by Sandra Heath
“It is always busy here,” said a thin, rather nasal voice.
“If they always serve such excellent coffee, I can well understand why,” Cristoval said, looking at his companion at last. The gentleman was about his own age, stooping, and very sallow, with a long nose upon which spectacles were perched. He wore a powdered wig and dark clothes, and held a bundle of letters and legal documents that he placed carefully on the table.
The man smiled. “I am fortunate to find a place at all with all the fuss going on outside. Some savage fellow with a penny whistle.”
Savage fellow with a pennywhistle? Manco would be flattered, Cristoval thought.
The man made himself comfortable. “London is becoming a terrible place, sir. There is always something to cause a nuisance.”
Cristoval smiled, then indicated the papers. “You seem a busy man, sir.”
“I am indeed, but do not complain. The law is a demanding profession. Today, however, I could have done without quite so much to do.”
“Today in particular, sir?”
The man nodded. “I suddenly find myself about to embark on an unexpected journey. It is a great inconvenience.” He realized he should introduce himself, and extended a hand. “Sir Quentin Brockhampton, your servant, sir.”
“Don Cristoval de Soto,” Cristoval replied, taking the proffered hand, but his thoughts quickened. Sir Quentin Brockhampton? The name rang a bell...
Sir Quentin looked up at the serving girl, who appeared at the table. “Your finest Turkish coffee, and some ratafia biscuits to settle my stomach for traveling.”
Suddenly, Cristoval remembered why the man’s name was familiar. Sir Quentin Brockhampton who suddenly knew nothing of the money Felix gave him to keep for Cora Preston. Surely London could not harbor two men of law of the same title and name?
Sir Quentin looked curiously at him. “By your name, appearance, and voice, I know you cannot be English, sir. May I know from where you hail?”
Cristoval hesitated, for some reason disinclined to answer truthfully. “I am from Spain, sir,” he replied.
“Ah, Spain. Land of excellent wines.”
“I am honored that you think so, sir.”
The Turkish coffee and ratafia biscuits were brought, and Sir Quentin reached for the cup, but as he did so, his sleeve brushed the bundle of documents, which slithered to one side. Some fell to the floor, and Cristoval bent to retrieve them.
The very first letter he picked up was addressed to Sir Quentin at his chambers. It had been written by Sir Rafe Warrender of Temford Castle. Yet another name that was only too familiar! With lightning presence of mind, Cristoval slipped the letter inside his coat, then straightened to hand the other papers he’d recovered to Sir Quentin, who was grateful.
“You are most kind, Don Cristoval. I fear we legal fellows are always trying to carry too many documents around.”
“Better too many than too few, Sir Quentin.”
“Ah, indeed, indeed,” murmured the other.
Outside, the disturbance centering on Manco was still in progress. The increasingly furious parish constable had not met with assistance when it came to clearing the street. The crowd was in an obstinate mood and Manco’s flute playing had now become far from melodious, consisting of about six notes played in sequence, over and over again. He had risen to his feet and was performing a jerky little dance, lifting his feet in time to the notes.
People caught up in the jam of traffic were becoming impatient, shouting angrily for clear passage, when a small black-and-white terrier appeared from nowhere and began to bark at the top of its lungs. The constable laid about the little dog with his stick, and Manco’s music broke off mid-note. The Indian felt in his purse for whatever it was he kept there, then flicked his fingers at the parish bully, who sat down with a jolt that almost knocked the breath from his body.
This was greeted with a roar of laughter, no one realizing they had witnessed Inca magic. They simply thought the constable had fallen over, and as they didn’t like him, they applauded his plight. The terrier became more excited than ever, and rushed to and fro snapping at his ankles. The constable tried to get up, but couldn’t. He uttered a curse and lashed out with his stick, which promptly flew out of his hand and landed on top of one of the carriages in the street. The terrier began to leap up and down, trying to get at it, which in turn frightened the horses. They set off along the street before the coachman had a chance to get them in check, and the crowd parted hastily.
A whistle sounded as two Bow Street Runners came upon the scene, and there was pandemonium as people scattered in all directions, not wishing to be apprehended for being involved in a disturbance. The parish constable at last managed to haul himself to his feet, then took to his heels, knowing that something rather unpleasant and exceedingly untoward had just happened to him.
The Bow Street Runners disappeared in pursuit of some known pickpockets who had been busy in the crowd, and gradually the street returned to a semblance of normality. Manco calmly resumed his place on the pavement, put his flute to his lips, and began to play a gentle, soothing tune. This time no one paid any attention to him.
Everyone in the coffeehouse had observed events with interest, and now a babble of chatter broke out, drowning the sound of the Indian’s music. Sir Quentin looked at Cristoval. “How astonishing,” he declared.
Cristoval gave a genial smile, less interested in Manco than in finding out all he could about the lawyer whose name figured in both Jack Lincoln’s past and Emily Fairfield’s present. “You mentioned an inconvenient journey?” he prompted.
“Yes. To Shropshire.”
Cristoval was hardly surprised; indeed, he’d almost expected it.
Sir Quentin went on, “I have to see a gentleman by the name of Sir Rafe Warrender. It is a matter of some urgency.”
“Not bad news, I trust?”
“Well, I’m not sure if it is bad or not; in fact I cannot even be sure that it is the truth, but nevertheless I feel it is information I should pass on because I believe the person from whom I received it to be reliable.”
“Then you must act upon your conscience, Sir Quentin,” Cristoval declared, dearly wishing he knew what the information was.
“I shall do, Don Cristoval, I shall do.” Sir Quentin sipped his coffee. “Mind you, in one way the journey is not inconvenient at all.”
“Oh?”
“There is a lady ...”
“Ah.” Cristoval sat back. “A matter of the heart, Sir Quentin?” The lawyer hesitated, then nodded. “Indeed so, Don Cristoval, although I fear my stock is not all that high in this instance. I have met her only once, and on that occasion the news I had to impart was not at all to her liking. However, I sincerely trust I will have the opportunity to renew the acquaintance when I am in Shropshire.”
“I wish you luck, sir,” Cristoval murmured. “Does the lady have a name?”
“She does indeed. Preston, Mrs. Cora Preston.” Half an hour later, the two men parted amicably, although Cristoval had not managed to elicit any more information from the lawyer. Cristoval waited until Sir Quentin had gone, then took out the purloined letter to read.
Temford Castle, Shropshire. December 14th, 1804.
My dear Brockhampton,
It is with great pleasure that I enclose a draft upon my bank to the value of two thousand guineas, in payment for services rendered. I am in your debt, and will show my gratitude still further when the lady is mine. In the meantime I will be grateful if you will continue to use all the means at your disposal to tighten the financial noose around GF’s estate.
You may be sure you will not regret your decision to assist me in this.
I am, yours etc. Warrender.
Cristoval gazed incredulously at the sheet of fine paper, which had at the top the blue rose badge that really belonged to Jack Lincoln. The letter had been written six weeks after the death of Geoffrey Fairfield, who was surely the GF mentioned in the text.
That
also meant it had been written not long after Cora Preston had gone to see Sir Quentin about the money Felix had deposited with him before leaving England. Clearly the lawyer’s denial of any knowledge of this money was the news that was not at all to her liking.
What “services rendered” might Sir Rafe Warrender be referring to? The timely disappearance of Felix’s money? Pressure from Geoffrey Fairfield’s debtors and duns? The letter on its own proved nothing, but suggested much. Oh, to have learned the important news the lawyer felt was urgent enough to warrant an immediate departure for Temford Castle.
Cristoval folded the letter again and put it in his pocket. Pure chance had brought him together with Sir Quentin Brockhampton in a London coffeehouse, and Cristoval de Soto was not a man to ignore such strokes of fate. The lawyer was suddenly not the only person for whom a visit to Shropshire seemed advisable. Without further ado, Cristoval left the coffeehouse.
Manco rose quickly to his feet. “We go see Capac Jack?” he said, his tone a statement rather than an inquiry.
Cristoval nodded, not bothering to ask how the Indian knew.
Chapter 11
While this was going on in London, Jack had driven down through Temford and over the River Teme to take the road that led west into Wales. The fine rolling acres of Temford Castle lay immediately to the north. To the south lay Fairfield Hall, hidden behind its screen of boundary trees. The chaise passed the disused entrance to the Fairfield estate, a dilapidated Tudor gatehouse that was considered beyond repair. A notice on the gates advised callers to go on to the next entrance, about half mile farther on.
As the chaise continued its journey, the woods thinned suddenly, and for a moment Jack was able to see the astonishing half-timbered mansion. He immediately lowered the glass and ordered the postboy to halt. With an irritated curse the man complied, managing to bring the travel-stained vehicle to a commendably smooth halt at the roadside, where the hedgerow was bright with scarlet and black berries and clouds of wild clematis.
Jack alighted and found a gap through which he could see the house. Like others before him, he could only marvel that such a seemingly rickety building had withstood the arduous test of time. As he looked, he saw a woman in emerald green riding toward the woods, who then disappeared behind the trees. Was it Emily, or her mother?
He removed his top hat and ran his fingers through his long blond hair, which was untied now for comfort. Then he returned to the chaise and instructed the postboy to drive on. With a gruff command, the man kicked his heel and urged the tired horses into action again.
The woods were thick and impenetrable at the second gatehouse, beyond which the leaf-strewn drive disappeared among the trees. The gatehouse keeper, Bradwell, came out when the chaise halted. He was a big, rather porcine man, balding, with a pink face and a nose that could only be likened to a snout. He looked up suspiciously as Jack leaned out of the vehicle and addressed him. “My name is Lincoln, and I have a letter for Mrs. Preston.”
“I will deliver it, sir,” Bradwell said, coming to the chaise door.
“I am charged to give it to the lady in person,” Jack replied, then added, “I have come from Peru.”
“Peru? Where’s that? Down Cornwall way?”
“A little farther, I fear. The other side of the world, in fact.” Jack smiled, then noticed a curtain twitch at an upstairs window as a boy looked out. He was tall and well built, with a country face, open and amiable.
Bradwell’s eyes had widened. “The other side of the world?”
“That’s right.”
“Well, I er ...”
“I think you had better open the gates, don’t you? Or is it your job to say who can and cannot call at the Hall?”
The warning tone had the desired effect, and Bradwell hastily flung the gates open and waved the chaise through. The team came up to pace again, and fallen leaves scattered as the vehicle left the road and set off along the drive.
* * *
The rider Jack had seen was Emily, and she had reached the edge of the clearing where Geoffrey died. She could see the fallen tree lying among the ferns and the pool overhung by the oak from where she knew Peter liked to fish. She could not bring herself to ride any farther.
Echoes of the past rang painfully through her—Geoffrey smiling at her, making love to her, teasing her, holding her hand as they walked in the gardens, praising Bonaparte as a genius. Rafe’s voice whispered slyly inside her. “... there was a little too much French blood in your late husband’s veins. On the night before he died he attended one of my gaming parties at the castle, and I caught him going through Carrowby’s private papers. I made him replace the documents as he found them, and I requested him to leave the castle immediately. For your sake, and Peter’s, I did not raise the alarm ...” Was it true? Had Geoffrey been spying for the French?
Without warning a pheasant burst noisily from the undergrowth, flying up past the mare’s head with all the whirring clatter that such a bird can make. The mare reared, and the sunlight was blinding through the canopy as Emily lost her balance. She fell with a scream, jarring herself so heavily on the ground that she began to lose consciousness. Her hat had rolled away, only stopping when its scarf tangled in the ferns.
She lay there, unable to move. Her short golden brown hair stirred gently in a breath of wind that crept idly across the clearing. The daylight began to fade, and the last thing she remembered was something very small and bright shimmering on the fallen tree. Then she knew no more.
Her riderless roan mare cantered out of the woods, directly cross the path of Jack’s chaise. The startled postboy was forced to swerve to avoid a collision. Jack was flung forward. “What the dickens—?” he exclaimed, then opened the door and jumped down. “What happened?” he demanded.
The rather shocked postboy had already dismounted from the lead horse and was endeavoring to calm it. “A bolting horse, sir. It crossed the drive about ten yards in front of me.”
“Bolting?” Jack repeated, immediately thinking of the woman rider.
“Yes, sir. A roan mare. Sidesaddled,” he added.
Jack recognized the description. “Where did it come from?” he demanded, scanning the autumn-hued woods for a glimpse of emerald green.
“Somewhere that way, sir.” The postboy pointed.
Without further ado, Jack dashed into the trees and soon found the mare’s prints in the soft ground. He followed them, pausing now and then to cup his hands to his mouth and call. “Hello?” But there was no response. The prints led farther and farther into the woods, so that when he glanced back he could no longer see the drive or the chaise. He called again, then listened carefully. Still there was nothing.
But Emily had heard him. His voice crept faintly into her unconsciousness, and she stirred. Her eyes opened. The ferns seemed to tower above her, and beyond it the soaring trees which looked as if they scraped the sky itself. Where was she? What had happened? she wondered.
A man’s voice sounded in the distance. Or was it nearby? She couldn’t tell. “Hello? Can you hear me?”
“I... I hear you,” she murmured.
“Hello?”
“I’m here,” she said. Her voice seemed loud enough to her, but in reality it was little more than a whisper. At last she came to properly. “Here! I’m here!” she cried, struggling to pull herself up into a sitting position. The woods seemed to spin, and she closed her eyes quickly.
“Keep answering!” the man shouted.
“I’m at the edge of the clearing, over here,” she called back, and was relieved to see him hurrying toward her, past holly bushes where the berries were already Christmas bright.
Jack ran the last yards and knelt on the ground beside her. He recognized her immediately from the miniature, even though she had cut her hair. Her fragile loveliness almost stopped his breath, and he stared at her, unable to take his eyes away. She was exquisite, vulnerable, and more desirable than any woman had a right to be. No wonder Rafe wanted her. Realizin
g he was staring, he managed to find his tongue. “Are ... are you all right?”
“I think so,” she said, wondering who he was. She noticed his fashionable clothes but strangely long hair. He was a contradiction, like a Viking invader in Saxon clothes to fool the enemy, or a corsair sailing under false colors. She found him fascinating, and more than simply handsome, for there was something about him, a hint of danger, of the unknown ...
He brushed a leaf from her cheek. “Do you think you may be injured?”
“I don’t think so. I just fell very heavily.”
“What happened?”
“A pheasant flew out of the undergrowth right by my horse’s head.” As if to confirm her words, another pheasant called nearby, a raucous, grating sound that seemed at odds with the woods. As the sound died away, she looked at Jack again. “May I know your name, sir?”
“Lincoln. Jack Lincoln, your servant, Mrs. Fairfield.”
Surprise lightened her eyes. “You know my name, sir?”
“I, er, have seen your portrait.” He was conscious of her spell weaving subtly around him, trapping him more with each second that passed. Who was the easy conquest now?
“My portrait?” Geoffrey had painted her on a number of occasions, and sold some of them, so this Mr. Lincoln might have seen her anywhere. But what was he doing on her land?
Before she could ask him, he spoke again. “Can you stand?”
“I... I’ll try,” she replied.
He got up and held out his hand, which she took hesitantly. His fingers closed reassuringly around hers, and he pulled her gently up from the ground. She swayed a little, and he caught her quickly around the waist. She smelled of lavender, and it suited her, he thought. “It’s all right, I have you,” he said gently.
“This is silly—my legs feel as if they don’t belong to me.”
He picked her up to carry her into the clearing, where the fallen tree seemed to offer a perfect place for her to sit and rest. But as she realized what was in his mind, she was filled with sudden panic. “No! Not there!”
