by Lucy Ashford
‘David, her husband, is calling for me! So you may well have gone, my lord, before I return tomorrow!”
‘Then it’s—farewell,’ he said softly.
She nodded and stumbled towards the door. Once outside, she stood there in the passageway, shaking.
What else was going on that she had not been told about?
He had to go. He had to leave Wycherley as soon as possible. Because with just one word, just one touch, he could hurt her with the kind of pain she hadn’t even realised existed.
But then she would never see him again. A black abyss of total despair opened up before her. She stood there a moment, looking—as Turley, who passed by the end of the corridor, told Cook later—as if the life had gone out of her.
‘Damn,’ Turley, with awe, heard her breathe. ‘Damn, damn, damn. I will not accept his charity, I will not accept anything from him, I will not have him in this house any longer!’
Chapter Nine
After Verena had gone, Lucas slept for an hour on his bed. He’d refused Dr Pilkington’s laudanum, because it disturbed his dreams; but the dreams came anyway, and they were about Verena. He dreamed that he held her slender yet enticing body in his arms. Dreamed that he was kissing her, making love to her, clasping her silken hips to his and she was responding with passion, and breathless desire.
Then in his dream she broke away from him, saying to him with loathing in her voice, ‘My father. Why are you telling these terrible lies about my father?’ And she was running, running away from him, and suddenly she had disappeared, and there instead was the figure of Jack Sheldon, climbing along the ice-capped ridge of that mountain in Spain, while Lucas called out, ‘No! It doesn’t have to be this way, Jack! Stop, for the love of God! All I want is your diary…’
And the last thing Lucas remembered of Wild Jack Sheldon was the look of sheer horror in his eyes as he clutched that oilskin package close and went tumbling, tumbling into the raging torrent of a river hundreds of feet below.
Look after Verena.
Lucas sat up, the perspiration beading on his forehead. Then he saw that the late afternoon sun was pouring through the window, and Bentinck was sitting there, morosely offering him a tumbler of brandy. ‘You bin havin’ them bad dreams again, milord?’
‘Yes. Yes’. He wanted her. Jack’s daughter. And it was—quite simply—impossible. ‘What time is it, Bentinck?’
‘Four in the afternoon. You must rest, milord. Everything you asked about is bein’ attended to’.
‘Even so, there is danger—everywhere’.
Bentinck allowed himself a crack of a smile. ‘Wot, amongst all these women? Now I’ll agree with you there, milord’.
Lucas responded with a faint grin, and lay wearily back against the pillows. His arm was hurting like the devil again. ‘You’re damned right. But you must tell me what you’ve discovered’.
‘Now, I don’t want you crocking yourself again, milord, gettin’ up before you’re ready and landin’ yourself with a hellfire fever again!’
‘I swear I most certainly will get up if you don’t tell me your news,’ replied Lucas evenly.
‘Well, I told you about the magistrates’ court’.
‘You did’.
‘And the Earl your grandfather’s just got back from Bath’.
Lucas clenched his fists. ‘Has he now?’
‘And then, in between, I’ve bin lookin’ round ‘ere, room by room, just like you said. Especially up amongst those boxes of papers and stuff they’d cleared from the north wing when the roof leaked in spring. There was no sign that anyone else had bin searchin’, like you feared. All covered with dust, them boxes; I’d have known if someone had been in. So we’re still ahead of the game. And I found—these’. He handed Lucas some scruffy, folded sheets of paper.
Lucas scanned them swiftly. ‘Good,’ he breathed. ‘In fact—excellent. But no diary?’
‘No diary’.
Lucas was swinging his legs to the floor, easing his arm out of its sling. ‘Then I’ll manage—somehow—without it. Bentinck, tomorrow I’ll have to leave here’.
Bentinck sighed. ‘You’re not off on your travels again, milord? With that crocked arm?’
‘Yes, but I’m leaving you behind’.
‘Oh, my God…’
‘Yes. As well as continuing to look for that diary, you must watch constantly for any strangers around the place. And you must try to be aware at all times of where Verena—Miss Sheldon—is’.
‘Bloomin’ difficult,’ muttered Bentinck. ‘She don’t like me one bit. And I just ain’t built for creepin’ around, fiddling locks and peeping through keyholes. Give me a proper battle any time, milord’.
‘Me, too,’ agreed Lucas with feeling. ‘But one of the rules of warfare, Bentinck, is that we need to know—precisely—who our enemies are. Agreed?’
‘Agreed, milord,’ said Bentinck heavily. ‘And I’ve done just as you asked—saddled up a horse for you and left it round the side of the house, where, if you go out now, no one will see you. Though how you can ride with that arm—’
Lucas interrupted. ‘You say the coast’s clear?’
‘The servants have been given what’s left of the afternoon off, as well as the evening. There’s a wedding in the village’.
‘Good’. He was already easing his arms into his coat. ‘I’ll follow you out, past the servants’ quarters. I might be a little while. Verena is visiting her sister—the sensible one—and staying overnight, so you can have a few hours away from here. Ask some questions for me. Visit the Royal George in Framlington, if you wish’.
Bentinck squinted. ‘The alehouse? You sure? Don’t want that Miss Verena tearin’ a strip off me hide for neglectin’ you!’
Lucas laughed. ‘Afraid of her, Bentinck?’
‘She’s got a strong will in her, that one! She’d fight like the devil himself for what she believes in, I’d say!’ He eyed the locket Lucas had picked up suspiciously. ‘What in tarnation have you got there, milord?’
‘You could call it another of Wild Jack’s false promises,’ Lord Lucas Conistone said grimly. ‘Now, go and check that my escape route’s clear’.
‘You are coming back tonight, milord, aren’t you?’
‘Indeed. One last night here, then I’m on my way’.
Bentinck moved off. Lucas looked quickly again at the papers Bentinck had brought him, which were all covered with Wild Jack’s sketch maps of a hitherto-uncharted region. He read aloud the words written at the foot of one of them: ‘Route of the River Tagus; its source and progress through the Portuguese mountains, 1808…’
He put them in the deep inside pocket of his coat.
Perhaps, after all, these were as good as he was going to get. Perhaps he should be satisfied with these.
He glanced at a document Mr Mayhew had brought him: an old plan marking the boundary between the Stancliffe and Wycherley estates.
He pushed that also in his pocket. Then, after locking the door of his room, he quickly followed Bentinck through the silent house and out into the late afternoon sunshine, to mount the horse Bentinck had ready.
* * *
Lucas had forgotten what a huge, dusty old mausoleum of a place Stancliffe Manor was. But he remembered how he had felt when, aged sixteen, he was told that both his parents were dead of a fever and that some day all this would be his.
The heavy curtains in the north-facing bedchamber were drawn shut against the daylight. The Earl sat in an armchair by the fireplace, in dressing robe and cap. Despite the blazing logs, the room was cold and the candles few.
‘You have been interfering, Lucas,’ said the Earl in a quavering voice. ‘You have meddled behind my back while I was away’. He pointed a gnarled, accusing finger at his only grandson. ‘Remember, my boy, Stancliffe is not yours yet!’
And the Earl, who was seventy-five years old and almost a recluse except for his trips to Bath for his failing health, broke into a fit of coughing.
Luca
s, whose arm throbbed like hell from the ride there, forced himself into patience. He said, ‘Twenty years ago, Grandfather, you diverted a stream that used to run through the Wycherley estate in order to power the corn mill you built on Stancliffe land. Did you divert that stream legally? Did you ever ask Sir Jack Sheldon’s permission?’
‘Legally?’ the Earl snorted. ‘No one knew, no one cared. That stream flowed through uncultivated land, and Wild Jack didn’t even damn well notice, he was away so often!’
Lucas pulled a document from his pocket. He said steadily, ‘I have a plan here, showing its former route. You had no right to divert it. And now it’s time for you to make compensation’.
‘Pah!’ The Earl’s gnarled hand shook on the stick he gripped. ‘Why all this concern for a bunch of country nobodies? Next you’ll be bringing in this French revolutionary nonsense, telling me we have to give every damn thing away!’
‘If you won’t compensate the Sheldons, then I will,’ said Lucas flatly, shoving the folded plan back in his pocket.
The Earl stared. ‘You’ll do it with your own money, then!’
‘I will,’ answered Lucas calmly. ‘With my mother’s money. Why do you wish the Sheldons such harm, sir? Why did you use your influence to persuade the bank to foreclose on Wycherley’s mortgage?’
The Earl was wringing his hands. ‘My revenge was just! It was because he cheated me!’
‘Who? Jack Sheldon?’
‘Who else? The damned rogue, he told me he’d found treasure in the Portuguese mountains! Gold from the Americas, brought back by explorers long ago and hidden—my God, are you after the secret, too?’
Lucas drew his hand tiredly across his forehead. That rubbish again. ‘I’m not after gold, because there was none,’ he said quietly.
The candles were burning low. Several had already gone out. The Earl banged his fist on the arm of his chair. ‘I offered him money, yes, I did, to pay for his knowledge. He took it, but then he went back to Portugal two years ago to gather up all that treasure for himself!’
Lucas sighed. ‘I repeat. There was no—’
But what was the use? Lucas looked around the dreary room and started again. ‘You should live in more comfort, Grandfather. Open the house up. Let in light and air’.
‘No! The damp air will kill me!’ the old man wheezed. ‘Besides, I have to watch, all the time!’
Lucas repeated softly, ‘Watch?’
‘Yes, indeed! In case Jack comes back, trying to steal!’
‘Grandfather, Jack Sheldon is dead. Did you ever see a diary? Jack’s journal of his travels?’
The Earl darted a fierce glance at him. ‘I told you, I have nothing that belongs to that scoundrel. But he took my money!’
Lucas ran his hand tiredly through his dark hair. ‘You told the banks to withdraw credit from the Wycherley estate—you all but ruined them—just for some petty revenge against a dead man?’
‘Not only that, Lucas! I was thinking of you, my boy! You see, I’d heard the little hussy was after you!’
Lucas was suddenly rigid. ‘You heard what?’
‘Rickmanby told me!’ The Earl was starting to whimper now. ‘Two years ago, when you came home from the army, she was always pestering you, always tempting you, Jack’s oldest! She was after your fortune!’
‘Never,’ said Lucas curtly. ‘Never’.
But the Earl hadn’t finished. ‘You were a fool not to see it; you deserve a far better wife than that little harlot, and I told her so…’
Lucas was on his feet. ‘You did what? You used that actual word? Harlot?’
‘I called her that in my letter, yes!’ The Earl looked sullen, almost defiant.
Lucas sat down again, his face bleak. ‘I don’t deserve her, that’s for sure. My God, you’ve done her a great, great wrong, sir’. He passed his hand briefly across his eyes.
He knew his grandfather had treated her family vilely, but not this. Now he understood everything. Her refusal to accept his help, to even read his letters. Harlot. Oh, Verena. If his dreams had seemed desperate before, they were surely impossible now.
‘Her father was a cheat!’ The Earl rapped his stick on the floor for emphasis. ‘I tell you, he promised me a share in the gold, then tried to tell me there was none!’ A look of cunning suddenly crept over the Earl’s face. ‘You and Jack were close for a while, weren’t you? I remember him teaching you those faradiddle languages, Spanish and Portuguese. But now you say that Jack is dead. So everyone assumes the secret of the gold is lost. Died with him, that’s what they all think, that’s what I told him when he came the other day…’
‘Who came the other day?’ Lucas spoke with renewed harshness.
The Earl started coughing. ‘Oh, my memory—sometimes my memory tricks me, and I think I see Jack Sheldon again…’
Lucas stood up tiredly. ‘Grandfather, you’ve done more harm than you can begin to imagine. I have to go away now, but believe me, I’ll be back very soon. And you will do nothing else, absolutely nothing, to harm the Sheldons, do you understand?’
‘Always leaving me,’ muttered the Earl bitterly. ‘Parties, London. Horses. Sailing off overseas… Compensation? To Jack Sheldon’s profligate family? Ridiculous!’
‘I’ll be back soon,’ Lucas repeated. He bowed, and left.
* * *
The Earl’s rheumy eyes were like slits as he muttered to himself, ‘The girl. The hussy. She was Jack’s favourite. She was closest to him!’ Suddenly he got up and hobbled to the window, pushing back the curtains so he could see Stancliffe’s acres of wild garden, the lakes. The island pavilion, where he and Jack used to meet.
Two days ago he’d had another visitor, who’d pretended to be his friend. Who’d told him it was his duty to his country to reveal, if he knew it, where Jack’s diary was.
They all wanted that diary, but it was his! For he, the Earl, had paid Jack Sheldon dearly for it. And its whereabouts was a secret he intended to keep.
Chapter Ten
By the time Lucas got back to Wycherley, the sun was setting. Quietly he stabled the horse and let himself in, preparing to spend just one more night here.
By the morning he would be gone.
Guessing Bentinck would still be at the Framlington alehouse, Lucas extinguished all the candles except one and, wearing just his breeches, sprawled on the bed and slept.
Suddenly he was wide awake. He thought he’d heard someone, or something, outside the west window. Glancing at his watch, he saw that it was past ten. He reached under the pillow for his pistol.
He blew out the candle and edged up to the wall by the window, angling his head to look out. In the garden all was dark.
There was the sound again. Someone was creeping through the bushes that grew close to the house.
Lucas padded barefoot across the room to pick up the long iron poker from the grate, dangled his pale handkerchief from its tip, then swiftly raised it up against the window pane. A bullet came crashing through the glass. He dived aside, landing on the floor, jarring his injured arm. Glass splinters scattered around him. He lay cursing softly. My arm. Hell and damnation, my arm.…
He heaved himself up and grabbed for his pistol again. Through the broken window, he glimpsed someone running away into the darkness. He took aim and fired.
Too late.
And in falling he had broken open his wound. Blood was seeping through the bandage.
Swiftly he searched for and found the spent bullet that had smashed into the bookcase opposite the window. He pushed the books around to cover the damage and slipped the bullet into his pocket. He carefully broke away more of the window pane, dropping the glass outside, then re-lit the candle and a few others round the room—whoever did this was a coward, and would doubtless have run as far as his legs could carry him. Then he went over to the washstand where there was a roll of fresh bandaging, and began the laborious task of re-dressing his wound single-handed.
Give me a proper battle, any time.
But then he’d known, hadn’t he, what he was letting himself in for?
* * *
Verena was upstairs in her bedroom. David had indeed called earlier, but only to tell her that her visit must be postponed, as one of the children had a mild fever.
She’d expressed her concern, and sent Pippa her love; but the empty hours stretched ahead. Desperate to distract herself, she turned again to the London newspaper David had brought; to the latest news of the war. Our Portuguese correspondent reports that Lord Wellington’s army has vacated the fortress of Almeida and is planning a two-hundred-mile march to Lisbon, which is held at present just by a small British force.
She could picture it all, because she’d seen her father’s maps, heard his travel stories. To get from Almeida on the Spanish frontier to Lisbon meant, she knew, climbing across mountainous terrain before the coastal plain was reached. Lucas had told her once that whoever held Lisbon, with its vital port, would control all of Portugal.
She put the newspaper down slowly. Lucas. Everything always came back to Lucas. He had been paying Mr Mayhew’s bills. He had known more about the court case than she did. Unforgivable! Tomorrow, she would ensure that he kept his word and left forthwith! And then she would never see him again.
She stared blindly out of the window into the darkness. Even losing Wycherley seemed nothing, compared to losing Lucas.
The house seemed eerily quiet. Her mother and sisters had gone early to bed. Cook and Turley had asked permission to go to the celebration of a wedding in the village and were not back yet. Their other servants did not live in.
When she heard the sound of breaking glass and—Lord, was that a gun shot?—she was on her feet in an instant, her heart pounding. The noise came, surely, from Lucas’s room downstairs. Clutching her shawl about her, she almost flew down the stairs and rapped sharply on the door.
‘Lucas? Lucas?’
No answer. She hurried in—and froze.
He was standing with his back to her by the table on which the water jug stood and the rolls of bandages. Nearer to her, the floor was strewn with splinters of glass. She realised the curtain to the west window was pulled back, revealing a jagged hole in the centre of one of the panes. She let out a low cry.