Anne Barbour (20 page)

His delirium grew in intensity over the next few hours, and several times Catherine was obliged to throw herself atop him to prevent his flinging himself from the bed. At others, he muttered gasping pleas and imprecations.

“Please—stop! Papa! Don’t—no more. I’m sorry—I didn’t mean ...” He flung an arm over his eyes, which had filled with tears. “My God—Father—you can’t believe ... St. John ... Don’t... don’t say any more! I can’t... Sinjie!”

As he struggled and raved, there were more references to Father and to St. John, as well as to someone named Robbie and a Charles. He spoke to men who were evidently officers in the army of Wellington. Once or twice, in a softer tone, he breathed her own name among a tumble of words she could not make out.

Just before midnight, he grew quiet, and Catherine dozed in a chair at his bedside. Her fingers were clasped in his as they had been since the moment some hours earlier when, crying out in some private anguish, he had seized her hand in a fierce grip and refused to let go.

Now, his fingers relaxed, bringing her instantly out of her light sleep. Automatically, she brought her own hand to his forehead. She almost sobbed with relief to note that it was cool and filmed with a light sweat. His cheeks had lost their febrile glow and he breathed normally.

Like a tired child, Catherine placed her folded arms on the bed and leaned her head on them. Cradling Justin’s hand against her cheek, she fell instantly into a dreamless sleep.

When Justin awoke, he felt as though he were being stabbed between the eyes by the shaft of sunlight that streamed in through
his chamber window. He
squeezed his eyes shut for another moment before cautiously opening them once more. He peered around the room. It was empty except for a familiar, plump form sitting in a chair next to his bed. He frowned. She was knitting! Why was Marian knitting in his bedchamber? Why was he still in bed with the sun high in the sky? And why did he feel as though every inch of his body had been dragged through a particularly rocky bramble patch?

He made an experimental move toward sitting up, which brought such a wave of pain that he grunted aloud with it. Instantly, Mariah lifted her head. Setting aside her work, she rose to approach the bed.

“You’re awake!” she exclaimed. “Oh, thank God.”

Wondering why the Deity should be thanked for such a mundane happenstance, Justin attempted a smile. “What—what happened?”

“Why, you were shot, Mr. Smith. Catherine found you outside early yesterday morning. You were covered with blood!”

“Good God!” Memory returned in a flood. “Where is Ca—Miss Meade now?”

“Oh! My goodness—of course. She will wish to know right away that you have waked.” She whirled about and ran from the room.

Painfully, Justin tried to recount in his mind the events of—yes, it must have been the night before last. He remembered the journey into London, and the people he had met with there. And his return home ... He had turned into Coppersmith Street, and ... My God, he had been ambushed yet again! Who was it who kept trying to kill him? No one knew he was alive! Except, of course, for those few persons whose aid he had enlisted. But it couldn’t...

The effort to make sense of the calamity that had befallen him proved too much, and after a moment, his eyes closed and he drifted into the comforting darkness that still hovered close by. Thus, when Catherine entered the room a few minutes later with Mariah, it was to find him fast asleep once more.

“At least, he’s resting naturally now,” remarked Mariah. “See how he’s turned on his side. That’s a good sign.”

Adam declared himself in agreement when he stopped in to visit, a few hours later. Justin awoke at the doctor’s entrance and bestowed on him a sleepy smile.

“You have an excellent trio of nursemaids,” said Adam jovially, and after a brief examination, announced judiciously that
his patient was on the mend and might have a little gruel for luncheon were he so inclined.

“That’s generous of you, old man,” replied Justin, who was obviously feeling much stronger, “but you see before you a man on the verge of starvation. I was thinking along the lines of a beefsteak—or two.”

“No, no. I’m afraid not.” He turned to Catherine. “If he retains the gruel, he may have a bit of boiled chicken for dinner with, perhaps, some toast dipped in tea, but nothing more elaborate than that.”

Justin groaned dramatically, but made no further protest.

Later, as Adam left the room, he hustled Catherine out of the door before him. “All right,” he said firmly. “Now that he seems to be firmly planted once more in the land of the living, perhaps you’ll be good enough to tell me what the devil’s going on.”

Catherine returned a blank stare.

“Don’t give me that, young woman. I want to know how that rapscallion happened to turn up here at the crack of dawn with a bullet hole in him. He must have been out all night—probably in London. I’ll grant you, Catherine, that he’s a personable rogue. Everyone likes him.
I
like him. But the operative word here is rogue, and I want to know what he’s up to.”

Catherine maintained her air of bewilderment. “How could I possibly know what happened, Adam? I have not spoken to him, except very briefly, since he was brought in feet first.”

Adam harrumphed. “You must know this is a matter for the magistrate, my dear. Will you notify Sir Reginald, or shall I?”

“Really, Adam,” retorted Catherine in some irritation, “I appreciate your solicitude, but I think you take too much on yourself. It is Lo—Mr. Smith who was wounded, and it seems to me it is up to him to go to the authorities. After all, what can any of us report except the fact that he was shot? Sir Reginald will surely want to know more than that.”

Adam scowled. “Yes, I suppose he will ... but something must be set forward.”

“As soon as Mr. Smith is a little stronger—tomorrow, perhaps, I will speak to him about sending for Sir Reginald. That is all I can promise, old friend.”

“I cannot be satisfied,” sighed Adam, “but I suppose I have no choice. All I ask is that you don’t simply let the matter slide. It is high time you discovered just who your visitor is and what he was doing on your property in the first place.”

“Indeed,” replied Catherine soothingly. “I agree with you completely, Adam, and I shall do my best to unravel the puzzle with all possible speed.”

“And you will send for me if...” Adam trailed off, unable to put into words what he was warning her of. “If you need me,” he concluded, rather red-faced.

“Of course, I will. I always do, do I not?” Catherine reached to brush his cheek with her lips. “You know I don’t know how I would go on without you.”

Adam smiled rather painfully. “I only wish that were true, my dear.”

By that time they had reached the hall, and after Adam had accepted hat, gloves, and walking stick from Timkins, he bade Catherine good-bye, promising to look in on John Smith again in a day or two.

For a few moments after his departure, Catherine stood in the hall, staring at the door. Then, thoughtfully, she returned to Lord Justin’s bedchamber.

He was dozing when she entered the room, but his eyes flew open at her advent. His gaze followed her warily as she approached his beside. She said nothing at first, simply seating herself with folded hands, but he soon began to shift uncomfortably under her gaze.

He cleared his throat at last. “I expect you are waiting for an explanation.”

She still said nothing, but continued to look at him with an unmistakable air of condemnation.

“All right,” he sighed. “I shall freely admit I have used you very badly, Catherine, and I don’t know if I can ever make it up to you, but I will tell you the truth about myself now. I may be putting my head in a noose by doing so, but I owe you this. I will give you a round tale—the unvarnished history of my misdeeds—and I will answer—factually—any questions you may have.” He drew a long breath. “As you already seem to know, my name is Justin—Lord Justin Belforte, that is, and I am the second son of the Duke of Sheffield.

“And I am, as you also seem to be aware, an accused traitor to king and country.”

Chapter Thirteen

Catherine drew in a sharp breath. The son of a duke! How in the world had the offspring of a peer fallen so far as to become a traitor to England?

As if reading her thoughts, Justin uttered a sharp, bitter laugh that sounded loud in the room. “Sounds rather exalted doesn’t it? However, even great oak trees can produce rotten acorns.” He smiled at her expression of startlement. “Yes, I will freely admit, my dear, that you are right. I am a perfect villain—in as much as any of us is perfect. Well, in light of my behavior since I met you, I can hardly claim to be anything else, can I?”

Catherine smiled thinly. “Very clever, my lord. You are apparently a devotee of the theory that the best defense is a good offense, but, in this case, do you think it a wise approach?”

Justin nodded in appreciation. “Possibly not, but if I’m going to tell the truth, I’ll do best to dish it up cold. I can think of little to say that will give you a good opinion of me.”

‘Tell me something of the duke—your father. And St. John.”

Justin’s head snapped up. “St. John? Who told you of him?”

“You did, in your fever. You—you seemed to be pleading with your father. And remonstrating rather strongly with St. John. Your brother?”

Justin nodded curtly. “Yes, however we will not discuss my family, if you please.”

“But why did you not turn to them in your trouble?”

Justin sighed impatiently. “My mother died when I was born. My father and my brother think I am dead,” he said flatly. “In any event, I have not spoken to the duke in more than ten years. I see St. John from time to time, but only when necessary or in chance encounters.”

Catherine’s hand flew to her throat. “Ten years! But, that’s—that’s—”

“—Only to be expected given the relationship between my father and myself.”

“But how did things come to such a pass? My own parents and I do not communicate, but up until the time I—that is, I offended them grievously—as they did me, but—”

“Oh, I offended my father all right—by being born. You see, my mother died in giving birth to me, and he simply never forgave me.”

“But that’s ridiculous! How could anyone blame an infant for such a tragedy?”

“Believe me,” said Justin with a cold smile, “I had ample opportunity to ponder that question, with no appreciable results.”

He raised his hand in a dismissive gesture. “However, I did not bring the matter up to wallow in recollections of my misspent youth. I merely wish to explain how it was that I became a spy.”

“A s-spy?” asked Catherine faintly.

“Yes. You see, matters between my father and myself reached such a dismal pass that after I was sent down from Oxford in disgrace—no, I am not going to explain that, either. Suffice it to say that the offense was genuinely heinous, and the bagwig had no choice but to ban me from the hallowed halls of Brasenose. At that point, my father informed me that the doors of my home would in future be locked against me, and he would no longer be responsible either for my debts or my actions.”

“Dear God,” breathed Catherine, almost gasping at the freshet of pain that welled in her. The memory of her own abandonment rose in her mind.

Justin glanced sharply at her. “I really cannot blame him. I was an unsatisfactory son in every sense of the word. I am only surprised he did not give me the boot years before. In any event,” continued Justin, “I crawled to London with my tail between my legs to my friend, Charles Rutledge.” Briefly, Justin described his relationship with Charles. “He did not condone what I’d done, but he was not unkind, and he told me that if I gave my word to him that I would try to make something of myself, he would start me on a career in the army.”

“He believed you would keep your promise?” asked Catherine skeptically.

For the first time that night, Justin’s smile held a genuine warmth. “Yes, he did. And I held to it. Oh, I did slip up a little now and then, but if I do say so as shouldn’t, I became a credit to my regiment—which was the Light Division, by the by. The famous Light Bobs,” he explained pridefully. “Fortunately for me, early on in my military career, I more or less slid into the intelligence branch. The skills required there are practically tailor-made
for one with a broad streak of villainy in his makeup, and I was a resounding success at sneaking and skulking, to say nothing of deceit and treachery.”

“I see. But, tell me, my lord, how it is you happened to be accused of treason. After your protestations of service to your country, I presume you are going to assure me that it is all a vile calumny.”

For a moment Justin whitened. He opened his mouth as though to hurl a stinging retort, but instead merely stared rigidly at her for what seemed like an eternity.

Catherine drew herself up defensively. “Yes, that’s all very well. I can see you’d like nothing better at this point than to drive me from the room with a fiery sword, but the fact remains that you still need me. You still need a place to hide away until you’re strong enough to leave the country—or whatever it is you have planned.”

“I am not going to leave the country,” growled Justin through clenched teeth. “That’s the whole point of what I’m trying to tell you. I am not guilty of treason! Will you listen? Please?”

Catherine knew an urge to beg his pardon for the cruelty of her words, but the pain he had caused still rose fresh and raw in her breast. She nodded coolly. In a voice that was growing weak with fatigue, Justin recounted the events that had brought him to Winter’s Keep at the moment of her shed’s collapse.

Catherine was fascinated, despite herself. “So there was treason committed. Someone contravened Wellington’s orders and aided General Rivenchy to escape.”

“Yes, but that someone was not me. Whoever it was covered his tracks well and went to a great deal of trouble to make sure I’d be blamed. And he went to even more trouble to make sure I wouldn’t be around afterward to cause problems.”

Catherine experienced a sick feeling in her stomach as she contemplated Justin’s words. “Do—do you think there was just one man involved?” she asked. “I mean, if you were supposed to be racing toward Huerta—who was in Salamanca, helping the general escape?”