by Vanessa Gray
Or to light him up as a target, in case the gun in the shrubbery missed?
Yet, of course, the chance had to be faced. Revanche nuzzled his shoulder, and Hugh, remembering the horse’s pain, stepped boldly forward. There was no need to advertise his wariness, he decided. And there could possibly have been only one man with murderous intent.
Hearing the horse’s hooves, Werdle, the groom, appeared in the doorway, stifling a yawn. He wakened completely when he saw his master on foot, leading the big gray.
“Werdle,” said Hugh, “here’s trouble for you.”
Soundlessly Werdle held the stable door wide and took the bridle. “What happened, sir?” he asked.
“Let’s get inside,” said Hugh, stifling an impulse to glance over his shoulder, “and I’ll explain.”
Once inside, and away from the half-door, Hugh explained tersely.
“Shot? A poacher, do you think?” Werdle asked, his mind only half on what he was saying. To him, the injury to a horse overshadowed in importance anything that might have happened to the earl. And rightly so, reasoned Hugh. The horse’s wound was an area in which Werdle was exceedingly competent. As to who might want to shoot the Earl of Pendarvis, in Werdle’s opinion the fewer questions asked, the fewer answers given. And that was die way he wanted it.
“No, I don’t think so,” said Hugh. “What kind of game would be galloping through the copse, Werdle? The gun went off too close to the path. He couldn’t have helped hearing us come. And Revanche could not possibly be mistaken for a stoat.”
Murmuring soothing words to the horse, Werdle was engrossed in his work. Hugh watched him for a few minutes, noting with one portion of his mind the expert hands and knowledge at work. Another part of his mind trailed off on paths of its own.
Werdle had come to the door yawning. Had he been asleep? Could it be possible that the man hadn’t heard the shot? Hugh calculated that it might be the better part of a mile from the spot where the gun went off to the stable. On a clear evening, could a shot be heard so far? The answer, of course, was yes.
But perhaps not inside the stable.
At the moment, he must forget Werdle, since he did not know how the man could have reached the stable before he had. The shrubbery would not have concealed him for more than the first few yards of his escape, had he come in this direction.
Hugh left Revanche in better hands than his, and entered the house without unnecessary advertisement. The side door had been left unlocked for his use, and he was conscious of only a moment’s hesitation before he entered the dark interior of the hall.
No sound reached his ears until he had traversed the long carpeted corridors and gained his own room above the entrance of the house. Dawson’s monkey face was wide-awake.
“An enjoyable time, my lord? A good thing to be back among people we know, ain’t it?”
His remarks died on his tongue as he took a closer look at his lordship’s grim face. “Dawson,” said Hugh, “someone shot Revanche.”
“Revanche?” echoed Dawson blankly. “Dead?”
“No, it’s only a flesh wound, in the neck. Two inches from my hand. He shied, don’t you see, and I thought he simply smelled blood, a rabbit’s perhaps.”
“Werdle’s got him? Then he’s all right, my lord. You remember Werdle from the old days. He could talk to horses in their own language.”
“I remember Werdle,” said Hugh.
Dawson glanced at his master. He had served Hugh here in Crale Hall and had without hesitation left behind all he knew to follow the young master wherever he led. Glad enough he had been to head back toward Devon again, thinking that all the master’s troubles were behind him. But he was wrong, wasn’t he? Young Vincent was still living at Crale Hall, usually in the sullens, and he had always been trouble.
He glanced again at Hugh. If he suspected his half-brother, Dawson was sure no word of it would pass his lips. Not until he was quite sure of his facts.
“Probably a poacher, my lord?” ventured Dawson provocatively, helping Hugh off with his coat.
“And hitting a horse no more than a few yards from him?” said Hugh harshly. “I hope my poachers are better shots than that!”
“That’s very comical, my lord,” said Dawson dutifully. Then, in an altered voice he added, “Was it the first or second shot that got Revanche?”
“The second,” said Hugh automatically. Lifting an eyebrow, he added, “How did you know about the second shot?”
“Now, then, sir, you can just stow your suspicions. It’s plain as can be there were two shots.” Seeing Hugh’s dark blue eyes only pinpoints of light in his face, Dawson said simply, “The first one, my lord, got your new coat from Nugee.”
He held out the garment for Hugh’s inspection. “See here? Ruined your coat. Worn only once, too. Pretty near the mark, wasn’t it, my lord?”
Dawson’s words were calm enough, but his face mirrored his appalled thoughts. Someone could have killed Hugh — nearly had, for this shot that caught the top of the sleeve was only inches from a vital part of Hugh.
“I heard the bullet,” mused Hugh thoughtfully, “but I thought it had gone by harmlessly.”
“Who did it, my lord? No poacher!”
“I don’t know.”
“You didn’t see anybody?”
“No.” After a pause Hugh added, “No, but there is nothing to prevent me from saying I did, is there? If someone thought I knew more than I do… I see, Dawson, that you don’t approve of that.”
Dawson was vigorous. “No, my lord, I do not. Not that I’m against baiting a trap, so to speak. But…”
“First we have to know what kind of bait to use. I daresay you’re right.”
“It could be,” muttered Dawson darkly, “that you wouldn’t want to catch the man.” Hugh’s head came up sharply. Dawson eyed his master steadily. “Sometimes it’s a bitter thing, to know.”
Dawson’s cryptic remarks were no puzzle to his master. Dawson had suffered through too many years with him for Hugh not to know the way Dawson’s mind marched. But Hugh shook his head. “I might have agreed, once, Dawson. But I’ve got some things to do here before I let a sniper fix my dock. So I must take precautions, you know.”
Dawson barely refrained from sniffing. He knew well that his master was right. Crale, taking the broader view, had been neglected for too long, and the earl’s duty was clear. But that didn’t mean that Dawson was going to like it He helped the earl disrobe. Standing ominously before him, Dawson said, “Now, my lord? It’s not for me to say, but—”
“Then, Dawson, don’t say it,” said Hugh, taking the sting out of the words by his sweet smile. “We are too old friends to have to put some things in words.”
Dawson allowed himself to feel gratified. But nonetheless he decided that watchfulness would be the word from now on, whether the earl’s suspicions lay along the same line as his or not. He left Hugh sitting meditatively before the black, cold grate.
Hugh did not know how long he sat there. But when at last he stirred, several things were clear in his mind. First, the bullets were meant for him. No one could have mistaken him for anything other than what he was, not at that short distance. And then, the other side of the same coin — at that short range, who could have missed? Either an exceedingly bad shot, or else the attack was meant simply as a warning.
Either way, Hugh thought with a grimace, it wasn’t the best way to celebrate a homecoming merely two weeks old.
Acting upon Dawson’s unexpressed suspicion — which Hugh, although he would not have admitted it even to an old friend like Dawson, shared — he rose to his feet and slipped silently into the hall. Faint light from the waning moon slid through small windows to light the corridor. Hugh’s footfall was muffled by the heavy carpet, and he approached his half-brother’s door unheard.
With infinite care he opened Vincent’s door and listened. He could not see, in the darkness, as far as the bed, except to make out the vaguest shapes of bed and chairs. Bu
t there came the unmistakable sound of heavy and regular breathing. Vincent was in bed, and sleeping. And, therefore, could not be the man in the shrubbery.
A conclusion, Hugh was aware as he tiptoed back to his own room, unwarranted except by his own very real reluctance to believe that his father’s other son could wish to commit murder. Vincent could have come back, undressed, fallen into bed, and drifted into sleep half a dozen times while Hugh and Dawson were conferring.
But could Vincent sleep after such an escapade? Or would he be worrying about whether Hugh saw him?
Hugh shook his head. He simply did not know his half-brother well enough. Yet, the breathing had been regular — too regular, perhaps. Hugh was thoughtful as he closed his own door and, after a reflective moment, pushed the bolt home with a soft snick.
At the stable, early the next morning, he found Werdle already astir. The swish of brooms, the soft thud of hooves on dirt, told Hugh that Werdle was not a man to let the day come upon him with his work not done.
“Good morning, Werdle,” said the earl, leaning over the open half-door. “How is he?”
“Doing fine, my lord,” said Werdle. ‘The fomentation has drawn out the pain, so to speak. Anyway, he’s not so restive, and there’s naught feverish-looking.”
The earl nodded satisfaction. “A poacher, Werdle,” he said. Werdle looked up sharply. A significant look passed between the two men, and Werdle at last nodded. “No doubt of it, my lord. Would you be wishing to see Maddox?”
“Maddox?” said the earl cautiously. “My game warden,” he added in comprehension. “Yes, that would be suitable, I think. Thank you, Werdle. Would you happen to know where he is now?”
“No, my lord. But I can send word that he’s wanted. It’s not my province, you understand, my lord.”
“Of course. I’d be glad if you were to get word to him that I should like to see him.”
The earl ate a solitary breakfast of succulent Devon ham, a mountain of eggs, freshly baked bread, and gooseberry jam. “I mind it was always your lordship’s favorite,” beamed Mrs. Robbins. His appetite left no suspicion that his mind was abstracted.
He did not ask for Vincent. Oddly, he was reluctant to show any curiosity, lest his latent suspicions become common knowledge, and perhaps bring Vincent to a more definite plan — or a better aim! the earl thought grimly.
Nonetheless, he could not afford any further abstraction of mind. Last night he had been engrossed in his plan to topple Faustina from the pedestal she had put herself upon — knowing what was best for his daughter, so she said. He remembered only too well certain mamas of marriageable daughters in Brussels who had used that approach to him — but once was enough. The next time, he would marry, not to please himself, but to please his ancestors. And he wished to consider the situation without passion and without prejudice. He began to consider his next move…
He set out on his duty call on Faustina and her aunt. This time, he decided, he would walk down the open drive and avoid shortcuts — and his usual habits. At least, for a while. An assailant would be handicapped if his prey never did the same thing twice.
By the time he arrived at the terrace door of Kennett Chase, without seeing anything more dangerous than a fleeing hare, he began to wonder whether he wasn’t making himself too important in the incident. An assassin might have expected Vincent to ride through the shortcut Had Vincent walked the night before?
Remembering Vincent’s early proclivities, he thought it quite in the cards that he had made an enemy or two himself. Determining to make a study of this possibility later, he stepped through the door opened for him by Bone.
“Good morning, my lord,” said Bone. “May I say I am glad to see your lordship in good health?”
The earl lifted an eyebrow.
“Word has come, sir, of the unfortunate accident.”
“Ah, has it? But not so terrible, Bone, because, as you see, I am unharmed.”
“For which we are happy, my lord,” said Bone in a heartfelt manner, having known Hugh since he was in leading strings. Bone at one time had toyed with the thought of embracing in wedlock an assistant cook at Crale Hall, and became, as it were, an intimate of the household for a brief period. Funny, he couldn’t remember her name now — only the cinnamon buns that were her specialty, raisiny and touched with the exotic flavor of oranges.
When Hugh was ushered into the drawing room, Faustina half rose from her chair at the sight of him. He thought she was unusually pale, but it was no doubt the result of her late hours the night before.
Lady Waverly came toward him, hand outstretched, bracelets jingling below her wrist ruffles. “My dear Pendarvis!” she cried. “Are you sure you are well enough to be out of your bed? We were all so shocked! I do trust they have laid the stupid poacher by the heels!”
“Aunt, one question at a time. How can he answer if you don’t let him?”
He bent over Lady Waverly’s hand, but his eyes glanced sidelong at Faustina. “I was not hurt in the least, Lady Waverly,” he told her. “But my poor Revanche! However, Werdle tells me he will be all right, although I dare not think when I will wish to ride him again.”
The conversation subsided into normal channels of frothy chatter, and Hugh contented himself with watching Faustina’s color ebb and flow. Perhaps, a wayward thought came to him, perhaps she was right about Althea! Perhaps he had neglected the child. If Faustina truly had the child’s interest at heart, and dared to brave his own stifling anger, then there was something in the girl that he must respect.
He dismissed the thought at once. She thought him a monster, didn’t she? He hardened his heart against Faustina.
“But how brave you are,” marveled Lady Waverly, not for the first time. “I vow I would be cringing inside my bed curtains if someone shot at me!”
“How absurd, Aunt Louisa!” said Faustina shortly. She had been more worried than she wanted to think about when word came that Hugh had been shot at the night before. She had envisioned him lying in his own blood — “weltering” was the word — in the night, with no one to carry the news to the Hall while his life ebbed away. It was a picture that she had difficulty in thrusting away.
And here the victim was in ha drawing room, full of vitality and good spirits, as though nothing untoward had happened! She was furious with him.
“How absurd,” Faustina repeated. “You see, nothing has happened to him. Why should he be fearful?”
“Because of the next time, of course,” said Hugh with a smile. “I must trust that, if I am indeed the target, his hand shakes more than mine, you see.”
“You have no idea who shot at you?” demanded Faustina.
“None whatever. A poacher, I suppose, imagining he had a free hand since we were all engaged at Kennett Chase.”
Faustina’s face was easily readable, the earl realized. She was very close to arguing the point of the poacher with him, and he revised his opinion of her intelligence. He hurried to divert the conversation into channels he had carefully prepared.
“I must tell you what Miss Astley suggested,” he invented, “and then you will let me know what you think of it She thought it would be great fun if we all arranged for a picnic along the beach. I remember there was a suitable cove not too far away, on the bay. Is it still there, or have the tides altered the beach much?”
With the question, he turned to Faustina for the answer. She did not have time to veil the angry fire leaping in her eyes. Helen Astley! Helen suggested a picnic, and Hugh leaped to agree. She herself promised a picnic to Althea, and he forbade the diversion. How unfair he was! How arrogant, how full of bare-faced hypocrisy — she could not think of words severe enough for him, and wished she had listened more closely in her childhood to the uninhibited phraseology of the groom who taught her to ride.
Hugh hastily turned back to Lady Waverly. Faustina had reacted in the appropriate fashion for his scheme, and he was content, for now.
“But if you do not go, Lady Waverly, then w
e cannot go at all.”
Louisa was enchanted. This was how life should be: a handsome earl — he was handsome, almost — siting for her presence at an occasion. Not like that dreadful Abernethy! Her self-esteem, flattened by the dashing captain’s perfidy, began to pick itself up.
Her only thought when she had decided to abandon London and come down to Devon had been to immure herself beyond sight and sound of her onetime friends in London. Even Beaufort, she considered, was not far enough away. But no one would look for her at Kennett Chase, to see how she was taking the captain’s defection, and hurry back to London to spread the word.
But several days’ reflection on the journey had provided her with a new interest. Dame Rumor in London said that young Hugh Crale, having succeeded to the title, was coming home, a widower. With a title and extensive lands, he would be a catch indeed. And since Julia at hand was an ever-present reminder of her own hurrying years, she formed a scheme. And so far, it was all going swimmingly!
“How charming!” said Louisa warmly.
Hugh moved on to the planning of the picnic. “Leave it all to me,” he suggested. “Mrs. Robbins will provide us with the picnic baskets. And of course Miss Waverly will join us?”
While Faustina fumed, the picnic was arranged. There was nothing for her to do in connection with the excursion — not even, she realized with a feeling of disbelief, attend. For she apprehended that she had not been invited.
Lady Waverly, yes. And Julia. And of course Helen Astley!
Hugh, with a nice sense of timing, said, “Miss Kennett? I fear you are weary from your delightful party. But, of course, if you feel up to it by tomorrow afternoon, we should be glad of your company.”
Poised on the brink of a punishing negative, Faustina quickly determined that would not do. “How good of you to ask me,” she said with an appearance of languidness. “I shall be delighted. If, of course, I feel up to it!”
Mystified, Julia said brightly, “I’ve never seen you look better, Faustina. Truly,” she added enthusiastically to Hugh, “my cousin has unbelievable energy and spirits. A small thing like last night’s party would not overcome her, I assure you.”
