by Mary Balogh
He gazed into her shadowed eyes. It was tempting. So tempting.
"Please," she said. "Say yes or no. Nothing more than that. I could not stand more than that tonight."
"Let us go inside, then," he said. "I love you, Marged."
He could see that she was smiling. "One day you will tell me everything," she said, "all the sordid details of your life. But not tonight. This is the first night when I do not even want to know. I want to love. I want to prove to you and to myself that only you matter to me."
"We will love," he said, guiding her through the doorway and over to the dark comer where they had lain before. "I am on fire for you, cariad."
He spread the blanket and lowered them both to it.
She lay relaxed and sated in his arms. He was asleep, something he rarely did during their encounters. She felt happy again. She knew that she was where she wanted to be, where she belonged. Whatever it was that had happened with Geraint two days ago, it was not love. She had confessed all to Rebecca, and he had accepted it. It had made no difference to his feelings. He was a man of incredible generosity, she thought.
She could have known by now who he was. She had sensed earlier that he was about to tell her everything. Why had she not wanted him to do so? Her reluctance had taken her by surprise. Was it that she was enjoying this fantasy? As long as she had never seen his face or heard his name, as long as she knew nothing of his life except what pertained to Rebecca, she could make him into any man she wanted him to be. Had she idealized him? Was he quite as wonderful in real life as she thought him?
Perhaps she did not want to know the reality. A real-life man was a complex person. If one lived closely with a real man, one had to adjust to his ways, learn to accept him as he was, with all his faults and annoying habits. The adjustment with Eurwyn had taken a year or more—perhaps all five years of their marriage. A close love relationship was something that had to be worked on every day of one's life.
Maybe she was enjoying this fairy-tale romance into which real life had not yet intruded.
But she wondered if it must soon face the test of reality whether she wanted it to or not. She had just been doing mental calculations. She had been avoiding the same calculations for a few days. Her suspicions were quite correct. She was four days late. It was not a great deal of time and probably meant nothing at all. She remembered being five days late once fairly early in her marriage, but the sixth day had shattered her hopes with the indisputable evidence that she was not pregnant. This time she was only four days late.
For a moment she felt the dizziness of panic. But she would not give in to it. The chances were that she was only late. And even if it was not that, even if there was a child in her womb, he would not abandon her. He had told her that. And he had told her she could always communicate with him through Aled.
She believed him implicitly. If he had said he would not abandon her, then he would not, even though to do so would be very easy. How would she ever find him if he did not want to be found?
But she trusted him. He had withheld truths from her, but he had never lied to her. He loved her. He had told her so, and she believed him.
She rubbed her cheek against his bare chest and sighed with contentment. She allowed herself to relax into sleep.
Matthew Harley was cursing himself for a fool. It was almost dawn. He had spent most of the night out on the hill below Marged Evans's farm, chilled to the bone, watching for something that even at the start he had been far from sure would happen.
He had just about impoverished himself lately, paying out bribes—two to the constables who had accompanied him in his pursuit of Ceris and knew the truth of that night's events, and one to a footman at the house. The two had been paid because he had made a fool of himself over a mere tenant farmer's daughter. The third had been paid because he desperately wanted to get revenge on someone for all the troubles that had come into his life lately. And who better to avenge himself on than the Earl of Wyvern himself?
He was sure that Wyvern was also Rebecca, incredible as the suspicion seemed.
And so he had a footman spying for him at Tegfan. And tonight Wyvern had slipped out without a word to anyone. It was impossible to know where he had gone, though Harley would bet his last penny that tomorrow would bring the news of another gate or two having been pulled down—by Rebecca and her children. Harley pinned all his hopes on witnessing Wyvern's return and somehow seeing the evidence that Wyvern and Rebecca were one and the same person.
But where was he to wait? Outside Tegfan itself was not good enough. By the time he arrived home, doubtless all disguise and all evidence of Rebecca would have been shed. From which direction would he be likely to come? There were as many possibilities as there were directions.
But it was not difficult for Harley to decide which one he would gamble on. The last time he had seen Wyvern coming home in the early morning, he had been riding across the hill, coming from the direction of Ty-Gwyn. Harley had concluded at the time that he had been coming from a tryst with Marged Evans. It was very likely that Marged was a Rebeccaite. Her husband had been trouble, and the constable who had been stationed outside the Williams farm had seen her—or a lad Harley suspected had been her— going down the hill at a late hour.
It was very possible that Marged and Rebecca were lovers.
And so Harley stationed himself in such a position on the hill that he could see both Ty-Gwyn above and Tegfan below and yet was himself hidden from anyone who did not actually ride or walk right on top of him. And yet for all he knew, he was on a fool's errand. There were hours and hours of chilly boredom to live through and probably would be nothing for his pains at the end of it except a sleepless night and increased anger.
It was time to return home, he decided at last. Probably Wyvern had been tucked up in his bed at Tegfan for hours already. But not so. Before he could move his cramped limbs and show himself to an empty hillside, something caught at the corner of his vision despite the fact that it was still dark. Something light.
There was a horse with two riders outside the gate of Ty-Gwyn. One of the riders swung down from the saddle and lifted down the other. For a few moments their images merged, and then the smaller of the two, the one dressed in dark man's clothes, opened the gate and disappeared from sight inside the farmyard. The other stayed where he was and watched and raised a hand in farewell a few moments later. Then he remounted his horse and turned it across the hill, in the direction of Tegfan.
The rider, Harley saw with mounting excitement, was all white. He wore a flowing white robe, a blond wig, and what looked to be a white mask. He was Rebecca, the same figure Harley had seen last watching the roadway from which the blacksmith was rescuing Ceris.
He must be Wyvern. Unless his path changed, he was riding toward the northern, uphill entrance to Tegfan. Harley wished he could follow him, but he was on foot. There was nowhere he could conveniently have hidden a horse. Besides, he could not have followed on horseback without being seen.
The man on the horse stopped and looked back when he had put some distance between himself and the farm. He must have ridden out of sight of the gate already. Harley watched, wide-eyed, as he pulled off first his wig and then his mask, which appeared to be some sort of cap that he had pulled over his whole head. Then the gown came off and all were bundled up quickly and wrapped in the cloak or blanket or whatever it was bundled behind the saddle. The rider resumed his journey.
Dawn had not yet broken and there was some distance between the rider and Harley. But Harley was left in no doubt at all about the identity of Rebecca. He was the Earl of Wyvern.
He almost laughed aloud in his excitement. He had him. By God, he had him. If only he had a gun or had brought one of the constables with him! He could have taken Sir Hector Webb a far more significant prisoner than Ceris had been. But there was no point in making his presence known since there was no way of effecting a capture tonight. But tomorrow morning early he would ride to Pantnewydd with hi
s news and his eyewitness account of the transformation of Rebecca into the Earl of Wyvern.
He watched from his position on the hill until Wyvern turned into the northern entrance to the park and disappeared from view among the trees. He was tired, Harley thought, but he doubted that he would get any sleep for what remained of the night.
If only he could put the finger on the blacksmith too. He would like to see Ceris Williams suffering through a trial and a conviction and the transportation for life of her lover.
A convicted daughter of Rebecca would surely get life. Yes, he would like to see her suffer through that after what she had done to him.
Harley got to his feet at last, shook out stiff limbs, and started on the walk back home.
Sir Hector Webb was in a bad mood. As he had told his wife numerous times and Maurice Mitchell during a visit the day before, he was being made to feel like a criminal, and he did not like it one little bit.
Here was this upstart reporter from London with his fashionable attire and his cultured English accent when he was very probably not even a gentleman, coming to question them about what was purely a criminal matter. He questioned them about rents and tithes and Poor Law taxes and road trusts and tolls. And all the time Sir Hector would swear that the man was siding with the damned rioters. Were the sharp rises in rents really necessary? What provision was made for a good tenant who could not pay his rent and had to forfeit his land? Why did tolls have to be collected from farmers who were about their business, hauling lime, for example?
The man in his ignorance did not realize that it was the carts with their loads of lime that were mainly responsible for breaking up the roads and necessitating more repairs. But Sir Hector had set him right on the matter fast enough.
It seemed that it was Rebecca who had brought the reporter to West Wales. He had had the gall to write and invite The Times to send someone to investigate. Crimes did not need investigation. They needed solving. The criminal needed to be caught and punished harshly enough to discourage anyone else from trying to follow in his footsteps. And yet this reporter would give no information at all about Rebecca. He would not even show the letter.
Sir Hector would wager that the man would arrange somehow to talk with Rebecca. Then he would be fed a parcel of lies and no doubt would believe them. Well, if Sir Hector got wind of it and if the reporter would still give no information, he would have the man arrested for something— for aiding and abetting a criminal, perhaps.
And if the reporter was to be believed, the government was seriously considering sending commissioners to West Wales to investigate the unrest and its causes. What was there to investigate? These were crimes that were being committed.
Sir Hector was in such a bad mood that he merely growled a greeting to Matthew Harley when the latter called quite early one morning and asked for a private word with him. He was shown into the study.
"Harley,"' he said with a curt nod. "I suppose you have heard that the Fenfro gate went again last night. Damned scoundrels with the gall to attack a gate they had already destroyed once. I'll catch the pack of them if it is the last thing I do."
"Sir.'" Matthew Harley observed his usual respectful manner, yet even Sir Hector could see his eyes gleaming with suppressed emotion. "'I know who Rebecca is."
Sir Hector went very still.
"'Rebecca and the Earl of Wyvern are one and the same person," Harley said, triumph in his voice.
Sir Hector gaped for a moment, and then his jaws snapped shut. "Oh, nonsense, Harley," he said. "Pure wishful thinking. You had me hopeful for a moment."
'"I saw it for myself, sir," Harley said.
Sir Hector looked closely at him and then frowned. He stood before the fireplace, his hands clasped at his back, his feet braced apart. "Suppose you tell me exactly what you did see. Harley," he said.
"I suspected it before," the steward said. "When I looked for him one night to give me permission to take constables and pursue the rioters, he was not at home, yet none of the servants knew he had gone. And I saw him return alone on horseback very late the same night. But that was only suspicion and not even worth reporting. I waited for more definite evidence, sir."
"And?" Sir Hector made impatient circling gestures with one hand. "Come, man, this is not a theatrical performance, though I can see you are relishing every word."
"Last night," Harley said, "I heard that Wyvern had left the house again and I lay in wait for his return up in the hills, from which direction he had come the other time. But this time I saw more. It was just before dawn, sir, and I had all but given up hope. And then I saw Rebecca."
Sir Hector hissed in a breath.
"He was in full disguise," Harley said. "He was escorting a woman home—that would account for the late hour. But after he had left her and ridden even closer to me. he peeled off the disguise, hid it away in a bundle behind his saddle, and continued on his way down to Tegfan."
"Wyvern," Sir Hector said in little more than a whisper. "I'll be damned. He was Wyvern?"
"None other," Harley said, the triumph back in his voice. "We have him, sir. With your permission, I will return to Tegfan now and have the constables there arrest him and bring him before you."
But Sir Hector did not immediately respond. He was looking at Matthew Harley, and yet his gaze passed right through him. "No," he said. "Unless we could find the disguise—and it is doubtless well hidden—the only proof we would have is your evidence. It would be your word against his. The word of the Earl of Wyvern against that of his steward. It might well not stick."
Matthew Harley flushed. "I do not believe my integrity has ever been called into question, sir," he said.
"This would be different," Sir Hector said. "We cannot risk it. No, we need to catch him red-handed."
"It should not be difficult now that we know the truth," Harley said. "It will be merely a matter of watching and following him, sir. Perhaps we can net some of the other leaders too. I have reason to believe that the main one besides Wyvern—Charlotte he is known as—is the blacksmith at Glynderi."
But Sir Hector was not really listening. He was frowning even more deeply. "If only we could manipulate things in such a way that he is discredited even with the people," he said. "You realize that he is very popular with them, Harley? He is damned polite to all the gatekeepers he displaces, as if he were asking them to dance at a court ball. He allows them to leave and to take their personal possessions with them. And as if that were not bad enough, he pays them compensation out of what he calls the coffers of Rebecca. I wondered where the money was coming from. Now I know. We have to discredit him."
'"But how, sir'.'" Hariey ventured to ask. "Perhaps the people do not even realize who he is. He wore his disguise even with his woman last night. Perhaps just exposing his secret would be enough."
"Perhaps." Sir Hector wandered to his desk and sat down heavily in the oak chair behind it. "I need time to think this out. Give me a day or two. What we need is a gate that is smashed in a less gentlemanly manner than usual."
"If there were constables —" Harley began.
"No, no, no, no." Sir Hector drummed his fingers on the desktop. "We have to make him behave badly."
"There is a gatekeeper at the Cilcoed gate quite close to Tegfan, a Mrs. Phillips," Harley said. "She told me a while ago that she is not afraid of Rebecca because the Earl of Wyvern himself had promised her his personal protection. I don't know how that fact will help us, sir. It just entered my head now."
"Did he indeed?" Sir Hector's fingers drummed harder. "A day or two at the longest, Harley. I will come to Tegfan and have a word with you. I will think of something. In the meantime you can be thinking too. And keeping your eyes and ears open."
"Yes, sir." Matthew Harley bowed respectfully and turned to leave.
"Harley," Sir Hector said. "Well done. I will not forget this. Neither will Lady Stella."
"It is a pleasure to be of service to you, sir," Harley said.
Chapte
r 26
"Well, Wyvern." Sir Hector Webb spoke heartily and rubbed his hands together as he paced to the library window at Tegfan and gazed out at lawns and trees. ''It seems we are close to the end of this madness of rioting and gate smashing."
"You think so?"' Geraint sat back in the chair behind the desk, his elbows on the wooden arms, his fingers steepled together. "One hopes you are right, Hector."
"This reporter from The Times," Sir Hector said. "I daresay he will print the truth and enough soldiers will be sent here at last. The rebellion will be crushed and the ruffian who calls himself Rebecca will be caught and suitably punished."
"It is an outcome we must hope for," Geraint said. "But I have heard that Foster has interviewed Rebecca and some of the people. Perhaps he believes what they have said."
Sir Hector turned his head to look over his shoulder at Geraint. "But who are the people who read the newspapers, Wyvern?" he asked. "And who among their readers would advocate granting rebels what they demand? Pretty soon every commoner in the country would be demanding something and destroying property and harassing law-abiding citizens. There would be anarchy. No, the reporter's articles will only help our cause, mark my words."
"It seems likely," Geraint said, "that a commission of inquiry is about to be sent down here, Hector. Thomas Foster says so, and letters I have received from London confirm it. They will talk to everyone, rich and poor. I suppose it will be for them to decide if the Rebecca Riots are justified or not and if anything should be done to redress the people's grievances."
"It sounds," Sir Hector said, his eyes narrowing, "as if you may still be in sympathy with the rabble, Wyvern."