"Fell into?" His lordship laughed again, a harsh, bitter sound. "I did not fall, dear lady. I was pushed. A fine young officer found out I'd helped Treve de Villars escape to France when half Britain's military might was after him."
Tummet, who had admired the dashing Trevelyan de Villars, started.
Gwendolyn exclaimed, "Good heavens! Do you say someone blackmailed you into becoming a traitor?"
"He could have ruined me," Kadenworthy muttered broodingly. "Just when I was getting the new Race Meeting organized. 'Twas my life—my passion, to see it a success. A few words only would have brought my world tumbling down. Already, that devil Fotheringay suspected me. I'd have been condemned, past doubting. I'd have lost everything. Including my head." He smiled that bitter, twisted smile. "You see what happens when a bad man does a good deed, m'dear? Disaster! I was enraged, and then the invitation to attend a meeting of the League was sent to me. I'd no love for German George. To see the Stuarts back on the throne would not have distressed me. So I decided I'd as well be hung for a wolf as a lamb." He twirled the brandy in his glass and stared at it. "For a long time I was a very minor member, but I was protected from Lambert, the swine who blackmailed me. How, I do not know. But I was grateful, you may be sure. I did what I might and eventually became a member of the Ruling Council. I'll own to suffering some qualms when I discovered the full breadth of their activities, but"—he shrugged—"it was too late to repine."
"Then—why have you left the League now? Is it because of—of what they have done to…" Gwendolyn's voice broke. "… to—August?"
"He deserved better, poor devil. I think, perhaps 'twas one of the—last straws, as they say." He scowled and said in sudden fury, "But mostly it was that they lied to all of us, damn them! Their plan is not to rid Britain of the monarchy and establish a republic! Rather, 'tis the scheme of a group of ambitious madmen on both sides of the Channel to seize power for themselves! To turn this England into a slave state benefitting only a few!"
"And among them, Marshal Jean-Jacques Barthelemy," muttered Gwendolyn numbly.
Astounded, Kadenworthy exclaimed, "Where you get your information, I do not know, ma'am. Are the authorities also aware?"
Tummet growled, "They bin told."
"And would not believe, I'll warrant! Typical of Whitehall! And the Squire has agents everywhere, of course, to stifle and twist the truth." He grunted disgustedly, then said, "You hold there is good in every man, Miss Rossiter. Perhaps he is kind to his mother—or to his horses. I believe he is a stranger to compassion otherwise. Certainly, his hatred for Falcon borders on madness and Smythe will show no mercy to—"
"Smythe!" she gasped, incredulous. "Reginald Smythe is the Squire?"
"Now snap me gaiter!" exclaimed Tummet, equally incredulous. "That shrivelled-up worm?"
"You do worms an injustice," said Kadenworthy.
Gwendolyn sprang up and ran to his side. 'Then if you so despise him, tell us what we ask, and before you go, write a full confession, naming names and—"
"And breaking the heart of the only lady who ever truly loved me? Never!"
She bit her lip. "Then—only let me know where I may find August, and I swear on my immortal soul I will never tell your aunt you were involved in treason!"
Kadenworthy glanced at Tummet, who crossed his heart with the pistol muzzle and said, "Me own soul, ditto."
His lordship was silent. Then, he said slowly, "He is shut in a sealed room under Sundial—" He stopped, his head flinging up as another draught rippled the candles. "Someone has entered the house," he whispered. "Have you a carriage waiting?"
Tummet nodded. "Behind your stables, milor'."
"Then get out the window. Quickly! Quickly! If they think I've told you anything, your lives aren't worth a farthing! Go! I'll try and delay them!"
"But—" began Gwendolyn.
Tummet snatched up the brandy decanter, thrust it at Gwendolyn, grasped her elbow and ran lightly to the window.
It was full dark now, and they made their way silently across the rear lawns, seeing and hearing nothing untoward. They were breathless when they reached their carriage.
As they drove into the quiet country night, they heard the distant but distinct bark of a pistol shot.
Chapter 16
It was too dark to journey any farther on this crowded day, and Tummet found a modest little inn a mile or so west of Epsom. Fortunately, he had borrowed ample funds from Falcon's cash-box, and he was able to procure rooms for them. They had stopped en route to purchase a few overnight necessities and valises for respectability, but the proprietor clearly thought it odd for a young lady to travel escorted only by her coachman. There could be no doubt but that she was of the Quality, however, and that, together with the luxurious coach and the high-bred team, lulled his fears. Apollo presented another difficulty, but when Tummet nobly volunteered to sleep in the stables with the hound, the host relented.
Gwendolyn took a light supper in her tiny room and went early to bed. She was wracked by anxiety and expected to lie awake all night, but the feather bed was comfortable and she slept soundly until the maid brought her hot chocolate at six o'clock. She washed and dressed quickly and after a hurried breakfast they set forth once again.
The sky had lightened to a pewter gray. It had rained steadily through the night and there were deep puddles and potholes to worsen the poor state of the roads. Longing to set the team to a stretching gallop, Tummet was obliged to proceed with caution. To the distracted Gwendolyn, the miles seemed to be covered at a snail's pace, but shortly before ten o'clock they reached a pretty hamlet east of Woking, and stopped to change horses and inquire the way to Sundial Abbey. The host of the solitary inn was a taciturn individual, but he jerked a thumb to the southwest and gave them terse directions, ending with, "You can't miss it, though why you'd want to go there is beyond me. Terrible bad road. Ugly old pile. And haunted into the bargain!"
They could, and did miss it. He had neglected to tell them there was a fork in the lane, and they emerged from a copse of trees to find themselves in a field of surprised cows and under attack by a scarlet-faced farmer who roared his intention to call in the constable and charge them with unlawful trespass and with having frightened his cattle half to death. His accusations were unwarranted, Tummet became incensed and a bout of fisticuffs was only averted by Gwendolyn's offer to pay the exorbitant damages demanded by the pugnacious man. They drove back to the crossroads and in this instance the innkeeper proved to have been right. The lane deteriorated into a track resembling an obstacle course that worsened until it was a sea of mud. After several attempts to drive around it, the coach lurched and was stuck fast. Gwendolyn could barely keep back tears of frustration and was all for striking off across the fields on foot, but Tummet pointed out that the innkeeper's directions had not been too clear, besides which the stiffening breeze was cold. "It won't do us no manner of good, Miss Gwen, if it turns out to be ten miles 'stead of four, and you get yer feet soaked and take a chill. 'Sides, we might need the coach when we find me guv'nor." Bowing to that sobering thought, she helped him collect brush to set under the wheels, and with the aid of a passing shepherd they were able to extricate the coach and go on.
It was half-past eleven o'clock and the lodge gates were closed when they reached Sundial Abbey. There being no sign of a keeper, Tummet climbed down from the box and opened the gates, and they proceeded boldly along a drive that wound uphill for a mile or more before the house came into view.
Sundial Abbey was undeniably very old, and it was long, massive, and surrounded by deep meadow grasses and wildly overgrown trees. On this dark day it looked mournful and neglected, but it commanded a superb view of the surrounding countryside and on a bright sunny morning and with a little more care expended on the grounds, Gwendolyn thought it could be mellow and beautiful.
A gardener, digging without much enthusiasm in a weedy flowerbed, regarded them incuriously, but they saw no other sign of servants or the occupan
ts of the abbey.
Tummet drove around to the side, past a barn and paddock where some horses grazed. Continuing to the rear, he guided the team off the drive-path, across a weedy meadow and into one of several stands of trees. Here, he pulled up and climbed from the box to hand Gwendolyn from the coach.
"This is a queer set-to and no mistake," he said. "Not so much as a stable boy come out to see who we is. What now, Miss Gwen?"
Before she could reply, Apollo sprang from the carriage and went racing off. Her commands that he stop were ignored, but luckily she was able to catch up with him and snatch the lead while he was distracted by the charms of a gorse bush. Out of breath, she glanced back. Tummet had secured the team and was hurrying to join her.
"What in the name of all the furies is that?" A short, chubby-faced and over-dressed young man came through the trees and drew back in alarm as Apollo strained at the end of his lead and barked shatteringly. There was no doubt that the newcomer was well bred, but it seemed to Gwendolyn that there was a dissolute air about him.
She spoke sternly to the dog, who lay down in the wet grass and grunted in a disappointed fashion. During the drive she had rehearsed a speech for such an occasion as this and dropping a slight curtsy she said, "Good day to you, sir. My dog's name is Apollo. I am Mrs. Oakenberry. My husband and I are on our way to Aldershot, and had stopped a short distance from here to obtain directions when our little boy wandered off, and"—she pressed a handkerchief to her lips—"and—we have not been able to find him!"
"Well, he ain't here."
She opened her eyes at this rudeness, and the young man had the grace to flush, and add, "That is to say, I live here, more's the pity, and—"
"You are the Earl of Yerville?"
"Lord, no! That's my father. Only he's in the shires and the house pretty well closed up all after Christmas. Even if he wasn't, you'd not pry him from his easel, I can tell you! Fancies himself an artist, silly old—" He broke off that improper remark and said a belated, "I am Sidney Yerville. Where's your husband, ma'am? Is that his decanter?"
Tummet, who had listened with admiration to Gwendolyn's sad tale, touched his brow respectfully, and said, "Begging yer pardon, Mr. Yerville, but the master's searching 'round the hamlet. He bade me bring some wine, in case the young master's come a cropper."
"Yes, indeed," said Gwendolyn. "Some children have just told me they were playing in your woods, and that they shut my son in some cellar room or other, and he won't be able to get out!'Pon my soul, but I am faint with terror."
Yerville said derisively, "They've been hoaxing you, ma'am. Ain't no cellar rooms under the Abbey. M'grandfather had 'em all knocked into one great wine-cellar, and I promise you if children came near the place they'd be sent packing with a flea in their ear. That wine-cellar's Papa's pride and joy. Unless…" He paused, frowning. "I suppose they might've got into the ruins of the original abbey. But the locals believe they're haunted and most folks won't come within a mile of 'em even in broad daylight! The path is over there," he gestured vaguely to the densely wooded area on the eastern side of the hill, "if you can find it. 'Tis overgrown as any jungle."
"Have we your permission to search about?" asked Gwendolyn. "I am fairly distracted!"
"Search all you wish." He looked toward the distant roof of a cottage. "I'd help, but I've an er, appointment." He grinned, and winked at Tummet, man-to-man fashion. "If your boy's like most young 'uns, he's likely having a May game with you. I'd not wander about too long, though, ma'am. The path by the river is slippery and can be treacherous. If you've not found your son by dusk, you'd best go up to the house and rouse someone to organize a search party. The assistant chef and my man and a few of the staff are here. They're a damned lazy lot, but if you make enough fuss they'll likely bestir themselves." He waved airily, and without a backward glance hurried off.
"A fine earl he'll make," said Tummet with disgust.
"Yes, but never mind that. Lord Kadenworthy said Mr. August was locked in an underground room, and I don't doubt the ruins are just the kind of place that horrid Reggie Smythe would choose!" She started toward the trees that Sidney Yerville had indicated, only to utter a moan of frustration as Apollo tore free again and went off at his ungainly prance across the meadow. "Oh, you wretched beast!" she exclaimed. "Come back at once! Apollo! Come!"
The hound did not come, but began to sniff around some boulders, then threw himself down and rolled about ecstatically with all his legs in the air. He was too elated to notice retribution approaching in the form of Tummet who managed to creep up and grab his lead. "Come on, you perishing monster," he growled, tugging. Apollo sat up and regarded him without warmth.
Gwendolyn had made some purchases at the tavern, and she flourished a piece of cheese. "Here, boy!"
All cooperation, Apollo sprang up and caught the tossed square of his favourite delicacy. "Found something choice to roll in, didn't you," grumbled Tummet, handing the lead to Gwendolyn. "You're's'posed to be finding yer master, you silly brute! Not wallering in something that smells horrid!"
"He evidently does not find it horrid." Gwendolyn patted the dog, then bent lower and sniffed. "Oh!" she gasped. "Oh, Tummet! 'Tis—'tis incense! I gave Mr. August a small box of incense sticks at the Overtake Lodge Fete and he slipped it into his pocket. You never think… ?"
He thought it most unlikely, but he didn't have the heart to discourage the poor little lady, and he said, "Ain't nothing impossible, Miss Gwen."
She dropped to her knees and peered about, then gave a squeal of excitement. "See! Only look here!"
A thin wisp of smoke wound from the base of the boulder. They stared at each other, then they both began to push and tug until the boulder rolled over. Apollo, who had watched this endeavour with great interest, started to burrow furiously at the wet earth, his powerful paws sending clods of dirt flying in all directions.
"Look! Look!" shrieked Gwendolyn.
His eyes bright with excitement, Tummet said," 'Pears like part of a stone wall under there, Miss Gwen!"
"Mr. Yerville said the ruins were over in those woods, but they may very well extend this far!" She clutched his arm. "Oh, Tummet! Mr. August might be right beneath us! Hurry! Do hurry!"
Despite her anxiety they were obliged to go slowly when they reached the woods, for the undergrowth was dense. Apollo had refused to come with them, preferring to roll about on the grass, but he suddenly shot past below them on a narrow path half hidden by a fallen tree.
"A spanking good guide he is! Be lucky if we can keep up wiv him!" Tummet took Gwendolyn's arm and they hurried after their canine pathfinder. When they reached the stream Sidney Yerville's warning proved justified; the ground became slippery, the path sloping ever downward until they were in a narrow defile, the walls shutting out the sky. Gwendolyn's hopes lifted slightly, but she was wracked by a growing sense of dread and limped along as fast as she could, clinging tightly to Tummet's hand. The stream veered off soon, and they came among ancient ruins, the dim light making it hard to see stone slabs that had fallen to litter the path. Tummet lifted Gwendolyn over several large chunks, but the obstructions presented no challenge to Apollo, who gamboled along, tail wagging, only to suddenly plunge off to the right and disappear.
Tummet panted, "Now what, Miss Gwen? Shall we follow the hound or—"
"What you'll do, my cove, is put up yer mauleys, 'fore I dishes yer!"
Gwendolyn gave a startled cry as a dark figure hove up ahead. The lower part of his face was covered by a black scarf, and one fist held a frighteningly large horse pistol aimed straight at them.
Tummet slipped a protective arm around Gwendolyn, and said indignantly, "You got yerself lost, Mr. Rank Rider. No stagecoaches dahn here, and no need to frighten the lady!"
The highwayman leaned closer. "Here, I know that voice," he said, his own voice a deep rumble. "Dang me ears and innards if it ain't old Tummy!" He stuck the pistol in his belt and put out a brawny fist.
"Dancer! Cor, love
a duck!" Tummet shook hands and staggered as he was clapped heartily on the back. "Wot in the world is you doing here, mate? Never say this is yer ken? Whoops—forgot! Miss Rossiter, this is me old chum, Tom. Knowed in the trade as the Dancing Master."
His "old chum" discarded the makeshift mask disclosing a round, surprisingly agreeable countenance and a pair of bright hazel eyes. He bowed with a flourish. "Pleased ter meetcha, marm, I'm sure."
To be formally introduced to a famous highwayman was a new experience for Gwendolyn, but she managed to conceal her astonishment and say a polite, if rather foolish, "How do you do?"
"Fairish, marm, fairish. If you'll wait a bit, I'll light me lamp and you can both step inside me residence." He disappeared into the black aperture that yawned behind him, there was the scrap of flint and tinder and a moment later a lantern's glow revealed a stark, mouldering chamber with what appeared to be a passage beyond. The highwayman led them inside. "Daren't wait about here," he said. "I were just leaving."
"Fer good?" asked Tummet, still holding Gwendolyn's arm.
"Aye. Some slippery spy's gorn and found me ken—that's to say, me home, marm." Tom sighed. "I bin comfortable here, this last year and more. Not that I don't have to be careful, mindyer. But it's bin safe, give or take, and sorry I am to give it up."
He led them past other passages and yawning holes that long ago had been rooms. The lantern glow glistened on muddy paw prints on the stone floor, and the Dancing Master asked chattily, "That your dog, Tummy? A big fella, ain't he? Thought he was going to come for me, but orf he went. Here we is, mates." He stopped in a large untidy chamber in which had been assembled the rudiments of life: charred logs on what had once been a great hearth; a cot and tumbled blankets; a table and chairs, shelves holding cooking implements and provisions, and a variety of covered pots and bottles, plates and mugs and a few pieces of cutlery. "Home sweet home," he announced, with pride.
"Very nice," said Tummet. "What makes you think you bin spied on, Tom?"
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