Love Alters Not (6 page)

The boy was silent. Glancing up, she saw another tear trickling down his smooth cheek. He gave her an oblique look, then dragged a sleeve across his eyes.

She asked gently, “What is it, dear?”

“Nothing,” he replied, his chin jutting. “I was jus'—jus' playing.”

She took his hand. “I think you were not—that time.”

He jerked his head away and looked out of the window. Dimity turned his chin and smiled into the veiled green eyes. “You can trust me,” she said. “I won't tell.”

He looked down, but, clinging tightly to her hand, muttered, “I jus' thought—how fine it must be to have relations. I never had no brothers or sisters, or no one. Jus' me.” He swung his head up to glare at her fiercely. “An' that's jolly good, too. I—I know how to go on.”

But his tender mouth trembled. Suddenly he was no longer a Machiavellian imp, but just a scared, lonely little boy.

Dimity pulled him into a hug and kissed his curls. “You have not ‘just you' any more,” she said. “You have me.”

He sniffed and said a rather muffled, “Till we get to The Palfreys.”

“Well, you'll have your uncle, then.”

He drew back. “I don't want him! He doesn't want a nephew. She said he din't. And 'sides, if I get a uncle I want a real man. He's just a yellow coward!”

‘Now, why did the wretched woman tell him about that business if she hoped Farrar would take him?' thought Dimity. “Well,” she declared, “if Captain Farrar won't acknowledge you, I shall find a good home for you, Carlton. You have my word on it.”

His eyes narrowed. “Man to man? Honest and true? No ratting?”

“Word of honour.”

“An' you won't marry with some rich gent and forget me? You won't go away an' leave me? Never?”

“I cannot promise that much, I'm afraid. When Captain Farrar finds out I'm not really his sister-in-law, he may very well hand me over to the Watch!”

“'Course he won't. He don't know what my aunty looks like. He never met her.”

“Are you
sure?
” asked Dimity, hopefully. “Is there no one at The Palfreys who will know I'm an impostor?”

“What's that jawbreaker?”

“I mean, who will know I'm not who I say I am.”

“Oh.” He considered this. “I don't think so. Aunty Cathy wrote to him, but she never met him. She said they was all too hoity-toity to want anything to do with us. 'Sides, I shall tell him you
are
my aunty. Don't you never worry.” He patted her hand manfully. “I'll take care of you!”

Smiling at him, Dimity had the uneasy feeling that to be taken care of by this strange little boy might be a mixed blessing.

Surprisingly, when they reached Winchester, the chariot from The Palfreys was waiting. Carlton scrambled onto the box, and Dimity was settled into the luxurious interior. A wooden-faced footman placed a fur rug over her knees and as the vehicle began to roll smoothly along the highway she leaned back against soft cushions of rich red plush. Within twenty minutes they had turned onto a private road and passed through wide iron gates. Everywhere she looked now were signs of prosperity; well-thinned woods, neatly scythed sweeps of lawn, charming landscapes.

And what on earth was she doing here? She sighed miserably. ‘I have gone mad, is what it is,' she told herself. She had started out simply to help Tio. Now, she carried a scrap of parchment that spelled death most terrible for anyone possessing it; she had assumed another lady's identity and stolen her belongings; she intended to try and hoodwink a man of foul repute who might very well be murderously inclined towards her; she was likely to be accused of kidnapping a small (and decidedly dishonest) boy; and on top of all else, she had no doubt but that her poor brothers were nigh frantic with worry for her safety.

She sighed again. Her best hope, of course, was that Perry and Piers would find Tio and take care of him—if he wasn't dead, which God forbid! And then Tio would tell them about the paper he'd thought he was entrusting to Perry, and they would all come and get her out of this dreadful dilemma!

Rather belatedly, it occurred to her that the message itself might contain a clue to the whereabouts of Mr. Decimus Green, and she retrieved it, unfolded it carefully, and read:

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.

“What absolute nonsense!” she muttered. “How can this poem be so dangerous when it makes no sense at all?” But Tio had said something about a cypher. In that case, the meaning would be concealed. She stared down at it. Such a scrap of a thing to cause men to be hunted and tortured and killed. And women, mayhap. She shivered. But however reckless and improper the things she had done, they were justified; Tio had said many lives were at stake. She would not let him down! And if, in the process of delivering this message of death, she could also avenge herself on the evil Captain Anthony Farrar, why so much the better!

Having restored the parchment to her bodice, she glanced out of the window again. The drivepath was turning in a gradual easterly swing, and above some distant woods she could see chimneys and a high-peaked tower with a large weather vane atop it. Charmed, she turned to the left-hand window. Some distance ahead of them a rider was cantering down the steep slope of a hill. The horse he bestrode was a magnificent grey, but not too well broken to judge by its caperings. The rider swayed with lithe grace to the movements of his fiery steed, glancing back from time to time to where a golden spaniel followed, all ears and feet.

At the foot of the hill, the horse shied and launched into a gallop. The rider pulled him in sharply. The grey reared, forelegs flailing, then bucked furiously and for some seconds did all he might to unseat the man. The spaniel trotted up and sat down, watching pantingly. The grey made a bared-teeth grab for his owner's knee, and the heavy riding crop was brought down hard. The horse shook his head and stood quiet, but stamped at the ground as if to express some vestige of defiance.

From the box, Dimity heard Carlton scream, “Jolly good, sir!”

The rider looked their way and started the big horse to intercept them, and this time he obliged his mount, coming at the gallop. The carriage slowed and stopped. Dimity, quaking with nervousness, heard a deep voice raised in question, and the mumble of the coachman's reply. The rider, who had been temporarily out of her range of vision, came up to the open window and looked in.

He could not be Anthony Farrar, as she had first feared. Her brothers had unfailingly referred to him as a “miserable little worm,” and this man was tall and well-built, with the lazy graceful carriage of the athlete. She eyed him uncertainly as he bent to look in at her.

She guessed him to be in his late twenties. He wore no hat, and his thick hair was powdered and tied back. The sun-bronzed, fine-boned face was enhanced by a pair of vivid green eyes wide set under heavy, brown eyebrows. The nose and chin warned of inflexibility; the mouth was generous and well shaped, but with a haughty droop. He said with a sneer, “Mr. Deene allowed you to face it out alone, I take it.”

Irritated by both look and manner, she said, “Then you should not, sir.” The green eyes widened and the sardonic mouth relaxed slightly, and she went on, “I am a widow.”

“Regrettable,” he said, the ice returning full measure. “I'd prefer to have dealt with a
male
rascal.”

He made no attempt to keep his voice low, and Dimity heard Carlton's wrathful squeak and the muffled rumble of a man's laugh. “Since I mean to deal only with Captain Farrar,” she retorted disdainfully, “
your
preferences are not pertinent.”

He drawled, “I have been remiss. Allow me to introduce myself. I
am
Anthony Farrar.”

Dimity gave a gasp. “Miserable,” certainly. But—“a little worm”? Piers and Perry must have been wits to let! Feeling decidedly hardly done by, she exclaimed an indignant, “Oh!”

Carlton's voice called, “Sir—are
you
my Uncle Anth'ny?”

Farrar had been about to speak, but at this he closed his mouth with a snap and glanced up at the box. “Most decidedly—
not
!” he declared unequivocally. And bending to the window again, added, “Take my advice, ma'am, and go home. There are no pullets for plucking here!”

“How fortunate,” Dimity retaliated. “I had scarce expected an eagle, but to have to fleece a pullet would be extreme degrading.”

He looked briefly surprised, then amused. Resting one hand against the side of the coach, he leaned nearer. “You're a pretty doxy, but—”

The grey, who had been behaving quite well, suddenly screamed and, head down and legs stiff, shot straight into the air and spun around twice. Farrar, caught off-balance and unprepared, was hurled from the saddle. He landed hard, as his mount thundered in the direction of the house.

Watching, astonished, Dimity waited for her antagonist to get up, but he continued to lie sprawled and motionless. She thought without great satisfaction, ‘The horrid creature has broke his neck!' and wrenched at the door.

As she struggled to let down the steps, she heard a man shout a frantic,
“Captain!”
and then she was out and running to kneel beside Farrar.

The coachman flung himself down beside her. “My Gawd! My Gawd! Is he dead?”

With the experience gained from watching the twins somehow survive numerous brushes with an early grave, Dimity pressed her fingers below the strong jaw. “The heartbeat is steady. He is likely just stunned. Have you water anywhere on the coach?”

“Not water, ma'am.” He turned to the carriage and shouted, “Jim! Fetch the brandy!”

The footman jumped down, pulling a flask from the pocket of his wide-skirted dark red coat.

The coachman glanced obliquely at Dimity. “Had a long wait last night,” he grunted, by way of explanation. He slid an arm under his employer's shoulders. “I'll hold him up, ma'am. P'raps you can get some of this into him.”

Farrar's powdered head rolled limply. Dimity thought that he looked dead, but she tilted the flask carefully. For a moment the amber liquor trickled from the sides of his mouth. Then he coughed, the long lashes blinked and the green eyes peered dazedly at her. He was perfectly white, but a smile of singular sweetness curved his lips.

He murmured faintly, “It's all right, dearest … only…” Comprehension seemed to dawn. The words trailed off. He narrowed his eyes, frowningly, then reached up to thrust her hand away. “What … the deuce?”

“Polly had a tantrum, sir,” offered the coachman.

“Like hell,” snarled Farrar, and clambered to his feet, leaning on the coachman for a second and swaying unsteadily. He staggered towards the chariot, swearing under his breath, fury in every line of him. “You young … makebait! I'll break your damned neck!”

“Oh, no you will not!” Dimity ran to grip his arm.

A sudden sharp crack. A yell from the coachman. From the corner of her eye Dimity saw the open carriage door whipping at her. She was seized in an iron grip and thrown aside. Falling headlong, she gasped as something knocked the breath from her lungs, and, terrifyingly close, she heard the pound of hooves, the rattle of wheels, the creak of springs and leather.

“Hey!” roared the coachman, waving his arms madly and sprinting in pursuit of his purloined vehicle, followed by the footman.

“Get off!” wheezed Dimity.

Dragging himself to all fours, Farrar knelt above her. His splendid riding coat was ripped at the shoulder; his hair, having escaped its riband, hung untidily about his face; mud smeared one cheek and blood from a small cut on his forehead crept down the other. “That
damnable
little bastard!” he gritted between his teeth. “I'll murder him!”

A distant corner of Dimity's mind registered the awareness that this cowardly yellow dog was extremely good to look at. He had, however, lost considerable of his consequence. In fact, the elegant lord of the manor was now a muddy mess. Suddenly, it seemed enormously funny. She tried to restrain herself, but failed utterly.

Looking down with incredulity at the girl beneath him, Farrar saw a pale oval face, delicate features, a pair of laughing hazel eyes that had a slight and very fetching slant to them, all set off by a mass of tumbled rich brown ringlets. “I trust,” he snarled, coming painfully to his feet and helping her up, “you will find it funny when that imp of Satan runs my team into the bridge. The rains have caused the river to overflow and the ground is like a swamp there. Only let one wheel leave the drivepath and there'll be the devil to pay!”

Dimity's merriment died a sudden death. “Oh, heavens!” she exclaimed. “You—you mean that
Carlton
is driving?”

“Not with expertise,” he snapped, starting away. “I assure you, madam, that if my horses are hurt, you and that little hellion will find yourselves clapped up for the next twenty years!”

Without waiting for a response, he ran off in pursuit of the disappearing carriage. Dimity followed, seething with rage. The man was beyond belief! Little Carlton had no more notion of how to handle that spirited team than would a sparrow. 'Twould be a miracle was he not killed, and all Farrar could think about was his horses! She halted as she heard a distant crash followed by an outburst of shouts. Her heart seemed to freeze. Farrar was running with a long, graceful stride.

She tried to run also, but her head, which had ached since the accident with the Portsmouth Machine, was pounding dreadfully, and she was stiff in every limb. She found herself thinking inconsequently that Piers would be glad of Farrar on the village cricket team and brought herself back to reality with a jerk. Piers would strangle him with his bare hands, is what he would do …