From the marked difference in their ages, and the intimate way in which they were conversing as they rode, this unostentatious pair would appear to be father and son. The older man was around sixty years of age, close to his own father’s age. He had a smiling, paternal air. The younger man, however, who looked to be a few years shy of thirty, did not resemble the elder in any particular except dress.
Studying the younger man with a frown, Rollo thought his face was familiar. He knew that aristocratic chin, the wide eyes and strong brow. There was something about the way he held himself too, a certain careless arrogance which spoke of money and impeccable breeding and probably a first-rate education too. And yet Rollo was equally sure that he had never laid eyes on that young man in his life.
It was a puzzle.
At that moment, the older man reined in under a broad-trunked oak, head raised, staring across at them. He spoke sharply to his companion, and both horsemen halted on the green, their horses standing shoulder to shoulder as they watched the carriage pass.
The air was misty in the park, for the weak sun had not yet burnt off the chill of the morning. The younger man’s mount moved restlessly, attempting to tear a mouthful of grass for himself, and was reined back by an iron hand.
A rather more competent rider than himself, Rollo thought wryly, admiring the young man’s straight-backed seat, the rakish tilt of his hat. His own bad leg prohibited anything more sophisticated on horseback than a dogged determination not to be thrown, for the jolting pain of the horse’s gait was in general too great to allow any pace beyond a sedate walk.
The elder man surveyed the Farraway coat of arms painted in red and gold on the door panel, then lifted his gaze to the carriage window. But if Rollo had expected some kind of greeting, he was to be disappointed. For neither of the men made any gesture towards the carriage, as would ordinarily happen between chance-met acquaintances in the park: no tipping of their tall hats, no nod or smile of acknowledgement, not even a friendly wave of the hand.
In the carriage, Lord Farraway too sat as though turned to stone, his face and body rigid, staring icily ahead. Rollo’s stepmother, clearly puzzled and perhaps a little frightened, held her peace for once, not even daring to glance out of the window at the two gentlemen on horseback.
They would all seem to be strangers.
Yet Rollo was convinced that both parties knew each other well, and that an unspoken message had passed between them as the carriage passed.
A message of implacable hate.
CHAPTER FIVE
SOPHIA
It was a little over one week before Christmastide, a season which they had never celebrated with much emphasis in Jamaica.
But Sophia’s mother had insisted that now they were in England, they would emulate the royal fashion of celebrating the Christmas holiday with lavish extravagance. ‘We shall enjoy a peaceful Christmas at home, exactly as they do in the royal household, with an indoor tree decorated in the German style and small tokens given to the deserving poor in Christ’s name.’ Then she had smiled and patted her daughter’s hand. ‘And gifts for ourselves, of course.’
To this end, the servants had heaved a large pine tree in an ornate red pot into the withdrawing room yesterday, which was one of the more spacious rooms in the house, where it now stood for all to admire. Placed near the tall French windows, it had been prettily decorated with tiny candles, red and green ribbons, and twists of gold paper that glinted and caught the light in every draught. The scent of fresh pine branches was sweetly fragrant, especially when the fire was burning high, and indeed the tree was a delight to gaze upon in the evenings, so tall and magnificent, all decked with candles. Several kitchen servants had been found gawping at the tree from the doorway since its arrival yesterday, and sent back below stairs.
For now though, the house stood quiet.
Sophia was lying down on the high-backed silk sofa in her father’s library, reading a book. She ought to have been sitting with her mother after supper, admiring the Christmas tree by firelight, but she had made an excuse and slipped away. Now she was not sure why, for there was not much else to do in this house but sit and eat, or sit and talk, or sit and embroider. Nor did her surroundings provide much inspiration to a restless mind like her own. The London house felt cramped after their mansion in Jamaica, the house where she had been brought up, its expansive, high-ceilinged rooms designed to keep the air cooler in the full heat of summer. Outside had been the sugar plantation, vast acres of sugar-cane stretching under blue unclouded skies almost to the horizon, palm trees dotting the perfectly manicured lawns between themselves and the slave quarters. She even missed the constant far-off din of labour at the sugar mill, thick white trails of smoke wafting out to sea from the boiling house.
By contrast, her bedchamber here in London was prettily decorated but narrow, its view unyielding, only a tiny square of garden, and beyond that, a dirty mews where the stables stood, then the back wall of someone else’s house.
The words in her book began to blur. She was growing tired and bored. Again, she tried to read, but the sense of what she was reading escaped her. Some poem about a mountain. She had never been a fan of this new style of poetry, anyway. Too many flourishes, too many unanswered questions, not enough substance. There seemed no attempt to stamp order on chaos, which was surely the raison d'être of true poetry.
Giving up at last, she closed the book and lay her head on the silken cushion at the end of the sofa. It was not quite long enough to contain her feet, though a substantial piece of furniture, so she pulled in her knees and hugged them, hoping to rest for half an hour. It was growing late, and soon she would be missed. But not yet, not yet …
Some time later, she drifted out of sleep, brought back to consciousness by the unexpected sound of deep male voices in the hall. Her father, speaking quietly to another man who only replied in monosyllables, so that it was make out to detect his identity.
The library door opened.
Startled by the sudden intrusion, Sophia shifted position and her book fell to the floor.
Frozen, she held her breath.
But the creak of the door closing must have masked the thud of the book, for the two men entering the library did not stop to remark upon it. To her relief, the sofa’s back was towards the door and away from her father’s desk, so with any luck she would not be discovered.
She hesitated though, a little embarrassed. Should she speak, make herself known to them?
The room was colder now, for the fire had burnt low. The hour felt to be around midnight, perhaps. A strange hour for her to be lying on the sofa, and her neck felt stiff and cold. Her maid Carmella must be quite amazed that she had not yet returned to her chamber to be undressed for bed. In truth, she ought to stand up and announce herself at once. But something in her father’s tone made her curious to listen a little longer.
‘Will you sit?’
Her father’s voice was chilly, but not hostile. He had omitted the word ‘sir’ which told Sophia that this was no gentleman he was addressing.
A servant, then? But why would her father request a servant to sit in his presence?
‘Thank you.’ The sound of someone sitting. The creak of an armchair. ‘I was pleased to receive your summons, sir. I trust you had a pleasant voyage back from the West Indies?’
Yes, yes,’ her father said impatiently, and she heard the scrape of a chair leg as he too sat. Probably behind his desk. ‘But I did not bring you here tonight to discuss such trivialities.’
‘I do not doubt it.’ There was a short silence. ‘So what can I do for you, Sir Tobias? It is a matter of some delicacy, as I understand it from your note. A personal matter.’
A matter of some delicacy. A personal matter.
Intrigued, Sophia lay still and listened. She could hardly announce herself now, for the impropriety would annoy her father. Besides, she was curious about this late night visitor and wished to hear more about this delicate personal matter t
hat had brought him here.
‘There is a young man, the Honourable Rollo Farraway, whose father is not only an inveterate gambler, but unlucky at cards. The boy is a cripple, I have heard, but likely to live and due to marry this week. His bride is the only daughter of Lord Lewis, a lady of excellent birth and means. This union will save his father from the embarrassment of heavy debt.’ Her father’s voice dropped so low she had to strain to hear his next words. ‘It is imperative that this marriage does not go ahead.’
The other man was calm. ‘The bride?’
‘I am not an ogre.’
‘The cripple, then. But how?’
‘Nothing underhand. Nothing that would indicate a plot against his life. Perhaps an accident … ?’
‘Too easy to disprove, sir, if you will forgive me.’
Her father hesitated. She heard a quiet tapping. He was playing with some ornament on his desk. Perhaps his letter seal. ‘Then what do you suggest? It must be in the next few days.’
‘Farraway can walk?’
‘He walks with a cane, I am told, but it is not always required. He has a bad hip that makes him limp.’
‘He could answer an open challenge, then. I suggest a duel, in a matter of honour.’
‘Go on.’
‘I know an Italian gentleman who is skilled at this kind of work. He will find some reason to issue a bogus challenge, one the young man cannot refuse without looking like a coward. On the morning of the duel, the Italian will shoot before his opponent is ready.’
‘Impossible!’
‘I tell you, sir, my man is an expert. He will take a second with him to make all appear above board. Then he will shoot early and drop his target sure as we stand here. Afterwards, both men will walk away before a magistrate can be called.’
‘He would be arrested within a day, nonetheless, and our scheme exposed. An Italian gentlemen in London is too easily discovered by the Runners.’
‘Not so, I assure you. For my man and his second will clear out their lodgings within the hour and make for the coast. By the time he is at Dover, he will be sporting a beard or an eyeglass or red hair.’
‘A disguise, by God!’
‘Just so. There will be no arrest, Sir Tobias, and indeed my man will never be permitted to learn his hirer’s name, so there can be nothing to link you to this. A clean kill, a clean escape. And your end achieved with a word and a bag of coins.’
Sophia found herself breathing shallow. She lay perfectly still now for fear she would be discovered.
Her beloved father, always so kind and jovial. Why, he was little better than a murderer. But who was this young man? And why did her father hate his family so much that he would ruin their fortunes and leave them without a son at the same moment?
Her skin crept with cold as she waited for her father’s reply.
It came soon enough.
‘It seems a scheme more fraught with difficulties than a simple carriage accident. Yet there is a certain elegance … ’ Her father slammed a hand down on his desk, startling Sophia. ‘Yes, very well. I am satisfied that it can work. Let this Italian issue his challenge and fire early. But instruct him most clearly. He must aim for the heart and make sure of the young man’s death. There can be no mishap.’
‘It shall be exactly as you desire, sir.’
‘Excellent.’
‘And the other matter?’
Her father sounded puzzled. ‘I do not follow.’
‘You mentioned the Mary Louisa in your note. I assumed you wished to discuss my progress with that situation, sir?’
Sophia frowned.
The Mary Louisa was the name of an English ship which called frequently at the main port in Jamaica, bringing the plantation owners fresh slaves from West African shores, then carrying away a full cargo of sugar and rum when it sailed home again, the hold packed with vast hogshead barrels bound for England.
‘Yes.’ Her father sounded angry now, his voice tight. ‘I could not believe that the captain passed that fine back to us. Allowing himself to be caught with so many slaves on board was pure incompetence. Does the man not understand this new English law prohibiting trade in human flesh?’
‘He understands it well enough, sir. But his belief is that since the plantation owners are the ones who sent him to acquire new slaves, those prospective owners must bear the brunt of any fines when slaves are found illegally aboard his vessel.’
‘Wrong! Quite wrong! Those fines must be paid by the captain, not us.’ Her father paused. She heard the sound of wine being poured. ‘Will you take a drink?’
‘I thank you, no. I shall need to leave soon, sir, so that I may contact my Italian friend tonight.’
Her father drank. ‘Can you get word to the master of the Mary Louisa for me?’
‘If he is still in port, sir, yes.’
‘Then you will write and tell him that I shall not pay any further undue fines incurred because of his negligence. For healthy young slaves, yes. I agree to bear that cost. But if the captain fears to be boarded by an inspection crew, then he must remove any less valuable slaves from his ship before they can be counted towards his fine.’
There was an awkward silence. ‘Remove the slaves, sir? You mean, whilst at sea?’
‘If you must have it plainly, then yes,’ her father told him. ‘Inform the slavers that, if they are in danger of being inspected, I shall only pay the fine for those slaves whose value makes them useful to my business. The slavers must throw any sick or elderly overboard, and any children under five whose bed and board will cost us dear before they are deemed old enough to serve on the plantation.’
‘But sir, the numbers involved … There might be several hundred such slaves aboard each ship. And we need to remember what happened last time.’
‘No one was charged with murder,’ he dismissed the man sharply. ‘Besides, I cannot help it if these slavers wilfully choose to transport poor, low value goods. Such slaves have little worth to me or to any other owner in Jamaica. Better to let those without value drown than risk a heavy fine for having hundreds of the bastards aboard the vessel illegally.’
The other man’s voice revealed no emotion. ‘I shall communicate your wishes to the captain.’
‘Only make sure you write your message discreetly,’ her father added. ‘These English abolitionists would kick up merry hell if they got wind of such a scheme. They are fools and liberal thinkers. They do not know the world as we do, and blindly account a slave as equivalent to a white man. Perish the thought!’
Her father concluded his business, and showed the man out.
Left alone in the library, Sophia struggled against a tide of nausea. She closed her eyes. Her nails dug into the silken cushions of the sofa, and it was all she could do not to leap up and run after them, screaming.
This was her own father ordering the wholesale murder of innocent men, women and even little children in order to avoid paying a fine. Bidding the slaver that any unwanted specimens among his human cargo should be tipped off the Mary Louisa like packets of unwanted tea, spread upon the waters only to sink slowly into oblivion.
She would never be able to look at her father in the same way again, loving him with the naivety of a child, not knowing the cruelties hidden in his heart. Never, never, never.
And what of this lame young man, the one he wished dead for no better reason than to thwart his wedding to a wealthy bride?
Pushing herself up from the sofa, Sophia stiffened her spine and stood upright. Her dinner gown was creased and she smoothed it out, letting the pale green folds fall down, covering her ankles again. She looked at herself in the mirror over the fire, seeing how pale she looked, how wide her eyes had become …
There might be little she could do to prevent the murder of innocent slaves many thousands of miles away at sea, though it hurt her to admit that. But this young man must have his residence in London. She had heard the man say he would contact his Italian friend tonight.
Also, his
murder must take place within the next few days, before the young man’s wedding could be celebrated. Where else could he be living than within the city somewhere?
Murder. What an appalling word that was.
No, Sophia told herself coldly, it was no murder that her father and his accomplice had been planning. That was too commonplace.
It was an assassination.
She would stop this young man’s assassin before he could carry out his task. She did not know how, but if she thought long and hard enough, and pulled the plot apart in her head, an idea would come to her.
It surely must. For there was no other choice if she was to avert this terrible deed.
CHAPTER SIX
ROLLO
Rollo stepped carefully out of his gentlemen’s club in the early hours of the morning, took his hat and cane from the doorman there, and raised his face to the cool dark air.
Was it going to rain tonight?
He ought to send a link-boy to summon a hackney carriage. But his head was thick after the stuffy atmosphere of the card room, and his bad leg felt strong enough for a brief walk at least.
The club was only a short distance from the discreet house where his current mistress had her residence, though it was some weeks since he had last visited her. A dancer of dubious origins, Letticia shared her favours with him and several other gentlemen, any of whom might be with her tonight. But it was a Tuesday, and that had traditionally been his night to visit her luxurious bed. Perhaps if he were to knock and enquire …
But in a few days’ time, he was to stand before the altar in St. George’s Church and shackle himself to another woman for the rest of his life.
So what? Most married gentlemen of his acquaintance kept a mistress in town, perhaps even visiting brothels from time to time, as well as a wife whose innocent ears were never sullied with such unsavoury facts. It would be no shame either to him or his bride-to-be if he tupped the odd hussy, or even kept a mistress for his own use when in town.
Nonetheless, Rollo found his unsteady steps slowing as he approached the house of his mistress, staring up at the brash red brocade curtains at her bedroom window and wondering if he would not be more comfortable returning home tonight? Caroline would be none the wiser if he paid Letticia a visit tonight, nor would she take him to task over it even if she did. It was a gentleman’s right, damn it, to sow his wild oats and enjoy the company of females of the night.
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