My Lord Murderer (10 page)

But an expression of intense pain suddenly crossed Drew’s face and stopped Wys in mid-sentence. Drew blinked and tried to smile. “Yes? What were you saying? Go on, old fellow.”

“Is something wrong?” Wys asked in concern.

“No, no. Go on with what you were saying.”

Wys eyed him dubiously and proceeded. “Well, what I have to tell you may anger you, I’m afraid. But you must keep in mind that all parties mean well. You see, about a week ago, Hetty sent me a note asking me to wait upon her. She had devised a scheme—Drew! What is it?”

For Drew had clasped his hands against his waist with a gasp of pain. “Sorry,” he said in a husky, short-winded voice. “It’s really nothing, I expect. A touch of … indigestion …”

Wys’s jaw dropped. “Indigestion!” he breathed, awestruck. Drew took no notice, for he winced and gasped again. Wys helped him into a chair. “You’re in pain!” he exclaimed. “How long have you been feeling ill?”

“The past … half-hour … or so…” Drew said tightly.

“Good lord, man, why didn’t you say something?”

Drew glanced up at his friend and tried to smile. “I didn’t want to push you … any further into the dismals. I hoped it … would soon pass. It will soon, of course…” And noting Wys’s expression of shocked anguish, he added, with an effort at a laugh, “Don’t look … so stupefied. That cook of yours would … give a … a
horse
… indigestion!”

Wys’s mind was in a whirl. Drew, sick!
Drew
! It should have been
he
! He,
Wystan Farr
, should be sitting there in Drew’s place with
his
brow knotted and
his
hands clenched in pain. Of course, he would have been playacting, but Drew’s suffering was real. Before he could permit himself to dwell further on the strange coincidence, he had to help Drew. He bent solicitously over his friend’s chair. “Do you think I should send for a doctor? I know of one in Melbourn who is said to be quite competent.”

“I think,” said Drew, somewhat white about the lips, “that it would be … a very good idea.”

Two hours later, the doctor had come and gone, and Drew was sleeping quietly in his bedroom upstairs. Wys, seated before the fire with his chin in his hand, was trying to decide what to do next. He knew that Hetty was expecting that a carriage would draw up to her door at any moment and that her brother would climb out and help a sick and feeble Wystan Farr into the house. The situation was almost laughable. If he had not spent the last hour watching the doctor force poor Drew to puke out the contents of his stomach, Wys would be enjoying himself hugely.

The doctor had left some very specific instructions. Wys was to see to it that Drew rested quietly for the next few days. His diet during that period was to be most judiciously planned and prepared: he was to eat no meat at all; clear soup was advised for the first day, fresh eggs boiled no more than two minutes might be added the next day, but only if the patient’s appetite had begun to improve; the patient would shortly thereafter find the addition of cooked rice, gruel and other such foods to be beneficial, and he should, by the end of a week, feel quite himself again.

Wys explained to the doctor that the chef he had brought from London had taken ill and had returned there for proper care. Blaming his substitute cook for Drew’s illness, he asked the doctor if a two-hour carriage ride into Suffolk would be harmful to Drew in his present condition, requesting the medical man to keep in mind that, at the end of the trip, the patient would be provided with food, nursing and attention vastly superior to that which he would receive here. “Well,” the doctor had replied with a shrug, “the shaking up your friend will receive in the carriage will do him no good at all, I can promise you. But if the care he’ll receive in Suffolk will be as good as you say, by all means proceed with the plan.”

Wys sat imagining what their arrival at Selby Manor would be like, and he couldn’t help smiling. If he had followed Hetty’s instructions—and Drew had not taken ill—the whole plan would have gone awry. Wys could
never
have performed his part well enough to have been convincingly ill. He was no actor. But Fate had stepped in and dealt Hetty a much better hand with which to play this game of chance. With Drew
truly
ill, Gwen Rowle would never suspect that Hetty had hatched a plot. There was now at least a reasonable possibility that her plot would work. All Wys had to do now was to get Drew to agree to take the trip. And Wys need not really lie to Drew—he need only omit the information that Lady Rowle was in residence at Stonehaven.

Wys waited as long as he could before waking Drew, but by four o’clock it was plain that the rain was not going to stop and that it would soon be dark. He went to Drew’s room and shook him awake. Drew groaned and sat up, looking pale and tired.

“Sorry to wake you, old man,” Wys said hesitantly, “but I have an idea I must discuss with you. The doctor left instructions that you’ll be needing a special diet in the next—”

“Ugh!” Drew grunted. “Oblige me, please, by not talking about food!”

“But I must. You’re going to need rest, care and well-prepared food, and I’m afraid you won’t get it here.”

“Been thinking the same thing myself,” Drew said, trying to shake himself awake. “I think we’d best start for London tomorrow.”

This took Wys by surprise. “London? Oh, I don’t think … that is … it’s much too long a trip for you in your condition!”

Drew peered at his friend through the deepening gloom. “Light a candle, will you, Wys? I can barely see you. What time is it?”

“About four,” Wys replied, lighting a candle and carrying it to the bedstand.

“Four, eh? Well, what were you going to suggest?”

“Selby’s place. Hetty told me they were spending a few weeks there. I think it’s not above a two hour ride. If we left now, we could get you there before they sit down to dinner.”

“Now?” Drew’s brow knotted and he looked at his friend sharply. “What bobbery are you up to, Wys?”

“Bobbery?” Wys repeated nervously. “I don’t know what you mean?”

“You started to tell me something earlier today. What was it? Something about being troubled…”

“I don’t remember saying anything about being troubled.”

“Yes, you do. You were mooning and sighing like a lovesick calf, remember?”

“You must have been dreaming,” Wys insisted. “You’ve been quite sick, you know. I shouldn’t wonder if you’d been a little delirious.”

Drew’s frown deepened, and he eyed his friend with suspicion. “Are you trying to tip me a rise?” he asked.

Wys drew himself up proudly. “Have you ever known me to do so? It seems to me that when a fellow is trying to help a friend—”

“All right, Wys, take a damper! I’ll go with you to Selby’s place. But don’t try to flummery me into believing that there’s not more to this than meets the eye.”

With Wys’s assistance, Drew managed to dress and pack within an hour, but he found himself surprisingly unsteady on his legs and still in a state of considerable queasiness. He said nothing about it, however, and they set out on the journey. The day was already darkening, and the cold and miserable rain was falling unabated. Glancing at Drew’s taut face, Wys warned him of the doctor’s prediction that the ride would not be comfortable for him. Drew merely nodded and settled himself into a corner of the carriage.

The ride turned out to be an ordeal worse than anything the doctor could have imagined. As night fell, the air became colder, freezing the rain as soon as it fell to the ground. The road and the trees became sheeted with ice. The horses skittered and slithered over the road alarmingly, as did the wheels of the carriage. Inside the carriage, the occupants were tossed about relentlessly. Drew’s face grew steadily more pale and tense, and though he made no complaint, his silence told Wys more eloquently than words that he was suffering considerable discomfort. Twice the carriage had to be stopped so that Drew could climb out and retch. His clothes became damp, and when he came back to his seat even the blankets that Wys carefully tucked around him did not prevent his teeth from chattering. The struggle against the elements necessitated slow and careful driving and lengthened the travel time by more than an hour. As the two friends stared moodily out of their respective windows, they both wished fervently that this nightmarish journey would come to an end.

Hetty had been nervously awaiting Wys’s arrival all day. Wys was the weak link in her plan, and she knew it. He was not likely to perform his part very well, and if his feigned illness failed to fool Drew, she was very much afraid they would not come. And even if they
did
appear, would Wys’s performance fool Gwen? Well, Hetty would bustle Wys off to his room the moment they set foot in the door, thus getting him out of the way as soon as possible.

Otherwise, her plan had been proceeding quite well. It had been her intention to make Gwen’s stay so dull that Drew’s arrival would be a welcome relief. That part of the plan had succeeded beyond her expectations. No members of the local gentry had been able to pay calls because of the forbidding weather, so they were forced to endure their own company all day long. No outdoor pursuits could be enjoyed, either. Hetty felt quite sorry for Tom, who had not had one morning of riding nor one day of shooting. Fortunately, he had discovered a long-unused billiard table in one of the closed saloons, and had amused himself by improving his technique with a cue.

Gwen had been gracious and ladylike, but Hetty had caught her several times stifling a yawn when Hetty had been prosing on endlessly about the details of a new gown she had ordered or repeating a bit of gossip she had told Gwen twice before. Hetty did not enjoy playing the part of an irritating and boring bibble-babble; she hoped Drew would appreciate the fact that she had sacrificed her usual charm and wit in his behalf.

As the day drew on, Hetty found it more and more difficult to keep her nervous anticipation from becoming noticeable. She several times had been on the verge of jumping up and looking out of the window, but she’d managed to restrain herself. By six, she was in such a state of anxiety that she kept herself closeted in her dressing room to prevent Gwen from seeing her agitation. She calmed herself by imagining the romantic scene which would occur when Drew and Gwen confronted each other.

She had imagined the scene many times before. Drew would be standing in the center of her hallway, lit by the chandelier directly above. His cape would be thrown back from his right shoulder so that he could support the drooping Wys with his right arm. Gwen, her hair drawn back so that a mass of soft curls hung from her crown and her dress clinging in casual folds around her lovely form, would emerge from the drawing room. The two would stare at each other for a moment in delighted surprise. Then, they would greet each other with, naturally, some stiffness. But by the time Drew had explained about his friend’s unexpected illness, Gwen would soften and go to his assistance. Their eyes would meet over Wys’s lowered head, and they would smile shyly…

When there was no sign of a carriage by seven o’clock, Hetty gave up hope and reluctantly ordered the butler to announce dinner. Heartsick as she was by the apparent failure of her plan, she was by nature a warm and hospitable woman. She made every attempt to make the meal a cheerful one, but while she smiled and made pleasant conversation, her mind was busy trying to think up schemes to end this fiasco of a visit. Therefore, when her butler bent over her, in the midst of the second course, and told her that Lord Jamison and Mr. Farr were awaiting her pleasure in the hallway, she was taken by sincere surprise. “Drew? Here?” she cried, and looked across the table at Gwen in some confusion. “Oh, Gwen, I … Will you excuse me, please?” she asked awkwardly, and ran out of the room.

Selby, who had been watching his wife all day with well-concealed amusement, felt an irresistible curiosity to see the stiff and fastidious Wystan Farr make a cake of himself play-acting the part of a sick man. He glanced across the table at Lady Rowle. Her eyes were beginning to smolder. Selby quickly got to his feet. “Please excuse me, Lady Rowle. You, too, Tom. I think I, too, should see what has brought my brother-in-law to our door. Pray, go on with your dinner.” And he turned and hurried after his wife.

Gwen rose in chagrin and looked at her brother. “How
could
Hetty deceive me like this? She told me I’d be perfectly safe from her brother here in Suffolk!” she said furiously. “The deceitful wretch! Come along, Tom, we’re going to leave this place!”

“Hang it, Gwen,” Tom said irritably, “don’t fly off the handle. You can’t be sure your suspicions have any grounds. Give Lady Selby a chance to explain.”

“I don’t need any explanations. The explanation is as plain as pike-staff. They’ve tricked me, all of them! But I’m not going to let them succeed in their horrid little hoax. We’ll leave here tomorrow morning, and until then I won’t speak a
word
to any of them. And I expect you, my own brother, to support me in this. Are you coming with me, or not?”

“But I haven’t finished my roast, and it’s deli—”

“Tom!”

He sighed and got to his feet. “I’m coming,” he muttered reluctantly.

Gwen stalked from the dining room in quick, angry strides, but she stopped at the threshold in astonishment. In the hallway right before her stood Selby and Hetty, frozen into stunned immobility by the spectacle before them. In the center of the hallway, directly under the chandelier, stood Wys, supporting a limp and shivering Drew. Drew, who had always appeared to the world as a pattern-card of Corinthian elegance—his clothes impeccable, his stance gracefully erect, his eyes clear and gleaming with humor, his expression intelligent and alert, and his chin high—now stood before them with his head down, his clothes wrinkled and damp, a blanket hanging from his shoulders, his hair hanging about his face in wet tendrils from which icy droplets trickled down his cheeks, and his eyes clouded and unseeing.

Gwen’s hand flew to her mouth. “My God! Drew!” she gasped.

Her cry seemed to rouse the others from their stupor. “Drew! What’s happened to you?” Hetty cried, flying to his side.