“Rejoice!” sneered Holt. “Your score with him is settled, as you see.”
From under the black brows Fairleigh’s gaze darted to him. “You have proved his involvement, then?”
“Amply.”
Fairleigh stared down at de Villars with a rather unpleasant smile. “Dead, is he?”
Victor said miserably, “I was—not sufficiently skilfull. Unfortunately.”
Charles turned perfectly white and ducked his head for a moment.
“Nonsense!” said Holt. “I seldom saw a better effort! As for you, Roland, I have no need to ask why you are here. Perhaps you will enlighten me as to when you were discovered and what you have learned.”
18
Fairleigh sighed and gave a Gallic gesture of resignation. “The one negates the other, alas. I was discovered before I learned anything of value, struck down without mercy, trussed up like a side of beef, and deposited in that disgusting wood-shed whence your splendid trooper rescued me!”
Victor had to struggle to restrain a start. He looked obliquely at Charles, who was regarding Fairleigh with a total lack of expression.
Also watching his cousin narrow-eyed, Holt snapped, “Which of these people attacked you?”
“Would that I knew.” Fairleigh sighed. “’Twas dark, and I was creeping up on this wretched structure to see who was inside. Next thing I knew, I had been beaten and stowed in my horrid prison. And just when I’d thought myself about to learn something. Life is so curst full of disappointments, alas. Speaking of which, if you shot young Singleton, my Jacob, you were off your mark, dear boy.”
“I did not.” Holt sneered, “But do, by all means, enlighten me.”
Rosamond, who had endured the sickening ordeal of assisting Victor through his crude surgery, was now overset by reaction and clung to Deborah, so weak in the knees that she could scarcely remain standing. Her shocked brain groped for an understanding of what was taking place. For some reason Roland Fairleigh had not betrayed them just now, but there was little hope that he would continue to be silent. She felt cold with despair and looked to the man she loved, longing for his comforting arm about her.
Victor also was grappling with this worsening situation. For there to be any chance at all of rescuing his lady and completing the task he was sworn to accomplish, at least one of them must be free to attempt a rescue. With Fairleigh’s advent, the last door appeared to have closed. And yet Fairleigh had not told his cousin about the cypher, or their Jacobite involvement. Why? Deborah Singleton had said he was a bounty hunter; perhaps he wanted not the reward for informing, but the treasure itself! He was just the type of flamboyant adventurer to scorn the achievable riches and shoot for the greater and unattainable prize. And regardless of his motives, their best hope was to make a move while Holt still had only half a patrol.
His gaze flickered over the opposition. The three troopers looked a poor lot; probably Callahan had the most spunk and he could be dealt with. Holt was a major danger, however, and Fairleigh would be no mean opponent. His glance shifted to the colonel. The man looked haggard, but his head was still well up. Of them all, he would be the power to be reckoned with, partly because he was Rosa’s father and must not be hurt. Howard Singleton slumped with his hips against the table and his head bowed. His wound appeared to have stopped bleeding, and Miss Deborah had taped the pad over it. The poor lad was likely devastated by grief and shock, aggravated by the effects of his wound; certainly he looked barely able to stay upright and would pose little of a problem. Even so, in the final analysis it was seven to two; poor odds, and four of the seven were armed, while the colonel had that damned great blunderbuss which could bring down a whole roomful was it loaded with nails or loose shot! His jaw set grimly. It was not beyond hope, and must be attempted.
Fairleigh’s impudent gaze reflected astonishment meanwhile, as he regarded his cousin. “Enlighten you?” he drawled. “Dear my Jacob—surely I must not hear aright? Do you—truly—admit that you need me to point out your traitors?”
The troopers grinned covertly at one another, and Callahan uttered a muffled snort.
Reddening, Holt said a pithy “Truly, I yearn to have been the one who administered that chastisement to your jaw, Roland! You are correct in that I need you not at all! Though you may make yourself useful—check and be sure that fellow is dead. You men—keep your arms at the ready.”
Two troopers swung up bayoneted muskets. Callahan aimed a pistol. Victor thought prayerfully, ‘Do not breathe, Treve old lad!’
Holt drew a document from his pocket and marched to confront the colonel, who immediately pulled back his shoulders and stood rigidly straight. Holt said sternly, “My regrets, sir, that I must bring bitter news to a man of your rank and reputation.” He turned to face Charles, unfolded the paper in his hand and read, “Charles Albritton, I arrest you in the King’s name as a ringleader in a scheme to protect traitorous fugitives from justifiable arrest and execution; for consistently plotting against the King’s justice in behalf of enemies of the Crown; for attempting to conceal and divert from the proper authorities a treasure amassed by The Young Pretender; and—for high treason ’gainst your king and country!”
Charles stood just as straight as his father. He was deathly pale but his eyes did not waver while these charges were listed, wincing only when that most terrible of all crimes, high treason, was levelled at him.
The colonel uttered a strangled sound as Holt swung to face Rosamond.
Charles cried angrily, “My sister is innocent! She knew nothing of this!”
Holt gave him a contemptuous look and proceeded to read off an almost identical indictment. Folding the paper, he said to the white-faced colonel, “We now know, sir, that your daughter went to Paris not merely to visit relatives, as you believed, but to attempt a meeting with a member of Prince Charles Stuart’s staff—one Colonel Sir Ian Crowley. Failing in that endeavour, she tricked an English officer into becoming her courier on the journey home, hoping in that way to shield herself from suspicion.”
Rosamond stood motionless, frozen with horror. She had escaped one nightmare, it seemed, only to be directly plunged into another. She felt dizzied, and was sustained only by the blind faith that her love and her brother would somehow contrive to rescue her.
Holt paused and asked over his shoulder, “Have I the right of that, Victor?”
Inwardly astounded, Victor lied gravely, “I fear I was quite taken in, Captain.”
“Not quite, sir.” Holt’s lip curled. “You protected the lady in the matter of her wound. ’Twas not taken aboard ship, I think.”
Victor’s mind raced. If he agreed to that, Mrs. Estelle would be implicated. “You’re out there, Holt. Miss Albritton did indeed suffer a—small scratch on the ship. But—er…” He lowered his eyes guiltily.
“But later suffered a more serious injury when she sought to help the wounded Jacobite near Lewes—is that it?”
“At the time, I set it down to misguided feminine sympathy.” Victor shrugged helplessly. “My error. But—” He glanced at the colonel’s glowering countenance, wondering how long the man meant to wait before exploding all this nonsense.
“I see. You felt sorry for Colonel Albritton. Regrettable. I would suggest you make a clean breast of it at the trial. You will be prepared to testify against the Albrittons, of course?”
Victor nodded.
“No!” wailed Deborah, drawing away from her cousin as though appalled. “Rosa—you were in love with Hal! Say this is not true! You cannot be a traitor! You—cannot!”
Holt threw her a pitying glance. “Regrettably, ma’am, your cousin’s loyalty to her brother appears to have outweighed her other loyalties.” He gestured to Callahan, and as the trooper moved forward, pistol at the ready, said, “Bring chains for our ignoble reverend. And be quick about it!”
Callahan went out, and Lightning, who had roused himself and was stretching lazily, jumped up and darted along with him, tail high.
Holt snapped, “Roly? What about de Villars?”
“Dead as a mackerel.” With a bored shrug Fairleigh looked up from de Villars’ motionless figure. “Wish he’d lasted long enough for me to—er, chat with him.” He tossed down the limp hand he had been investigating for a pulse and said, disappointed, “I owed him one, Jacob.”
“He’s paid the price. Be satisfied.” Holt frowned thoughtfully. There were questions to be asked now; details to be learned. ’Twould be as well if Roly was occupied elsewhere, for the less he knew, the better. He said, “Now you may be of more use. The rest of my patrol will be coming in and I’d not depend on their finding us. Get up on the Chichester Road and guide the blockheads here, if you please.”
“Do you know, Jacob,” drawled Fairleigh with a curl of the lip, “I believe you would be rid of me.”
“For what reason?” All innocence, Holt arched his brows. “Did I suspect you had withheld information, I’d simply have you put in irons and packed off to the Tower—dear boy.”
Fairleigh laughed. “You make your point, Coz. Deuce take me but you do.” He bowed low. “Mesdames et messieurs, I am obliged to leave you.” His impudent smile flashed at Victor. “Till we meet again, my friend.” He sauntered to the door and was gone.
Grief-stricken to hear of de Villars’ death, Charles had taken up his prayer-book and started toward the settle.
The colonel sprang forward.
Holt stepped swiftly between him and the desk whereon the blunderbuss lay.
His bitter gaze fixed on his son, the older man seemed scarcely to notice. “I do not blame Rosa so much,” he grated. “It was you! You dragged her into it! Always she has loved you more than any of us!”
Rosamond sobbed a strangled protest. Quivering with passion, the colonel swept on, “I had three children. My eldest son died in honour, while in the service of his country. My youngest son will die in shame ’neath the headsman’s axe! And”—his voice cracked a little—“and now—my loved daughter…!” His arm flailed out and the back of his hand smashed hard across Charles’s mouth. The prayer-book fell and he was sent staggering back to fetch up, gasping, against the reference table.
“When they are hacking your worthless limbs off—Reverend,” croaked the colonel brokenly, “you may console yourself with the thought that your gentle little sister … will be doomed … also! Damn you! Do you see what you have done to this family? Do you? You have destroyed us! You are no son of mine, sir! I have no son…” His shoulders sagged. “No—daughter…”
A thin line of crimson trickled down Charles’s chin but his father’s anguish struck home far more deeply than had his rage or the savage blow. Charles’s eyes fell, and he bowed his head, heartsick.
In a voice surprisingly gentle, Holt said, “Colonel Albritton, you’ve my deepest sympathy. Indeed, your sentiments do you credit. But—I must ask for an explanation. Mr. Singleton appears in no case to tell me what transpired here. I think you learned some of these truths before we arrived, no?”
“I did … indeed,” said the colonel, obviously making a strong effort to control his emotion and levelling a piercing glare at Victor. “My nephew was shot down without pity, Holt, because he—”
He was interrupted by a succession of thunderous crashes and a deafening outburst of hysterical barking. Pistol in hand, Holt sprinted to fling the door wide.
Whatever else might be said of Captain Jacob Holt, none could accuse him of cowardice. Running fearlessly down the steps, spurred on by that cacophonous barking, he saw through the dim light of a cloudy dawn that a man lay in a huddled heap a short distance away. What he did not see was the long chain tight-stretched across the steps. He ran into it, full-tilt, did a fine swan dive, emitted a brief, shocked cry, and landed hard.
Trifle had not previously encountered Lightning, but his ancestry included a long line of hunting hounds and when the cat had followed Callahan across the stable-yard, instinct had reared its head and Trifle had become imbued with the strength of three dogs. For some reason the revolting little house to which he was secured, having followed him this far, would not come through the railings as he had done. His hurled insults had been momentarily silenced by the jerk of the captain’s weight against the taut chain. Not one to be easily discouraged, however, and maddened by the cat which sat just out of reach, smiling a smug feline smile as it cleaned its whiskers, Trifle resumed his full-throated monologue.
The two troopers, also alarmed by the uproar, had instinctively jerked around to the door. Victor, directly in the line of fire, was helpless. Without an instant’s hesitation, Charles grabbed his cherished (and very heavy) edition of the Life of Homer as recorded by Herodotus in Ionic Greek. He brought it down with all his strength on the head of one trooper, who grunted and melted to the floor. Even as he did so, the colonel snatched up his blunderbuss and swung it high. The second trooper, not quick-witted, started to run. The blunderbuss landed, not on the young clergyman as Victor had feared, but on the back of the slow trooper’s neck. The unfortunate soldier dropped his musket and joined his friend in slumber.
The sudden small well of silence was a startling aftermath to the moments of violence. Rosamond held her breath. Charles watched his father uncertainly. Scowling, the colonel marched over to him. Charles flinched a little in anticipation of another blow. The colonel drew out his handkerchief and wiped the blood from his son’s chin. “Damned … young idiot!” he grumbled.
Charles blinked. “I—do not understand. Sir—does this mean—you have forgiven me?”
“It most certainly does not!” rasped the colonel, his whiskers extremely active. “Can you believe I would forgive any son of mine for doing what you have done?”
Charles stifled a sigh and the dawning light of hope died from his eyes. “No, sir.”
“I am a fighting man!” declared the colonel proudly. “I wanted a son with gumption! Not a niminy-piminy missish do-nothing of a ranting, canting preacher! Can you understand that?”
“Yes, sir.”
“What I have, it seems,” went on the colonel, “is a—rebellious priest who has the confounded effrontery to—to fight for what he believes in. As a man should do. Right, or … wrong! And you’re wrong, of course, Charles! Hopelessly in the wrong, as I shall point out to you when there’s more time! Only—I find you mean more to me than … my principles, dammit!” His voice broke. He reached out and pulled his son into a crushing hug.
Overcome, Charles buried his convulsed face against his father’s neck.
Very briefly, the colonel’s hand rested on the thick fair hair. He said unevenly, “Sorry I hit you so hard, boy. But—it had to look genuine! There must be somebody left here to make sure there’s something for you to inherit when the King declares an amnesty!”
With a cry of joy, Rosamond ran to throw her arms about them both and was at once drawn into the embrace.
Victor, more moved than he would have cared to admit, turned a wary gaze on Howard Singleton.
His eyes very bright now, the boy crossed to face him. “Is it true, sir? About Hal?”
“I wish it were not,” said Victor grimly. “I mean—I wish I might tell you he died easier. ’Twas my great honour to have known him, and whatever you may think of his political beliefs, you could have had no finer man for your brother! He was a right bonny wee lad.”
Charles dragged a hand across his eyes, muttered something that brought a shaken smile to his father, and reached out to Deborah. She flew into his arms. He hugged her, then asked hoarsely, “Well, Howard? Are you with—or against us?”
“With you! I still don’t understand it, but—yes. With you, Charles!”
“Then we must move fast, if we’re to pull this off. Howard, go and quiet that wretched hound! We’ll have everyone down here soon enough! Have a care! Holt’s on the prowl. Then find Miss Rosamond’s abigail and send her to fetch her brother Jock. He’s a Scot living nearby and will help us.”
Singleton sprinted for the door.
Victor said, “I’ll get after the staunch captain. Charles, these two—”
“Never fear,” said the colonel. “We’ll store them away somewhere safe.”
“Blindfolds first, sir,” cautioned Victor, and turned to Rosamond. “Give a look at Treve, lassie.”
“But—he’s dead,” she stammered.
“I’ve a hope your friend Fairleigh lied for us. Quickly now.”
She went at once to the settle and Victor ran outside.
Howard was picking himself up from the foot of the steps. He called a sharp—“’Ware the chain!” and Victor vaulted it in the nick of time.
Peering through the greying darkness, he discerned the ravening and frantically leaping “puppy” at one end of the chain; the new kennel tight-jammed against the stair-railing at the other end; and Captain Jacob Holt sprawled on the ground, in the middle. His jaw dropped. Awed, he gasped, “Did that—stupid hound drag his house … all this way? Whisht! I canna believe it!”
“I can!” Howard rubbed his knee painfully. “I took a pretty tumble over that dratted chain myself. Evidently, the bars stopped his kennel. I fancy the cat set Trifle off. Only look how it taunts him!”
“Zounds!” muttered Victor. “Turn the pup loose. Lightning will deal with him, I don’t doubt. Then blindfold, gag, and tie Holt—unless he’s broken that stiff neck of his. I’m after Callahan.”
Singleton freed Trifle, who went tearing in pursuit of a rapidly vanishing cat.
Starting towards the house, Victor halted, tensing as another figure loomed into view beside a prostrate form.
“Ith only me,” announced an unmistakable voice. “There’th a dragoon here who theemth to have—er, fallen down, poor chap.”
Callahan lay huddled and unmoving. Victor enquired, “Your work?”
Briley’s grin flashed whitely through the dimness. “Never knew what hit him.” He restored a large horse-pistol to his pocket and picked up a set of chains and a coiled length of rope. “Obliging of him to have provided theeth. Lookth ath if we may need ’em. Have I mithed all the fun?”
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