Lord Satan

by Judith Laik

  As Libbetty looked at him, a sense of something familiar in his appearance overcame her. She scanned him more carefully. Perhaps around twenty, his sullen attitude did not altogether dispel his handsomeness. He had long, thick eyelashes, high cheekbones, and full, pouting lips.

  “I know. You were one of the men working on the repairs to the vicarage,” Libbetty blurted. White? But if so, why would this man have tried to kill Lord Cauldreigh? And had she seen him at the inn? She could not recall.

  Mr. Whitelow looked startled and his aunt tittered. “Yes, he did work on that job. My husband was a builder. Since he had no son to carry on after him, he took Owen under his wing. Owen inherited the business after Mr. Whitelow died last year. When I decided to return to England, he came along to see what new techniques he could adapt.”

  “Luckily Uncle Whitelow has excellent workers. The business has not suffered from my few months’ sojourn in these islands,” the young man said.

  “He has spent most of these last months traveling to different parts of the island to learn everything he could, but now will return to America shortly. I will miss him.”

  A glance passed between the two, full of some intense feeling, and Libbetty wondered if they were lovers. She had the impression Mrs. Whitelow’s husband had been much older. Of course the woman was older than Owen, but still attractive.

  If he was White, and Mrs. Whitelow harbored some resentment toward her lover, Lord Cauldreigh’s father, it was possible she had persuaded young Whitelow to carry out her vengeance on the next generation. Libbetty tried to conceal her sudden fear.

  Owen leaped up. “Where is Molly with that ale? I swear a man could die of thirst here.” He charged out of the room.

  A small silence ensued, and then Libbetty arose from the settee. “I must go. My mother will be needing me.”

  “Oh, must you go so soon?” Although Mrs. Whitelow protested, Libbetty had the impression she actually felt relief.

  Libbetty forced herself to ride away slowly, not looking to see if Owen Whitelow, or anyone from Rose Farm, followed her.

  She wished her relations with Lord Neil would allow her to discuss her discovery with him. It seemed so far-fetched to think there could be any connection between Owen Whitelow and the attempts on Lord Cauldreigh’s life.

  All the same, she did not relax until she arrived home.

  Chapter Eighteen

  In an exodus from Peasebotham, Freddy and George went back to school. Sybille and her family and Jonathan Colton departed for London the same day.

  The date for Tom and Alonso Hayes to go to Oxford quickly approached. Facing these farewells blighted Catherine’s usually sunny mood, and Libbetty condoled with her, but she did not reveal to her sister the cause of her own dejection.

  Mrs. Bishop had reached the final weeks of her pregnancy, and still worked to complete her baby’s layette. One afternoon, feeling restless, Libbetty begged her mother for some work, and was hemming a flannel blanket when Lord Cauldreigh called. Tom left a last attempt at studying to join them.

  “I’ve just returned from London. The doctor has pronounced me fit for duty,” Cauldreigh announced as he lowered himself into a needlepoint-covered chair and stretched out his legs. “I will leave to join my regiment in the Peninsula in a few days.”

  Libbetty’s stomach lurched. Would Lord Neil go too? If he went back to London, he took with him all hope she might have of sometimes seeing him.

  “Famous.” said Tom, leaning upon the mantelpiece. “Wish I could join you, but Papa insists that I go to Oxford.” Libbetty had not formerly heard Tom express any desire to join the Army.

  She looked more closely at Tom and realized for the first time how fully he had modeled himself after Lord Cauldreigh—from the casual knot in his neckcloth, to the lounging pose. She had scarcely paid any attention to Tom lately, but of course he would take a heroic man a few years older than himself as his example.

  Mrs. Bishop frowned at Tom, then said, “This is mixed news, my lord. We are happy that you are recovered, but concerned that you will head back into danger. We will pray for your safety.”

  “Thank you, ma’am. I have found this sojourn a very pleasant interlude. I know it will restore my spirits to contemplate this past summer in the midst of war.”

  “Will Lord Neil remain here?” Libbetty asked. Immediately, she ducked her head and feigned deep interest in her hemming. She wished she had bitten her tongue before giving way to her curiosity.

  “Uncle Neil will return to London as soon as I leave. He has been chafing about neglecting his duties there and stayed in Peasebotham for my sake.” He gathered himself to rise.

  “Oh.” Of course, she thought. He always said only his concern for his nephew kept him from London. Would he ever return to Peasebotham? Perhaps she would always regret that her awkwardness with him had caused them both pain.

  In a few years, he likely would have married. Being confronted with his wife would bring her the most acute pain. She forced her attention back from these disagreeable musings to see Lord Cauldreigh taking his leave.

  “I’ll see you out,” Tom said, and the two left together.

  Libbetty jumped up, abandoning her work on the blanket. She needed air. She put on a pelisse and went outdoors. Taking the path around the house to the stableyard in back, she discovered Tom and Lord Cauldreigh still talking, Cauldreigh holding the reins of his mount. As she drew close, Tom said, “It’s at Hinton’s barn tomorrow evening.”

  “Let’s attend. What say you to one last fling before we each take up our duties?”

  “Where do you plan to go?” Libbetty asked.

  Tom gazed at her thoughtfully before replying, “There’s a cockfight at Farmer Hinton’s.”

  An adventure. It would distract her from her broken heart. She said, “I’ve never been to a cockfight. I want to go.”

  “Girls don’t go to cockfights,” said Tom, and Cauldreigh added, “Absolutely not. No respectable woman ever attends one.”

  “Perhaps I don’t want to be respectable,” Libbetty said. “It sounds like fun. Please take me?”

  “It would ruin you if anyone saw you,” the marquess said.

  “I could go in disguise, wearing George’s old clothes. No one would even guess I was there.”

  The two young men looked at each other.

  “It might be a lark to take her.” Lord Cauldreigh’s eyes glinted mischievously.

  “Father would kill me if he finds out,” Tom said. “In fact, he would kill Libbetty and me both.”

  “He wouldn’t actually kill us, only look at us in that way that makes us wish we were dead. Besides, he won’t find out.”

  “All right,” Tom said slowly.

  *

  Libbetty had an exhilarating sense of freedom. She wore George’s outgrown buckskin breeches and a brown riding coat, a Belcher kerchief at her throat, and her hair pinned up under a cap set low to shield her face. She had stuffed handkerchiefs into the toes of George’s old top boots to keep them on her feet.

  She rode a well-mannered hunter from the Cauldreigh stables. It felt strange to ride astride, forcing her to use her leg muscles in an unaccustomed way. For the first time in weeks, her despondency had vanished. Instead, she tingled with anticipation of adventure and a thrilling dread of being caught in her male disguise. Tom and Lord Cauldreigh, similarly clad in sporting attire, accompanied her. Tom rode Concobhar, and the marquess had his usual mount, Pandora, a bright bay mare with a white stocking and a blaze. The spirits of all were giddy. Her masquerade had added an air of danger that infected the young men as well.

  Afternoon sunshine warmed them despite the hint of fall crispness. In the orchards, ripe apples and pears hung heavy in the trees, their winy fragrance perfuming the air.

  Hinton’s Farm lay five miles out of the village on the road to Crossfield. They met others with the same destination, on horseback, walking, and in vehicles from farm carts to dashing curricles. A variety of humankind
was attracted to the spectacle, from shady-appearing characters to neatly dressed farmers, even some gentry. But no women, Libbetty noted.

  Luckily, she had thus far recognized no one among the cockfight fanciers, and no one paid particular attention to her group, or to her. A holiday mood prevailed, everybody laughing and discussing the odds on the various combatants.

  Tom and Cauldreigh entered into the discussion. “I hear Crocker’s new black is the favorite,” Tom said to a hulking farmer astride a dun plow horse.

  “I dunno. Granthurst’s Old Red has beaten everything that’s come his way. My money’s on him.”

  “Nay,” said the man’s companion, a middle-aged, paunchy man with a flushed face. “The black’s by The Slasher, the greatest fighting cock that’s been seen in these parts. Comes from a long line that’s up to scratch.”

  “Never seen a gamer one than Old Red,” insisted the farmer.

  Others in the vicinity joined in, and the argument seemed as if it would last the rest of the way to Hinton’s.

  Suddenly Libbetty’s horse stumbled, almost unseating her. She hung on, but as she gathered the horse to continue, he limped. “Wait,” she called to Tom and Trevor, who had ridden ahead, unaware. “Something’s wrong with my horse.”

  Lord Cauldreigh dismounted and examined the hunter’s foot. “He’s cast a shoe. Can we go on? I don’t want to miss this.”

  Several voices echoed with, “Nay, you don’t want to miss all the fun” and similar sentiments.

  “We’ll manage,” Tom assured him. “Li-Leigh and I can ride double. We can lead h-his horse back after the cockfight.”

  Tom gave Libbetty a hand, and she climbed up behind him. They led the Cauldreigh horse the rest of the way.

  Hinton’s barn, a large, moss-covered stone building, had undergone conversion into a cockpit. Hinton had never known success as a farmer and now made his living from cockfights and other sporting diversions. The barn held two hundred or so, and at least that number crowded into it on this occasion, everybody jostling to attain a good observation post.

  Libbetty pulled her cap lower to prevent its being knocked off, and tried to follow her brother and Lord Cauldreigh as they shouldered their way to the front of the pit.

  Tom and Cauldreigh seemed to forget about Libbetty as they continued their discussion with their companions of the road. Cauldreigh placed bets with them and with several others nearby, and Tom also wagered his allowance, which Libbetty knew he could ill afford to lose, on the black cock.

  Shouts of “Six to five on Old Red!” “I’ll wager a pig on Thunderer!” and similar sentiments rang out.

  The noise overwhelmed her, as men called out their bets amid good-natured altercations as to the virtues of the birds. The air grew increasingly heated and rank with the press of bodies. Bottles and jugs were passed around, and Libbetty wondered if the atmosphere might become even more boisterous as the evening advanced. For the first time, she questioned the wisdom of her adventure. As she looked around, however, she became caught up in the excitement and forgot her misgivings.

  It took an age before they brought out the fighters. When the cocks did appear, they disappointed Libbetty. The roosters she knew in farmyards around Peasebotham were beautiful creatures with shining plumage and bright combs. These exemplified a different breed altogether, short-legged, squat and ugly, with scarcely any feathers and no crests. They seemed unaware of their deficiencies, however. Released one at a time to strut in the small, round pit, each flaunted itself proudly, beady eyes gleaming with disdain. Their sharp spurs and beaks proclaimed that the animals were equipped to wound and tear at each other.

  The spectators frenziedly placed last-minute bets after weighing the merits of each cock. Old Red and Thunderer were set at opposite sides of the pit and released. The birds immediately set to, screaming savagely, tearing with their claws and beaks.

  Shouts of encouragement added to the cacophony, every man urging on his favorite. Trevor and Tom yelled, “Go Thunderer!” Feathers flew, wounds opened, gouts of blood dripped onto the floor and stained the birds’ plumes. Libbetty thought surely the fight must end soon, as one or the other bird turned tail.

  The battle went on and on.

  Her excitement changed to nausea as the black fell over and lay still. The red jumped onto the body of his vanquished foe and crowed, to the loud roars of his adherents, but abruptly Thunderer revived and leaped up to renew the battle.

  Taken by surprise, the red faltered under the onslaught. The black raked his opponent’s throat with bloodied spurs, and the red fell in his turn. His owner, a short, wizened man, pleaded, “Come on, Old Red. You ain’t never been defeated. You can’t be dead.” But the bird did not move.

  Libbetty’s head felt light and her body boneless. She might have fallen, but the crowd around her kept her upright. Tom and Trevor leaped and pounded each other in congratulation.

  A new opponent was readied for Thunderer. Her companions collected their winnings and argued the odds of their champion repeating his victory. She had no hope of inducing them to go.

  The heat and smells of excited, drunken, and unwashed bodies nauseated her. She mopped her damp forehead with the rough sleeve of her coat, pushing her cap up on her head.

  Suddenly Lord Neil stood before her, his eyes black with anger as he accosted Cauldreigh and Tom. “What do you mean by bringing her here?” he hissed in low tones.

  His face red, Tom bluffed, “This is my cousin L-Leigh.”

  “I’ll deal with you later,” promised Lord Neil, ignoring this plumper. “I’ll take you home.” He tugged Libbetty’s cap down to screen her face. She nodded, her limbs weak with relief.

  “Give me your cloak,” he ordered Cauldreigh.

  The younger man unhesitatingly complied, saying at the same time, “Uncle Neil, Captain threw a shoe on the way here. Tom and—his cousin need to double up on Concobhar to go home.”

  “We’ll take Pandora. You take turns riding Tom’s horse and leading Captain home.” Lord Neil threw the dark blue cloak across Libbetty’s shoulders and led her out, forging a path through the throng, whose attention centered on the pit. She wanted to cover her ears against screams for the new combatants.

  Her legs threatened to collapse as they reached the open yard, and she shivered in the chill air. It had grown nearly dark, and a crescent moon rode low in the eastern sky. She noted with surprise how much time had passed inside Hinton’s barn.

  Lord Neil found his horse, Camisard, and then Cauldreigh’s. Helping her astride Pandora, Lord Neil mounted his horse and rode toward home. The spirited mare quivered and whickered, but settled in alongside Camisard and trotted smoothly.

  At first Libbetty could think only of the cockfight and her brother’s and Lord Cauldreigh’s enthusiasm. How could they have found any pleasure in the violence and bloodshed?

  The moon’s glow dimly lit the road, and crisp autumn air revived her spirits. She forgot her difficulties—the cockfight, the risk of exposure, the past weeks of misery, in the pleasure of riding with Lord Neil.

  Their horses moved in rhythm with each other, the sounds of their hoofbeats scarcely disturbing the quiet. The scents of leather and horseflesh agreeably perfumed the air. She glanced at Lord Neil, his profile in reverse silhouette against the evening sky.

  With time to reflect, embarrassment at once again being caught in a hoydenish scrape by Lord Neil grew paramount in her mind. “You acted arrogantly again, taking me out of there without even asking me if I wanted to leave,” she complained.

  “Oh, did you wish to stay?”

  “No, but I would like you to ask.”

  “I am sorry.” Humor echoed in his voice, detracting from her satisfaction at his apology.

  She sniffed.

  “Are you all right?” His quick words deepened her guilt.

  “Yes, of course. I—I have to thank you for rescuing me. It was horrible—I never dreamed it would be so sickening and cruel. And I am taking you away
from the cockfight as well.”

  “I have no objection to leaving. I only went out of boredom; I had no particular interest in the event.”

  “I suppose you must miss your London friends?”

  “I suppose I do.”

  “But you will be there soon. That must make you happy.” She forced back her tears; she could not let him realize how she ached at the thought of his leaving. She had scarcely seen him of late, but once he left, she would not see him at all.

  “I have much to do once I arrive back in town,” he agreed.

  “Please tell me about London.”

  “Very well. I will endeavor to describe it. Have you been to any large city?”

  “Yes, to Worcester.”

  “How much of the city did you see?”

  “Papa took me to the Cathedral. We only stayed one night and came home the next day.”

  “London is much greater in size. However, even Worcester has its slums, pockets where the poor live in the greatest privation and debauchery. Such areas in London beggar the imagination. Even in the fashionable parts of town, you could not wander freely as you do here. A young woman alone is subject to indignities and danger.”

  They approached the Cauldreigh woods, and Pandora took exception to the dark, shying and resisting Libbetty’s attempts to control her. Snorting, the mare stepped forward slowly.

  Libbetty wondered why Lord Neil dwelt on the dangerous and bleak aspects of life in town. “But you must find some things about London enjoyable. Otherwise, why would you live there?”

  “London is the seat of power for the whole nation, and if one wishes to influence events, one must reside there.”

  “So you live in London because you work for the government, not because you derive any pleasure from society?”

  “Mostly, but you must not suppose me to be a recluse. I do socialize, go to routs and balls and plays during the season. However, I would live in the country if I could.”

  Silence fell between them, Libbetty trying to imagine his life, and progressing to wondering if he truly meant what he said about living in the country. Perhaps he might return to Peasebotham some day.