Dedicated Villain

by Patricia Veryan

  The next time he awoke, his bed was on fire and he was struggling feebly to escape Lambert, who kept pushing him down into the flames, hurting him as only Lambert knew how to hurt. He gasped a plea for water, and almost at once a glass was at his lips. A gentle hand was bathing his face. He awoke fully. It was so hot, so terribly hot, but there was something—some question … He remembered, and whispered, “Fiona …”

  “Yes, beloved. I’m here.”

  Horrified, he groaned aloud. “No! Ah, mon Dieu! No!”

  A muffled sob. “Darling,” said the voice he loved above all others, “I know all about it. How wickedly … wonderfully, you lied to—to protect me. How—gallantly you went away and left me.”

  “Didn’t … want you—to know … to see me … like this …” he moaned, his head tossing distressfully on the burning pillows. “Go! Don’t—don’t want … you …”

  Her cool hand was caressing his cheek. She said lovingly, “Stop being so silly and thrashing about, Roly, or you’ll hurt your dear self. I found you, and I have no least intention to leave you. Ah, beloved, never grieve so. Do you think I could have lived without you?”

  But distraught and half delirious, he raved and tossed and would not be comforted. Her tender voice faded. The shadows closed in around him and he was lost and alone in an unending dark nightmare of heat and suffering, wanting only to give up this cruel fight, but always held back by two little hands that clung to his own, or bathed his face, or held water to his dry lips. By the voice he so loved, yet dreaded to hear. By the tender kisses pressed on his cheek, on his hands. By her love that was so deep, so faithful.

  After a long time, he woke again. His hand moved in a faint groping; his head tossed fretfully. She wasn’t here. Perhaps she never had been here. Perhaps he’d dreamed it all. He was weaker now and the pain was very bad, and cravenly, he whispered her name. At once, his hot hands were clasped by her small, cool ones. He gave a faint sigh of relief. “You—didn’t go, then …”

  “Foolish boy. I shall never leave you. Don’t think to be easily rid of me.”

  “Should—make you go … Selfish. Wrong to—to …”

  “To let me stay? Because you are—just for a little while—unable to see?”

  “Not—just for—little while, sweet … child. Should—send you ’way. But—I’m only …” His voice faded.

  Wiping away her tears, Fiona leaned closer to the bed. “Only—what, beloved?”

  “Only,” he sighed wearily, “very amateur … hero.” And then, as the pain worsened and the deep pit loomed, he cried, “Fiona! Don’t—don’t leave me …! Please …”

  Her hands tightened on his. “Never, beloved,” she said huskily. “I swear it.”

  Comforted, he let the pit claim him.

  Marbury sat with his elbows on the desk and stared blindly at Beast, stretched out in a sunny spot on the carpet. The end was very near. There was so much he had wanted to know—so much he would like to have said. But there was no time now … Fever had come, as though Roland had not enough to bear, and was destroying what was left of the boy. Before their eyes, despite the frantic efforts of the doctors and the eight nurses and Clorinda and that splendid girl, it raged ever more destructively, the delirium racking him, the tossing and the pain exhausting the last vestiges of his strength. And that ghastly shape in the corner was halfway across the room now. The girl, so magnificent, so untiring, fought to hold it at bay, but from the corner of his eye, at dawn this morning, he had thought to see it … creeping, creeping …

  “Clifford …?”

  The duke wrenched his head up and forced a smile. My lady was peeping shyly around the door. Hopefully, she’d not seen him drooping like a spineless fool. He rose and went to greet her.

  Lady Clorinda had never entered this comfortable room, and once inside she stood still, staring through the pale beams of winter sunlight to the mantel. “Oh—Muffin …! Did—did you do that?”

  He glanced at the portrait. “Yes. I—used to keep it in my bedchamber, but I—rather like to have it by me … now. I think—later, you know—I shall hang it in …” His voice faltered; he went on bravely, “in the Great Hall.”

  Her little hand tightened on his. Her eyes were very soft. “Yes. I agree. That is where it belongs. In the place of honour.” She took the chair he drew up and watched him walk around the great desk. How very tired he looked. They all were, of course. Fiona, in particular. Dear little Fiona, who seldom left that quiet room for fear that she might come back and find the battle lost. And thinking all this, my lady said none of it, murmuring instead, “I knew you had great talent. But—you surprise me, Clifford. That was painted with—with love, I think? Yet …”

  Marbury sighed. “I know. I’ve never been able to understand it myself. Loving him—in spite of what he was. And now … ’tis even more puzzling, for from what you’ve all told me, it would seem he is a very gallant young man. Whereas—”

  “You had been told otherwise?”

  He shrugged. “I did not have to be told,” he said wryly. “He made no secret of it. His misdeeds were common knowledge. The gambling, the women, the wildness. He was expelled from school, you know. Not surprising. In a word, m’dear—notorious. Later … there was his reputation for—shady dealings, and that driving fixation for the gold … And now—this! So out of character. I just … cannot understand.”

  “Poor soul,” she said kindly. “You never have.”

  He shot a startled glance at her. “Have you?”

  “I knew Dudley.”

  “Well, so did I. He was my son! And he—”

  “Lied to and deceived you from start to finish! No Clifford! Never freeze me with your icy stare, for I’ll not be frozen, and so I warn you! He hated Roland—did he tell you that?”

  Marbury was shocked. “Hated … his own son? Madam, I—”

  “Oh sit down do, and don’t be so confoundedly ducal. Yes, I said confounded, sir! I am tired and irritable, and I swear at times—lots more wicked words than that, I assure you!”

  A faint smile coming into his eyes, my lord duke sat down again. Of course she was tired. And she had been so good with the boy. Day and night she had helped through this last terrible week. He said gently, “You mistake the matter, ma’am. Dudley was disappointed in Roland naturally, but—”

  “Unnaturally, more like! But pray tell me now about the so-called slut your son seduced. Did you ever see her?”

  “Fortunately—no. And she seduced him, Clorinda—just as I was seduced!” He looked at her, wistful-eyed. “Cast your mind back, my dear. Do you not recall?”

  She smiled sadly. “We were so young, Clifford … So terribly in love. And that wicked Mary Frobisher said you had assaulted her and got her with child. Such nonsense, when you were but seventeen years old—and so gently shy. And she was what—twenty-five?—and bold as any tart!”

  He blinked and corrected, “Twenty-two, Clorinda. And one should not speak ill of the dead, my dear.”

  “Why not? She was pure alley cat when she was alive. I doubt she has changed a whisker! Oh, how I hated the vixen! Did you really rape her?”

  “Clorinda.”

  “Of course you didn’t. ’Twas more likely t’other way round! But they made you wed the little b—Oh, I’ll not shock you further. And then Dudley was born … and grew up to be so very handsome.”

  “He was—but with all his mother’s failings, and far too many of my own, alas. I had such hopes for him, Clorinda. I tried so hard … but … And then—to run off with—that creature! It was years, you know, before I found out about their child.”

  “You made Dudley acknowledge Roland as his son. He didn’t like that, Muffin.”

  “Had I known what the boy would do—”

  “Did you know, then? You surprise me. I always fancied Dudley had lied to you—as he lied about poor Juliette de Fleury.”

  Marbury stood again and came to draw a chair nearer and sit beside her. “What do you mean? Dudley had n
o reason to lie to me—I had made him quite financially independent, and he knew he would inherit my fortune and titles. Why should he poison me against his mistress? Against his illegitimate son?”

  “Partly, as I said, because you found out about the child, and shamed him by forcing him to admit it. But—did you know he married her?”

  “WHAT?” Marbury leapt to his feet, and the chair went over with a crash. For a moment he gazed at her; flushed, shocked beyond words, while she met his wide, horrified eyes coolly. Then, he recovered his aplomb, righted the chair, and occupied it again. “You—quite startled me, my lady. But you are mistaken, I do assure you. Had they been wed there would have been records; marriage lines, banns. Dudley would have brought his wife to be presented, however much he knew I would have despised her—he would have made the attempt. Or she, knowing that now she had a right, would have applied to me for funds. Neither of those things happened. I once ordered a search, Clorinda, for I had a small suspicion— But there was nothing. Neither in England, nor in France.”

  “No. Quite so. The tragic thing is that poor Juliette thought there was. He arranged a ‘ceremony,’ do you see? A quiet one, but with a ‘priest’ and a proper ‘service.’ He couldn’t have her, else. And he wanted her. She was so very beautiful. He hid her away in a secluded little love nest, but he feared you might hear of it, so he took her back to France. And—for three years she thought herself Lady Fairleigh. Poor, innocent child. When she discovered the truth—it was much too late. She was ruined.”

  Very pale now, Marbury stared at her small grim face in horrified disbelief.

  “Oh, yes,” she went on, relentless. “’Tis quite true. He deserted her when he realized she no longer loved her betrayer. He had to be loved, you see. He would probably never have looked at Roland again had you not discovered his misdeeds. Then, he had to make some pretense at meeting his obligations, so he brought the boy over here for his education. It was an education, all right!”

  Marbury said feebly, “Clorinda, you—you have been misinformed. What you say is—is not—cannot be so! Dudley was weak, and—and an immoral wastrel, but—”

  “He took Roland on his first hunt when he was nine years old,” she overrode inexorably. “From the time he had been obliged to acknowledge him, Dudley kept him away from his mother save for a brief yearly visit. But the damage was done. For five years Juliette had schooled Roland in her own gentleness. She taught him to love all living things—especially animals. This, then, was the child Dudley took hunting!”

  “And—?” asked the duke, despite himself.

  “I don’t know. Dudley claimed Roland disgraced him. Afterward, he used every possible means to break the boy—to make him into what he himself was. As Roland grew older and became more and more handsome, his resemblance to Juliette ever more marked, I really believe Dudley was almost insanely jealous of him. He delighted to tell Roland that he was worthless—that he would always be bad.” She sighed. “The boy began to believe it, I suppose.”

  Aghast, Marbury murmured, “But—but, if what you say is truth—what was it that he did? How did he so enrage Dudley, as to cause such terrible rage and bitterness?”

  “I do not know. Nor did I know all of this. But I brought the man who told me, and who can answer you.” She raised her voice. “Sorenson—you may come in now.”

  The door opened, and Sorenson slipped in, as neat and elegant as ever, but with despair written large on his haggard face.

  “Pray tell his Grace,” said my lady, “what happened that day at the hunt when Roland was nine.”

  Sorenson frowned. His feelings for the old gentleman had mellowed considerably this past week. The duke looked worn and rather pathetically bewildered. “My lady,” he said hesitantly, “perhaps another time would—”

  “Now, if you please.”

  He sighed, and capitulated. “Master Roland was a very gentle lad in those days, your Grace. He didn’t want to go on the hunt, but Lord Fairleigh insisted. The end of it was—the dogs caught the fox. And—well, it was the boy’s first hunt, you see.”

  Muffin stared, appalled. “But—he was just a child!”

  “His father was a proud man, sir. He wanted to be proud of his son. The tail was torn off—the blood smeared over the boy’s face. My lord said it was—the initiation.”

  “Good … God!”

  “Master Roland was horrified and fought to get away, sir. His father was—displeased. When the—er, ceremony was done, the boy—well, he fainted. My lord’s friends laughed.” Sorenson shrugged.

  “And—that’s all?” stammered the duke. “Do you say that for so—so trite a thing Lord Fairleigh took his son in dislike?”

  “My lord felt he had been, shall we say—let down, sir. He was embarrassed. Publicly embarrassed. From that day, he made Master Roland’s life most miserable. He never forgave him; never ceased to sneer at and revile him.”

  Marbury sat in stunned silence. After a long pause, he looked up. Sorenson had gone. Lady Clorinda was holding out a glass of wine. He accepted it gratefully. She stepped closer, scanning his face anxiously. “Clifford—forgive. ’Tis just—I thought you should know why Roland was—or believed he was—such a very wicked fellow.”

  His Grace could not speak. With a hand that shook, he lifted the glass, then paused as running footsteps sounded in the corridor. He thought, ‘Oh, Lord—not yet! Not yet!’

  Sorenson rushed back inside. “Sir!” he gasped. “They think … the crisis!”

  My lady gazed with great frightened eyes at the panting valet.

  Marbury slammed down the glass, and not even noticing that it toppled, ran most undignifiedly for the door. For the first time in memory, Beast ran also.

  A lackey came sprinting towards them from the Great Hall, his expression terrified. Marbury slowed, and halted, preparing himself for the worst.

  “Your—your Grace,” the man panted. “A—a colonel, sir! And a troop!”

  Marbury stood very still. “Hell!” he whispered.

  Lieutenant Colonel Mariner Fotheringay settled his long, lean self in a comfortable chair of this charming morning room, took a sip of excellent Madeira, and allowed a pair of hard dark eyes to meet the duke’s veiled ones. Marbury was neither a large man, nor of formidable aspect, but Fotheringay, a shrewd judge of character, knew that all he had heard of this aristocrat was very likely true. Not giving away a soupçon of information was my lord duke. He looked taut and pale however, and the light eyes were tired, ringed by dark smudges. Understandable.

  Mariner Fotheringay was a hard and demanding officer who kept very much to himself and had few friends, but he had a reputation for fair play, and his men liked him if only because they always knew where they stood with him. A career soldier, his rank had of late been as stable as England’s weather. Until earlier in the year his military record had been superb. And with this Jacobite Uprising he had fancied himself well on the way to becoming a full colonel, but he’d been demoted for a stupid bungle which had allowed a valuable Jacobite fugitive to slip right through his fingers. Almost immediately he’d won back his rank with the capture of another fugitive under most adverse circumstances, and now he meant to let nothing stand in the way of his determination to become a general before he was sixty.

  His face unreadable, he said, “I believe your Grace has a grandson named Roland. Who sometimes goes by the name of—Otton?”

  Marbury became even more pale, but he answered steadily. “I—hope I have, Colonel.”

  Fotheringay’s hand jolted slightly. “He is here, then?”

  There was small point in lying, thought the duke wearily. He wished Clorinda was not here, but perhaps she and the others could be shielded in some way. Did he dare to hope that the king would stand by him this time? Odd, that he could consider his own death in so dispassionate a fashion … He replied, “I think you are well aware that he is here, Colonel. I take it you also are aware—”

  Fotheringay interpolated hurriedly, “Sir�
�there are no words! That any one of my officers should—should so abuse his authority!”

  Marbury’s ears perked up, and he became very still. With not the slightest change of expression he said a cool, “Then, you were not directly responsible for my grandson’s—interrogation?”

  “Responsible! Good God, duke! I am known as a hard man, but—from what the sergeant told me—By Jove, ’twas damn near unbelievable! I can only hope …” he levelled a rather hunted gaze at the cold blue eyes so unnervingly fixed on him, “’tis not as bad as I was told.”

  Considerably bewildered by now, Marbury gave no sign of it. “Your hopes are ill-founded, Colonel. Captain Mathieson is at this very moment waging a—a losing battle for his life.”

  Fotheringay heard that slight check, the break to the voice, that was so sure a betrayal of grief. Genuinely aghast, he set down his glass, and said earnestly, “Sir—I cannot convey the depth of my shame. That such—such bestiality could have been perpetrated by an officer of my own regiment is—is an affront—a blotch on the pride of every one of us!”

  “I agree,” said Marbury arctically. “My grandson has been unable to tell us of the reason for his savage treatment. Perhaps you would be so good as to enlighten me.”

  The colonel tightened his thin lips, but refused to back away from this. “I do not normally discuss military procedures, duke. But—in this case—I will keep nothing from you. I presume you know that your grandson was held at a farm outside Cricklade? I learned of it by chance, and the instant I arrived there, and learned what had gone forward, I launched an investigation. Lieutenant Lambert had the unmitigated gall to try and pull the wool over my eyes! He informed me that Captain Mathieson was shielding Jacobites; that he had information about them that we have long sought; that he had, in fact, cooperated with fugitives to get the Stuart treasure aboard ship to France, and then tried to shield them by leading the troopers a wild goose chase.”