by Mira Stables
They debated the question of their marriage both soberly and in frivolous mood during the week that followed. Apart from their morning rides neither Dominic nor Chantal left the island. For some reason they seemed to have no desire to seek distraction on the mainland. Aunt Celia was surely the most easy-going of chaperones and raised no objection when they disappeared for long hours at a stretch into a garden that offered a number of secluded corners where any argument could safely be brought to an amicable conclusion. And at the end of the week they were no nearer to reaching a decision about marriage plans than they had been at the beginning. Oliver, in a mood of levity, had even suggested a Gretna ceremony. Chantal shuddered, in a sickening surge of memory, and Dominic asked severely what good that would be. If the bride was under age her guardian could have such a marriage annulled if he so chose.
“And then, you know, she might not be able to bring me up to scratch again,” he pointed out blandly, seeing the stricken expression in Chantal’s eyes and anxious, by any means to dispel it.
In a sparsely furnished parlour in an isolated house many miles from Dorne, another man was considering and rejecting possible marriage plans. But in the case of the Honourable Giffard, his selected bride was more than unwilling, which added to his difficulties. He was stretched at ease on the shabby couch with a bottle of brandy on the table beside him to aid the processes of thought, but he was still far from comfortable. He had spent a long period of abject terror locked in the closet, in the belief that he had been left there to starve to death and remembering that, as he had taken care to tell his victim, there would be no one to hear his cries for help. Since Dominic had found considerable satisfaction in closing the eyes that had dared to gaze upon Chantal’s loveliness, it had been some time before he discovered the key. And since the mouth that had forced lascivious kisses on a defenceless girl had been smashed into something more nearly resembling a piece of raw steak than a human mouth, it was still longer before he was able to satisfy the gnawing ache of hunger with anything but liquids.
Stronger by far than the desire to possess himself of his cousin’s lands and fortune was now the craving for revenge. But rack his brains as he would he could not devise a scheme that would deliver Chantal into his hands without any risk of detection. The element of surprise would be lacking, and his two helpful minions were by now on the high seas. He hoped they were suffering all the miseries of sea sickness, poured himself more brandy, and winced as the raw spirit stung his sore mouth.
Perhaps it was the brandy. Certainly the glimmering of an idea came to him. He turned it about thoughtfully. It was not perfect, not all that he would wish, but it had certain compensations. If Chantal were to die – a possibility that he found he could contemplate with profound satisfaction – and to die unwed, it would be his father who would fall heir to her estate. Undoubtedly something could be made of that. The earl was ignorant of his ingenious son’s latest exploit, but he could not deny complicity in the earlier attempt to coerce his hapless ward into marriage. It should not be too difficult to bring pressure to bear on him. He should make over Chantal’s fortune to his younger son. It would make a comfortable portion. No need to trouble one’s head about sharing with brother Richard, either. Hilsborough would be quite sufficient for him. The more he thought of it, the lower the brandy sank in the bottle, the better he liked the scheme. Now, how to encompass his cousin’s death without being brought to book for it?
Once again he regretted the premature dismissal of Perkis, who would doubtless have undertaken the task for a sufficient fee. But a little consideration convinced him that this time he must do the job himself. To be employing an underling would lay him open to blackmail for the rest of his life, and he had no intention of squandering Chantal’s money in that wasteful fashion. He knew a good deal about blackmail, as both Rab and Perkis would have testified. There was no end to it.
He refilled his glass and turned his attention to more detailed planning. The method was soon decided. He was a good shot; and shooting could be carried out at long range and so allowed more time for escape than strangling or stabbing. It might even be attributed to accident, however suspicious one or two people might be. Since Perkis had reported fully on all that could be discovered about the daily life of Dorne, he already knew that Chantal and Dominic were accustomed to ride together each morning and usually without a groom. If he could conceal himself somewhere within range, that seemed to him the ideal opportunity. Merriden would be far too concerned with a dead or dying girl to set off in pursuit, even if he noticed the marksman’s stealthy withdrawal. Best wait another day or two until the signs of his recent punishment had faded, since he had no wish to draw attention to himself. Even the horse that he would need to make good his escape must be just a decent hack, though once he had achieved a reasonable distance from the scene of his crime it would be quite a different story. He began to amuse himself by inventing alibis. He had been in Edinburgh; in Glasgow; on the Berwick road. People were always vague about dates and times. You could persuade them to agree to anything, so your own statement was sufficiently convincing.
Chantal and Dominic rode out on that fair August morning in the happiest of moods. Dominic, having dutifully obeyed Aunt Celia’s behest to inform his mama – and, incidentally, his father, too – of his proposed nuptials, they had, by the previous day’s mail, received a letter so crammed with approval and pleasure that even the haughtiest bride might well have been satisfied. Chantal had been overwhelmed.
They talked happily of their plans, for the Marquess and his wife were to pay a short visit to the borders and would follow shortly upon the heels of the letter. Dominic thought that his father might be the best person to open negotiations with Lord Hilsborough, since he still did not trust himself to approach that peer with even a semblance of courtesy. They raced Pegeen against Rusty and then took them down to the water’s edge and frolicked through the shallows, a game which the horses seemed to enjoy as much as their riders, and were quite unaware of the watcher concealed among the low huddle of rocks.
It was not the first time that the Honourable Giffard had watched them, and he felt safe enough in the sad coloured jacket and breeches that he had adopted as most likely to blend with the scenery. But this morning the pair seemed to be possessed of the devil. Whenever they came within range of his place of concealment, Merriden was between him and the girl. Not that he would have had the least objection to taking a shot at the fellow, but his plans did not allow for a second shot. Escape, and not re-loading would be his aim, once he had been granted an uninterrupted sight of dear Cousin Chantal.
There they were, cantering away from him along the water’s edge. Annoyance mounted. This was already the third early morning visit that he had paid to the beach, and sooner or later someone was going to notice him and ask awkward questions. That group of low rocks to the north west would give him a better field of fire if he could reach them before the riders turned and saw him. But he would have to be very quick.
He began to run. Encumbered by the gun it was not so easy as he had thought. The riders had galloped gaily on firm-packed sand, but here it was loose stuff that dragged at his feet and slowed him down dangerously. He struggled on, gasping for breath. He must reach the shelter of the rocks before the riders turned and recognised him.
And then, suddenly, he could run no more. It was as though he had stepped into a soft sandy pit. It took him above the knees, and the more he struggled to free himself the deeper he sank. He tried, at first, to hold the gun above his head, fearful lest the clogging sand should get into the mechanism and so foil his purpose, but in a very few minutes fear for his own safety swamped every other consideration and he flung it from him. It landed on the rocks that had been his goal, but by some chance it did not go off. Had it done so, it might have saved his life, for Dominic and Chantal, who were watching the fishing boats coming into the bay, would have heard the shot. As it was, by the time they turned the horses it was already too late. He w
as engulfed to his shoulders and there was nothing that anyone could do.
Dominic hurried Chantal away. In one swift glance he had recognised the latest victim of the quicksands, even though the features were contorted by terror. He hoped that Chantal had not. Whatever the fellow had done, this was a shocking end, and one that a man would scarcely wish on his worst enemy. He hoped the girl need never know exactly how her cousin had met his fate. He said only that someone was in trouble in the quicksand and that he must go to bring help. She was to go back to Dorne and await him there.
This time she did not protest about his arbitrary dealings. She went quietly, soberly. Instinct, rather than actual recognition, had told her who the man was. None of the local people would ever have ventured in that dangerous vicinity. And she had distinctly seen a gun lying on the rocks. It might have been a fowler after wild duck, though it was early in the season for that, and, surely, the wrong time of day. She wondered if the man had been after larger game. She climbed slowly up to the turret room at the very top of the castle and watched from afar the activities of the men with planks and ladders laid on the quaking surface of the sand. As she had guessed, it was too late. Presently the attempts were abandoned. The would-be rescuers gathered in a knot on the foreshore. Someone gestured in the direction of the rocks – she was told later that these could be approached by sea as the tide rose – and then they slowly dispersed.
It was some time before Dominic came home. She saw him from her look-out point and came down to the castle beach to greet him. He shook his head gravely.
“Too late to be of help. Once one is in deep, it is very quick.”
She hesitated only briefly. Then she said quietly, “Cousin Giffard?”
So she had seen. As well, perhaps. The men had told him that there was no hope of recovering the body, not without putting further lives at risk. Someone had brought the gun in, too, and Dominic could think of only one reason why a man should walk on a lonely beach with a gun loaded with ball. That discovery had effectually effaced any pity he might have felt for the dead man, though he still hoped that Chantal might be spared the knowledge of her cousin’s intent.
She was silent for a moment or two. Then she looked at him, clear-eyed.
“I cannot grieve. Nor will I pretend to. But he is gone and can do us no further harm. Can we spare his father the full knowledge of his villainy? That gun, for instance. Can it be identified at his?”
So she had guessed the whole – or at least come pretty near the truth.
“Yes,” he admitted. “It had his initials carved on the stock. But I took the precaution of unloading it before I handed it over to the bailie. Also of telling him that the victim was known to me. I trust that we may be able to pass the business off as accident – which, indeed, it was. It will be assumed that he was wild fowling. A bit early for it, but after all one may shoot gulls at any season.”
She nodded and left him to tell Oliver of the morning’s events. She did not again refer to the matter but she was very quiet all day. Dominic coaxed her out into the garden after dinner and presently, his arm about her shoulders, asked gently what was troubling her.
“Not the business of your cousin, is it? I promise you that we shall brush through that without any difficulty. There will be no scandal to distress his relatives or to cast a slur upon your father’s name.”
“In a way that is the trouble,” she admitted, her tone unusually subdued. “I have been thinking. The same blood runs in my veins. Villain or not, we are both Delaneys. And I am well aware that I was much criticised by sober persons for my wild ways. How if that bad blood were to come out in me?”
His voice, in the darkness, sounded a little amused. “My dear girl! Don’t you think you are being a little fanciful? It is not so close a relationship. One of your grandfathers and one of your cousin’s were brothers. That is all. His wickedness may well have come to him from the maternal side, or as Oliver said, he may be a throw-back to some distant ancestor, though for my part I would suggest that much of it derives from being thoroughly spoilt as a child, so that he could not endure to be thwarted.”
She sounded a little happier as she said shyly, “So you do not think there is any danger that our children may inherit evil tendencies? That you ought, perhaps, to consider again before you marry me.”
She was perfectly serious about it, but he could not help laughing a little though his smile was very tender as he said, “What! And disappoint Mama when she is so happy over the result of her innocent scheming to throw us together? She knew from the outset, she declares, that we were meant for each other. And Oliver – who says he never credited me with such good sense and who is insisting that we spend our winters at Merriden with him because you expressed a liking for the place. You would not have me upset all these happy plans by announcing that I had changed my mind and decided that after all you would not do! As for our children – they are quite as likely to inherit a fair share of deviltry from the Merriden side. Neither Oliver nor I were precisely angels! As for thinking again” – he put a masterful hand under her chin and tilted her face to his. He kissed her gently, thoughtfully, and against her lips he murmured, “I can think only of making you wholly mine just as soon as it can be done. Shall we be married here? You love the place, I know. Or would you prefer the chapel at Merriden? It shall be just as you wish. But soon, my darling, I beg of you. For I shall not really believe my good fortune until we have exchanged the vows that will make us one till the end of time.”
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