Maulever Hall (34 page)

The two men were still sitting at their ease over the dying fire, but professed themselves ready to go to bed. “It’s been a long day, miss.”

It certainly had. She thanked them once more for their speed and efficiency on the drive down, then saw them out and shot the heavy bolts behind them. Then, pausing for a moment in the firelight glow of the kitchen, she faced the question that had been haunting her since they arrived: Had it all been for nothing? A wild goose chase? She shivered and moved closer to the fire. Probably it had. And—what was she going to do tomorrow? It had been all very well, in London, to plan to remove little Thomas from Maulever Hall and so away from any possibility of danger. But what about Martha? She would undoubtedly refuse to part with him, particularly since it would be impossible to explain his removal. She sank into the cook’s rocking chair and stared into the dying fire, chin in hands. She had been a fool to come bolting down here. Her eyes, gravelly with fatigue, flickered shut, then opened again reluctantly. At least one good
thing
had come of the journey—the reunion of Mrs. Mauleverer and Martha. And what would Mauleverer himself
think
of that? He must have taken his mother to London to get her away from Martha’s influence. He would hardly be delighted to have had her brought back so suddenly. Inevitably, her tired brain conjured up his angry face, as she had seen it last at the Ball. How brutal he had been to her,
that
night, and yet—she could hardly blame him. If only she could have explained
...
But the time for explanations was past. Perhaps, at the Ball, if Lady Heverdon had not interrupted them, she might have managed to make
him
understand, but now there was nothing for it but to try to teach herself to forget him.

Forget him? She never would, so why try? Marry the Duke and catch herself pretending that he was Mauleverer? She liked him far too well for that, much better, she told herself, than she did Mauleverer, but what had that to do with
loving?
Nothing was going to change what she felt for Mauleverer. Even if John Ba
rn
aby’s accusations should prove true, it would make no difference. And, now that she was here, in the house where she had known and loved Mauleverer, she found it increasingly difficult to believe them.

He had loved her, truly loved her; of that she was convinced. Impossible to believe he had tried to kill her. Lies—had it all been lies then? And yet, why had he sent the servants away? What was the threat that hung almost tangibly in the air of this dark, silent house? Idiot—she was dreaming. She jumped up from the chair, picked up her candle and was about to start the long walk back to the housekeeper’s wing when she stopped, head up, listening. Surely there was a new noise min
gling
with the roaring of the wind on the moors. No—she strained her ears—yes, a carriage was coming up the drive.

Her hand shook so much that she put the candle down on the kitchen table. Mauleverer? Was it all true, then? And, if so, what should she do? It was coming very fast. Four horses, certainly, driven hard. Whoever it was, she would have to let them in, since no amount of knocking was likely to wake Mrs. Mauleverer and Martha, now, doubtless, fast asleep in their remote wing. At the thought, she heard the knocking, fast and impatient, on the big front door. It sounded like Mauleverer. Suppose she pretended not to hear. Rain beating against the windows gave her her answer. She could not leave anyone out of doors on such a night. Besides, it might not be Mauleverer. Perhaps it was the Duke, come in search of her. It would be like him to have come.

Whoever it was, he did not mean to be left outside. The knocking came again, loud enough to wake the dead, she told herself, and shivered uncontrollably as she picked up her candle. At all events, she must go and see; there was a little window beside the front door through which one could reconnoiter visitors unobserved. Or at least, she soon realized, one could in the daytime. But as she approached down the hall the impatient knocking stopped suddenly. Of course, whoever was outside had seen the light of her candle. She hesitated a moment, then went to the little window just the same; it would be madness to open without making sure who it was.

An impatient voice from outside gave her her answer: “Open up in there; it is I, Mauleverer.”

Of course it was he. She had known it all the time. She put down the candle on a chest and began, with shaking hands, to pull back the heavy bolts.

“And about time, too.” He was across the threshold in one angry stride, then stopped, looking at her, with—could it be?—horror? “You?”

“Yes.” At the idea of explanations, a great tide of fatigue washed over her.

“True then.” He seemed to be speaking to himself. Then, ignoring her, he turned to shout an order to his man outside. “And yet, I don’t believe it.” He closed the big door behind him and stood for a moment with his back to it, looking down at her. The candle cast strange sideways shadows on his face, but revealed it as haggard with fatigue. “Well.” He took off his soaking beaver hat and threw it down on a chair. “At least I am in time, it seems.”

“In time?”

“To prevent this new folly of yours.” He swung off his huge greatcoat, which was also, she saw, soaking wet, and dropped it, too, on a chair. “I have come far and fast on your account, Miss Lamb.”

“In your curricle!” The significance of his drenched condition struck her.

“How else? It is my fastest carriage. But no matter for that. A little wetting won’t hurt me. So long as I am really in time.”

“In time for what?” she asked again.

“You look exhausted.” He ignored her question. “I suppose you thought it safe enough to wait till morning. Well, it is too late now. The child stays here.”

Horribly, it proved the truth of everything John
Barnaby
had told her. “Never!” she exclaimed. “Mr. Mauleverer, I beg you, think again. Let me take him away—anywhere—I promise you will never hear of either of us again.”

Now, fantastically, he was looking at her with pity. “So it was all true,” he said. “Madness is the only explanation.” And then, in a gentle tone that contrasted oddly with his grim appearance: “I promise you, Miss Lamb, you shall come to no harm. You have my word for it: Mauleverer’s word.”

She was sickened by this attempt to secure her complicity in what he was planning. “Mauleverer’s word! The word of a murderer!” There: it was out. She took a step backward at the change in his expression.

“A murderer? But this is raving lunacy. Who, pray, am I supposed to have murdered?”

Why, no one—yet. Only let me take little Thomas, and go. I swear we will be no trouble to you. No one need ever know.”

With an impatient gesture he turned away from her and
began systematically lighting candles that stood ready along high chests on each side of the hall. Shadows receded; light glimmered on the arms that hung high on the walls, catching here a shining sword-blade and there a polished hilt. He returned to face her. “Now we can see each other. It is time we came to an understanding, Miss Lamb. First: the child. Is it true, then? He is Lord Heverdon?”

“I believe so.” Did she? Face to face with Mauleverer, all her doubts of John Ba
rn
aby’s story returned a thousandfold.

“And you meant to run off with him again.” This time it was not a question. “Could you not have trusted me, Miss Lamb? Surely there has been that between us which might convince you that I would see you safe out of your troubles? I suppose I am a bad-tempered brute—and I admit that I said more, the other night, than perhaps I should have—but you must know that, always, at a pinch, I shall be ready to serve you. It can all be hushed up, never fear.”

“Hushed up! Are you mad?”

“No, but I begin to be convinced that you are. Or”—his haggard face darkened—“is there something worse than abduction? If so, you had best tell me at once.”

“Abduction? What do you mean?”

“Do you call it by some prettier name? It is not like you, Miss Lamb. I thought at least that you were one who could face facts; but I see I was mistaken in this, as in everything. But, very well, if we must mince words, let us call it the child’s removal from his friends’ custody. Whatever you choose to call it, I can see that it might sound oddly to your new patrons. I do not altogether blame you for wishing to cast a veil over the past, but surely a new abduction is hardly the way to go about it.”

She passed her hand wearily over her forehead. “Do you know, I cannot understand a word you are saying.”

“No? You were not wont to be stupid, Miss Lamb. I can only assume that you do not wish to understand me. God knows, I have spoken plainly enough. What more do you want? I have promised to see you safely through the scandal that must attend the discovery of the child’s identity. I will do more. If your new friends do abandon you as a result of these disclosures, you may be sure of an income from me.”

“As a bribe for what? I would rather die. Do you really know me so little as to think I will connive at the child’s”—she hesitated at the word—“at his disappearance?”

“God give me patience.” He did not sound as if the prayer was likely to be granted. “How can I impress it upon you, Miss Lamb, that the whole purpose of my coming is to prevent you from disappearing with the child. Tomorrow, I shall take him to London and take the steps that are necessary to establish his identity. And, as I have said over and over again, I will do everything in my power to protect you from the consequences of this revelation.”

The ground seemed to rock under her feet, and she put out a hand to the wall to steady herself. “What a fool I have been. You will take him to London? Tomorrow? You promise?”

“Why should I promise? And to you, of all people. But I shall most certainly take him, if that will satisfy you; though why it should is more than I can understand.”

But she was hardly listening to him. “You mean, you do not mind his succeeding to the title?”

“What, as Lord Heverdon? Miss Lamb, what is the matter with you? You must know that always my ambition has been to be a Commons man. Do you really
think
that the chance of acquiring a miserable two-generation title would send my bonnet over the windmill?” He was silent for a moment, black thoughts chasing each other across his face. “I believe that at last I am beginning to understand. I was right to think you mad, Miss Lamb. There is certainly no other excuse. You have been thinking that I would try to prevent the child’s identification? That I was so delighted with my new honor and my place in the Lords as to be ready to commit—what? Miss Lamb, to keep them. You called me a murderer a while ago and I thought you merely hysterical. Did I do you more than justice? Do you honestly believe that I would conspire against the child? I can see that you do. You were going to carry him off, safe away from my machinations! I thank you, Miss Lamb, for your confidence in me!”

She swayed on her feet. “What am I to believe?”

“Why, nothing to my credit, it seems.”

“But the servants. Why, then, did you send them away?”

“Send away the servants? What do you mean?”

“They are all gone to Exton—on your orders.”

“Nonsense.” There was something wonderfully reassuring about his tone. “Why, in the name of all that’s ridiculous should I send the servants to Exton?” And then: “Oh, I see, to clear the way for my deed of darkness. You imagine me, then, a sort of Richard Crookback! Was I intending to smother my nephew, Miss Lamb, and what, pray, did I mean
to do with the body?”

She shook her head. “I suppose I was mad. But—” Something had been stirring at the back of her mind. “Lady Heverdon?” She thought for a moment: “How did you find out the child was Lord Heverdon?”

“I was told—by Lady Heverdon’s cousin, as a matter of fact, Ralph Urban. She never saw the child when she was here.”

“Nonsense.” It was her turn now. “If you can believe that, you can believe anything. She saw him—and disliked him. I remember being puzzled by it at the time, but I see now that it was no wonder. Mr. Mauleverer, I have been a fool. I admit it, and do not expect you to forgive me, but you have not been very brilliant either. Of course she must have known the child, if, as I am beginning to doubt, he is indeed Lord Heverdon.”

“Oh yes, he’s Lord Heverdon, never doubt of that.” Both of them turned in surprise at this new voice from behind them. A man was standing halfway up the main stairway, a lantern in his left hand, his right negligently in his coat pocket. Now he came a few more steps down toward them, so that the light from the branches of candles along the side of the hall caught his face.

“Mr. Barnaby!” said Marianne.

“Urban!” said Mauleverer.

XVII

“At your service.” His eyes were on Mauleverer as he put down the lantern in an embrasure of the stairs. “And yours.” He turned, still standing above them on the stairs, and sketched a bow to Marianne.

“You are Lady Heverdon’s cousin?” she said. “Ralph Urban. Not John Ba
rn
aby at all!”

“No more than I was Paul Rossand. I am afraid you are a very gullible young lady after all, Miss Lamb. Or shall I call you—” He shrugged. “No, I believe not. We have not
q
uite played out our comedy of errors yet. Or—tragedy, perhaps?”

Mauleverer took a step forward. “What are you doing here?”

“An unpleasant duty. I am really sorry it has had to come to this.” And then, his voice suddenly iron-hard: “You will stay where you are, I beg. Both of you.” His right hand was out of his pocket now, and the gun it held was pointed steadily at Mauleverer. “I am a good shot,” he said almost apologetically, “and this is one of Mr. Collier’s new pistols. I can fire several shots without reloading.”

“Are you mad?” But Mauleverer stayed where he was.

“Not in the least. It is Miss Lamb here, I am afraid, who will be found to be insane. Only think of her killing both you and the child! I am afraid it will take more than your friend the Duchess to extricate you from the consequences of that double crime, Miss Lamb.”