trying to keep him alive. People with kind voices that
echoed weirdly and unintelligibly, and hands that carefully but cruelly heaved him about from time to time, which he took rather a dim view of, when all he asked was to be allowed to die in peace.

  It was strange that one of those voices had seemed to be the dearest voice in the world … That so often he had thought Fiona was close beside him. He had dreamed to hear her murmuring of her love, imploring him to cling to life, for her sake; he’d even thought to feel the touch of her hands on his cheek, the brush of her lips on his own, and a salt taste to that sweet caress, as though tears had touched him also. And—oh Lord, if only it was real! If only he could see her! But even if she came, he wouldn’t be able to see her. And that precious girl, with so much of life to experience and enjoy, must not be tied to a helpless blind man. That buoyant vivacity must not be crushed under the weight of staying beside him; reading to him, caring for him, helping him stumble and grope his way about—as she would surely do. That giving heart must not be given out of loyalty … and pity.

  His left hand stirred in agitation on the coverlet. Something very sharp scratched his fingers and he caught his breath. If he didn’t know better … He set his jaw and struggled desperately, and managed to move his fingers again. They touched a warm softness, a small form. He heard a faint trill and horror seized him. He tried to call out, gasping with the pain that effort cost him.

  A muttered exclamation; quick, soft steps, and a woman’s voice said kindly, “It’s all right, Captain Mathieson.” A blessedly cold cloth touched his cheek. “Just try to lie—Sir! Thank goodness you’ve come! He’s awake and in a awful state!”

  “Where …?” Mathieson whispered, fear lending him strength. “Where …?”

  “You’re at Dominer, dear lad. Perfectly safe. And …”

  The rest of it was lost in astonishment, because his mind could only handle one thing at a time. Muffin? Was that Muffin’s voice—so kindly, so concerned? Was this Muffin’s hand, gently smoothing back his hair? But—if he was at Dominer …! “Sir,” he panted in febrile agitation. “Treason … dragoons … Mustn’t keep me … here!” And he drifted again into the emptiness before he could ask the all important question.