by Sandra Heath
“A purse?” Rafe’s tone was sharp.
“Oh, don’t worry, it isn’t a fortune. Just sufficient to settle some of the more immediate bills.” Mackay kept a wary eye on the thoroughbred, which was making his pony stir uneasily.
“Are you sure?”
“Well, I haven’t seen it yet, but that’s what she says in her note. Do you want to read it?” The banker reached inside his coat, but Rafe shook his head.
“No, I’ll take your word for it. Now look, I have something important for you to do. When you get to the Hall, you are almost certainly going to be given a letter. It is in my hand, and concerns the sum of fifty thousand guineas.”
Mackay sat back in surprise. “Fifty thousand?”
“Yes. The letter instructs you to remove that amount from my account and see that it is given to Mrs. Fairfield. You are to pretend that you will comply with these instructions, but as soon as you are able I want you to destroy the letter. Is that clear?” Rafe’s horse capered slightly and tossed its head so unexpectedly that it almost jerked the reins from his hands.
Mackay leaned away as the animal swung around, its jaws close to his face. “Destroy it? But—”
“I don’t care how you do it, or what story you invent to explain its disappearance.”
The Scotsman nodded, “As you wish, Sir Rafe.”
“Don’t fail me, or it will be the worst for you.” Rafe regained mastery of his mount.
“When have I ever failed you, Sir Rafe? Reliability is my middle name. Besides, you pay me well for my, er, services.”
“And I expect value for my money.” Rafe leaned forward in the saddle. “There is something else I want you to do when you are at the Hall.”
“Yes?” The banker was all attention.
“There is a man there, my cousin, Jack Lincoln. I want you to tell him there is something vital you must communicate to him concerning Felix Reynolds. Tell him his Indian friend is concerned as well. You are to say that it is too delicate to discuss in front of the others. Arrange to meet them both here— both, mind you—then leave. Be as quick as you can about all this because I don’t want to kick my heels in this damp and cold for a moment longer than necessary. Do you understand?”
Mackay nodded again. “Yes, I understand. But what am I to say to him when he arrives here?”
“You won’t be here. I will,” Rafe said quietly, and took a pistol from inside his coat.
The onlookers in the gatehouse saw the barrel glint in the dull morning light. The banker’s eyes widened. “So I am just to see that he comes here. That’s all?”
“Yes. Now get going.”
Without further ado the Scotsman flicked the reins and urged the pony away. The mist swirled after his departure, and the sound of the trap seemed audible for quite a long time until at last it dwindled into silence.
Rafe didn’t ride off as well. Instead, he slowly dismounted and opened the gates, at which the watchers in the gatehouse drew back from the window in dismay. The gates groaned, then came the sound of snorting and hooves as the fractious horse was led through.
Peter stole a nervous glance outside and saw Rafe taking the horse around to the rear of the gatehouse. The animal was impatient and kept tossing its head, and now and then it tried to pull away from Rafe’s grip. He managed to lead it behind the gatehouse and must have secured it somehow, because a minute later he returned to the door and pushed it open.
Chapter 32
There was hardly any time to think. Manco stepped swiftly behind the door, leaving Peter and Archie in full view as Rafe entered. Rafe halted, taken completely by surprise to see them. Then the breath was knocked from him as Manco launched himself from behind the door.
Without seeing his assailant, Rafe went sprawling facedown on the floor, and in a moment Manco was seated astride him, dragging his hands behind his back and tying his wrists with a length of twine that had traveled all the way from Peru in the Inca’s capacious purse. Rafe’s mouth opened to threaten them with vile fates, but Manco silenced him by stuffing one of Archie’s sheets of paper into his mouth. Within another few moments Rafe’s ankles were tied together as well, and he lay there like a trussed turkey. He had yet to see the face of his assailant.
Peter and Archie stood rigid with dismay and shock. The consequences of such an assault were only too clear to them, for the master of Temford Castle was not a man to suffer such indignities without exacting the maximum revenge. But Manco was quite unruffled. He stood over his victim. “Devil die if give trouble,” he warned.
Rafe writhed and managed to twist and look up at his attacker. His face drained of color, and his eyes widened in utter terror. A strangulated noise issued from his throat, and he tried to free his wrists in order to seek solace from his pebble, but Manco’s knots were tight.
The Indian prodded him with a sandaled toe. “Devil not do harm now,” he declared, then gave a cold smile. “Devil have business with Manco?” He bent to take the paper out of Rafe’s mouth. “Speak. Manco all ears,” he invited.
Rafe looked utterly sick, and made not a sound.
“Cat got devil’s tongue?” Manco shoved the paper back into place, then straightened to speak to the two frightened boys. “Boys stay here. Manco go warn Hall about this devil and banker devil too.”
Neither of them wished to stay with Rafe, but Archie spoke first. “I’ll go! I can tek the ‘orse and—”
Manco shook his head. “Boy have hurt wrist.”
Peter piped up swiftly. “Then I’ll go!”
The Indian looked at him. “Boy manage horse?”
“Yes,” Peter replied bravely.
Manco nodded. “Then go, but take care. Horse not easy.”
“I know.” Peter turned on his heel and ran out of the gatehouse. Moments later, the thoroughbred was being urged away in the direction of the Hall.
Manco beamed at Archie. “All well now, you see,” he said, and reached into his purse. He drew out a dried leaf, which he crumbled into dust between his fingers, muttering beneath his breath as he did so.
Rafe’s eyes almost bulged from his head.
Archie watched curiously. “What was all that about?”
“Banker devil not burn letter now, letter cannot burn,” Manco explained.
Archie didn’t give a darn about any letter; he was more concerned about his own well-being if all this went wrong and Sir Rafe got his own back! He could feel Rafe’s gaze upon him now, bright, dangerous, and full of warning. Steeling himself, Archie looked away from that compelling stare. He’d witnessed Rafe’s meeting with the banker and knew him to have murder in mind. Archie Bradwell knew right from wrong, and Sir Rafe Warrender was definitely in the wrong!
Manco saw Rafe’s look as well and nodded at Archie. “Boy wait outside,” he said softly.
Archie was glad to get out. He hurried to the edge of the trees and waited there, wondering what was going on in the gatehouse. If he had but known it, Sir Rafe Warrender was at that moment almost fainting with terror, for Manco had taken out his knife and was crouching beside him. The tip of the sharp blade moved slowly toward the prisoner’s throat...
* * *
Meanwhile, Sir Quentin was fleeing the coop. He had spent the rest of the night composing a long letter detailing all he knew of Rafe’s many sins—and whitewashing his own, of course. The letter was addressed to the commanding officer of a barracks he knew to be on the road to Shrewsbury. As soon as Rafe had set off to meet Mackay, Sir Quentin ordered his traveling carriage to be made ready.
Rafe had hardly crossed the bridge over the Teme, than the carriage rattled out through the castle gates and set off north toward Shrewsbury, ultimately making for Liverpool. Sir Quentin had a sister in America—Philadelphia—whom he suddenly desired to see very much indeed, and Liverpool was the nearest port from which vessels sailed the Atlantic. America was a secure refuge, and comfortingly far away from any repercussions in Britain when Rafe’s treasonous activities were exposed!
* * *
Jack and Emily were standing at the bay window of the grand parlor. Behind them, Cora was playing the harpsichord while Cristoval turned the music sheets for her. The delicate strains of a Mozart minuet drifted prettily over the room, where hot chocolate and nutmeg-flavored Shrewsbury cakes had just been served on a silver tray that had been placed on a table near the fireplace. The silver reflected the light of the flames, and the scent of the warm cakes drifted on the air.
There was no sign now of Cora’s tears; indeed she seemed quite composed, almost as if a weight had been lifted from her shoulders. She looked up at Cristoval from time to time and smiled. He smiled back. The rapport between them was almost tangible.
Emily turned to Jack, smiling too, and after a quick glance to see that the others were preoccupied, she slipped her arms around his waist. “This time yesterday I did not imagine I could be so very happy today.”
“Nor I.” He gazed deeply into her eyes, hardly able to believe that such a perfect creature, such an angel, was as much in love with him as he was with her. “Emily, I know we only met the day before yesterday, but I feel as if we have been together for a lot longer than that.”
She smiled. “I trust you do not imply a variation on familiarity breeding contempt?” she teased.
“I imply nothing of the sort,” he replied softly, putting his arms around her waist as well.
“I am relieved to hear it, sir,” she replied playfully. Her lightheartedness took her by surprise. She hadn’t felt like this for so long that it was almost like being reborn. Truth to tell, she had not felt like this for a number of years now ... She pulled from his arms, her lips parting as she looked back on her marriage and realized how much light had gone out of it.
She had not known it at the time, for it had been a gradual thing, a steady chipping away of the trust that had been there in the beginning. It had begun when she begged him not to go to Rafe’s gaming parties because the Hall was short of money. He said he wouldn’t, but he still had. Oh, he gave excuses to explain away his absences, but she knew the truth. The flame of love burned more dimly after that.
“Emily?” Jack looked at her in concern as he saw a tear trail down her cheek.
“It’s nothing,” she whispered.
“Tears are never there without reason,” he said gently.
“I... I was just thinking—accepting—that I had begun to fall out of love with Geoffrey.”
“Out of love?”
She met his eyes, unable to betray Geoffrey even more. It had been said, and that was sufficient.
Jack put his hand to her cheek and gently wiped the tear away with his thumb.
Then they both turned as a pony and trap rattled into the courtyard below. Emily composed herself, then glanced back at Cora. “Mama, Mr. Mackay is here,” she said.
The music broke off.
The banker was shown up straightaway, and was all beaming smiles as he hastened over to Cora. “Ah, my dear Mrs. Preston,” he declared, and bowed chivalrously over her proffered hand.
She smiled. “Mr. Mackay, how prompt you are, to be sure.”
“I am always at your beck and call, dear lady.” He straightened then and put his fingertips together as he glanced around at the others. “Mrs. Fairfield,” he said warmly, greeting Emily with another of his seemingly genuine smiles, but the two men were acknowledged with a very civil bow. “Sirs.” They inclined their heads.
Cora got up from the harpsichord, gathered her cinnamon skirts, and went to the table drawer where she had placed the purse of coins in readiness. “Mr. Mackay, I have received this purse as a gift, and wish you to exchange the coins for sterling, then place the balance in the Hall’s account. I understand from Mr. Lincoln that there should be approximately five hundred pounds.” She smiled apologetically. “Oh, I am forgetting my manners. Allow me to present Mr. Lincoln and Don Cristoval de Soto. Gentlemen, this is our banker, Mr. Mackay.”
The three men bowed to one another. Jack watched the Scotsman’s face. It was a shifty visage, he thought, all smiles but no sincerity. Disquiet passed through Jack as the banker’s fingers closed over the purse. He would not trust Mr. Mackay with a clay pipe, let alone five hundred pounds! He glanced at Cristoval and saw the same doubts written in his eyes.
But Emily was speaking now. “Mr. Mackay, I also have something for you.” She took Rafe’s letter from her reticule, which lay on the table beside the tray of chocolate and spiced cakes. She gave it to him.
The banker was all surprise on seeing the writing. “Is this not Sir Rafe Warrender’s hand?”
“Indeed so,” Cora replied. “Oh, do sit down, everyone, for I vow we make the room untidy. Do you care for chocolate, Mr. Mackay? If so, I will have another cup brought for you.”
“Er, no, I fear it makes me bilious, but a Shrewsbury cake would not go amiss," the Scotsman replied, waiting until Emily was seated, then taking a chair himself. He broke the yellow seal on the letter and began to read.
Jack had taken a seat opposite him and was able to see his face quite clearly. The fellow did not seem surprised at the letter’s contents; indeed it was almost as if he knew what to expect!
Cristoval caught Jack’s eye and pursed his lips. Jack cleared his throat. “Er, Mr. Mackay, I am rather surprised you should so easily recognize Sir Rafe’s writing, for it is a very ordinary hand.”
Emily turned to him in surprise, and Cora paused with the dish of cakes half extended to Cristoval.
Mr. Mackay was caught off guard, but then recovered to give a light, vaguely dismissive laugh. “Oh, Sir Rafe’s hand is well known to me, Mr. er, Lincoln. He has many dealings with my bank.”
“Dealings enough for you to know what his letter contains before you have even read it?”
Emily’s lips parted, and Cora dropped the dish of cakes.
The banker stared at Jack. “Oh, come, sir, what foolishness is this? Of course I did not know what the letter contained!”
“I think you did.”
Cristoval sat forward. “So do I.”
Mr. Mackay swallowed, the color seeping from his face. “I, er, don’t know why you should think such a thing of me, gentlemen, but I assure you that you are both wrong.” He folded the letter and pushed it inside his coat. The purse he had already consigned to his pocket.
Hoofbeats thundered into the courtyard, and a maid screamed. “Oh, Master Peter!”
Emily was on her feet in a moment, catching up her blue-and-white skirts to rush to the window. Then she gasped, her hands flying fearfully to her mouth, for she saw Rafe’s big black horse, its flanks foam-flecked as it reared and capered, trying to dislodge Peter, who was clinging to its neck and mane for all he was worth. Her thoughts raced. What was he doing with Rafe’s horse, that horse of all animals!
Cora watched her anxiously. “What is it, my dear? What’s happening?”
“It’s Peter, he’s on Rafe’s horse ... !”
Jack and Cristoval hurried to the window, closely followed by Cora. But just as Jack was about to run downstairs, a manservant hurried out of the kitchens and grabbed the horse’s reins. A moment later, he had it by the bridle, and Peter was able to slip from the saddle. Emily watched her son run into the house.
They all turned as the boy’s running footsteps approached the door of the grand parlor. Then he burst in, breathless and overwrought. “Don’t let Mr. Mackay have the letter. He’s going to destroy it! He’s Sir Rafe’s man!” he cried, pointing an accusing finger toward the banker.
All eyes swung toward the Scotsman, who was no longer in his chair, but standing by the fire. He tossed Rafe’s letter onto the flames, but it recoiled and floated safely onto the hearth. Again
the banker snatched it, this time crumpling it to fling it onto the fire. Again it leapt out again, uncrumpling itself as it did so, then settling tidily on the hearth.
The Scotsman stared down at it, then his knees sagged and he fell in a swoon.
Chapter 33
Jack rushed to the fallen banker, whose clothes were in danger from the fire. As he dragged him away, Mr. Mackay began to come around. He saw Jack looming over him, grasping his coat lapels, and gave a guilty squeak of alarm. “Don’t hurt me! I had to do it!”
“Hurt you? Damn it all, man, I’m making you safe, although why I should bother with such a maggot as you, I really don’t know!”
Jack released the lapels so disgustedly that the Scotsman slumped onto the carpet like a sack. Jack then stood over him, fists clenched. “You can count yourself fortunate that I am more of a gentleman than you give me credit, otherwise right now I’d ...” His voice died away, leaving unsaid whatever punishment he had in mind.
“I am in fear of my life! Sir Rafe will kill me if I don’t assist him!”
Peter’s voice rang out scornfully. “Liar! You’re doing it for money! Sir Rafe pays you! You’ve come here now to tell Mr. Lincoln to go to the old gatehouse so he’ll walk into Sir Rafe’s ambush!”
“That’s not true!” Mackay cried.
“It is, but the plan won’t work now because Manco has already caught Sir Rafe and tied him up like a Christmas capon! Manco and Archie are there with him now.”
Jack looked at the boy in astonishment. “Manco and Archie are there? Archie Bradwell? What’s been going on, Peter?”
The boy swallowed. “Manco and I decided yesterday to go to the old gatehouse this morning. Manco was convinced that Viracocha, the sun god, was there. Oh, it’s a long story. Anyway, when we arrived, we found Archie Bradwell. Huh, some Viracocha! It seems he goes there to teach himself to write.”
Peter grinned at Emily. "I'm going to show him how to read and write, and he’s going to show me things in return!” Then he realized he’d wandered from the subject in hand, and hastily returned his attention to Jack.