His clasp on her hand tightened. “Judith, most solemnly I beg of you do not do that! A message to Mrs. Scattergood will ruin all. You do not know the whole.”
“What are you trying to tell me?” she said. “How could a message to Mrs. Scattergood ruin all?”
“Cousin, every suspicion has been confirmed. You are not meant to find Peregrine. The place where I shall take you is hidden away in the depths of the country. I believe him to be held there—you may guess by whom.”
She had the sensation of having received a blow that robbed her of all power of speech. She made a queer little gesture, as though to ward something off, and without a word turned, and hurried towards the carriage.
He assisted her to get into it, and took his place beside her. The steps were folded up, and in a moment the horses were turned about, and driven at a trot up the Steyne towards the London road.
Though the day was sunny, and very warm, Judith was shivering. She managed to articulate one word. “Worth?”
“Yes,” he answered. “It was he who kidnapped Perry; how I know not.”
“Oh no!” she whispered. “Oh no, oh no!”
He said in a constrained voice: “Does it mean so much to you that it should be he?”
She managed to control herself enough to say: “What proof have you? Why should he do so? This is not credible!”
“Do you think Perry’s fortune is not enough to tempt him?”
“He is not heir—” She broke off, and pressed her hands together in her lap. “Oh, it would be too vile! I will not believe it!”
“You are the heir,” he said. “But do not flatter yourself you were ever destined to be Worth’s bride, cousin. Had I not discovered by the veriest chance the plot that was being hatched you would have been forced, by some devilish trick or other, into marrying Charles Audley.”
“Impossible!” she said. “No, that I cannot believe! Captain Audley has no thought of marrying me.”
“Yet Captain Audley was to take you to London tomorrow, and Captain Audley carries a special licence in his pocket.”
“What!” she exclaimed.
“I have seen it,” he said.
She was utterly dumbfounded, and could only stare at him. After a moment he continued: “I imagine that you were to be safely tied up to him in the few days that remain before you come of age. Have you considered that by Friday you will be free from Worth’s guardianship?”
“What can that signify?” she said. “Oh, it will not do, cousin! Captain Audley is a man of honour, incapable of such baseness!”
“Money can drive a man to measures more desperate than you have any notion of,” he said, a hard note in his voice. “Worth has made attempt after attempt on Perry’s life. You know it to be true!”
“No,” she said faintly, “I do not know it to be true. I cannot think—my head feels empty! I must wait until I have seen Perry. How far do we have to travel?”
“You would not know the place. It is some miles west of Henfield. I was led to it by a series of circumstances—but I will not weary you with all the miserable details.”
She did not speak; her senses were almost overpowered; she could only lean back in her corner, trying to conjure up every recollection that should prove or disprove his accusations. He looked at her compassionately, but seemed to understand her need of silence. Once he said, as though impelled: “If I could have spared you! But I could not!”
She tried to answer him, but her voice failed. She turned her head away to stare blindly out of the window.
The carriage was bowling along at a brisk pace, only checking at the turnpikes. For many miles Judith was scarcely aware of the distance they were covering, but when they left the pike-road and branched off on to a rough lane she roused herself, and looking at her cousin in a blank way, said: “Have we to go much farther? We must have come a long way. Should we not change horses?”
“It will not be necessary,” he replied. “This pair can accomplish the journey, for the carriage is a light one. We have only another ten miles to go. An hour should see us safely arrived.”
“If I find Perry—alive, all the rest can—must—be borne!” she said. “Forgive me for being so silent a companion! I cannot talk of it.”
He pressed her hand. “I understand. When we arrive will be time enough for all that must be said.”
“Is—is Lord Worth at this place?” she asked.
“No, he is in London. You need not fear having to meet him.”
“But why has he—why is Perry kept in this place you are taking me to? If all you have said is true, how comes he to be alive? Surely—”
“You will know presently,” he said.
She said no more. The carriage was jolting along a twisting lane between high, tangled hedgerows; a scent of hay was wafted in on the warm air; occasionally she caught a glimpse of a vista of rolling fields, with a blue background of hills in the distance. As they plunged deeper into the country, and she felt herself to be within reach of Peregrine, the numbness that had been clogging her brain gave way to an impatience to arrive. She turned to her cousin, and demanded: “Are we never to reach this place? Why did you not have the horses changed half-way?”
“We are nearly there now,” he answered.
In another five minutes the weary horses had turned in through a gateway, and were going at a jog-trot up the rough cart-track that led between rank fields to a fair-sized cottage, nestling in a hollow of the ground. It was surrounded by a fenced garden, and a huddle of outhouses. A few hens were to be seen, and a pig was rootling amongst some cabbages at the back of the cottage. Judith, leaning forward to see more plainly, turned with an expression of surprise on her face. “But this is nothing but a villager’s cottage!” she exclaimed. “Is Perry kept here!”
He opened the door and sprang out, letting down the steps for her. She could scarcely wait, but almost jumped down on to the ground, and pushing open the low gate, walked quickly up the path to the cottage.
The door was opened before she had time to knock on it by an old woman with wispy grey hair, and the rather vacant look in her eyes which belongs to the very deaf. She dropped a curtsy to Judith, and in the same breath begged her to step in, and to excuse her not hearing very plain.
Judith swung round to face her cousin, her brows drawing close over the bridge of her nose. “Peregrine?” she said sharply.
He laid a hand that shook on her arm. “Go in, cousin, I cannot explain it to you on the doorstep.”
She saw his coachman leading the horses round to one of the barns at the back of the house. Her eyes darkened with suspicion. “Where is Peregrine?”
“For God’s sake, Judith, let us go in! I will tell you everything, but not before this woman!”
She looked down at the deaf woman, who was still holding the door, and nodding and smiling at her, and then stepped over the threshold into a narrow passage with some stairs at the end of it. Bernard Taverner threw open a door and disclosed a low-pitched but roomy apartment with windows at each end, which was evidently the parlour. Judith went in without hesitation, and waited for him to close the door again. “Peregrine is not here?” she said.
He shook his head. “No. I could think of no other way to bring you. Do not judge me too harshly! To deceive you with such seeming heartlessness has been the most painful thing of all! But you would never have come with me. You would have gone to town with Audley, and been tricked into marrying him. You must—you shall forgive me!”
“Where is Peregrine?” she interrupted.
“I believe him to be dead. I do not know. Do you think if I did I would not have led you to him? Worth made away with him—”
“Worth!” she said. “No, not Worth! I am asking you! What have you done to Perry? Answer me!”
“Judith, I swear to you I know no more than you do what has become of him! I had no hand in that. What do I care for Peregrine, or his fortune? Have I proved myself so false that you can believe that of me? It is you I
want, have wanted from the day I first saw you! I never meant it to be like this, but what could I do, what other course was open to me? Nothing I could have said would have prevented you from going to London with Audley, and once you were in his and Worth’s hands, what hope had I of saving you from that iniquitous marriage? Again and again I have warned you not to trust Worth, but you have not heeded me! Then came Peregrine’s disappearance, and once more you would not listen to me. Even so, I should have shrunk from taking this step had I not seen the marriage-licence in Audley’s possession. But I knew then that if I was to save you from being the victim of Worth’s fiendish schemes I must act drastically—treacherously, if you will!—but yet because I love you!”
She sank down on a chair beside the table, and buried her face in her hands. “What does that matter?” she asked. “I do not know whether you are speaking the truth or not; I do not care. Perry is all that signifies.” Her hands fell; she stretched them out to him. “Cousin, whatever you have done I can forgive, if you will only tell me Perry is not dead!”
He went down on his knees by her chair, grasping her hands. “I cannot tell you. I do not know. It was not I who made away with him. Perhaps he is not dead; if you will marry me we will—”
“Marry you!” she cried. “I shall never marry you!”
He rose and walked away from her to the window. With his back to her he said: “You must marry me.”
She stared at him. “Are you mad?”
He shook his head. “Not mad. Desperate.”
She said nothing. She was looking about her as though she had just realized the significance of this cottage, lost in the Weald. After a moment he said in a quieter tone: “I must try to make you understand.”
“I do understand,” she said. The fingers of her right hand clenched and unclenched. “I understand why I was not to leave a message for Mrs. Scattergood, why you would not change horses on the road. The woman who lives in this place—is she in your pay?”
“Yes,” he replied curtly.
“I hope you pay her handsomely,” she said.
“Judith, you hate me for this, but you have nothing to fear from me, I promise you!”
“You are mistaken; I do not fear you.”
“You have no need. I want you to be my wife—”
“Would you want me to be your wife if I were not possessed of a fortune?” she said scathingly.
“Yes! Oh, I shan’t deny I need your fortune, but my love for you is real! Too real to allow of my doing anything now that could set you more against me! I am aware how much I have injured my own cause by this step I have taken. It is for me to show you in what respect I hold you. I shall not presume even to touch you without your leave, even though I must keep you here until I have your promise to marry me!”
“You will not get it, I assure you.”
“Ah, you do not understand. You have not considered! That I should be obliged to point out to you—But it must be done! Judith, do you know that a fortnight—a week—spent in my company, hidden away from your friends, must make it impossible for you to refuse? Your reputation would be so damaged that even Worth himself must counsel you to marry me! In plain words, cousin—”
A voice from the other end of the room interposed coolly: “You need not speak any more plain words, Mr. Taverner. You have said quite enough to compromise yourself.”
Judith gave a cry and turned. The Earl of Worth was seated astride the window-sill at the back of the room. He was wearing riding-dress, and he carried his gloves and his whip in his hand. As Judith started up from her chair he swung his other leg over the sill and stepped quickly into the room, tossing his gloves and whip on to the table.
“You!” The word burst from Bernard Taverner’s pale lips. He had spun round at the sound of the Earl’s voice, and stood swaying on the balls of his feet, glaring across the room, for one moment before he sprang.
Miss Taverner uttered a shriek of terror, but before it had died on her lips it was all over. At one moment the Earl seemed in danger of being murdered by her cousin, at the next Bernard Taverner had gone down before a crashing blow to the jaw, and was lying on the floor with an overturned chair beside him, and the Earl standing over him with his fists clenched, and a look on his face that made Miss Taverner run forward and clasp her hands about his arm. “Oh no!” she gasped. “You must not! Lord Worth, I beg of you—!”
He looked down at her, and the expression that had frightened her died out of his eyes. “I beg your pardon, Clorinda,” he said. “I was rather forgetting your presence. You may get up, Mr. Taverner. We will finish this when Miss Taverner is not by.”
Bernard Taverner had struggled on to one elbow. He dragged himself to his feet, and stood leaning heavily against the wall, trying to regain full possession of his senses. The Earl picked up the fallen chair and handed Miss Taverner to it. “I owe you an apology,” he said. “You have had an uncomfortable sort of a morning, and I am afraid that was my doing.”
She said: “Peregrine—he said it was you who kidnapped Peregrine!”
“That,” said the Earl, “is probably the only correct information he has given you.”
She turned very white. “Correct!”
“Perfectly correct,” he said, his gaze resting mockingly on Taverner’s face.
“I don’t understand! Oh, you could not have done so!”
“Thank you, Clorinda,” he said, with a faint smile. “But the fact remains that I did.”
She glanced towards her cousin, and saw that he was staring at Worth with a mixture of horror and incredulity in his eyes. She got up. “Oh, what are you saying? Where is Perry? For God’s sake, tell me, one of you!”
“By this time,” said the Earl, “Peregrine is probably in Marine Parade. Don’t look so surprised, Mr. Taverner: you cannot seriously have imagined that I should permit you to ship my ward off to the West Indies.”
“In Marine Parade!” Judith repeated. “The West Indies! Bernard! Oh no, no!”
Bernard Taverner passed a hand across his eyes. “It’s a lie! I did not have Peregrine put away!”
“No,” agreed the Earl. “You did your best, but you reckoned without me. However, you may console yourself with the reflection that your careful arrangements were not wasted. The master of that highly suspicious vessel off Lancing was quite satisfied to receive Tyler in Peregrine’s stead. In fact, I am inclined to doubt whether he even appreciated that an exchange had been made. I was quite sure, you see, that you would not expect to see Tyler back again in Brighton. That would have been too dangerous, I feel. So it was really very safe for me to dispose of him precisely as he meant to dispose of Peregrine.”
“Lord Worth, you may attempt to foist this monstrous story on to me if you please,” Mr. Taverner said. “You will find it hard to prove.”
“I might have found it hard to prove had you not so obligingly abducted Miss Taverner today,” said the Earl. “That error of judgment, my dear sir, has made it so easy for me to prove the rest that I am confident you will not put me to the trouble of offering my proof to a Grand Jury.”
Miss Taverner sank back into her chair. “All those other attempts—you made? But the duel! Ah no, that at least cannot have been your doing!”
“I am sorry to disillusion you, Miss Taverner,” said the Earl implacably, “but that duel was Mr. Bernard Taverner’s first attempt to dispose of Peregrine. The news of it was brought to me by my tiger, who, by a fortunate coincidence, was in the gallery of the Cock-Pit Royal when the quarrel between Peregrine and Farnaby took place. By the way, Miss Taverner, while I have grave doubts of that surgeon’s ability to recognize your cousin, I have a reasonable dependence on his recognizing me.”
She exclaimed: “It was you who stopped the duel? Oh, fool that I was! But you did not tell me! Why did you let me think it was my cousin who had done it?”
“I had several reasons, Miss Taverner, all of them good ones.”
Bernard Taverner lifted a hand to his cravat and m
echanically straightened it. He moved across to the empty fireplace and stood by it, leaning his arm on the mantelpiece. An ugly bruise was beginning to disfigure his face; he looked to be very much shaken, but he said with all his customary calmness of manner: “Pray continue! You are blessed with a lively imagination, but I fancy that any jury would require more precise information than this before convicting me of so wild a crime. You accuse me of contriving that duel, but I should be interested to hear what proof you would offer to your Grand Jury.”
“If I could have brought proof to bear you would not be at large to-day, Mr. Taverner.”
Judith was looking at the Earl in wonderment. “When did you suspect that the duel was brought about by my cousin?” she asked.
“Almost immediately. You may perhaps remember bringing me word once of Peregrine’s being got into a bad set of company. You mentioned Farnaby’s name, and it crossed my mind that I had seen Farnaby in your cousin’s, company once or twice. At the time my only suspicion was that there might conceivably be a plot on hand to bleed Peregrine of his fortune at cards. I dealt with that by frightening Peregrine with a threat to send him back to Yorkshire if I found he had contracted debts of honour above what his allowance would cover. I thought also that a discreet inquiry into the state of Mr. Taverner’s finances might not be inopportune. I admit, however, that I was so far from suspecting the truth that I committed the imprudence of sanctioning Peregrine’s betrothal to Miss Harriet Fairford. In doing that I undoubtedly placed him in jeopardy of his life. While Peregrine remained single there was no pressing need to be rid of him. I imagine that before he arranged for the boy’s death your cousin would have made sure of you, had his hand not been forced. The betrothal made it necessary for him to act quickly. Mr. Farnaby was hired to shoot Peregrine in a duel, and might well have succeeded had he chosen a less public spot for the forcing on of that quarrel. Upon learning from my tiger what was intended I set him to discover the surgeon Fitzjohn meant to employ. The rest was simplicity itself.”
Regency Buck Page 35
