Love Alters Not (15 page)

Dimity was a stranger to hatred, and the swift flare of ferocity between the two men appalled her. She moved back, watching them. Ellsworth's handsome features were distorted, the fingers of his right hand crooked as though he yearned to draw the sword that hung at his side.

Farrar was as cold as his cousin was inflamed. “Nor I be more willing to oblige,” he drawled. “Unfortunately, to indulge myself with the joy of ridding the world of you would distress the Lady Helen.”

“Shivering poltroon! You've no need to be inventing excuses! I'll provide you one!” Ellsworth lifted a clenched hand.

“No!” Dimity ran between them. “You cannot! Sir Anthony has no weapon and is disabled. His arm was badly savaged by a dog this morning.”

“Had my cousin not been aware of that fact, ma'am,” drawled Farrar, “he'd never dare be so bold, I promise you.”

With a crude gutter oath, Ellsworth's hand blurred to his sword hilt. Farrar seized Dimity and fairly threw her aside. Steel glittered in the sunlight as Ellsworth leapt to the attack, his swordpoint darting murderously for the unarmed man's throat.

Farrar's left arm whipped upward and knocked the blade aside. His right fist seemed to come up from his knees. Dimity heard the solid thwack of the impact. Ellsworth's blue eyes crossed. Slammed back, he landed heavily and lay in an ungainly sprawl. Shuffle ran to his side and barked madly into his still face.

Stepping over the fallen, Dimity reached for Farrar's hand. “Have you cut your arm?”

“Fortunately not. One benefit of a thick bandage.” Both tone and eyes were cold. “Shall we adjourn, ma'am?” He proffered his right arm. Dimity rested her hand on it and, with not another thought for Mr. Ellsworth, allowed him to lead her towards the house. She felt triumphant, which was extreme unmaidenly, and wondered if the man beside her scorned her because she was not having a fit of the vapours, as a well-bred girl should under such circumstances. She glanced at him under her lashes. He looked bleak and forbidding, his lips set in a stern line, and she restrained the question she had been about to ask.

They were approaching the front steps when Carlton came racing around from the east side of the house. “Aunty Cathy! Aunty Cathy!” he panted. “Matter 'f life an' death!”

She halted, regarding him apprehensively.

“You terrify us,” drawled Farrar. “Who died?”

Carlton grinned at him. “I need my 'lowance, please ma'am. Mos' desprit.”

“Allowance…?” echoed Dimity, taken aback.

“Certainly not,” said Farrar. “When you go off to school, your aunt may perhaps agree to such an—investment. You shall have to wait, Master Carlton.”

Rather to her own amazement, Dimity did not protest his autocratic interference, nor did Carlton seem surprised by it, although he wailed, “Two
years?
Sir—I cannot!”

“Child, you have no alternative. Unless you mean to earn it. That is another matter.”

The boy perked up a little. “
Earn
it, sir? How?”

Farrar shrugged. “There must be many profitable opportunities for an enterprising young fellow. I know there were when I was your age. Try the kitchen—or see my head groom in the stables. Trade your services for what you want.”

Carlton considered this, then started off at a gallop, only to come full circle and observe cheerfully, “Your hand is covered with blood and gore, Sir Uncle. Did you cut someone's gizzard out?”

Farrar whipped his left arm behind him. “No, you young ghoul. Begone!”

All knees and elbows, the boy sped away.

Dimity said, “So he did cut you after all! I cannot think why you must—”

“He did not cut me, ma'am.” The chill in his eyes pronounced, he said, “The blow likely set it to bleeding again, is all.”

She viewed him stormily. “If ever I saw such a disgusting display! My brothers would have—”

“Brothers?”
His brows lifted. “I thought there was but one. Your family grows by the hour. Have a care, ma'am.”

Dimity bit her lip. Before she could think of a suitable response, he went on, “Be that as it may, you are perfectly right. I should not have lost my temper with Ellsworth.” His voice was bitter suddenly, his eyes dark and brooding.

“I did not mean to imply that
you
were disgusting, Sir Anthony! It was your cousin's actions I found unpardonable.”

“Indeed? I'll own you surprise me.” His mouth twisted into its most cynical smile. “When you were locked in that passionate embrace beside the stream, I rather gained the impression that you found him—er, more than pleasing.”

Infuriated, she said, “And I find
you
more than obnoxious, Captain! Mr. Ellsworth forced his attentions on me, but did I think him the most ‘pleasing' gentleman in Christendom, I must only cry shame for an attack on an unarmed man!”

He said thoughtfully, “And you tried to stop him. That marks the second time you have come to my aid. I thank you, but in the light of such demonstrations of fair-mindedness, I can only be the more perplexed. You appear to dislike unsportsmanlike behaviour. Yet, by my standards, to plant the seeds of hatred and contempt in the mind of a child, 'gainst an uncle he has yet to meet, is no less unfair than Ellsworth's despicable conduct.” He pressed a handkerchief to his left wrist, fixed Dimity with a grave stare, and waited.

Her mouth opened to voice a furious denial, then closed again. She was in the wretched position of being unable either to defend herself or to deny the justice of his remarks. Without a word, she walked past him and into the cool dimness of the house.

Humiliation died a sudden death. Between the shock of the fight and her vexation with Farrar, she had quite forgotten her reason for returning. Her “caller” stood and turned to face her as she mounted the steps to the music hall. He was young and powerfully built, his hair powdered and neatly styled. A tricorne was under one arm. And his coat was a bright scarlet.

Captain Jacob Holt bowed in perfunctory manner. “I give you good day, Mrs. Deene. We have found you, at last.”

She felt very cold and, quite sure she was about to be arrested, managed somehow to keep walking and to extend her hand. Reaching for it, Holt checked and stood rigid, staring at her bosom. For an instant, Dimity was petrified by the fear that he knew the deadly fragment of parchment nestled in her bodice, then she realized it was the vulgarity of her gown that had astonished him.

Farrar, who had entered also, said, “If you wish to—”

Returning his attention to Dimity, Holt gave her hand a brief shake. “We are hoping you may be able to solve a puzzle for us, ma'am. Some of the other passengers—”

Dimity interrupted in turn, “I believe Sir Anthony addressed you, Captain Holt. You must not have heard him.”

In a voice of ice Holt said, “I know of no such person, ma'am. I had as soon go to Winchester to conduct this interview. Indeed, I should take it kindly did you consent to accompany me. I mislike the—aroma in this house.”

Dimity's nerves tightened. Farrar had just knocked one man down. Now, it would seem he must repeat the process. Unless he challenged. Certainly, no gentleman would take such an insult, least of all in his own home and in front of a lady.

She was mistaken. Farrar stared at Holt steadily, but as she watched, his eyes lowered. Neither looking up nor uttering a word, he walked past and continued to the stairs.

She stared after him, deeply shocked and baffled by his inconsistent behaviour.

“Ah,” said Holt, with a thin smile, “the atmosphere improves. Will you sit here, Mrs. Deene? It is about the accident…”

Self-preservation demanded that she pull her wits together. Whatever happened, she must not go back to Winchester with Holt. If she met any of the other passengers face to face, she would certainly be unmasked as an impostor. She sat down and made an effort to appear calm. “You spoke of the other passengers, I believe?”

He drew another chair closer and occupied it. “There is some confusion regarding the injured lady.”

Her heart began to play leapfrog. “Injured? You mean the poor lady still lives?”

“She is in some kind of deep swoon caused by a blow to the head. The surgeon is hopeful she will recover at any time.” His eyes fixed on her face, he asked softly, “Does that disturb you, Mrs.—ah, Deene?”

‘It terrifies me, you horrid creature,' thought Dimity, and answered, “Of course not. It is grand news, but what is the confusion about?”

“Only that—someone seemed to be under the impression the little boy was travelling with Miss Clement—the injured lady.”

The palms of her hands were wet. She had to force herself not to shake. “It was an unpleasant journey from start to finish, and I quite understand the confusion. Perhaps you would wish to see my nephew…?”

“Thank you, I should. May I?” He stood and crossed to tug on the bell rope.

After a moment a lackey appeared and was sent off to find Carlton. He was only gone a short while but it seemed to Dimity an eternity, during which she responded somehow to the captain's small talk and prayed Carlton would not be trapped into betraying her. She felt a little sick when the lackey returned with the boy leaping boisterously beside him.

“Aunty Cathy, may I—” Carlton began, then halted and stood mute, his gaze on the military magnificence.

The captain, who had remained standing, regarded the child sternly. “Come here, boy, and tell me the truth. Is this lady your aunt?”

Carlton marched to gaze up at Holt angelically. “I 'spect she must be 'less she 'dopted me for a nephew.” He turned to Dimity. “Did you 'dopt me, Aunty?”

Marvelling at the little rascal, Dimity rose. “I certainly did not,” she said truthfully. “But if the captain wishes to, he may!”

Holt smiled uncertainly, still staring at the boy, who giggled and went skipping off in the direction of the kitchens.

“If I can be of any further assistance, Captain,” said Dimity, weak with relief, “you must not hesitate to call on me.”

He stood there looking at her in a considering way. Then he gave a short bow. “Thank you. I apologize for having troubled you. Good day, ma'am.” He strode briskly down the steps and across the lower hall where a lackey waited to open the door.

Dimity wandered after him and stood on the terrace watching while a trooper came up leading his mount. When they had ridden out of sight, she walked slowly into the house and across the hall. She was, she realized, more than ever on borrowed time. She must find Mr. Rafe Green and deliver the cypher before poor Mrs. Deene recovered consciousness or Holt would be back, and next time with a troop, to carry her off to the Tower. She shivered, then it dawned on her that she was standing still and that Farrar stood at the top of the steps, eyeing her speculatively.

She stared at him in silence.

A dark flush appeared under his tan. “I suppose,” he drawled, “you are thinking I just lived up—or down—to my reputation.”

‘Yes, indeed,' she thought, only to be reminded of the terrible risk he had taken for Shuffle, and how neatly he had disposed of his unpleasant cousin.

Watching her expressive face, he asked, “Am I such an enigma, ma'am?”

She walked slowly up the steps. “I think perhaps you are.”

He bowed. “The discovery is mutual.”

She thought, ‘Oh, not another battle!' and said with a shrug, “I cannot guess why you would find me an enigma, sir.”

“Can you not?” He started across the music hall beside her. “I might list a dozen reasons, but—just for an example, I had not realized the trouble you have with your ears. You are a little deaf, I think.”

“I am no such thing!”

“No? And yet I called you by name this morning, and you did not respond, although I said ‘Mrs. Deene' quite loudly.”

He looked so bland, but he was watching her narrowly. Had he really called her, or was this just an attempt to trap her into a mistake? A series of loud thuds announced Carlton's unique method of travelling on one foot. “I was probably thinking of something else,” said Dimity, keeping her eyes on the boy.

“And just now I said ‘Mrs. Catherine,'” he murmured. “Twice.”

“Ah. Well—you see, I am seldom called by that name. My brother—”

“Brothers,” he corrected gravely.

“—call me … Mitten.”

Carlton came up with them in time to hear that, and protested indignantly, “Ooh, Aunty! You said I was not to tell anyone that is your—”

“Yes, I know.” Her back to the wall, Dimity still struggled gamely. “It is—er, a silly name, to be sure, but … well, I am used to it, you see.”

They walked to the stairs, Carlton following, jumping in and out of the sections of the great stained-glass window that the sunlight painted on the floor.

Farrar mused, “Kitty, Kate, Cathy, would seem logical. But—Mitten…?”

“Sir,” she said firmly, “I do not care to be borrowing your aunt's things, and I certainly cannot wear riding boots with my gowns, so—”

“Oh, I don't know,” he murmured, “'twould enliven—”

“And so,” she went on, cutting off such deliberate provocation, “I should like very much to go into Salisbury tomorrow and buy myself a pair of slippers. Your aunt said it might be possible.”

“I make it a point never to contradict my aunt, can I avoid it. Besides, it chances, I have occasion to ride into Salisbury first thing in the morning. There are papers Norris wants, as you heard.”

She came to a halt, regarding him uneasily. “I have no wish to impose on—”

“'Twill be less of an imposition do you ride with me, rather than obliging me to call up coachman and carriage, Mrs. Mitten.”

Why she should blush when he spoke her name she could not imagine, but she knew she was doing so and, flustered, said, “Yes. That is true, I fancy. And you could go about your business whilst I made my purchases, so—”