by Sandra Heath
At Jack’s dictation, Rafe wrote the necessary letter to the banker, and another to Emily. Then he sanded and folded them both, and removed his signet ring in readiness to seal it. Jack immediately picked it up to examine. “What’s this?”
“You don’t recognize it?”
“No, I don’t, and you know I don’t. Where’s the original?”
“Lost, unfortunately.”
Jack looked at him with utter contempt. “You’ve lost the ring our ancestor was given by Henry V at Agincourt?”
“These things happen.”
“Do they? Somehow I think even you would have preferred to keep a tight grip upon such an heirloom. What happened? Where did you lose it?”
Rafe spread his hands. “I have no idea. I just realized it was missing. Look, is it important? The damned ring has gone, and I use this one now, so do you or do you not want me to seal the letters?”
“Yes, I do.” But Jack’s suspicions were still strong. This was far too easy. Rafe was hiding something—but what? He returned the signet ring, but then realized there was no sealing wax on the desk. Rafe realized it as well, and hesitated, his glance sliding toward a drawer near his right hand.
Jack followed the glance. “What do you keep in there, Coz?”
“Nothing. Just the sealing wax.”
“Then get it out,” Jack ordered, waving the pistol.
Rafe’s reluctance to open the drawer was almost palpable.
He searched in his pocket for the key, almost dropped it, then hesitated again.
In exasperation Jack came around the desk, snatched the key from him, and unlocked the drawer. Inside lay the block of yellow sealing wax, but it wasn’t the only thing, for a leather-bound book lay there too, with a folded sheet of paper as a bookmark.
Curious, Jack transferred the pistol to his left hand, with which he was almost as adept as the right, and pressed it to Rafe’s neck once more. Then with his right hand he flipped through the book, which was a volume of seventeenth-century French poems. “Poems? You do surprise me,” he murmured as he briefly examined the sheet of paper. On it were written sequences of numbers, apparently random. It was meaningless. From the corner of his eye he saw Rafe’s gaze upon the book, and the way his tongue passed nervously over his lower lip.
“What are these numbers, Rafe?” Jack demanded.
“I don’t know. The paper was in the book when I purchased it.”
Jack didn’t believe him. The sheet of paper had some importance, and it might do to keep it. So he secretly pushed it in his pocket, then returned the pistol to his right hand and moved around the desk to face Rafe. “Seal the letter,” he said shortly.
Rafe did as he was told, holding the sealing wax in one hand and the lighted candle in the other and bringing them together so that several blobs of molten yellow fell upon one letter and then the other. Then he pressed his ring into the setting wax, leaving perfect imprints of Jack’s rose.
Jack waited a second or so for the sealing wax to harden, then he pushed the letters into his coat next to the sheet of numbers. “Right, that’s one exercise over and done with. Now we come to the next.”
“Next?”
“I want what’s mine, Coz, and while I hold this pistol, you dance to my tune.”
“If you think I’m going to hand over—”
“I don’t think that’s what you’re going to do, I know it.” Jack leaned forward over the desk and aimed the pistol directly between Rafe’s eyes. “Remember Manco,” he breathed. “Now, take a fresh sheet of paper.”
But as Warrender reluctantly began to obey, they both heard footsteps approaching the door, which had been left slightly ajar. “Are you in there, Warrender?” called Sir Quentin’s voice.
Jack’s reaction was like lightning. He brought his left fist to Rafe’s jaw, knocking him unconscious so that he slumped forward onto the desk, the new sheet of paper still clutched in his hand. Then Jack darted behind the door and waited for the lawyer to enter,
“Warrender?” Sir Quentin peered into the room, his chin obligingly within reach, and in a trice he too was on the receiving end of Jack’s fist. He fell in a crumpled heap of white nightshirt and floral brocade dressing gown, and the long golden tassel of his nightcap settled neatly over his nose.
Jack looked angrily down at him. “Damn your timing, Brockhampton!” he breathed. He glanced back at Rafe, who was absolutely still. They were both out for the count. “Best get out of here while you can, Jack, my laddo,” he breathed, and slipped from the room like a shadow.
He hurried through the castle, out through the postern gate, then over the lawns toward the gates. Peering cautiously through them, he saw the square was still empty, so he scrambled up and over the wrought iron, then ran swiftly past the shops to the alley, where his horse still waited. There was no hint of the alarm being raised at the castle as he rode out of the square and down toward the bridge over the Teme, down into the mist that now cloaked everything.
Within half an hour he was back at the stables at the Hall. Within five minutes of that he was on his way up to his room. But as he ascended the staircase, he found Emily waiting for him at the top. She had gone to his room and found it empty. He paused in concern. “Emily?” he said softly, seeing the stain of tears on her face.
She flung her arms around his neck, clinging to him so tightly that he could feel her heartbeats. He enveloped her in his embrace, resting his cheek against her hair. “What is it, my darling? Has something else happened?” he whispered.
“No, I... I just need to be with you,” she answered, her voice choked with fresh tears. She thought she had wept away all her tears with her mother, but seeing him made them flow again.
His cheek moved against her hair. “Soon everything will be all right again, and we will be able to be together,” he said quietly.
She drew back to look into his eyes. “What do you mean?”
He heard a sound from Cora’s room and caught Emily’s hand to draw her swiftly to his own room. Once inside, he quickly lighted a candle at the fire, then faced her in the gentle light. “I have something for you,” he said, and handed her Rafe’s letter.
She recognized the writing and the seal, and looked inquiringly at him. “But how—?”
“Ask no questions, and be told no lies. Suffice it that the letters are genuine. Yes, there are two. The second is for Mr. Mackay. You can give it to him when he calls here in response to your mother’s message. But before you read the one addressed to you ...”
“Yes?”
“All I ask is that you do not say anything about receiving either of them from my hand tonight. In the morning you can ‘find’ them among the daily mail.”
She searched his eyes and nodded. “Of course, if that is what you want.” She broke the seal and what she read left her dumbfounded. “Rafe is withdrawing from the match and settling my debts?”
“Is that not noble of him?”
She was afraid to be joyful. “You haven’t done anything ... anything awful, have you?”
“Well, I put a pistol to his head and frightened him half to death with threats involving Manco and his Inca magic, but that is all. I managed to restrain myself from actually squeezing the trigger. The fifty thousand guineas are yours, Emily. You no longer have to become Lady Warrender, and Geoffrey’s reputation will remain intact. Peter can return to Harrow if that is still his wish, and everything will be as it should again.”
“You ... you are sure?”
“Upon my own life,” he said gently, and placed his hand over his heart. “There will be no betrothal on Bonfire Night. You do not even have to go to the Royal Oak if you do not wish to. You are your own mistress again, Emily.”
She covered her mouth with her hands, as if she feared that only the wrong words would come out. Salt tears stung her eyes again, and her heart had begun to beat so swiftly that she was sure he would hear it. At last she took her hands away. “It’s over? It’s really over?”
; “Yes.”
“Oh, how can I thank you enough?” Joy rushed in, and the letter slipped from her fingers as she again flung her arms around his neck.
Jack smiled wryly as he held her. “Oh, I can think of any number of ways, but I fear I am a gentleman.”
She raised her lips to his, but as they kissed, a tiny sliver of doubt crept back into Jack’s heart. Not about her, never about her. But about Rafe, who had given in just that little too easily. Even taking into account that he had been in fear—both physically and supernaturally—for his life, there had been too little protest. The gnawing suspicion crept over Jack that his cousin might yet have a trump up his sleeve.
Chapter 30
Sir Quentin began to slowly regain consciousness on the floor at Temford Castle. His jaw felt hellish painful, and for a moment he couldn’t think where he was or what had happened. He managed to sit up, and then tentatively felt his swollen jaw. Memory returned. He hadn’t been able to sleep and had gone to see if Rafe was still in the billiard room. On finding no one there, and Rafe’s apartments open and unoccupied, he decided to look for him.
Using the door, he pulled himself to his feet. Then he saw Rafe slumped over the desk. “Warrender!” He stumbled over to him and shook his shoulders. “Warrender?”
Rafe moved a little and groaned.
Sir Quentin cast around for the cognac he knew Rafe kept somewhere in the room. He saw it in one of the bookcases, and hastened to pour two large glasses, which he slammed down on the desk. Then he shook Rafe again, more imperatively this time. “Wake up, Warrender!” he ordered.
Rafe’s eyes opened and gazed blankly for a moment, then he sat up with a start as he recalled being with Jack. “Lincoln!” he gasped, wincing because of his cut and swollen lip.
“Lincoln?”
“He was here, damn it! My confounded cousin was here!” Thoughts hurtled through Rafe’s recovering mind, and he snatched one of the glasses Sir Quentin had placed on the desk. The fiery liquid stung his damaged lip, but he hardly noticed.
The lawyer gaped. “Jack Lincoln? Damn it all, we must have the felon arrested! He can’t come here and attack us without—!”
“I don’t want attention drawn here,” Rafe interrupted sharply.
“But—”
“Leave it, I say! I’ll deal with this in my own way.”
“All right, all right.” Sir Quentin leaned back against the desk, rubbing his throbbing jaw. “What did he want?”
“Apart from putting thumb screws on me to return his inheritance? At a guess, I’d say it was Emily Fairfield,” Rafe murmured thoughtfully.
Sir Quentin straightened. “Eh? Emily Fairfield? Does he know about—”
“Felix Reynolds’s brimming coffers? I don’t think so. Close friend or not, it’s my guess that for some reason Reynolds held his tongue about his fortune—and about his forthcoming demise, if indeed Gustavus’s information about that is correct. Lincoln’s purpose tonight was to, er, persuade me to withdraw from the match with Emily Fairfield, and to settle her debts for her in the process. I don’t somehow think he’d be concerned about her present financial straits, which are a drop in the ocean compared with how much she will eventually be worth. Any bank would sustain her on such expectations.”
“You’re probably right.” Sir Quentin thought for a moment, then looked curiously at Rafe. “And did Lincoln make you do his bidding?”
“I had begun to, with a little prodding from his loaded pistol.” And the threat of the supernatural! Rafe swallowed as this latter thought crept insidiously into his head. Once again his hand slid nervously into his pocket to seek reassurance from the pebble. Once again that reassurance was forthcoming.
With the pebble safe in his palm, his fear of Manco began to diminish. It had all been lies about the Indian’s powers. Somehow Lincoln had found out about his hated cousin’s superstitious fears, and was playing upon them. Yes, that was surely it...
“A loaded pistol is rather persuasive,” Sir Quentin conceded.
“It is, so I accommodated him in every way where Fairfield Hall is concerned. Thanks to your nocturnal wanderings, he did not have time to force his birthright out of me as well. For that I’m much obliged to you, dear fellow.” Rafe raised his glass.
Sir Quentin was confused, for Rafe seemed altogether too calm about this complete demolition of his plans.
Rafe smiled. “Don’t look at me like that, dear fellow, for all is not lost. You see, the instructions about transferring the money are addressed to Mackay.”
Sir Quentin’s eyes cleared. “Ah.”
“Ah, indeed. I can’t believe those fools at Fairfield Hall still think he is their friend, but it seems they do. However, you and I both know he is my friend, my lapdog in every way. Not a penny will be transferred from my account into Emily Fairfield’s, and the lady will once again be obliged to accept me. Only this time there will be no kid gloves.”
“And you think Lincoln will stand idly by while all this goes on?” Sir Quentin could not quite suppress the deriding tone in his voice, for if Jack Lincoln had come boldly to Temford Castle to force his cousin to do his bidding, he was hardly likely to let Rafe overturn it all at will.
“Lincoln will be dealt with,” Rafe replied quietly.
“Dealt with?” A cold finger ran down Sir Quentin’s spine.
Rafe smiled. “He does not fit into my requirements, dear boy, so I shall have him removed.” And his so-called Inca magician!
Sir Quentin swallowed, for although he had been guilty of legal sleight of hand, he had no desire to be involved in murder; for what else but murder could be in question now?
Rafe’s eyes glittered coldly. “And if I discover that dear Emily has been less then faithful to me in her dealings with him, I will make her rue it!”
Suddenly, something occurred to him, and his eyes flew to the desk drawer, which was still open. The paper! His breath caught and he leapt to his feet. It was an instinctive action, like that of a cornered animal.
Sir Quentin looked curiously at him. “What is it?
“He’s taken the code!” Rafe cried without thinking. In an instant he regretted the words, but it was too late.
“What code?” Sir Quentin demanded.
“Oh, nothing of import,” Rafe replied, but he quickly took the book of poems and went to the fireplace. After poking some life into the embers, he began to tear the pages out of the book, crumpling them into balls, and dropping them on the glowing coals, where they ignited and soon burned to nothing but cinders.
Sir Quentin watched with growing concern. “What’s all this about, Warrender? What code? And why are you burning that book?”
Rafe didn’t reply, but continued to destroy the volume. Only when he had tossed the leather-bound covers onto the fire, did he answer the lawyer. “You aren’t that naive, so don’t pretend you haven’t guessed,” he muttered, seizing his glass of cognac again and downing what remained in a single gulp. Then he went to pour another.
Sir Quentin stared at him. “Guessed what? Damn it all, Warrender, I cannot read minds!”
“That much is obvious.” Rafe flung himself in his chair again and leaned his head back. “Oh, you may as well know, since you are in too deep anyway. You don’t imagine I have cultivated Carrowby and his friends because I like them, do you? I never do anything unless it brings reward.”
“What are you saying?” Sir Quentin asked uneasily.
“Exactly what you begin to fear I mean,” Sir Rafe said, giving him a cold smile.
Sir Quentin’s horrified gaze swung to the fire, where the title of the burned book was still legible on the cover. The French title of a book of French poems ...
“That’s right, dear boy,” Rafe murmured. “I have been indulging in exactly the crime of which I pretend Fairfield was guilty; to wit, the exceedingly lucrative pastime of selling cabinet secrets to our enemy.”
An appalled gasp escaped Sir Quentin, who took an involuntary step backward. “I
want nothing to do with this! I will do many a thing, but not betray my country!”
“I don’t expect you to do anything, except hold your tongue.”
“And thus become your accomplice!”
Rafe smiled. “You already are my accomplice, Brockhampton.”
“Never!” Sir Quentin’s face was ashen.
“If you imagine I will die a traitor’s death on my own, you had better think again. You are my right hand, Brockhampton, and one telltale word from you about me will ensure a veritable diatribe about you from me. You may count upon it that I will drag you to execution with me.”
Sir Quentin felt—and looked—sick. He knew Rafe meant what he said; and also knew that few were likely to disbelieve such a claim. Many enemies had been made during the course of a legal career that had flourished on chicanery, and some of those enemies were in a position to grind their axes to the sharpest of blades.
Rafe’s thin smile was cool. “Well, you can relax, Brockhampton, for Lincoln may have taken the paper, but without the book it is useless, just a jumble of figures. In actual fact, the figures refer to words and letters in the book, which when written down together make a readable message.”
“Are you quite sure nothing can be deduced from the figures on their own?”
“Certain beyond all shadow of doubt,” Rafe murmured, swirling his cognac and savoring the bouquet.
Sir Quentin went to the only other chair in the room, a leather armchair next to the fireplace. He flung himself into it, then exhaled slowly and tried to collect himself. When he had thrown in his lot with Rafe, it had been solely in order to benefit financially from Felix Reynolds’s fortune. This was something very different; this was high treason!
Rafe chuckled. “It is interesting how close one can come to the truth, and yet manage to twist it beyond all recognition.”
“What do you mean?”
“I managed to convince Emily Fairfield that her husband was a French spy. I told her I caught him sifting through Carrowby’s papers. The truth was the other way around; he caught me.”