Love Alters Not (34 page)

The butler's small procession wound its ponderous way across the gloom of the Great Hall, and the lackeys opened the doors. Two men stepped inside. The first was a tall young fellow with a lean, finely cut face and an air of breeding. Otton wandered nearer. The second man, who had been partially screened from view by the butler's figure, was abruptly before him. The two locked glances and the result was electrifying. Two hands whipped to sword hilts, save that Otton had not carried arms this evening.

“Otton…!”
hissed Gordon Chandler, and sprang forward, his pleasant features dark with hatred, his sword leaping into his hand.

Otton made a mad dash for the umbrella stand, tore a walking cane from it, and swung it to the guard position.

“Chandler!” shouted Piers at the top of his lungs. “No—you lamebrain!”

“Gentlemen! I beg you will refrain!” cried the butler, sprinting out of range.

Maddened by the sight of this man who two months earlier had helped brutalize his wounded brother, Chandler was deaf to their protests. Otton sprang nimbly aside, evading Chandler's enraged lunge, and waited, eyes bright, cane circling warily.

“Filth!” snarled Chandler, thrusting hard, his blade turned by Otton's deft parry. “Dirty, worthless … scum!”

“Temper … temper,” Otton scolded, retreating, but contriving to either deflect or elude the fierce attacks of that deadly blade.

A footman with more spunk than the butler ran up behind Chandler and grasped his sword arm, whereupon Piers was obliged to seize his other arm. “Are you gone quite daft?” he roared.

Struggling furiously, Chandler shouted, “Let me
go,
damn you!”

“Otton has no weapon, you madman! Have done!”

At last, the words pierced Chandler's wrath. He ceased his efforts and stood trembling with passion, sweat gleaming on his flushed face and horror coming into his eyes at this unforgivable breach of the Code of Honour. “Oh … Gad!” he gasped.

“What the …
devil…
?” Mr. Oliver Green came swiftly across the Great Hall, Phillip Ellsworth beside him. “Are you ripe for Bedlam, sir?”

Flushed with mortification, Chandler sheathed his sword and muttered, “My apologies. Unhappily, I have a prior acquaintance with this scoundrel.”

Otton flourished the cane in salute. “Our paths have crossed—I'll own,” he admitted, with his insolent half-smile and only a trace of breathlessness.

Chandler said harshly, “Our
steel
will cross tomorrow!”

“I do but second my principal, sir,” Otton pointed out with saintly forbearance.

“We'll see that,” rasped Chandler.

Cranford intervened, performing rapid introductions.

Conveniently forgetting his own recent lapse, Ellsworth said disdainfully, “'Tis my opinion you owe the captain an apology, sir.”

Chandler had a sudden picture of his illustrious father's inevitable reaction to the atrocious act he had just committed, and his eyes fell. Raising them, he looked into Otton's sardonic grin and somehow managed to say a more or less polite, “You have my—apologies, Captain Carrion.”

Otton considered him reflectively.

This encounter had caused a surprising number of servants to recall business that drew them to the vicinity of the Great Hall. Praying it had also granted Farrar the diversion he needed, Cranford announced, “We are come as representatives of Captain Sir Anthony Farrar.”

Green put up his brows. “Are you, indeed? You surprise me.” And encountering the interested gaze of three maids and a brace of lackeys, he added, “Let us conduct our business where we are less in the public eye … This way, gentlemen, if you please.”

*   *   *

Farrar searched with desperate haste through the second of Rafe Green's wardrobes. One branch of candles had been lit when he first crept into the room and, suspecting this indicated the early return of the valet, he had raced to the larger press and ransacked it without success. Now, he thrust aside coats of velvet, brocade, satin, and silk; green and pale blue and brown coats; mulberry, gold and puce … but not one of dark blue. Reaching the end of the rack, he spun about. Where else? The room was vast, having a great tester bed against the right-hand wall, chests of drawers and a dressing table between the windows, the presses on this side and, near the bed, a door that probably led to a dressing room. He sprinted over and flung it open, thus waking the man who had been softly snoring on a trundle bed.

Farrar's shock was augmented by instant action. He flipped up the blanket that covered the man's legs to enfold his head instead, and as the valet started up with a muffled cry, seized a heavy riding crop and brought the handle down, hard. The valet sank back without a sound. Breathing hard, Farrar scanned the small chamber. A clothes rack held garments doubtless intended for the morrow; a tall whatnot was littered with spurs, whip thongs, several ruffles, and a heavy dog collar studded with iron points. And draped over a nearby chair was a torn blue coat.

With a gasp of triumph, he snatched it up and rummaged through the pockets. Nothing in the left one. He groped feverishly and in the deepest corner of the right pocket his fingers detected a small object that rustled. He retrieved it and smoothing the scrap of parchment, carried it closer to the candle and read what had been written in a fine hand:

4

All is quiet in the city.

See the pigeons in the square,

Indignant. Waiting for their corn or bread.

Is it not strange, and dead?

Enthralling to see the streets so bare.

On mansion and hovel drifts snow, so white.

One will bring food to the pigeons tonight.

“Good Lord!” he muttered. But however incomprehensible, this
must
be the cypher on which so much depended. He shoved it into his pocket and glanced sympathetically at the valet. Poor devil, he thought, remembering how his own head had felt after just such a blow, but suspecting he'd not struck as hard as had Green's butler. He put a couple of guineas under the man's limp hand, then raced to the door, opened it a crack, and jumped back. Two chambermaids were walking, giggling, along the hall.

“Only fancy,” trilled one, “drawing steel on a unarmed gent!”

“Quality,” said the other derogatorily. “My Willyum may be just a gardener, duck, but he wouldn't never do such a nasty thing as that there!”

‘Glory!' thought Farrar, ‘Cranford properly let Gordie run amok!'

“And such a handsome chap,” said the first maid as they went on past.

“Who? My Willyum?”

“Go on, Joannie! I meant that there Captain Otton. What a wicked devil though! Pinched me today … right on me…”

The voices faded and a door opened and closed again to the accompaniment of soft laughter.

Farrar peeped into the hall once more and found it clear. He ran lightly to the back stairs, sprinted down them, and was out of the rear door in a flash.

He beheld chaos. Peregrine sat against the wall, softly groaning and struggling with his foot. His efforts were impeded by approximately five cats. Several more cats were busily engaged in licking their way across the open end of the courtyard. At a conservative estimate, Farrar judged there were possibly as many as a dozen felines in all. Chuckling, he started across the court, quite forgetting the lighted windows. He came face to face with Roland Otton, reaching out to shut a casement. For an instant they stared at each other. Then, Otton closed the casement and turned back into the room. Farrar raced to Peregrine and shooed away some of his admirers. “You and your concoction,” he said.

“Did you get it?”

“Yes. Are you all right?”

“Devil I am! One of these blasted cats jumped on my back. Scared hell out of me and I dropped the pistol. It's gone slithering into that damnable drain, I think. While I was crawling about trying to find it, my stupid foot came loose again! Won't take me a minute to tighten things up.”

“Better not wait. Otton saw me just now.”

“Oh, damme! You go, then.”

“Not likely! Come on!” He hauled Peregrine to his feet, pulled one arm across his shoulders, and started off, half carrying him.

They'd gone only a short way when a distant outburst of deep bays split the silence.

“Sniffed you out, by God!” gasped Peregrine. “Run for it, man!” And looking, horrified, at the two dark, oncoming shapes, he thought, ‘My God! They're monsters!'

Farrar let him go and ran for his life. He found Poli tethered beside the house, stamping impatiently, and with a flying leap was in the saddle. Wrenching the stallion's head around, he drove home his spurs. Poli reared in resentment and was off like the wind. Peregrine, trying to stand and sweating with unreasoning panic, heard the thundering hooves and reached up gratefully. Two muscular shapes hurtled across the lawn, emitting slobbering snarls and a deep terrible growling that sent a bevy of cats streaking madly in all directions. The mastiffs ignored them and raced single-mindedly for the man they had been trained to hate.

Farrar reached down.

Still clutching his empty jar, Peregrine waved him off. “Can't…” he gasped. “Go!”

Farrar was out of the saddle in a wild leap. “Get your foot in the stirrup,” he panted. “Lean back on me.”

The mastiffs, ravening, were horribly close. Peregrine threw all his weight on Farrar, got his left foot in the stirrup, and was tossed to the saddle. With a supple leap, Farrar mounted behind him. A snarling brute launched itself at him. Farrar grabbed Peregrine's jar and flailed wildly at the gnashing jaws, dreading lest those great teeth again tear into his flesh. The jar connected solidly with the dog's muzzle, and the beast fell back dazedly. The second mastiff raced at them as Poli sprang into his great stretching gallop. Farrar hurled the redolent jar at the brute. To the accompaniment of a cacophony of barks, howls, shouts from the stableyard, and a sudden commotion from the mansion, they raced around the west wing, up the slope, and were away.

“Excelsior!” cried Peregrine, elated. “Oh, I say Farrar! Jolly well done!”

XIV

Dimity put down her cards as Lady Helen came into the music hall. “Is Carlton asleep, ma'am?”

“They both are. Poor Glendenning is worn to a shade.”

My lady crossed to look over Dimity's shoulder. “How goes your Patience?”

“Poorly, I'm afraid. I do not seem able to concentrate.”

“Likely your mind is occupied with other matters. Come and sit with me, my dear.”

They repaired to the beige velvet sofa and sat side by side. “Now,” said my lady, “perhaps you will be so kind as to tell me where all the men have gone. And why.”

Dimity hesitated. It was obvious that Farrar's main mission in life was to spare this gentle lady all possible distress. Her hesitation was brief. She said coolly, “To arrange the duel, ma'am.”

Lady Helen gave a gasp. “B-between my—my nephew and Rafe? Oh, lud! Who is to second Anthony? Chandler?”

“And my brother Piers.”

Astounded, Helen exclaimed, “But—I had thought—”

She was interrupted by a commotion in the lower hall. Voices rose in anger and both women came to their feet. Leonard, considerably dishevelled, ran up the steps, but was sent sprawling before he could speak. A sergeant and a grinning trooper followed the impressive officer who marched across the room to offer a brisk salute and drawl with a curl of the lip, “Ladies, your butler appears to suffer from a mental incapacity. He cannot recall where his master is gone. I feel sure you can do better.”

Dimity's heart began to hammer with fright. This young captain was extremely handsome and his dark blue eyes flickered over her with obvious approval, but the arrogance of his manner appalled her.

Also very frightened, my lady said sharply, “How dare you force your way into my home and abuse my servants? Your name, if you please.”

He laughed. “Ecod, but you terrify me, madam!” He waved a hand gracefully. “Present me, Sergeant.”

The sergeant stepped forward and said without expression, “Captain Brooks Lambert, me lady.”

“Who simply desires to know, ma'am,” said the officer, “where is Farrar?”

Leonard had struggled to his knees. The trooper gave a sly shove, and the butler sprawled again. With an indignant cry, Dimity ran to help him. The captain's gloved hand shot out and caught her arm, swinging her around so that she almost fell. “I did not give you permission to leave us, pretty one,” he jeered.

Lady Helen started forward with an outraged exclamation.

Furious, Dimity slapped the soldier's face hard. He swore, his grip tightening brutally.

“That will do!” The slightly nasal voice fairly cracked across the room. Dimity heard Lambert curse softly, but he released her at once, and she whirled about to see a tall, slim lieutenant colonel stalking briskly up the steps, one hand on his sabre, and his hard dark eyes fairly hurling anger. “You forget yourself, Captain! We are here to question Sir Anthony Farrar. Not to abuse a lady!”

“This woman, sir, refuses—”

“Not surprisingly.” The colonel's gaze fixed on Leonard, still sitting on the step. “Be so good as to assist that gentleman to his feet.”

The sergeant hurried forward, only to be stopped by a look that he later described as having frizzled his liver.

“Captain…?” the colonel said silkily.

His jaw set and his handsome features very red, Captain Lambert crossed to the butler and hauled him up.

Turning to the silent women, the colonel said, “You have my profound apologies, ladies. These are hard times and our duty a thankless and often frustrating one. I am Mariner Fotheringay and regret the necessity to intrude on your privacy.”