Dedicated Villain

by Patricia Veryan

  He gave a contemptuous snort. “I have no wish to offend, your Grace, but I have for some time been aware that your grandson has been, shall we say—relentless in his pursuit of the Jacobite gold. I know that he had a hand in the capture of one of the rebel couriers, who subsequently bested him in a sword fight and escaped. Of all men, Captain Mathieson would be the last to hold a brief for the Jacobites who damn near killed him! And to expect me to believe he would have helped fugitives ship off the very treasure he has assiduously pursued these many months—! Zounds, but I hope I am not such a fool!”

  “A ridiculous tale, indeed! ’Tis my understanding that Roland was questioned at great length and without mercy. Surely, he must have offered some defense?”

  “From what I can gather— From what I suspect, your Grace—Captain Mathieson—er, appropriated five caravans from the Jacobites, believing them to contain the Jacobite treasure. When Lambert’s troop came up with him, he apparently feared to be caught with the treasure, so he ran.”

  Marbury said cautiously, “From what I know of Roland your surmise is—very likely the true one. And that being the case, he was certainly liable to arrest, though I’d think he could have claimed to have intended to restore the treasure to the Crown and—”

  “There was no treasure, sir. Your grandson was tricked by the rebs. At least, so I believe.”

  “But …” The duke frowned as though trying to make sense of all this. “If there was no treasure, what had Roland done that could warrant such inhuman savageries? One trusts you have been able to obtain an accounting from this Lambert?”

  Both tone and words stung. The colonel gritted his teeth, but humbled his pride. “I have occasionally suspected that there were aspects to Captain Lambert’s character which— But that is by the way. One of the men in his troop chances to be a sergeant who served with me in Flanders, and of whose integrity I am very sure. ’Tis a practice I detest, but in this instance I felt well justified to question Sergeant Patchett in private, under my personal guarantee of his protection against possible—reprisals. What he told me—!” The colonel shook his head grimly. “I could scarce believe it. The other men confirmed his story, however.” He stared broodingly at his glass and was silent.

  “I remain at a loss, sir. Surely, Lambert must have had some reason?”

  The colonel said reluctantly, “Apparently there had been bad feeling between the two men for some time. Patchett heard Lambert taunting Captain Mathieson and saying he intended to ‘even the score,’ and that no man made a fool of him without he paid the price.”

  “My God!” thundered the duke, leaping to his feet. “Do you say this monster used his military rank to capture and destroy my grandson out of—personal animosity?”

  The colonel flinched. “It—would appear so, your Grace. I—I cannot fully convey my horror, my regrets, but—”

  Marbury drew himself up. He seemed to the miserable Fotheringay to be ten feet tall. In a voice of ice he said, “I apprehend your horror and your regrets. Pray respect mine. Roland has been stricken with a raging fever, and I have just been told that he has reached the crisis; otherwise colonel, I think I would demand that you come upstairs and see what your officer has wrought with his—his legalized savagery! I take it you know Captain Mathieson is—blind?”

  Fotheringay had also stood. At this, his proud head bowed. He said in a near whisper, “Oh—Lord!”

  “Any man,” gritted the duke, “who would stoop to such barbarism—who would use his boots to blind a helpless and badly hurt man, is not fit to dwell among decent human beings! Whether Roland lives or dies, I intend to make it my business to see Captain Lambert punished to the fullest extent of the law. I only wish it were still possible to enforce the ‘eye for an eye’ decree! As ’tis, I would prefer to have the swine hanged, but—”

  “Impossible, your Grace.”

  “We’ll see that! At the very least, I’ll have him imprisoned and transported.”

  “You will not be supported in either attempt, sir.”

  Marbury stared. “Am I to understand the army means to do nothing? I find that hard to believe!”

  “My apologies, your Grace. But no action will be taken against Brooks Lambert.”

  “The devil you say! Why don’t you give him a medal for—” But something in the colonel’s expression stopped him. He said shrewdly, “Explain yourself, if you please.”

  Before complying, Fotheringay drained his glass. Setting it aside, he said in a low, grave voice, “When I had what I believed to be all the facts in the case, I called Lieutenant Lambert into a private room, and I proceeded to tell him exactly what I thought of him, and what he could expect in the way of discipline. I think I never saw such rage in a pair of eyes. I knew that Lambert would like to have throttled the life out of me, but he said not one word in his own defense. When I invited him to do so, he just stood staring at me in what I can only describe as a—most peculiar fashion. Then—he started to giggle.” The colonel took a deep breath. “He ignored my commands, and began to—to take off his clothes. All the while, he leered at me and giggled, and whispered the most horrible obscenities.” Dragging out his handkerchief, Fotheringay mopped his pale, sweating face and said unsteadily, “I do assure you duke, I had a lot rather face—a massed charge of Scots Highlanders, than ever endure another such interview! Brooks Lambert is stark raving mad. He has been put in Bedlam.”

  Five minutes later the Duke of Marbury raced up the stairs, watched by many sympathetic eyes. He paused at the door of the sickroom. From within came the sounds of weeping. His heart suffered a great pang. He tried to tell himself that God, in His wisdom, knew best, and gathering his courage he opened the door. Fiona was kneeling beside the bed, lost in smothered but heartrending sobs as she clung to one of Mathieson’s limp, emaciated hands. Lady Clorinda turned and ran to the motionless duke. Her face was flushed, her nose red, her green eyes brimming over with tears—and radiant. “The—fever has … br-broken,” she gulped, and sniffed unashamedly. “Muffin—dear Muffin! There has been no more of that dreadful delirium that so exhausted him. He is—he is sleeping so peacefully. And—only see … he sweats! Thank God! He sweats!”

  For an instant the scene dimmed before the duke’s eyes, but he peered with new hope at that certain far corner of the room. There was no need to draw the curtains against the pale winter sunshine, and the corner was bright and quite unoccupied, with not so much as a suspicion of a shadowy presense.

  Somehow, Marbury groped his way to the bed, sank to his knees also, and brokenly, gave thanks.

  Beast, who had followed, padded up and sat not beside, but behind his god, peeping rather warily around the duke’s elbow. He had learned to his sorrow how sharp were the pins of the Guardian of the Bed.

  20

  The corner had been turned and Mathieson began to mend. It was a slow and wearisome mending, and there were still setbacks to be endured from time to time, but whenever he reached out, there was a hand to clasp his own; if he felt crushed and lost in his dark world there would come kind words of understanding and encouragement and, however bad things became, he was humbly grateful to find he was never left alone.

  Fiona spent so many hours with him that he protested guiltily that she should have some respite from the sickroom, to which she responded that she wanted no more “respites” and could only be happy when she was near him. Each day she would describe the weather and the scene outside the windows; often she played with the little cat, telling him of its antics and making him smile; sometimes, she brought him flowers from the greenhouses, and would hold them so that he could smell the fragrance. Truly, a rara avis was his love, and knowing he was wrong to keep her here, that the life he had to offer her would be one of servitude, he clung desperately to her love and knew that without it he would surely have died.

  Not one day passed but that his grandfather spent part of it with him, and was so kind, so attentive that Roland marvelled at the old gentleman’s devotion. Sometime
s, the duke would talk gently to him, attempting to allay his terrors with assurances that his blindness was but a temporary thing; that his eyes would heal and he would see again. Mathieson knew it was not true, that it was said only to bolster his spirits; but just to hear the soft voice, to know that at last he had won his grandfather’s love was a cause for rejoicing.

  His nurses were incredibly kind and patient. There were four shifts of two each, and they were in the room at all times, day and night. He came to identify them by their voices and to learn which ones were cheery and which all starch and no-nonsense; that one loved dogs but hated cats, and would shoo Picayune away if she was on the bed; that another sang softly and rather off-key when she thought he was asleep; that one had very stiff petticoats that rustled like sheets of paper; that one was very fat and bustled about pantingly, and that another always smelled of lavender.

  Lady Clorinda spent part of each morning with him, reading to him from the Gazette unless he was too tired or uncomfortable, chatting to him of the ton and their doings, laughing with Fiona over the Society columns.

  The days slid slowly past. Very gradually the pain began to ease until it hurt only when he was moved, and he realized with something of a shock one morning that his head no longer throbbed so viciously. That same day, he was carefully raised and allowed to sit up in bed for half an hour. The next morning, he had a boiled egg for breakfast, and he knew he was getting well.

  The time came for a great occasion—he was to have a visitor. The nurses went off for a cup of tea, and Thaddeus Briley crept in. He stayed only a few minutes but imparted the glad news that the barge had arrived on the Dorsetshire coast, and its cargo had been safely unloaded and “tucked away.” A further enquiry elicited the information that MacTavish had retrieved the vital list, and that The Avon Travelling Players had been disbanded and gone their separate ways. Thaddeus hesitated, then said in a very gentle voice, “They all know, Roly, that but for you there would have been a very different ending to our journey.”

  There was so much more Mathieson wanted to know, but his lordship was banished then, because Fiona declared he had succeeded in upsetting her patient. Mathieson, still so infuriatingly weak that he could not deal with emotion, was left to picture his Tiny Mite when she had learned why he’d left them, and to wonder how they had come here, and how they’d rescued him from that awful barn, all of which were matters he was forbidden to speak of for the time being.

  He had not expected anyone else to call, and as he grew stronger, he was amazed to find his lordship’s visit was but the start of a steady stream. Meredith Carruthers came, with his lovely lady, bringing great bouquets of flowers and fruit from the succession houses. Piers and Peregrine Cranford drove up; Peregrine thumping along on his pegleg, the volatile young twin brothers interrupting each other constantly in their efforts to describe the wedding of their sister to Sir Anthony Farrar.

  Tony Farrar himself came strolling in one afternoon and said breezily, “Well Roly, now what devilment have you been about? I vow your Grace, this grandson of yours is driving me berserk! My wife and my aunt do nothing but chatter of him, and have positively bedevilled me to come and check on the rogue!” And before Mathieson was able to recover from his surprise, Farrar’s hand rested very lightly on his shoulder, and he said with quiet earnestness, “Well done, old lad! I’m damned proud you’re a friend of mine!” Which was blasted unsettling and caused him to make a fool of himself, yet again.

  His cousin Jacob arrived, sounding grim and uncomfortable, yet with an underlying note of concern to his voice that was touching. But despite the pleasure of his visit, it proved to be a trying one, for as he left he said gruffly, “Don’t worry, old fellow, we’ll have you riding again in no time. I’ll guarantee to find you a good horse.” And another memory Mathieson had shrunk from, had to be forced away again until he should have the courage to bear it.

  In mid-November he was permitted short visits to the sofa, and on a cold, rainy afternoon Fiona sent the nurses away and admitted Thaddeus once more, warning his lordship to behave properly or be ousted.

  Undeterred, Briley said cheerfully, “How glad I am to find you up and about, my tulip,” and hastened to bend over the sofa and take the skeletal left hand that was so eagerly outstretched.

  “Thad, you rascal,” said Mathieson, overjoyed. “I owe you my life, for which I’ve never properly thanked you, I think and—”

  “Good-bye!” said his lordship, retreating hurriedly. He relented in the face of some hasty and humble pleas, and drew up a chair. “You did thank me, you cawker! I have been fairly buried in, deluged by, and inundated with gratitude! It ith, in point of fact, about to drive me to dithtraction—although I detherve every word of it—tho let uth have no more, or I’m off!”

  “Ça va! Ça va!” said Mathieson with a laugh that warmed Fiona’s faithful heart. “But I’m a sick man, and must be humoured, even by noble lordships. No one will tell me anything, Thad! And I’m so devilish curious. How the deuce were you able to find out where I was? How did you manage to haul me out of there?”

  Briley sent a questioning glance to Fiona, received a nod, and sat down. “Ah me,” he sighed. “I rather thuthpected I wath in for an interrogation.”

  Mathieson had suspected that Freemon Torrey had raced up to Wales and summoned help, but this proved erroneous. None of them, it appeared, had seen Torrey, and Lord Thaddeus prefaced his own story by enquiring as to the way in which the two desperate fugitives had parted.

  Mathieson hesitated. “We split up,” he said. “Thought we’d stand a better chance separately, once we’d been rumbled, you know. I’m sure Torrey must have got clear, else my grandfather would have heard of his arrest. He was going ventre à terre towards Oxford the last I saw of him.”

  The smile, thought my lord, was a little forced. He watched the invalid’s scarred and gaunt face, wondering what really had happened, until Mathieson became impatient and demanded the details.

  It had been Fiona who’d precipitated matters, said his lordship. She had told MacTavish’s bride of her suspicions and having persuaded that lady to a confirmation of them had at once declared her intention to follow Mathieson, and had proved so unshakable in this resolve that Lady Clorinda had been won over. They had left that very day; Cuthbert driving a fast coach and four, and Briley and Mr. Bradford riding escort. They had travelled at breakneck speed in an effort to catch up with the decoy caravans. Failing, they’d found themselves not too far from Dominer, and on the chance that Mathieson might have taken refuge with his grandfather, they had come here, arriving just after Hessell brought in the now famous button.

  “We dethided you might be a trifle bored with a dull old barn, dear boy,” said Thaddeus blandly. “Tho we thought it betht to—ah, bring you home. And—there you are!”

  “What d’you mean—there I am?” demanded Mathieson, tiring but indignant. “How did you do it? There were dragoons from here to next week! How—”

  “All right,” said his lordship with a great resigned sigh. “I am loath to confeth, but if you mutht know, I had very little to do with it. We racked our collective brainth, for we didn’t want to hurt any of the military—with one notable ektheption!—but we knew we had to act quickly. You’ve your lady to thank for your—ah removal, old lad.”

  “And some onion skins,” put in Fiona with a smile.

  “Onion … skins …?” echoed Mathieson.

  “We boiled them,” she explained. “The outer skin makes a lovely dye, and my skin was too fair for a gypsy—which I had to become, for an hour or so.”

  Mathieson frowned. “You should not have allowed that, Thad. Fiona, you little scamp—what did you do, go in there and find out where I was?”

  “No,” she said meekly. “I was so kind as to sell the poor thirsty soldiers some nice cold ale. Which put them very nicely to sleep.”

  “Drugged? Ah—mais … non!” gasped Mathieson, chilled.

  “Mais oui,” said his lordship. “
Could’ve knocked me down with a feather, I don’t mind telling you!”

  “So I should think!” Shaken, Mathieson reached out and Fiona took his hand. “What a chance for you to take, dear heart! I wonder Colonel Fotheringay didn’t bring charges against you!”

  “Nobody recognithed Mith Fiona,” said Briley. “And I think the colonel wath very eager to keep it all quiet.”

  “As was my grandfather,” muttered Roland.

  “You are beginning to look tired,” Fiona said sternly. “Now lean back and rest while Thaddeus tells you what happened, or I shall send him away again! And do not dare lecture me about taking chances, after what you did, sirrah! No! Not a word, just be still! At all events, my plan was very silly, and Thaddeus was dreadfully worried and said it would never work.”

  “So I should think,” said Mathieson. “He had no business allowing you to—”

  Fiona put her hand across his lips, shutting off the words.

  “I’d jolly well like to have theen anyone thtop her!” said Briley. “Her Papa wath all for the idea. And her plan did work!”

  “Yes,” put in Fiona. “Luckily, it was such a warm day, and the farm a long way from the tavern.”

  “We had to wait till the almighty lieutenant wath in the houthe at hith luncheon,” Briley resumed. “The dragoonth practically jumped into the ale barrell—all but one, that ith, and I tidily felled him with a magnifithent right to the bread-bathket! We hopped into the barn, popped you out dear boy, and—voilà!—here we all are, thafe and thound. In truth, Roly, I have to admit it wath rather fun to dreth up ath a gypthy, and I—” He halted, the light words dying on his lips as he saw that his friend was fast asleep.

  For a little while, he stayed, holding a whispered colloquy with Fiona. Then, very quietly, he tiptoed down the stairs again.

  December slipped away, and January came in on icy feet, dropping snow onto the great house and sending inquisitive gusts of wind to rattle the windows and whine in the chimneys. On a cold, but brighter afternoon, fully dressed for the first time in over two months, Mathieson sat in the windowseat, stroking Picayune who had curled up in his lap. He had been allowed to walk about the room this past week, and was to go downstairs today. Another milestone! Sorri, who had taken command again after most of the nurses left, would be here at any moment, to help him negotiate the staircase. He was a trifle nervous about those stairs, but be damned if he’d let them carry him down! Lord knows, he must look sufficient of a scarecrow as it was, what with all his scars and the narrow bandage that was bound across both eyes.