Lambert’s smiling face came into his blurred view. That deep and hated voice enquired solicitiously, “Can you see, dear Roly? Sergeant—do something about his eyes, there.”
A damp rag was applied, and he could see a little better. What were they going to do to him now? He mustn’t cry out again. Lambert loved that. But—merciful heaven how terrible was this pain … ‘The Lord is my shepherd …’ He clung to what he could remember of that kindly old Psalm.
Lambert purred—“Only look who we’ve found to keep you company …”
Roland blinked. Oh God! Had they caught Torrey? It was hard to see, but … beyond Lambert’s handsome face someone loomed … Only—it wasn’t a someone! With a gasp of terror he saw a faintly discernible white blaze, heard the enquiring whinny. ‘Rump!’
Lambert laughed softly. “I shall ask you again, my poor fellow. Where is the list …? Where is the treasure …? Who is Ligun Doone? Spare yourself, Roly … and—your faithful friend, here …”
Mathieson was shuddering with fear. If he didn’t answer, they’d hurt Rump … They mustn’t hurt dear old Rump! He couldn’t bear that! No! He’d have to tell them … he’d have to give in … But … Fiona … Mon Dieu! Mon Dieu!!’
Lambert reached out and shook his arm very gently, but it was not the waves of agony that brought sobs welling up in Mathieson’s throat. ‘Rump … oh, Rump … Je suis … vraiment … désolé! … So very … sorry …!’
Lambert shook his head regretfully. “What a stubborn fool you are, to be sure. You do but make it hard for everyone. Sergeant,” he added with his pleasant smile. “Put a bullet in the horse’s right knee, will you?”
“No!” groaned Mathieson, his battered face reflecting a deeper torment than he had yet known, his one visible eye pleading desperately, and his moveable hand clutching feebly at Lambert’s boot. “Please, Brooks … Have … mercy! I implore … I beg you! Not—not him!”
“But—my dear boy,” explained Lambert reasonably, “I’m not responsible for this. You are! You’ve brought it all on yourself, Roly. There now, never look so grieved. You can put an end to this distasteful business. ’Tis so very simple. Just tell me what I want to—” He jerked back, his face convulsing as Mathieson choked out three pithy words which (as Patchett was later to happily relate) described the lieutenant down to the ground. Lambert’s powerful fist clenched and flew up, his narrowed eyes glittered with fury, but he took a breath, and with a supreme effort, mastered himself. “Sergeant …” he snarled, “you heard me. Now!”
Patchett reached down and drew the long pistol from its holster. He could feel the reb shaking, poor cove. Lor’, but it was a fine animal! And only look how it watched Otton—like it fair loved the chap. How the hell was he to cripple that great horse? It would break the reb—little doubt of that … This was the first time he’d groaned in that sobbing way—the first time he’d begged for mercy, ’cept to ask for water. His own hand trembled as he lifted the weapon. He couldn’t do it! But—if he didn’t, Lambert would ruin him. He’d be discharged with dishonour. And that meant he wouldn’t be able to get work anywhere. Kitty and the babe—they’d starve, belike … Gawd! He thought, ‘Sorry, mate! It’s a hard cruel world!’ And he let Mathieson down and stood, taking careful aim.
With every ounce of his strength, Mathieson dragged himself to one elbow. To breathe now was torment, but he fought the pain and whistled a shrill, steady note.
Rumpelstiltskin whinnied, and reared, hooves flailing the air, sending the trooper who’d held him jumping for his life. Lambert flung himself sideways, tearing at his holster, shouting, “Shoot him, you dolt! Shoot him!”
The stallion went into a bucking spin, his back legs kicked out, and Patchett also was obliged to jump aside, chancing to collide with Lambert and thus spoiling his aim, so that his shot went wide.
With a thunder of hooves, Rumpelstiltskin was away, a chestnut streak across the yard and into the woods.
“After him!” howled Lambert. “You two men as well! If you can’t catch him, shoot him down! Let him get away, Sergeant, and by God, I’ll break you!”
Paling, the sergeant raced for the nearest horse, mounted with a flying leap, and was off, the corporal and a trooper following.
Lambert rounded on Mathieson, who lay there, a shattered and bloody wreck, but with a quiveringly defiant grin on his torn lips.
Maddened, Lambert’s temper snapped and he swung back his boot.
Clifford Augustus Fairleigh Mathieson, Duke of Marbury, elegant in dark blue velvet and silver lace, stood at the window of his study in this, his favourite house, and contemplated the pleasure gardens with their gracefully winding paved walks, benches, and statuary; the tastefully placed trees and shrubs; the glistening sweep of the ornamental water, and the bejewelled sprays of the fountains. He loved Dominer. To a degree, many people shared his affection for the crescent-shaped three-story mansion, for it was one of England’s most admired houses. The setting was equally as delightful, Dominer being situated upon a low hill in the beautiful Cotswold country, compassed by lush green valleys and richly wooded higher slopes. It was a joy to the eye at any season of the year, retaining its beauty no matter what the weather. Sometimes, he became lonely in the great house, for he was not one to surround himself with people unless they were friends whose company he really valued. He had been away a great deal this year, however, and as always Dominer seemed to welcome him. He smiled faintly. It was good to be home.
He was glad he had deeded the mansion to the Aynsworths. Kit and his Leone were the type of young people who held out the best hope for England’s future. And heaven knows, poor Kit had known his share of sorrow. He frowned a little. It had not been easy to intercede with His Majesty and win an amnesty for the boy. He rather thought, in point of fact, that he was the one man in Britain could have pulled it off. Only the fact that Kit Aynsworth had such a splendid military record, and had not been personally involved with those confounded Jacobites had convinced King George in his favour.
Marbury pursed well-cut lips and clasped long-fingered hands behind him. It had been a close run thing all right, despite his friendship with the monarch. And, of all things, no sooner had he become deeply involved with Lord Christopher Aynsworth’s desperate dilemma, than he’d been obliged to sally to the rescue of young Anthony Farrar. A vicious plot, that, and had almost cost poor Tony his life. He’d suspected there must be some connection to the Jacobite business when he’d seen his scapegrace grandson hanging about Sir Anthony’s estate, but he’d not dreamed how deeply, and how dangerously, he’d got himself involved once more. He would have to be careful henceforth—very careful. George was a friend, and had been kind, but kings went knee deep in treachery, and tended to believe the worst, and if a king could have his head cropped at the shoulders certainly a duke was not exempt from such tender mercies. No, there must be no more dealings having the slightest taint of Stuart about them!
His thoughts turned to his errant grandson. How pleasant it would have been to deed this house to Roland. Not that he begrudged the Aynsworths, God bless them! But—to have had a Mathieson here to care for the great house after he was gone … He sighed. Useless dreams. Roland was just as worthless as his sire had said. And Dudley had been a fine judge of worthlessness. Why was it, his Grace wondered rather wearily, that a man strove so hard to protect his son—to guard him against the trap that had blighted his own life—and the son went from folly to folly until he got himself a bastard born of a cheap, money-grubbing French slut, and then as good as killed himself?
The duke sighed again. Would it have made any difference, he wondered, if he himself had married the girl he’d loved long ago? If they had been blessed with children, would it all have turned out the same, anyway? Had it been preordained that he be forced into marriage with a woman he despised and walk through life unutterably lonely—unutterably despairing? That his only son must break his heart, and his grandson disgrace and befoul the proud name he should have been gra
teful to bear? For all the blessings of wealth and power, was not the lowliest peasant with a happy family life more blessed than a duke who had no one to—
The door opened softly behind him, and he started to turn, but Beast’s head was on his foot and Beast was fast asleep. Wherefore, my lord duke waited until his butler’s hauteur hove into view.
“Your Grace,” intoned that rotund magnificence. “Your pardon—’tis most irregular, but—”
The mighty Kildwick was flustered. Astonished, Marbury prompted, “But—?”
“’Tis—Sorenson, your Grace. Captain Roland’s man. Begs a—a private word, sir!” The pale eyes lowered from the ceiling to rest upon the duke in anguished apology and appeal.
Marbury had long since come to grips with the fact that he was a too sensitive man of small stature in a large, insensitive and remorseless world. The barriers he had built to protect himself were, or so he had fancied, invincible. Now, for no appreciable reason, an invisible hand came over the top of that invisible wall and touched the back of his neck with a finger of ice. He removed his foot from under the somnolent dog with such rapidity that Beast’s head thudded to the floor.
“Show him in at once,” said Marbury crisply.
Kildwick looked shocked, but departed.
Both reproachful and bewildered, Beast sat up. His Grace rested a white, beringed hand on the dog’s head and apologized, then crossed to the great armchair, limping a little since his foot had gone to sleep. He sat down, drumming his unusually long thin fingers on the rich red velvet of the chair arm, and wondering why he felt so apprehensive. Beast heaved himself to a standing position, staggered over, and sat beside him. He did not at once collapse, and Marbury’s sense of something very much amiss, deepened.
The door opened for a second time and the man known simply as Sorenson entered, bowed, and waited just inside. The duke gave a graceful and encouraging gesture. Mr. Sorenson, sleek, urbane, discreet, drifted nearer.
“How may I be of service,” enquired his Grace gently.
Behind his calm mask, Sorenson thought, ‘By allowing me to cut out what poses as your heart, sir.’ He said, “I apologize for this breach of etiquette, your Grace. I am—disturbed about your—Captain Roland.”
“My grandson. Yes. Well,” said the duke drily, “I have been disturbed about him for years, but—”
Briefly, an expression of such ferocity lit the veiled brown eyes that Marbury was rendered speechless. Then the lashes were discreetly lowered over those betraying eyes. His Grace blinked. “In what way are you disturbed, may I ask?”
“He went off without me, sir. Some seven weeks since. I—I have reason to believe he has met with an—er, accident.”
Briefly, Marbury’s hand tightened on the arm of his chair. Then, he drawled, “Your concern is to be commended. Would it reassure you to know that I encountered him last month? And that he was, regrettably, his usual—self?”
“Thank you, your Grace. But—no.” The duke’s brows lifted very slightly. Sorenson felt rebuked, but persisted doggedly. “Captain Roland knows I—I worry, if he is away very long. He always sends a note—just a line perhaps. I have had not a word, sir.”
The duke stood, looking bored. “He is a grown man. Really, I fail to—”
Desperate, Sorenson committed the cardinal sin and interrupted. “It was my birthday last Monday, sir. Master—I mean, Captain Roland has never forgotten! Not these fourteen years! Not once, your Grace!”
This man had served Roland since he was barely out of the schoolroom; had even gone to Flanders as his batman. The rather sallow face was beaded with perspiration, and the anxiety in the dark eyes was intense. Marbury said curiously, “You are fond of my grandson, Sorenson.”
“I would follow him to the ends of the earth. I—I impore you, sir, to make enquiries. I would do so myself, but—I have small means, and—and I don’t even know where he went.”
“He went north,” said Marbury, baffled because he sensed loathing and was astonished that so careless a young rake as Roland could inspire such devotion. “Hunting that damnable Stuart gold.”
Sorenson uttered a faint sound of despair. “I know you think me quite mad, sir. But—”
The door opened for the third time.
Irked, the duke snapped, “Kildwick, I do not wish to be disturbed!”
“Do you not, indeed, Marbury!” The imperious feminine voice presaged the appearance of a small personage who swept past the despairing butler with a whisper of silks and the flutter of a large fan. “Then you are like to be prodigious disappointed, for I mean to disturb you enormously!”
His Grace stared in astonishment at a lady he had not seen for more than half a lifetime, but whom he knew at once. A tiny lady with suspiciously bright cheeks, but a skin as smooth as a woman half her age, and a pair of rogueish green eyes that frowned on him briefly, softened in the light of his lax jaw and stunned shock, then frowned again. She extended a tiny gloved hand. The duke recovered himself sufficiently to bow over it. She still wore the same scent, he realized numbly. And she had not run to fat … “Cl-Clorinda,” he stammered.
“I am here,” she said, “seeking my beloved Roland, and—”
“Your … beloved …” gasped his Grace.
“Roland,” she nodded. “Has he reached here? Have you had word of him?”
Recovering sufficiently to guide her to a chair, the duke struggled for composure and managed to say with some semblance of coherence, “I was not— Did not know I was to receive a … er, visit from my grandson. Surely, you are mistaken, but—”
Again, incredibly, the door opened. Really angered this time, Marbury said in a voice of ice, “Kildwick! I must not have made myself clear. I do not wish to be disturbed!”
The butler was almost in tears. “Your Grace—forgive … Truly, he is a … a dreadful person! But—he insists ’tis a matter of life and—and death, sir! And he sent—this …”
He held out one hand. On the palm was a silver button.
With a muffled imprecation, Sorenson fairly sprang to snatch it up. “Show him in,” he said in an odd, strained voice.
Kildwick curled his lip and glanced at the duke.
Marbury was beginning to be uneasy. He frowned, but nodded, and the butler went off again. “Might I perhaps be allowed to see that?” the duke enquired with faint sarcasm.
Sorenson hurried to hand him the button. “’Tis Master Roland’s token, your Grace. He sometimes sends it to me with anyone having a message for my personal ear.”
The duke gazed at the button. “I was not aware that the Captain uses the Mathieson crest.”
“He doesn’t, your Grace. Only in the signet ring, and a few private and—most treasured objects.”
Marbury glanced up. Again, Sorenson was regarding him coldly. Unaccustomed to such a glare, he quite forgot the little lady who sat so silently, watching. “Perhaps you might care to explain—” he began, but the opening door interrupted him.
A fawningly obsequious individual came in, bowing at every step, his smile an offense, his clothing a disaster—especially a lurid belcher neckerchief—and about him the air of the unwashed. “Very kind, I’m sure, sir,” he whined, edging nearer. “Arternoon sir, and ma’am. Benjamin F. Hessell, at y’r service, Duke. I see ye got th—”
“What do you know of Captain Otton?” interposed Sorenson, disregarding protocol.
Hessell’s crafty eyes brightened. He’d struck gold here, all right. “Why—I might be able ter tell yer something. But—I’m a poor man. A honest, but poor man, and—” He was shocked then by the look in the tall cove’s eyes and the remorseless approach of that same tall cove. He drew back, flinging up a shielding arm. “Don’t yer dare hit me!” he gabbled. “The dragoons got him!”
Lady Clorinda dropped her fan.
His face white as chalk, Sorenson gasped, “Sacré bleu!”
The duke, a little nerve beginning to beat at his temple, stepped forward. “Mr. Hessell, I fail to unde
rstand what dragoons would want with my grandson, but if you indeed bring word of him, you will be well paid. Do I take it Captain Mathieson has been arrested?”
‘His grandson!’ Hessell brightened and stood straighter. “Yussir. But, er—how well, if yer don’t mind of me asking?”
Marbury crossed swiftly to his desk, sat down and scrawled a draft on his bank. He held it out. “Can you read?”
Hessell nodded and hurried to take it. “Me wife taught me. I—” He gave a gasp. “Oh! Oh—lumme!” He’d kill for that much! It would mean a new start somewhere, and all the booze he could ever want! Blimey, he might even take the old woman a buncha flowers! A damn great cart-full! “Sir,” he said, for once in earnest. “Wotever I can do … Wotever!”
My lady stood, and her voice quavered a little. “Is—is Captain Mathieson hurt?”
Hessell nodded.
Whitening, Marbury asked, “But—why has he been arrested? I—”
“I’ll explain in private, Muffin,” interpolated my lady, bafflingly. Her eyes were suddenly full of tears. She gripped her hands tightly. “They—are taking him to—to the Tower, I suppose?”
“What?” gasped the duke.
“No, ma’am,” said Hessell. “They stopped at a farm outside o’ Cricklade and took it over like.” He had a very small measure of compassion, but the stricken look on the face of the little old mort awoke that tiny emotion, and he added, “The cove wot’s in charge is a nasty customer. I ’spect he means ter make the captin tell what he knows. And I’ll tell yer plain, I don’t think he’d stop at much a’doing of it!”
My lady’s hand flew to her mouth. “Not—Lambert?”
So she knew the perisher. “Ar,” said Hessell. “The very same, ma’am. Got it in fer the captin, too.”
Marbury felt very cold. “Hessell—be frank. How much time have we?”
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