by Mary Brendan
Deborah swallowed, trying to combat the nausea she felt at the woman’s vile talk.
‘Chadwicke might have been somebody in Suffolk, but if he thinks he can take over here he’s wrong,’ Susanna hissed. ‘We’ll finish him—Trelawney too, if necessary. My husband rules the roost here, and always will.’
‘Gerard? What has he to do with any of it?’ Deborah blurted in alarm. She glanced again at the gun on the floor. For some time she’d been taking furtive peeks at it. Since Susanna’s true identity had been revealed the woman had seemed too distracted to recall a weapon was on the loose.
‘Gerard?’ Susanna hooted. ‘That fool might think we’re legally wed, but the authorities will see it differently if they discover Ned Swinton is still alive and conducting his business from France. I’m a bigamist for practical reasons, you see. I’d been looking for someone just like Gerard to marry…a respected pillar of the community living in the right area.’ She smiled smugly. ‘Gerard is the sort of fellow who is liked and trusted by the local militia. They confide in him about their tactics and movements. With a little persuasion Gerard lets slip that intelligence and I pass it on to Ned. I always could twist the lapdog about my finger. He’s easy to manipulate…if you know what I mean.’ A small, ribald chuckle emphasised her point. ‘He’s a randy fellow for a clergyman. But I’d sooner tease out of Chadwicke what I need to know. That wouldn’t be a chore at all.’ She smiled at the mix of repulsion and puzzlement creasing Deborah’s brow. ‘Ned and I have no time for possessiveness. Ned would have liked to tumble you on the ground.’ She shrugged her shoulders to indicate her indifference. ‘I know he has his flings with the mademoiselles. Ned doesn’t mind the methods I use as long as he benefits from them. Why would he be jealous? He knows he’s the only one in my heart and always will be.’
Despite feeling overwhelmed by what she’d learned, a tiny part of Deborah’s mind retained some clarity. She knew she had to push aside the shocking news and concentrate on getting to the pistol on the floor. If she were to get close enough to snatch up the weapon, she must make Susanna move away from where it lay against the wainscot.
‘Ned will be killed tonight,’ Deborah taunted her, moving stealthily closer to the gun. ‘Randolph will kill Ned. You might think your husband a clever fellow, but I know Randolph will outwit him. He’s got a plan of his own to put into action. He knows very well Ned and his cronies are going to try to ambush him.’
‘Shut up,’ Susanna snarled through her teeth. ‘If Chadwicke escapes Ned, I’ll be waiting when he comes back for you.’ She grabbed the hilt of the gun beneath her coat. ‘I’ll kill him or die in the doing of it. There’s nothing for me if Ned perishes.’
‘Perhaps Ned might get away and save his own skin. Perhaps he might bolt back to France and his mademoiselles and let you swing for him for this night’s work. People are already getting suspicious about your sick brother. Investigations are underway about you, Susanna. You’re about to be exposed as a fraud,’ Deborah provoked her. It seemed she had touched a raw nerve.
‘I said shut up,’ Susanna screamed and lunged at Deborah to shove her in the chest.
At the same moment Mrs Pinner screeched out because the Frenchman had attempted to force her down into a chair so he might tie her to it. Susanna cursed and sped to the kitchen doorway to see what had caused the commotion.
The interruption gave Deborah exactly the diversion for which she’d been praying. Racing to the gun, she snatched it up and silently crept up behind Susanna.
She jabbed the gun into the woman’s back. ‘Don’t think I won’t use it,’ she said in a voice so quiet and firm that she barely recognised it as her own. ‘I’m a viscount’s daughter and since I turned ten have known how to bag a flying grouse. I certainly won’t miss you.’ She barely paused before continuing calmly, ‘I swear if you do not drop that gun in your waistband on to the floor I will shoot you in the back and devil take it if I swing with Randolph. I don’t care to live without the man I love any more than you do.’
She sensed Susanna stiffen with regret. The woman was bitterly rueing her oversight in having left the weapon abandoned on the floor. But Susanna was frightened enough of having a hole in her back to gabble in French to Pierre to put down his weapon on the table. He did so, baring his teeth in a snarl.
‘Tell Pierre to undo Fred Cook. Tell him!’ Deborah blasted close to Susanna’s ear and jabbed at her back with the barrel of the gun.
Susanna gave the Frenchman the order in a voice replete with frustration.
As soon as Fred was free, Deborah ordered him to move the Frenchman’s weapons out of his reach and untie Mr Pinner. Mick was now a little recovered from his ordeal and levered himself up in a quite sprightly way. With deliberately rough thoroughness he searched Pierre’s pockets for more weapons. He gave a grunt of triumph as he extracted another gun and a blade. With much menacing gesticulation he forced the Frenchman down in the chair he’d vacated and tied him tightly to it.
Pierre threw a look of pure loathing at Susanna. Deborah read in his face his disgust; a woman he’d had to obey had made such a fundamental error that lucky amateurs had them captive.
Fred stared at his mistress with mute adoration for a long moment. ‘Well done, miss,’ he breathed, his eyes dancing with awe. ‘Shall I go and fetch help?’
‘No need,’ drawled a soft, vibrant voice from behind. ‘Although I have to say you don’t seem to require my assistance, sweetheart.’
Deborah pivoted about and, at the sight of Randolph striding down the hall, her head tilted back and her eyelids drooped in sheer thankfulness. With no further word he relieved her of the gun that now was quivering violently in her hand and drew her tightly against his strength to calm her. The gun was kept levelled on Susanna whilst a low whistle was ejected between his teeth. A moment later the small hallway seemed filled with redcoats clattering past and into the kitchen, but she was aware that Randolph’s clasp had loosened. A moment later he stepped away again to shout something into the darkness to Ross.
Deborah sank back against the wall, suddenly shivering uncontrollably. She felt light-headed with shock and her clammy palms clung to the plaster to hold her up. She sensed the candles dimming and strove desperately to hold on to her consciousness. She couldn’t faint! Not now! There were far too many questions she had to ask! She tried to call to Randolph, but no sound issued from her throat. She put out a hand to him and instinctively he turned and she saw his expression change: tenderness and fear were burning in his eyes as he dashed back to catch her. As she felt her knees crumple and her lashes fluttered closed, she was obliquely aware that a dragoon had marched past with Susanna and Randolph had lifted her in his arms.
* * *
‘Gerard’s not a broken man, thank heavens,’ Harriet said with feeling. ‘Naturally he is utterly mortified and bewildered,’ she added on a sigh. ‘He bemoans continually that he allowed himself to be so easily duped. It’s shaken his confidence, for he’s always believed himself a good judge of character.’
‘Your brother should not be too harsh on himself,’ Deborah said gently. ‘Susanna has been exposed as a wicked woman and a practised deceiver.’ Deborah angled her head to try to catch Harriet’s eye and give her an encouraging smile. Her friend seemed lost in thought as she slowly stirred her tea.
Deborah put down her teacup and gazed out in to the garden. The trees were shedding the last of their golden garments. A gusting wind was whipping brittle leaves up from the terrace flags to flick against the windows. Soon it would be winter, she realised. Yuletide would be upon them—a time for celebration with good friends. Yet she knew her future would by then be determined and she might not be happy enough to want to socialise with anyone at all.
Three days had passed since Ross Trelawney had delivered her home to her frantic mother. For the majority of the journey Deborah had been supine on a seat, dead to the world. But she had regained consciousness before reaching Woodville Place.
En ro
ute, Fred, bless him, had crouched by her side, chafing solicitously at her hands, as the viscount’s carriage jolted along the Hastings road. Eventually her servant’s ministrations had had the required effect: Deborah had opened her eyes and blinked at a pair of dusty Hessians stretched out in her line of vision. As the night’s extraordinary events had shot back in to her mind she’d thrown off the rug covering her and struggled upright. Immediately she’d launched garbled questions at Ross, lounging in the opposite corner, the most persistent of which was regarding Randolph’s whereabouts.
Before satisfying her curiosity, Ross was determined to have from her an assurance that she was feeling properly recovered so he might relay it to Randolph and save himself an ear bashing. Having convinced him that she was in fine fettle, apart from a headache, she’d finally managed to extract some information from him in the last minutes of the journey.
Ross had told her that Randolph was well enough, but had suffered a minor scratch in the successful battle against Ned and his gang. Instantly Deborah had felt panic rise in her chest. When Randolph had stormed the hallway at the Lodge her desperate relief at seeing him had blinded her to the fact his robust appearance might only be superficial. She’d felt guilty she’d not immediately checked him over rather than swooning like a fool.
She had demanded Ross tell her exactly what he classed as a minor scratch. Ross had proceeded to roll back a sleeve, then had bared his other forearm. Having judiciously examined a variety of criss-crossing blemishes, he finally pointed to a scar that, in his opinion, was of about the size and severity as the one Randolph would eventually have on his ribs as a reminder of his heroics. No more questions had been possible, and Deborah had realised Ross had intended they run out of time for full and frank explanations of the night’s shocking events. The carriage had reached the top of the avenue leading to a circle of shingle before Woodville Place’s portals. Even before Mick Pinner could bring the coach to a proper halt, Julia Woodville, with Basham bobbing in her wake, had come flying down the stone steps, tearfully demanding an explanation for her daughter’s dreadfully long absence.
Ross had not stayed. Following hasty introductions he’d set off again almost at once, having used an excuse to escape that would ensure an unimpeded departure. In fact, Deborah had prodded him to go without delay when he’d said he ought to make sure a doctor had been found to stitch Randolph’s wound.
Once inside the house, Julia had calmed herself enough to comprehend nothing other than mental and physical exhaustion ailed her daughter. She had then drawn Deborah into the parlour, her interrogation becoming more probing and insistent.
Knowing an explanation must be given if ever they were to get to their beds, Deborah had proceeded to sketch her part in the night’s excitement whilst hoping not to induce an attack in her anxious mother. The brandy decanter had been brought, and two shots quickly despatched by Julia. Deborah had sipped more slowly at her drink, but she’d felt pleasantly warmed by it. Mrs Woodville had praised Fred as a treasure and Basham had been commanded to find Lottie to fetch hot water and unguents to soothe the gash on their driver’s head. Mrs Field, too, was roused from her slumbers and ordered to prepare Fred anything from the kitchen that he felt up to consuming.
But now several days had passed and the shocking truth of what had occurred that night had travelled far beyond the Woodville household. All of Sussex—it was rumoured the thrilling tale had already travelled as far as London—knew of the Machiavellian plot played out in their midst.
That afternoon Harriet had come to visit Deborah for the first time since the extraordinary news broke and naturally their conversation had immediately turned to Susanna’s treachery.
‘Thank goodness my brother’s marriage is not valid,’ Harriet said. ‘I never did like Susanna, or trust her, and felt at times uncharitable because of it.’
‘Your prejudice has been well and truly vindicated,’ Deborah wryly replied. ‘I hope Gerard will find somebody else in time.’
‘I think he is too wounded to contemplate marrying again.’ Harriet’s tone was melancholy.
‘He must not become a cynic because of the likes of Susanna,’ Deborah said with some asperity. ‘The evil witch doesn’t deserve to weaken a good man such as Gerard.’
‘Gerard doesn’t think he is good. He is racked with guilt that perhaps a private conversation with a woman he thought was his wife might have lead to Lieutenant Barrow being badly injured.’
‘It is not shameful to trust one’s spouse.’
‘I know…but Gerard thinks he ought to have acted more cautiously.’
‘When love and passion take hold,’ Deborah mused huskily, ‘caution often flies out of the window.’
‘That came from the heart, Debbie.’ Harriet gave her friend a penetrating look. ‘You were incredibly brave to have gone alone to warn Mr Chadwicke that night. And you outwitted Susanna, too, and held her at gunpoint,’ Harriet added with frank awe. ‘You put your life at risk in a way that was most definitely incautious.’
‘Foolhardy is more apt a description for what I did,’ Deborah said on a hoarse chuckle. ‘I feel very guilty that I might have made matters much worse by my impetuous meddling.’
‘But you did not,’ Harriet reminded her. ‘And now you are quite the heroine. And Mr Chadwicke is, of course, the hero. You make a perfect match.’ Harriet leaned forwards and, taking one of Deborah’s hands, gave it a squeeze. ‘You might have been apart for many years, but I could tell there was a bond of emotion between you from the moment I saw you together in Hastings.’ She gave a smile. ‘With that in mind I think a perfect match would be a wonderfully fitting end to the drama.’
Wistfully, and with a poignant ache squeezing her heart, Deborah inwardly acknowledged there was nothing she wanted more. But she was preparing to make light of Harriet’s insightful comment when a tap at the door interrupted her.
‘A gentleman to see you, m’m.’ Lottie bobbed up and down on the threshold.
Deborah’s heart leapt to her throat. She had been longing for, yet dreading, Randolph’s arrival. She owed him at the very least her humble apologies. In the heat of the moment, she’d said dreadful things. Yet her knowledge about his past was still incomplete. There were a host of questions that buzzed in her mind from morning ‘til night and to which she desperately needed answers.
‘Who is it, Lottie?’ Deborah finally forced out.
‘Viscount Stratton,’ Lottie said with a rather saucy smile that betrayed the maid deemed the visitor attractive.
Deborah felt a twinge of disappointment, although she knew she would like to see Ross. She owed him her humble thanks for all his assistance. Not only had he gallantly escorted her home; the following morning, bright and early, Mick Pinner had turned up driving a newly repaired trap. The vehicle had been pulled by Bessie, watered and fed, and looking none the worse for wear.
‘Perhaps he has brought news of Mr Chadwicke’s recovery,’ Harriet whispered. ‘I will be off now in any case,’ she rushed on. ‘I have to go to the drapery for a few odds and ends…’ Her words tailed off as Ross entered the room and she gazed, entranced, at the dark-haired gentleman fortunate enough to possess the mien of a buccaneer in a gothic romance. A few minutes later, and before Harriet quit the parlour, her cheeks were glowing pink with pleasure from being dazzled by Ross’s good looks and easy charm.
Ruefully Deborah realised that her friend was already regretting her tactful offer to take her leave.
Chapter Eighteen
‘I believe I owe you my apology, sir.’ A mottling of colour flared in the fair complexion of the gentleman who had just made the stilted announcement.
‘I believe you do,’ Randolph silkily concurred as he rose from his seat in the magistrate’s office to confront the dragoon who had just entered.
On noticing Randolph’s fists curling at his side, Mr Savidge burst out, ‘Perhaps some refreshment, gentlemen?’ He rose to hover above his chair and reach the brass bell on the edge
of his desk. A clerk appeared, having been summoned by its clatter, and withdrew again with an order to bring a bottle of port and three glasses.
‘I tried to track you down at the Woolpack, but to no avail.’ Paul Stewart stiffly explained why he’d interrupted official business between Randolph and the magistrate. ‘I am returning to Yorkshire within the hour and was determined to speak privately to you before I started the journey.’ Despite his bitterness Paul was determined to do his duty. He knew he was fortunate to still have a military career and a position in Yorkshire to take up. His superior officer would expect, and no doubt check to find out, that he had abased himself sufficiently to atone for his serious breach of conduct.
‘I have a matter to discuss with the bishop,’ Mr Savidge offered diplomatically, if rather reluctantly. He would dearly have loved to stay and hear what went on between these two gentlemen who, it was alleged, had clashed because of Miss Woodville.
The door had been closed barely a minute before Paul Stewart sprawled on the floor, clutching his bruised chin.
‘I was going to say I regretted telling Miss Woodville you were a vicious lout no better than the Luckhursts,’ the captain snarled, ‘but it seems I was right about you after all.’
‘I don’t give a damn what you think about me,’ Randolph bit out, ‘but I do care that you put Miss Woodville’s life in danger for no more reason than to try to discredit me. You deserve far more than that as punishment for what you did.’
Paul dragged himself to his feet with the help of Savidge’s desk. His eyes blazed at Randolph. ‘How was I to know she’d be so foolhardy? I should have been informed of what was going on,’ he snapped. ‘Had I been a party to the scheme and had understood your involvement.’
‘We would have suffered a serious defeat,’ Randolph finished mordantly. ‘It was precisely because of the risk from people like you that the operation was kept strictly confidential. Still you managed to meddle and almost destroy many months’ work and put in jeopardy several lives.’
