Anne Barbour (25 page)

The Bush snorted. “That is as may be, but they got him dead t’rights helpin’ that Frenchy general escape. I say, it’s too bad the Frenchies killed ‘im off. I woulda like to a seen ‘im hanged fer what he did.”

After a moment, his companions nodded in ponderous agreement, then Baldy rose with a monumental sigh. “Ee, I’d best be on me way. Rain’s comin’. I told the missus I’d be home early. She’ll comb me hair with a joint stool if I don’t bustle about.”

The other two stood as well, and with much scraping of chairs and regretful calls of farewell to the innkeeper, they made their way unsteadily into the deepening twilight outside.

For many moments, Justin sat motionless on the settle, his tankard untouched on his knee. It seemed some of the inhabitants of Barkway had not forgotten him, or at least the boy he had been. Vague memories of afternoons spent in the tinker’s shop—its owner a little more plump and a great deal more supple than the cadaverous specimen he had become. As for Seth, he remembered him well—a tall, gangly youth, not overbright, but willing to while away the occasional afternoon with a younger boy aching for company.

Justin waited another few minutes until full dark had fallen before leaving the inn. As he left the building, the rain that had threatened all day began to fall, spattering into the dust of the inn yard. Walking to the curricle, he pulled a voluminous cloak from his portmanteau and wrapped it about him, just as the clouds burst above him in a blinding torrent.

He mounted Caliban, keeping the great stallion to a walk. He was darkly pleased that the rain veiled the surrounding countryside, for he had no wish to relive the memories that lurked behind every hill and tree. Nor had he any wish to encounter any of the other denizens of the village. At the sight of a rider approaching him, he made to pull aside. A big fellow, he was, his face, hidden by the heavy, hooded cape he wore against the weather. The stranger swerved abruptly into a side lane as though—but surely, thought Justin, startled, the man had not wished to avoid him. No doubt, he had merely reached his turn, although, as he recalled,
that lane led only to a small pond, far removed from dwelling or shop.

A mile or so down the road, Justin reached his own destination and left the road at a patch of overgrown shrubbery that nearly hid a narrow, forgotten entrance to the estate of Sheffield Court. The gate had rusted open many years before, and Justin carefully urged Caliban through the aperture.

Some fifteen minutes later, he was able to make out the manor house through the rain. At first, he could discern no illumination in the interior of the house, but as he swung toward the rear, a single panel of light emerged through the gloom. Justin halted. Dismounting, he ordered Caliban in a whisper that was not quite steady to remain where he was.

Ascending the terrace that surrounded the house, he stood for a moment, gazing through the French doors that, he knew, opened into the duke’s study. A figure sat at the desk, pouring over several documents scattered on its surface. Very quietly, Justin tried the door handle, which opened noiselessly under his fingers.

The man at the desk did not look up until Justin had entered the room. After a startled instant, he lurched to his feet, his mouth open.

Justin smiled coldly. “H’lo, St. John. How’ve you been?”

Chapter Sixteen

“J-Justin!”

St. John grasped the edge of his desk as though to keep from falling. He lurched toward Justin.

“My G-God. Justin!” he gasped again as Justin moved casually into the room.

Instinctively, Justin thrust his arms before him to ward off St. John’s progress. Lord, he thought, his brother had changed greatly since their last encounter. Though he was only some four years Justin’s senior, he looked a good ten years older. He was a tall man, heavily built, with a square, shadowed jaw and eyes of a light, piercing blue. A sparse covering of graying dark hair drifted over the expanse of exposed scalp that glinted palely in the candlelight.

To Justin’s astonishment, St. John did not halt as he approached, but stretching his arms wide, threw them around his brother.

“Justin!” He was almost sobbing now. “My God, you aren’t—you’re alive!”

“As
you see,” Justin remarked dryly, disengaging himself from St. John’s embrace. He stepped back. “Doing it too brown, Sinjie. You cannot mean to try to convince me that you’re pleased to see me.”

“Good God,” said St. John, unheeding. “You’re soaking wet. Here, let me help you ...” With astonished grunts, he assisted Justin in divesting himself of the dripping cloak. Tossing it over a nearby chair, he moved to the bellpull on the wall. “I’ll ring for—”

“No!” said Justin sharply. “Do not call anyone, Sinjie. I crave some private conversation with you. A few moments only, then I shall be on my way. May I sit down?” Without waiting for a reply, he lowered himself carefully into a leather chair near the fire, Despite his insouciant attitude, he was desperately tired from his journey, and his side had begun to ache badly.

“Of course,” St. John said dazedly. “Good God,” he said again,
almost uncomprehendingly. “I can’t take this in. We—I thought I’d never see you again.”

“No, I don’t suppose you did.”

By now St. John seemed to have assimilated Justin’s unexpected return, and he returned to a more normal demeanor. Marking the astringency in Justin’s words, his features pinched into the disagreeable lines so familiar to Justin.

“Well, how could we have expected otherwise? Where the devil have you been? You must have heard that Father was desperately ill. Since you have apparently survived your, er, adventures intact, could you not at least have come home before he passed away?”

Justin shrugged. “I suppose so, but I had no interest in seeing him, you know. No more, in fact, than I should imagine he had in seeing me.”

St. John’s mouth fell open. “Not interested in seeing you? My God, Justin, he knew he was dying. He knew you were being accused of treason! Of course, he would have wanted to see you.”

“Do you seriously think I was about to expose myself to what would no doubt have been the finest tongue-lashing he ever delivered—to say nothing of being handed over to the authorities—merely to gratify his desire to collect his progeny together for a deathbed scene?”

“The authorities! But he—”

Justin interrupted him with a slashing motion of his hand. “Cut line, Sinjie. I did not come here to discuss my lack of filial devotion. I want to have a word with you about a certain piece of paper.”

“What?”

“Yes, brother of mine. You see, I am determined not to swing for a crime I did not commit.”

“Well, of course—”

“Thus,” Justin continued, unwilling to be deterred in an interview that, so far, was developing even more unpleasantly than he had anticipated, “I am prepared to expend considerable effort in bringing the real culprit to justice. It appears,” he concluded in a flat tone, “that you might be able to shed some light on the circumstances that led to my appearance on a very short list of suspects.”

St. John, sinking slowly into a leather arm chair near the fire, goggled at him.

“Wh—what the
devil
are you talking about?”

“Oh, very good, Sinjie. I spent a long time perfecting an expression of bewildered innocence—I’ve had recourse to it many times—but I bow to a master. Allow me to enlighten you.”

In a voice raw with suppressed emotion, Justin related the events that had brought about his ignominious return to England some three weeks earlier. St. John listened without comment, but when Justin spoke of the paper on Captain Bassinet’s desk, his jaw tightened in a manner strongly reminiscent of their late father. For a moment, Justin was transported to one of those interminable, accusatory sessions with the old duke that had so haunted his memory.

By the time he had finished his narrative, St. John had stiffened into what appeared to be a pillar of outraged indignation.

“Are you intimating—?” he began, scarcely able to speak from between lips that seemed composed of some sort of nonmalleable metal. “Do you actually think that I—that
I
had something to do with your being accused of treason?”

Justin’s heart pounded in his chest. His breath seemed to choke him as he forced himself to answer coolly. “Bewildered innocence phasing into moral dudgeon. Very impressive, but not quite credible, Sinjie. You have disliked me since we were both in short coats. You have hated me since your beloved played you false. I must say, I was unaware of the depth of your displeasure with me; but it appears you are prepared to go to some length to remove me from your personal universe.”

For a long moment St. John said nothing, and Justin watched him dispassionately. Why had everything gone so wrong between the two of them? A silent, bitter laugh curled in his mind. God, it had been years since he had asked himself that question. And he was no closer to an answer than he had been when he had asked it of an uncaring deity so many years ago.

The wish that Catherine were here skittered across his mind like a streak of the lightning that flashed outside. Much as he was loath to admit, he needed bolstering at the moment. He very much would have liked a friendly hand to grasp, a sympathetic presence at his side. It was the height of presumption to think of Catherine in this connection, but still, he—he needed her.

He turned his attention back to his brother. St. John might protest his innocence in the matter of treason and attempted murder against his brother, but he could not deny the years of unremitting hostility he had displayed toward his younger sibling or the cries of vengeance he had hurled at their last meeting. His thoughts sank into a morass of dark memories from which he was pulled abruptly, aware that St. John was speaking.

“I cannot express to you,” he said awkwardly, “my—my appalled dismay that you would believe me capable of such a thing, and—”

He halted as Justin snorted inelegantly.

“Just as father believed me incapable of treason?”

“As a matter of fact—what is it?” he asked as Justin began to rise, only to fall back into the chair.

“Nothing. I am still suffering a few twinges from the bullet I took in London last week.”

“Last week!” St. John leaped to his feet to hurry to Justin’s side. “Look here, you young fool, we cannot continue this discussion now. You’re white as milk.”

“Your concern touches me beyond words, brother, but—”

“Never mind my concern,” St. John said harshly. “If you collapse at my feet in a relapse, you’ll no doubt blame me for that, too. Now, do be quiet and let me think.”

The absurdity of the situation combined with his increasing weakness caused a bubble of amusement to rise within Justin. My God, nothing had changed. His brother was still taking him to task.

“You are right,” continued St. John. “You must not be seen. However, all the servants are abed, so that should not be a problem. I shall assist you upstairs, and you may sleep in your old room. Tomorrow, I’ll get Mrs. Abercrombie to do the bed. I shan’t explain anything to her, but if she puts two and two together, she’ll keep silent. You always were a favorite with her.”

Justin lacked breath to argue with this program, and, after a long pull at the brandy St. John poured for him from a decanter on the desk, he allowed his brother to help him upstairs. This, despite an insistent voice within him, pointing out that this was a very bad idea. He was virtually putting himself at Sinjie’s mercy, but he was so very tired.

By the time he had navigated the stairs, with St. John’s help, he could hardly see, and his last thought as he drifted into a bottomless sleep in the bed that had been his for so many years, was that Sinjie must have doctored the brandy.

He did not know for how many hours he slept, but when he opened his eyes, it was still dark and someone was shaking his shoulder. It hurt like hell.

“Justin! Wake up! For God’s sake, open your eyes!”

Blearily, Justin attempted to rouse himself to consciousness. St. John was frantically pulling on him, urging him to rise. With great effort, Justin lifted his head.

“Wh—wha—?”

“We’ve got to get out of here! The whole bloody place is on fire!”

  In her bedroom at Winter’s Keep, Catherine’s eyes snapped open, and she sat up abruptly in bed. After some hours of a restless thumping of her pillow, she had fallen into a fitful doze, only to be awakened by—  Something was terribly wrong. Danger! She must warn Justin. She had swung her feet over the edge of the bed before she came fully awake to realize that the night was calm and quiet. Justin was not in the house and could not be in danger from anything here.

What was it, then, that had brought her to such horrified consciousness? Dear God? What was happening at Sheffield Court?

The fact at last registered with Justin that the room smelled strongly of smoke. Unable to shake the grogginess that clung to him like the fumes themselves, he clung to St. John, who, coughing and panting from the effort it took to breathe, pulled him from the bed.

In the corridor outside, the voices of approaching servants could be heard, and St. John half dragged Justin to another room, some distance away. Dropping him roughly on the bed, he growled. “For God’s sake, stay put. I’ll return as soon as I can.”

He ran from the room, leaving Justin to inhale great lungfuls of untainted air. He supposed he should be out helping to put out the blaze, but in this instance, discretion seemed much the better part of valor. His head was beginning to clear, and he realized that the fire did not, apparently, threaten the house. He had glimpsed flames in his bedchamber as St. John hustled him from the room, but apparently they had not spread. Thoughtfully, he took up the tinderbox that lay on the bedside table and lit the candle that rested close to hand. He listened. Judging from what he could hear of the uproar in the corridor, things were already under control. It appeared that St. John’s prompt action had saved him from being roasted in his bed like a Christmas goose.

Busy with the implications of this fact, Justin did not heed the ensuing commotion taking place almost within arm’s length. It was only when his door latch lifted softly that he raised his head to observe St. John’s entrance into the room. His nightshirt was begrimed and badly stained with smoke, as was his face, and his hair stood up in dusky tufts about his head. He flung himself into a chair near the bed with a profound sigh.