Love Alters Not (49 page)

“What did you have of that poor, terrified child, my most unvaliant soldier? Her virtue, perhaps? Is that why she will not go to the man she loves, even though he lies ill and crying out for her?”

“No!” gasped Otton. “Sir—I swear—”

Marbury's lip curled. “
You?
Upon what would you swear? Your honour? You have none! Your God? Hah!”

Very white, Otton said, “Upon the thing I hold most dear—my mother's memory! I swear I did not violate the girl, nor force her in any way—”

“To do—what?” The duke stood very close now, and Otton, unable to escape, faced him in silence, but he could not meet that piercing gaze and his eyes fell.

“I know what you are about, you greedy money grubber!” said Marbury with icy contempt. “As always, you seek an easy path to riches. Miss Cranford must have had something you wanted—something perhaps that she was sworn not to reveal, is that it? 'Sdeath, but you are even lower than I suspected! That any kin of mine should stoop to terrorize a loving, grief-stricken lady!” He stepped back, pale with wrath. “The very sight of you offends! Go! Take your only friend, and go!”

Otton's bowed head lifted. “Sir—I—I did not terrorize the lady. I beg—”

“Oh, I believe that last! You would beg and crawl to be named one of my beneficiaries, would you not?” Marbury shook a white finger under his grandson's aquiline nose. “Now hear me, Roland. If you—
ever
—expect anything from my estate, you will undo whatever mischief you have done! If that fine boy dies—or that gentle girl is denied the happiness she so richly deserves … Heaven, help you—you'll get not a penny! Now—out!”

Otton did indeed want something from Marbury, but not even to himself would he admit how desperately he longed for his grandfather's affection and respect. Even so, his hand went out pleadingly. “Sir, I promise—”

“Pah! Out!”

Otton bowed and left him.

Riding through a glory of sunset, he told Rumpelstiltskin all about it. “Wicked old devil,” he said, without much heat. “Did you ever, Rump, hear of a man stooping so low as to set spies—
spies
—on his own grandson?” He stroked the chestnut's silken neck. “You may be thankful that I am your only relative,” he added bitterly.

Rumpelstiltskin, feeling that something was expected of him, tossed his head.

His master was silent for a little while. Then, “Damn and blast!” he muttered. And at the crossroad, turned to the east.

*   *   *

The afternoon was still, and Muse Manor drowsed peacefully under the hot August sunshine, the curtains at the open lattices billowing occasionally to the touch of a warm and fitful breeze. The smell of baking bread drifted tantalizingly from the kitchen, and Dimity smiled as she heard Peregrine's new peg leg tapping along the hall. She selected a snowy white rose, snipped it neatly just above the seventh leaf-cluster, and held it for a moment, admiring the perfection of the softly furled petals and the sweet fragrance of the bloom.

Peregrine was much more at ease with the “foot” Florian had carved for him. At first professing indignation because he “clumped about like a one-legged pirate,” he had come, she suspected, to be rather proud of his new leg. It had also become something of an indicator of his mood, for when he was in a pet his stamps were rapid and loud, whereas when he was content his steps were lighter.

It was becoming quite hot in the sun. She took up her basket of blossoms, moved into the shade, and sat down for a minute on the old bench by the Mimosa tree. She sighed, staring blindly at the roses. How was he today? Better, surely. It was, after all, nigh two weeks since the trial. Lady Helen had sent word asking that she come—had said he was calling for her—but that had been a week ago. A terrible week, during which she had been all but driven out of her senses, longing to go to him, and knowing she dare not. When she went to The Palfreys it must be to confess her betrayal. And that was news he should not hear—not yet. She would have to go, eventually, when he was more fully recovered. She bit her lip. Whatever would he say to her? How would he feel? Conscience whispered, “Whatever he says, you know how he will feel. He will know you did it for his sake. He has just been given back his honour, and now he will surely think his good name tarnished again by the terrible thing you did. He will never forgive you. Never want to see you again!” She closed her eyes. It was done. And he was alive. But in saving him, she had lost him. There could be no doubt, for she knew him so well and, understanding the relentless Code by which he lived, adored him the more because of his stern adherence to it.

Peregrine and Piers had obviously put another interpretation on her refusal to return to The Palfreys. They believed that she feared to implicate Farrar in the Jacobite business. She had made no attempt to enlighten them, striving to appear content, and they had been so careful to avoid all mention of the matter. But she had caught Peregrine sometimes watching her anxiously, or Piers would give her one of his searching looks, and she would know that they were worrying. Perhaps they were watching her now. A fine picture she must present!

She looked up swiftly and saw at once that she was no longer alone for the westering sun painted a shadow onto the lawn beside her. A tall shadow. A slim gentleman with a sword at his side and a tricorne in one hand. Her heart began to pound wildly. She closed her eyes for a second, trying not to tremble and to quiet the hurrying of her breath. Standing then, she turned and gave a gasp.

Instead of the beloved features, the green eyes and fair hair she had been sure she would see, she encountered a breathtakingly handsome dark face, black, curling hair, twinkling eyes of jet, and a shapely mouth that trembled on a smile.

Her hand fluttered to her throat. “You!”

Otton swept her a low bow. “Neither flattering nor original,” he said scoldingly. “I had expected a warmer welcome.”

“Oh! I am so sorry! Of—of course you are welcome.” Apprehensive, she tried not to show it, and waved him to the bench. He waited respectfully until she was seated, then sat beside her. ‘Too close, wretched man,' she thought and, edging as far away as was possible, went on, “I have wanted so to be able to thank you. It is—it is only due to you that Sir Anthony was not—did not die that dreadful day! How you ever managed to find your grandpapa and bring him to us in time—”

“With the very greatest difficulty,” he interrupted, managing in some incredible fashion to have both halved the distance between them and acquired possession of her hand. “I have, dear Mistress Mitten,” he lifted and kissed her fingers, “a superb horse. The fastest in all the Southland, I do believe.” Dimity rather hurriedly reclaiming her hand, he looked at her soulfully and appended with a sigh, “But—my grandsire is not—er, enamoured of me, as you know. It took all my powers of persuasion to win my way into his august presence.”

“Oh,” said Dimity, feeling the most ungrateful wretch alive. “Then—I must be doubly thankful for your invaluable assistance. He was—he is—superb!”

“He is. And you should.”

She blushed before his really very naughty eyes and looked away.

“But you are not,” he observed, moving even closer.

Dimity drew a deep breath. “Captain Otton—”

“Roland,” he murmured, twining a glossy ringlet about one finger.

“You and I struck a—a business arrangement,” she went on, removing the ringlet.

“Of which you are deeply ashamed,” he said with sudden gravity.

She winced and shrank a little.

Otton lifted her chin. “Poor gentle child,” he said in a tone she would not have believed him capable of. “How innocent you are. Is a rare quality. I vow I quite envy Farrar. You—mean to tell him, of course.”

She looked at him steadily, wondering at the compassion she read in his eyes. “I have no choice. I—I can only pray, he will forgive me.”

“Confession is good for the soul,” he agreed musingly. “Of the confessor.”

Her eyes, which had fallen again, shot up at this and scanned him anxiously.

“But it can play hob with the one hearing the confession,” he finished. “Besides, there is no need for you to so immolate yourself at poor Tony's expense, and—”

“Immolate!” she gasped, indignant. “At
his
expense? But I must—”

“Destroy the happiness he has only just found?” He shook his head. “I am not the man to be much concerned with the troubles of others, and your beloved was far from kind to me. However, I will admit he has had more than his share of misery. If you insist upon piously relieving your conscience, ma'am, you will break his heart, plunge him back into despair, and ruin your every chance for a rich and joyful life together.”

Dimity's eyes filled with tears. She said in a low voice, “Do you think I do not know that?”

“Besides which,” said Otton, “there is not the need for such nobility. No, be still and listen to me. I have already learned a good deal of what I wish to know about the treasure, but your cypher was, alas, quite worthless. There were, as you know, four such messages sent out. Even could I discover the key to the one you gave me, I would have only a small part of an apparently long message. As it is, I have wasted some very expensive candles during the hours of darkness, trying to make head or tail of it, to no avail. So, to all intents and purposes you have done nothing.”

She lifted tragic, despairing eyes to his, and he went on, “I mean the rebs no harm, I promise you. I am out only for the gold. I would never betray them to the military, for I—”

Why his arms were about her, or how it had occurred, seemed very unimportant. On a sob, Dimity faltered, “B-But—I betrayed them! I cannot be silent. I
cannot
let him go on thinking me pure and—and worthy to be his wife when—”

“Then you shall have to confess.” He drew her closer and said earnestly, “Unless you are willing to bear the greater burden and remain silent. And it
will
be the greater burden, my sweet Miss Cranford. Besides, consider poor Farrar's alternatives. Would he call me out? No doubt of that. I am no braggart, m'dear, and will confess to you that I have been bested with the sword. Once. I have seen Farrar fence, and he is excellent. Only—not in
my
class. And—in despite everything, I really have no desire to kill him.”

She was briefly silent, huddled in his arms, torn by doubt and longing with all her heart to accept his solution. Still clinging to his cravat, she looked up. “Is it true? Is it really true? Will you give me your word of honour as a gentleman that you did not decode it and that you will never repeat what you know? That you will never betray any of them?”

He stared at her with an odd expression. “Would it set your mind at ease if I did so swear, pretty one? My grandpapa does not place much value on my word, nor fancy me a gentleman, you know.”

“Perhaps not. But I do.”

“Do you, by God!” He flushed darkly. “Then—you have my word, ma'am. On both counts.”

“Thank you. Oh, thank you! If you but
knew
the weight you have lifted from my shoulders!”

He gave her that same odd look, then swooped down and kissed her on the forehead.

“Rogue,” she said, smiling, but pulling away. “I might have known your humility would not last long!”

He threw a hand to his heart. “Gad! Why must I always show my true colours? And here comes your fine brother to defend your honour. In truth, I cannot bear it! Adieu, sweet maid. Go to your fine beau. He needs you.”

“Hey!” roared Peregrine, stamping rapidly along the path. “Otton! What the devil are you about?”

Otton gave a whoop, and ran. A few minutes later, riding at a leisurely pace along a sun-dappled lane, he chuckled to himself. He had not been entirely truthful with the delectable Miss Cranford. Less than a month since he had been involved in an interesting little business that had come near to costing him one of his few friends. Fortunately, he had managed to not only retain his friend, but to come away from the affair with something almost as valuable—a copy of the third cypher. It was true that he had failed to break the code, but to his way of thinking that was unimportant. He knew now the man he must watch. And with luck, young Father Charles Albritton would lead him to the pot of gold at the end of his rainbow—the treasure of Charles Stuart and his ill-fated Jacobites.

“Do you know, Rump,” he confided, “I think I have contrived to satisfy my curmudgeonly tyrant of a grandfather. And additionally, if I could look into the future, I believe I would see vast riches for me, and a happy and contented retirement for you, old friend. A pleasant prospect, is it not?”

Rumpelstiltskin offering a companionable snort, Roland Fairleigh Mathieson chuckled again. He seldom permitted himself to be downcast, but today his inherent optimism soared to new heights, for he sensed that he was at last within reach of his goal. He began to sing a naughty little French song as he rode on through the glory of the summer afternoon.

It was perhaps as well that he was not able to look into the future.

*   *   *

“Anthony,” whispered Dimity, bending over the bed. “Wake up, my darling.”

Her starches rustling, the nurse sniffed. “He cannot hear you, miss,” she said huffily. “We have tried that these two weeks—to no avail.”

Dimity stroked back the fair, dishevelled hair. “Anthony, wretched creature,” she murmured, “how dare you hide from me? Wake up!”

Folding her arms, the nurse cast an exasperated glance at the ceiling. Such terms as those were enough to drive the poor soul even deeper into his coma! “Dr. Steel has been here daily,” she imparted, “and also a fine London surgeon by name of James Knight, and if they wasn't able to—” She paused, outraged, as Dimity knelt and lifted a hand to silence her. “Well!” she exclaimed, but then, because she was really a very fine nurse, she checked and stood motionless.