“I am back,” the Marquis said. “Where is Mr. Jethro?”
“In the Salon, M’Lord. He has just finished breakfast.”
The Marquis strode across the Hall and Saviya followed him.
A footman hurried to open the door of the Salon.
Jethro was standing at the far end of the room in front of the fireplace and the expression on his face made Saviya tremble.
He looked exactly as she had seen him the first time, when she had read the Marquis’s fortune and known that he was in danger.
Dark-haired, with a long nose, Jethro Ruck could have been good-looking had it not been for his dissolute way of life and an expression on his face which was so shifty, so sinister, that it made people instinctively shrink from contact with him.
His eyes, under heavy eyebrows, were too close together, but it was his mouth, twisted and cynical and perpetually sneering which made him appear so intolerable.
“So you have returned!” he said in a harsh voice before the Marquis could speak. “I saw you coming across the Park and I am therefore ready to welcome you, dear cousin.”
The Marquis advanced further into the room.
“How dare you behave in such a manner!” he said slowly his voice completely under control. “Three times you have tried to kill me, Jethro, and three times you have failed. Now I have had enough!”
“You were born under a lucky star,” Jethro Ruck replied and somehow he made it an insult. “Any other man would have died as you should have done by the accidents I contrived, but you have survived.”
“Yes, I have survived,” the Marquis said, “and now we will have no more of them.”
“So you think to prevent me inheriting?” Jethro Ruck asked. “But I am not defeated, Cousin Fabius—not yet!”
“I am afraid your plots, ingenious though they may be,” the Marquis said scathingly, “have become too insupportable for me to tolerate them any longer. I therefore intend, Jethro, to give you an ultimatum.”
His cousin laughed and it was an unpleasant sound.
“And what are you suggesting?” he jeered. “That you hang me from a gibbet or incarcerate me in the dungeons?”
“Neither,” the Marquis said. “You will either stand trial for attempted murder and perjury, or you will go into self-imposed exile on the Continent. I will support you generously, Jethro, so long as you never again set foot in England.”
Again Jethro Ruck laughed.
“Well thought out, Fabius!” he said, “a typical ‘gentleman’s compromise.’ You hope I will choose the latter course because it will involve no scandal for the family.”
“For once we are in agreement,” the Marquis said.
“And do you really think,” Jethro Ruck asked, and now his voice was smooth and silky and all the more sinister, “that I intend to go abroad and leave you in possession here with your Gypsy mistress?”
The Marquis stiffened.
“You will leave Saviya’s name out of our discussions, Jethro,” he said sharply. “You have defamed her enough already.”
“You really imagine that I, a Ruck, could defame a Gypsy?”
“I have already said,” the Marquis remarked, “we will not discuss Saviya. Let us concern ourselves with your movements.”
Saviya was watching Jethro Ruck, and she realised that as he stood almost as if he was at attention facing the Marquis, with his hands behind his back, he had a kind of courage that was a part of his heritage.
She had known that he would not bow to circumstances; that he would not acknowledge defeat; that he would fight, even as the Marquis would fight, to the last ditch.
Vile and wicked though Jethro might be, there was good blood in his veins and whatever happened, he was no coward.
“I want your answer,” the Marquis insisted.
Now there was steel in his tone as if he was coming to the end of his patience.
“I will give you my answer,” Jethro Ruck replied, “and I will give it very clearly, Cousin Fabius, so that there will be no mistake. You have always despised me. You have always looked down at me, you have always believed I was of little consequence, but now, at last, I have the whip hand!”
The Marquis merely raised his eye-brows to show he did not understand what his cousin was saying, and Jethro Ruck went on: “You are going to die, Fabius, as I have meant you to do all along. It is better that it should be at this moment, because it will appear, at least to the world, as honourable and in the family tradition.”
“I do not know what you are talking about,” the Marquis said. “Stop this nonsense and answer my question. Will you face a trial or go abroad?”
“I will do neither!” Jethro Ruck retorted. “I stay here and enjoy myself as the sixth Marquis of Ruckley.”
As he spoke, he drew his hands from behind his back and Saviya gave a little gasp of horror.
Jethro Ruck held two pistols and each was pointing at the Marquis’s chest.
“If you kill me,” the Marquis said contemptuously, “you will be hanged for murder.”
“On the contrary “ Jethro Ruck replied, “I shall have killed you in self-defence.”
He gave a little chuckle.
“You have played right into my hands, dear Fabius. The servants saw you arrive and they will all be prepared to swear that you were in a vengeful mood as you strode up the steps and crossed the Hall. They will have heard us talking, and what could be more understandable than that you should lose your temper at my impertinence and shoot me down with your own dueling-pistol?”
There was so much venom in his voice that Saviya felt as if she could not move and that her breath was constricted in her throat.
She saw now how mad they had been to come to the house without weapons; without any defence against a man more deadly than a cobra; more vengeful than a cornered rat.
“You are thinking,” Jethro Ruck said jeeringly, “that your Gypsy strumpet might give evidence against me. Do not blind yourself to the truth. No-one would take the word of a Gypsy against that of the sixth Marquis of Ruckley!”
There was a note of triumph in his tone before he went on: “You have threatened me, Fabius. No-one can deny that. Unfortunately you have not provided yourself with the means to make your threat effective. My plan, therefore, is quite clear.”
He smiled the smile of a man who holds all the trump cards.
“As I will tell the Magistrates, you threatened me, Fabius and, when I would not agree to your preposterous suggestions, you attempted to kill me. This pistol, which has been fired, will be found in your hand. To protect myself, I returned your fire and, being of course a better shot than you, I am the victor!”
There was something horrible and gloating in the way Jethro Ruck spoke.
Then as he raised the pistol in his right hand slowly to bring it down at the Marquis, there was a sudden movement!
Even as his finger tightened on the trigger, a flash of steel shot through the air and entered his throat.
It was so quick that the Marquis could hardly understand what had happened.
Jethro Ruck staggered and then fell backwards. As he did so, there was a deafening report and the bullet from his pistol shattered the ceiling above their heads.
For a moment the Marquis stood shocked and unable to move. And before he could do so there was a voice behind him and footsteps crossing the room.
The Marquis turned his head.
“Colonel Spencer!” he ejaculated.
“I am glad to see you are unharmed, Fabius.”
The Chief Constable was an elderly but distinguished figure, and his expression was one of gravity.
“You heard what was said?” the Marquis enquired.
“I was trying to make up my mind what I should do,” Colonel Spencer replied. “I had the feeling that if I entered the room unexpectedly Jethro might have finished you off quicker than he intended.”
“I threw the dagger which killed him,” the Marquis said quickly, putting his hand as he s
poke on Saviya’s to prevent her from contradicting him.
“It was an act of self-defence,” the Chief Constable said as if he understood, “and it is quite immaterial who handled the weapon in question.”
“Thank you, Colonel,” the Marquis said gratefully. “I would not have wished my—future wife to be involved in this unpleasantness.”
As he spoke, he felt Saviya’s fingers go rigid beneath his.
“I will congratulate you, Fabius, under more pleasant circumstances,” the Chief Constable said. “At the moment I have my duty to perform.”
“I understand,” the Marquis said. “Do you wish me to send for the servants?”
The Chief Constable walked to Jethro Ruck’s fallen body and looked down at him.
There was no doubt that he was dead. Blood was oozing from the wound and there was a stream of blood from between his thin lips.
Looking at the dagger, the Marquis knew that it had been a brilliant throw on Saviya’s part. She had pierced Jethro’s throat in exactly the most vulnerable spot, and with a force which he knew came from the flexibility of the muscles in her wrist.
“I am sorry your cousin’s life should have ended like this,” the Chief Constable said quietly. “I have known you both since you were children, and as you grew up together you appeared to be close friends.”
“We were,” the Marquis answered, “until when we became men, Jethro was eaten up with jealousy and envy. He wanted so desperately to be in my shoes.”
“Hobley has told me,” the Chief Constable said, “of the other attempts he made on your life.”
“Because you were my father’s friend, Colonel,” the Marquis said in a low voice, “can you arrange that there is as little scandal as possible?”
“I will do what I can,” the Colonel promised. “As I was actually present at Jethro’s death, my evidence will be sufficient for the Magistrates. It was a duel of honour and there will be few legal formalities.”
“In a duel of honour it is customary for the survivor to go abroad for a few months, and that is what I intend to do,” the Marquis answered.
“That is wise of you,” the Colonel approved, “and now I suggest you leave everything in my hands, Fabius. As a very great friend of the Ruck family, I promise you that the real truth of what has happened between you and Jethro will never go beyond the four walls of this room.”
“Thank you, Colonel,” the Marquis said. “I knew I could rely on you, and that you of all people would understand.”
He held out his hand and then as they shook hands the Chief Constable said:
“I want above all things, Fabius, to see you take your father’s place in the County. I know that a young man who has played a brilliant part in the war needs the relaxation and amusements that only London can give him. But there is work to be done here.”
His eyes were on the Marquis’s face and he continued:
“With the new lands, which I hear have come into your possession, I hope that Ruckley House will see a great deal more of you in the future.”
The Marquis knew that what the Chief Constable was saying to him had a far deeper meaning than appeared on the surface.
He was well aware that without mentioning Saviya she was uppermost in Colonel Spencer’s mind.
The Marquis had recognised as Jethro staggered and died from the impact of the dagger that there was only one place for Saviya in his life—and that was as his wife.
She had not only saved his life for the third time, but she had killed a man in his defence.
As he thought of her he realised she was not at his side. He looked round the room, then thought that perhaps, to avoid looking at the dead body of Jethro, she had gone in search of The Reverend.
The Chief Constable had already moved towards the door, and as the Marquis followed him into the Hall he started to give instructions to Bush for the removal of Jethro Rucks body.
The Marquis began to walk towards the Library. Then as he passed a footman, he said:
“Where is Miss Saviya?”
“She left the house, M’Lord.”
The Marquis looked at the man in astonishment and then he strode across the Hall and out onto the steps.
The Chief Constable’s carriage was outside and Hobley was talking to the Coachman.
The Valet came towards the Marquis with a question in his eyes.
“Where is Miss Saviya?” the Marquis asked for the second time.
“She came out a few moments ago, M’Lord, and took the horse on which I returned with Colonel Spencer, and rode towards the wood.”
“Fetch me a horse from the stables,” the Marquis said sharply to a footman who was standing behind him.
The man ran off and Hobley looking up at his master found it impossible to ask the questions which hovered on his lips.
He knew that something had gravely perturbed the Marquis and, with an anxious expression on his face, he went into the house to find out for himself what had happened.
There was a few minutes’ delay before a groom appeared from the stables riding the Marquis’s favourite black stallion.
He jumped down and almost before he reached the ground, the Marquis had swung himself into the saddle.
Without a word he galloped off across the Park towards the woods.
As he went he was afraid with a fear that was almost like an iron hand clutching at his heart.
CHAPTER SEVEN
The Marquis urged his horse on until he reached the woods, wondering how he could find Saviya’s tribe and where they were likely to be.
He remembered she had told him that they had moved, after Jethro began searching for her.
While the Marquis realised that it was impossible to hide fifty people for long, the woods were large enough for him to have to spend several days in searching for them unless he was exceptionally lucky.
He had the inescapable feeling that Saviya had always meant to leave him when he was well enough.
He knew she was deeply conscious of the differences of rank between them, and she was far too intelligent not to realise, as he did, the unavoidable implications were he to set up a lasting liaison with a Gypsy.
Saviya was so sensitive, and they were so closely attuned to each other, that the Marquis knew she was well aware of his anxiety concerning the problems which would arise from their living together. And marriage would arouse even greater difficulties, not only from his point of view, but from Saviya’s.
He knew she had not spoken idly when she had said that the most terrible thing that could happen to a Gypsy was to be exiled from the tribe.
Because their society was so close-knit and they kept themselves apart from other people, exile was to them as bad if not worse than excommunication to a Roman Catholic.
Marriage between a Gypsy and a non-Gypsy was universally disapproved by all the tribes that were pure Romany.
Saviya had told the Marquis once that, even though in some exceptional instances a marriage might not bring exclusion from the tribe, the outlaw whether it was a man or woman no longer had the right to the name of Gypsy.
“Sometimes,” she went on, “this ostracism extends to the whole family and lineage of the guilty party.”
“That sounds to me unfair—cruel!” the Marquis exclaimed.
“It is worse than death!” Saviya had said quietly.
Remembering this conversation now, the Marquis was certain that the fact that he had told the Chief Constable that Saviya was to be his wife had driven her away from him.
“I love you!” he had said to Saviya one evening when she had been sitting in the caravan at the door, and he had been watching her from the bed.
He saw the sudden light in her eyes which illuminated her face and made her almost dazzlingly beautiful.
Then he had asked:
“What is love, Saviya? For I have never known it until now.”
She had looked away from him and he knew by the sudden concentration in her face that she was trying to fin
d a serious and sensible answer to his question.
“I think that love,” she said after a moment, “is when someone else matters so completely that one no longer has even a thought of self. One almost ceases to exist because only in the other is one alive.”
She turned her face towards the Marquis and her eyes shone like stars as she finished:
“One lives for him and one would ... die for him.”
“Is that how you feel about me?” the Marquis asked.
She had risen then to come and kneel beside his bed.
“You know it is. All I want is for you to be happy.”
“I am happy as long as you are with me.”
He had held her close and yet with a new perception he knew that she was not entirely his.
There was some barrier between them; some reserve that he had felt and not understood. Yet now, he thought with a sense of despair, he knew what it was.
‘How can I convince her,’ he asked himself, ‘that nothing is of importance except our love, except the need we have for each other?’
He remembered how in the past he had never believed that he could fall in love. He had not understood when Eurydice had told him that love was more important than rank.
She had given up being a Duchess for an American whose way of life was entirely different from her own, and with whom she could in fact have little in common except love.
No! He had not understood.
He had even been inclined to laugh at anyone who could be swept off their feet to such an extent that they would alter their whole way of life—forget the past and all it implied for an emotion so intangible that one could not even explain it.
“I am not laughing now!’ the Marquis told himself almost savagely.
He had to find Saviya, but he knew that the sands of time were running out.
If, as he suspected, the Gypsies were in the process of leaving, if they once moved away from the vicinity, how would he ever find her again?
They were wanderers and nomads. At the same time centuries of being persecuted had taught them how to evade detection; how to vanish into a labyrinth of woods and mountains, hills and valleys, so that it was almost impossible to find them.
Bewitched (Bantam Series No. 16) Page 13
