She had defied him from the start, humiliated him in front of all London. And for that she would reap the punishment that he had promised. How many nights had he lain awake with its planning? For how many months had he waited and watched? Sowing his seeds, biding his time until the right opportunity arose. How very tempting it had been to have her taken that day upon the moor with the maid screaming that Harry Staunton was coming. Or the time she had gone alone to visit the sick old woman on the other side of the village. Not much had escaped Cyril Farquharson’s notice, thanks to money and his paid spies.
He knew when Madeline walked in the gardens and when she sat with her needlework by her bedchamber window. Even her midnight sojourn to the library and the drunken harsh response of her husband had not escaped his attention. The faked letter had done its work well, driving a wedge of suspicion between Tregellas and the woman he had stolen. Farquharson remembered those light golden brown eyes, the dark blonde hair swept so primly back. Madeline Langley was no beauty, but she had everything that he wanted in a woman: innocence, modesty and, more importantly fear…and that was what Farquharson craved above all. She had a shy reserve that held her apart from the crowd. She did not chatter the inane nonsense of most of the young ladies of the ton. She did not pout or stamp her foot or dab at a tearful eye. Not Madeline Langley. She just melted into the background, and watched what was around her with those magnificent eyes of hers. A little wallflower that hid something beneath. Unless Farquharson was very much mistaken, what flowed in those frightened little veins of hers was a passion that had not yet been brought to life. He hardened at the very thought and moved with impatience steadily closer to Madeline’s bedchamber.
Lucien gritted his teeth and rode harder. How the hell could he have been so stupid as not to realise that Farquharson would have double-crossed him? Didn’t he know the man for the sly malevolent villain that he was? Now, because of his mistake, because he had allowed Farquharson to outwit him, Madeline would suffer. Lucien had been fully prepared to face his own death, not Madeline’s. He pushed aside the thoughts of exactly what Farquharson would be subjecting her to, just harnessed the rage and focused it to carry him with speed in the direction of Trethevyn.
The moon, so clear and high above, lit his path, helping him push Nelson faster than he normally would have dared along the muddy road close by Bodmin Moor. But no matter how much he or his beloved gelding gave, nothing could diminish the distance that separated them from Madeline. Even illuminated as well as it was, the rutted road was too long, too slow. He was approaching Camelford when he found himself plunged headlong into a shroud of thick mist. No warning, just a blanket of low cloud that hid the road ahead. ‘Hell, no!’ Lucien shouted aloud and pulled Nelson up hard. Breath came in heavy pants and sweat dripped from his face. Every muscle fired with adrenalin. All around was the eerie silence of the moor.
Just a pocket of mist, he told himself. He need only pass through it. It would lift as suddenly as it had descended. ‘Come on, Nelson.’ He tried to coax the horse to walk on, steering with his knees, making the little clicks of reassurance that the gelding liked to hear. Nelson obstinately held his ground, apparently impervious to all means of persuasion. The gelding’s ears flattened and his black eyes rolled to become edged with white. Hind legs stumbled back. Snorting breath muffled in the unnatural quiet that surrounded them. Lucien tried to calm the frightened horse, but to no avail. From somewhere in the distance came a whinny. Nelson’s ears pricked up. Lucien backed him out of the mist, scanning the undulating moorland. There, up on the hill to the left, not so far away, outlined black and stark against the brightness of the moon, was a solitary rider on his horse.
Lucien’s fingers touched to the heavy weight of the pistol hidden within his pocket. The figure beckoned. Another trap? Farquharson or one of his cronies? Across the distance the man looked to be wearing an old-fashioned cocked hat. The stranger’s voice filled the space between them. It was a deep voice, thickly accented with the familiar Cornish lilt. ‘If you’ve a mind to get anywhere fast then you’d best go over the moor, past Brown Willy, cross the main coaching road at Jamaica Inn, then on between the Downs. Could cross it in an hour…if you can ride well and know the land. Goin’ that way myself, if you care to follow.’ The great black horse reared up on its back legs and both man and beast disappeared over the brow of the hill.
For all his suspicion, Lucien knew the man to be right. He didn’t trust him. The stranger might be a cut-throat or a highwayman. It was a risk Lucien was prepared to take. If he didn’t reach Madeline in time, none of it mattered anyway. A brief touch of a booted foot to Nelson’s flank and they were off, following in the man’s wake, galloping across the clear moonlit hills, crossing hedges and streams, kicking up great clods of mud and grass, pressing onwards at breakneck speed, struggling to maintain the distant figure in sight, breath straining hard in a cloud of condensation. Rider and horse merged.
Urgent. Intent. Madeline. Madeline. Madeline. Her name sounded silently again and again amidst the pounding rhythm of hooves and hearts. Faster and faster, until the first faint sight of Trethevyn’s lights appeared in the distance and the stranger was gone.
When at last Madeline saw the doorknob turn and heard the quiet click, she felt a peculiar sense of relief. The waiting was over. The door opened in towards her, sweeping silently across the floor to admit the shadowy figure that followed in its wake. She watched the man creep towards the bed. He seemed smaller than she remembered. A dark shape moving stealthily forward into the room. Even bleached and muted by the silver moonlight, his hair was still discernible as red. The skin on his face was illuminated an unearthly white. He hesitated by the bed, caught unawares by its empty state. Then, like a fox scenting its prey, he raised his head and looked directly at her.
Through the darkness she met his gaze.
He was wary, the situation not quite as he had anticipated. A furtive glance all around, trying to ascertain if she was alone or if he himself had just walked into a trap.
‘You came at last,’ she said. And her voice sounded strangely calm.
‘Madeline,’ he breathed, and she heard the promise in the word.
‘I did not know if I could wait much longer.’
His steps paused. She could almost see the puzzlement upon his face. ‘You knew I was coming?’
‘You promised.’ She unfolded herself from the chair and stood up.
His perplexity was so palpable as to reach across the distance between them.
‘In your letter,’ she said as if by way of explanation.
Farquharson made no move towards her, his body poised as if to take flight at any moment.
Her gaze sought his across the room. ‘You said that you loved me.’
A sharp frown appeared. His eyes shot right, then left. His hand touched to the shape of a pistol hidden beneath his coat.
‘Did you speak true?’ The game she played was a dangerous one, but it seemed to be working. She had never seen him so discomposed.
Narrow eyes scanned the darkness. He twitched and glanced around him as if he did not entirely trust the situation into which he had just walked. ‘Tregellas is at Tintagel.’ It was not a question. Farquharson knew very well that the Earl was exactly where he wanted him to be. He had watched Tregellas ride out alone four hours ago, long enough to ensure that the Earl had not changed his mind en route.
‘Yes, where you sent him. It was very clever of you. He really had no idea, you know.’
Farquharson could not suppress the smirk.
‘Almost as clever as the letter that you showed to LordVarington.’ She tilted her head to the side, almost as if in quizzical admiration. ‘How did you manage that, with the Tregellas paper and seal, and, of course, my own writing clear upon it?’
He opened his mouth to tell her, just as she had known that he would. ‘The paper was easy enough. It did not take much to discover that Tregellas has always used Hambledon printers and suppliers of fine pap
er. A small bribe ensured a few sheets went missing from his last order. You, my dear, gave me the means to replicate the seal yourself, with the cold-hearted reply that you sent me. Before I broke the seal on your letter I had a friend of mine impress it in glazier’s putty and use the relief to cast a new seal. Something of the detail is lost in the process, but not enough to be noticed when it is pressed roughly into molten wax.’ His gaze broke from hers to scan around the room.
But there was more still to know and Madeline meant to learn it all. ‘You then had someone forge my handwriting.’
‘No.’ He could not resist the invitation to brag. ‘I have in my possession a copying machine, a so-called polygraph. A most ingenious invention by Mr John Isaac Hawkins. Not designed for forgery, but useful for that purpose all the same. A pen is inserted into one side of it. A second pen positioned on the other side of the mechanism mirrors the movement of the first, to reproduce the identical letters on a fresh sheet of paper. I merely rearranged the words written by your own hand to make them read quite differently, then traced the first pen across them. The result was a letter saying what I wanted, written in the exact style of your hand.’
‘I see.’ She sighed softly, knowing what it was she had to do.
He stepped back, his expression hardening. ‘Enough of this chatter. Come here, Madeline.’
There was only one way she could hope to deter the man before her. He was so sure of her aversion, wanted her to cower and tremble before him, needed her fear. Madeline would satisfy neither his expectations nor his desires, but in order to act she needed him close. ‘Will you not come to me?’ She stood where she was.
He hesitated and glanced over his shoulder, as if he could not be sure that Lucien had not returned to Trethevyn by some secret route. He took first one step towards her, and then another, before stopping. ‘What trickery is this?’
‘No trickery, my lord.’ She opened her palms, held them out for him to see. ‘Are you afraid?’ she said.
A moue of displeasure marked his mouth. ‘It’s not supposed to be like this.’ His top lip curled. ‘Come here!’ And his voice was rough with menace.
A soft laugh escaped Madeline and she stepped back to lean against the wall, slipping her hands into the pockets of her dressing gown as she did so.
‘No more of your games!’ he snapped and made to catch her.
It seemed to Madeline that he moved in slow motion. She waited until he had almost reached her before withdrawing her right hand from its silky hiding place. She drove the unsheathed knife as fast and as hard as she could towards Farquharson’s chest. She saw the blade glint as it arced through the moonlight. She heard his grunt of surprise as the tip of the knife found its mark. And just when she thought that she had him, Farquharson twisted away, grabbing her arm in the process, almost wrenching it from its socket. There was a sharp pain in her wrist where his fingers gripped, and the knife clattered to the floor. Farquharson retrieved it and then held her arms in a tight grip, pinning her against the wall while he stared down into her face. There was a snarl on his mouth, a feral darkness in his eyes. ‘Little bitch!’ he cursed. ‘You would kill me!’ He seemed genuinely shocked.
She said nothing. The breath was soft in her throat. She had failed. There was nothing more she could do. She knew her time had come. Farquharson would do to her what he had done to Sarah Wyatt. And curiously, now that she faced that which she most feared, she was not afraid. The fear had all been in the anticipation and the imaginings. The reality of the horror brought only a calm acceptance.
What was it that Lucien had said? The villain thrives on pain. It gives him pleasure to watch others suffer. Madeline understood in that moment exactly what Lucien had meant. Farquharson’s hands curled tighter, biting into her skin as he dragged her across the room and threw her on to the bed. Still she felt neither pain nor fear. She looked up at the cruel contorted features. ‘There’s no more pleasure to be had for you, Lord Farquharson.’
He struck her hard across the cheek as she lay there. ‘What do you know of pleasure and pain, Madeline?’
She didn’t even flinch.
A bark sounded from the dressing room.
Farquharson glanced round to the closed door that separated the two rooms. ‘The dog won’t bother us from in there,’ he said, ‘and there’s so much I have to teach you, my dear.’ His hand wrapped around her throat and squeezed. The press of his arousal against her leg grew stronger.
It seemed that Madeline was not in the shell that she called her body, but had floated clear of it to rest somewhere up high beside the plasterwork of the ceiling. Was she really looking down at Farquharson throttling her? Even as she watched, he released his grip to straddle her. ‘It’s too late.’ The words croaked hoarse and she saw that it was her own lips that moved. ‘Your power is gone, my lord. I am not afraid.’
‘Then let me rectify matters, Madeline.’ He tore the dressing gown from her. His hands moved to grasp the neckline of her nightdress, ripping down through the stark white cotton to expose the pale flesh beneath. His mouth pounced like a savage upon her breasts.
Still Madeline did not cry out. ‘All you are worthy of is pity, sir,’ she said. ‘You are a man incapable of receiving or giving love.’
Max gave a whine and scratched at the dressing-room door.
From above she felt Farquharson cease his movement upon her. Watched while he raised his face to look into her own. Saw the saliva moist upon his lips and the wetness that dripped to his chin. Looked deep into that dismal grey gaze. ‘I do not fear you.’ Each word was dropped with clear enunciation into the space between them. She felt his interest shrivel.
He swallowed hard. ‘Whore!’ he said and drew Lucien’s knife from his pocket. ‘So thoughtful of you to provide me with your husband’s knife. He won’t wriggle out of prosecution so easily this time. Murder is a wicked crime, committed by a wicked man. First against his betrothed, and now against his wife. I named him well, did I not?’
Another bark, followed by some more scratching at the door.
‘You can kill me, Lord Farquharson, but no one shall believe Lucien guilty of the crime. Why, all of London knows that we eloped out of love,’ she taunted.
‘Indeed?’ His face was cold and hard. There was nothing of humanity in his eyes. A smile played across his mouth. ‘I think you’ll find that they believe Tregellas abducted you and forced a wedding. And as for motive, I shall feel it my civic duty to publish the letter that you sent me; the letter in which you beg for rescue from a madman, and speak of your love for me.’
‘Lucien shall prove it for the fake that it is.’
‘I don’t think so, Madeline,’ said Farquharson. He paused and watched her. ‘They’ll hang him, you know. And I shall be there to watch while he slowly expires.’ He smiled and licked his lips. ‘What better fun than killing you, then watching your husband die for the crime.’
‘No!’ Rage welled within her. ‘No!’ she cried again. ‘Ever the coward’s way, Farquharson. Ever cloak and dagger, and behind his back. You are not man enough to face him. You know he would best you a thousand times over!’
Max barked again, and from outside came the distant thud of horse’s hooves.
Farquharson glanced nervously towards the windows.
Someone was riding hard and fast.
‘It’s three hours from Tintagel to here,’ said Farquharson as if to himself.
He touched the blade to her throat, and then in one move gently stroked its cold sharp edge against her skin.
Madeline felt its shallow bite and a wetness trickled down the sides of her neck.
The horseman was coming closer.
‘I’ve waited so long for this,’ he said and, bending forward, licked the dribble of blood from her skin and then covered her mouth with his own. The metallic taste of blood touched upon her tongue, and then his mouth was suffocating her.
They heard the sudden crunch of gravel on the driveway and knew the horseman had reache
d Trethevyn. Max began to bark in earnest.
Madeline’s heart leapt. It could not be, could it?
Farquharson scowled and clambered off her. Still clutching the knife, he stalked to the window that led out on to the balcony. Up the gravel driveway came a solitary horseman, riding as if his very life was at stake. The horse’s eyes showed white and his great black muzzle was flecked pale with saliva. The man was leaping down from the saddle as the Baron watched. And even through the darkness Farquharson knew that it was Tregellas that had come. ‘How the hell…?’ But there was no time for questions. He knew he would have to act quickly.
Madeline sat up and slowly, so as not to attract Farquharson’s attention, slid towards the edge of the bed.
Farquharson was still peering out of the window. ‘He arrives in time to spoil our fun but, Madeline, not in time to prevent your death, for which he will take the blame. A crime of passion. All of London knows what has gone on between us three.’ He turned then and looked at her. ‘And this time he shall not escape justice, earl or not. I shall toast you, my dear, as I watch his neck being stretched by a rope upon a gibbet.’ The blade within his hand glinted in the moonlight. ‘And now, my sweet Madeline…’ He began to walk towards her.
Madeline sprang from the bed and, unmindful of her nakedness, ran towards the dressing-room door. She heard Farquharson’s movement behind her, felt the sudden grasp of his fingers biting hard against her shoulder. She snatched at the handle and the door to the dressing-room opened. Max’s frenzied barking grew suddenly loud. She felt the rush of something against her legs, but then Farquharson was wrenching her back, throwing her towards the bed. It all happened so fast that she did not know what was happening. Her head struck against the bedstead. Waves of dizzy nausea washed over her. She lay sprawled upon the floor, struggling to get back up on to her feet, but unable to stop the world tilting enough to do so. ‘Lucien!’ she cried, but her voice was weak and thick with confusion and no matter how hard she tried she could not see through the darkness that had descended upon her.
Lucien Tregellas Page 25