Dedicated Villain (53 page)

“How may I be of service,” enquired his Grace gently.

Behind his calm mask, Sorenson thought, ‘By allowing me to cut out what poses as your heart, sir.' He said, “I apologize for this breach of etiquette, your Grace. I am—disturbed about your—Captain Roland.”

“My grandson. Yes. Well,” said the duke drily, “I have been disturbed about him for years, but—”

Briefly, an expression of such ferocity lit the veiled brown eyes that Marbury was rendered speechless. Then the lashes were discreetly lowered over those betraying eyes. His Grace blinked. “In what way are you disturbed, may I ask?”

“He went off without me, sir. Some seven weeks since. I—I have reason to believe he has met with an—er, accident.”

Briefly, Marbury's hand tightened on the arm of his chair. Then, he drawled, “Your concern is to be commended. Would it reassure you to know that I encountered him last month? And that he was, regrettably, his usual—self?”

“Thank you, your Grace. But—no.” The duke's brows lifted very slightly. Sorenson felt rebuked, but persisted doggedly. “Captain Roland knows I—I worry, if he is away very long. He always sends a note—just a line perhaps. I have had not a word, sir.”

The duke stood, looking bored. “He is a grown man. Really, I fail to—”

Desperate, Sorenson committed the cardinal sin and interrupted. “It was my birthday last Monday, sir. Master—I mean, Captain Roland has
never
forgotten! Not these fourteen years! Not
once
, your Grace!”

This man had served Roland since he was barely out of the schoolroom; had even gone to Flanders as his batman. The rather sallow face was beaded with perspiration, and the anxiety in the dark eyes was intense. Marbury said curiously, “You are fond of my grandson, Sorenson.”

“I would follow him to the ends of the earth. I—I impore you, sir, to make enquiries. I would do so myself, but—I have small means, and—and I don't even know where he went.”

“He went north,” said Marbury, baffled because he sensed loathing and was astonished that so careless a young rake as Roland could inspire such devotion. “Hunting that damnable Stuart gold.”

Sorenson uttered a faint sound of despair. “I know you think me quite mad, sir. But—”

The door opened for the third time.

Irked, the duke snapped, “Kildwick, I do not wish to be disturbed!”

“Do you not, indeed, Marbury!” The imperious feminine voice presaged the appearance of a small personage who swept past the despairing butler with a whisper of silks and the flutter of a large fan. “Then you are like to be prodigious disappointed, for I mean to disturb you enormously!”

His Grace stared in astonishment at a lady he had not seen for more than half a lifetime, but whom he knew at once. A tiny lady with suspiciously bright cheeks, but a skin as smooth as a woman half her age, and a pair of rogueish green eyes that frowned on him briefly, softened in the light of his lax jaw and stunned shock, then frowned again. She extended a tiny gloved hand. The duke recovered himself sufficiently to bow over it.
She still wore the same scent, he realized numbly. And she had not run to fat … “
Cl-Clorinda
,” he stammered.

“I am here,” she said, “seeking my beloved Roland, and—”

“Your … beloved …” gasped his Grace.

“Roland,” she nodded. “Has he reached here? Have you had word of him?”

Recovering sufficiently to guide her to a chair, the duke struggled for composure and managed to say with some semblance of coherence, “I was not— Did not know I was to receive a … er, visit from my grandson. Surely, you are mistaken, but—”

Again, incredibly, the door opened. Really angered this time, Marbury said in a voice of ice, “Kildwick! I must not have made myself clear. I
do not wish to be disturbed!
”

The butler was almost in tears. “Your Grace—forgive … Truly, he is a … a dreadful
person
! But—he insists 'tis a matter of life and—and death, sir! And he sent—this …”

He held out one hand. On the palm was a silver button.

With a muffled imprecation, Sorenson fairly sprang to snatch it up. “Show him in,” he said in an odd, strained voice.

Kildwick curled his lip and glanced at the duke.

Marbury was beginning to be uneasy. He frowned, but nodded, and the butler went off again. “Might I perhaps be allowed to see that?” the duke enquired with faint sarcasm.

Sorenson hurried to hand him the button. “'Tis Master Roland's token, your Grace. He sometimes sends it to me with anyone having a message for my personal ear.”

The duke gazed at the button. “I was not aware that the Captain uses the Mathieson crest.”

“He doesn't, your Grace. Only in the signet ring, and a few private and—most treasured objects.”

Marbury glanced up. Again, Sorenson was regarding him coldly. Unaccustomed to such a glare, he quite forgot the little lady who sat so silently, watching. “Perhaps you might care to explain—” he began, but the opening door interrupted him.

A fawningly obsequious individual came in, bowing at every step, his smile an offense, his clothing a disaster—especially a lurid belcher neckerchief—and about him the air of the unwashed. “Very kind, I'm sure, sir,” he whined, edging nearer. “Arternoon sir, and ma'am. Benjamin F. Hessell, at y'r service, Duke. I see ye got th—”

“What do you know of Captain Otton?” interposed Sorenson, disregarding protocol.

Hessell's crafty eyes brightened. He'd struck gold here, all right. “Why—I
might
be able ter tell yer something. But—I'm a poor man. A honest, but poor man, and—” He was shocked then by the look in the tall cove's eyes and the remorseless approach of that same tall cove. He drew back, flinging up a shielding arm. “Don't yer dare hit me!” he gabbled. “The dragoons got him!”

Lady Clorinda dropped her fan.

His face white as chalk, Sorenson gasped, “
Sacré bleu!
”

The duke, a little nerve beginning to beat at his temple, stepped forward. “Mr. Hessell, I fail to understand what dragoons would want with my grandson, but if you indeed bring word of him, you will be well paid. Do I take it Captain Mathieson has been arrested?”

‘His
grandson
!' Hessell brightened and stood straighter. “Yussir. But, er—
how
well, if yer don't mind of me asking?”

Marbury crossed swiftly to his desk, sat down and scrawled a draft on his bank. He held it out. “Can you read?”

Hessell nodded and hurried to take it. “Me wife taught me. I—” He gave a gasp. “Oh! Oh—lumme!” He'd kill for that much! It would mean a new start somewhere, and all the booze he could ever want! Blimey, he might even take the old woman a buncha flowers! A damn great cart-full! “Sir,” he said, for once in earnest. “Wotever I can do …
Wotever!
”

My lady stood, and her voice quavered a little. “Is—is Captain Mathieson hurt?”

Hessell nodded.

Whitening, Marbury asked, “But—why has he been arrested? I—”

“I'll explain in private, Muffin,” interpolated my lady, bafflingly. Her eyes were suddenly full of tears. She gripped her hands tightly. “They—are taking him to—to the Tower, I suppose?”

“
What
?” gasped the duke.

“No, ma'am,” said Hessell. “They stopped at a farm outside o' Cricklade and took it over like.” He had a very small measure of compassion, but the stricken look on the face of the little old mort awoke that tiny emotion, and he added, “The cove wot's in charge is a nasty customer. I 'spect he means ter make the captin tell what he knows. And I'll tell yer plain, I don't think he'd stop at much a'doing of it!”

My lady's hand flew to her mouth. “Not—Lambert?”

So she knew the perisher. “Ar,” said Hessell. “The very same, ma'am. Got it in fer the captin, too.”

Marbury felt very cold. “Hessell—be frank. How much time have we?”

Hessell looked at him thoughtfully. “Sorry I am ter tell yer, sir, but—I'd say very littel, melor'. Very littel indeed.”

For a moment, Marbury could scarcely breathe.

He wasn't really surprised when the door opened once more.

His face pallid and distracted, Kildwick ushered a young damsel inside. She was tiny and fascinatingly pretty, rather than beautiful. Dismissing the shattered butler with an airy wave of her hand, she entered, followed by two men, one of whom was well known to the duke. The girl's rather narrow green eyes flashed around the assembled company. She advanced on Marbury, hand outstretched.

“Good afternoon, your Grace. I am gauche so you must forgive that I cannot wait to be formal. My name is Fiona Bradford and I am your grandson's betrothed. I believe you know Lord Briley, and this is Mr. Cuthbert Potterby.”

Dazed, the duke bowed over her hand.

Even as he touched her fingertips to his lips, she went on swiftly, “Hello, Grandmama. Have they heard aught of Roland? Oh, my God! They have!”

Marbury straightened and slipped an arm about this frail yet dynamic little miss. Snatches of thought slipped through his mind. He might have known Roland would choose so unconventional a lady; he was glad of it … So she was Clorinda's granddaughter; that was good … But if she was deeply in love, would she be able to withstand the shock of what he must tell her …?

A few minutes later, he had his answer.

Her face white as death, her voice shaking, Fiona looked up at those who watched her so compassionately. “I—have a plan,” she said. “'Tis very simple, so it just may work. Have you any onions, your Grace?”

They had killed poor old Rump … If it had been just the sergeant who'd come in with that news, there might still have been some hope, for the sergeant, hard as was his fist, had seemed a decent sort somehow. But all three of them had come and in obvious trepidation confessed that the big stallion had outdistanced them; that in obedience to orders, they'd all shot at him, and that he'd stumbled, and … and almost gone down … but had run on until he'd apparently been unable to see the quarry …

Lying very still in the corner of the cold barn where they had thrown him, his every breath a shallow tortuous rasp, Mathieson felt the slow burn of tears again. Poor old Rump … He hadn't rated that kind of death. He'd done nothing bad …

The news had seemed to drive Lambert berserk. He had given up more subtle methods, and used his boots again … After that, very little was clear … Intervals of horrible agony interspersed with Lambert's voice, roaring his stupid questions.
And the boots … But the moments of consciousness were shorter, thank God, and they must fear he was dying, because now they gave him time between their savageries … This was just such a respite, and already, heaven help him, it was done … They were coming back … He could hear the boots—so shiny, so incredibly vicious coming straight at him. He shrank as far as he was able, knowing it was not far enough, trying to drag his hands up to protect whatever was left of his face.

Waiting in trembling terror, he thought that when Brooks kicked him again he would go out at last … bound from this hell to another. Only the other hell would not be so frightful, even if it was physically worse, because it would not be men who subjected him to unending torment, it would be something evil and cruel, but not human, and thus more endurable. The steps had ceased. Through the pause, his shrinking mind prepared him. Any second now … be ready. Don't scream—for God's sake, don't give him that satisfaction. He wondered he had a mind at all, and knew his sanity hung by a thread, sustained only by the memory of a pert little laughing face, and the love in a pair of entrancing green eyes … A face he would never see again, even if by some misguided miracle he survived this nightmare, because by now, Lambert's boot had blinded him …

Something touched his shoulder and he jerked back, sobbing out an involuntary plea that they not hurt him any more, and despising his weakness, even as the faint, halting words were torn from him.

“My poor old pippin—what a meth you're in! Here—have a pull at thith …”

He was delirious. His mind really had gone at last! That low-pitched voice
could
not be … But he breathed a feeble, “Thad …?”

“Righto! But we can't chat now, old lad. Here—take it. Roly? Can't you thee what—” A gasp, and then with compassion. “No—of courth—you cannot. Here, then …”

A cold touch at his swollen lips. It was very hard to drink; he managed, then coughed to the bite of the brandy, and was muffling groans while strong but very gentle arms cradled him, and Thad's voice murmured encouragement.

“Are you—mad?” he whispered, as soon as he was able. “Go! You'll … you'll be … taken! Dragoons … everywhere.”

“Then we mutht pop along, my tulip. No, don't argue.” His lordship's voice rose very slightly. “Over here, Cuthbert …! I'm afraid we're going to lift you, Roly. We'll try to be careful, but we have to move quickly, you know.”