by P. N. Elrod
Eventually, though, even Rolly had enough giddy exercise for the time being and we slowed to a cooling walk. I felt the untroubled movement of his breathing with my legs; there was no sweat on his neck. He had miles more travel left in him yet, I judged. He’d recovered beautifully from the sea voyage. He was fit and ready for . . . well, now, there was an interesting speculation to dwell on.
My mind swiftly turned to the prospect of having my own estate courtesy of Oliver’s generosity. An estate meant land enough for farming—or husbandry. Certainly the idea of breeding Rolly to some fine English fillies was more tempting than tilling soil. Profitable, too. The gentry’s fondness for horse racing was never better what with the royal enthusiasm for the sport. I had but to raise a single favorite to win one race to make a name for myself and better my fortune.
And there was Richard to consider. He was already showing an early love for horses that could be cultivated into an effortless expertise. What better gift could I bestow upon him than a stableful of assets in a business he might enjoy as a lifelong vocation?
But you’re getting ahead of yourself, Johnny-boy. Let the lad make up his own mind.
True. He was only four. Anything could seize his fancy between now and the time he reached four and twenty—if it was God’s will he should live that long.
Live for the present, I firmly reminded myself, lest I grow melancholy again.
Very well. But aside from Richard’s possible interest, I’d not hinder my own indulgence for such a pursuit. And if my son wanted to join in on the game, then he’d be more than welcome to do so.
Thus did I occupy myself with pleasant considerations, for their own sake and for the distraction they offered.
I needed it. Every step closer to Edmond’s home brought me back to the dreadful business of Ridley’s murder and my own attempted murder. The sweet interlude Nora had given with her presence began to fade from mind and heart, to be replaced by the brutal memory of a masked coward raising a dueler on me with intent to kill.
Of course he was a coward, for only such a man would shoot another in the manner that I’d been shot. If and when I found him, I’d teach him a hard lesson about the value of honor—if he had wit enough to learn. Doubtless he and his friends would be much surprised to discover I was yet among the living.
Then there was Ridley’s murderer to think about. It couldn’t have been Arthur; his actions were those of a frightened man. The Mohocks were unlikely to be involved as well, since they’d been so bent on avenging their fallen leader’s death. Someone had killed him and wanted me blamed, and as improbable as it seemed, I wondered if Clarinda had somehow arranged it. If she’d had a falling out with Ridley. . . though how any of it could have been managed with her locked up fast by Edmond I could not imagine.
Unless Edmond was behind it all. If so, then he was a finer actor than even the great Garrick; he’d not been the least startled to see me last night. Besides, what would be his purpose?
No, not Edmond. For lack of solid information I was growing distrustful, not to mention absurd. A short talk with Clarinda would clear this part of things up, or so I fervently hoped. If nothing else I’d get the names of Ridley’s companions from her; between her and Litton, whom I would call on later, I expected to obtain solid information to examine, explore, and put to good use.
I’d never been to Edmond’s home, but Oliver had given me precise directions, and I found the gate without trouble just where he said it would be. I looked for and spied two small towers made of white stone with an iron arch connecting them overhead. Had I any lingering hesitancy that I’d come to the wrong place, it was abolished by the name “Fonteyn” spelled out in the design of the arch.
The gate stood open, something I found disturbing since I’d been very clear to Edmond about the need to protect himself from attack. I thought he’d taken me seriously, but perhaps with the passage of a day with nothing happening, he’d relaxed his guard.
No. Edmond would not be so foolish. His nature wouldn’t allow it. There was something wrong.
Rolly was cooled enough from the walk so as to not take harm if I tied him up for a while. Dismounting, I led him through the gate and some yards into the property. The trees were thick here, which suited me well. I wrapped his reins around a low branch and, keeping to their cover, furtively moved parallel to the lane leading toward the house.
That structure was not far from the main road. Parts of it had been new when Queen Elizabeth’s privateers plied their trade against the Spanish. One of the stories firmly discouraged by Aunt Fonteyn was that prize money from such raids had built it and founded much of the family fortune.
Changing fashion and the passage of time called for improvements to be made by each succeeding generation until one of them had given up altogether and moved elsewhere to build Fonteyn House. Edmond’s branch of the family inherited what came to be called Fonteyn Old Hall, and if it lacked a freshness of design, it made up for it in history. There was a strong tradition one of the great Elizabeth’s ministers had spent the night here, possibly with the lady of the hall while her husband was away fighting the Armada. Aunt Fonteyn had, not unexpectedly, discouraged that story as well, preferring to state it was but a rumor and far more likely Elizabeth herself had been the guest. But as the other legend was more amusing, no one had believed her.
As I came closer I picked out the different architectural styles, one atop the other, each an attempt to obliterate the one below. Sometimes such combinations work; this was not one of those times. No wonder Edmond was such a stick if he had to live in this place. One could only hope the interior was more attractive.
All seemed quiet, but then I wasn’t sure what sort of trouble I expected: people running around, waving their arms and shouting perhaps? Not here that I could see. The grounds about the place were serene; lights showed through some of the lower windows as normal as can be. I found one with open curtains and peered into some sort of parlor. No occupants, just an ordinary chamber with too much old furniture. I was tempted to ghost my way inside, but did not relish the prospect of explaining my sudden presence to Edmond or, failing that, influencing him to forgetfulness. If something was seriously wrong, the best way to discover it was to ring the front bell and see what happened.
Except the house had none. Instead, I made use of a massive brass door knocker in the shape of a ship’s anchor. With its obvious link to ships and ships to privateering, I’d have wagered that device had given Aunt Fonteyn much annoyance whenever she saw it. The thing clanked like the chains of hell, loud enough to be heard through the whole rambling house.
No one came forth to answer, though. I looked about for a carriage or a horse, for some reason why the gate had been left open. None was present. Perhaps they’d been taken around behind the house. The graveled drive carried the impress of wheels, of course, but I could not tell much more than that. It could well have been from Edmond’s own carriage.
I knocked again, the sharp sound hurting my ears. The house was big, but surely there was some servant lurking close by to answer. I could not imagine Edmond keeping any laggards in his employ Perhaps I should check around the back. The kitchens and stables would be. . . The door swung open, cutting short my invasive plans.
The man who answered was not a servant, or so his garb instantly told me. He scrutinized me up and down with a untroubled eye and invited me in. Stepping past the threshold, I studied him just as closely. Dark clothes of good cut, a well-fitted, well-dressed wig and a calm, commanding eye marked him as some sort of professional man. Ruddy-skinned and a few years older than I, he wore enough Flanders lace to brand him for a dandy, but the frivolous effect was offset by the gravity of his demeanor. He was likely to be a lawyer, then, probably one of Edmond’s cronies. He looked to be lately arrived himself, for he still wore his cloak and hat and carried his stick.
“Where is Mr. Fonteyn?” I asked guardedly.
“I was just determining that myself,” he replied with an air of puzzled amusement. “We had plans to take supper together, but he wasn’t available when I arrived. I sent the butler off to find him. My name is Summerhill, by the way,” he added with a bow.
“Mr. Barrett,” I said, returning the courtesy His easy manner did much to reassure me. Edmond must have had the gate open in expectation of his visitor. Not a wise thing, I thought, planning to mention it to him at the first chance. I’d worked myself into a great worry over nothing.
“Barrett?” Summerhill appeared surprised. “But you’re—”
“Yes, Mr. Fonteyn’s cousin from America.” Thus had I come to introduce myself to those people who had heard my name but were unable to place where they’d heard it. Usually, though, I connected myself with Oliver, not Edmond.
Summerhill took this in with more interest than I thought the subject warranted. I suppose I was growing tired of it. “Well, well, I’ve not met many Americans,” he finally said.
“You’re not meeting one now, sir, for I have ever been an Englishman.”
“Then you are yet loyal to the King?”
“And like to remain so, sir. My family has no desire to involve themselves with a mob of radical lunatics determined to send themselves to the gallows.”
He managed a small laugh. “Then you disagree with this notorious declaration that all men are created equal?”
“There are some points in that document worthy of note, but overall it doesn’t even make for a good legal argument. Too many broad and impossible-to-prove assumptions. Besides, the conflict they started isn’t about equality, but their reluctance to pay their lawful taxes. By heavens, if it hadn’t been for Pitt’s intervention in the war twenty years ago with the French, I might this moment be babbling to you in that language, so I for one don’t mind rendering to Caesar his due.”
Summerhill laughed again.
I’d given the entry hall a careful look ’round while I spoke, but nothing seemed amiss. Part of the original Elizabethan core of the house, its ceiling was a good two stories overhead; this and the walls were heavy with black-stained oak trim and white-painted plaster work. Off to the right leading up to a gallery was a steep staircase with a thick balustrade made of the same dark wood. Ponderous furnishings and dim portraits of the long departed lent the room an air of determined respectability. Some walls had obviously been cut into to allow access for later additions, and though well kept and polished, it had the same unfortunate cobbled-together effect as the exterior. Still, if one was of an optimistic turn of mind, one could say that, in terms of variety, it lacked for nothing.
“Wonder what’s keeping that dratted butler?” asked Summerhill.
“I wonder what’s keeping Edmond.” He’d said nothing last night about having a supper guest, but then why should he?
“Will you be joining us?”
“I think not. I’ve just some brief things to sort out with him, then must be away to another appointment.”
He grunted. “A pity, I should have enjoyed hearing more of your views on the American situation. It’s strange, but I’ve met many an English gentleman with a great sympathy for their cause, yet the ones from America are entirely against it.”
I detected a trace of an accent in his speech. “You speak as one who is not from England, sir.”
He gave a deprecatory chuckle. “Oh, dear, but my foreign roots betray me again. I was raised by English parents in Brittany, sir, and I fear the mix of heritage and place has left an indelible imprint upon my speech.”
Blood rushed to my face. “My apologies, sir. I meant no offense when I spoke to you about the French language a moment ago.”
“Not at all, sir. I am not in the least offended, but found it refreshingly honest and amusing.”
That was a relief; I’d had my fill of dueling for a lifetime. “You are too kind, sir. May I inquire how you are acquainted with my cousin?”
“Again, you take me back to my roots. My family has ever had a connection with shipping. Mr. Fonteyn sees to the legal necessities of my firm.”
Shipping. . . that would explain Summerhill’s ruddy complexion. The stray idea entered my head that he was a smuggler and seeing personally to the delivery of a cask or two of duty-free French brandy to a valued customer. Thousands of otherwise law-abiding English subjects readily shunned the practice of paying the King’s tax on certain goods. But while Oliver and I had done so ourselves during our student days without a second thought, Edmond would choke himself first. I tucked the ridiculous notion away with a smile.
“Well, perhaps I should ring for another butler to go find the first,” said Summerhill with a rueful curl to his mouth. “Not that you are unwelcome company, sir, but I was looking forward to my meal.” Reflexively I sniffed the air, but detected no sign of cooking. Of course, the kitchens were likely to be elsewhere with their myriad smells, which suited me well enough. The miasma of cooked food was not one of my favorites these nights.
“And I should like to get on with my own business,” I added agreeably. “I hope my cousin is not ill.” But except for the healing scrapes lingering on his hands, he’d seemed sufficiently fit last night to take on a bear.
“As do I, but to make sure—”
“I say, did you hear that?” I asked.
Summerhill struck a listening pose in response to my interruption, then shook his head. “The butler returning, I should think, and about time. “
Whatever small noise it was that caught my attention repeated itself. It was distant, but clear to my acute hearing. A woman’s voice, I finally determined. I looked expectantly at Summerhill, but he seemed not to have heard. He shook his head again, which reminded me that my hearing was much keener than that of other men. I couldn’t expect him to hear something on the other side of the house, if that was the location of. . . .
The sound came again and I thought it contained a note of distress, or anger. Clarinda? Bloody hell, but I thought Edmond would have the sense to keep her well away from the chance of discovery. Thank goodness Summerhill did not have my sharp ears or some awkward questions might be raised.
Unfortunately, the intrusion of the faint noise left us in a temporary state in which we had nothing to say to each other. So it was that in the pause the sounds insistently repeated, and this time Summerhill heard them, too.
“That’s rather odd. There’s something happening up there—” He broke off, his gaze drawn to the top of the stairs.
Now did I hear my mistake, for it was not one woman’s voice, but two, both raised to the point of shrillness by some desperate excitement. Though the words were muffled, they were undoubtedly calls for help. Neither voice belonged to Clarinda.
I glanced once at Summerhill, who looked as disturbed as I felt. “There’s mischief afoot, come along!”
Then I hastened up the stairs with him at my heels. On the landing I paused to listen and determined the calls came from the right-hand branching, but before I could take a step in that direction, something went crack and the left side of my head went numb.
As did my legs, for they ceased to hold me.
As did my arms, for they were unable to break my boneless plummet to the floor.
The fall knocked the air from my lungs. I lay still as a dead thing, so wretchedly disoriented I could not for the moment understand what had happened.
Much to my grief, the numbness did not last. It retreated all too quickly before the onslaught of a miserably jagged agony that swelled in my head to the bursting point. The first shock left me immobilized, allowing an army of bell ringers to march in and take possession. Their deafening clamor had me on the far side of merely addled. I was helpless to do anything for myself except to sprawl on the polished wood floor with not even enough strength to groan.
Wood. . . . Nora had said we were peculiarly vulnerable to
it. Summerhill. He’d used his cane on me. God’s death, why had he struck me down?
The ringing began to fade, and through the sick dizzyness swimming in my skull I made out the thin sound of the women again, their cries frantic, like hungry kittens. Over them I heard a door open, followed by footsteps coming toward me. I felt the vibration of their approach through the floor: a man’s heavy boots, moving slowly, and the lighter clatter of a woman’s shoes. Both paused not two paces from my inert body.
“Taken care of, as I promised,” said Summerhill, as calm as you please.
“Of all the damned inconvenient times for Edmond to have visitors,” one of the newcomers snarled.
A singularly unpleasant thrill of alarm rushed through me as I recognized the man’s voice. Arthur Tyne?
The woman uttered a soft curse in agreement.
Clarinda.
God Almighty. What had I walked into?
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Clarinda spoke again. “That’s not any visitor—that’s Jonathan Barrett!”
“Impossible,” said Arthur.
“But it is. See the hair—he never wears a wig.”
“It cannot be,” he insisted.
“Then turn him over and prove me wrong.”
Hands seized one of my shoulders and I was roughly flipped around. This mistreatment was nearly too much. Unpleasant as it was, I fought to stay conscious and won . . . barely, but longed to vanish into healing. The damned wood prevented that. Groggily and past half-closed lids I made out their looming forms: Clarinda on the left, Arthur on the right. Arthur’s expression was a study in bald-faced astonishment.
“But Litton told me he was dead! He saw Royce shoot him. Got him square in the chest.”