Journey to Enchantment (46 page)

“How did you manage that?” interpolated Delavale, sitting beside Prudence and waving the butler to a chair.

“We'd a great storm, sir,” said Sidley. “Several of the rebels decided to try to win through to the north in the uproar, and luckily I was able to slip out amongst them, wrapped in a stolen plaid. I had some close calls, I will say, but by great good fortune I met up with a troop of dragoons and was conducted back to Inverness.”

Prudence put in eagerly, “Sidley has brought me a letter, dear sir. My papa and all are safe! They returned to Lakepoint when they learned Cunningham had left, and were able to convince the authorities they had fled a band of murderous deserters who attacked the house in search of valuables. Our servants, of course, supported this, and Papa says that so long as they lead what he calls ‘exemplary lives' there should be no more trouble. Oh, if you could but
know
how I am relieved!”

He smiled at her understandingly. “Of course I know, ma'am. Sidley, what about poor Briley?”

“Safe away and gone back to—I believe he said Sussex, my lord. It seems there is a very lovely lady there of whom he is most fond. I—er, believe a Countess…”

“Ah, yes. Lady Aynsworth. Her twin sons served in my regiment…” Briefly, sadness clouded his eyes. Then he said, “I am more grateful than I can say, but I wish you will believe, Sidley, that I never entertained the notion of having you slain.”

“I do believe it, sir. When I think how I behaved to you in the cave, and then to learn that far from starving, as I'd feared, my wife and sister have been very generously supported by an ‘anonymous gentleman…'” Leaning forward, his eyes very grave, he added, “I knew who was that gentleman, my lord. Except for your kind concern for a man who was at the very least a thorn in your flesh, I might have returned to tragedy. As it is, well, when Colonel Cunningham sent a Sergeant to escort me here, I was only too glad to repay, in some small fashion, what you have done for me.”

“I am more than repaid. And yet I mean to ask another favour of you. Tell me—do you mean to return to Inverness?”

Sidley looked glum. “I fancy I shall, sir. It is hard to be so far from my wife, but she seems to be making a recovery at last, and—I am most fond of Mr. MacTavish and his sister. And the—remuneration is such…”

“I quite understand. We had a most excellent butler while my parents were alive. I believe he has found employment elsewhere, alas. And my present butler”—Delavale's expression became bleak—“I will not tolerate.” He glanced at Sidley's hopeful face and went on, “I was thinking, you see, that there is a very comfortable cottage on the grounds that might suit your family nicely. And I hope I am not a nipcheese; I shall be glad to pay half again what MacTavish was—”

Prudence cried indignantly, “Unprincipled wretch! You mean to steal my papa's fine butler away!”

He laughed and took up her hand. “No, but you must admit it would be very pleasant for Mrs. Sidley to have her husband near to her again.”

“Oh, s-sir,” cried the butler tremulously. “Do you mean it? If—if only it might be!”

“It was certainly my intent, but”—Delavale sighed—“I dare not provoke Miss MacTavish. She might decide to return home, and another sea voyage with her, alas, I do not think I could support.”

“Evil, evil creature,” said Prudence with a little trill of mirth. “
How
you do manipulate us all! Of course I shall not object, Mr. Sidley. Indeed, nothing would be more delightful than—” And she stopped, blushing and confused, because she had no right to presume so. Whatever his intentions towards her might be, my lord Delavale had said not one word that would lead her to believe he meant to make her his wife.

XXII

Reacquainted now with the spectre of unyielding propriety, Delavale moved very fast. Mrs. King and an outraged Mr. Hargrave were presented with three months' wages and dismissed. The entire staff was summoned to a meeting in the hall whereat Mr. Sidley was presented as the new butler. Cheers rang out when Delavale announced that, if at all possible, the lady who had been his father's housekeeper would be returned to the position she had left. A groom was sent off at the gallop with an urgent letter addressed to his Grace, the Duke of Marbury, at the great estate which Delavale had pointed out to Prudence the previous morning. Another groom, accompanied by Stuart MacLeod, drove a chaise to The Black Lion inn near Trowbridge, where a blushing Mistress Hetty Burnett, meeting MacLeod's admiring gaze, was overjoyed to accept an offer to become abigail to Miss Prudence MacTavish. The chef, a gloomy Frenchman, was sent for and inestimably cheered by an audience with Highview's new butler. He returned, elated, to his kitchens, and announced that he would now concoct meals suitable for one “who 'ave know how to command
ze haute cuisine!
” And last but not least, the dogs, for three years penned up behind the stables, were released to go mad with delight upon being reunited with their long-lost god.

Impressed by the crisp commands, the cool efficiency, the ease with which Geoffrey resumed the mantle of master of this great estate, Prudence was whisked on a whirlwind tour of the main rooms, told that MacLeod would return very soon with her new abigail, and fondly commanded to go upstairs and rest until dinner time.

She had no notion that she had been deserted until she made her way to the ground floor at six o'clock. Mr. Sidley was standing in the main hall, gazing as if frozen at a letter he held. Not until her second call did he look up, his expression so stunned that she knew. Her heart seemed to contract. She flew down the remaining steps. “What is it? Has my lord—”

“He has gone, miss,” he said hoarsely. “He—left this…”

With trembling hands she took the folded sheet he held out, and broke the seal:

Loveliest and dearest of all shipmates,

I have sent for my godparent and very good friend, the Duke of Marbury. Likely he will arrive tomorrow, and in the event I should be unavoidably delayed, will know how to care for you and arrange your future.

I pray that we will meet again, but in case that cannot be, the memory of your beauty, your courage, your uncomplaining endurance of your many hard knocks during our travels, will be cherished always, by—

Yr. most humble admirer,

Delavale

Cold and numb, she looked up in time to see the butler slipping another paper into his pocket. His reply to her question was evasive, and when with sudden ferocity she demanded to see it, he held it out wordlessly.

Vaguely, she was aware that his arm was about her; that he was saying something in a very gentle voice. But the only words she could comprehend were those written on the parchment in the bold masculine hand. ‘Last Will and Testament of Geoffrey John Montgomery, Baron Delavale.'

*   *   *

Having successfully duped Prudence, manoeuvred Stuart MacLeod out of the way, and lulled Cole into the belief he would not set forth so late in the day, Delavale, determined that no other should share his peril, rode steadily southwards. A brace of loaded pistols rested in his saddle holsters, and his long Andrea Ferrara, the favourite of his swords, was at his side.

He swung gradually to the east, as aware he was followed as though he could see the tall chestnut horse and the dark-haired man who had kept so carefully out of sight. Otton's refusal to speak out against him had been motivated, he knew very well, not by compassion but by greed. The mercenary had allowed one section of the cypher to slip through his hands and, unless Delavale misread his man, Otton had not the remotest intention of allowing Cunningham, or any other, to best him this time.

The sun was lowering in a blaze of crimson and gold when Delavale set his mare at a hump-backed bridge, spurred suddenly, and was down the other side and under the ancient structure in a flash. Scant moments later, hooves clattered above him. His lips curved to a grim smile as Otton rode down the far side, then set off at a gallop into the copse of birches ahead. Half an hour later, the sixth sense that had several times saved Delavale on the battlefield sent tiny electric fingers whispering down his spine. He slowed, heard following hoofbeats slow, and swore lustily.

Until long after the moon was up, he dodged and detoured and went in circles, but when he rode wearily into the yard of a small hedge tavern, he had no sooner been shown to a room than shouts in the yard announced a new arrival. A glance through the window revealed a tall chestnut horse and a man who staggered slightly as he dismounted. Delavale blistered the air with his reaction, and contemplated the advisability of leaving in the middle of the night. It was very likely, however, that the devious Otton had already greased someone in the fist to warn him of such a contingency. “Devil take him,” muttered Delavale. “I shall have my sleep!” and he went to bed.

He was up and in the stables before dawn. The chestnut was gone, and a sleepy-eyed ostler told him the “other gent” had ridden out half an hour since. Fuming, Delavale mounted up.

And it began again. The diversions, the wide aimless detours. But Roland Otton, for all his determination, was scarcely recovered of his wound, and Delavale strove not for his own gain but for many lives. Thus it was that, after an almost ambling period during which his quarry was lost to view, Otton spurred upon hearing a suddenly accelerated pound of hooves. His chestnut burst from the stand of trees, and in the same second Otton was smashed from the saddle by an unseen and mighty hand.

With the wind knocked out of him, he lay sprawled for a minute or two, then groaned, and blinked at a pair of gleaming knee boots and a glittering blade that came from somewhere above to tickle his throat. He tried to focus his eyes and saw the blur of a much disliked face frowning down at him. “Damn you,” he muttered. “You walked your hack … while you tied a rope across the lane … I collect.”

Delavale smiled mirthlessly. “Tit for tat. And since you are at a disadvantage, you will tell me now, was Quentin Chandler mistreated in my home?”

Otton stared along the glitter of that long blade. “Let me sit up.”

“Oh, I think not. This arrangement suits me nicely.” The sword point nudged a little more firmly. “Was he?”

“He was—questioned.”

“Elaborate, if you please.”

Otton's lips tightened. The sword bit a trace more deeply and a small crimson stain appeared on the white cravat. “He was wounded, hauled to Highview, and was so unwise as to refuse to—er, cooperate.”

Delavale cursed softly, and the sword bit deeper.

Otton's hands dug into the grass on each side of him. He gasped out, “Dammitall! The fortunes of war!”

“The fortunes of greed and savagery! But since you live by that credo, you'll not object do I claim my rights as winner of this joust.”

There was grim loathing in the dark eyes above him, and as grim a purpose. Otton had long known just such a moment as this would sooner or later face him. No use, he thought, to whine now. His fingers tightened on the grass. He smiled crookedly. “If you put an end to me, Delavale, you may be at ease on one count—my family will thank you for it.”

“And the world be freed of a womanizing, heartless rogue and murderer!”

Anger flashed in the black eyes. “Then, why hesitate, my lord Virtuous? Do your noble best for civilization—and be damned! Strike, man, and have done!”

Delavale drew back his steel. Otton tried to get to his knees to meet death, but he was too dizzied and sank down again. He made no sound, but his face was very white and streaked with sweat. Delavale hesitated. Whatever else, the soldier of fortune was no coward. There was no whimpering, no sobbing pleas for mercy. Braced on one elbow, Otton's black eyes met his own with a prideful defiance. Curiosity touched him. He asked, “Who are you? I mean—what is your real name?”

The thin lips twisted sardonically. “Roland Fairleigh Mathieson.”

“Jupiter!” Delavale stared at him.

Otton said faintly, “
Noblesse oblige?
Are you truly Ligun Doone?”

Still stunned that this unprincipled mercenary was the scion of one of the finest families in the land, Delavale frowned. “What difference?”

“I'd like to know the worth of mine executioner…”

“Very well. I am. But—never try to prove it.”

Otton's gaze sharpened.

Delavale stepped back and put up his sword. “I'm a fool and will no doubt regret this,” he said, and went over to take up the reins of the big horse.

For the first time exhibiting panic, Otton cried, “No! Leave Rump. I—I beg you.”

“I'm not that much of a fool,” said Delavale, swinging into the saddle. “Besides, I need him to come up to my own mount.”

Cursing him frenziedly, Otton struggled to stand.

Delavale reined around. “Rump?”

“Short for—Rumpelstiltskin.”

With a curl of the lip, Delavale said, “Might have known. Gold is your god, isn't it, Otton?”

“Because he … stamps his feet, damn you!”

Delavale regarded him thoughtfully, then rode away.

Otton called with desperate pleading, “Let him go when you find your mare. I give you my solemn oath, I'll not follow.”

“Hah!”

“Damn you!
Delavale!
God, if I but had my pistol!
Delavale!
” And in a croaking voice that was as if torn from him, “
Please
—I beg you!”

Delavale spurred and rode on. Glancing back after a moment or two, he saw Otton crawling after him, but then crumple and lie still. He drew rein, frowning at that limp, distant form. The man was a vulture. He had done his damnedest to seduce Penelope, had doubtless had a hand in tormenting poor Quentin, and had attempted his own murder with not a
soupçon
of conscience. Shrugging, Delavale rode on.