by Sandra Heath
A look of complete distaste descended over Sir Quentin’s face. “Are there no depths to which you will not sink, Warrender?”
“Very few. I disposed of Fairfield because he was a threat to me, so be warned, Brockhampton, that I am quite prepared to also consign you to the hereafter if I think it necessary.”
Sir Quentin stared at him. “You ... killed Geoffrey Fairfield?” Agitatedly, he got up to refill his glass. His hand trembled so much as he poured the cognac that the crystal decanter rattled against the glass.
Rafe smiled smoothly. “Yes, I’m afraid I did. The morning after he caught me in the act, I went to the Hall to reason with him, but Emily was close by all the time, so we went through the charade of a horse race in order to have it out somewhere suitably isolated and private. The pool in the woods seemed ideal. But once there I could not prevail upon him to hold his tongue about me, so he had to die, d’you see? I was base enough to blame my poor, innocent horse for the calamity. I told everyone I had lost track of Fairfield in the woods, and that I went back to the house without seeing him.”
Rafe stretched across the desk for the signet ring, which still lay by the block of sealing wax. “This is a copy. I lost the actual Henry V signet ring during the struggle with Fairfield. He wrenched it from my finger and tossed it aside. I’ve searched, but it seems to have vanished. Yet I know it’s there somewhere.”
Sir Quentin sensed that the loss of the ring was of more significance than simply its value as a family heirloom.
Rafe went on. “Emily Fairfield has noticed that this ring is a copy because the idiot of a jeweler who made it added an extra thorn. I told her I’d lost the original two years ago in London, but it seems dear Fairfield only drew four thorns on my portrait on the day of his death, which is rather inconvenient.”
“Why on earth did you invent a tale about London two years ago? You’re sometimes too glib for your own good,”
“Well, no matter. With luck the real ring will remain lost forever. A pity, for it is valuable, but then I value my neck somewhat more.”
“So what happens now?” Sir Quentin took a gulp of cognac.
“Regarding the ring? Nothing.”
“Then what about Lincoln and the paper he took?”
“I’ve already told you he cannot know what it means. It is useless without the accompanying book, and as the book is no longer with us ...” Rafe gestured elegantly toward the remains on the fire.
“So we say and do nothing?”
Rafe glanced at him. “You say and do nothing, Brockhampton, but I have much to say and do. Not the least being to reacquaint Mackay with my true wishes regarding Emily Fairfield’s account. No matter what is contained in the letter forced out of me tonight, I wish her purse to remain as empty as possible. So the letter is to be destroyed. There will not be another because I don’t intend Lincoln to be around for long enough to extract a replacement.” Nor do I intent his Indian sorcerer to be around either.
Sir Quentin’s tongue passed nervously over his dry lips. Warrender spoke of murder as easily as if he discussed the price of wheat!
Rafe smiled. “As it happens, I am seeing Mackay in the morning anyway. He has sent me word that Cora Preston has summoned him to Fairfield Hall. Every time he is in communication with the Hall he notifies me, and we meet to discuss matters. He is always most anxious to carry out my wishes to the ‘T.’ “
I’ll bet he is, Sir Quentin thought, for he values his neck too!
Rafe got up. “Well, I need to sleep now. If I can when my head thumps like an anvil.” Rubbing his aching jaw, he left the room to go to his apartments.
Sir Quentin put his glass down slowly. Sleep? He doubted if he would ever sleep again. His fists clenched into balls, whitening his knuckles so that the bone almost seemed to show through. He was being sucked into something far more dangerous and wide-reaching than any mere tweaking of the law, and he didn’t like it one small bit.
His glance moved to the desk, and he went to it. Making himself comfortable in Rafe’s chair, he took paper and pen, then began to write.
Chapter 31
Seldom had a foggy Monday morning in November been happier than the one that now dawned over Fairfield Hall. The rising sun tried in vain to pierce the vapor that swirled eerily between the trees in the topiary garden and enveloped the park so completely that all was a ghostly silver-gray.
Because of Rafe’s letters, which Emily claimed to have “found” among the rest of the mail, the atmosphere around the breakfast table had been almost jolly. No one could understand why Rafe had undergone such a generous change of heart, except Manco, of course, but then he always seemed to know things without being privy to events.
But no one really cared what Rafe’s reasons were, just that he had acted upon them. All that mattered was that he had decided not to proceed with the match, that there were no lOUs, and that he was sweetening Emily’s imagined disappointment by donating sufficient funds to cover all the debts that so weighed down her existence. Manco made it plain that he hoped a speedy return to Peru would soon follow.
Cora guessed that Jack’s hand lay behind it, for she noticed him exchange several rather odd glances with Emily. There was something going on there, she thought, and it wasn’t simply to do with them being in love with each other, which patently they were, much to her satisfaction.
But what did anything matter now? The Hall’s difficulties were at an end, and Mr. Mackay was expected at any time. Soon the fifty thousand guineas would be transferred, and the business of disposing of the debts could begin. Hey, ho, this November 4th was the very best red-letter day anyone could wish for!
Manco was still determined to visit the old disused gatehouse, which he was convinced was the abode of Viracocha, so after breakfast he and Peter set off through the mist. They wore their ponchos and hardly noticed the clammy cold as they ran over the cold, wet grass.
Cora and Cristoval went out as well, but only for a brief stroll in the topiary garden. Cora often indulged in a morning constitutional before settling to her music practice, and Cristoval was disposed to accompany her. He wore his greatcoat and top hat, but was so used to the thick, drizzling garúa of his homeland that the light fog of an English autumn was of very little consequence. Beside him, Cora wore a hooded cloak over her cinnamon-colored morning gown, and the lace lappets of her day bonnet peeped prettily from beneath her hood.
It was of Peru that they talked, and she again displayed such an avid interest that at last Cristoval halted and faced her. “Manco and I will return there soon. Why do you not come with us?” he invited, his breath clearly visible in the cold.
She stared at him. “Come with you?” she repeated.
“See Felix again.” He spread his hands. “My hacienda has all the comforts, and has missed a woman’s touch. Come with us, Cora.”
She hardly noticed the use of her first name. “Do ... do you really think I could?”
“Could? Of course. But whether you will...”
She smiled. “Sir, I have spent most of the last thirty years wishing I had shown the courage to go when Felix asked me. If you imagine I intend to spend the next thirty years doing the same, you are mistaken. Now that Emily’s debts have been so miraculously disposed of, the next thing I want most in all the world is to see Felix again. So I accept your invitation.”
* * *
Emily and Jack stood at an upper window, watching the two figures in the garden, and after a moment Jack smiled. “I do believe your mother will go to Peru as well when Cristoval and Manco return,” he said.
Emily’s lips parted. “You really think so?”
“It will be the perfect opportunity for her. She is clearly still in love with Felix, and he certainly is with her.”
Emily gazed at the misty, indistinct figures in the garden. “If you are right, Jack, then I fear ...”
“That Peter will wish to go as well?” he finished for her.
“Yes.”
Jack tu
rned her to face him. “If he wishes to go, my advice is that you let him.”
“Oh, but—”
He put a finger to her lips. “Let him go, but give him a time limit. Tell him he must return to finish his education, and that he must also follow an education while he is there. Lima has many wonders to teach him, and he is a boy who hungers to learn.”
Emily’s eyes filled with tears. “But he may not wish to return! He may want to stay there.”
“Look, we are only speculating anyway, but I still advise you to let him go. That way he will be with your mother if she goes, and he will certainly be with Felix, Cristoval, and Manco. I could not wish for any finer guardians if he were my own son. Emily, if you refuse should these circumstances arise, there is a very grave risk of his running away.”
She stared at him. “Peter would never...”
“Peter is Felix’s grandson,” he reminded her. “The lust to see the world is in his blood, and if he thinks you are blocking his path, he is headstrong enough to go anyway. Who knows what might befall him then? A boy alone? A handsome boy, innocent, unused to the baser ways of the human race? At least if he accompanies the others, he will be protected. So, if any of this should arise, agree to it.”
“All right,” she whispered, but the tears were wet on her cheeks.
He tilted her chin and smiled at her. “Good, for this way you will bind him to you more surely than any other. A mother who allows her son to follow his heart can be sure that heart will eventually bring him back to her again.”
In spite of herself she laughed a little. "That sounded like a quotation!”
“Actually, it’s an Inca proverb ... well, it is according to Manco.” He gazed down at her. She wore a pale green gown made of the softest wool. It was old-fashioned because of the train that whispered on the floorboards behind her when she walked, but its high-throated, long-sleeved simplicity became her quite perfectly, and its color brought out the lovely hazel shades in her eyes. Those eyes were upon him now, dark with love yet alight with laughter too. And her lips were upturned at the corners, so sweetly inviting that he could not—and did not—resist kissing them.
Then they stood in each other’s arms, oblivious to the giggling maids who scurried past them. Nothing but Emily mattered to him. He knew how much he adored her, how much he worshipped everything about her.
Please don’t let anything go wrong now, he thought. Let Rafe accept defeat, lick his wounds, and never again darken the threshold of Fairfield Hall
Please.
* * *
Manco and Peter had run all the way from the Hall to the abandoned gatehouse. Peter was exhausted and out of breath by the time the dilapidated building and rusty gates appeared through the mist ahead, but Manco was still fleet of foot and hardly seemed affected by the run.
Peter was astonished and admiring, and the vain Indian did not have the grace to admit that he had chewed upon a little coca before leaving the house. It was because of the magical leaf that his Inca ancestors had been able to run fifty or more miles in a day along the steep and dangerous paths of the Andes, so the relatively short distance from Fairfield Hall to the House of Viracocha was nothing!
But as they drew closer to the gatehouse, Manco suddenly came to a wary halt. He put a restraining hand on Peter’s shoulder. “Boy wait,” he whispered.
“Why? What’s—?” Peter’s voice was smothered by Manco’s hand.
“Boy quiet! Someone inside, but it not Viracocha. See, his light not shine.” Manco nodded toward the gatehouse. “Maybe demon there, evil spirit that lie in wait.”
Peter’s eyes widened, and he stood quite still. Manco again urged him to stay where he was, then searched in his purse. When he drew out his hand, Peter saw that his fingers were tipped with blue dye. The Indian put marks on both his own and the boy’s forehead. “Manco and boy now guarded by Viracocha,” Manco whispered, then slipped silently away toward the building, which outwardly seemed totally deserted.
Peter hesitated, then disobeyed by following. He was under Viracocha’s protection; nothing could befall him now ...
Manco reached the door and paused. His acute hearing had detected a sound inaudible to Peter, a shuffling movement that was made by a human, not an animal, and certainly not a demon!
He jerked angrily around as Peter appeared at his side, but he did not dare to say anything now they were so close. The fog exaggerated every little sound, from the dripping of moisture from the trees, to the alarm call of a blackbird somewhere in the hedge on the other side of the empty road.
The shuffling sound came from within again, and this time Peter heard it too. A shiver passed down his spine. Who was it? A demon, as Manco feared? What if it knew they were out here, and was only waiting to gobble them up? His faith in Viracocha’s power wavered a little.
Suddenly, Manco kicked the door open and rushed in. There was a startled cry, a scuffle, then silence. Peter stepped nervously closer, and peered around the open door. To his astonishment he saw Archie Bradwell sprawled on the floor, with Manco standing threateningly over him. A copy of the Gentleman's Magazine lay nearby, together with some dirty sheets of paper. Archie was clutching a stubby pencil in his hand, which he waved at Manco.
“ ‘Tisn’t a weapon! Honest! ‘Tis only a pencil!” he cried.
Peter hurried in. “He’s telling the truth, Manco!”
The Indian gave him a look. “Manco know pencil when see one,” he replied, and stepped back from Archie, who scrambled fearfully to his feet. His left wrist was tightly bandaged, Peter noticed.
Manco noticed as well, and pointed at the bandages. “Boy hurt?”
“I... I fell.” His glance moved toward Peter. He’d stolen an apple from the same tree as Peter, but instead of dropping down agilely from the garden wall, he’d slithered down and twisted his wrist. And had a leathering for his trouble, because his father caught him! Peter Fairfield hadn’t had a leathering for doing the same thing. Oh, no, he was a gentleman, so nothing bad ever happened to him!
Peter retrieved the magazine from the floor. “What are you doing here, Archie?”
“Learnin’ my letters.”
“Your letters?”
Archie gathered the sheets of paper and showed them to him, all the while keeping a very wary eye on Manco. “See? I copies the words.”
Peter read the painstaking writing. Archie had managed a sentence all about a new type of plow someone had invented in Norfolk. Every letter was so laboriously formed that even this single sentence must have taken an age. Peter looked curiously at his arch rival. “Do you know what you’ve written?” he asked.
Archie flushed, then hung his head without replying.
A huge weight lifted from Peter. For the first time in his life, he felt infinitely superior to the gatehouse keeper’s burly son. At last there was something he, Peter Fairfield, could do, that Archie couldn’t! The realization almost made him like Archie!
Manco looked at him. “This Pizarro boy?”
“Yes,” Peter replied.
Archie raised his head again, realizing they were talking about him. “Eh? What’s that?”
“Oh, it doesn’t matter,” Peter replied, shoving the papers and magazine back into the other’s hands. “I didn’t know you couldn’t read or write, Archie.”
“There ent much call for it in our ‘ouse,” Archie replied.
“No, I don’t suppose there is.” Peter smiled a little sheepishly. “And in my house there’s not much call for all the things you do well.”
Archie nodded. “Well, reckon fish just appear on your table, Master Peter. We ‘ave to catch ‘em first. I get a leatherin’ if I don’t bring back some tench for supper, so I make sure I catch ‘em.”
Manco looked at them both. “Boys friends, teach each other,” he observed.
Peter grinned. “Yes, that’s just what I was thinking, Manco.”
Archie’s face lightened. “You ... you mean you’ll show me ‘ow to read and write, pr
oper like?”
“Yes, but only if you teach me things too.”
“What things?” Archie couldn’t imagine what a gentleman’s son like Peter would want to learn from him! Aside from fishing, of course.
As the boys fell to talking, Manco glanced disappointedly around the gatehouse. There was no gold or finery of any kind, nothing to indicate it was the abode of Viracocha. Whatever it now was, the House of the Sun it was not. “Pizarro house,” he muttered under his breath, but then he heard something and swiftly gestured to the boys to be quiet. “Someone come!” he breathed, and they all listened.
Gradually, there came the rattle of a pony and trap coming from the direction of Temford. They all three moved to the window to look out and saw the little vehicle emerge from the mist. But instead of driving on by, the man in the trap maneuvered the pony to a halt right by the gates. Then he settled more comfortably on the seat, hunched his shoulders, and turned up his greatcoat collar. He was short and stocky, with unexpectedly small hands and feet. For a moment he raised his jowled face toward the sky, as if hoping to see the sun about to break through.
Peter recognized him. “It’s Mr. Mackay, the banker,” he whispered.
Manco was about to reply when his sharp ears picked up another sound, this time the hooves of a ridden horse. He put a finger to his lips, and they watched again to see who came. A minute later, Rafe rode out of the swirling vapor and reined in alongside the trap. He had trouble with his black thoroughbred, which danced and shied, too full of energy to stand meekly while its rider indulged in conversation.
“Well, Mackay? What news is there?” Rafe demanded.
“Nothing of import, at least I don’t think so,” the banker replied in his distinctively Scottish voice, then he sat forward curiously. “Have you hurt your chin?”
“It’s nothing. Well, get on with it, man.”
“Eh? Oh, yes. Mrs. Preston wants me at the Hall. Something about a purse of coins from Felix Reynolds in Peru.”
Peter stared. Mr. Mackay was nothing but a snake in the grass!