My Lord Murderer (24 page)

“Tom!” Drew called after him, but he could hear the boy’s footsteps racing down the hall without a pause. Then the front door slammed and Tom was gone.

Tom stumbled down the stone steps of Drew’s residence, blinded by tears, and charged into Wys who was just starting up. Without a word of apology or explanation, Tom made as if to run away, but Wys—seeing his look of agitation—caught him by both arms. “I say, there, Tom,” he said, “don’t rush off like that without so much as a how-de-do. I want to talk to you.”

Tom struggled to free himself. “L-Let me g-go, Mr. Farr. I’m in no mood for t-talking.”

“I can see that. But I can also see that something’s wrong. If you don’t want to talk to me, let’s go inside and talk to Drew.”

“I don’t want to talk to him. N-Not ever!”

“Nonsense, Tom. I’ve found no one better to talk to when
I’m
in trouble.”

The boy turned a tear-stained face to Wys. “That’s what I thought. B-But now, when I really n-need him, he’s no help at all!”

“I can’t believe that Drew—”

“Can’t you? Well, Gwen’s run off with George Pollard—yes, you may well gape! They are on their way to Gretna Green and your friend won’t lift a finger to stop them! I never want to t-talk to him again!”

The shock of his words caused Wys to slacken his hold. Tom shook his arms free and ran off down the street, leaving Wys to stare after him openmouthed. Gwen and George Pollard? It couldn’t be! He ran up the stairs and raised his hand to the knocker, but something made him pause. There must have been a dreadful scene between Tom and Drew to have upset the boy so, Wys thought. Drew must be in a terrible state. Perhaps he should wait a bit before inflicting his presence on his friend. This situation required careful thought. What should he say if Drew asked for advice?

He turned and walked back down the steps. His head lowered in deep thought, he proceeded down the street, bumping rather often into passers-by and causing at least one to curse him loudly. When he had walked like this for a considerable distance, he stumbled on a curbstone and wrenched his ankle painfully. At this, he looked about him to see where he was, hoping he could find a place to go where he could sit and think undisturbed. He found that he was on Pall Mall where, just a step away, was the Smyrna Coffee House. Although he was certain they served nothing much better than the dark bohea tea he abhorred, he went inside.

The tables were crowded and noisy, but he spied an empty place in the far corner and made for it purposefully. Before he reached it, however, his arm was tugged, and a cheerful voice said in his ear, “Good day, Farr. This is a bit of luck. I’ve been meaning to wait on you these past two days.” Wys looked around to find Lambie Aylmer at his elbow.

“Good morning, Aylmer,” he said in a tone he hoped would indicate his lack of desire for company.

But Lambie was not called ‘the leech’ for nothing. “I want to congratulate you on the race,” he went on, ignoring Wys’s apparent disinterest and hanging on to his sleeve. “You and Drew cost me a large roll of soft.”

“Serves you right for betting against us,” Wys said unsympathetically. “But if you’ll excuse me, I see a seat—”

“Come to
my
table, old boy. I’m expecting Sir George. He promised to meet me here.”

“You’re expecting
Pollard?
” Wys asked, looking at Lambie closely.

“Yes. He’s kept me waiting for almost half an hour.”

Wys made a wry face. “I wouldn’t bother waiting any longer, if I were you. He won’t be here.”

Aylmer drew himself up in offended dignity. “Of course he’ll be here. We made the arrangements most specifically.”

Wys could not resist the temptation to squelch Aylmer’s pretensions. If he were in a mood to laugh, he would roar at the irony of having in his possession a piece of gossip that Lambie knew nothing of. Lambie’s entire social standing rested on his claim to be, always, the very first to know the goings-on. “I tell you he won’t be here,” Wys repeated. “He is not in London this morning.”

Lambie’s confidence remained unshaken. “Sorry to contradict you, Farr,” he said in his obnoxiously superior way, “but you can’t be thinking of Pollard. Pollard is very definitely in London. Very definitely.”

“I dislike to be the one to shake your certainty,” Wys insisted, “but I have it on very good authority that he is, at this very moment, on his way to Gretna Green.”

Lambie stared. “Pollard? Never Pollard, old man. It’s not possible. You must be thinking of someone else.”

Wys studied Aylmer’s face carefully. “Why is it not possible? Tell me, Aylmer, what makes you so certain I’m in error?”

Lambie tried to answer, but the two were pushed aside by a noisy group of gentlemen who were making their way to a nearby table. “This is no place to talk,” he said to Wys as soon as he was able to rejoin him. “Come to my table where we can be more private.”

They seated themselves, and both men looked around to see if anyone nearby could overhear. Satisfied that the men around them were strangers and preoccupied with their own concerns, Lambie leaned across to Wys. “What makes you think that George Pollard is on the way to Gretna?”

“I’m not at liberty to say anything else,” Wys said primly. He already felt troubled that he had revealed too much to the most notorious gabble-monger in London. “But what makes
you
so sure I’m wrong?”

Lambie delighted in spreading information—always in the greatest confidence, of course!—and needed only to be asked. “Because,” he said eagerly, “going to Gretna can only mean an elopement, isn’t that so? George would not elope. Not now.”

“Why not?”

“Listen, Farr, I’ll tell you why not, but only if you promise to keep the information secret. The fact is that George Pollard has been betrothed these three weeks past!”

It gave Lambie the greatest satisfaction to see Wys’s face. Mr. Farr actually
gaped
. “Pollard?” he said incredulously. “He can’t be! I’ve seen no notice, heard no word of it. Surely someone would have mentioned such news in my hearing by this time.”

“The announcement will be made three weeks from now. You see, the girl’s a cit.”

“A cit! I don’t believe it. Pollard is too high in the instep for—”

“He ain’t too high to feather his nest with a fifteen-thousand-pound settlement and a generous annuity.” And Lambie sat back, smiling with glee to see the effect his display of knowledge had made on Wystan Farr.

Wys’s head was swimming. Lambie’s story had the ring of truth. A man like Pollard, whose income depended on the turn of the cards, would do much for a fortune like that. And it would not be the first time that a wealthy merchant found it worthwhile to buy a title for his daughter. But if Lambie were right, what did this betrothal mean to Gwen? He couldn’t concentrate on the possible ramifications of this news, not here in all this noise and hubbub. Besides, Lambie could be wrong. Gossip-mongers often were. He fixed a suspicious eye on Lambie’s face. “How do you know all this, Aylmer? Where did you learn these ‘facts’?”

“From no less a person than the party most concerned,” Lambie answered in his irritatingly omniscient way. “George told me.”

“If it is not to be announced for three weeks, why would he tell
you?
Everyone knows you’re not to be trusted with a secret.”

Again, Lambie drew himself up in offended dignity. “That’s a calumny!” he declared. “If you weren’t such a particular friend of mine, I’d call you out!”

“Oh, come down off your high ropes!” Wys said in disgust. “Just answer my question.”

“I always keep a secret if I think it’s necessary. I have more information up here,” he insisted, tapping his forehead, “than I ever reveal. But as to your question, I know about George because I gave him the idea. He was indebted to me for a large sum, and I suggested that he marry a cit so that he could pay it off.”

Wys was not convinced. “And he took your advice, did he?”

Lambie smiled proudly. “Paid off his debt already,” he said.

Wys leaned back and let the information sink in. If George
were
betrothed to a young lady of wealth, it was unlikely that he would cry off to marry a penniless woman like Gwen. What then was his object in carrying Gwen off? The answer, when it presented itself, made him turn cold. He must get to Drew at once and tell him this fantastic story. But should he do it on only Lambie’s word? It would be wiser to have some proof. He looked across the table speculatively. “Aylmer, what is the name of the girl to whom Pollard is betrothed?”

“Her name?” Lambie shrugged. “Can’t say as I remember. Only a cit, you know. No one important.”

“But he must have mentioned it to you.
Think
, man!”

It was Lambie’s turn to be suspicious. “Why are you so interested? What’s all this to you?”

“Never mind. Just tell me.”

“I really can’t recall. I think her name is Anabel.” He wrinkled his brow in concentration. “Anabel … something that sounded like a fruit … Pear? Anabel Pear … no, that’s not it…”

Wys felt the blood drain from his face. “Do you mean Plumb?” he asked in a strangely hollow voice. “Anabel
Plumb?
”

Lambie’s face brightened, and he looked at Wys with a dawning respect. “Yes, that’s it! How did you kn—?” But the words froze on his tongue. Wystan Farr was glaring at him with a look of such burning fury that Lambie took fright. “Wh—Wh—What’s wrong?” he managed to ask.

“Nothing, you toad! Just give me her direction!” Wys said hoarsely.

“But I … I don’t kn-know her direction!” Lambie stammered.

Wys stood up and grasped Lambie by his lapels and pulled him halfway across the table. “Tell me!”

“But I don’t kn-know! Truly! Wait … I think … Yes. Warrenton knows. He gave Pollard the lead. Ask Warrenton.”

Wys thrust Lambie back into his chair but grasped his neckcloth firmly and twisted it. “Very well. I’ll go to Warrenton. But I’m going to see how well you can keep a secret, Aylmer. If one word of this conversation gets abroad, I’ll pull out your tongue! Do you hear? I’ll pull out your gossiping tongue!”

He pushed his way out of the coffee house and strode down the street. When he’d calmed down somewhat, he looked at his hands. They were still trembling. He smiled at them ruefully. He had been such a moderate man. What was happening to him?

When at last he could think calmly, he knew he had two things to do. He had to warn Drew of Gwen’s danger, and he had to find Miss Plumb. He could not let her marry a scoundrel like Pollard. But realizing that Gwen’s problem was the more pressing, he set out for Drew’s house.

Mallow tried to restrain him from entering. “His lordship is not wishful for company today, Mr. Farr,” he said firmly.

“I must see him nevertheless,” Wys said, brushing by the butler absently. Where is he?”

Mallow shrugged. Lord Jamison would not expect him to wrestle with Mr. Farr and eject him forcibly. “In the drawing room, sir,” he said, resigned.

Wys found Drew sunk in a wing-backed chair gazing gloomily into the middle distance. He broached the subject without preamble. “You’ve got to go after her, Drew. She’s in deeper trouble than you realize.”

Drew focused his eyes on Wys and regarded him reproachfully. “I’d rather not talk about this, Wys.”

“He doesn’t plan to marry her!” Wys went on, ignoring Drew’s remark. “I’ve just heard the most disturbing bit of news. Pollard is betrothed to
my Miss Plumb!
”

Drew shut his eyes and shook his head, as if his mind were rejecting what his ears had heard. “Either you’re looney, or you’ve shot the cat,” he muttered. “Go put your head under the pump!”

“Sober as a judge,” Wys declared. “I’m persuaded that what I’ve told you is the truth.” He pulled up a chair and recounted every detail of his talk with Lambie. After a few moments, Drew leaned forward and listened carefully to every word. When. Wys had finished, he sat back and stared up at the ceiling wordlessly. “Well?” Wys asked. “What do you propose to do?”

“Nothing,” Drew said flatly. “If she’s jingle-brained enough to run off with that … that ivory-turner, let her have joy of him!”

“Drew! You don’t understand! He means to force her—or trick her—into accepting a … a
carte blanche!
”

Drew winced. He got up wearily and went to the fireplace. Leaning both arms on the mantelpiece, he stared moodily into the fire. “There’s nothing I can do. She doesn’t want my help. She doesn’t want me
near
her. She thinks of me as some sort of uncivilized brute.”

Wys made a sound of protest. “I’m sure she never—!”

“Oh, yes. That’s how she sees me. She told me so—right here in this very room. Under my pleasing veneer, she said, I’m a barbaric beast. Or words to that effect.”

Wys looked stricken. “Oh, Drew!” he said sadly.

Drew laughed mirthlessly. “Lord, isn’t it laughable? She thinks
I’m
the brute, and she runs off with that blackguard Pollard!”

“Nevertheless, you can’t stand by and—”

“That’s just what I
am
going to do. Every time I’ve crossed that woman’s path I’ve regretted it. Last time, I swore I’d stay away from her. I swore it to her and to myself. I’m not going to break that pledge. Let her get
herself
out of this fix!” He looked up from the fire and smiled ruefully at Wys. “Get out of here, Wys, and take care of
your
problem. At least you can save Miss Plumb from the wiles of George Pollard.”

Wys sighed and went to the door. There he paused. “Drew, won’t you reconsider?” he pleaded. But Drew didn’t turn his head from the fire, and Wys went out.

Drew remained staring at the fire, unable to keep from imagining Gwen in Pollard’s arms. Or Gwen’s face when she discovered Pollard’s plot. The pair had probably been on the road three hours by this time. What route had they taken? he wondered. If
he
had planned it, he would probably head toward Wolverhampton and then straight north. Pollard would not be expecting to be followed—Gwen having no grown man to protect her—so his pace would not be overly hasty. With hard riding, he could probably catch up with them by nightfall. How he would love to throttle Pollard—his fingers fairly itched with eagerness to grasp his wretched throat. A laugh escaped him. Maybe Gwen was right about him; underneath the skin, perhaps he
was
a barbarian—he certainly felt murderous right now!