by Sandra Heath
Insisting on Mary’s staying with Peter, she hurried into the inn, pushing through the crowded coffee room toward the counter, where she saw a large man in an innkeeper’s crisp white apron. ‘Sir? Are you the landlord?’
He turned, his practiced glance sweeping, over her. Perceiving that she was definitely a lady, he was pleased to give her a gracious smile. ‘I am, madam. May I be of assistance? Do you require accommodation? Or maybe a chaise?’
‘I wish to see one of your guests, a Mr Ralph St John.’
He cleared his throat uncertainly. ‘This is, er, a little irregular, madam. It isn’t the custom of this house to disturb guests….’
‘I doubt very much if he’s still in his bed, sir, since I think the chaise waiting in the yard is the one taking him to Falmouth with his father. It is their chaise, isn’t it?’
‘Yes, madam.’
‘Then would you please inform him that Miss Fairmead wishes to see him urgently?’
Again his glance moved over her, but more speculatively this time, for it was usually only a certain type of female that called on gentlemen guests in the middle of the night.
She colored, guessing his thoughts. ‘You’re entirely wrong about me, sirrah, so please do as I ask.’
He nodded then, deciding there was more to her than met the eye. ‘Very well, miss.’
‘Is there a private room where we can talk? Somewhere where there is writing equipment?’
‘Such things cost, miss.’
‘Mr St John will be pleased to recompense you in full, sir.’
‘Yes, miss. Please follow me. I’ll show you to a room and then inform Mr St John that you’re here.’
He conducted her out of the coffee room, along a red-tiled passage, and into a small room lit only from the street. Pausing to light the candles with one he’d brought with him, he then withdrew.
The new light shivered over the room, revealing a low-beamed chamber with paneled walls. The intricately carved fireplace yawned black and empty, and on either side of it were two high-backed settles. The only other furniture was a comfortable chair and a writing desk with all she required for the letter she hoped to coerce Ralph into writing.
The stagecoach that had been on the point of departure, now made a noisy exit from the inn, sweeping out onto the road and then turning toward London. For a bright moment its lamps flooded the room with light, but then it was gone.
A wry thought struck her. This was the second time she’d flouted the cardinal rule about ladies not going unescorted into inns, and on this occasion she was doing it under her real name.
It seemed that minutes, were ticking by. She looked a little anxiously at her watch. It was only twenty-five to four.
Footsteps sounded in the passage. The door opened and Ralph came in. He was very much the gentleman of fashion, clad in an emerald-green coat, cream cossacks, and black patent leather shoes. The cossacks were gathered at his ankles by golden ribbons, matching exactly the hue of his silk waistcoat. His shirt sported a fine starched frill, and he wore two neckcloths, one black and one white. He looked relaxed and unconcerned, but his brown eyes were sharp and wary, and a guarded smile played about his sensuous lips.
He closed the door softly and then faced her, folding his arms. ‘Well, well, what an unexpected pleasure,’ he murmured.
‘I doubt you’ll see it in that light when you learn my purpose, sir.’
‘Do I perceive a threatening note in your voice, Miss Fairmead?’
‘Yes.’
‘I’m all agog.’
‘Will you answer one thing first?’
‘My dear, I’m at your disposal.’ His glance moved slowly over her, resting on the low decolletage of her gown before meeting her eyes.
‘Did you compromise Adam last year because Mrs Tully preferred him over you?’
A light passed through his eyes. ‘My dear Miss Fairmead, I really don’t know what you’re talking about.’
‘Now it’s my turn to talk of playing games, sir,’ she said, reminding him of their conversation on the verandah at Bourne End. ‘You know exactly what I mean, just as you knew exactly who the lady was in the miniature you were looking at so adoringly. You hadn’t bought it that day, you’d been carrying it around with you for a long time; indeed, I’d hazard a guess that it reposes in your pocket at this very moment.’
Before he could stop himself, his hand moved instinctively toward his pocket. He realized he’d given himself away, and gave a lightly ironic laugh. ‘Touché, ma chère. Very well, I admit to reacting out of male pique that the lady was foolish enough to spurn me.’
‘And did you also choose a way that would harm Gregory because Margaret had chosen him rather than you?’
‘My, my,’ he murmured, ‘you’re an extremely perceptive creature, my dear. Yes, I see no reason to deny it. I wanted her, but she hardly knew I existed. I would have been more vindictive, but she didn’t matter all that much to me, she was but a fleeting fancy. Mrs Tully, on the other hand, was much more than that. I lost her because of Drummond, and I wasn’t about to let that pass without striking back.’ His eyes glittered. ‘Nor was I about to let your interference in my affairs pass unchallenged, my dear, but then you no doubt know I’ve carried out my threats concerning the billet-doux.’
‘Oh, yes, I know,’ she replied, holding his gaze, ‘but the time has come to put a stop to your iniquity, sir, and unless you put right the many wrongs you’ve done, I intend to see to it that you’re disinherited after all. And, believe me, I can do just that.’
‘You’re a kitten, my dear, not a tiger, so pray don’t give yourself airs and graces to which you cannot aspire.’
‘There’s nothing of the kitten about me, sirrah, as you’d be wise to remember. I have only to go to your father right now and tell him what you’ve really been up to, what you’re continuing to be up to, for him to wash his hands of you completely.’ She smiled a little, heartened by the increasingly guarded look in his eyes. ‘Oh, yes, you were right to think I’d told him more than you wanted; indeed, he and I had a very interesting discussion. I know full well how he’d react now to hearing everything I know about you.’
‘You’re wrong, my dear, for he’d never disinherit me.’
‘No? Don’t call my bluff, sirrah, for it will be the worse for you.’
‘You haven’t the willpower to break the old man’s heart.’
‘Oh, but I have. Lives are now at stake, sir, and I put that consideration before your father’s heart.’
‘Lives?’
‘Your lies and schemes have led to a duel. Gregory has called Adam out, and they face each other with pistols at five in Herne’s Glade. You are the only one who can stop them, and I intend to see that you do; otherwise, I’ll go to your father straightaway. I’m not going to let you get away with anything more, you’ve damaged too many lives already, so unless you wish to see your own life damaged still further than it has been already, I advise you to take my threat very seriously indeed.’
For a long moment he looked at her, then he turned away slightly, giving a low laugh. ‘So, Gregory and Adam are to duel at dawn with pistols, eh? May I ask why?’
‘Ostensibly because Gregory has learned of my meetings with Adam, but I think their real reason is all that happened last year.’ She looked coldly at him. ‘Which is where you come in.’
‘You surely don’t expect me to toddle off to Herne’s Glade to tell them I’m terribly sorry they’ve arrived at such a fix, because it’s all been my fault? Come now, I’d be filled with shot myself!’ He gave a mocking laugh.
‘I don’t ask you to go there, I merely ask you to write a full confession.’
‘I think you’re forgetting something, Miss Fairmead.’
‘Lady Bowes-Fenton? No, sir, I’m not forgetting. It’s as I’ve already said, lives are now at stake. Tell tales on her if you wish, it will make no difference to me, I will still acquaint your father with the full extent of your sins.’
&n
bsp; He smiled a little. ‘Fire with fire?’
‘Yes. Blackmail is your weapon, sir, but is equally effective in the hands of others, and if you think me incapable of using that weapon, you’ll be making a grave mistake. I have nothing to lose and everything to gain by turning that weapon on you, just as you have everything to gain by writing the letter I want, and a great deal to lose by refusing. By putting pen to paper, you can be sure of my silence….’
‘And I can be equally sure of being pursued on the road to Falmouth by those I’ve harmed,’ he said dryly.
‘Not if I give you my word they won’t follow.’
‘Such word is easy enough to give, but impossible to carry out.’
‘I think I can persuade both Adam and Gregory not to come after you.’
‘To think something isn’t good enough, my dear.’
‘It’s all I can do. Write the letter, it’s your only sensible course. Surely it’s better to be sure of remaining your father’s heir, and to take a slight risk that you’ll he pursued along the highway, than it is to be certain of penury, and certain, too, that I won’t miss a single opportunity to point an accusing finger at you.’ Her eyes and her voice were steady, for he had to be convinced that she meant every single word.
His glance flickered away. ‘What a formidable wife you would have been, Miss Fairmead,’ he murmured.
‘Do we have a deal, Mr St John? Are you going to write the letter, or must I go and tell tales to your father?’
‘I think, Miss Fairmead, that it’s time to see the error of my ways. Very well, I’ll write your letter, provided, of course, that I have your word that you won’t speak to my father.’
‘You have that word,’ she replied, barely able to conceal her elation.
‘And you, being a true lady, will, of course, keep that word,’ he said softly.
‘For which you, being an undeserving toad, have just reason to be exceeding grateful,’ she countered.
‘No doubt,’ he murmured, going to the writing desk and flicking back the tails of his coat as he sat down. ‘What exactly am I to say?’
‘That you were responsible for what happened to Prince Agamemnon, that you did it because you were jealous over Mrs Tully, that you chose to hurt Gregory as well because you were annoyed that Margaret chose him over you, that you forced me to agree to a temporary betrothal in order to part your father from some of his money, and that you lied in the letter to Adam when you said I’d surrendered everything to you.’
He glanced at her. ‘Quite a catalog, is it not?’
‘Are you proud of it?’
He smiled a little, and didn’t reply. Taking up a quill, he dipped it into the ink and began to write. He didn’t see Helen close her eyes, weak with relief that her plan was working. Once he’d finished, all she had to do was get to King Henry Crescent and stop Adam from leaving for Herne’s Glade. She glanced at her watch again. It was nearly four. Or so she thought.
For a long time the only sound in the room was the scratching of the quill. Another stagecoach arrived in the yard, approaching from the other direction and not passing the window, although the glow of its lamps shone in for a brief moment. She could hear sounds from within the inn, the clatter of pots and pans from the kitchens, the shout of an angry man who wished to complain to the innkeeper, and the humming of a maid as she hurried past the door.
At last Ralph finished, putting down the quill and sanding the letter with irritating thoroughness. He blew the surplus away, studied the letter for a moment, and then handed it to her. ‘I trust this will suffice.’ She took it, and read.
I trust that this missive, written under duress, but truthful for all that, will go some way toward righting the many wrongs of which I’ve been guilty. Last year I gave full vent to my wrath over losing Maria Tully’s affections to Drummond, so much so that I concocted the whole wearisome business of Prince Agamemnon. It was none of Drummond’s doing, I compromised him out of spite, paying Sam Edney well for his cooperation. There was also an element of spite in choosing that particular method of hurting Drummond, for by calling Bourne End’s good name into question, I punished Gregory Bourne for having the audacity to win Margaret Fairmead, a lady for whose hand I for a while entertained hopes. Among my more recent sins has been the coercion of Miss Helen Fairmead into agreeing to a temporary betrothal. I needed the match in order to persuade my father to stump up, and I made her do my bidding by threatening to broadcast her association with Drummond, and also by threatening to expose a past indiscretion of another lady, who shall remain nameless. This second threat had proved very effective in the past, forcing Drummond to keep silent over my guilt concerning Prince Agamemnon, even though he knew full well I’d done it. Lastly, I confess to having written a letter containing nothing but lies about my so-called relationship with Miss Helen Fairmead. I have never had my way with her, and she has never played a double game; indeed, it is my belief that she loves Drummond with all her heart.
Ralph St John
‘Will it do?’ He was studying her.
‘Yes.’
‘Then we are quits?’
She nodded, folding the letter.
He took out his watch, studying it for a moment and then snapping it closed and putting it away. ‘I suggest you make haste, Miss Fairmead, for you haven’t much time left.’
‘I have only to get to King Henry Crescent,’ she said, hurrying toward the door.
‘Do that, and you’ll find your bird has flown. He’s bound to be on his way to Herne’s Glade at this very moment.’
She halted, staring at him. ‘Why do you say that?’
‘Because it’s half past four, and if the duel is to take place at five….’
Her breath caught, and she looked quickly at her own watch. It said ten past four. An icy wash of dismay swept over her. She’d forgotten to wind it again! All this time it had been twenty minutes later than she’d realized! Her eyes fled to the window. Outside the light was the faintest of grays, where only a short while before it had been inky black. Was it already too late?
With a cry of concern, she gathered her skirts and opened the door, hurrying out into the passage and almost cannoning into the landlord. She didn’t wait to apologize, but dashed on. Behind her, she heard the man address Ralph.
‘Mr St John? It’s time to leave, your father sent me to tell you.’
‘Very well.’
She glanced back briefly and saw Ralph standing watching her, then she pushed open the coffee room door and entered the noise and crush of travelers.
As she emerged into the courtyard at last, the light was perceptibly gray, although dawn had yet to break. Mary was standing by the berlin with Peter, and she turned anxiously as her mistress appeared. ‘Miss Fairmead?’
Helen ran up to them, clutching at Peter’s arm. ‘Drive straight to Herne’s Glade, we haven’t a moment to lose! Don’t spare the whip, I beg of you!’
He was galvanized into action, turning to vault up onto the box. Helen and Mary clambered inside, slamming the door behind them as he snatched up the reins and whistled the startled team into action. The berlin lurched forward, turning sharply in the confined space, and then springing forward as he urged the horses beneath the entrance, and out onto the highway. The wheels rang on the cobbles, and the hooves clattered, striking sparks. Peter’s whip cracked, and the carriage flew along the quiet streets.
Helen sat rigidly on her seat, blinking back tears as she stared out. Mary sat opposite her, and after a moment leaned timidly forward to touch her hand. ‘What is it, miss? Wouldn’t Mr St John do as you wished?’
‘I have the letter, Mary, but I fear it may be too late. My watch….’ Her voice caught, And she couldn’t say anything more.
Awful realization crossed the maid’s face, and she sat back without another word.
Helen stared out at the eastern sky. It seemed that it lightened with every breath she took.
CHAPTER 24
Windsor Great Park was si
lver-gray as the berlin drove at headlong pace back along the Ascot road. A light mist was threading between the trees, and birds rose startled from the branches as the pounding of the horses’ hooves thundered across the silence.
Helen was striving to remain collected, but all the time the same guilty accusing thought swung around and around in her head: Why, oh, why, hadn’t she remembered to wind her watch? But for that vital small omission, she’d have reached King Henry Crescent in time. Now it might already be too late, the duel could already have taken place. She glanced at the watch again. The hands pointed to twenty to five, which meant that it was now five o’clock, the very moment set for the duel. Her heart felt like ice in her breast. Please, don’t let it be too late; don’t let the duel happen before she got there….
It seemed an age before the great copper beech towered over the track, and Peter swung the berlin sharply off the road to Hagman’s, urging the lathered team along the bumpy, rutted way to the glade. He was just flinging the horses forward as fast as they’d go when something ahead made him rein in again sharply.
‘Miss Fairmead! It’s the Bourne End landau, it’s drawn up just in front and Mrs Bourne’s standing by it. She’s very distressed.’
As the berlin lurched to a standstill, Helen’s heart seemed to stop. Fearfully she lowered the glass, leaning out to look ahead at the other vehicle. Margaret was standing beside it, being comforted by her maid, and the sound of her sobs carried quite clearly. Helen’s heart began to pound again. It was too late, the duel was over!
With a choked cry, she flung open the berlin door and alighted, running desperately along the few yards of rutted track separating the two vehicles. ‘Margaret? Margaret, am I too late?’
Margaret’s distraught sobs caught, and she turned quickly, the plumes on her little blue velvet hat trembling. She wore a blue spencer over a cream sprigged muslin gown, and would have looked very Mayfair and stylish had it not been that she was so overcome with emotion. Her eyes were red and puffy, and her lips quivered as she stared blankly at her sister, almost as if she didn’t recognize her.
