‘Taunton. My intuition tells me that is where I will find my bailiff.’
‘The taverns will be a good place to start. I wish you luck.’
As he rode off, Marcus thought long and hard about Fenton, and tried to imagine how his mind worked. He had not become his father’s bailiff by chance. Quick wits and tact had formed a large part of his usefulness. How blind, how stupid he, Marcus, had been where Fenton was concerned. Why had he not listened to Elizabeth? Why had he not taken the time to see for himself how the estate was being run in his absence? Was it possible that Fenton was behind the raid at Saxton Court as an act of vengeance to get back at Catherine for chastising him when he had been about to flog a man? And how well had Fenton known Henry Barrington? Had Fenton been involved in The Rye House Plot?
All these questions plagued Marcus as he rode into Taunton. Just what had he stumbled upon? What unspeakably cruel quirk of fate had impelled his father to take Fenton into his employ? How cruelly ironic.
Inquiries in the taverns gave him the information that Fenton had been seen supping in the Castle Inn earlier. The taproom was crowded and smoky. Fenton was there, seated at a table in a corner. There was a stir among those present, men turning from their drinks. Fenton looked up and saw him. He rose slowly as his employer advanced towards his table.
Marcus’s features were grim as he fixed his eyes on his bailiff. All the subtle indications that an unusually unpleasant confrontation was evidently about to occur were there. Positioned at the same table, four of Fenton’s friends were sitting with rigidity, their faces watchful, alert, tense, as if they, too, sensed something seriously amiss in this unexpected and unprecedented appearance of Lord Reresby.
‘A word outside, if you please, Mr Fenton.’ Marcus turned and went out, confident that Fenton would follow. He didn’t have long to wait. Fenton sauntered out, his eyes hooded and wary in the orange glow seeping from the inn. Marcus studied him from his superior height with a cold and barely contained anger. ‘I arrived at Saxton Court tonight to discover you have been neglecting your duties.’
‘You find fault with the work I do for you, Lord Reresby?’ His stance was insolent, his look resentful.
‘Not with your work—although my wife would disagree with me.’ He narrowed his eyes. ‘In truth she has never liked you, Fenton, and in her opinion there are men of far better character who would do the job just as well.’
Fenton felt besieged. Reresby’s seeking him out wasn’t random. That bitch of a wife of his had orchestrated it. Unconsciously, his hand went to the hilt of his sword. ‘I have always been aware of Lady Reresby’s opinion of me, which disappoints me somewhat, since her father and I were—acquainted.’
‘So my wife informs me, but it makes no difference. In my absence I left my wife and the servants in my household in your protection. Where were you when Monmouth’s rebels came to call? Because you are of their persuasion, did you intentionally make yourself scarce for fear of being branded a traitor to their cause? Good God, man, my wife could have been assaulted and killed. What were you thinking of?’
Fenton shrugged, resentment creeping into his voice. ‘Lady Reresby did well enough without me. She managed to fend them off admirably—even wounding one, almost fatally, I hear.’
‘Damn you, Fenton, that is not the point. You make your living from Saxton Court. You are in a position of trust. Your responsibility is to me and mine, not your own selfishness.’
Fenton met the hard, dark eyes. Devoid of warmth, they probed him. Inwardly he seethed, his fury rising. ‘When I came to Saxton Court I swore no allegiance to your father or his kin. I have done what I was paid to do and have done it well. Your father had no complaints.’
‘That remains to be seen. My father, God rest his soul, was too fond and too forgiving. He did not see you for what you are.’ Marcus studied the older man closely. He had noted how Fenton’s hand had moved to the hilt of his sword, how he fondled it, suggesting both a familiarity with the weapon and a liking for it.
‘I think I have your measure now, Fenton. I know of your close association with John Trenchard, and I have concluded that you ingratiated yourself to my father and secured the position of bailiff at Saxton Court for your own means. You came to the western counties for one purpose and one purpose only—to support a rebellion. Joining forces with Trenchard, you have drawn a large contingent of men into Monmouth’s faction. But no matter how many men you recruit, you cannot hold out against King James.’
‘You think not?’ Fenton replied, making no attempt to deny the accusations. ‘Monmouth’s army does not lack courage, and is sending a hornet of fear amongst those who oppose him. There has been wholesale flight of the militia, some leaving their old officers and joining this new company. Monmouth is confident he will succeed.’
‘He’s a little premature in his confidence. What hope is there? Monmouth’s treasure chest is empty. Aye, some of his men are equipped with swords and guns, but his raw recruits have nothing but the tools of their trade—pitchforks, scythes, hatchets and knives. Pray God for Monmouth’s sake they know how to use them if put to the test. Food is in short supply. Your resistance is weak. The King’s forces are united and will advance and break it as surely as he has broken all defiance in London and is bound to defeat Argyll’s rebellion in the north. So what now, Fenton? What will you do? Do you fail to support the rebellion after all, and, like Trenchard, is it your intention to vacate these shores for a safer place?’
Fenton’s eyes flashed. ‘What I do is for my conscience to decide.’
‘Is it your conscience, Fenton, or is that you lack the courage for a fight? There is another matter I wish to raise with you. My wife claims that you abuse your position, that you take it upon yourself to act as judge, jury and executioner should any man transgress—poachers seem to be a speciality of yours—and yes, she has told me about that disgraceful episode when she came upon you in the woods. That sort of behaviour cannot be tolerated. Your actions have crossed the line of acceptability. What have you to say? I have no doubt your version will vary from hers, but I would like to hear it all the same.’
‘Do you always believe what your wife tells you, Lord Reresby?’ Fenton sneered.
Marcus’s anger could no longer be held in check, and his words issued forth like lashes from a whip. ‘Do you challenge the accuracy of my wife’s account? At a time when the whole of the western counties are filled with strife, you flog a man for poaching! How many others have there been? I wonder.’
Fenton smiled with ironic amusement. ‘I see nothing wrong with my methods in keeping order. I admit it. I’ve flogged poachers and thieves on more than one occasion, and you’ve commended my ability to keep things running smoothly in your absence.’
‘Had I been familiar with your methods, Mr Fenton, I would have flogged you myself.’
‘I’ll see you in hell first.’ Fenton’s eyes were cold and unemotional, and his expression was contemptuous.
Marcus thrust his face close. ‘That you will, Fenton. That you will. I know what you are—and among your other crimes I suspect you were behind the assault on my home and my wife. By your own actions you leave me with no choice but to relieve you of your position as my bailiff. I no longer have any use for you. I have terminated it on the grounds of moral inaptitude. You are at liberty to leave at once. I don’t give a damn where you go, so long as I never see you in the vicinity of Saxton Court again.’
‘The pleasure will be all mine.’ Fenton’s tone was sarcastic. More than caution now, more than anger, he felt hatred. It was in his heart and on his face. He knew Reresby could see it and he didn’t care. ‘My work in the western counties is done anyway. But there is one thing you should know before I go. While you have been hellbent on destroying the rebels, your wife has been carrying on an intrigue with one of them, right here in Taunton.’
Marcus fixed him with a fierce gaze. What he said distracted him. The words Fenton now spoke were loud, clear and horrifying. He
answered him without thinking, his habitual self-possession deserting him. ‘You’re lying.’
Fenton favoured Marcus with a mocking grin. ‘Lying, am I? I think not, and your wife can hardly accuse me of lying. Stapleton is with Monmouth—Harry Stapleton. I saw him and your wife together with my own eyes—still familiar, they are—extremely so. ’Tis obvious the flame still burns between them. Why don’t you go home and ask her? I knew Henry Barrington, your wife’s father, well, but I did not like him. The man was spineless—a coward, who nearly did for us both. We were of the same persuasion, but I despised him. I hold no loyalty to his daughter.’
‘Clearly.’
‘I understand the fair Catherine and Harry were to wed—until you came along.’
For the briefest moment Marcus did not react as he attempted to control his emotions, then a red rage, clouding his vision, seized him. ‘Shut your mouth. You overstep yourself.’
Fenton smiled, a sneering expression that twisted his features. ‘Since I have been banished from your employ, I can speak my mind. Now your rival has reappeared on the scene, your wife may be finding her cold, empty bed somewhat lonely. Perhaps she can coax him into a little flirtation.’ He gave a harsh, vindictive laugh. ‘Following her lack of subtlety when she was at The Hague with Stapleton whilst married to you, her reputation is not spotless. It is, in fact, very much befouled, which is probably the reason you avoid her chamber on a night.’
Marcus’s face had taken on a grey tinge. Even his eyes, strangely emptied of expression, seemed to have lost their colour. ‘What did you say? You insolent dog,’ he said through gritted teeth.
‘Why, it is common talk among the servants that you seem to fill such a negligible part of her life.’
‘You will do well to govern your tongue, Fenton,’ Marcus hissed, trying to control his raging ire. ‘I will not hear my wife so maliciously maligned.’
‘You are strangely fastidious concerning a woman who is more than generous with her favours.’
Marcus’s look was deadly. ‘You are impertinent. Your duties at Saxton Court did not require you to interfere in my relationship with my wife. What interests me now is just how well you knew Barrington?’ he said, changing tack, yet determined to attend to Catherine’s infidelity later. ‘Friendly enough to have been involved with him in that malicious plot to murder King Charles and his brother?’
‘Why do you want to know—so that you can pursue the charge of treason—as you do your father’s murderer?’ Noting how Marcus’s face stiffened, an indication that his barb had hit its mark, Fenton let his smile broaden, but smiles were not becoming to that sallow face. ‘The Rye House Plot is in the past now, Reresby, and the vultures have found some other man’s liver to tear out and chew.’
‘Aye, Monmouth’s—who was also party to that particular plot. Where my father is concerned, I do still pursue his murderer, and I shall continue to do so until I find the man responsible.’
In the gloom, Fenton’s eyes glittered with malice. ‘And when you do?’
‘I shall make it my business to see him hanged.’ Marcus’s fists clenched in a visible effort not to drive them into Fenton’s arrogant face. ‘A word of advice, Fenton. Go now before I give way to my inclinations. Put as much distance between yourself and Saxton Court as you possibly can. If I ever see you on my estate again or even smell the sour scent of you, I’ll hunt you down like the filth you are and leave your carcase to rot.’
‘You haven’t heard the last of me,’ Fenton said in calm, measured tones. ‘Nobody does this to me and gets away with it. I’d advise you to watch your rear, Lord Reresby, because one of these days you too may find a slither of cold steel between your ribs.’
Fenton turned abruptly. Instead of returning to his friends inside the tavern, he disappeared into the dark.
What Fenton had divulged had destroyed any pleasure Marcus might have had in the forthcoming night. It seemed to him that all the malice surrounding Fenton had been concentrated in that one pair of eyes. Fenton! The thought of the man nagged at him increasingly as he mounted his horse. He should have known that Fenton was a man to be reckoned with. The man hated him, and that hatred had reached out to strike him like a physical blow. Also his parting words troubled him—that he too might feel the slither of cold steel between his ribs. To whom had he referred? His father?
All at once the issues connected. Turning his head, he looked back in the direction Fenton had taken. He was beginning to feel the creeping onset of something sinister in all this, the onset of a deep suspicion that Fenton might have been connected with his father’s murder. There was undoubtedly a dreadful truth at the base of it all.
Marcus was overcome by the turmoil of his feelings, made up of a combination of relief and at the same time a kind of horror, mingled with surprise that he might have employed and just been talking to the man who had murdered his father and let him go. Frustrated that this might indeed be so, he allowed his rage to recede and a calmness to envelop him. Turning his horse, instead of heading for Saxton Court, he rode instead to his sister’s house. When he arrived Roger received him in the hall.
‘Marcus! What can I do for you at this late hour?’ he said, strolling into the salon to pour them both a drink.
‘I apologise for disturbing you, Roger—and please don’t disturb Elizabeth, it is you I’ve come to see,’ Marcus said, giving him a brief account of what he was doing in Somerset. ‘I understand that you are to leave for London shortly.’
‘The day after tomorrow. It is high time we paid my mother a visit—and what with all this upheaval, I shall feel better when Elizabeth and the children are removed from it. We shall return at some uncertain future date. Is there anything I might do for you?’
‘Aye, there is something you might consider doing for me, Roger.’
‘Yes?’ Roger asked, handing him a brandy. ‘Anything you request.’
‘Will you play the spy for me?’ Marcus said grimly. ‘Investigator, if you like.’
‘Spy?’ Roger echoed, surprise on his face. Of all the requests his brother-in-law might have made, this was the least expected. ‘On whom?’
‘Fenton.’
‘Fenton? Good Lord, I am surprised! I thought he would have joined Monmouth by now.’ Roger’s expression became anxious. ‘Has something happened?’
‘I have banished him from Saxton Court. I was deceived—as was my father. The soul that animates Mr Fenton is a chilling quagmire of deceit and wickedness. Not until tonight did I discover how much. He said something that makes me suspect he may know something about Father’s murder and I want him watched.’
‘Are you certain of this?’
‘Not entirely. I need more proof. I need unassailable evidence, and that will be hard to attain without your help. Fenton was a close associate of Henry Barrington. Eventually I think he will join Trenchard abroad, but first I think he will make for London to liaise with his cronies there. I wish to know his whereabouts and his companions and what he was doing at the time of the murder. Should he go abroad without going to London, see what you can uncover anyway.’
‘And if he was the man who wielded the knife? What then?’
‘Unlike my dealings with Barrington, where Fenton is concerned I will do things differently. I want him to stand trial and will not cheat the hangman of his pleasure. But if his judges do not send him to his death, then I swear that I will kill him myself, if I die in the attempt.’
Roger swallowed a large draught of brandy, taking a moment to digest what Marcus had said. ‘So be it,’ he said at length. ‘Knowing how important it is to both you and Elizabeth that your father’s murderer is caught, I shall infiltrate Republican clubs and their meeting places where I can.’ He exhaled noisily. ‘Spy! Who would have thought it? I suppose it will enable me to find out many things, hear many secrets which may be of interest to you.’
‘I am obliged, Roger, but proceed with caution. If danger threatens, then step back. I would appreciate Elizabeth k
nowing nothing about any of this.’
‘No, I shan’t say a word—keep it to ourselves for now, eh?’
‘Write to me, Roger. That is all I ask of you.’
Roger nodded. ‘I will abide by your wishes.’
‘Thank you.’ His face now held a most unpleasant expression. Marcus knew that if the information Roger sent him was as he thought, then he would destroy Fenton, and it would be a day to avidly welcome.
Not until he was heading for Saxton Court did Marcus turn his thoughts to his wife. He was seething inside. He was furious with Catherine for going into Taunton when the town was full of rebels, and angry with himself for not being at home to exercise some control over her.
It came as no surprise to learn that Stapleton was with Monmouth, but that Catherine had liaised with him was not to be borne. If what Fenton had told him was true, then Catherine had played him for a fool. The barbs of jealousy were sharp and pricked him to a painful depth. He felt a rush of bitterness, a bitterness that increased as he realised how much he had come to care for her. No matter what she had done or might do, nothing would ever change that. Ironic indeed to know that he could care so deeply for a woman he had taken unwillingly for a wife.
For weeks he had anticipated not only the delights of her supple young body, but this time he had hoped to court her, to win her love. Even more than this, he had hoped to bring her to a complete understanding not only of himself, but of their lives together.
Catherine was in her room. Alice hovered. Marcus scarcely noticed when she left. His attention was all on his wife.
Self-consciously pulling her robe tighter about her narrow waist, Catherine shivered and wondered why Marcus did not speak. Why did he stand there motionless, his dark eyes narrowed as he studied her with unnerving intensity? His body was tense, the muscles in his neck corded, and, looking at him closely, she was appalled by the anger and naked pain she saw in his face. She searched his forbidding countenance for some sign that he cared for her. But there was none. She put out a hand nervously.
His Rebel Bride Page 16
