“Thank you.” Mauleverer took the cord with his left hand, then passed her the gun. “Your cousin has the gun now, Urban. I am going to tie you up. Do not delude yourself that I shall come between you and it.”
“God damn you both,” said Urban, but he stood still while Mauleverer tied his hands and then allowed himself to be drawn backward into one of the big wooden armchairs that stood on each side of the hall.
“There.” Mauleverer tied him to it securely. “I am sorry if I hurt you.” He did not sound to mean it. “You are bleeding?”
“A scratch!”
He carried himself well in defeat, this cousin of hers about whom she could remember little else that was good. For the memories were sorting themselves out now, into a pattern of villainy that she still found it hard, in spite of all the evidence, quite to believe.
“He really is your cousin?” Mauleverer’s question tied in with her thoughts.
“Oh, yes. We grew up together, he and I. It is no wonder, when he came to me and told me we were married, that I was deluded by a feeling of familiarity. No wonder he knew so much about me either. But what a chance you took—” For the first time she spoke to the man who sat so still in the chair. “Were you not afraid I might remember you?”
He shrugged. “I have taken chances at every step in this game. It’s half the fun of it, my dear cousin. But, tell me, now I have played and lost, what do you intend to do with me?”
“I wish I knew.” It was Mauleverer who answered. “If we go by intentions, hanging is too good for you, but in actual fact you have not contrived to do much harm after all—except to yourself and, I suppose, Lady Heverdon.”
He spoke the name so calmly that Marianne flashed him a quick, surprised look. Could he really be so unmoved by the discovery of Lady Heverdon’s treachery? Or had he not, perhaps, realized the full implications of what Urban had said about her.
His next words showed that he had. “For some curious reason,” he said, “I continue to have a certain regard for Lady Heverdon’s feelings. Besides, she bears my family’s title. For her sake, I should be sorry for an open scandal. But I am not to be the judge in the matter.” He turned to Marianne. “It is for you to decide. But, before you do, I must confess I should be glad to understand just what has been going on.”
“I am only now beginning to understand it myself.” She spoke slowly, ordering her thoughts as she went along. “To begin with—how odd it seems—I am—may be something of an heiress.” She hated herself for coloring as she spoke. But it was impossible not to remember that Mauleverer had lost a fortune by the discovery that little Thomas was Lord Heverdon. And she had, perhaps, found one. She knew him well enough to be horribly certain that this was the end of any faint hope there might have been of a reconciliation between them. She hurried on, afraid that he might misinterpret her pause. “My uncle—and Ralph Urban’s—is Lord of one of the Channel Islands—quite a small one, Barsley, perhaps you may not have heard of it. He is an old man, and childless. I am his younger brother’s child, and Ralph the youngest sister’s. We were both orphaned as children and my uncle brought us up. He always said that Ralph should be his heir, rightly, I think. They’re a rough lot, the islanders, and, besides, Barsley is the nearest of the islands to France. Its lord needs to be a fighter—certainly did in Bonaparte’s time. My own mother was a refugee from France.”
“Of course,” Mauleverer said. “Your name; your perfect French. Why did we never think of the Channel Islands? But what happened to change your uncle’s mind? Is he still alive, by the way?”
“I—I suppose so. He was, when I left home. He—he was angry with Ralph and said I would prove the better man of the two. He wanted me to come to England and earn my keep for a year—to prove myself a man, he said, without help from him. If I did that, he would make a new will in my favor. But I thought he would have forgiven Ralph long before that. Truly, I did, Ralph.” Her voice had an odd note of appeal in it. “I never wanted to be Dame of Barsley. Oh, it’s a beautiful island, if you care for wild scenery, but there’s no one to talk to in the length and breadth of it. I was glad to come away. My cousin Ralph helped me to find a position with his friend, Lady Heverdon. He said we had best not tell her about being cousins. Were you planning all this already, Ralph?”
“Of course I was. What an obliging little fool you were, to be sure! I never enjoyed anything so much in my life as to see the future Dame of Barsley, with all her airs and graces, meekly acting the part of a nursemaid.” His face darkened. “It should all have been so easy. With you and that wretched little boy burned in your beds, I’d have been heir to Barsley, and Lady Heverdon”—his voice softened on the name—“we thought she would be free at last to enjoy the fortune she had earned by marrying that worthless cousin of yours.” This, angrily, to Mauleverer. “The lawyers had not thought fit to tell her how he had tied up his estate against her.”
“I begin to suspect that he had his reasons,” said Mauleverer.
“What did he expect? A dirty, decrepit old man marrying a young beauty like her? He should have been grateful for the patience she showed him. But we’ve had the devil’s own luck, she and I. Tell me”—he turned his head to glare angrily at Marianne, who had sunk down in the chair across the hall from his—“how did you and the child come to escape that night when I set fire to your wing?”
She looked at him, almost with pity. “Do you remember that Lady Heverdon pleaded the headache as an excuse to send Thomas and me away early? I felt sorry for her—she was kind to me, you know, in her way. When I had got Thomas to bed, I came back to her rooms to ask if I should try and massage the pain away for her. The door of her room was not shut fast. I heard you talking as I came down the hall—and what I heard made me stay to listen. I don’t think I quite believed my ears at first, but then, do you remember, you laughed, and kissed her, and told her not to worry: ‘You’ll be in mourning tomorrow.’ That was enough. I went back to our wing and packed my box. It was very early still. I knew you would not dare act till all the servants were in bed. I told one of the footmen I was running away to join my lover—they had always thought there was something havey cavey about me in the servants’ hall but he was ready enough to do what I asked—for a bribe. He took my box to the coaching inn for me—I suppose he did not dare speak up in the morning. Anyway, why should he risk his place for anyone so unimportant as I was? I took good care that he had no idea I was going to take the child with me; that’s why I dared pack so few of his clothes. I waited till the house was quite dark and quiet—except for a light in Lady Heverdon’s wing. Then I woke little Thomas—goodness, how cross he was—put bundles of clothes in our beds and stole away with him to the coaching inn. I was coming to you, of course.”
Marianne turned to Mauleverer. “I knew you were the child’s guardian. You seemed the only hope of safety for either of us. What a journey it was! And terror all the way. I had no means of knowing whether our escape had been discovered or whether we were thought dead in the fire. Every time a horseman caught up with the coach, my heart was in my mouth for fear it was my cousin. Of course, if he had caught me, I should not have had a leg to stand on. I could prove nothing against him—and, so far as the world could see, I was an absconding nursemaid who had abducted her charge. I never want to go through such a time again. The child was exhausted and cried most of the way; the other passengers complained; but what could I do? We reached London in the middle of the night and, to my relief, found that a coach was starting almost at once for Exton. I hardly remember how I got across London to the inn it started from, but at least by then poor Thomas was so worn out that he slept for a great part of the next journey, and, indeed, so did I, merely waking, in terror, once or twice, at the sound of hoofs behind us. But we got safe to Exton and changed coaches there; I began to think our flight could not have been discovered, for anyone traveling post would have caught us long before. I drowsed off, I remember, into a more restful dream of Maulever Hall, and safety—an
d was waked by screams, the coach tipping over, then blackness. How odd it is,” she went on thoughtfully, “to remember both lives now—and what a miracle that I did, in fact, reach Maulever Hall at last, and find shelter there. But, tell me”—oddly, she found herself slipping into the old tone of irritated affection when she addressed her cousin—“was it you who came after the coach at Pennington Cross?” She shivered, remembering terror, with gorse sharp at the back of her neck, and the horse’s hoofs thundering by.
He had been lying carelessly back in his chair, simulating ease, but now straightened up to stare at her blackly: “God damn you, yes. Do you mean to tell me you were there all the time?”
“Yes, hiding in the gorse.”
He swore a worse oath. “And I believed that rascally coachman! He told me he had let no one down since Exton—the passengers all confirmed it; there was a fat woman in a red dress, I remember, who was particularly positive.”
She could not help smiling at him. “Poor Ralph. I expect they did not like your manner overmuch. But what did you do then?”
“Why, turned back for London, like the blithering idiot I was. It had only been on the faintest chance that I followed. We thought you both safely burned in your beds—not a trace remained. I am a thorough arsonist, you must admit—too thorough that time, or I would have known you had got away. As it was we had had one day of happy security—Lady Heverdon was even treating herself to a little judicious mourning for you—when I heard a rumor of a mysterious woman and child who had boarded the midnight coach on the night of the fire. I went after them, merely to make assurance doubly sure, and began to think my precaution justified when I traced you across London and on to the Exton coach—you left a back trail as broad as a battleship’s, dear cousin. But I lost you at Exton and followed the coach for Pennington Cross merely as the last precaution. For, of course, if it was you I knew you would have gone straight to Maulever Hall. So I went there myself, with some tale of a cock and a bull and losing my way. There was no sign of you. I decided I had been on a wild goose chase all the time.”
Marianne shivered. “You must have got there before me,” she said, remembering that long, bleak walk across the moors, with the child heavy in her arms. “I was—lucky, it seems.”
“You had the luck of the very devil, then and later. Why did I miss you, that time in the wood? It makes me mad merely to remember it. Over and over again, I should have had you, and always, like a sleepwalker, you escaped without even realizing you had been in danger.” He was upright in the chair, his eyes very bright, his smile mocking, “But tell me, dear cousin, what are you going to do with me now?”
“Did you always hate me?”
“Hate you?” He sounded genuinely surprised. “Of course not. I believe I love you a little. But you should not have taken Barsley from me. Oh yes”—his voice was mocking again—“I quite forgot to tell you. Our uncle died a little while ago. May I salute you, Dame of Barsley!”
“He left it to me?”
“All of it: every acre, every penny. And, for me, a moralizing instruction to mend my ways—no more gambling, no more horse racing, and, perhaps, if my reformation deserved it, in the end, you, of your great generosity, would make me your steward. Steward! I, who love every inch of the island that you dismiss so casually. You do not even want to live there! I know every rabbit track on the cliffs; every one of the smugglers’ landing places; each tenant’s property to an inch. So, perhaps, says my uncle, I might, one day, be worthy to be your steward! Do you wonder if I have been a little mad?”
“But when did this happen?”
“Soon after Lady Heverdon came here on a visit and nearly fainted at sight of you. I cannot think how our uncle’s lawyers have been so long about tracing you, though the helpful suggestions I made to them may have had something to do with it? Oh well,” he shrugged, “I have played my game, and lost. It is your turn now.”
“It is not fair.” Marianne was surprised to find herself so indignant. “You were brought up to be lord of the island. I am sure Uncle Urban did not intend such a will to stand. Poor uncle—so he is dead at last after all his alarms and ailments, and I cannot even cry for him. It was impossible to love him”—she turned, almost in apology, to Mauleverer —“and yet he was good to us in his way.”
“In his way!” exclaimed Urban. “The way of a bad-tempered, malingering old miser. You may play the hypocrite about him if you like, but I shall not. He made me what I am, and then punished me for it.”
Mauleverer had been leaning wearily against the arm of a chair, his face in shadow, but his posture showing how intently he was listening to what they said. Now he straightened up. “This is all very well,” he said, “but it scarcely helps us now. You confess to attempting murder, not once but many times, Mr. Urban. What do you expect us to do with you?”
“What you please. I really do not care—now. It will make a magnificent scandal, will it not? Do not delude yourselves that I will spare anyone if I am brought to my trial. You will look a pretty fool, Mauleverer, and my cousin here little better than a madwoman.”
“Oh, don’t—” Marianne knew he was going the worst way to goad Mauleverer into acting against him. “Remember Lady Heverdon. If you stand trial, she must be implicated. After all, she came here, saw me, saw the child ... It cannot help but come out that she was equally involved with you. Surely you don’t want that?”
“Cousin, you are more intelligent than I thought you. No, you are quite right. She has had trouble enough already. Her only crimes, really, have been love for me, and a certain liking for the comforts money can buy. Can we not leave her out of this?”
“I do not see why she should escape, any more than you.” But Mauleverer’s voice was doubtful now.
Marianne was grateful for the shadows that hid her face: Could it be that even after the discovery of how she had betrayed him, he loved Lady Heverdon still? She hurried into speech: “If he promises ... Must we really do anything? After all, nothing has really happened.”
“Nothing happened?” Mauleverer’s voice was dry. “Two houses burned down! Do you call that nothing? Not to speak of the attempts on you.”
“Yes, but they failed. And, truly, I think it all my uncle’s fault. Ralph is right about him—” How easily she had slipped back into using her cousin’s first name. “It wasn’t fair,” she said again. “Could he not sign a paper, or something, and then go off and”—she paused—“well, why not? Would you like to be steward of Barsley, cousin?
“He would do that well,” she explained to Mauleverer. “It is true what he says; he does love the island, and the people there. It was only when uncle sent him to England that he got into trouble.”
“Cousin, you keep surprising me.” But she could see that his eyes were suddenly bright.
“Hush!” Mauleverer held up a hand. “There is a carriage coming up the drive—or maybe two, by the sound of it. Who on earth can it be, at this time of night?”
Marianne felt herself coloring. “It might be the Duke.” She was sure it was. If only she and Mauleverer had had time for some sort of explanation! What must he think of her for believing Urban’s lies? It did not bear thinking of.
“The Duke?” He looked at her sharply.
“I left a note, saying I had come down here. I did not say why.”
“No? And you think he will have followed you so soon?”
“I don’t know.” Passionately, she wished now that she had said nothing.
“Well, we shall soon see.” The first carriage had stopped at the door and he turned, after a swift look to make sure that Urban was still securely tied, to swing it open.
There was a little bustle outside and then four people entered the hall. First came the Duchess, warmly wrapped in her old army greatcoat, and then, behind her, the Duke and a squat, short stranger, one on either side of Lady Heverdon.
“Well.” The Duchess took in the scene. “You seem to have managed well enough without us. He is safely tied u
p, I trust?” She looked, without much interest, at Urban, then turned again to Marianne. “I am glad to see you, child. But, surely, a little more light would be an improvement?”
“Of course.” Marianne hurried to fetch the two big silver candelabra from the dining room and lighted their candles with a shaking hand before she snuffed out the few that still guttered in their sockets.
‘That’s better.” The Duchess looked about her. “Mr. Mauleverer, of course.” And then, as he made his bow as formally as if they were at St. James’s, “And I must present Mr. Barnaby, of Bow Street.”
The squat man took a short step forward and made an awkward all-inclusive bow to the company, but all the time sharp eyes under his shaggy brows were fixed on Marianne. “Miss Urban?” His voice was questioning.
“Yes.” Marianne turned to the Duchess. “I have remembered—everything.”
“Well, that’s a comfort. I was wondering where to begin breaking it to you.” The Duchess turned to John Barnaby. “Well, Mr. Barnaby, you have found your missing heiress.” She yawned enormously. “And the hour is late. I am sure that Mr. Mauleverer’s servants will find you accommodation for the night.”
Marianne laughed and intervened. “The fact is, ma’am, that there are no servants. They have all been sent off to Exton.”
“I see.” It was clear that the Duchess saw a great deal. “Then we are like to have an uncomfortable night of it. But I have no doubt an old campaigner like you, Mr. Barnaby, will be able to look out for yourself.” A significant glance directed him to the green baize door at the far end of the hall.
He took another step forward. “But, Your Grace”—his face was red with the effort of making himself speak to her—“so far as I can see, there’s been vilence done here, and vilence is Bow Street’s business.”
“Violence?” said the Duchess, looking about her. “Oh, you mean, the swords? An odd time of night, I admit, for fencing practice, but as to violence?” Her eyes, on Urban in his chair, defied him to contradict her. “I see no signs of it. You may go, Mr. Barnaby; it will be time enough to talk law business in the morning.”
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