by Sandra Heath
Manco looked at him. “How boy know this?”
“I overheard her talking to Mr. Lincoln today. She said Mr. Reynolds is my grandfather.”
Manco nodded. “It true. Boy lucky. Capac Felix great man.”
“Do you really think so, Manco?”
“Manco know so.”
Peter smiled, for in his eyes Felix Reynolds could have no better recommendation than to be praised by the Indian.
Manco smiled too. “So, Capac Peter, we have bargain? I show you things, you take me House of Viracocha? Manco make offerings, make magic. Then together we teach Sir Devil Rafe and Pizarro Archie a lesson.”
“Yes.”
Chapter 28
When Jack reached Temford, he dismounted again and led the horse into a wide covered alley off the market square. There was no mist up here on the hill, and the moonlight bathed everything with a clarity that did not reach into the valleys.
He’d noticed the alley earlier from the window of the Royal Oak opposite. There were lights at the inn, and the occasional burst of laughter and fiddle music as someone left through the front entrance. But the alley was silent, for it led only into a yard behind one of the stores that Cora frequented so earnestly in her endeavors to keep up with all the changing fashions that came north from London.
He soothed the horse until it was quiet and relaxed, then went to the mouth of the alley to look toward the castle gates set in the yew hedge. They were closed for the night, and the windows of the little mock medieval lodge just inside them were aglow with candlelight behind drawn curtains. The gatekeeper was still awake, Jack noted with dismay, for at this hour he had expected all to be in darkness. He slipped past the shop frontages in the square toward the hedge, which was all of twenty feet high, and close-clipped in a way that must take several days and several ladders whenever trimming became necessary.
He paused in the shadows to glance around the square. There were lights at some upper-story windows, but for the moment there was no one actually out and about. Even the Royal Oak was temporarily quiet, the door firmly closed. The moment was perfect. In a trice he’d swarmed up the wrought iron gates, lifted himself lightly over the top, and then dropped down into the castle grounds. He immediately drew back against the hedge again, pressing warily out of sight with his gaze upon the lodge. But there was no sound of stirring within, no suggestion that his intrusion had been detected.
Several minutes passed, and all remained quiet, so Jack relaxed and turned his attention toward the castle, the battlements of which seemed to move against the sky, where clouds now dotted the starlit heavens. A peacock called, and he heard an owl, but of humans there was no sign at all. Except, perhaps ...
His gaze was drawn to a light in the barbican, and the room above the now defunct portcullis. The original windows would have been small, little more than arrow slits, but in recent years much larger ones had been installed, latticed and set with colored glass, as if in a church. A casement was ajar, and from time to time he could just hear the chink of ivory balls as someone played billiards.
Then Rafe stepped past the window, pausing to twist the leather tip of his cue against the uneven stonework of the wall before bending out of a sight again to play a shot. A cold glitter settled over Jack’s eyes, and he began to make his way stealthily toward the castle entrance.
Gaining entry to the castle was almost ridiculously easy. The iron-studded main door was bolted on the inside, but the little postern beside it had been overlooked. It opened easily on hinges that had recently been greased, and in a moment he found himself inside his cousin’s lair.
He entered the baronial hall, where the guardian suits of armor were barely discernible in the faint light of the flames in the wide stone fireplace, and the four lighted candles of an iron cartwheel-shaped chandelier were suspended from the loft roof far above. It was not warm inside, but felt so after the bitterness of the November night, and there was a definite smell of curry in the air. Clearly, Rafe and his bird-of-a-feather guest had enjoyed a dinner laced with hot oriental spices.
Hidden behind a heavy damask curtain, immediately beside the postern, was a spiral stone staircase that ascended steeply into the upper barbican. The dark red of the damask was deepened almost to black in the gloomy, indistinct light, but when Jack held the curtain aside to look up, he could see a much brighter light at the top. The chink of billiard balls was louder now. Of voices there was no sound, however, which made Jack begin to hope Rafe might be on his own. Oh, how provident if that were so, for they could enjoy a cousin-to-cousin chat, in convenient privacy ...
Unaware of approaching danger, Rafe was indeed playing alone. The room was so well heated by a small fireplace that he had discarded his coat and wore just his shirt and breeches as he leaned down to play a long shot against the felt cushion. The table had been built actually in the barbican room, all its parts having been hauled up the outside wall on ropes when the windows had been enlarged. It was a fine, bold piece of furniture, with green cloth laid upon slabs of marble, and it was illuminated by a patent oil lamp that hung from the ceiling to within three feet of the table top.
The cue jabbed forward, and the white ball rolled toward the cushion, where a red ball rested in a most difficult position. Ivory struck ivory, but the red ball did not run toward the corner pocket. Instead, it paused at the very lip, almost as if mocking him. Rafe straightened, his expression sour as he reached for the glass of cognac that he had placed on the cushion. It was as well he wasn’t playing Brockhampton tonight, or he’d be trounced, he thought.
A voice spoke. “Ill met by lamplight, eh, Coz?”
“Lincoln—” Rafe began to whip around, but a pistol muzzle pressed icily to the nape of his neck, and the sound of it being cocked froze him where he stood. The glass fell from his fingers, bounced off the table and crashed to the floor. Rafe swallowed, for his tongue felt as if it had stuck to the roof of his mouth. “So ... so Brockhampton was right, it was you of whom Gustavus spoke.”
“Gustavus?”
“He told Brockhampton you were on the Stralsund.”
"There is no secret about my return to England. Or about my desire to crush you vengefully beneath my heel, like the dung beetle you are.” Jack twisted the pistol against his cousin’s perspiring skin.
Rafe was terrified. His tongue passed over lips that were suddenly desert-dry. “What do you want?” he whispered.
“Want? Apart from the return of my inheritance, you mean?”
“It was proved to be my inheritance, and—” Rafe’s voice broke off as the pistol drove into his flesh.
“Your dishonesty is proving tiresome, Coz. First you and your creature Brockhampton forge an entry of birth in order to deprive me of my rights, then you see to the disappearance of the purse that Felix Reynolds left behind for Cora Preston. Now you are busy with lOUs and talk of French spies. My, my, I could almost take my hat off to your industry.”
Rafe was stunned by Jack’s knowledge. “Who has told you all this?” he demanded, wording the question carefully so that he admitted nothing. His thoughts were racing. Brockhampton! Had the lawyer been less than discreet? It did not occur to him that Emily might have confided any of the facts.
“Ah, now wouldn’t you like to know?” breathed Jack, again pressing the pistol into the other’s neck.
“Yes, I would, because it is all lies.” Rafe began to turn, but the pistol jabbed again.
“Face the front, Coz. If I wanted to see a weasel, I would have gone to the nearest wood,” Jack said softly. “Now then, if you wish to play games and pretend you don’t know what I’m talking about, allow me to make it a little more clear. The forged entry of birth is definitely known to you, or have you forgotten those days you spent telling monstrous lies in court? As for the purse Felix Reynolds left with Brockhampton, I rather think you know about that as well.”
“What have you to do with Felix Reynolds?” Rafe demanded.
“I am honored to name him among
my closest friends. But surely it is more to the point to ask what you have to do with Felix Reynolds? Eh, Coz? Why have you been dipping your dirty paws into his affairs?”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Oh? So I am mistaken to think you wrote a letter to Brockhampton, thanking him for his assistance in the matter of the disappearing purse?”
Rafe’s lips parted, and his thoughts raced. So Brockhampton was the source!
“You haven’t answered my question, Coz. Why have you made Felix Reynolds’s business your business too?”
“I haven’t.”
“Forgive me if I call you liar, Rafe dearest,” Jack said softly. “Which brings us to the matter of lOUs and French spies. I rather think we both know that Geoffrey Fairfield had nothing to do with either of these, don’t we? Admit it now, Coz. Geoffrey was a good boy, but you have always been a very bad boy indeed. Quite the blot on the family escutcheon, eh?”
Beads of perspiration now stood out on Rafe’s forehead. “I... I can understand your wanting your inheritance back, Lincoln, but of what possible interest to you is Fairfield Hall?”
“I happen to be the guest of Fairfield's mother-in-law.”
“Cora Preston?”
“Unless he was bigamously married, yes, of course, Cora Preston,” Jack replied.
Rafe’s thoughts turned in all directions at once. It must surely mean that he knew all about Felix and Cora Preston; therefore about Emily Fairfield’s parentage. But did he also know how wealthy Reynolds had become? Was that why he was involved in all this? Maybe there was more than one fortune hunter in the family!
“Where’s Brockhampton?” Jack asked suddenly.
“Asleep.”
“Dreaming sweet dreams of lost innocence, no doubt.”
“We have indulged enough in small talk, Lincoln. What do you want of me?” Rafe cried.
“An end to your loathsome grip upon Emily Fairfield.”
“Loathsome grip? Damn it, I’m going to marry her!”
“I think not, Coz. The lady is too good for the likes of you, too good by far.”
Rafe’s eyes cleared. “Do you want her yourself? Yes, I think you do. Which makes you no better than I, Lincoln. You may give yourself airs and graces, but inside you are my black-hearted, scheming twin!”
The pistol stabbed sharply. “Don’t presume to compare me with you, Coz! I may not have anything to offer Emily, but even so I am a thousand times better than you will ever be. I love her, and intend to save her from you.”
Rafe began to realize that the secret about Felix Reynolds’s fortune was safe. “I’ll see you in Hades first, Lincoln,” he breathed.
A nerve twitched at Jack’s temple. “I’ve been in Hades since our day in court, Coz, so the prospect no longer frightens me. Now then, one of the reasons I’ve come here tonight is to warn you that if you ever utter one single unflattering word about Geoffrey Fairfield, I will personally rip the hide from your miserable body. Then I will hang it out to dry from the tallest tower of this heap of stones you call home. Do I make myself clear?”
Rafe didn’t reply.
The pistol prodded warningly. “Another reason for my visit is to see that you protect Emily from her husband’s debts without imposing your odoriferous self upon her at the same time. I want you to settle all her outstanding bills, as a fond gesture from a fiancé who must regretfully withdraw from the match.”
“Eh? Are you mad?”
“No, Coz, I’m just the man with his finger on the trigger,” Jack replied smoothly. “Now, either you’re a sensible fellow and agree to my demand, or I’ll drop you here and now. It’s up to you.”
Chapter 29
“You wouldn’t dare!” But Rafe’s words were false bravado, for in truth he didn’t know what his disaffected cousin might do.
Jack smiled. “Think again, Coz, for you have given me sufficient incentive to exterminate you ten times over.”
Rafe swallowed. “And ... and what makes you think I’ll do as you want? I could agree to anything while you’re here with the upper hand, then go back on it all afterward.”
“That would be most unwise, for I am not known for my forgiving nature.”
“Devil take you, Lincoln.”
“From now on he’s more likely to roast your backside in Hades than mine, unless I roast it first, of course. Or my good friend Manco.”
“Manco?”
“A Peruvian Indian of Inca descent. He is also a guest at the Hall, and happens to hold Inca values. He has magical powers—courtesy of the great sun god, Viracocha—and uses them to take Inca revenge. Your top hat suffered at his hands when you rode across the square. He is rather keen to eliminate you properly, but so far has been dissuaded. It would not take much for a sling-stone to be replaced by a much more deadly arrow, or even a poisoned dart. Or mayhap something much more fearsome and supernatural,” Jack added softly.
Rafe was rigid with fright. All his superstitious dread surged to the fore, and his glance fled to his coat, which lay over a chair. His quartz pebble! He needed it... !
His terror was tangible to Jack, who smiled coolly. “Retribution comes from nowhere, does it not? So beware of taking the Peruvian wolf by the ears, Coz, for you will not win, and I would as soon have you dead as alive. You will also be dead if you are ever foolish enough to implement your threats about exposing Geoffrey Fairfield as a French agent.” Jack softened his voice warningly. “One word out of place, Rafe, and you won’t hear Manco as he treads behind you, or feel his magic as it folds over you.”
Rafe felt faint. His whole body shook, and he had to grip the billiard table to give himself strength.
Jack realized that by pure chance he had happened on the one threat that reduced Rafe to terror. So he pressed his advantage home. “You will know nothing until it is too late, Coz, so my advice is that you do as I tell you now.”
“Yes! All... all right, I’ll do anything you ask!” Rafe cried cravenly.
“I want you to write some letters, Coz. But be warned, if you try to overturn anything that I have made you do tonight, it will be the end of you. Do you understand?”
Rafe nodded. “Yes,” he whispered. “Whom am I to write to?”
“We’ll start off with Emily, and then the Fairfield Hall banker in Shrewsbury—Mackay, isn’t that his name?—instructing him to transfer funds to Emily. There, is that not a clever thing?”
For the space of two heartbeats Rafe did not respond, but then he gave in. “Very well, I will do as you wish.”
The surrender was a little too willing, Jack thought suspiciously. “If you imagine you can get up to something, Coz, I warn you—”
“Look, Lincoln, I’ve agreed to your terms. That is what you want, isn’t it? I’m not fool enough to argue long with a man who threatens me with a pistol!” Rafe began to turn toward Jack, who once again forced him to face the front.
“I don’t want to look at your miserable visage, Coz, so just look the other way.” Jack’s suspicions weren’t allayed by Rafe’s words, for it never did to trust this man, but getting the letter out of him was the prime consideration. “Lead the way, and remember, one false move and I’ll put an end to you.” The pistol jabbed. “Off we toddle.”
“My coat...” Being careful to avert his face, Rafe took the garment and put it on, then slipped his hand over the comforting pebble of quartz in the pocket.
Jack saw the action and swiftly caught Rafe’s wrist. “Not so fast, Coz,” he breathed. But when he examined the contents of the pocket, he found only the pebble. “What’s this?”
“A memento.”
“From where?”
“Naples.” It was the truth.
Jack hesitated, being of half a mind to toss it out of the window, but instead he replaced it in the pocket. “Don’t make any more sudden movements, Coz.”
“I won’t.” Rafe slowly put his hand into the pocket again, and breathed out steadily as his fingers closed over the quar
tz. Almost immediately he felt better, stronger, more able to deal with his fears. He led the way from the room, and as they descended the twisting staircase, he was aware of the pistol only inches from the back of his head.
They made their way to the former chapel that was now his study. A fireplace had been built against an outer wall of the chancel, where a mullioned window, pointed and leaded, allowed the moon to shine palely through. The fire had burned low, adding little to the dull silver light, but there was sufficient light for Jack to see that the whole room was furnished in the Gothic style. There were bookcases with trefoil carving and leaded doors that matched the window, and an immense oak desk and chair that might have come from an abbey.
Rafe sat at the desk and met Jack’s eyes for the first time. Cousin looked at cousin, with that peculiar bitterness and loathing that only shared blood can bring, then Rafe reached for a sheet of paper. He dipped a gold-nibbed pen in the inkwell and looked inquiringly at Jack, who stood on the other side of the desk, the pistol still leveled. “Well?”
“The sum of forty thousand guineas has been mentioned, as have various lOUs. Now then, Coz, do those lOUs exist or not?”
Rafe looked at him. “Geoffrey Fairfield was a fool, but not that much of one.”
“So they are a figment of your imagination?”
“I fear so.”
"This had better be the truth.”
“It is.” Rafe met Jack’s eyes, and the latter knew that for once his slippery kinsman was not lying,
“Right, I think fifty thousand should do it,” Jack said calmly.
Rafe’s lips parted. “Fifty?”
“I thought you’d like to be gallant and allow his widow a sum for her own comfort,” Jack said smoothly, taking the candle from the desk and lighting it at the fire in readiness for the sealing wax. The swaying light of the new flame advanced and retreated as he returned to the desk and put the candle down.
“Come on now, Coz, I know you have funds enough, because you have my funds, and I know how much income you receive each year from that alone. So pay up, there’s a good lad.”