by Sandra Heath
“Anyway, Manco and I had hardly begun to talk to Archie when we heard a pony and trap. Mr. Mackay arrived and waited by the gates for Sir Rafe. We listened to all they said. Mr. Mackay has been helping Sir Rafe all along. He’s no friend to us here!”
The banker’s face was waxen with guilt. His lips moved, but no sound came out.
Jack glanced at Cristoval. “Find a rope. We’d best bind this maggot and lock him up somewhere while we decide what to do with him.” Then he cast a dark glance down at the terrified banker. “You aren’t going to go unpunished, my friend, and as for Warrender, well, my dear cousin is about to rue the day he was born!”
Emily feared his intentions and darted desperately forward to fling her arms around his neck. “No! Don’t go! Leave it to the law to punish him!”
He held her close, resting his cheek against her hair for a moment, but then he put her gently but firmly from him. “I must go, Emily. It’s time Rafe and I faced it out properly. Besides, it’s best not to leave him to Manco’s tender mercies.”
Jack knew that the Indian’s fierce desire to kick his heels of England might prompt precipitate and—for Rafe—rather final action.
Cristoval looked at him, knowing what he was thinking. “Perhaps we had better get there as quickly as possible,” he said quietly.
* * *
Rafe was still lying bound and gagged on the gatehouse floor with Manco’s knife at his throat. The Inca had been motionless for minutes on end, except for the slow, relentless turning of the knifepoint against his victim’s skin.
Manco’s face lacked all emotion and his eyes were empty, making it impossible to know what he was thinking or what he meant to do. His lips didn’t move, but a strange sound emanated from his throat, an eerie chanting of magical words. It was as if the Indian were a ventriloquist.
Suddenly, the sound stopped, and Manco reached toward his prisoner’s pale chestnut hair. Rafe cringed in dread as the Indian carefully cut a lock, then held it in front of him. “Devil see this? Now Manco have part of devil, Manco have power over him. If Manco want, Manco make devil die. Watch.”
The Indian swung around and pointed to a sheet of Archie’s paper. Before Rafe’s eyes it withered at the edges, becoming damp and moldy, and disintegrating until it became little more than just another grimy mark on the floor. A process that ought to have taken months, mayhap years, was over within seconds.
Manco leaned over the bound man, fixing him with dark, unfathomable Inca eyes. “Manco do that to paper because Manco in room with paper, but Manco can do that to devil from wherever Manco is. Hair part of body, part of soul, and while Manco have devil’s hair, Manco have devil too. Understand?”
Rafe stared up at him, eyes bulging. He did not doubt that the Indian had the power to carry out his threat.
“Devil understand?” Manco repeated.
Rafe’s head nodded up and down, as if upon a spring.
“If devil want save hide, devil do what Manco tell him.”
Rafe goggled at him, still nodding. He’d do anything, anything at all!
“Devil give back to Capac Jack what belong to Capac Jack. And if banker destroy letter, then devil write another. Devil undo all wickedness, then devil go far away.” Manco waved an arm to indicate the farthest corners of the earth. “But not Peru,” he added quickly.
Rafe continued to stare up at him. Go into exile? He’d be damned if—! But then his glance crept back to the remains of the paper. Maybe exile would be wise after all...
“Devil agree?” Manco pressed conversationally.
Rafe swallowed and nodded.
The Indian straightened again and pushed the knife back into his belt, but for good measure he pointed a finger at the Gentleman’s Magazine. Slowly it began to wither at the edges. “Monday is Pizarro day for all devils,” he murmured.
* * *
Jack and Cristoval rode to the gatehouse at speed, and found Archie still hanging around nervously at the edge of the trees. There hadn’t been a sound from the building, and the boy was too nervous to investigate. Anything might have happened inside, anything at all...
The two men dismounted, and Jack would have gone straight inside, but Cristoval held him back and called out, “Is all well, Manco?”
The door opened, and the Indian came out, a broad grin on his lips, “All excellent, Capac Cristoval. Devil not problem now.”
Jack’s heart sank. Oh, dear God, no... ! He ran into the gatehouse with Cristoval at his heels, and immediately halted in relief as he saw Rafe on the floor—only too alive and squirming!
Manco came in behind them, a little put out. “Manco not kill. No need for that.”
“What do you mean?” Jack demanded.
Manco spread his hands, the picture of saintly innocence. “Devil repent sins. That not what your church want?”
“Well, yes, but—”
Cristoval eyed the Indian. “What have you done, Manco?”
“Manco not do anything. Except show magic.”
“Ah.” Cristoval’s eyes cleared.
Jack took the ball of paper from Rafe’s mouth. “What have you to say for yourself, Coz?” he asked softly.
Rafe stared mutely up at him, then his eyes slid fearfully to Manco, who merely looked back. His face gave nothing away, yet at the same time it revealed a great deal. It certainly spoke volumes to the bound man.
“Well?” Jack prompted.
“Lincoln, I... I...” Rafe’s voice died away. His mouth was dry, and his tongue felt as if it were too big for his mouth. His jaw ached too, and so did his head. In fact, he had never felt worse.
Manco searched in his purse and drew out the lock of hair, which he pretended to study with great concentration. Rafe immediately gave a squeak of dread, and words tumbled from his lips in a torrent.
“Lincoln, I deeply regret all I have done. I mean to put it all right, believe me. You can have your inheritance back. I will make it over to you as soon as I can. And I am going to name you my heir as well, so Temford Castle will be yours if anything should happen to me.”
Jack was taken aback. “Your heir?” he repeated.
Rafe’s head nodded up and down. “Yes, and if Mackay managed to destroy the first letter I wrote for you, I’ll write another, I will never again do anything to harm Fairfield Hall, nor will I attempt to even approach Emily Fairfield.”
“See that you don’t,” Jack said softly.
Rafe looked up at him. “So you will get everything, Lincoln, Your own fortune, mine, and Felix Reynolds’s.”
“Felix’s? What do you mean?”
“You don’t know? He’s as rich as Croesus! At least, he was.”
Jack glanced at Cristoval and saw an odd look on his face. And on Manco’s. “What’s he talking about? Come on, you clearly know something ...”
Cristoval shifted uncomfortably, and it was Manco who answered. “Yes, we know. Capac Felix have much money. Make rich in Venezuela, or some Pizarro place. Know he old and not have much longer, so—”
“He’s probably dead already!” Rafe cried. “Gustavus spoke to Reynolds’s doctor in Lima and was told he was not going to recover from that ague, or whatever it was he had. Gustavus told Brockhampton all about it in London. Emily Fairfield is about to inherit a huge sum, from which it seems you will benefit as well, Lincoln! Oh, believe me, she is going to be far more rich than you or I have ever been.”
He gave a cold laugh. “There, that has put a question mark above your so-called honor, has it not? Will she ever be sure you did not know about her inheritance before you arrived at the Hall?”
Cristoval stepped over and leaned down to seize Rafe and shake him. “Don’t you ever learn? Gustavus’s information was wrong. Felix Reynolds was recovering when we left. I would lay odds that he is hale and hearty again now.”
Manco nodded. “Yes, Capac Felix well again. Manco know.”
Cristoval's eyes lightened. “There, you see? That is all the confirmation I need.” He continu
ed to gaze down at Rafe. “Besides, you may as well know that when Manco and I return to Peru, Mrs. Preston will be coming with us. She will see Felix and will hear from his lips that Jack knew nothing about his wealth. She will write to her daughter, and Emily will know beyond all doubt that Jack is true. Not that she will not know it anyway, Sir Rafe, for there is a great difference between you and your cousin. Jack is a noble spirit, but you are no better than the scum upon a filthy puddle.”
Manco nodded, then grinned at Jack. “Capac Felix think you best man in world for Palla Emily. He right about that.”
Jack ran a bewildered hand through his hair. “You two have known this about Felix and said nothing to me?”
Cristoval spread his hands. “Of course we said nothing. That was the whole point. Felix did not wish you to be deterred by any fear of being branded a fortune hunter.”
“And so, even though he has all this wealth, he was going to leave his daughter defenseless, and at the mercy of this ... this ...” Jack waved a furious hand toward Rafe on the floor.
Cristoval shook his head. “No, my friend, if it had come to that, I am empowered to tell Emily her true situation. I was to stay my hand until the last moment, however, so that true love could take its course. As it has. Should it all have gone wrong, Felix gave me a letter granting me power of attorney, which I was instructed to take to his lawyer in Bath.”
“So that’s why you went to Bath?”
“Yes. Of course, what Felix—nor any of us—did not know was that your cousin would blackmail Emily with stories of Geoffrey’s treasonous activities.”
In disgust, Cristoval shoved the prisoner with his foot. This particular aspect of Rafe’s blackmail was no longer a secret at the Hall because Emily had decided it was best to tell everyone when they adjourned to the grand parlor for chocolate and to listen to Cora playing the harpsichord.
Manco took in the expressions flitting over Jack’s face. “Capac Jack not need worry now, for he rich, and Emily rich. That very good.”
Jack’s attention returned to Rafe. “So Felix’s fortune was your real reason for pursuing Emily?”
“Yes.”
“But how in perdition did you find out?”
“Chance.” Rafe told him of Sir Quentin’s discovery of the sale of the St. Lawrence estate to Felix, and how he had gone to the Bath lawyer and been left alone for long enough to go through the files.
Jack could easily have reached down to put his hands to Rafe’s throat for all he had done; indeed the urge was so fierce that he had to move away for fear of succumbing. “You had better abide by your decision to leave England, Rafe, because if you do not, I swear I will kill you.”
“I’m going. I know I cannot stay here.” Not least because I have been spying for the French, a fact of which you as yet know nothing..."
“Just not go Peru,” Manco reminded him.
“I won’t, I swear it!”
Manco had already replaced the hair in his purse. “If devil good, Manco not harm him,” he said. “But remember, if devil bad, Manco will know, no matter where in world Manco is.”
Cristoval leaned over Rafe. “Believe him, sir, for he does not speak lightly. I have seen strong men die from Inca magic.”
“I believe him! I believe him!” Rafe cried.
Manco turned to Jack and Cristoval. “What now?” he asked.
Cristoval answered before Jack had the chance. “Jack, you return to Emily and tell her all is well. Leave Sir Rafe to Manco and me.”
“No! Don’t leave me, Lincoln!” Rafe cried.
But Manco put his fingertips together and smiled, for all the world like a benevolent vicar. “Capac Jack go now. Devil safe with us,” he said.
Rafe swallowed and closed his eyes tightly. Thus he did not see the enormous wink that Manco gave Jack. The master of Temford Castle wasn’t to know it, but no further harm was going to befall him at the Indian’s hands. Unless, of course, he was guilty of further misbehavior.
* * *
However, Rafe was not to have the opportunity to slip away into the safety of exile because he was arrested later that very day. Sir Quentin’s lengthy missive to the commanding officer at the barracks prompted an immediate and sharp response, and as the midday sun was at its autumn height, a large detachment of soldiers rode across Temford Square to take over the castle.
Word soon traveled, and by nightfall the whole area rang with supposition and rumor. The army searched the castle from dungeons to battlements without finding any proof of Rafe’s treason; indeed, he might have gotten away with it, except that Sir Quentin’s letter named the exact volume of French poems that had been burned, and Jack could produce the incriminating sheet of paper. Another copy of the book was duly obtained, the traitorous message decoded, and Rafe’s dishonor exposed in all its ignominy.
On Bonfire Night, instead of announcing his betrothal to Emily, Sir Rafe Warrender languished under lock and key in the barracks’ guardroom. He awaited certain representatives of His Majesty’s Government, who were coming north from London with all haste to interrogate him about his disloyal activities. While he slumped dejectedly in his cell, Shropshire society—excepting the denizens of Fairfield Hall—danced and made merry at the Royal Oak, and then marveled at the wonderful bonfire and display of fireworks. No one mourned Rafe’s absence; indeed, no one even had a good word to say about him.
Chapter 34
It was a fine day in late spring when Emily Fairfield became Mrs. Jack Lincoln. They married very quietly in the chapel at Fairfield Hall, with only the servants to witness their union. Everyone else, including Peter—and, to his immeasurable joy, Archie Bradwell—had sailed for Peru, where awaited the majestic Andes and the hidden treasures of the Incas. The boys would eventually come back, but Cora’s stay was set to be a very long one. She had become Mrs. Felix Reynolds, united at last with the man she had adored for most of her adult life—a man who, it must be said, had become considerably rejuvenated by the arrival of his secret love!
Emily’s remarriage did not go uncelebrated in the town of Temford, however, and a fine wedding breakfast was held at the Royal Oak. But as the sunny May afternoon wore on, the bride and groom slipped away from the celebrations and drove back to Fairfield Hall to be on their own.
The wedding landau was drawn by four white horses and had its hoods down. It was garlanded with spring flowers, greenery, and white satin ribbons, and made a very romantic sight as it drove beneath the canopy of young leaves. A cuckoo called, hawthorn blossoms filled the air with fragrance, and here and there drifts of bluebells swathed the clearings.
Emily wore a gown of golden silk, with a matching lace pelisse, and she had discarded her flower-adorned bonnet to let the sun shadows dapple her hair, which she still wore short because that was how Jack liked to see it. A posy of rosebuds lay on her lap, and she rested her head contentedly against Jack’s shoulder as the landau bowled slowly along the drive. Her white-gloved hand rested in his, and he moved his cheek against her hair, his eyes closed as the sunlight flashed through the leaves.
He wore the bridegroom’s almost obligatory coat of royal blue with wide brass buttons, and with it he had a white silk waistcoat, breeches, stockings, and buckled black shoes. His starched neckcloth was a masterpiece of fashion, and on it shone a bright blue sapphire. The breeze stirred his blond hair as he slipped an arm around his bride.
This was undoubtedly the happiest day of his life, a day when everything was right at last. All past injustices had been eradicated, he was master of his birthright again, and he had just taken to wife the most adorable, matchless, wonderful woman in all creation. And tonight they would lie together between lavender-scented sheets, making love until dawn ...
The only thing to mar the perfection of such a day was that in spite of the clearing by the pool having been searched and searched again, the Agincourt ring had not been found. If he could have worn it at his wedding, then absolutely everything would have been perfect. But what did it r
eally matter, he mused, when everything else was so incomparable?
Suddenly, Emily sat forward with a gasp, her bouquet rolling from her lap onto the carriage floor. A flash of memory had returned, like the sun piercing the leaves above their heads.
Jack was startled. “What is it?”
“I... I’ve thought of something ... Stop the carriage!” she called out to the surprised postilion, who immediately reined in the lead horses. She turned swiftly to Jack. “We must go to the clearing!”
“Now? But you are in your wedding gown!”
“That doesn’t matter. Please, Jack, it’s important!” She began to open the landau door, and Jack hastily did it for her and alighted. Then he assisted her down as well. “We can easily return after we’ve changed—” he began, but she would not hear of it.
“No, we must go now!” She caught his hand and began to hasten through the woods.
The pool was silent and still, and the May sunshine brightened the new leaves to a thousand shades of green. Ferns were unfurling, wildflowers added their hues to the undergrowth, and a tench broke the surface, sending rings across the mirrored water. Emily led the way to the spot where she remembered falling from her horse. “This is where I lay, wasn’t it?”
Jack nodded, puzzled. “Yes, but—
“And my head was about here, facing the fallen tree.” Emily closed her eyes, trying to remember exactly what she had seen as she lost consciousness—something small and bright shimmering against the mossy trunk. Catching up her wedding skirts, she made her way through the soft grasses and primroses, not taking her eyes from the spot on the tree trunk. She reached it, but saw nothing, just gnarled bark, moss, and the moving shadows cast by the oak tree from where Peter had so often tried to catch fish.
“What are you looking for?” Jack asked. He could think only of the Agincourt ring, but he knew how often it had been sought without success.
She looked more closely, taking off her glove in order to pluck at the bark. Suddenly, a piece fell away, and something else fell too, making a tiny metallic sound as it disappeared into the ferns and flowers. With a triumphant cry Emily bent to retrieve it. Then she straightened, holding out her palm. The Agincourt ring lay there, its gold shining against her skin.