Relief flooded Deirdre. “Then Armand was never your accomplice,” she cried.
“Not knowingly, of course. He was only a dupe. But oh Deirdre,” Cavanaugh went on with a slight shake of his head, “you were a complication I never counted on. D’you know, my dear, every time I set the stage for something to happen between your brother and Rathbourne, there you were, pouring oil on troubled waters. It really was too bad in you. Forgive me, my dear, I had hoped that there might be a different ending to our story. But with Rathbourne gone, you wouldn’t have turned to me. You confirmed that not half an hour ago.”
Rathbourne made a slight movement, and the pistol was jerked up to cover him. “Easy,” said Tony softly. “D’you know, I am rather enjoying this, old boy? For once in our long and unhappy association, I am the one who is calling the shots. How does it feel? Don’t bother to answer. I can see from your face that you relish it as little as I did all those years.”
Sudden comprehension blinded Deirdre. “You want Gareth dead and you intend Armand to take the blame for it! It was you who set them against each other!”
“Oh, I don’t take all the credit. They both cooperated admirably. You were the only fly in the ointment, as I’ve already explained. Really, it would have been so much simpler if there had been a duel. Armand would have blown your brains out, Gareth. Do you know that? His marksmanship is faultless. Ah well, it was not to be. Luckily, I walked in on a scenario today that I would never have been able to contrive in a hundred years. D’you know, when I searched Armand out tonight, I could scarcely take in what he told me? Honestly, I couldn’t have managed it better myself. You must see that I could not let this opportunity go to waste. It was sheer bad luck on my part that you eluded me in the courtyard. That bullet was meant for your heart. Still, things have worked out rather well. Armand is already the prime suspect.”
Deirdre would have given anything to feel the weight of her loaded pistol in her hand. Worse than anything was the calm complacency of the man who was intent on snuffing out their lives as if they had been a couple of cockroaches. In that instant, fear was superseded by a wave of anger and she knew she could not allow it.
Her mind feverishly did a quick assessment of their situation. There was only one charge in the pistol. He would use it on Rathbourne, she was sure, and with him out of the way, she would be no match for Tony’s superior strength. He would kill Rathbourne. Armand would be accused of the murder and very probably hang for it. Her own life was forfeit, as well as that of her unborn babe. Four lives would be sacrificed to the insane ambitions and greed of one madman. Perhaps two of those lives might be saved if she could draw his fire to herself. Her eyes traveled the chamber searching for some means of evening the odds. Her gaze came to rest on Rathbourne. As if he could read her mind, his eyes blazed. Deirdre felt as if he had reached out to scald her.
Tony’s voice, soft as down, interrupted her thoughts. “Shall we take a walk on the ramparts? It’s rather close in here. And Gareth, don’t try anything, or Deirdre gets it first. Ah, I see you left the door open. Thank you. That is very convenient. Did you expect O’Toole to come dashing through it? I thought as much. Well, he won’t. I took care of him when you entered the tower. When he comes round, he’ll make an excellent witness against Armand. I like to leave everything tidy, as you see. After you, Gareth.”
Rathbourne hesitated for only a moment. “I don’t suppose that there is any point in asking you to let Deirdre go? It will be your word against hers, and everyone will think she is merely trying to shield St. Jean. Think about it, for God’s sake, man. She can’t hurt you.”
“Good try, cousin, but it won’t serve. It’s possible that the child Deirdre is carrying is your heir. Then I would be in no better case than I am at present. Good God, when I heard from Armand that she was pregnant, you can imagine how I felt. And you know,” he said to Deirdre in a tone that held a suggestion of disappointment, “I did give you a chance earlier, but you turned me down. I’m very fond of you—no, really.”
Rathbourne looked as if he might argue the point, but when the gun was raised to Deirdre’s head, he took a swift step that took him onto the battlements.
Tony propelled Deirdre toward the open door. When she crossed the threshold, she stumbled and fell to one knee. She was ruthlessly yanked to her feet and in that moment she swung round and thrust desperately upward at the hand which held the pistol. A shot rang out, and Deirdre screamed. Before the smoke had cleared, Rathbourne had lunged for his cousin. The two men fell heavily against the pediment, and the spent pistol went rattling harmlessly along the rampart walk into the Stygian darkness.
Deirdre watched in heart-stopping terror as the indistinguishable forms swayed perilously close to the edge of the battlements and the long drop down to the bailey, each frantically searching for a weakness to exploit. Rathbourne’s long fingers closed around his adversary’s throat. Cavanaugh gagged, but before the Earl could tighten his murderous grip, his cousin’s fist came up and lashed with unerring accuracy at the wound on Rathbourne’s arm. Deirdre heard her husband’s sharp intake of breath. His grip slackened and Tony pressed his advantage. He surged against Rathbourne in a desperate attempt to fling him backward through a gap in the ramparts. Rathbourne’s fingers curled and clung tenaciously to the stone pediment, but it was evident to Deirdre that in his weakened condition, he could not hold on for long.
“Deirdre, save yourself! Get away from here—now!” he choked out between labored gasps of breath. The fingers of one hand were ruthlessly prised open and he slipped farther over the edge of the wall.
Deirdre picked up her skirts and went racing through the tower door. In a moment, she was back, and in her hand she held the lantern. Blinding fear for Rathbourne’s safety made her heedless of all danger. She threw herself on the back of the man she had so unwisely trusted, and brought the lantern down with every ounce of her strength. The glass shattered and a stream of hot oil drenched both Deirdre and Cavanaugh.
In that instant, he twisted sharply and swung at her with a vicious blow of his fist, sending her hurtling along the opposite wall of the ramparts. She tried to raise herself, then sank to her knees in a haze of pain.
Cavanaugh recognized his jeopardy, but it was too late. There was a flash and a wall of flame engulfed him from head to toe, even as his frenzied fingers worked to wrench off his oil-soaked garments. In a matter of seconds, he blazed like one of the pitch torches which lit up the bailey far below. Deirdre saw Rathbourne drag himself to safety, and her shoulders heaved with the wracking sobs of mingled pain and relief.
A bloodcurdling scream rent the air, and the writhing man, in a maddened panic, flung himself along the battlements to the far flight of stairs which led to the courtyard. Voices below raised an alarm, and men pointed at the horrendous spectacle silhouetted against the dark skyline. The flaming figure became more frenzied and paused irresolutely at the head of the stone stairs, then began a reckless descent, but in his haste, he stumbled. Deirdre watched, horrified as he poised for a split second in midair, then went hurtling into space, his demented scream of protest suddenly cut off far below as he hit the ground. She turned her head into the parapet and wept.
Chapter Twenty-Seven
The door to Rathbourne’s study was thrown open with an ear-splitting clatter, and the Earl raised his besotted head from his desk and groaned his displeasure. One eye opened wearily as he heard the muffled treads on the rug as they crossed the room to the window, and in the next instant the heavy damask curtains were thrown wide to allow a blinding glare to penetrate to his bleary gaze.
“Beecham! What the devil do you think you’re about? Close those curtains at once, d’you hear?” Then on a more plaintive note, “Can’t a man be allowed to drown his sorrows in peace?”
The firm tread of the butler approached his lordship’s desk. “I beg your pardon, my lord,” intoned Beecham with exaggerated gravity. “Had I known you were here, I should not have intruded.” He sniffed a
nd bent to retrieve the two empty brandy bottles that were rolling at Rathbourne’s feet.
The Earl decided that that was one lie it was wiser to let pass. “Since you’re here, you may send John to me with another bottle,” he said, striving to keep the slur from his speech.
“John, your lordship?” queried the butler.
Rathbourne frowned. Was the man drunk or something? “You heard me, Beecham—John, the first footman.”
Beecham raised his eyes to the ceiling, a gesture which was lost on the Earl since his head was again cradled in his arms. “The first footman’s name is Jeremiah,” said Beecham reasonably.
The Earl’s head lifted and his bloodshot eyes regarded the stoic butler in mild perplexity. “What d’you mean the first footman’s name is Jeremiah? The first footman’s name in Belmont has always been John, just as the second footman’s name has always been James, and the third footman’s name, Charles. It’s been like that for generations.”
“Nevertheless, my lord, the first footman’s name is Jeremiah, the second footman’s name is Obadiah, and the third footman’s name is Bartholomew.”
The Earl’s shoulders straightened and he bent a sinister look from under black, slanting brows at his impassive butler. “Oh?” he said with deceptive mildness, “and whose idea was it, may I ask, to permit the footmen to revert to their given names?” He could smell insurrection here, and he meant to put a stop to it before the infection spread.
“It was her ladyship’s doing, your lordship. She thought that the custom at Belmont of naming the footmen and maids for convenience was…barbaric.”
“To which ladyship are we referring, Beecham?”
“To Miss Deirdre, sir.”
The Earl’s brows elevated at this familiarity. “Miss Deirdre?” he queried in arctic accents.
“Yes sir. She asked me to address her as such to distinguish her from the other Lady Rathbourne, your mother.”
Rathbourne’s lips thinned. “And do you tell me, Beecham, that ‘Miss Deirdre,’” he emphasized, “addresses the respective footmen as Jeremiah, Obadiah, and Bartholomew? Good God, what a mouthful!”
The butler’s lips were as thin as the Earl’s. “Oh, no, my lord. She calls Jeremiah, Jerry, Obadiah is Obi, and—”
“Don’t tell me,” interrupted the Earl with a devilish smile, “Bartholomew is Bart.”
“Quite so, sir.”
“And what handle, pray, does Miss Deirdre give to you?”
“Me, sir?”
“Yes, sir. You, sir.”
The corners of Beecham’s lips turned up. “She calls me ‘Cecy,’ sir.”
“Cecy?”
“Yes, sir.”
“And your name is…?”
“Cecil.”
“I see.” The Earl studied the erect figure of his butler for a long moment. “Beecham,” he said softly, and very deliberately, “send John to me with a bottle as soon as may be, and let us hear no more of this nonsense. Do you take my meaning?”
“Certainly, sir,” said Beecham with well-bred stoicism, and silently left the room.
The Earl leaned back in his chair and closed his eyes. Damn if the battle lines weren’t being drawn up already—his mother, his sister, and now his servants! This was Deirdre’s doing! How dare she calmly pack up her bits and pieces and take her leave of him when he was the injured party! How dare she look at him from the carriage window with those reproachful eyes of hers as if he were the one who should beg pardon! And to leave him alone, to fend off the barbs of three incensed women—well, that was the worst infamy of all! She knew, oh yes, she knew that he hadn’t wanted her to go! She was doing this to punish him. Well, she would catch cold at that, if that was her little game! He laughed, but even to his own ears, the sound had a hollow ring to it.
“Gareth!” said Mr. Guy Landron from the threshold. “So this is where you’ve been hiding yourself! God, you look awful! Did you sleep in those clothes?”
“No. I had my valet put them through the mangle ’cause I rather like the casual look!”
“Don’t cut up at me, old chap,” said Mr. Landron with perfect affability. “I’m not the one who deserted the sinking ship.”
The Earl leaned one disconsolate elbow on his desk, chin in hand. “Guy,” he said musingly, “d’you know that I call my valet ‘Edward’?”
“I believe so. Why?”
“All my valets have been called ‘Edward.’ Even my batmen in Spain were called ‘Edward.’”
“What a coincidence.”
“No, not really. The thing is, I always call them ‘Edward’ irregardless of the names they were christened with.”
“You do? Whatever for?”
“Because,” said Rathbourne reasonably, “it’s so much easier to remember their names that way.”
“Oh, I’m sure.”
“It’s been a family tradition for generations.”
“How odd!”
“D’you think it’s wrong?”
Mr. Landron suppressed a smile. “Let me put it this way. How many valets have you had?”
“Oodles! They never stay for more than a sixmonth or so.”
“I wonder why?”
The Earl caught the gleam of laughter in his friend’s eye and he said pettishly, “Oh I might have known that you would take her part. Everybody does.”
Mr. Landron said nothing, but he turned away to hide a broad smile. A lackey entered and approached the Earl with a fresh bottle of brandy on a silver tray.
Rathbourne noted that the tray was spotty and a frown gathered across his brow. “Well, put it down, man! I suppose I shall have to resign myself to…oh, never mind, just put it down.”
The first footman did as he was bid and waited patiently for his dismissal. Rathbourne eyed him speculatively. “Thank you…Jeremiah?” The lackey nodded, and smiled his pleasure. “Thank you, Jeremiah, that will be all.”
Mr. Landron looked to be surprised. When the footman had made his exit, he observed, “I thought his name was John.”
“Oh, never mind, it’s a long story. What day is it?”
“This is Thursday, a week to the day since Deirdre left.”
“I’m perfectly well aware of how long it has been since my wife deserted me,” said Rathbourne frigidly.
“Six days since the departure of Mrs. Dewinters,” went on Landron as though the Earl had not spoken, “and two days since the departure of your dear mama to visit her sister in Bath. I wonder who next will desert you?”
“Are you thinking of leaving my employ, Guy?” asked Rathbourne, his suspicions roused.
“Certainly not,” disclaimed Mr. Landron, “though I must admit, since Deirdre’s departure, it’s no pleasure being in Belmont—back to cold baths, inedible dinners, candles that drip and smoke atrociously. If one didn’t know better, one would think that the servants had it in for you, Gareth. I suggest that you stop playing the fool and go fetch her back.”
“Fetch her back? After all that she has done to me? You must be mad!”
“What has she done to you?”
Rathbourne rose and swayed slightly on his feet. “What has she done to me? She damn near killed me, that’s what!”
“I don’t believe it!”
“No, because you weren’t there. I tell you she pulled a pistol on me, and threatened to blow a hole in me.”
“She never would! If you don’t know that, you don’t know her at all.”
“Oh, that’s easy enough for you to say! You didn’t come under that cool, detached scrutiny, as though she were measuring me for a shroud. There wasn’t a tremor in her hand as she pointed that pistol at my heart.”
“Gareth, this is ridiculous. The girl saved your life! You forget that I came onto the ramparts just as she broke that lantern over Tony Cavanaugh’s back. It’s a miracle she didn’t set herself on fire as well.”
“Did I ask her to save my life? I did not! I told her to leave, but of course, she wouldn’t listen!”
“Gareth, that’s not fair! Deirdre wasn’t to know that I was keeping watch over you. When I heard that shot, I tell you, I thought I was too late. And this gammy leg of mine, well, I nearly was too late, wasn’t I?”
“No! It was Deirdre who forced Cavanaugh’s hand. I had no choice but to go for him then. Why can’t she do as she is told?”
Landron’s brows knit together. “Honestly, Gareth, I’m disgusted with you. You sound just like Deirdre’s brother! The two of you don’t know how fortunate you are to have won the love of such a woman. I wouldn’t mind being in your shoes.”
A sneer distorted the Earl’s handsome features. “Oh, it’s St. Jean she really loves. I come a poor second best.” It came to him then, that the two bottles of brandy he had consumed during a long night of dissipation had loosened his tongue.
Landron made a gesture of impatience. “I warned you from the very beginning how it was with Deirdre and her brother. She is used to being a mother to him. He doesn’t like it any better than you do. What she needs is a houseful of her own brats to mother. Well,” continued Landron, flashing the Earl a speculative look, “she’ll have at least one babe to look after.”
“She’ll have a damn sight more than that!” snapped Rathbourne.
A smile lit up Landron’s thin face. “Now you’re making sense.”
The Earl stared at his companion’s smiling face for a long, thoughtful moment, then he silently shook his head. He took a few unsteady paces toward the open door, stopped suddenly, and retraced his steps until he was eye to eye with Landron.
“I can forgive her everything,” he said on an aggrieved note, “except the episode with the pistol. And it’s no good saying that she wouldn’t have pulled the trigger. We’ll never know that for sure, will we? I shall never forgive her for that—never!”
He weaved toward the door. His hand closed around the lintel to steady himself and he turned back and said with exaggerated dignity, “Not unless she particularly asks me to.”
His eyes traveled to the windows and the bright sunlight that was streaming through. He noted dourly that Beecham had forgotten to close the curtains. He compressed his lips tightly together and said stiffly, and rather inconsequentially to Mr. Landron’s ears, “Jeremiah, Obadiah, and Bartholomew be damned!”
The Passionate Prude Page 42