Impatient with himself, Damon realized his recent illness must be responsible for the fact that he felt utterly drained of strength. He must have been blind not to have seen this coming. Hartwell had always appeared so loyal, yet there had been incidents—several—that had caused him to question the man's character. He'd taken him for a weakling, but years of friendship had compelled him to ignore such traits. "My dogs?" he asked wearily. "That note to Ariel? You?"
"Certainly not! I loved Géant—and Satin! And I do not send anonymous notes! Nor did Craig-Bell. But more of that later."
"Is… is Trask to die as well?"
"No need. He's been our man for some time." Hartwell regarded his companion with real sorrow. "I bear you no malice, Cam. I wish you will believe that. But—it's your life or disgrace and prison for me. No choice, you see."
"Had you no… choice… in the matter of the beam? Sophia might have—"
"'Fraid I must plead guilty there. It was a little delaying mechanism I'd rigged in case anyone should come creeping after me while I was down there. I honestly didn't know she'd followed me. When I heard her voice, I ran back and damn near got caught in my own trap. Damon? You're not going to fall asleep, are you?" He chuckled softly. "At a moment like this?"
Damon, comprehending his sick weakness, groaned. "Damn… you!"
"Clever, wasn't I?" Hartwell's voice seemed very far away. "Wouldn't have done it—except I know how difficult you can be. Didn't you notice how carefully I wiped the flask? Was simply inserting a stopper. Beastly stuff!"
"Was it…" Damon asked thickly, his head sinking, "poison?"
"Gad, no! I couldn't kill a friend. Cam? Have you gone… out?"
Damon could no longer see.
"Out?… Out?… Out?"
The word echoed into silence.
To walk was a tremendous effort. Damon's head ached, and his mouth felt like dusty wool, yet he was stumbling along willy nilly, shoved from behind when he slowed. His mind was too dulled to sort it out. All he could see was the ground, which seemed very uneven and stony; and boots. His own and a pair of gleaming, tasseled Hessians that kept pace with him. Men laughed raucously as the owner of those boots murmured something. The voice sounded vaguely familiar, if only he could think… The ground was becoming clearer, as though—It was almost dawn! That realization brought his head up, and with it came memory. He halted, staring at the dapper gentleman, elegant in a many-caped coat, who surveyed him through a jewelled quizzing glass.
"Good morning, my dear friend," said Phineas Bodwin in a soft, silky voice. "By Jove, but you cannot know how excessive pleased I am to have you here!"
Damon returned no answer and was again pushed forward. With every stride now, his head felt clearer, and with every stride, his amazement grew. Bodwin! Of all men—the last he'd have suspected of being associated with Cobra! He shivered and realized with faint surprise that he wore neither coat nor jacket.
Bodwin's neighing laugh rang out. "Cold, Damon? Your garments have been spoken for, I fear." He gestured toward Trask, who followed, swaggering in the Marquis's driving coat. "Murray has your jacket, old chap, but you won't be needing it… Confess now—you'd no idea I was Craig-Bell's second-in-command, had you?"
Damon reflected grimly that he also had no idea what they were doing at the spa; why they were now approaching the barn; nor how in the devil he was to get out of this mess. He was by now aware of the powerfully built round-eyed man who trod just a step behind him, a lethal-looking club in his hands; of the musket Trask held pointed at his back; and the pistol Hartwell dangled with apparent nonchalance. Another man, stoop-shouldered and narrow-faced, had remained with the carriages. He must be the "Murray" Bodwin had referred to. Five in all.
"I would not have imagined," he answered, "that any man related to someone as fine as Irvin Ford could—"
Bodwin stopped, his gaze turned upon the Marquis with savage malevolence. "You swine! It is because you murdered my loved nephew that I have gone to such pains with the manner of your dying!"
"I…murdered Ford?" Damon gasped. "You're mad! I wasn't even in Dorset!"
"He found out," snarled Bodwin. "When you stuck your long and noble nose into our affairs, he found out. About me! He overheard poor Stover when he came to the Hall half out of his wits with fright, poor lad. The Runners were hot on his tail.A fine young man like that—from a fine old family! Thrown to the wolves! And for what? Because we rousted a few peasants about—of whom there are untotalled numbers starving every day? Because we had a little fun with some village trollops? Because we kicked up a little hell that gave the Watch something to occupy their time? What the devil was that to you?"
"He was avenging his friend," Hartwell put in mildly. "You remember Hilary Flanders, don't you, Phinny? Foreign Office. Shot himself."
"Ah… yes. That little ploy. A very foolish young man who refused to help us."
"So you ruined him," said Damon. "Which broke his father's heart, and—"
"And for that reason alone, you dared to—"
"Reason enough! But it was only one of a hundred reasons! And if you're going to tell me Irv committed suicide because you were involved, I do not—"
"But, my dear boy, I tell you no such thing. Irvin did not commit suicide. You murdered him! He might have betrayed me, so I had to stop him. It would not have been necessary but for you. It was your fault, Damon."
The Marquis stared at him in horror. "You killed him? Your own nephew? Why, he was worth ten of you! You dainty, murdering bas—"
He lunged for Bodwin, but the musket rammed into his back, staggering him. Hartwell cautioned softly, "Careful, Damon—no time to be high in the instep."
Damon had been extremely fond of Irvin Ford. His fingers fairly itched to wrap themselves about the throat of the dandy who had so mercilessly wiped away that promising young life. But, again, he was shoved with bruising force toward the barn. Bodwin, picking his fastidious way over the rubble left by the workmen, said, "That was merely my first score against you. But there are other matters between you and I."
"You mistake it," said Damon. "I make it a point to avoid dealing with persons of…questionable taste."
The words were uttered with cool disdain and could scarcely have been better chosen to inflame his captor. A smothered chuckle escaped Hartwell. Bodwin, obliged to look up at the Marquis, discovered in the contemptuous lift of the brows, the droop of the eyelids, no trace of fear, but, instead, the very hauteur that so infuriated him when evidenced by Vaille. "Oh, but you Brandens have a top-lofty air," he jeered. "It has always amused me, considering that my House predates your own."
"Do not trace it back too far," Damon murmured, "else you will doubtless discover creatures dwelling in caves and glutting themselves on raw meat." He cast a scornful look at his companion. "Who might be offended by the relationship, at that!"
Trask broke into a rather doubtful coughing. Bodwin checked, colour flooding into his face, his hand tightening about the gold handle of the fine Malacca cane he carried. Hartwell watched him narrowly, but, after an instant, Bodwin resumed his stately pacing. "So you like a jest, do you, Damon? Then here's one for you. Twenty years back, your father entertained lavishly at Cancrizans, yet not once, in all the time he dwelt there with his little French tit, was I—"
Damon tensed. Knowing him, Hartwell jumped forward and grabbed his arms. Bodwin, who had retreated a step, moved closer again. "Did I speak disrespectfully of your dear Mama?" The tip of his cane tapped very gently under Damon's chin as he smiled into those narrowed eyes. "But that is my jest, you see, my friend. The foolish lady also made the mistake of cutting me."
"Naturellement," said the Marquis, his nostrils flaring slightly. "My Mother was a lady of excellent discernment."
Bodwin leaned nearer. "Wherefore," he hissed, "she is— dead!"
Something very cold gripped Damon's heart. "Filth!" he grated. "What are you saying?"
"Why Camille, dear boy," Bodwin giggled. "Do you not recall
why the chaise spun off the road that day? A wheel came right off!" He giggled once more. "Such a tragedy! And so nicely… timed."
"Bastard!" raged Damon. With all his strength, Hartwell could barely hold him. Trask grabbed an arm, and they hung on as the Marquis fought them savagely.
Bodwin shook his head. "You've a naughty mouth, and I am the injured party here, my lord. History does repeat itself, you see. Recently, I chose a lady for my bride, and you had the unmitigated gall to attempt to lure her away!"
Still trembling with passion, Damon said breathlessly, "Gad, but you've a rare sense of humour! Sophia don't much care for your brother club member here, but she'd sooner wed him than you, any day of the week!"
"And you, sir, are an insolent puppy who wants for manners!" Bodwin's eyes glared his hatred. "As for club members—Hartwell was not one of us."
Hartwell had moved aside but still held his pistol aimed steadily at Damon. "I was an unwilling accomplice," he shrugged. "Phinny discovered I'd been bartering your treasure. He's been blackmailing me ever since. But I am to keep all the loot, Cam, so do not seek to promote a quarrel between us over Sophia. T'would be a foolish waste of breath."
"Perhaps, but I'm not so foolish as Bodwin if he harbours such pathetic delusions. Sophia would run a country mile before she'd wed a degenerate old man."
"You arrogant clod!" Bodwin snarled. "I paid the lady the supreme compliment of offering for her, but when Hartwell had the good sense to smash your wretched skull, she ran to you! And you wonder I intend to destroy you? By God, but when I'm finished, you will wish you'd never raised your hand against your own kind!"
"I have not done so," said Damon with indignation. "Whatever 'kind' you are, Bodwin, I refuse to be numbered among it!"
Lord Phineas gave a strangled cry, and the cane whipped upward. Stepping quickly between them, Hartwell laughed. "Cam—will you behave? I'm trying to keep this on at least a fairly polite level!"
"Because you're gutless!" raged Bodwin. "Well, there's no reason I cannot—"
"It's almost dawn, Phinny," Hartwell pointed out mildly.
Damon's heart missed a beat. He'd thought the duel part of the plot to lure him here. Was it indeed to take place?
"True…" Bodwin gave a soft laugh and turned to the man with the club. "Doak—fetch Whitthurst. Hurry, or I'll be late for the second act."
Whitthurst? Damon stiffened, and noting the reaction, Bodwin's eyes lit up. "After you retired last evening, dear boy, the Viscount became quite foxed and, thanks to Hartwell's clever baiting, insisted on galloping to Parapine to see his love, regardless of the hour. Unhappily, he never reached his destination… and will die with you. So sad, but with both of you gone, Lady Sophia will be only too glad to accept my devotion and—eventually—my hand."
The Marquis gave him a pitying look but was thinking that if he brought it off, this would kill Sophia. Enough she should have to mourn him, but her adored brother as well? He must get them out of this!
They had reached the barn. Trask swung the huge door open, and Hartwell bowed Damon inside. There were only three of them now… probably the best chance he'd have.
Bodwin turned up the wick on an oil lamp that hung on a peg beside the door. "After we are wed," he mused, "I may have to be quite harsh with Sophia. For a while, at least. She's a fiery chit and must be brought to heel."
Hartwell frowned. Damon, appalled by the thought of Sophia as the helpless wife of this satyr, laughed. "You poor fool! You make her skin creep. The only emotion she feels for you is amusement!"
Hartwell laughed outright. Bodwin's lips pulled back into a grimace of hatred. His hand darted into the pocket of his coat.
Trask, levelling the musket, cried in a stentorian tone, "Lord Phineas Bodwin—Sir Amory Hartwell, I arrest you in the King's name, for complicity in—"
Damon gasped in astonishment. Hartwell stared with utter disbelief. Bodwin swore, whipped the pistol from his pocket, and with a shove sent Hartwell plunging against Trask. Damon leapt forward, but even as he did so, there were two distinct shots: the roar of the musket; the sharper bark of the pistol. Clutching at his arm, Hartwell reeled backward. Trask gave a grunt and fell. Bodwin, his pistol smoking, ran from Damon's charge, wide-eyed with fright. Damon sprang in pursuit. Bodwin flailed at him with the pistol as he fetched up against the gate to a stall. Damon swayed lightly aside, sent his right smashing into that slender middle, and, as the man doubled up, connected with a solid left to the jaw. Bodwin straightened out, crashed against the gate, and, as it burst open, shot through it and went down, vanishing noisily into a welter of painters' equipment.
A harsh voice shouted, "Hey! Your lordship!"
Damon spun around. Whitthurst stood just inside the open door. His hair and clothes were wet; he looked half frozen and shuddered violently, his white face reflecting helpless misery. Doak gripped his arm, and the narrow-faced man held a pistol low against his side. "One more move,"—he leered—"and—he'll die slow."
Doak swung the door shut, and the Marquis stood motionless.
Hartwell, leaning weakly against a post, clutching his arm with crimson-stained fingers, groaned, "Can't help you now, Cam. You and your fancy… fists."
Damon knew with grim certainty that he was in a most devilish situation. Bodwin was getting to his feet, groaning curses. Doak came up swiftly behind Damon and wrenched his arms back. Bodwin, his jaw red and swelling, his eyes slits of hatred, stepped forward. "Hold him, Doak." He drew back one fist. "I'm going to enjoy this."
"Da… mon" The voice called from a very great distance. He was extremely uncomfortable and had no least intention of responding, but the call was repeated and, at last, sighing plaintively, he opened his eyes. The round glow above him resolved itself into a face, the features becoming clearer as full consciousness returned. He tried, fruitlessly, to sit up.
Bodwin, bending over him, murmured, "At last!"
Damon could remember little after the first few blows, but the salt taste of blood was in his mouth; his jaw felt as if it might be broken; and his head was splitting again. Wherefore, naturally, he summoned a grin and said in a far away voice, "Want to go another round, Phinny? I should be… about down to your speed."
He heard a faint cheer and, looking around, eventually made out Whitthurst dancing around a nearby tree. This puzzled him until he realized that his vision was at fault. The Viscount was, in fact, leaning against a heavy supporting beam in the center of the barn, waving to him. There was much noise in the barn—a deal of banging and clattering about that echoed in his ears. He sighed again.
"You miserable swine! Will you wake up?"
"What?" he said thickly. "Oh…you still here, Phinny?"
"Yes, damn you! And you're making me late! It all took so much longer than I thought, and I really must be at Tottenbury by sunrise!"
"Poor fella," said the Marquis. "Do not let us detain you." And he frowned, wishing it was a little less noisy.
"Look, Damon," urged Bodwin. "Can you see what I have arranged for you?"
Damon looked and, as objects became clearer, felt hope drain away. There was a line of stalls along the left side of the barn and, on the right a central area intended for feed and supplies now held stacked cans of paint and varnish. This section was set off by a five foot fence consisting of horizontal rails threaded through sturdy supporting posts about seven feet apart. The lowest rail was some six inches above the ground, and to this his wrists were separately tied, while his feet, tightly bound together, were secured by a rope stretching to one of the stalls opposite and knotted round a gatepost. Whitthurst was as helpless, the bonds that pinioned him against the massive centre beam leaving only his arm free. And that arm was stretched high above him; not waving, as Damon had supposed, but holding Doak's club. A small hinged shelf had been attached to the upper part of the beam, and the club was just long enough to restrain that clumsy shelf from folding downward.
"Do you see, my dear Camille," purred Bodwin, "what is on the
shelf?"
Damon saw and realized with a weakening of the knees why the oil lamp had been placed there.
Bodwin gave a happy little crow of laughter. "There should be brackets to hold that shelf upright. But so long as Whitthurst can support it, the lamp will not fall. On the other hand"—he glanced upward, his eyes glistening with pleasure—"should he weaken…" His cane indicated the bales of hay below that unsteady shelf. "Doak is so clumsy. He accidentally dropped quite a lot of oil on those bales. It ran, in fact, all the way to that other stack… by the horses."
Damon wrenched his head around and felt the blood drain from his face. The far end of the barn had been roped off; beyond the rope, many horses milled about uneasily. He realized that they were the source of the clattering sounds, and he stared, sickened by the awareness of what would happen when the lamp dropped, as inevitably it must. His gaze shot to Whitthurst, and, very briefly, the Viscount glanced at him, his eyes strained, his young face haggard and beaded with sweat. The shelf tilted, and Damon gave a gasp as the lamp slid to the side.
"Careful!" called Bodwin, and the Viscount's attention returning to his desperate task, he clicked his tongue regretfully. "He's tired, poor lad, and I'm afraid became thoroughly chilled while we had him in the canal, awaiting your arrival. But," he smiled kindly, "he'll warm up very soon… I've no doubt."
Keeping himself well in hand, the Marquis observed, "Phinny, you've a perfectly frightful black eye…poor chap."
Bodwin gritted his teeth and struggled to contain a boil of rage. "Have you ever," he asked silkily, "seen a stable fire? Have you ever seen horses maddened with fear? They'll be through that rope in a flash… And just think… here you will be, Damon, lying between them—and the doors. When they cannot get out, they'll rush madly back… and forth…" He waved his cane over the Marquis and smiled. "A plan tailor-made for you, dear Camille."
Patricia Veryan - [Sanguinet Saga 04] - Love's Duet Page 32
