Anne Barbour (12 page)

“As did I—but that doesn’t make him a traitor.”

“No, but if I had to suspect anyone in the Light Bobs of dirty work, he’d be right up at the top of my list.”

“Agreed.” Justin paused. “But there’s something else. I did not mention this to you in Spain, because—well, I could not bring myself to believe...” He took several turns about the room before continuing. “Robbie, after I was captured—while I was being interrogated by the French Officer—Captain Bassinet, his name was—Paul Bassinet—he seemed to know a great deal about me. In fact—

“Yes, you told me. Knew where you’d been raised and how long you’d been in the Peninsula and that you were under Scovell’s command, and—’

“What I didn’t tell you was that I was able to catch a glimpse of the papers spread out on his desk, to which he referred frequently during the course of our little chat.” Justin drew a deep breath. “One of those papers was covered with St. John’s handwriting.”

Robbie’s mouth dropped open.

“Your brother, St. John?”

“The very same. I suppose there could be a perfectly innocent explanation. Whoever, for example, had supplied the good
capitán
with such an exhaustive portfolio on my humble self could have done so by simply scooping up a handful of my own papers from my study at Longbarrow, among which might very well be a letter or some other piece of business from St. John. God knows we never corresponded on a regular basis, but he did send to me now and then concerning matters that required my attention.”

“Yes, I suppose it could be coincidence, but there’s never been any love lost between you and St. John. On the other hand, St. John doesn’t seem like the type to carry a grudge that far. Would he be sorry to see you sent to your grave?”

Justin pressed his lips together. “You’re forgetting Susan Fairhaven. Don’t you remember? St. John was betrothed to her.”

“Mmm yes. Pretty little thing. You and Sinjie had some sort of a dustup over her, didn’t you?”

“It all happened while you were still at Oxford. It was more than a dustup. Susan was in London when I was sent down. As you may recall, I went to earth in the metropolis for a few months before I purchased my commission. I stayed with Charles for a while and then, with his largesse, I took lodgings in St. James’s.

“I was still smarting from Father’s treatment of me, and it was only because Charles kept his hand on my neck that I didn’t get into the same sort of trouble that had got me exiled from Oxford. As it was, I played the tulip and decorated all the ton functions with my presence. Naturally, I saw quite a bit of Susan. She was a born coquette, you know, and Sinjie did not have the sense to guard his interests. He was spending most of his time at Sheffield Court, learning the business of the estate, or some such. Seeing an opportunity to ruffle his feathers, I began a mild flirtation with her. I meant no real harm, but as so often happened, my little prank caught up with me. She cooperated enthusiastically with my endeavors, even going so far as to creep from her window several times for midnight assignations.”

“Oh, my God,” muttered Robbie.

“I swear to you, Robbie, we never went beyond a few kisses and a little heated fumbling. However, not long thereafter, and several months before the wedding was to take place, it was discovered that Susan was pregnant. She pointed her pink little finger at me, tearfully insisting that I had seduced her cruelly—although she made it sound more like a rape.

“St. John came to see me, and it was only by the most dexterous of footwork that I avoided being shot on the spot. I protested my innocence, to no avail. He seemed to think I had arranged the whole scenario with the express purpose of humiliating him, and he raged at me for hours. When I left him, he was vowing vengeance and swearing that he’d make me pay, if it was the last thing he ever accomplished on this earth.”

“Good God,” said Robbie again. “I suppose St. John refused to marry her?”

“Well, of course he did. He would not dream of soiling the Belforte line so grievously, but he seemed to think—as did Father—that it was necessary for yours truly to escort her down the middle aisle instead, thus salvaging the family honor.

“Fortunately, I was due to sail away with my regiment at just about that time, and before Father could marshal his forces, I was safely away to the Peninsula. Thus, I was spared the consequences of my supposed crime against maidendom. She’s dead now, you know,” Justin added almost as an afterthought. “She caught the French pox.”

“Good God!”

There was a long silence as each of the gentlemen sipped thoughtfully at their brandies.

“I suppose,” said Robbie at last, “it’s not surprising that he’d enjoy seeing you dead in a ditch, but do you really think he would contrive a plot of treason and a subsequent ambuscade simply to even the score between you?”

“That’s the part I can’t reconcile,” responded Justin slowly. “I can’t see him as a traitor. Plus the fact, of course, that arranging to have me accused of such a heinous crime would well and truly out-stain all the other clots of mud I’ve tossed onto the family escutcheon. But I’ve seen men perform irrational acts in the name of vengeance. At any rate, I’ve set a watch on Sheffield House here in town. I want to know who visits him and when—and why.”

“Who’s going to do that?”

“Jack Nail.”

Robbie grunted. “Good choice. What do you want me to do?”

“You’ll be going back to Spain soon. It sounds as though Roger Maltby could stand some watching. It would be interesting to discover if he’s come into any money recently. In addition, you might nose out any friends of the mysteriously disappeared private in the 95th. It appears to me that someone went to a great deal of trouble to find a body with a marked resemblance to yours truly.”

“And if any of said friends recently underwent an improvement in their finances, that, too, would be of some interest.”

“Precisely. That’s all I can think of for the moment. You may come across something on your return to the Peninsula that will lead you to further investigation. In the meantime, I believe I’ll pay a visit to Jerry Church.”

“Church? I don’t believe I—wait a minute. Doesn’t he work at the Horse Guards? Lord, Justin!” he exclaimed at Justin’s affirming nod. “Are you
trying
to put your head in the noose? You aren’t all that well acquainted with him, are you? What makes you think he won’t turn you over to his superior? You’ve already got a connection there in Charles. Hasn’t he already promised to do what he can?”

“Yes, but he’s so highly placed I don’t think he has access to the really informational rumor mill that grinds so exceedingly fine in the lower echelons in any department. Also I need someone there who will follow
my
orders. And I do know him fairly well. He had lodgings near mine when I lived in town. I was in a position to do him a spot of good when he got into trouble over in Procurement. In fact, I was responsible for getting him a position on the Top Floor under Wilkerson. I don’t think he’ll turn me in. At any rate, I need someone in his position, and I think he’ll do as well as anyone.”

Robbie shrugged. “Well, it’s your neck, I suppose, but I think you’re making a mistake.”

“Objection noted.” Justin smiled, then hesitated. “I must thank you for your efforts, old friend.”

Robbie shuffled uncomfortably. “Good God, don’t be daft.”

Justin laughed softly, but he noted with satisfaction the affectionate gleam that warmed Robbie’s gaze. “By the by, what is that sickly growth you’ve sprouted under your nose since the last time we met?”

Robbie stroked his mustache complacently. “You like it? Drives the ladies wild, of course.”

“No doubt. Nothing like tickling a female into submission.” This time Justin’s laughter sounded aloud.

Their business concluded, Justin found himself reluctant to leave Robbie’s company. It was a relief to relax into the security of his friend’s company, for truth to tell, the lie that was his constant companion in Catherine Meade’s house was beginning to take its toll. He glanced round Robbie’s sitting room and eyed the fashionable cut of that gentleman’s coat.

“Come up a bit in the world, haven’t you, old horse? The last time I visited you in your digs, they were on the upper floor of The Three Tuns, over in Shoreditch. And your coat—Weston, is it not? How did you make the leap into what one perceives is almost the lap of luxury?”

“Ah,” murmured Robbie, flushing. “Do you remember my Aunt Ilverhampton? She passed on to her reward last year and left me a few shekels. I found life above The Three Tuns a bit more adventurous than I desired, so the first thing I did was to hie me to more nobbish quarters.”

“Hmpf, you never mentioned any of this to me.”

“Did I not? Ah, well, who knows how many dark secrets I have clasped to my breast?”

Justin chuckled and settled more comfortably into his chair. It was good to be with Robbie again, he reflected. It was a relief simply to be able to speak his mind—and his fears.

The two spent another hour talking of a number of things. Thus, the night was far advanced when Justin at last took his leave. When he arrived back at Winter’s Keep, a faint lightening of the eastern sky presaged the imminent arrival of dawn.

Entering the gate, he bent forward in his saddle to whisper to Caliban. A remarkable transformation swept over the great horse. He drew to an immediate halt. At a slight pressure from Justin’s thighs, he resumed his forward progress, but in a most peculiar manner. He walked slowly, and if it could be said that an animal tiptoed, such was Caliban’s demeanor. His movements became fluid, and not a creak of leather or jingle of harness could be heard in the night air. Staying to the grass verge rather than the gravel paths, Justin reached the stable yard with no more sound than a cloud’s shadow passing beneath the moon.

Justin dismounted and removed the stallion’s tack before easing open the stable door and leading Caliban inside. The horse did not whinny or whicker or blow, but stepped docilely into his stall, and with a nudge from his velvet muzzle, bade his master good night.

“Good night, old fellow,” whispered Justin. “You have done well.”

Slipping from the stable, Justin made his way into the house without incident, and a few minutes later reached his bedchamber, where he divested himself of his rather gamy ensemble. Hesitating a moment, he lifted his mattress and carefully laid the clothing next to the newspaper article he’d placed there earlier. Donning his nightshirt, he climbed wearily into bed and lay for some time with his arms folded behind his head, staring sightlessly at the ceiling.

He was not sure how much, if anything, he had accomplished this evening, but at least he had set something in motion. Perhaps Roger Maltby really was the traitor. He hoped so. In fact, it would give him great pleasure to wrap his fingers very slowly around Roger’s thick neck and squeeze the breath from his body.

But what if it wasn’t Roger? Or perhaps Maltby was merely a tool in the scheme? Here Justin’s thoughts skittered to the paper whose image had burned itself into his brain the night of his interrogation by Captain Bassinet.

Did St. John really hate him so virulently?

No, he would not think of that now. There must be some other explanation for the presence of the paper in the officer’s little packet of information on Lord Justin Belforte. He wondered idly what St. John was doing at this moment. Probably sleeping the sleep of the just and pure either in London or at the family seat near Barkway.

And his father. How was the duke faring? The newspapers hinted that he was desperately ill, felled by reports of his younger son’s treachery. Justin’s stomach tightened for a moment before he shrugged. The old man should have been inured by now to the failings he had so often bewailed to the skies.

Lord, how often had he stood before his father’s desk, first as a small boy, bracing himself for a caning, and later as a young man, slouched sullenly under a withering hail of sarcasm and imprecation? Afterward, St. John would compound Justin’s resentment with a comprehensive lecture on his shortcomings. At least he did until the day Justin, having grown to manhood, retaliated in a forceful and somewhat bloody confrontation. Since that time, the two brothers had scarcely spoken.

Justin sighed heavily. He had always known St. John disliked him—his brother had made that fact known in a hundred small and not-so-small episodes of boyhood humiliation and ill-usage. And then there had been that final confrontation between them. St. John had, admittedly with good reason, given his belief that his brother had ruined his fiancée, sworn an undying enmity toward Justin; but was his hatred enough to plot a treason for which his brother would be blamed? To say nothing of seeing him murdered into the bargain. For certainly the man who had planned Rivenchy’s escape had arranged for that ambush in Spain.

Justin’s features hardened. Well, if that were the case, so be it. He had long ago lost any familial affection for either his father or his brother, and if he were obliged to ruin St. John—or worse, for the crime he had committed, he would feel no remorse.

He turned his face into his pillow and prepared to slip into a sleep that he knew was neither just nor pure.

Chapter Eight

It seemed to Catherine that August had never passed so quickly. There was the harvest, of course, which was always a hectic time for her. Most of her days were spent in the fields, where, though she did not actually wield a scythe or a rake, she closely followed the activities of her workers who did.

On the first morning, as she rode her little mare behind her troop of laborers armed with their implements, she looked about her with some satisfaction. The scent of the hops, past which she now rode, hung as heavy in the air as did the fruit from their long poles. Further afield, acres of wheat waved tall and golden in the sun, and past them, oats and rye lay ripening for harvest in a few weeks’ time. In the distance, the fruit orchards lay serene and full, their branches bending with apples, cherries, and plums. The Lord had been good to her in His bounty, and all who depended on her could be grateful that their well-being was thus secured for the coming year.