Scandal's Reward (27 page)

But the sailor would not meet her eye. He stood silent, eyes downcast.

“Well, sir?” the marquis demanded.

The sailor looked up at the old man, avoiding the eyes of everyone else in the room.

His voice when he spoke at last was perfectly steady and true. “It was Mr. Clay, my lord. I couldn’t have mistaken him. He had been there earlier that summer for two full months. Mr. Clay was your culprit.”

There was a piercing scream as Charlotte rose to her feet, then collapsed back onto her chair.

“This is calumny of the highest order,” she cried. “My dear late husband! How dare you mention his name in connection with this horrid tale?” She pointed wildly at Catherine. “She has paid this fellow to tell you all these lies, Grandfather. Nothing can be proved. She tries to clear Dagonet by putting the blame on dear Mr. Clay, who is not here to defend himself. The man lies. All lies! No one can corroborate such an accusation.”

Catherine glanced down at her hands, clenched now in her lap. She had been amazed when Peter Higgins had told her that it was Charlotte’s late husband, Mr. Clay, who had attacked Milly at the lake and then knocked out Dagonet and poured liquor on him, so that he would be left to take the blame. Mr. Clay, who on that summer visit to Lion Court had seduced the maidservant from George with promises to set her up in a London establishment of her own. When the promises proved empty, and Millicent, desperate, must have threatened to expose him to his wife, Mr. Clay had come back secretly and silenced the girl forever. The same Mr. Clay who had eloped with Charlotte to start with, instead of honorably approaching her father.

It was only by Charlotte’s account that her husband was remembered as such a stickler for the proprieties. The evidence was that he had been anything but. Yet Charlotte was right about what really mattered: Why should the marquis believe Peter Higgins?

And that was when Catherine was to witness the most unexpected development of the evening as George stood up, his face grim.

“I can corroborate it, Grandfather. Millicent told me herself. She was with child by Mr. Clay. She wanted me to help her. Me! She had made me a damned cuckold, and she wanted me to help her. I told her to go hang! Your husband killed the girl all right, Charlotte. It wasn’t me and it wasn’t Dagonet. I have guessed it all along and I think father did, too.”

With a strangled sob, Charlotte fled the room.

Respectfully pulling his forelock, Peter Higgins allowed himself to be shown to the kitchen for a mug of ale.

“I suppose this means that Dagonet gets Lion Court, after all,” George continued dully. “He always wanted it. Mama won’t care. Now that she’s come to town, she says she won’t live there anymore. Damned old-fashioned place anyhow, stuck way out in the country! Rather live in town myself.” With a heavy sigh, he walked to the door. “Good night, Grandfather!”

The marquis ignored him and was pounding on the floor with his cane.

“Larson! Fetch my man of business! I want to change my will.”

“He may be abed, my lord,” the manservant replied gravely.

“Then have him roused from his slumbers, damn you! And I want a message sent round to my grandson, Charles de Dagonet. He’s to come here this instant.”

“Yes, my lord.”

Lord Somerdale turned to Catherine. “You care for him, don’t you? I can see it in your face every time his name is mentioned. Damn me if he isn’t going to stick by this marriage! I’ll see to it.”

“I pray you, my lord, please do not! There was nothing to our marriage but an attempt to save me and my family embarrassment.” Rapidly she outlined to the old man the events at the Rose and Crown, when Dagonet had saved Annie from the fever. “We have agreed to have it annulled.”

The marquis grinned, his round face beaming. “Then he’s a dashed fool, after all, if he does not fix his interest with you. If I were his age, I’d choose you for myself.”

They were interrupted by the arrival of a slightly disheveled solicitor, who had obeyed with dispatch the peremptory summons from his noble employer.

“I want Lion Court made over to Charles de Dagonet, with all the proceeds from the estates. Do it this instant! And then change my will. He is to inherit everything that’s not entailed.”

“My lord,” Catherine asked hesitantly. “Do you leave George nothing? He has been foolish and selfish, but not truly wicked, surely?”

Indeed, how could George have revealed what he knew without destroying his sister?

“He can marry Miss Ponsonby. She has enough to set them up in a respectable situation. He’ll get nothing from me, but I’ll not foul his marriage. There’s nothing in the story we’ve heard tonight that need leave this house. From what I hear, Dagonet has lived it down already. Lady Easthaven had the nerve to tackle me about him, and call me a fool. She’s right. I have been. I have been! We can let it be known that Dagonet’s innocent without involving George. Bah! The fellow leaves a sick taste in my mouth. Never could stand him, nor Charlotte!”

Suddenly the marquis threw back his head and began to laugh.

The man of business was shown to the study, where he could begin to draw up the necessary papers, and Catherine determined to leave. She could not have Dagonet discover her there when he came to make his peace with his grandfather.

She was arrested by the return of the footman.

“Mr. de Dagonet left Jermyn Street some time ago, my lord. He is not at his lodgings and not expected to return tonight. His manservant commented that he left alone on his gray Thoroughbred. He had his rapiers with him.”

At which pronouncement, the marquis turned as pale as his own whiskers.

“He’s gone to meet Viscount Hammond,” he said. “What have I done? What have I done?”

“My lord?” Catherine asked. “Whatever is it?”

“I demanded he release you, my dear.” The old man’s voice was a hoarse whisper. “So I arranged that he should be forced to fight a duel.”

“But surely he could never be bested in a duel with swords?”

“Unless he has determined to die! I thought you would be better off a widow, my dear, and told him so to his face. I thought his death would free us all. I determined that you should have wealth, position, respectability. Impossible if you were tied to a villainous libertine! I didn’t know. So I told him that, if he died, I would secure your future, and I fear Dagonet has enough honor to want that. A last gallant, unselfish gesture! He would do it, I know. Viscount Hammond will kill him.”

The marquis struggled to his feet, tears running down the wrinkled cheeks, only to be felled by the pain in his gouty foot.

“If he has left for a duel,” Catherine said, her heart racing, “it will not be fought until dawn. I shall find him in time, my lord. Lord Brooke will assist me. Never fear!”

Catherine arrived back at Brooke House, only to find that Lord Brooke had also left, very late, with Lord Kendal. Amelia was woken from her sleep, but she had no idea where the men had gone. Catherine would not worry her sister, so she told her only that there was good news about Dagonet that she wanted to share with his best friend.

She left Amy to fall back asleep, while she paced the hallways. Half the night had already worn away. There were only a few hours left. Where were the gentlemen planning to meet? Somewhere outside London, no doubt, where the chance of discovery was less. They must now be at an inn somewhere, close to the chosen site.

Would Dagonet truly plan to die in order to release her? She couldn’t bear it. She must find him in time.

Flinging her cloak around her shoulders she set off for Jermyn Street. After a great deal of pounding at the entry, Dagonet’s manservant opened the door, his nightcap still on his head.

“I must know where Mr. de Dagonet has gone,” she demanded. “Did he say?”

“My employer does not confide in me, ma’am. If you would forgive me, it is very late.”

He tried to close the door, but Catherine pushed inside. “Did he drop no hint? Pray, sir, please wrack your brains!”

“I am sorry, ma’am.”

“I know where they went!”

Catherine whirled around. In a smart, almost clean, set of clothes, Archibald Piggot had appeared beside her.

The boy grinned. “Mr. de Dagonet took me on to be under-footman, ma’am. But I keeps my eyes and ears open, don’t I? Lord Kendal was here and I heard them talking about it. They’re going to meet Viscount Hammond at Highgate. It’ll be a right pretty mill, I’ll bet. I’d give my eyeteeth to see it.”

“Are there horses here?” At the boy’s nod, Catherine continued, “Saddle up two, Mr. Piggot! You will have your wish sooner than you planned. You and I are going to Highgate right now.”

They were an odd sight as they clattered off through the silent streets, leaving the manservant gaping. Archibald’s eclectic education had not included much horsemanship, though he hung on gamely enough, and within half an hour was as balanced as a monkey on a branch.

Catherine, with her skirts spread around her, rode astride on a man’s saddle, since the contents of Dagonet’s stable did not extend to sidesaddles for ladies. She barely noticed the discomfort. An iron determination fought with the cold fear in her heart.

Under a dark, overcast sky the two horses cantered north until the city streets gave way to a winding country road flanked by vegetable fields and bare fruit trees. Mud splattered up from their hooves in a soaking spray that bespattered Catherine’s clothes and speckled Archibald’s round face like extra freckles.

There was no one else abroad.

* * * *

The village of Highgate was beginning to awaken to its morning routine as they arrived breathless and sore in the main street. With Archibald at her side, Catherine rode to each of the inns in turn, ignoring the curious looks of the stableboys and the few early travelers.

At last, one of the ostlers was able to tell her that a party of three gentlemen had just left in the direction of the woods.

“Gone to Bottom Acre, I shouldn’t wonder,” he said with a sly wink. “That’s where the gentlemen usually meet.”

“Please, sir,” Catherine said. “The directions?”

Archibald Piggot, with a flourish, handed the man a coin.

“For your trouble, my man!” he said grandly.

The ostler’s affronted pride at being so addressed by a ragamuffin was not enough to prevent him pocketing the silver as he pointed.

“Go down yonder about a mile and turn left after the first five-barred gate. Follow the track through Rookery Wood. You can’t miss it.”

They galloped off, but were forced to slow their mounts to a walk when they turned off the high road onto a rough track. The bare trees ahead were embroidered with multiple nests, ragged bundles of sticks gathered by the rooks, gregarious cousins of the crow.

It began to drizzle.

“So where did you get the money, Mr. Piggot?” Catherine asked.

“Was my month’s wages,” Archibald replied with a cheeky grin. “Mr. de Dagonet will pay me back.”

If he lives! If he lives!

The freezing rain intensified as they entered the woods. A narrow track led down through the trees and emerged into a mown meadow, well sheltered from the road.

In the clearing stood six gentlemen: Lord Brooke and Lord Kendal at one end; two strangers at the other; and in the center of the sward, Dagonet faced a nervous young man over the naked blades of their rapiers.

Both swordsmen were stripped of their coats. They saluted. The increasing rain molded their shirts to their bodies. The grass was already slick with ice.

A handkerchief dropped and the blades clashed together.

Catherine slipped from her mount and threw the reins to Archibald.

Dagonet was giving way before a furious, if uncoordinated, attack from the younger man. He looked wild, as if he no longer cared, yet he was laughing.

“Come, Viscount! I am ready to die on your blade, sir, but my pride forbids that I fall onto it without at least an attempt at skill on your part.”

Goaded, Hammond flailed wildly.

Still Dagonet backed away. “Come, sir! I cannot find a moment when you are steady enough for me to impale myself. Must I just drop to the grass, so that you can run me through?”

“He shall not!” Catherine cried. Picking up her mud-stained skirts, she ran across the clearing toward them. “Pray, stop, sirs!”

Lord Kendal and David Morris turned as if to intercept her, but Dagonet had already reacted.

The rapiers clashed together. With a rapid turn of the wrist, he overwhelmed the viscount’s unsteady arm, and that gentleman’s sword flew from his hand into the grass.

Catherine raced up to them. How it happened, she did not know, but as she arrived at the astonished feet of the viscount, she tripped over some unevenness in the ground and sprawled headlong. She slid across the wet turf to land without ceremony at Dagonet’s polished boots.

Tossing aside his blade, he reached both hands to hers and helped her to her feet.

“Sweet Kate!” he said. “Must you always land in the mud when you attempt to save me from some precipitate action?” He reached up to brush wayward strands of hair from her cheek. “There was no danger from Rye Combe Bog and there is none, I assure you, from Viscount Hammond’s inexperienced blade.”

Her face burned from the cold ride. Her eyes smarted with unshed tears. “But the marquis thought that you would let him kill you.”

“Yes, I am aware that Grandfather had some such intention when he arranged this sorry duel. The marquis is a man of violent emotion. But I am not so selfless, dear Kate. My intention was simply to let the viscount go home a tired and humbled survivor. I have no desire to die just yet. Did you come all the way out here just to prevent my gallant demise?”

“I though you meant to free me from the marriage. I could not bear it if you were to die.”

“Dear Kate, can this mean that you put some value on my worthless life? Please tell me that it does, because I have loved you ever since Exmoor, and though I don’t expect you to return it, I would treasure whatever modicum of good feeling you might find it in your heart to offer me.”

Her heart leapt to her throat. She tried to steady her voice as the drizzle turned in earnest into sleet, threatening to freeze them both where they stood.