With supple ease he came to his feet and strolled over to poke up the last embers of the fire. Still holding the poker and half-turned from her, he said with low-voiced reluctance, “Very well, Rosa. I will tell you. Only … I’ll admit myself surprised by your concern for the rebel you found. After Hal’s death I fancied you abhorred the Jacobites.” He glanced at her narrowly. “Have your feelings undergone a change?”
“No! How can you even think such a thing? I despise them! I always shall! Only—when I saw that boy … he was so pathetic, you know. Just a hurt and desperate human being. And—so very young and helpless. Are you angry because I tried to help him? Was it wrong, because of—of dear Hal?”
“Wrong because you’ve a kind heart? Certainly not! I count it admirable, rather. And very brave besides, for I doubt you ever have seen a wounded man before.”
“No, and pray I never shall again! He was in such pain, and—the blood…!” She shuddered.
“Yes, I recall how the sight of blood always sickened you. Poor girl. I can imagine what a shock it was. I wonder you did not swoon away. In fact”—he replaced the poker in its bracket—“I was surprised you were able to help Rob so bravely.”
It was during those moments that Victor had intimated he held a tendre for her. Charles’s eyes seemed unusually piercing tonight. Avoiding them, she said, flustered, “I—I owed him that much.”
“Yes,” he said thoughtfully. “I suppose you did endanger him if he helped the lad only because you begged him.”
“He said that. But I begin to fear that Dr. Victor says whatever will best serve him at the time. In point of fact, I have come to believe he is—playing some very deep game, and after I heard what he said to you tonight … Charles—we must tell Papa!”
He turned back to the fire, and after a short silence sighed and said ruefully, “I cannot. You see—you were right, little sister. Victor does hold something over me.”
Not until this moment had she realized how intensely she’d hoped she was mistaken. Her idiotic heart plummeted, and she gave a gasp. “Oh, Charles! Then—then he was coming here all the time? Had Aunt Estelle not asked him to serve as our courier, he would have found some excuse to accompany us?”
“I rather think so. Yes.”
“But, dearest, you have never done anything wrong in your life! What could he possibly know that he could use against you?”
A longer pause this time. Then, still turned from her, he squared his shoulders. “You were only a sprout at the time, but—do you recall when thieves broke into the house in the winter of ’39, and my great-grandfather’s icon was stolen?”
“Yes,” she whispered, her eyes enormous as she watched him. “Poor Aunt Estelle was devastated.”
“I—had got myself into the most awful mess at Oxford,” he said, his voice very low. “I studied so hard and seldom went out, but—one night … some friends persuaded me to go with them, and—well, I was unused to drinking. And, later, there was—gaming.”
“Oh … my God! Y-you—stole Great-Grandpapa’s icon? You?”
His fair head lowered, and his hand on the mantel was gripping very hard. “You see … I am very far from being the saint you fancy me, Rosa.”
She flew to throw her arms about him, and lean her cheek against his back. “I never fancied you a saint. Just a—a very kind and—gentle man. And you were not to blame! You were no more than a boy—a scholarly boy who had led so sheltered a life! But—oh dearest, if only you had told Papa. He would have—”
“Papa!” He gave a derisive laugh and turned to face her. “Papa has no use for me, and you know it. I can well imagine how he’d have received such news as that!”
She also could imagine. Helplessly, she returned to the chair, her thoughts chaotic. “And Victor found out?” she asked, praying that Charles would deny such infamy.
He nodded miserably.
Dreading his answer, she whispered, “He has come here to … blackmail you? Is that it?”
Again the mute, shamed nod.
She closed her eyes, fighting scalding tears, knowing it should not matter so much, and knowing now that her own denunciation of Victor had been a hollow sham; that deep in her heart she was much drawn to the young physician and had not really believed him capable of real evil. She did not see the rageful look her brother darted at her as she murmured wretchedly, “Oh, how despicable! How—how much does he want?”
Charles walked over to pick up Lightning. The big cat hung sleepily over his arm and he carried it, stroking the soft fur as he paced back and forth. “More than I can pay. Only—there’s my inheritance from Great-Aunt Desirée.”
Rosamond’s eyes widened again and she gasped, “But—but she’s … still alive!”
“I know. It’s—a beastly practice I’ve always deplored … called a post-obit bond.”
“You mean,” she whispered, reeling, “you are—borrowing ’gainst her—her death?” And it was too much. For the first time in her life, she doubted the truth of what this beloved brother had told her. Unless he had changed out of all resemblance to her previous knowledge of him, there was something very wrong here. Charles would not steal! Especially from his own family. And as for borrowing against his great-aunt’s demise—nonsense! She found also that she was fiercely resentful of what he had said about Robert Victor. No sooner was the emotion acknowledged than she was bewildered by it. She had known Victor a relatively short time; why should she feel this compulsion to defend the man? He was nothing to her … was he? He was good to look at, admittedly, and respectful—to her father. With her, he had at times been brusque to the point of unkindness, in addition to which he was high-handed, sardonic, and overbearing. Why on earth should she so like the wretch? Unless it was because … there had been glimpses of tenderness withal … Not that she believed them; well, not entirely … Yet even now, just thinking of him brought that odd new quickening of her pulses, the warmth of heart that— She caught herself up short. What nonsense was this? The important thing here was not the mass of contradictions embodied in a comparative stranger, but that her dear brother should for some strange reason seek to make her believe ill of him.
Fixing him with a stern stare, she said, “I think I do not believe this of you, Charles.” And she thought, ‘Nor of Robbie Victor!’
He looked at her from the corner of his eye. “Thank you for that, love,” he said humbly. “But what else can I do? The Bishop is considering recommending me for the living at Little Snoring. Who would want a clergyman who is a—a thief? An Victor speaks—I’m ruined!” He drew a hand wearily across his eyes. “Worse … there is the business of … of—Debbie.”
Debbie? How did Debbie come into this horrid puzzle? Unless … Paling, she stammered, “I—heard him mention a—a ‘darling girl’ who is coming to Papa’s party.” She gripped her trembling hands. “V-Victor was in France at the same time that— Charles! The—the lady—is not … Deborah?”
Her brother’s head sank low. He said in a strangled voice, “He—saw her, you see. And—you know how very pretty she is. She would not receive him, for she is still in mourning. Later, he discovered our—relationship, and begged an introduction, but—I know him … So I refused.”
She felt quite crushed by despair, but she could no longer cling to the hope that there was a mistake; that it was all some cruel kind of test—or an outlandish joke. She should have known that Charles would never lie about something that struck at another man’s honour. And how stupid to feel so betrayed. So hurt and lost. Victor was much lower than she ever had imagined. He was beneath contempt. No better—nay, much worse than a criminal, for what crime could be more loathsome than blackmail? She asked dully, “What ever shall you do?”
“I have no choice. When Debbie comes home I shall have to present him as—as my good friend. He has made that a condition of our—bargain.”
“But you cannot! You love her! What if—what if she should be taken in? Charles!”
He dropped the cat and c
ame quickly to stand before her. “Yes, it is dreadful. I must place my whole reliance upon her affection for me. But—Rosa, promise me you’ll say nothing. He is quite ruthless. Does he suspect I will not keep my word, there’s no saying what he’ll do. I am striving to gain time—to perchance find a way out before Deb comes. Somehow. Meanwhile—be polite to him, I beg you. If he senses you despise him—if he even begins to suspect I’ve told you…” He gave a hopeless gesture.
She stared at him blindly. Was this Charles? Her so admired Charles? The boy she had looked up to all her life as being the very soul of honour and integrity? Was it possible that he had lied and cheated and stolen—and now would even be willing to deceive the girl he loved, poor Deborah, who was still lost in grief for her dead brother? He was looking at her pleadingly, and heavens, but he looked so exhausted—almost ill. Small wonder!
Her world seemed to have broken into a thousand grey pieces, but she must not let him see how terribly she was grieved. The struggle for command of her emotions was a bitter one, but somehow she managed to say in a comparatively steady voice, “Of course I will do anything within my power to protect you, my dear.” She touched his cheek gently. “Never worry so. It will be all right, I know it.”
Charles lifted her hand and kissed it. “You always were—a right one,” he said huskily. “Get to your bed now.”
She kissed him goodnight and left him.
The Reverend Charles Albritton stood gazing at the door for some minutes after it had closed, an odd, rather wry smile on his face. Then he crossed to where hung the cross and, kneeling, bowed his fair head and humbly asked forgiveness. He always addressed his prayers to Saint Peter, whom, of all the disciples, he felt most likely to understand his failings. Tonight, however, long before he was finished with his confession, his low voice choked. Overcome, he leaned back on his heels, his emotion such that the lethargic cat managed to haul itself to its feet and wander over to console its afflicted human. Albritton sat on the floor and dried his eyes. “Lightning,” he gasped weakly, “truly, I am a sinful man. A very sinful man!”
Lightning responded with a trill, and butted its head under his chin.
* * *
Rosamond spent most of the dark hours in a sleepless and wholly unprofitable worrying. She slept late the following morning, awakening at half past nine o’clock to a mixture of anger and misery. For a while she just lay there, staring at the closed bed-curtains, refusing to dwell for an instant upon the incredible wickedness of Dr. Robert Victor and trying instead to think objectively of her brother’s shocking theft of the icon.
That item, an eleventh-century ivory, had depicted a woman (supposedly Zoë, daughter of Constantine VIII), with a very large head, the lower jaw greatly elongated, and a gross, extremely fleshy body. Aunt Estelle had gone into raptures when her brother-in-law inherited the objet d’art, and had insisted it be prominently displayed in the entrance hall. The colonel, however, had loathed the piece, unfailingly referring to it as “The Fat Ugly,” and warning those guests not already familiar with it to avoid looking in the icon’s direction, lest it spoil their dinner. Despite her father’s aversion to the piece, there could be no doubt but that it had been of great value, and Rosamond could not help but wonder how much money Charles had lost at his disastrous venture into gaming, and how much he had realized from the theft. That he, of all people, could have committed such a deed, let alone have known how to dispose of his ill-gotten gains, was astounding, but he must have been astute in his dealings, else some whisper of them would surely have become known to the authorities and eventually, reached Papa’s ears.
The very thought of such a disaster brought goose-flesh starting onto Rosamond’s arms. She loved her father deeply, and knew that she was loved in return, although William, God rest him, had been the favourite. There was no doubt in her mind that the colonel loved his sole remaining son, but she could understand why he found Charles a baffling enigma. William, light-hearted, quick-tempered, not a deep thinker, and a far less complicated individual than his brother, had entered willingly into the arguments the colonel delighted to provoke, had given back shout for shout when the discussion deteriorated into a heated quarrel, and had invariably been bested, whereupon he had laughed with his sire at his own defeat. Charles either side-stepped such embroilments by remaining silent, or with quiet logic so annihilated his sire’s position as to render further discussion out of the question, either of which procedures left the colonel scarlet-faced and quivering with frustrated rage. There was also, of course, the matter of Charles’s choice to enter the clergy, which had been a great disappointment to Papa, aggravated by the fact that poor Charles seemed unable to secure a suitable living and had of late been little more than a sort of substitute clergyman, sent by the Bishop to whichever parish was temporarily without a vicar. His meek acceptance of this state of affairs, and his flat refusal to accept the colonel’s edict that he “go up there and fight” for his rights had deepened his father’s scorn to the point that nowadays little attempt was made to conceal it.
Were Papa to discover that Charles had gambled away a large sum of money, concealed his guilty secret, and stolen from his own family to cover his losses…! Rosamond shuddered. She had no right to judge her brother, but she could not deny that the glow of pride she had always felt for him was no longer as bright. She could not love him less, for all that, and she would do anything in her power to prevent his disgrace. There could be no doubt, she thought grimly, as she reached for the bell-pull, that not for an instant would Dr. Victor hesitate to make good his threat. He was not the man to aim a pistol without being prepared to fire it. If he discovered Charles had told her of their unorthodox bargain, he would at once inform the colonel of his younger son’s depravity. Therefore, he must never learn that she knew how base he was. Besides, when Debbie came home and was presented to the wretched creature she might find him not in the least attractive. Her hand on the bell-pull was stilled. Surely Debbie was not that much of a nitwit…? Enraged by this involuntary and unwanted reaction, she tugged savagely on the embroidered pull.
Today, there would be much to do in connection with Papa’s fast-approaching birthday. Hopefully, Charles would keep Victor occupied, and she would be spared much contact with the scheming rogue.
She had reckoned without Trifle.
* * *
“Glad to hear you passed a good night, Doctor,” said the colonel, carving another slice of ham for their guest. “Set back breakfast by an hour so that you and the ladies might have an extra forty winks.”
Victor thanked him politely and said that he hoped their routine had not been disturbed on his account.
“Nonsense,” the colonel replied. “Thought that arm might be a bit of a pother, but if it ain’t and you feel up to par, Charles will take you for a ride around the district. Nice morning, though it may be a bit warmish later. I’d come with you m’self, but I’ve a boundary dispute to settle with m’neighbour. Claxton, Charles. Should be here directly. Dashed slippery customer, or I’d leave you to deal with him.”
Mrs. Porchester suggested, “Perhaps the doctor should rest today, Lennox. Perhaps he should rest. You look a little tired, Dr. Victor.”
“I’ll warrant he is,” said the colonel jovially. “You two fellows likely stayed up all hours, eh? Young jabbernolls! Did ever you see old school chums meet again without they must recall every past triumph, Estelle? I’ll wager there were some jolly conquests related, eh?” He glanced at his son, and his grin faded, “On your side, at least, Victor. The Reverend here don’t indulge in earthly failings.”
Charles flushed a little, but said nothing.
“Oh, you may be sure I can tell a few tall tales, sir,” said Victor.
Watching her brother, Rosamond was horrified by the oblique glance he slanted at the physician. If Papa had seen that malevolent glare, the fat would have been in the fire and no mistake! “I do not doubt that at all, Doctor,” she said quickly. “Might I pour you some mo
re coffee?”
He thanked her and held out his cup, adding with a twinkle, “You will have your father thinking I’ve regaled you with tall tales, ma’am.”
“I am very sure my papa is a sufficiently good judge of men to have properly evaluated you, sir,” she responded coolly.
“Oh, egad,” cried Victor, dismayed. “Never say you have done so, sir, or I am quite scuppered!”
The colonel gave a shout of laughter.
Mrs. Porchester said, “And that settles you, Rosamond! For shame, to so tease a guest!”
“’Ware, Victor,” warned Lennox. “My lass does not shy from a battle of wits, and will give as good as she gets.”
“Aha! And you have given me my plan of attack, sir. An I offer my respectful admiration, the lady must needs return in kind, no?”
Charles put in drily, “I’d think you’d have learned by now, Rob, that the one quality you can count on in the ladies is consistent inconsistency.”
“And there spake a true expert on things feminine,” sneered the colonel. “As culled from the ancient Greek philosophers, rather than life!”
A faint frown crept into Victor’s grey eyes.
Charles said placidly, “Why, we all can learn from books, sir. The Greeks were most—”
“Most crushing bores,” interposed his father with finality.
“Spelled with two o’s, dear?” enquired Estelle, fixing him with an irked stare.
Victor chuckled audibly and the colonel’s angry gaze flashed to him. “Come now, sir,” he said laughingly. “You have been neatly ambushed. Your pickets are taken! Own it!”
For a moment the room was very still, then the colonel grinned ruefully. “My sister-in-law’s tongue, alas, is—”
“Is humbly begging your pardon,” said Mrs. Porchester, contrite. “I forget we have a guest. Dr. Victor has been so kind, he seems almost one of the family.”
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