Dedicated Villain

by Patricia Veryan

  ‘The tables, or the ponies?’ wondered Mathieson, cynically.

  Bradford sighed. “Lost everything. So ’tis we are reduced to these revolting vehicles. A nomadic life. And now I go to appeal for help from my childhood bosom bow.”

  “Mr. Torrey’s uncle?”

  “What? Oh—yes! That’s true. The boy’s sadly smitten, as you saw. And there’s no doubting we are indebted to him already.” He drove a fist into his palm, his head bowing. “If you knew how it grieves me that my sweet child should be reduced to the humiliation of living in a caravan!”

  “She don’t seem crushed to me, sir.”

  The dark head lifted. Bradford said proudly, “’Twould take more than the loss of our estates to crush my Fiona! She may grieve what we’ve lost, but she’d die sooner than let me see it! That’s what makes it so—so damnably hard, d’you see? She has such complete trust—such courage. Why, bless her brave heart, she’s never uttered one word of reproach, never blamed me. The dear little soul is as full of confidence in me as if I were—ten times the man I am! And I’ll tell you, Mathieson, a girl like that can make a man ten times himself!” He sighed wistfully. “But—never fear. I’d be granting you the greatest possible gift, but I’ll not demand you make an honest woman of her!”

  ‘Hmmnn,’ thought Roland Fairleigh Mathieson, chilled.

  He was unarmed, alone, and desperate. He ran frantically, although his right foot dragged a heavy ball and chain. Behind him pounded Bradford and Torrey armed with great gleaming war axes. And in every pew of the great cathedral, ladies he had loved, men he had fought, and countless outraged mamas, howled encouragement—to his pursuers.

  “St. Thomas!” he pleaded sobbingly. “Help!” But from high in the shadowed buttresses came a faint response, “Gone fishing …”

  He could see the altar now, the archbishop standing before it. A man of no great stature, with hands clasped, mouth droopingly contemptuous, and a great dog lying beside him, its head resting on one of his high-heeled shoes. “Muffin,” he groaned. “Help me!”

  The Duke of Marbury shook his stately head. “We do not help those who are beneath contempt!”

  Fiona Bradford walked slowly from the choir stalls and stood beside the ducal archbishop. She wore a glorious gown of white lace and satin, but her face was all mud.

  And he was doomed, for Bradford and Torrey had gripped him by the arms now and were dragging him forward.

  “No!” he screamed.

  “Wrong answer!” snarled Torrey, and raised his weapon until the razor-sharp blade of that great axe bit into the captive’s throat.

  The duke looked put out. “You must say—‘I do,’” he chided.

  “I won’t,” Mathieson cried defiantly. “Kill me, but I—”

  Another lady drifted into view. A dainty lady of peerless beauty and great sad dark eyes. She floated above the altar, her shining wings outstretched, a glowing aura about her loveliness. “Oh, Roly,” she murmured. “Mon fils … mon fils … que faire?”

  And sweating, horrified, he knew what must be done. He could not bring tears to his beloved maman. He was trapped. He would marry the muddy girl and have dozens of muddy children … Good God!

  “Very well,” he muttered through dry lips. “I … do.”

  “Well I do not!” cried Miss Fiona.

  A great gasp arose from the crowded pews. The archbishop threw up his hands; Torrey and Bradford uttered shocked cries.

  He himself stood trembling, not daring to hope.

  Pointing one finger, incensed, Miss Fiona shrilled, “His toenails want cutting!”

  He looked down. He was barefoot.

  “I’ll cut ’em!” roared Torrey, and swung up his axe.

  With a shout of terror, Mathieson woke up.

  He was in the caravan, his heart thundering. “Thank the Lord!” he gasped, enormously relieved. Deep rumblings emanated from the opposite bunk, but the one above his own appeared to be empty. Mr. Torrey had found other accommodations for the night.

  Panting, drenched with sweat, Mathieson lay back again, and as his breathing eased and the vivid nightmare faded, he listened drowsily to the steady beating of the rain and wondered where Rob MacTavish was spending the night and how soon he would be able to come up with him. If he lost his chance at that Jacobite gold when he had at last come so close to the end of the rainbow … Still, if he hadn’t been riding this way last evening it was very likely that foolish chit would have hung onto the tree until the bank gave way beneath her. He frowned at the upper bunk. She should never have been left alone by her charming but irresponsible father. And as for Torrey! His frown became a scowl. Was that where the surly block had gone? But—no, it was unlikely. Evidently Torrey’s intentions were honourable; he actually wanted to marry the chit. A fine chance he stood! She might want for manners and have no notion of correct behaviour, but she was kind and warm-hearted and deserved better than the likes of Freemon Torrey …

  By ten o’clock Mathieson was well on his way, riding at a steady canter, bathed in a warm and beneficent sunlight. He had risen before dawn and, thanks to the vibrations of Mr. Bradford’s snores, had been enabled to don the clothes which he’d found on the solitary chair, and limp outside, undetected. It had stopped raining, and the brilliance of the morning had also revealed that Miss Fiona had done remarkably well with his garments. His shirt and cravat were clean, if not ironed, and most of the mud had been brushed from his breeches and cloak. If it should rain again, which it very likely would, he’d look no worse than any other bedraggled traveller. He suffered a momentary qualm to think of the chit staying up half the night to achieve such results for him, but perhaps she considered this fair payment for the rescue of her repulsive cat. At all events, it was as well to put as much ground between them as possible, just in case her flamboyant papa should change his mind and turn the nightmare dream into a horrid reality!

  Rumpelstiltskin was in high spirits, eager to run. Mathieson gave him his head, guiding him on a course that ran parallel to the highway, but remaining, as far as was possible, out of sight of any traveller. Swaying easily in the saddle, his keen eyes alert for a sign of his valuable quarry, Mathieson’s thoughts drifted to the task before him.

  He suffered no qualms of conscience regarding his intention to divert as much as possible of the Scottish treasure into his own pockets. That those who had contributed their gold and valuables now stood in dire need was no concern of his. ‘The fools brought it on themselves,’ he thought contemptuously. Nor was he much interested in the bitter plight of those Jacobites who had escaped the slaughter on Culloden Field only to be hunted like animals the length and breadth of England. He had no intention of persecuting them himself—unless they carried information of use to him—nor had he the least desire to inform against them or hand them over to torment and slaughter. But as to helping them—rubbish! They were grown men who had known the risks when they took up arms against the Crown. One made one’s decisions in life and, if those decisions went awry, one contrived somehow, without whining, or repining, or involving others in one’s difficulties.

  He’d had his own difficulties, heaven knows! He’d come within snatching distance of the treasure when its existence had first become known. But as is so often the case, just when everything was going along nicely, a fly had to plop into the treacle. In this case the “fly” was personified by a set of curst interfering persons he designated The Busybodies. Many of these idiots had been violently opposed to the Cause of Charles Stuart; some of the men had actually fought against him. Yet all were so appalled by the ruthless persecution of escaped Jacobites and the privations of their hapless families, that they had banded together to help in any way possible. They had impeded his own efforts several times and were now intent upon a plan to restore the treasure to the original donors—a dastardly scheme he was determined to sabotage.

  Half an hour later, he still had caught no glimpse of the MacTavish coach. The odds against picking up a trail lost
for over twelve hours might well have discouraged another man, but not the least of Mathieson’s attributes was his unquenchable optimism. A decision was indicated, however, and he pulled Rumpelstiltskin to a halt, and considered his next move carefully.

  He was convinced that for the treasure to have reached England in the first place, it could only have been sent down the west coast aboard ship. Prince Charles was known to have spent considerable time in the Isles of the Western Sea, which fact seemed to lend credence to this theory. Mathieson’s personal opinion was that for Charles Stuart to have sent his treasure to England was as brilliant as it was daring; certainly it must have been the last move his enemies would have expected. Further, if the valuable cargo had indeed been hidden in haste, as he had reason to believe, it followed that the hiding places must be near the coast. Therefore, although MacTavish had yesterday turned eastward to Cheltenham, it seemed unlikely that he would continue to the east, but more probably would at this point either swing north toward Kidderminster and Wolverhampton, or strike west through the Malvern Hills into Herefordshire. But which?

  Mathieson put the matter up to his four-legged friend. “Rump,” said he whimsically, “an you toss your head once we will immediately turn west into the hills. Two tosses, and we continue to follow the river, at least as far as Tewkesbury, hoping for a sight of the elusive bounder.”

  As was his fashion when addressed by his master, Rumpelstiltskin snorted amiably and tossed his head.

  “Once, is it?” Mathieson patted his glossy neck, then reined around to the west. “As you will, then.”

  4

  Mathieson came upon the hedge tavern by following the smoke that drifted up from behind a fine stand of oak trees. Riding slowly down the hill, watching the vista gradually unfold to reveal a wandering stream, a goosegirl herding her flock across an emerald meadow, and the old tavern standing in thatched and whitewashed serenity amid its oaks, he was not surprised to see an artist at work. An elderly man, seated at his easel, absorbed in his task.

  Mathieson was as absorbed in the goosegirl. Even from this distance it was apparent that she had a comely figure. He grinned, and whistled the command that urged the well-trained stallion into an immediate stretching gallop. They reached the meadow with a flurry of air and a thunder of hooves, and Mathieson dismounted to bow to the pretty creature. The geese scattered. The girl was frightened, wherefore it was only common kindness to soothe her. Besides, she was even prettier than he had hoped, with that special prettiness that comes from youth and fresh-scrubbed cheeks innocent of paints and powders. He questioned her cautiously about the MacTavish coach. She answered with shyness and regret that she had seen no such vehicle. However, she proved more than willing to make up for this lapse by returning his kisses, nor did she raise any objection to a roving hand, even if that hand was bound up in a rather grubby bandage … Still, he dared not linger too long—the Scot was not far ahead, he was sure of it. Reluctantly rearranging her bodice, therefore, he lifted his head to smile at her, met a yearning look that suddenly became scared, and from the corner of his eye glimpsed a large dark shape hurtling at him.

  He had forgotten the artist. His left hand blurred to the jewelled hilt of his Arabian jambiya dagger, his right grabbed instinctively but abortively for his deadly colichemarde. He heard the goosegirl scream, had time only for a half-formed thought that the old fool might believe he was abusing the girl, then something heavy slammed into his back, and he measured his length on the turf.

  A warm, wet object was flapping about his neck; heavy blows thudded at him, driving the breath from his lungs; whines and smothered grunts, familiar but impossible, were in his ears. Disbelieving, he flung up an arm to protect himself, and rolled over. The goosegirl had departed. A great head, neither Alsatian nor mastiff but something of each, hung over him, powerful jaws grinning, and big brown eyes adoring him.

  “Beast!” he gasped, incredulous, and was at once deafened by a bark that must have been heard three miles away. What appeared to be a yard of pink tongue sloshed across his mouth. Spluttering, he loosed his hold on the dagger, and sat up, drawing his sleeve across his face, fending off the dog’s rapturous excitement, caressing him even as he damned his ears, his own eyes darting to the side, then fixing there. Incredulity became stupefaction.

  The artist stood watching. He was of no great stature, his shabby clothing seeming to indicate a minimum of success in his chosen profession. His grey hair was thick and neatly tied back. He had a wide mouth, a thin hooked nose, bushy eyebrows, and there was a smear of green paint down his long chin. Not, one would say, a figure to strike awe into the heart of such a fighting machine as was Captain Mathieson. Yet that ruthless young man’s jaw dropped, his black eyes were glazed, and, forgetting his manners he gasped, “M-Muffin …?”

  The bushy eyebrows lifted. A gleam of amusement lit the pale blue eyes. “You recognize me,” murmured his Grace the Duke of Marbury. “But how charming. And quite remarkable, under the circumstances. You were very fast with your dagger, Mathieson. I commend you, though I trust you will feel inclined to spare Beast and return it to its sheath. Thank you. No—pray do not stand. I purely detest being obliged to look up to you.”

  Mathieson flushed, but one did not remain in an ungainly sprawl while one’s grandparent stood. He compromised by kneeling. His bewildered gaze roved the duke’s person, then sought about for attendants.

  “I am disturbed that you were rather tardy with that ready sword of yours,” said Marbury. “A man in your—er, profession—Ah, but you have hurt your hand, I see. That explains matters. Are you looking for my servants? I am quite alone.”

  “B-But—sir …” Mathieson absently removed Beast’s tail from around his jaw. “Surely—That is—I mean—Why on earth would you—”

  “Yes. I quite see that an explanation is required.” The duke sighed and seated himself upon a convenient rocky outcrop of the hillside. “’Tis nothing more devious than that I find it necessary at times to run away from my responsibilities. I cannot mingle with my fellow man in my customary garb. Not, at least, without drawing the type of company and attention I seek to escape. Hence,” he indicated his worn and humble clothing, “my disguise.”

  “If ever I heard of such a thing!” exclaimed Mathieson, much shocked. “You should not risk yourself in such a way, your Grace!”

  “I was a man before I was a duke, my boy. ’Tis naughty, of course, but you can have no notion of what you avoid by being—ah—exempted from the line of succession.” He saw his deplorable grandson’s fine mouth close with a snap and the familiar chill come into the dark eyes. A wry smile touched his own lips. “Are you, might one enquire,” he went on, “in the way of effecting an escape yourself? Or do you pursue, rather, your usual … line of endeavour?”

  “Such is my intent,” drawled Mathieson, pushing Beast away so that he could regain his feet. His ankle, which had been less bothersome today, had not benefited from the dog’s enthusiasm and was throbbing again. He strove to keep most of his weight on his left foot, brushed his coat, scowled at his twice muddied breeches, and returned a cool and veiled gaze to his illustrious grandparent. “Wherefore, your Grace, with your permission, I shall be about my business.”

  The duke pointed out gently, “But I have not granted my permission, you see. Be so good as to assuage my curiosity by favouring me with a minute or two of your so valuable time.” His grandson’s handsome head being stiffly but respectfully inclined, he folded his fine-boned hands and went on: “Thank you, dear boy. I am intrigued, for example, to learn whether at this particular point in time, you are a Fairleigh, a Mathieson, or hide behind that repulsive pseudonym—Otton.”

  “I use my own name, sir.”

  “Ah. An improvement.” Marbury watched Beast return to sink down at his feet. “Provided,” he appended, “you are not involved in that which will further tarnish it.”

  As usual, thought Mathieson gritting his teeth, although he towered above the old gentleman,
he felt about six inches tall in his presence. He shrugged, assumed a bored smile and murmured, “Too late for this leopard to change his spots, sir. Did you require anything more of me?”

  The duke sighed. “Only that which you are incapable of giving, alas. Honour … loyalty … integrity …” Another ripple disturbed the proud set of his grandson’s jaw. ‘The boy is easily stung today,’ he thought. “You are both bored and impatient, I know,” he said. “How are you hurt? Not another duel, surely?”

  “A fall, your Grace.”

  “Taken, I presume, in a brawl.” The faintest of frowns disturbed the ducal brow. “The price you pay in this endless pursuit of easy riches!”

  “The fall was in no way connected with my—quest, your Grace.” Rumpelstiltskin had started to graze, and Mathieson whistled. The big horse at once cantered to his side and whuffled affectionately at his shoulder. “No food for you, rascal,” said Mathieson, stroking the velvety muzzle. “We’ve to let you cool off before you eat your luncheon. Can’t have you getting a bellyache.” The stallion did not seem to argue with this, but Beast roused himself and came to push between man and horse, wagging his tail and grinning ingratiatingly. “Jealous,” scolded Mathieson, amused.

  The duke nodded. “In more ways than one. How many commands have you taught that stallion of yours?”

  “Lord—I never counted, sir. Dozens.”

  “Not all spoken, I think?”

  “Oh, no. Many by a particular whistle, some by voice or hand signal.”

  “The devil you say! Either the brute is of great intelligence or you must have expended a great many weary hours training him.”