Glendenning did not even hear him. His mind was closed to everything but this race against time. This race he must not lose, even though death would meet him at the finish.
CHAPTER XIV
The Earl of Bowers-Malden tried not to hear the tall case clock strike four. Seated in the vast withdrawing room, he felt, for the first time in his life, small and powerless. He tightened his arm about his wife, and said gently, “You are very composed, my love.”
Lady Nola did not move her head from his shoulder. She said in a far-away voice, “I am quite terrified, Gregory. For … for the children, you know.”
The dreadful prospect of the fate that awaited them loomed again in all its horror. His dear wife. Marguerite’s youthful loveliness. Michael’s fine young manhood. He was not a man who prayed often, but he prayed now, silently, intensely. ‘Dear God—don’t let it happen. Please, Lord! Don’t let them suffer shame, torture, dismemberment, to pay for my own son’s reckless folly.’ He said with an effort, “I would have thought Marguerite might have kept with us this—this last hour.”
Lady Nola uttered a muffled sob, and clung to him. “Oh, my love! Perhaps Horatio—”
“No! Do not speak his name! I’ll not have—”
There was a commotion in the hall. Agitated voices, and the sound of hurrying footsteps. Farrier! How like that merciless hound to be early! Well, he’d not find the Laindons weeping and whimpering before—
Darrow sounded frantic. “Sir—no! I beg of you! Do not go in—”
He begged…? Bristling, the earl stood.
The door burst open. Coated with mud, his eyes red-rimmed and sunken, his face a mask of exhaustion, my lord Glendenning reeled into the room.
With a muffled imprecation the earl stamped forward. “Damn you, sir! How dare you set foot in my house?”
The countess stood also, and said brokenly, “Tio! Oh, my dear, were you able to get it back?”
“I tried, Mama. God knows, I tried! But—”
Concealing his own brief and now shattered hopes, the earl thundered, “Of course he didn’t get it back! Had you really expected such a care-for-nobody to rescue us? Egad, but you’re a dreamer, madam! Out, my lord! Or must I throw you out myself? By God, but I shall!”
So spent that he could hardly stand, Glendenning gripped a chairback. “Trethaway is drowned, but … took the pin with him. I must … must speak to you alone, sir.”
The earl said nothing, but his lips drew back in a snarl, and he advanced purposefully.
Glendenning sank to one knee.
Lady Nola uttered a muffled sob.
The earl, taken aback, said, “You may well grovel!”
Glendenning looked up at him and his mouth twitched into a rueful smile. He said faintly, “Purely … involuntary, I’m afraid, sir.”
The earl grunted, and marched to the bell pull.
“I could not bring you the—the Comyn Pin,” said Glendenning. “But I’ve brought you the way out of this. I—implore that you hear me. Fa— my lord, when I’ve done, you can … throw me out. But first, if you care for your wife and her children, you must see me … alone.”
Bowers-Malden paused. There could be no doubt but that Glendenning had been through some kind of hell. The ruffles fell back from the hand he held out revealing that the wrist was bandaged, and there was a look of abject humility in his eyes. Too late for that, of course. But, whatever else, he’d come back. He was man enough not to have run to save his own skin. Drawing a bitter consolation from that fact, he growled, “You may steal two minutes of the few I’ve left to share with my dear ones. Lady Nola, if Michael has returned pray desire him and Marguerite to come to us.” He added implacably, “When Lord Glendenning has left this room.”
The viscount sighed and started to drag himself to his feet.
The countess looked helplessly from one to the other of these men she loved. Then, with her handkerchief pressed to her lips, she left them.
Glendenning’s struggle to stand drained his remaining strength, and he could get no farther than a footstool. His head seemed to weigh a ton, but he managed somehow to bring it up. A glass of brandy was being thrust at him.
Beyond it, the earl’s face was sternly contemptuous. Glendenning took the glass with a hand that shook, and the powerful brandy burned away some of the crushing weariness. “I found Templeby, sir. He was injured, but not seriously, I think. I have arranged that he not come here.”
He spoke with quiet steadiness, and suddenly, to see him thus, muddied, and too exhausted to stand, so wrought upon the earl that he was obliged to turn away. He walked to a nearby table and took up a rare paperweight. Examining it, but with not the slightest notion of what he held, he said, “I shall hope he has the good sense to obey you, in which case one of us, at least, may be spared. I granted you this interview, Glendenning, only because you had sufficient backbone to come back and face your punishment with the rest of us. Now—”
Quite aware of how his sire hated to be interrupted, the viscount interrupted. “Well, that’s it, isn’t it, sir?” He fought his way to his feet. “The punishment must be mine. Only.”
The earl’s hand tightened upon his paperweight. “Your sense of responsibility is apt, if several years late in dawning. Has this wondrous new comprehension also inspired you with the solution?”
“I should think that would be obvious, sir.”
His eyes fixed upon the object that now dug deep into his palm, Bowers-Malden said, “You mean to confess your guilt to Farrier?”
“If I thought that would serve, I’d not have come back here. It won’t. He would still claim that you had shielded me.”
The earl’s leonine head lifted slowly. He met his son’s eyes, and for an instant felt so sick that he was unable to speak. Then he said in a voice that shook, “Do you … dare … to saddle me with—with—”
Glendenning saw horror in the strong face of this man he loved, and he started forward instinctively, but drew back. “It still wants forty minutes to five o’clock. I have sent word, in your name, to Hilary Broadbent, desiring that he bring a troop here at once. He should arrive in ten minutes. You must denounce me the instant he comes. With luck, Farrier won’t reach—”
“Luck…?” Bowers-Malden’s face was white. The paperweight thudded to the floor. “Luck?” he whispered. “Do you call it luck that … that a father must … send his only son to a traitor’s hideous—to public execution and—and—” Unable to continue, he covered his eyes with a trembling hand.
Glendenning staggered to his side and, daring his wrath, gripped his shoulder. “Sir, you must! Only your public repudiation of me, your demand that I be arrested for treason, will save all—all those—” His voice broke, and suddenly he was blinded by tears. He gulped, “Those I … love.”
Bowers-Malden uttered a travesty of his bull-like roar, and shoved his son from him. “If you loved me you’d not have—You’d not ask—” But the boy was right. It was their only chance. One death. Or five. But God in heaven! He searched his son’s eyes and found sorrow, but also unflinching resolution, and he croaked, “Damn you, Horatio! How can you expect…? How can I…?” He jerked away, tore out his handkerchief, and buried his face in it.
Glendenning drew his sleeve across his own eyes, thus leaving a streak of mud to betray him. Despite his efforts to keep his voice under control, it faltered as he said, “I am not by any stretch of the imagination a hero, sir. I’d most happily give every penny I own, every bit of my inheritance, not to—to have to pay the price of my … sins; not to have placed you in so terrible a quandary. But there is no other way. You must know, fa—er, sir, that if you do not denounce me, I will die as surely—only with the terrible grief of knowing I have dragged you all to the axe with me. I beg of you, spare me that shame, at least. I shall meet my Maker with enough on my conscience!”
The earl turned a stricken face, and shook his head wordlessly.
Desperate, Glendenning said, “If there was any other w
ay, do you think I would resort to this? There is no other way. This is our one hope! I have brought this nightmare down upon us, and I must take the consequences. You cannot allow our innocent ladies to suffer. Sir—if you now hand me over—”
“Even were I—prepared to—to take such a step, that hound Farrier would claim he’d already accused you, and that I was only denouncing you now to try and save the rest of my family.”
“I expect he will say exactly that. But you are a powerful man with many influential friends, and he knows it. You can maintain that you’d never believed my guilt, but now you know the truth, and therefore disown me, and hand me over to—to the king’s justice. I think they will be unable then to accuse you of shielding a traitor, nor—”
His words were cut off as the case clock chimed the half-hour.
It was like the knell of doom.
For an instant the two men stood mute and stricken, gazing at each other.
The misery in his father’s eyes wrung Glendenning’s heart. He said, “Sir, you will have to be very fierce and outraged. You doubtless already loathe and—and despise me, but if—by some miracle—you still have some vestige of affection for me, you must not allow Hilary to suspect it. One thing in our favour is that he knows I have always been so in awe of you.”
Bowers-Malden jerked his head away.
The time was racing, and they must do this before Farrier arrived, or they were lost! Glendenning urged, “Think, sir, of all the times I’ve disappointed you; told you what were half-truths, at best. Think of the time I’ve spent studying architecture, when you would so much have preferred that I take my seat in the House, and interest myself in politics; of how often I’ve stayed away for months, when Mama had—hoped—” His voice shredded. He thought, agonized, ‘Oh, God! If I could but have that time back! If only I’d come home more often, and—’
Through his despair and remorse, he heard running footsteps. The door burst open. Darrow, looking terrified, gasped, “My lord! M-Major Broadbent, and a troop!”
Bowers-Malden said hoarsely, “Show the major into the morning room, if you please.”
The door closed.
Glendenning’s bones seemed to be melting. He crossed to the sideboard, but when he tried to pour the brandy it splashed until the earl’s hand came to take the decanter from him. Bowers-Malden poured two glasses. Offering one to his son, he growled, “Drink it down. You need it.”
Glendenning obeyed. False courage, but it gave him strength. He returned the glass to the silver tray. ‘Don’t let him see what a coward you are!’ he told himself. ‘Give the poor old fellow a small vestige of pride in you!’ He managed somehow to smile. God, but he was cold. So cold. Fear was an awful thing. He’d not been afraid on the battlefield, but now … “I’d best go and tidy up, sir. Can’t have old Hilary thinking I’ve galloped here to—”
“To sacrifice yourself?”
Glendenning blinked, and bit his lip. He put out his hand tentatively. “Sir—would you please … could you, d’you think, bear to shake my hand, before…?”
“Fiend seize you!” Bowers-Malden’s eyes glittered with tears. “I’d like to—murder you!” His arms went out, and crushed his son to him. He said a choking, “Horatio…! Oh, my dear boy … God bless you!”
Glendenning gulped, “Papa. I’ve always … I hope you know how much I—”
Another minute and he’d weep like a woman. He wrenched away, strode as rapidly as he was able to the back stairs, and climbed for the last time towards his suite.
In the room he had left, the Earl of Bowers-Malden turned a ravaged face from the open door and stared down at the glass in his hand. He lifted it to his lips—not to drink, but to kiss the glass. Then, with ineffable sadness, he hurled it to shatter in the hearth.
He felt very weary now; drained, and tired, and old.
And it would not do!
He wiped his handkerchief across his eyes, then drew a deep breath. Squaring his shoulders, he walked into the hall to find young Hilary Broadbent.
And to condemn his son and heir to the slow torment of a traitor’s death.
* * *
The morning room was a pleasant and airy apartment, being blessed with many long windows that overlooked the ornamental water. On the light blue walls were hung fine paintings, all gently pastoral, and several pieces of Monsieur Pelletier’s gilded Louis XIV furniture added grace to their charming setting. It was a room to lift the spirits and chase away gloom, yet when Bowers-Malden entered on this grey and stormy day, he had the distinct impression he had stepped into Bedlam.
Hilary Broadbent, dashing in military scarlet, was chattering gaily with a flushed and unusually vivacious Marguerite, and Michael—whom Horatio had evidently failed to keep away—was attempting to engage Corporal Willhays in conversation. Willhays, a shy young man for whom Broadbent entertained high hopes, looked uncomfortable and not a little bewildered; emotions the earl shared.
They were unaware of his arrival and, for one brief moment he stood in the doorway, watching them. Templeby looked wan, but not much the worse for whatever injury he had suffered. Likely the boy knew of the impending tragedy, though he was talking brightly enough. Incomprehensibly, Marguerite fairly sparkled. Small wonder Broadbent appeared entranced. The young major had been a frequent visitor of late. If Lady Nola was right in believing that he cherished a tendre for Marguerite, he would soon face a most difficult moment.
It was a moment he himself dare no longer delay.
Clenching his hands until the nails bit into his palms, the earl cleared his throat. Usually, that resonant sound silenced a room in a wink. On this nightmare afternoon, the effect was less dramatic. Broadbent’s head turned at once, and he stood straighter, smiling at the earl over Marguerite’s shoulder. Corporal Willhays came to attention and looked even more uncomfortable. To his lordship’s astonishment, however, neither Templeby nor Marguerite appeared to have heard him, and both went on talking animatedly.
He walked into the room, and cut through the flow with a harsh, “Good afternoon, Broadbent.”
“At your service, my lord,” said the major, with a crisp military bow.
“Papa!” All smiles, Marguerite ran to slip her arm through his. “I have just been telling Major Broadbent that he must be sure to come to us for the boat races next month. If his military duties will permit, of course. ’Twould be so nice if he could persuade his mama to come also, do you not think, sir?” And without pausing to allow her astonished stepfather to comment, she rushed on with unprecedented loquacity, “You and my mother are well acquainted with Lady Broadbent, and I am sure Mama would like it of all things. Do you not agree, Michael?”
“No doubt,” the earl interposed, wondering how she could possibly chatter so foolishly under these terrible circumstances. “But I have urgent—”
“With what am I to agree?” Templeby turned from his conversation with the sergeant to direct a tolerant smile at his sister. “Some feminine nonsensicality, I’ll wager, eh Margo? You have sisters, Broadbent. Are you also bedevilled with constant demands to take ’em to balls and routs and all manner of entertainments? I vow that last month alone…” And he went on in this vein, listing the numerous events to which he had been required to escort his sister, many of which his mystified stepfather knew very well Marguerite had not attended, and several of whose existence he had not even been aware.
“You are ill-used, I dare swear,” he said, breaking into this surfeit of verbiage. “But I must require you to—”
“No, no, dearest Papa,” trilled Marguerite, squeezing his arm and interrupting with a rudeness she had never before shown him, or anyone else. “I protest I cannot permit my brother to so unjustly defame—”
“Enough!” It had been borne in upon the earl that all this chit-chat was a deliberate attempt to circumvent his purpose. They must then be aware of his purpose, poor children, and Lord knows, he could not blame them for seeking to divert him. Indeed, nothing would give him more plea
sure than to abandon his heartbreaking mission. But the clock was ticking remorselessly. At any instant that repellent spy Burton Farrier would arrive, in which case Horatio’s dear life would be sacrificed to no purpose. Not dreaming how distraught he looked, he barked, “Leave us, if you please. I have something to say to Major Broadbent that—”
Marguerite’s face crumpled. “Oh, now you are cross,” she wailed, and throwing herself into his arms, sobbing, hissed into his ear, “Do not! There is still hope! Do not!”
Still hope? The earl glanced at the clock on the mantelpiece. It wanted ten minutes to five o’clock. By Jupiter, but there was not still hope! Nor very much time left! His attempt to detach his stepdaughter became quite a struggle, and he had to use more strength than he would have liked to escape her clinging arms.
Templeby said sharply, “Papa, she meant no harm. I wish you will not—”
“Be still!” snapped the earl. “I know what you both are about, and you shall not stop me. Broadbent!”
The major’s comely face had become increasingly troubled. For some time he had held a deep and secret admiration for the lovely Miss Templeby. He also had reason to be suspicious of her stepbrother’s political allegiance, and had prayed that if the blow should fall, he might be far away at the time. When the message had reached him at the barracks, he’d entertained the deepest misgivings, which had been lulled by the apparent light-heartedness of the Templebys. Now, the earl’s obvious distress, Miss Templeby’s sudden deathly pallor, and her brother’s strained expression, awoke his earlier unease. Above all else, however, he was a soldier, and he put his own feelings aside.
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