Maggie MacKeever (34 page)

Jules had gotten in several good thrusts before the weapon was taken from her. While Rose had cast about with her gin bottle and Clea had shrieked at the top of her lungs. And then the Cap’n wrenched the sword from Julie and bent her damaged arm behind her back; and promised if the nonsense didn’t cease he would twist that arm right off.

Rose listened for the sound of the bolt being drawn. She didn’t care to think about the reasons a nursery door might be barred from the outside.

How long had the Cap’n known of their secret room? Had he been aware all along? More likely someone had betrayed them, honor among thieves being as great a myth as the Holy Grail.

Came the sound she had been dreading, and the creaking of a hinge. “I cannot imagine,” said an irritated male voice, “what is of such importance that I had to come all the way to London. You know I don’t travel well. Nor do I see why we must visit the old nursery.”

Replied Cap’n Jack, “You will.” An older gentleman stumbled through the doorway, as if he’d been given a push. He caught his balance and righted himself, leaning heavily on his cane. A startled expression crossed his face as he spied Clea with her slate.

Before the gentleman could speak, Rose groaned. She conjured up visions of foreign brothels, and emptied her belly of a small amount of bread and cheese, and a considerable quantity of gin.

The stranger stared at her. “Help me. I’m dying,” Rose moaned, and retched again.

“You’re overacting,” said the Cap’n, as he entered the room. “If you don’t cease chewing up the scenery I’ll see you removed permanently from the stage.”

Overacting, was she? Insulted by this slur, Rose sat up and wiped her mouth. Ophelia slunk from beneath the cot to jump onto her lap. Rose regretted the selfish impulse that had caused her to bring the cat with her from Drury Lane.

The Cap’n’s left hand was bandaged. In his right, he held a pistol pointed unwavering at Rose. “I left them chained. Remember the chains, Father? I thought you might. Come out, Jules, or I will shoot your friend where she sits.”

‘Father’? Rose took a closer look at the older man. He might have in his youth been handsome, though his body was twisted with arthritis, his face etched with passing time and pain. His hair was a faded gold.

The Cap’n’s hair and eyes were dark, his features unremarkable, if cold. Rose might have passed him by countless times and never noticed, at the theater and elsewhere, for he was indistinguishable from his peers.

She wished she could not distinguish him now. How unfair that, if she were to die, she could not be costumed as Desdemona, or even Lady Macbeth, instead of an old crone. “I’m counting, Jules,” the Cap’n said. “One. Two
. . .
”

Julie stepped out from behind the door. Cap’n Jack cocked his gun. Julie let the long jagged piece of wood fall to the floor.

“Enterprising, isn’t she?” said the Cap’n. “I believe that was once part of a crib. One almost feels a degree of family pride. I see your shadow, Miss Fairchild. Step down off that chair.”

Reluctantly, Clea obeyed. The Cap’n turned his pistol on her. She dropped her slate. He gestured toward the cot.

Clea dropped down on the cot, nudged Rose, who immediately moaned.

“She’s sick, poor thing, and no wonder.” What with one thing and another, Clea was feeling ill herself. “I don’t know who you are, sir, but this man with you is a lunatic who has locked us up for no good reason. You should make him let us go.”

The older man’s attention was fixed on Julie, as she followed Clea to the cot. “Boy, what have you done?”

“Already she is of more interest to you than I am. A chit you didn’t know existed until moments past.” Sounds of protest came from the hall outside. The Cap’n turned toward the doorway as Sabine walked into the room.

“It’s that sorry I am, sir,” said the servant who trailed after her. “I told her you weren’t in.”

The Cap’n dismissed the man, closed the nursery door. “Mrs. Viccars. I had expected more of you.”

Sabine smiled faintly. “People often do.”

Clea pressed closer to Rose. “Hello, Sabine. We’ve been playing at quotations to pass the time. ‘See that you promise: what harm is there in promise? In promises anyone can be rich.’ Ovid
.
”

“‘
And thus I clothe my naked villainy with old odds and ends’. Shakespeare,” added Rose, as she simultaneously wondered why Jules was important, and tried not to inhale Clea’s ripe scent.

Julie leaned up against Rose’s other side, completing the olfactory assault, and spoke for the first time since Cap’n Jack had come into the room.
“‘
Naked villainy’ is good. I personally like ‘and the vile squealing of the wry-necked fife’.”

“They’ve not been a good influence on each other,” remarked Cap’n Jack. “I’m not sure Jules is to blame.
I
am not to blame for them looking like pigs who have been rooting in the mud.”

He was, however, to blame for the fact they both sported fresh bruises, and that Rose again felt like casting up her accounts.

Had Mrs. Viccars ridden to their rescue? Rose would have preferred the arrival of a troop of Hussars. Nothing against the lady, but she looked frail.

She had nerve enough, however. Mrs. Viccars regarded the Cap’n’s bandaged hand and said, “Was it Julie who damaged you? Her father would have been proud.”

The older man’s gaze lingered on Julie’s bruises, which were evident through her grime. “She has Julian’s eyes. Faulkners breed true.”

“And so I am a by-blow?” said Cap’n Jack. “If that’s what you believed, better you should have thrown me out into the street.”

“As in effect, you threw out Julie.” Ignoring the pistol that was trained on her, Mrs. Viccars walked toward the barred windows, thereby placing herself between the Cap’n and the cot.

She turned to look at Julie. “The letter I received said Julian
had left a child. I traveled to London, unconvinced. I was more
curious to discover who could, would, attempt such a blatant
manipulation than from any conviction it was true. One look at you changed my mind. I regret that it’s taken me so long to discover what Jonathan meant to do.”

Julie said, “You mean Cap’n Jack.”

“Ah.”

The older man roused from his abstraction. “Who is Cap’n Jack?”

At the same time, Clea protested, “I don’t understand.”

Rose had the benefit of Pritchett’s deductions. “Cap’n Jack’s true name is Jonathan Faulkner, and he is the sole surviving son of the Marquess of Carlyle. That would be this older gentleman.”

“Cap’n Jack is an individual of considerable influence,” put in Jonathan Faulkner. “Not, Father, that I expect
you to be impressed. It will amuse me to reveal Julie’s identity to all the world, before she’s hanged. No question that she
will
hang. A large amount of evidence has been amassed against her. Which was the primary purpose for the thefts I had her commit.”

Lord Carlyle blanched. “You would do such a thing?”

“This from the man who sent me to Dunkard? I have been planning it for years.”

Almost, briefly, Rose pitied Jonathan Faulkner. Dunkard had
been a school notorious for the brutal measures with which it subdued hitherto unmanageable boys. Due to an outcry following the death of a student, it had been closed down.

The older man sank down on a wooden chair. “There was bad blood between you from the cradle. Everything was a competition. Julian always won.”

“Or so you chose to see it.” The Cap’n moved closer to the cot. “Julian was your golden boy, while I could do nothing right. How odd to recall that I once wished your approval. To continue: Julian told me honor demanded he marry his light o’ love. However,
it didn’t suit me that he should. You must have wondered why Julian didn’t return to you, Mrs. Viccars. Did you think he had run off? You were so ill after the child was born that I expected you would die. I paid off the midwife and left you to get on with it; placed the brat where I could lay hands on her again if and when I wished.” In a mockery of fondness, the Cap’n stroked Julie’s hair. “As she grew older, I realized her resemblance to my brother might prove useful.”

“Useful as a weapon,” said Sabine, dispassionately. “You’ve been setting up your father to take a devastating fall. My awareness of the business was merely an additional fillip. You wanted us to know, when it was too late, exactly what you’d done.”

Julie was related to a lordship? Who looked like he might at any moment pop off in an apoplexy? She said, “When was I born?”

“May 25, 1795. Your father and I were secretly married, though both of us were underage.” Sabine studied the Cap’n. “You really think no one can stop you?”

“You really think
you
can? I have in my possession documents that show certain of your recent activities in, shall we say, a less than loyal light.”

“I see.”

A diversion was called for, lest Cap’n Jack notice Mrs. Viccars was inching her hand toward the pocket of her riding habit. Rose elbowed Julie and then Clea; grasped Ophelia’s tail and yanked.

The cat yowled and shot straight up in the air. Julie and Clea both dove for the Cap’n’s knees.

Caught off balance, Cap’n Jack stumbled. Sabine pulled her pistol from her pocket and shot him pointblank.

His body jerked back. As he fell, the Cap’n’s gun discharged. His bullet caught Sabine in the chest. Footsteps pounded up the stairs. Kane and Ned burst into the room.

Julie sprang to her feet. Lord Carlyle caught her arms and held
her fast.

She felt like kicking him. Julie wanted Ned. Who had moved to block his sister’s view.

Kane knelt beside Sabine. Her riding habit was already soaked with blood. Desperately, he tried to staunch the flow.

Her eyelids fluttered open.
“‘
Amare et sapere vix deo conceditur
.
’”
And then she was gone.

“Syrus,” sobbed Clea, against Ned’s chest. “The gods never let us love and be wise at the same time.”

Chapter Thirty-Seven

I believe love first devised the torturer’s profession for mankind
.
—
Plautus

Lord Carlyle’s townhouse was located in a fashionable part of London. Brook Street extended westward from Hanover Square to the northeast corner of Grosvenor Square. Ned wondered if, like many a young miss before her, Sabine had once dreamed of being married in St George’s, Hanover Square. Instead she had eloped
with Francis Viccars and led the life of a soldier’s wife. In memory’s eye, Ned saw her in the small two-story house in Frenada, curled
up in a chair, watching Wellington pore over his maps, laughing at something Francis said, savoring the inner warmth of the fine claret they all shared.

Gallant Francis Viccars, renowned for his coolness under fire. In the end, Sabine had been no less brave.

Two days had passed since her death and that of Jonathan Faulkner in what was being termed, due to his father’s influence, a
‘tragic accident’, because after all one wouldn’t care to have a stigma attached to so old and venerable a name; two busy days during which Ned had diligently presented himself in Brook Street, and as diligently been turned away. This afternoon he had made it as far as the entrance hall with its marble floor and wooden chairs and seven-day clock.

The butler returned. “If you will follow me, my lord.” He led the way up the staircase and to a parlor at the front of the house.

Gold-striped paper covered the walls. Wilton carpets lay upon the floor. Lord Carlyle stood by the fireplace, leaning heavily on a cane. Julie was seated primly on a scroll-footed rosewood settee.

In a far corner of the room, a brown-haired woman bent over her needlework. Julie had gone from being a companion to having one herself.

The butler announced him. Julie rose quickly to her feet. “Sit down, child,” said Lord Carlyle. “It isn’t seemly to so eagerly greet a
gentleman.” From the companion’s corner came what sounded suspiciously like a snort.

The bruises on Julie’s face had begun to fade. She still favored one arm. Ned crossed the room, and took her other hand in his. “Are you all right?”

“Of course she is all right,” said the marquess. “Overwhelmed by all that has befallen her, and rightly so, but Faulkners have never wanted for backbone.”

Nor for excessive self-assurance. “I’m sorry I was unable to come to you sooner, buttercup. The butler had instructions to turn me away at the door.”

Julie cast a startled glance at the marquess, who had the grace to look embarrassed. She demanded, “Why?”

“We are in mourning, and not receiving visitors. Moreover, you could not be seen until you were properly attired.”

She was that, in as severe a black as Ned’s cousin had ever worn. Ned preferred her in Frances Wakely’s cloak. Better still, in nothing but his velvet drapery. “I’m more concerned with how you feel.”

“I’d feel a great deal better if I wasn’t wearing this corset,” she retorted. “I can barely breathe.”

“Julia!” Lord Carlyle thumped his cane.

She scowled.
“‘
Julia’ is not my name.”

“You are the Lady Julia Faulkner, daughter of my eldest son, Julian. It may be strange to you now, but you will grow accustomed. I believe, Dorset, that I read recently of your upcoming nuptials.”

Lord Carlyle and at least half the world had read of them, not including Julie, who snatched back her hand. In her corner, the older woman broke off a thread.

Ned was growing short of patience. “Had you perused today’s newspapers you would have seen both a retraction and an apology. Senhorita Fernandes is on her way back to Portugal.” As
result of a private conversation between Lord Castlereagh and the Portuguese ambassador.