‘How can you be so sure it was Farquharson?’
Lucien sighed. ‘At first I wasn’t. I suspected him, nothing more. There was always an undercurrent about him, something unwholesome. And then when he knew he was safe, when he knew that there was nothing that could link the grieving husband to Sarah’s murder, he approached me in my club one day and told me what he had done.’
‘He admitted it?’
‘Every detail.’
‘But surely you could act as a witness against him?’
‘Farquharson had been busy establishing my reputation as the Wicked Earl. The gossip in London said that I had killed Sarah. He would not have been found guilty.’
Madeline said nothing, just shook her head.
‘I called him out, thought that I would kill him. But I allowed my hatred for him to affect my aim. My bullet landed in his leg. His shot landed wide. The matter was closed. There was nothing more I could do…but wait and watch, and ensure that he never struck again.’
‘Oh, Lucien…’ Madeline pressed her cheek to her husband’s hand ‘…you’ve had a terrible time.’ She raised her head and looked at him. ‘If Farquharson killed Sarah at Tintagel, then it explains why he has chosen that same place for an assignation.’
Lucien nodded. ‘A repeat of history except that instead of Sarah, this time he wants you. Farquharson’s perversion will never diminish. I have to stop him, Madeline. You do understand why I must do this?’
‘To avenge Sarah’s death.’
He shook his head. ‘Once upon a time that’s what I lived for, the thought of making him suffer as he did to both Sarah and my mother. Not any more. Vengeance is not mine. Farquharson will reap that in plenty when he meets his Maker.’ He took her face between his hands, his fingers resting lightly against the softness of her cheeks. ‘I love you, Madeline. For all my denials I think I’ve loved you since first I held you in my arms and waltzed with you at Lady Gilmour’s ball. I will not let him have you. That’s why it must stop here, this night. You were right, Madeline, you cannot live your life forever looking over your shoulder.’
She clung to him, pressed her lips to his. ‘No, Lucien! I didn’t mean that. I love you. Please don’t go alone.’
‘It’s the best way, Madeline.’ He looked down into her eyes, seeing tears falling freely from them for the first time. ‘Don’t cry, my love. One shot is all I need and this time the bullet shall land within his heart.’
‘I cannot let you do this, Lucien. I won’t.’ Her face was wet beneath his touch.
‘Madeline,’ he said gently. ‘Do this one thing that I ask.’
She sobbed aloud. ‘Please…’
‘No more tears, my love.’ And slowly, tenderly, he lowered his lips to hers and in that kiss was everything he wanted to give her: gratitude and joy and celebration for all that she had brought to his life, peace, and faith and eternal love. ‘Promise me that you’ll stay here.’ Her eyes were a clear light sienna flecked with gold. Eyes to lose yourself in, he’d once thought, and he’d been right. ‘Give me your word that you won’t seek to follow me.’
Her teeth bit desperately at her lower lip. A minute passed in silence, then stretched to two. When she finally spoke her voice was cracked and broken. ‘You ask the impossible.’
‘Promise me, Madeline,’ he said again and took one last chance to inhale the warm orange scent of her. Her hair tickled against his nose as he awaited her reply.
A small sob sounded. The teeth bit harder against her lip. ‘Very well,’ she croaked, ‘I promise.’
One last kiss from her sweet mouth, then Lucien turned and walked towards the door.
‘My love,’ she whispered as the door clicked shut. ‘Oh, my love,’ and pressed her fingers hard against her mouth to capture the sobs that threatened to burst forth. Nothing could still the shudders that wracked her body.
Madeline did not know how long she stood motionless, watching the door of the small drawing room. Perhaps she waited in case Lucien changed his mind. Or to see if the whole nightmare was real or just some awful joke that Lucien and his brother had contrived between them. She stood statue still, breath so light as to scarcely be there. Her eyes were red and gritty, her cheeks damp with saline. She stood until there were no more tears to fall. Alone in the small drawing room, while her husband rode out to meet his death, to save both her and his brother. What chance did he stand against Farquharson and his men? The clock marked the passing of the seconds. Each frantic tick taking Lucien further from safety, closer to his doom. Tick, tick, tick, tick. Faster and faster. Madeline walked towards the mantel, lifted the pretty clock into her hands, and threw it hard across the room. It landed with a loud thud. Silence hissed. And the spell that had frozen Madeline shattered.
There was a thud of footsteps, uneven, growing louder. The door burst open. Madeline’s head jerked up in expectation, his name soft upon her lips. ‘Lucien?’
Mrs Babcock’s ruddy face appeared. ‘M’lady! Such a terrible noise. I thought you might have tripped and fallen your length…’ The small black eyes rested upon the remains of the clock close by the window. ‘Ah,’ she said. ‘No harm done.’
No harm? Madeline felt the urge to laugh hysterically. ‘No harm?’ she said aloud.
‘Come along, doe.’ The housekeeper steered Madeline out of the drawing room and along to her bedchamber. ‘Master Lucien said you was a bit upset, like. Don’t you worry, Babbie’s here. I’ll make you a nice posset and tuck you up in bed, all safe and sound, until his lordship gets back.’
Madeline allowed herself to be guided by the older woman. Until his lordship gets back, Babbie had said. What would she say if she knew the truth? Lucien wasn’t coming back, not tonight, not ever. Madeline looked up into the kindly old face…and could not inflict the hurt the truth would give. ‘There’s no need for a posset, Babbie, I’ll sleep directly. I’m just a little worried for Lucien, that’s all.’
‘Aren’t we all, m’lady, aren’t we all? If you change your mind about the posset, just ring and I’ll be here.’ The housekeeper stroked Madeline’s cheek. ‘I know you love him, doe. Never thought to see him smile again, not after what happened, what with the dowager Countess and Lady Sarah and all them terrible things. But you’ve made him happy, real happy. I’m sorry I was snappy with you when you asked me them questions.’
‘I should never have doubted him.’ Madeline sat down upon the bed.
‘You weren’t to know, and he can be a bit of a surly old bear when he’s got a mind to be.’ Mrs Babcock gave Madeline a brief hug, then hurried away with a face flaming like a beacon. She paused briefly by the door. ‘I’ll send Betsy up to help you change.’
‘No, thank you, I’d rather manage by myself tonight.’ Madeline raised a small smile. ‘Goodnight, Babbie.’
‘Goodnight, m’lady, and may the good Lord bring Master Lucien back to us safe and sound.’
‘Amen to that, Babbie.’
The door closed, leaving Madeline alone.
Lucien’s eyes raked through the darkness. A full moon hung high in the sky, glimmering silver upon the expanse of rippling dark sea, casting the castle ruins up ahead as a sinister silhouette. Nelson trotted closer until Lucien reined him in and dismounted, preferring to lead the horse the rest of the distance. Salt and seaweed and dampness hung heavy in the air, undisturbed by the wind blowing in from the sea. His hand touched briefly against the solid form of the pistol hidden deep within his pocket. He walked the horse up as close as he dared, tethering the reins on a scrubby bush by the final entrance to the site. He paused, instincts alert, face harsh beneath the pale moonlight, eyes scouring the castle walls that lay ahead of him, or at least what remained of them. No sign of Farquharson. The ground was solid beneath his feet as he slipped out from behind the cover of his horse, exposing himself to any shot that Farquharson might care to take. One step, and then another, keeping close to the shadow of the rising crag to his left, he edged round and climbed the steps to the upper ward.
His gaze swept every ancient stone. The high place was empty. And that meant that Farquharson had to be in the island part of the castle. Lucien turned and headed towards the narrow winding pathway that would lead him there.
Lap and swirl of waves sounded against the rocks far below, crashing and frothing with a ferocity that contrasted with the tranquillity of the ocean beyond. The men that had built Tintagel Castle had chosen their site well. The castle straddled an unstable neck linking Tintagel Island with the mainland. The remains of the upper and lower wards lay on the landward side, the inner ward and chapel remnants on the island. A pathway connecting the two dropped away to sheer jagged rock. Frothy white water swirled below. A defence designed to thwart the best of attackers. Lucien knew that it was here on the pathway that he was at his most vulnerable. His heart thudded fast yet steady, waiting each moment for the hidden shot to ring from the castle ruins. The longest walk of his life. The slowest. And still the shot did not come. Every step taking him closer. Every breath buoying his confidence that he would make it. He was so close that he could see the individual-hewn stones that made up the thick walls, the ruined apertures of windows and doorways. So close. The path led him directly into what had been one of the castle baileys. He scanned ahead. Wind howled. Emptiness echoed. The hairs on the back of Lucien’s neck prickled. Eyes searching, ears straining for the slightest hint of Farquharson’s location. Nothing. No one. Lucien’s fingers slipped into his pocket, closed around the pistol handle, extracted the weapon. He held it down low, brushing beside his thigh, all the harder for Farquharson to see it. He backed against the rear wall, poised, ready.
‘Farquharson!’ The wind snatched the shout, to carry it away unanswered. Sweat beaded upon Lucien’s upper lip. ‘Farquharson!’
A small scrunch of a sound from the other side of the wall.
Keeping his body close to the protection of the ancient stone structure, Lucien moved with stealth to the end of the wall. Readied the pistol, finger on the trigger. One swift lunge and he peered round the other side, pistol aimed with precision at the spot from whence the noise had issued. Bare soil and rock, a trickle of pebbles…a cat disappearing in the distance. Lucien’s gaze drifted down from the wall, down to the abrupt fall of the cliff. A shiver tingled down his spine. Close by the solitary cry of a gull sounded. Distorted. Ghostly. A portent of doom. Icy foreboding gripped him.
He retraced his steps, covering the ground as fast as he dared, slipping from the cover of one wall to another, scanning each and every part of the ruin in turn, ever ready for the surprise assault that did not come. Empty. Back across the precarious pathway. Still no one. Still nothing. Chill grew greater. Alone. Blood ran cold. The seed of doubt germinated, grew, and blossomed to reveal the truth. The pistol uncocked, stuffed within his pocket. He ran back through the inner ward to where the great black horse stood, still tethered where he had left it. Didn’t even break stride to swing himself up into the saddle.
Lucien rode like he had never ridden before, coat flying, throwing up mud and water in his wake. Through the streets of Tintagel village to Bossmey, then Davidstow, following the road down towards Camelford. Riding as if the hounds of Lucifer snapped at his heels, riding until his lungs were fit to burst and his muscles shook from the strain. Past the gloom of the great moor. Hoping. Praying. Knowing even as he did, that he would be too late.
The knowledge that Farquharson had tricked him was a bitter pill to swallow. For if Cyril Farquharson was not at Tintagel, there was as like only one other place he could be. What was it that Collins had said as he lay bleeding upon the entrance hall floor? He asked us questions about this place… The place that now lay unprotected. The place that held the one thing that Farquharson wanted above all else. The place in which Lucien had left his wife, thinking her to be safe. And that place was Trethevyn.
Chapter Fifteen
For all that Madeline had said to Mrs Babcock, she knew that she would not sleep that night. How could she, knowing what her husband was riding out to meet, knowing that Farquharson would kill both Lucien and his brother? She had seen what the scoundrel had done to Collins. She did not doubt how much worse he would inflict upon the man who had thwarted him. The knowledge caused her heart to freeze lest it shatter into a thousand pieces. The fire burned low within the grate, a few small flames licking around a glowing mass. Gooseflesh raised upon Madeline’s arms. She had no awareness of the dropping temperature within the bedchamber, nor of the draught that flitted through the great window to ruffle the curtains that hung still drawn back to frame the paned glass. She blew out the candles and watched the wispy smoke, from their quenching, curl in the air.
The sky was an inky dark velvet decorated with a pearly white button moon and a scatter of stars that glittered like diamond pinheads. She stood in the darkness, a small solitary figure garbed in the plain white cotton of her nightdress, and stared out across the lawns that lay before Trethevyn. Lucien would be at Tintagel by now, walking straight into Farquharson’s hands like a lamb to the slaughter. She did not allow her thoughts to stray to what that slaughter would entail. And through it all Madeline could not really believe that it was happening. Was it true what they said, that when a man’s life ebbed away his soul leapt out and appeared to those he loved? Surely she would know if he were dead, wouldn’t she? But Madeline felt nothing of that; indeed, she could feel very little at all due to the numbness that had spread throughout her body.
She turned Lucien’s words over in her mind a thousand times, hearing the story of what Farquharson had done again and again. A devious man. A fox. A villain. A man that would always play dirty, for there was no other way of winning. She thought about Cyril Farquharson. She thought about Guy as his hostage. She thought about Collins’s tortured body and the words that had strained from his lips. And amidst all of her thinking the truth made itself known to Madeline. It didn’t strike like a bolt from the blue. It wasn’t a blinding enlightenment. Instead, it just slipped into her head quietly and without any fuss. And she accepted the realisation without question.
A curious torpor settled upon Madeline, a sense of inevitability that stretched almost to relief. She should have been paralysed with fear and dread and terror. But she wasn’t. Certainty filled her. Knowledge, even. Worry vanished. Madeline knew what was coming and she was glad, for it could mean only one thing: that Lucien was safe.
She fetched Lucien’s knife from the drawer of his desk in the library and slid it, still sheathed, into the pocket of her dressing gown. Then she returned to her bedchamber and sat down in the small armchair in the corner. The knife lay heavy and reassuring against her thigh. Her fingers, hidden within her pocket, rested comfortably around the handle. The monster was coming to get her, yet Madeline was not afraid. It was her nightmare become reality, but Madeline was calm. For once in her life she would not flee. She refused to hide. She had done with running. As she had told Lucien, she could not live her life for ever looking over her shoulder; they could not live life forever looking over their shoulders.
She knew now that Farquharson would never leave them alone. He would pursue them for eternity. He had already taken Guy. It was just a matter of time before he caught her and Lucien. Madeline could not let that happen, for she loved Lucien above life itself. And all the while Farquharson breathed, Lucien would not be safe. She understood now why Lucien had been so vigilant. She could see now that what she had dismissed as an obsessive hatred had been a frank appreciation of the danger that Farquharson posed. Lucien had been right. He had not underestimated Farquharson. He alone had known of what the fiend was capable. And now Madeline knew. And she knew too that she had a chance to stop this madness. The time had come to face Cyril Farquharson.
The house was quiet with waiting, the servants about their chores or in their beds. There was no point in endangering their lives. It was Madeline that he wanted, and Madeline he would get, alone save for her husband’s knife. Max made no sound in the small dressing room that lay beyond. And s
o Madeline sat and waited for the fox to come to her door.
Cyril Farquharson slipped into Trethevyn like a shadow, silent and unnoticed. The latch on the windowed doors that led from the front garden into the library was easily coaxed into submission. The door swung open beneath his touch. His red hair was paled by the moonlight. He moved without a sound across the floor, thankful that Varington’s valet had been persuaded to share the details of the inner layout of the house. The clock on the mantel struck eleven. Anticipation coursed through him.
Of course Tregellas would have long since realised that he had been duped. How long had the Earl spent searching the ruins before he had known that he was there alone? All alone. Searching for a man that was not there. Three hours from home. A smile cracked Farquharson’s face. It was not hard to imagine how Tregellas had felt in that moment of realisation. Rage, dread, fear. Excitement tingled deep within Farquharson’s gut. Even now, Tregellas would be spurring his horse hard over the roads that led from Tintagel. Pushing himself to the limit, fighting against the inevitable. Three hours was a long journey to make, knowing all the while what was happening to your wife, and being helpless to stop it. In your own bed, with your own servants none the wiser as to what was happening so very close at hand. Farquharson almost sniggered aloud. Tregellas would arrive home just in time to play his part in the final stages of Farquharson’s plan. And what a plan it was. Superbly crafted by a master. Executed stage by stage. Using Varington to lure Tregellas to Tintagel, Varington, with whom Farquharson would deal later. And the whole of it built on knowing Tregellas’s character, knowing that the Earl would never take Madeline there, knowing that he would leave her here all nicely tucked up ready for Farquharson. Farquharson’s thoughts flitted to the woman above, the woman who was no doubt sobbing herself to sleep at this very moment: Madeline.
Lucien Tregellas Page 24