Maulever Hall (36 page)

“Yes, hiding in the gorse.”

He swore a worse oath. “And I believed that rascally coachman! He told me he had let no one down since Exton—the passengers all confirmed it; there was a fat woman in a red dress, I remember, who was particularly positive.”

She could not help smiling at him. “Poor Ralph. I expect they did not like your manner overmuch. But what did you do then?”

“Why, turned back for London, like the blithering idiot I was. It had only been on the faintest chance that I followed. We thought you both safely burned in your beds—not a trace remained. I am a thorough arsonist, you must admit—too thorough that time, or I would have known you had got away. As it was we had had one day of happy security—Lady Heverdon was even treating herself to a little judicious mourning for you—when I heard a rumor of a mysterious woman and child who had boarded the midnight coach on the night of the fire. I went after them, merely to make assurance doubly sure, and began to think my precaution justified when I traced you across London and on to the Exton coach—you left a back trail as broad as a battleship’s, dear cousin. But I lost you at Exton and followed the
coach for Pennington Cross merely as the last precaution. For, of course, if it was you I knew you would have gone straight to Maulever Hall. So I went there myself, with some tale of a cock and a bull and losing my way. There was no sign of you. I decided I had been on a wild goose chase all the time.”

Marianne shivered. “You must have got there before me,” she said, remembering that long, bleak walk across the moors, with the child heavy in her arms. “I was—lucky, it seems.”

“You had the luck of the very devil, then and later. Why did I miss you, that time in the wood? It makes me mad merely to remember it. Over and over again, I should have had you, and always, like a sleepwalker, you escaped without even realizing you had been in danger.” He was upright in the chair, his eyes very bright, his smile mocking, “But tell me, dear cousin, what are you going to do with me now?”

“Did you always hate me?”

“Hate you?” He sounded genuinely surprised. “Of course not. I believe I love you a little. But you should not have taken Barsley from me. Oh yes”—his voice was mocking again—“I quite forgot to tell you. Our uncle died a little while ago. May I salute you, Dame of Barsley!”

“He left it to me?”

“All of it: every acre, every penny. And, for me, a moralizing instruction to mend my ways—no more gambling,
no more horse racing, and, perhaps, if my reformation deserved it, in the end, you, of your great generosity, would make me your steward. Steward! I, who love every inch of the island that you dismiss so casually. You do not even want to live there! I know every rabbit track on the cliffs; every one of the smugglers’ landing places; each tenant’s property to an inch. So, perhaps, says my uncle, I might, one day, be worthy to be your steward! Do you wonder if I have been a little mad?”

“But when did this happen?”

“Soon after Lady Heverdon came here on a visit and nearly fainted at sight of you. I cannot think how our uncle’s lawyers have been so long about tracing you, though the helpful suggestions I made to them may have had something to do with it? Oh well,” he shrugged, “I have played my game, and lost. It is your turn now.”

“It is not fair.” Marianne was surprised to find herself so indignant. “You were brought up to be lord of the island. I am sure Uncle Urban did not intend such a will to stand. Poor uncle—so he is dead at last after all his alarms and ailments, and I cannot even cry for him. It was impossible to love him”—she turned, almost in apology, to Mauleverer —“and yet he was good to us in his way.”

“In his way!” exclaimed Urban. “The way of a bad-tempered, malingering old miser. You may play the hypocrite about him if you like, but I shall not. He made me what I am, and then punished me for it.”

Mauleverer had been leaning wearily against the arm of a chair, his face in shadow, but his posture showing how intently he was listening to what they said. Now he straightened up. “This is all very well,” he said, “but it scarcely helps us now. You confess to attempting murder, not once but many times, Mr. Urban. What do you expect us to do with you?”

“What you please. I really do not care—now. It will make a magnificent scandal, will it not? Do not delude yourselves that I will spare anyone if I am brought to my trial. You will look a pretty fool, Mauleverer, and my cousin here little better than a madwoman.”

“Oh, don’t—” Marianne knew he was going the worst way to goad Mauleverer into acting against him. “Remember Lady Heverdon. If you stand trial, she must be implicated. After all, she came here, saw me, saw the child
...
It cannot help but come out that she was equally involved with you. Surely you don’t want that?”

“Cousin, you are more intelligent than I thought you. No, you are quite right. She has had trouble enough already. Her only crimes, really, have been love for me, and a certain liking for the comforts money can buy. Can we not leave her out of this?”

“I do not see why she should escape, any more than you.” But Mauleverer’s voice was doubtful now.

Marianne was grateful for the shadows that hid her face: Could it be that even after the discovery of how she had betrayed him, he loved Lady Heverdon still? She hurried into speech: “If he promises
...
Must we really do anything? After all, nothing has really happened.”

“Nothing happened?” Mauleverer’s voice was dry. “Two houses burned down! Do you call that nothing? Not to speak of the attempts on you.”

“Yes, but they failed. And, truly, I think it all my uncle’s fault. Ralph is right about him—” How easily she had slipped back into using her cousin’s first name. “It wasn’t fair,” she said again. “Could he not sign a paper, or something, and then go off and”—she paused—“well, why not? Would you like to be steward of Barsley, cousin?

“He would do that well,” she explained to Mauleverer. “It is true what he says; he does love the island, and the people there. It was only when uncle sent him to England that he got into trouble.”

“Cousin, you keep surprising me.” But she could see that his eyes were suddenly bright.

“Hush!” Mauleverer held up a hand. “There is a carriage coming up the drive—or maybe two, by the sound of it. Who on earth can it be, at this time of night?”

Marianne felt herself coloring. “It might be the Duke.” She was sure it was. If only she and Mauleverer had had time for some sort of explanation! What must he think of her for believing Urban’s lies? It did not bear thinking of.

“The Duke?” He looked at her sharply.

“I left a note, saying I had come down here. I did not say why.”

“No? And you think he will have followed you so soon?”

“I don’t know.” Passionately, she wished now that she had said nothing.

“Well, we shall soon see.” The first carriage had stopped at the door and he turned, after a swift look to make sure that Urban was still securely tied, to swing it open.

There was a little bustle outside and then four people
entered the hall. First came the Duchess, warmly wrapped in her old army greatcoat, and then, behind her, the Duke and a squat, short stranger, one on either side of Lady Heverdon.

“Well.” The Duchess took in the scene. “You seem to have managed well enough without us. He is safely tied up, I trust?” She looked, without much interest, at Urban, then turned again to Marianne. “I am glad to see you, child. But, surely, a little more light would be an improvement?”

“Of course.” Marianne hurried to fetch the two big silver candelabra from the dining room and lighted their candles with a shaking hand before she snuffed out the few that still guttered in their sockets.

‘That’s better.” The Duchess looked about her. “Mr. Mauleverer, of course.” And then, as he made his bow as formally as if they were at St. James’s, “And I must present Mr. Ba
rn
aby, of Bow Street.”

The squat man took a short step forward and made an awkward all-inclusive bow to the company, but all the time
sharp
eyes under his shaggy brows were fixed on Marianne. “Miss Urban?” His voice was questio
nin
g.

“Yes.” Marianne turned to the Duchess. “I have remembered—everything.”

“Well, that’s a comfort. I was wondering where to begin breaking it to you.” The Duchess turned to John Ba
rn
aby.
“
Well, Mr.
Barnaby
, you have found your missing heiress.” She yawned enormously. “And the hour is late. I am sure that Mr. Mauleverer’s servants will find you accommodation for the night.”

Marianne laughed and intervened. “The fact is, ma’am, that there are no servants. They have all been sent off to Exton.”

“
I see.” It was clear that the Duchess saw a great deal.
“
Then we are like to have an uncomfortable night of it. But I have no doubt an old campaigner like you, Mr. Ba
rn
aby, will be able to look out for yourself.” A significant glance directed him to the green baize door at the far end of the hall.

He took another step forward. “But, Your Grace”—h
is
face was red with the effort of making himself speak to her
—“
so far as I can see, there’s been vilence done here, and vilence is Bow Street’s business.”

“Violence?” said the Duchess, looking about her. “Oh, you mean, the swords? An odd time of night, I admit, for fencing practice, but as to violence?” Her eyes, on Urban in his chair, defied him to contradict her. “I see no signs of it. You may go, Mr. Ba
rn
aby; it will be time enough to talk law business in the morning.”

He made a last stand. “That’s all very well, ma’am—Your Grace, I should say—but if you didn’t expect vilence, why did you come down here in such a hurry? This gentleman here’s bleeding too! And tied up! Do you expect me to take no notice of that?”

“Yes,” said the Duchess. “That is exactly what I expect, Mr. Ba
rn
aby. We have things to talk over. In the morning, perhaps—” Her tone made it clear that she promised nothing. Then, to her nephew: “John, Mr. Ba
rn
aby seems unable to find his way to the servants’ quarters.”

The Duke smiled and moved forward. “This way, Mr. Ba
rn
aby.”

It was too much. The little man looked round the company. Urban ignored his anxious glance, Marianne could not help feeling a little sorry for him. Lady Heverdon was speaking quickly, in a low voice, to Mauleverer. He gave it up. “Just the same”—he moved away down the hall—“violence is Bow Street’s business.”

“He may be right at that,” said the Duchess thoughtfully, “but we had better talk things over first. What, for instance, has Lady Heverdon to say?”

Marianne had been straining her ears in a vain attempt to try and hear what Lady Heverdon had been saying to Mauleverer in her rapid, half-whispering, pleading voice. Now he turned to the Duchess, his voice dry. “She says, Your Grace, that it is all a terrible mistake. She knew nothing of any plot; cares nothing for Mr. Urban there; cannot imagine why you and your nephew have thought fit to abduct her. I use her words, you understand.”

“But it is true.” Lady Heverdon moved forward into the full glow of the candlelight. She was wrapped in a blue cloak that showed up the gold of her hair. Dark shadows under her eyes merely gave an unwonted distinction to her candyfloss beauty. Her face, as she turned great pleading eyes from Mauleverer to the Duchess, was that of a child misunderstood. “Mr. Urban and I are old friends, it is true, have often, jestingly, called each other cousin, but—you know who it is that I love.” Her huge eyes pleaded with Mauleverer. “If Mr. Urban has deluded himself that I felt more for him than
friendship,
it is not my fault. Though I still cannot believe he is guilty of the things you have told me of. Surely there must be some mistake.”

“Mistake!” Ralph Urban spoke explosively from his chair.

“There has indeed been a mistake—mine. So you would throw me over, so
l
ightly, in defeat, would you, Miranda? Never loved me, did you? Never promised me—” He stopped. “Never mind. Because you show yourself worthless, I need not do the same. Cousin”—to Marianne—“I owe you a greater apology than I thought. I would have sent you to the madhouse for That.” His burning eyes, fixed on Lady Heverdon, underlined his words.

She pouted. “But I have been engaged to Mauleverer this age. Everyone who knows anything, knows that.”

There was a thick silence in the hall. Everyone’s eyes were turned on Mauleverer, except the Duke’s, which Marianne felt closely, searchingly, compassionately fixed on her own face. For a long moment, Mauleverer was silent,
gatin
g down into the beautiful face so becomingly tilted up to him. One little white hand held the cloak loosely around her, the other crept out to touch the front of his dark blue coat in a gesture at once pleading and proprietorial. His own hand moved toward it and Marianne’s teeth clenched hard together. But, gently, and yet, somehow ruthlessly, he brushed it off. “I am loath to give the lie to a lady, and so publicly, too, but you know, madam, that there has never been any question of an engagement between us. I am your stepson’s guardian: that is all.”

“Oh, monstrous.” Her wild eyes appealed to them all. “How can you say such a thing! And if you betray me, who will stand my friend?” Tears flooded from the great blue eyes as she turned from the silent Duke to the Duchess and then at last, as if involuntarily to Urban, very still in his chair.

It was he who answered her. “Not I, for one, Miranda.
I hope he has betrayed you, though, frankly, I doubt it. You have taken your goods to too many markets at last, cousin.” The last word was a mockery. “Do you see it all ahead of you? Widowhood—poverty—the long, solitary years? Last year’s blacks turned and turned again—tallow candles taking the place of wax—one man, if you are lucky, acting footman, butler, everything, in greasy outmoded livery. And then, the gossip, just think of the gossip, cousin. Lady Heverdon—she was the beautiful Lady Heverdon once—not considered fit to have charge of her own stepson.” His mocking eyes swept from her to Mauleverer and back. “Am I not right?”