Captain Osborne took a hasty step forward, his mouth dangerously set. ‘You'll take back those words, sir!’ he rapped out, barely controlling his anger. ‘How dare you make such a preposterous accusation against Carlington, of all people? Why, the man doesn't live of whom he is afraid!’
‘C-Calm d-down, Ricky,’ cautioned Fitz, placing a restraining hand on his friend's arm. ‘We have no quarrel with D-Dugdale here. He d-doesn't know Charles as we d-do. It must look p-pretty b-bad to him.’
‘Bad! Bad, sir! It looks a lot worse than that!’ shouted Major Dugdale furiously. He was very much shaken by the events of the morning for, although he barely knew Farnley, he was not the man to see a fellow human being shot down before his eyes without being seriously affected.
Soberly, the three men hoisted the dead weight of Farnley's body onto his still trembling horse. Major Dugdale took the leading rein and prepared to move off. He was halted by Osborne, who suddenly held out his hand to the older man. ‘I beg your pardon, Major, for my hastiness, but believe me, it is quite impossible that Charles Carlington had anything to do with this. I will stake my life on it!’
Ungrudgingly, the Major took Osborne's outstretched hand. ‘I believe you, lad, but it's not me you have to convince. Unless your friend can give a very good account of this morning's work to Bow Street, I am very much afraid he will hang. And rightly so, rightly so.’
In depressed silence the little party moved off, the Major with his gruesome charge towards the City, while the young men of one accord directed their mounts to a low and rambling ale-house just visible through the morning haze. They rode in silence for a while and then, as though unable to contain himself any longer, Osborne broke out with, ‘Fitz, what the devil are we to do?’
Lord Fitzwilliam shook his head despondently. ‘I d-don't know, Ricky, but I will say this. Unless Charles has a d-damned good story t-to explain why he missed this meeting, it's g-going to look black, very black indeed!’
By ten o'clock that morning the freezing mists of the early morning had dispersed and the day was warm and sunny. Charlotte had risen betimes, too happy and excited to pursue her usual course of snuggling into the pillow and indulging in the luxury of breakfast in her room. She dressed herself carefully in her favourite morning gown of primrose muslin, the same that had been donned to impress the Marquis an age ago, and went downstairs with a light heart.
Anything of a clandestine nature was repugnant to Miss Wrexham and she had determinedly resisted Carlington's pleas for a secret meeting. However, it was no secret that she and Miss Milverly, duly escorted by their maids, often took a stroll in Kensington Gardens in the morning and Charlotte had every expectation of seeing Carlington there.
When she entered the morning room it was in the expectation of finding Miss Milverly awaiting her. But it was not the diminutive figure of Amelia that rose to greet her, but the more substantial form of the Marquis. Ruthin looked grave as he held out his hand, saying, ‘Sit down, Charlotte, my dear. There is something I must say to you. But first, tell me, is it true that there is an attachment between you and Charles Carlington?’
‘I would rather be told, sir, by what right you question me!’ returned Charlotte rather haughtily.
‘The right of a friend to you both, my dear. I see that it is true. I am sorry for it, although it is as I feared. Charlotte, I have bad news for you. I hope you will be very brave, for your own sake and for your dear mother's.’
Charlotte turned pale. ‘What is it! Tell me, quickly!’
The Marquis pressed her cold hands between his own and began in a quiet voice to relate the events of previous night. When he told her of Farnley's murder, she uttered a little cry, half stifled, and turned her face into his shoulder. The Marquis placed a fatherly arm around her, much as he would have embraced his daughter had she turned to him in distress. Into the curls that tickled his chin he murmured some worldly advice that Charlotte was far too upset and bewildered to take heed of. ‘Whatever happens,’ he was saying, ‘tell no one of your connection with Charles. It would ruin you as things are at the moment. Oh, I know you would like to stand up for him against the world and swear you know him to be innocent, but believe me, it would do him no good and would seriously harm your mother and yourself. Charles has friends enough who will not abandon him now. We will find him, never fear, and whoever did this foul thing will pay in full. Do you understand what I am saying, my dear? Under no circumstances must anyone guess that you care a snap of your fingers for Carlington.’
‘But I do!’ sobbed Miss Wrexham, and in the abandonment of grief she threw her arms around the Marquis's neck and cried as though her heart would break. Ruthin held her gently, and was just raising his hand to smooth her tangled curls when the door opened and Mrs Wrexham appeared in the doorway, closely followed by her sister and Mrs Carstairs. ‘Ruthin! Oh what does this mean?’ cried Mrs Wrexham in a shaken voice.
‘The meaning would seem tolerably clear, Fanny,’ interposed Lady Northwood, caustically. ‘I would have thought yon could have spoken to her mother first, Ruthin, but I suppose one must make allowances for a man in love. I wish you both very happy.’
The Marquis was, for once, totally at a loss. Impossible to explain the true state of affairs before a palpably interested Mrs Carstairs. This lady was offering Charlotte her felicitations, and although she thought it strange that Miss Wrexham should receive them with her face blotched with tears, she hid it admirably. There seemed nothing to be done but to accept the situation and defer explanations until later.
Helen Carstairs was a most superior woman, but even she could not be expected to refrain from passing on such a juicy titbit of news. Within a very few hours, most of London was eagerly discussing the engagement. It seemed to the Marquis that the number of fools eager to congratulate him was legion. He answered as well as he could, but with a heavy heart. His ears still rang with Fanny Wrexham's heartbroken cry, and to be unable to explain the truth was agony to him. He could only hope that Carlington would soon return from whatever misadventure delayed him and that once the real murderer had been found, explanations would be possible. In the meanwhile, he accepted his role with a good grace and hoped that Charlotte would do the same.
Miss Wrexham, however, was far too ill to be seen, and so was not called upon to accept the felicitations of the curious. She had scarcely understood the scene that Ruthin had played, and was only dimly aware that she was believed to be betrothed. The only thought in her head was for Carlington's safety. Had her own reputation been the only consideration, she would have proudly announced her love to the world, or at least, to her mother and aunt. But with wits sharpened by extremity she had realised that as long as the attachment between them remained unknown, she would be able to help him if he should turn to her, as she was certain he would. If she were known to be his betrothed, she would no doubt be watched, and so rendered impotent to help him. Thus, she made no attempt to deny that she was to marry Ruthin, merely saying in a cold little voice that she hoped her aunt was satisfied that she had done her duty. She then retired to her room, where she sat at the window until nightfall, anxiously scrutinising every passer-by and carriage that came into view.
Meanwhile, in the drawing room, Lady Northwood was eager to discuss the engagement.
‘Fanny, I vow you are the most provoking creature. Here is Charlotte making the match of the year, and all you can do is sit there like a booby. Why, isn't this what you came to London for? What more could you possibly want?’
Mrs Wrexham sighed. ‘You are very right, Letitia. Yet I cannot think that Charlotte will make him happy. She does not love him as—as a wife should.’
Lady Northwood stared at her sister in pardonable astonishment. ‘Well, that is the first time I have ever heard of the bride's mother worrying over the groom's happiness. Surely it is Charlotte's happiness that concerns you?’
Fanny Wrexham raised her drooping head and regarded her worldly sister rather sternly. ‘If either of us were
truly concerned with my daughter's happiness, we would have allowed her to marry the man of her choice. How can she be content with Ruthin when we both know her to be in love with Carlington?’
‘Oh, she will soon get over that young rake,’ responded Lady Northwood, easily. ‘I daresay we all have a Carlington in our past. I know I fancied myself in love with the most delightful creature at one time, but really, I was very happy with Northwood.’
‘I daresay, Letty, but Charlotte is not like that. We were both silly, flighty creatures, I am sure. My daughter is more like her Papa. She takes things very seriously. No, Letty, whatever you say I refuse to be happy about a match that will bring nothing but sorrow to them both. In fact, I have a very good mind to speak to Charlotte before it is too late!’
‘You must be mad!’ cried Lady Northwood, aghast. ‘Have you any notion of the size of Ruthin's fortune? Think of the home Charlotte will have, the clothes, the carriages!’
‘You have all those. Do they make you happy?’
‘Yes!’ responded Lady Northwood with unmistakable sincerity.
Mrs Wrexham was obliged to laugh. ‘Well, if I had not been able to marry Wrexham, I am very sure that all the dresses and carriages in the world would not have comforted me!’
‘You talk as though Ruthin were some horrid old merchant, Fanny! Not only is Charlotte marrying one of the oldest titles in England, positively before the Conqueror, my dear, she is also to be the wife of the most attractive man I know. Can you deny that?’
‘No,’ replied Fanny with a tender smile. ‘No, I cannot deny that. Now, let us stop this absurd wrangling, sister. I have some letters to write and so you must excuse me now.’
Mrs Wrexham then retired to her own room, where she spent the day very much as her daughter had, sitting by her window, alone with her dejected thoughts. Last night it had seemed as though all her foolish dreams might be realised; now she could only berate herself as a pea goose for ever having cherished them.
It is often the case that events which prove disastrous for the principal protagonists can also have a profound effect upon those around them. Thus it was that Amelia Milverly, who was to have walked in the park that morning with Charlotte, was almost as disconsolate as her friend. For Amelia too had an assignation. There was, of course, no reason why young Mr Edridge could not call upon Miss Milverly at her home; he had, indeed, been invited to do so; but this was tame stuff to Amelia. Somehow she had managed to convince herself and her hapless suitor that they were the victims of the sternest parental opposition. The Marquis, who seemed so affable to his young friend, presented a very different face at home, according to his daughter. To Amelia, her father was little short of a tyrant and would punish her unmercifully if she did not obey his every command. As Amelia's idea of dreadful punishment was to be denied a new bonnet, it was not hard for her to convince herself that she had suffered terribly at her father's hands. Mr Edridge, horrified by his lady-love's trials, reluctantly agreed to secret meetings that went very much against the grain. However, he was so deeply in love that any chance to see his Amelia must be taken. Their last meeting had been at Charlotte's ball. Like the other pair of lovers, they had stolen away from the ballroom, choosing the more romantic location of the balcony, where they were screened from the interested by a heavy curtain.
‘Quickly, in here!’ Miss Milverly had hissed, seizing her escort by the hand.
‘I say, do you think we should, Amelia?’ protested Mr Edridge. ‘I mean, what if your father was looking for you?’
‘Sebastian, do you love me?’ demanded Amelia in thrilling accents, her huge brown eyes fixed upon his face, her little hands clutching his arm.
‘Of course I do, Amelia, but this isn't at all the thing, you know.’
‘The thing!’ exclaimed Miss Milverly, contemptuously. ‘We love each other, how can this be wrong?’
So saying, she cast herself into Mr Edridge's arms, who nothing loath, caught her to his chest and, forgetting his scruples, kissed her very thoroughly.
‘Darling, darling Amelia, how lovely you are, and how much I love you,’ he sighed. Indeed, Miss Milverly was looking particularly well that evening. She was attired in a very becoming gown of sprigged white muslin, trimmed with deep blue velvet ribbons. She wore a simple wreath of rosebuds in her hair, and carried a little bouquet of the same blooms in a filigree holder. Outwardly, she looked as sweet and demure as any young Miss, but inwardly, Miss Milverly was a heroine. Now, still locked in her worshipper's arms, she began to make plans for their imminent elopement.
‘You will need to hire a post chaise, of course, and four horses, I think. I could meet you in the square at dead of night, and then we should be halfway to the Border before Papa was any the wiser!’
‘Amelia, what are you talking about?’ demanded her swain, considerably startled.
‘Our elopement, silly,’ replied Amelia, opening her eyes very wide.
‘But why should we elope?’
Miss Milverly's face puckered. ‘Do not you want to marry me, Sebastian? Have you been trifling with me all this time?’
‘No, no, of course not,’ he assured her hastily. ‘I mean, no, I haven't been trifling, yes, of course I want to marry you. The only thing is, why should we have to elope? Surely if I just go to your Papa and explain that we care for each other and that when I come down from Oxford I will be in a position to take care of you, then—’
He was interrupted. ‘I shall die if you breathe a word of this to Papa. Don't you know that he will do everything in his power to part us? He means to wed me to some rich, powerful man like himself. He will never agree to let us marry.’
Since this was the first time Amelia had mentioned her Papa's matrimonial plans for his daughter, Sebastian, not unnaturally, demanded to know who this rival might be. As he had no existence outside Amelia's fertile imagination, she was unable to tell him. She assured him, however, that it was quite a settled thing. Mr Edridge was a sensible young man, but he was in love. One hint that he might lose Amelia to this rich and powerful rival was enough. The elopement was agreed.
SEVEN
Carlington opened his eyes and shut them again, hurriedly. A sharp pain in his temple warned him to be more cautious in his movements and for some minutes he simply lay in the darkness trying to collect his thoughts. How he came to be lying in the damp gloom that surrounded him was a mystery he was quite unable to account for. His last recollection was of riding through the early dawn to keep his appointment with Farnley. Now here he was, unable to move and totally ignorant of his whereabouts. Very carefully he opened his eyes once more. As they became accustomed to the dim light he saw that he was reclining in a kind of store room, propped up against sacks of food stuffs; probably, from the feel of them, potatoes. The swaying motion which he had attributed to his swimming head was now seen to be a reality as the little room rose and fell before his eyes. Incredible though it seemed, Charles, Viscount Carlington, was at sea. His head pounded and in attempting to raise a hand to his brow, he made yet another discovery: his hands were bound.
Charles lost count of the time he spent, alone and sick, in that dank little hole. It seemed endless, although in fact it was little more than twenty-four hours later that his solitude was interrupted. He was dozing, his rest disturbed by nightmares only marginally more horrific than the situation in which he found himself. All at once he was awakened by the sound of voices and a light flickered through the gloom of his prison. He was aware that someone was bending over him and, with some blind instinct of self-preservation, he remained still, his eyes closed, his breathing deliberately heavy and even. The intruder stirred him with one great foot and called to someone outside the room. ‘E's still out cold, 'e must 'ave 'ad a right whack on t'ead t'be out this long. I 'ope t'bastard's not died on us!’
‘Nay, 'e's not dead, Capt'n,’ answered the other, drawing nearer. ‘Can thee not see 'im breathin'? Likely 'e's got the fever laying down 'ere so long.’
‘Well 'e
's no manner o' use to us dead, so I reckon we'd best cover 'im up wi' this bit 'o sacking and ye get that broth down 'im or 'e's a deader for sure!’
So saying, the burly leader of the two wrapped the Viscount in a dirty but dry piece of rag, and his companion produced a wooden bowl full of a greasy liquid which was poured down Charles' throat, half choking him in the process. Rank though it was, the hot liquid revived him and he was able to open his eyes and survey his hosts.
They were not a prepossessing sight. The first, a giant of a man with a face badly pitted with pock marks, was watching Carlington with the detached interest of a farmer regarding a dubious piece of horseflesh. The second was, if anything, more hideous than the first, but when this figure took a handkerchief from its neck to wipe the hapless prisoner's face, Charles caught sight of a scraggy bosom and realised with some disgust that the creature was a woman.
Try as he might, he was unable to put into words all the questions that revolved in his confused mind. All he could do was mutter in a voice that was little more than a croak: ‘What am I doing here?’
His nurse seemed gratified by this sign of life. She grinned at him, showing cracked and blackened teeth.
‘Well my deary, so ye're feelin' better; that's right. We wants to get a good price for ye, the fine young feller that ye are. There's them who'll pay well in Jamaiky an' no questions asked.’
‘You are taking me to Jamaica?’ he repeated incredulously. ‘But do you know who I am?’
‘Do we know who you is?’ repeated the hag delightedly. ‘Do we know? We don't know nor we don't care, me fine young feller. We was paid 'andsome to take ye on board and the flash cove as 'anded ye over was shy o' tellin' us 'is name. Oh, 'e was smooth 'e was. Fair giv' me the shivers!’
‘Ye talk too much, woman!’ the man growled suddenly, and, snatching up the bowl, he grabbed the woman by the arm and dragged her towards the door. As he reached it he turned and spoke over his shoulder to his victim. ‘I don't know who ye are an' I don't want to. Ye've got an enemy, that's all ye need to know. Ye'll be fed an' watered an' when we get to Jamaiky ye'll be set to work on the plantations. So, whoever ye are young feller, if I was you I'd forget about the past or ye'll be out o' yer mind afore we see land again!’
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