Rogue's Charade

by Kruger, Mary

  “I don’t ask you to believe me, but—”

  “But I do.”

  Simon leaned back, his relief complete. It had been a risk to tell his story, but worth it. “Thank you.”

  “However, I think you are completely wrong in your ideas about Lord Stanton. Completely wrong. He is a good man. There are many around here, and not just his tenants, who owe him a great deal. Not that he sees it that way. He does what he feels he has to do, what is right to do. And honest as the day he was born.”

  “Well, whoever conceived this plan, if there was a plan, isn’t honest. Devious is a better word.” Simon stiffened as the old man went still. “You’ve thought of something, haven’t you?”

  “In your story, you said you had reason to believe the viscount knew Mr. Miller. Why did you say that?”

  Simon frowned. “Actually, the connection is through the viscountess.”

  “Ah. That explains much.”

  “What?”

  “I did not understand why the viscount would go to a money lender. But, her...” His voice was scornful. “That surprises me not at all.”

  Simon leaned forward. “Why not?”

  “She gambles, my son. Excessively. It is a sickness with her, I fear. She is here now, at the Hall, but only because the viscount cut off her allowance. Else she’d still be in London. Even here, though, she manages to go through prodigious sums.”

  “How do you know this?”

  “Lord Stanton and I have discussed it a number of times. It is quite a problem to him, as you can imagine.”

  “Yes.” Simon frowned. He had learned a great deal from Tulley, and yet not enough. The rest of the answer was elsewhere. At Moulton Hall.

  “Thank you, sir, for your time,” Simon said, rising. “I must be on my way.”

  “Glad I am to see you again.” Tulley rested his hand on Simon’s shoulder. “Be careful, my son.”

  “I will be, Reverend.”

  Outside, Simon mounted his horse and set off for Dover, his head reeling. He had family. He should have a title. And, perhaps someone at Moulton Hall wished him out of the way. He would have to be very careful, indeed.

  At the crossroads Simon pulled to the right, to make way for a rider coming fast along the coast road, in the same direction as he. He wasn’t in such a hurry, not with all he had to think about and decide. He nodded absently at the other rider as he galloped past, intent on his own musings. Did he go to Moulton Hall to confront the viscount, or should he choose subtler means?

  “You, there!” a voice called, sharp and clear, and he looked up, startled, to see that the other rider had stopped. He was abreast the road, blocking the way, and with the sun at his back was an indistinct figure. But there was something familiar about him, about the set of his shoulders, about the way he sat his horse. “Hold up.”

  Simon pulled to the side again, but not because of this man’s order. “Why?”

  “Ah.” It was a satisfied puff of sound. “As I thought. Simon Woodley, as I live and breathe.”

  Bloody hell! To be recognized when safety was so near. Simon’s horse shied, reflecting his sudden tension. “You must have me confused with someone else.”

  “Oh, no. I’d know your face anywhere.”

  The man rode back toward him. Simon turned his horse, and with the sun no longer in his eyes, he could see the man’s face. Bloody hell! he thought again. It was Quentin Heywood.

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Blythe looked across the morning room at Honoria, sitting straight-backed and composed, as if this were an ordinary social call. Her eyes were alert, interested; her mouth curved in a little smile. Blythe relaxed. Surely this woman couldn’t be involved in the events that had complicated Simon’s life. “How did you know?” she asked.

  Honoria laughed, a brilliant trill of sound. “Oh, my dear, I am not stupid. Although your disguise is clever. I might almost have believed it, if...”

  “If?”

  “If Quentin hadn’t recognized you the last time you were here.”

  Blythe froze. “Quentin? I don’t understand.”

  “Quentin Heywood, my dear. You know quite well who I mean. And a merry chase you’ve led him.” She laughed again. “I was quite, quite angry at first, but he was so upset over his clothes being ruined—it was all quite delicious.”

  This was madness, Blythe thought. “Then you do know him?”

  “Know him?” Honoria reached for a sweetmeat from the silver dish on the table near her. “Would you like a comfit? No? They’re quite tasty.” She took a bite, closed her eyes, savored it. “Mm. Yes, you might say I know Quentin. He was my lover.”

  “Good heavens!”

  “Oh, my dear, don’t look so shocked! It is a common enough occurrence. And Quentin suited me well.”

  “It’s true, then,” Blythe said slowly, trying to fit it all together. “Mr. Heywood arranged for Simon to be found with Miller’s body. And you had a connection with Miller.”

  “Very good! You’re very bright, my dear. But you’re not quite there yet. Do go on.”

  “I can’t,” Blythe said. “I know that Mr. Heywood has been chasing Simon, and I know he’s connected with you, but...” She licked lips gone suddenly dry. “Did you have something to do with Miller’s death?”

  Honoria reached for another sweetmeat. “Not something, my dear. Everything.”

  “Good heavens!” Blythe stared at her, this attractive, yet ordinary, woman, calmly confessing to evil. A few moments ago she had dismissed her suspicions of the viscountess; now they were being confirmed. Masks, she thought. Everyone wore a mask. Which could work to her advantage. She was an actress, was she not? The only problem was, there was no script for her role. She would have to be very, very careful.

  Honoria was eyeing her coolly. “You don’t appear very shocked,” she commented.

  “I don’t believe I am,” Blythe said, finding her role. Of course she was shocked. Somehow, though, it was imperative to hide it. “Now that you say it, I see the clues were there. What I don’t understand,” she leaned back, trying to match the other woman’s poise, “is why. And how.”

  Honoria laughed. “The how is simple. I used the proper tool.”

  “The knife?”

  “Really, my dear, do I look that foolish? No. Quentin, of course. He was quite besotted with me at the time, although...” Her face darkened. “But that is all by the by. Quentin arranged everything. He learned everything he could about your actor friend, set an appointment with Miller, and then...” Her shrug was eloquent. “I believe you know what happened next. All Quentin’s doing, and if he dares say otherwise, why, he has no proof, has he?”

  But why? And why involve Simon? “Wasn’t it a complicated way to get rid of someone who had lent you money?”

  Honoria stared at her. “You don’t see it, do you?”

  “See what?”

  “One day, when I was first married, and my husband, the tedious man, insisted I stay here with him rather than go to London”—she made a face—“I decided to try reading a book to pass the time. And what did I find in it but the Honorable Geoffrey Vernon’s marriage lines.”

  “The Honorable—”

  “I destroyed them, of course, and for years didn’t think a thing about it. And then, at a play, I saw your actor fellow.”

  A chill went down Blythe’s spine. She knew. “Simon is his son.”

  “Exactly! I knew I wasn’t wrong about you. Very bright, indeed.”

  Strange woman, this, applauding Blythe’s reasoning, as if in pride. “But what has Simon ever done to you?”

  “It’s not what he’s done. ‘Tis what he could do. He could take all this”—she waved her hand about the room—“away from us. From me.” She glared at Blythe. “My father was a baronet, a weak man, he gambled everything he owned away. We lived hand to mouth, my mother and I, and all I had for a dowry was myself. I was lucky that Stanton married me. But he, the fool, would let your actor friend take it away.�
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  “Are you saying that Simon is legitimate?”

  “Of course he is. He should, by rights, be Viscount Stanton.”

  The last piece fell into place. “And you wanted to stop him.”

  Honoria inclined her head. “Very good.”

  Very good? A man had died; Simon had been wrongfully imprisoned; and her own life had been disrupted. Madness. To her own surprise, Blythe began to laugh. “Oh, my lady,” she gasped. “Oh, how wrong you are!”

  “Do you dare laugh at me?”

  “Simon didn’t know. Didn’t you realize that? He didn’t know. Oh, my.” She took a deep breath, let the laughter come again. Hysteria, she thought with detachment. Dangerous, and yet perhaps it was something she could use. “All that effort, all that danger, and he didn’t know!”

  “Stop it!” Honoria jumped to her feet, her hands balled into fists. “Stop that laughter at once!”

  “I’m sorry.” Blythe wiped her streaming eyes. “‘Tis just so funny. All that you did to prevent him finding out, and now he will.”

  “Oh?” Honoria, standing by the mantel, raised her chin. “And how will he?”

  “Really, my dear.” Blythe mimicked Honoria’s tones as she rose, shoulders back, head high, staying in character. “I shall tell him, of course.”

  Honoria calmly reached up and pulled down one of the swords that hung on the wall. “No. You won’t.”

  Blythe froze, staring at the sword. Danger, danger. Of course Honoria couldn’t let her go, she could see that now. But surely she wouldn’t harm Blythe, not here in her own home? “You won’t use that,” she said, surprised at her calmness.

  “But I will. I’m quite good, you know.” Honoria flashed the sword several times, enough for Blythe to realize that she did, indeed, know how to handle the weapon. “Really, my dear, did you think I’d let you go?”

  “You have to,” a masculine voice said, startling them both. Blythe looked over to see that a door she hadn’t previously noticed, presumably connecting to the next room, was open, and that a man stood there. The viscount. “Because I won’t let you go on with this any longer.”

  Simon’s first impulse was to dig his heels into his horse and set them both flying along the road. He didn’t. It would do no good. His horse was an old nag, while Quentin’s, though lathered, was obviously of good quality. There would be no escape. “Mr. Heywood, at last,” he said coolly, marshaling all his actor’s resources. They were all he had for defense.

  Quentin inclined his head. “Strange that we meet this way, after the past weeks.”

  “Strange, indeed.” Simon straightened. “What do you do now, Heywood? You’ve no soldiers behind you.”

  Quentin gazed at him consideringly. “Do not underestimate me, dear boy. Perhaps I carry a pistol. Perhaps I’ll use it and win acclaim for capturing an accused murderer.”

  “I’ll not give up easily.”

  “Or perhaps I shall go to Dover.” He glanced along the road. “Yes. I believe that is what I’ll do.”

  “And do you expect me to come with you?” Simon asked incredulously. “Just like that?”

  “You? No.” Quentin leaned on the pommel, watching Simon. “Your fate is no longer my concern.”

  Simon’s fingers bit into the reins, and his horse danced a bit in response. “I beg your pardon?”

  “I’m getting out. I bear you no ill will, you know,” he went on. “I have no personal grudge against you.”

  “Not personal? When you set me up to be accused of a murder I didn’t commit? When you have chased me across half England? It is very personal to me, sir.”

  “I suppose it is.” He pursed his lips, and then nodded. “Ah, well. It’s all by the by now.”

  Rage was building within Simon. “By the by?”

  “Oh, yes. Did you not understand me? I’m leaving.”

  “Leaving?”

  “Leaving the country.”

  “Why?”

  “Why?” His laugh was mirthless. “Because if you’re not retaken, I’ll be charged with the murder. And I’ve grown rather fond of my neck.”

  “Who would charge you?” Simon demanded, determined to find the answers to the questions that plagued him. “Who?”

  “You don’t know yet? No, I can see that you don’t. Strange.” Quentin leaned back, smiling, and took up the reins. “If you will excuse me—”

  “Why is it strange?” Good God, the man wasn’t just going to ride away, was he?

  “I saw your companion, Miss Marden, at Moulton Hall.”

  “Oh. That.” Simon relaxed a bit. “I know.”

  “Do you? Oh, no, dear boy, I’m not speaking of yesterday, but of today.”

  “What!”

  “I had a bit of business in this part of the world, and I rode past the Hall,” he mused, glancing away over the Channel. “I could swear ‘twas Miss Marden in an old cart with—who would the old man be?”

  “Bloody hell.” Simon bit off the words. “I thought she was safe in Dover—”

  “Well, she isn’t, dear boy. Not that it matters to me.” Quentin turned his horse. “Au revoir,” he said, and began galloping again, toward Dover.

  “Bloody hell! Wait!” Simon yelled, standing up in the stirrups. Chasing the man would be futile, just as trying to escape would have been. But this was bizarre. He had encountered his enemy—one of his enemies—and yet still he was free.

  Frowning, he glared at the dust kicked up by Quentin’s horse, and then glanced along the road, where Quentin had indicated Moulton Hall was located. It had to be a trap. Did they really think, after dodging all of Quentin’s attempts to capture him, that he would ride tamely up to Moulton Hall and let himself be taken? The answers were there, though, he thought, turning his horse. The answers, and Blythe, and that one fact made him uneasy. Because if the viscountess were behind all the events that had changed his life, Blythe might be in danger.

  “Bloody hell,” he muttered, and slapped the reins. Risk of capture or none, he was going to Moulton Hall.

  Tension and silence hung heavy in the morning room at Moulton Hall. The three people within stood transfixed, in tableau. Then Honoria laughed, breaking the spell. “You?” She looked contemptuously at her husband. “Are you going to stop me?”

  “If I have to I—” He stopped abruptly a few paces from the door, as Honoria brandished the sword, not at him, but at Blythe. “Honoria,” he said, quietly. “Put down the sword.”

  Her smile was almost sweet. “I don’t think so.”

  “I heard everything, you know.” He advanced another pace into the room. “I know what you did.

  Honoria tossed her hair. “But you won’t say a word, will you? Not if it means ruining the precious Stanton name.”

  “How little you know me.” He shook his head, looking past her to Blythe. “Go, while you can.”

  “Stay!” Honoria ordered immediately, brandishing the sword again.

  “Oh, for heaven’s sake,” Blythe muttered, sitting down abruptly and pulling off her gloves. “If we’re to have a fight, at least let’s make it a fair one.”

  Honoria glanced back at the mantel and then turned, smiling. “You wish to have the other sword?”

  Blythe had removed her shawl and hat and was reaching down to unfasten her shoes. “Actually, yes.”

  “Really, miss—who are you?” the viscount asked.

  “Blythe Marden. We met once before, my lord,” she said, reaching under her skirt to untie her garters and then rolling down her stockings. “Though I doubt you remember.” For she had been playing a role then, much as she was now. Or was she? The coolness, the confidence she felt weren’t completely feigned. She was fighting for all she had come to hold dear. She was fighting for Simon. “Shall we?”

  “What?” Honoria stared at her incredulously. “You really wish to duel?”

  Blythe rose. She would have liked to roll back her cuffs, but knew they wouldn’t stay; she didn’t need the distraction in the coming fight.
“Yes.”

  “Ridiculous!”

  “Are you afraid?” she asked, using the one taunt that might work.

  “Afraid? Of you? Certainly not.” Honoria tossed her hair again, and then reached up to pull the other sword from the wall, throwing it hilt first across the room. Blythe caught it just before it fell to the floor. “I am classically trained.” Honoria held her sword above her head, with her skirts bunched in her hand. She was wearing high-heeled slippers, Blythe noted. Overconfidence, or a simple mistake? “Are you?”

  Blythe waved the sword experimentally, testing its weight and flexibility. Stiffer than she was used to, and heavier, but she would manage. She would have to. “No. But it doesn’t matter.” Gathering her skirts, she raised her sword and stared coolly at the viscountess. “En garde.”

  Simon galloped the last few feet of the drive to Moulton Hall, noting not at all the fine view, the verdant fields, the lush gardens. The portico, so carefully molded by the builder after one in Rome, was merely a convenient place for him to dismount. He cast an eye at the ramshackle farm cart standing near the shallow front stairs; something familiar about that. No groom ran to take his horse; no one appeared to challenge him. Even more oddly, the door was open. Simon began to walk in and then stopped, struck suddenly by the enormity of what he was doing, of what he had lost. This fine house could have been, should have been, his.

  Inside the hall was empty, but he could hear a murmuring of voices to his right, and the sound of metal on metal. Puzzled, expecting at any moment to be questioned, Simon walked toward the sound. He came up short when, after passing under an archway, he saw a collection of people, footmen and maids and the like, grouped around a doorway and gazing into the room. Again there was the sound of metal, and then a woman’s voice, imperious, commanding. Someone replied, a voice he knew very well. Bloody hell. “Blythe!”

  One of the men in the small knot of people, the butler by his dress, turned to look at him, frowning, and then took a second look. “My lord!” he exclaimed.

  “What is happening?” Simon asked tersely, as if he’d the right.