The Many Sins of Cris De Feaux (Lords of Disgrace) (21 page)

Worrying the ribbons until they were even looser occupied her for a frustrating five minutes, then Gabriel wandered over, two young bucks on his heels. ‘Mrs Perowne.’

‘Lord Edenbridge. On your way to play cards?’ The young men, who had not been introduced, looked enthusiastic at the thought.

‘Later, perhaps. There does not appear to be anyone to make up a serious game, as yet.’ The young men wilted. ‘May I?’ He indicated the seat beside him and, at Tamsyn’s smiling gesture, folded his length into it. He should have looked out of place in a formal setting, Tamsyn thought. His evening dress had been beautifully cut, but was worn with a carelessness that included slightly wilted collar points, a loosely tied neckcloth, an off-centre stick pin in its folds and a crimson silk handkerchief escaping from the pocket in his coat-tails.

Against the two young men, starched and groomed to a point of utter perfection, he looked feral, dangerous and, she acknowledged, worryingly attractive. No wonder anxious mamas kept their daughters away and wise fathers forbade their sons to follow him into gaming hells or even less reputable places.

She smiled at the two lads and Gabriel obligingly said, ‘Mrs Perowne, may I make known to you Lord Brendon and Mr Elliott. Gentlemen, Mrs Perowne, a visitor from Devon.’

She shook hands, encouraged them to sit and no sooner had they embarked on a careful conversation about the beauties of Devon and the possibilities for stag hunting than three young ladies fluttered past, giggling, just as Cris had predicted.

‘Oh, Lord Brendon, good evening.’ The boldest, a plump and pretty blonde, came to a halt, smiled at the young man and managed, at the same time, to bat her eyelashes at Gabriel.

Hiding her own smile, Tamsyn obligingly invited Lord Brendon’s friends to join them and, camouflage complete, settled down to make conversation and watch the entrance door without appearing to do so.

Guests began to arrive, the room filled up and Tamsyn stayed in place, resisting all invitations to take a turn around the room, admire the paintings in the gallery or accompany any of the young ladies on an expedition to find the retiring room.

How long was it since she had seen Franklin? Only months, she realised, calculating while she tried to keep at least part of her mind on social chitchat. ‘Yes, indeed, Miss Wilberforce, a very striking colour for a gown.’ It had been when he came to invite the Barbary household to take up residence in his dower house so he could ‘watch over them’. ‘Thank you, Lord Brendon, I think I will sit a little longer. No, some ratafia a little later, perhaps.’ So she couldn’t have failed to recognise him. But where was he?

The crowd shifted and he was walking directly towards her. Tamsyn suppressed a gasp. He looked changed and not for the better. His blond hair was still carefully groomed, yet somehow seemed lank. He had put on weight and at only medium height could ill afford it. There were dark circles under his eyes and his gaze shifted restlessly around the room as though he expected an attack at any moment. It passed over her without recognition so she fluttered her fan in a clear gesture of greeting.

He stopped, looked and took a step backwards. Then he seemed to recover himself and came forward to make a jerky half-bow. ‘
Tamsyn
. Mrs Perowne! What a surprise to see you here.’

Beside her she felt Gabriel gathering himself, although he still sat elegantly at his ease. ‘So formal, Cousin Franklin. Or must I call you Lord Chelford?’ she chided him. ‘It was Cousin Tamsyn last time we met. But doubtless you will tell me I am showing my country manners.’ This was the man behind the ‘accidents’ on the farm, the man who had tried to implicate her in murder. She had no doubts now she was face-to-face with him, his eyes failing to meet hers, his mouth hardly capable of maintaining a social smile.

‘Not at all, not at all. But I must confess my surprise at seeing you here.’ The smile was more successful now.

‘Shopping, you know.’ She smiled vaguely. ‘Oh, and tasks for my aunts. I must go down to Dulwich soon.’

‘Dulwich?’

‘The picture gallery, surely you know of it? Aunt Isobel has a pair of paintings at Barbary Combe House that she thinks deserve to be shown to a wider public, and I believe the gallery could accept them on a long loan. So much safer as well, don’t you think?’ She appealed to the men in the group. ‘Do you agree, gentlemen? Works of art deserve an audience, and, besides, I am not certain a remote country house is the best place for treasures.’

There was a chorus of agreement and some flattering remarks about the generosity and vision of Tamsyn’s aunt.

Franklin was sweating. He pushed his hair back from his forehead, seemed to realise what he was doing and patted it flat again. ‘But dear Aunt Isobel is not—’

‘She is the custodian for her lifetime,’ Tamsyn said, turning to the others in the group with a proud, affectionate smile. ‘She takes her responsibilities very seriously. Oh, you are leaving us, Lord Chelford?’

‘I am meeting someone in the card room, excuse me.’ He gave a jerky bow and strode off.

‘Excuse me, Mrs Perowne, ladies.’ Gabriel got to his feet. ‘I am reminded that I, too, have a rendezvous.’ He followed Franklin into the card room and Tamsyn wished her imagination was not conjuring up images of silent black panthers padding in pursuit of their prey.

There was no point in worrying. She had done her part, she told herself. Franklin was unsettled and off balance. It was all in Cris’s hands now. Cris’s hands and Justice’s scales.

‘Do you know, Lord Brendon, I think I will accept that drink you offered me. But a glass of champagne, if you would.’ Ratafia was nowhere near sustaining enough.

Chapter Twenty-One

C
ris watched the exchange between Tamsyn and Chelford, then crossed the card room to intercept the man just as Gabriel reached his side. As he passed he took a glass from the tray a footman was holding, stumbled and spilled the contents down Chelford’s waistcoat.

‘My dear fellow! So clumsy of me, here, let me help.’ He dabbed heavily at the stain, took the furious viscount by the arm and marched him towards a door leading to the corridor. ‘Retiring room through here, we’ll have that sponged off in no time.’

Cris was conscious of Gabriel on the other side, exclaiming about his carelessness, taking Chelford’s arm, despite the man’s attempts to bat him away. Then they were out and into the corridor without anyone noticing anything amiss beyond a tipsy encounter and an accident.

Gabriel took Chelford’s wrist, wrenched his arm up his back at a painful angle and, as Cris held the door, pushed him into the room where Jem Clarke sat stolidly at a table, Goode next to him. A screen stood across one corner. There was silence, broken only by the click of the key in the lock and Chelford’s heavy breathing.

‘What is this?’ he demanded.

The Runner introduced himself. ‘And I believe you know this man, Goode, or Gooding, my lord.’

‘Never seen him before. This is an outrage. I’ll have the lot of you for kidnapping.’

‘Do you recognise him?’ Clarke asked Gooding.

‘Aye, I do that. Paid me fifty guineas to injure that Revenue man down in Devon, then swear in court I saw some female do it.’

‘That’s a lie,’ Chelford spat.

‘And that’s on top of the money he gave me to fire a rick and some other things like that.’

‘That’ll be the Revenue man you killed. Conspiracy to murder, that is, my lord.’

‘This is outrageous. I never—’

‘Him dying was an accident,’ Gooding said hastily.

‘You can’t take any notice of the things a criminal like that says. With his record, he’s...’ His voice trailed off as he realised what he had just betrayed.

‘So you admit you know him?’ The Runner made a note in his Occurrences book. ‘So what was it? A set-up that went wrong, or murder?’

‘Neither, I have nothing to do with this.’

‘Met me at the Waterman’s Tavern, down near Tower Steps,’ Gooding said. ‘I gave you the dates and times. The landlord will remember him.’

‘Nonsense,’ Chelford blustered. ‘How could he, in a crowded place like that and weeks ago?’

‘You really aren’t very good at this lying business, are you, Chelford?’ Cris moved away from the wall and came to stand beside the man. ‘Or is it just because your nerves are shot to pieces with wondering what Dapper Geordie’s enforcers are going to do with you when they track you down? Oh, yes, we found out about your debts. The last man I know of who welshed on Dapper Geordie had both thumbs cut off. Devilishly difficult to hold a hand of cards when you’ve no thumbs.’

Chelford moaned and sagged at the knees. Gabriel caught him and pushed him unceremoniously into a chair. ‘Gooding has turned King’s Evidence. We’ve got witnesses, we’ve got hard evidence and circumstantial evidence. We know about the Rubens oils. You might as well make a clean breast of it.’

At the mention of the paintings Chelford’s head came up and his sagging features hardened into fury. ‘It’s Tamsyn behind this, isn’t it? She’s influenced Aunt Isobel to stay down there, squatting on all those things that ought to be mine to do what I want to with. I offered them a home, the unnatural coven that they are. Those two old women—disgusting, living together like that—and she’s as bad. I offered her marriage, honoured her with my attention and what does she do? Turned me down and married that criminal Jory Perowne!’

‘So you tried to get your hands on what’s yours by rights,’ the Runner said, sympathetically. ‘I mean, seems unfair they turned their noses up at a perfectly good home you’d offered them. No wonder you tried to shake them up a bit, show them some real life.’

‘That’s it exactly.’ Chelford leaned forward, apparently thankful to find someone who understood. ‘Tamsyn trying to run an estate, a farm, as if she was a man. Turning me down. Like I said, it’s unnatural.’

‘Still, getting her blamed for smuggling, that attack on the Revenue man—that’s going a bit far.’

The Runner was playing him like a master, Cris thought, gesturing to Gabriel to keep back, out of Chelford’s line of sight.

‘Of course she’s mixed up in the smuggling. Where do you think Perowne’s ill-gotten gains have gone? There’s some hidey-hole she knows about. If the Revenue man had got any closer, she’d have dealt with him, mind my words.’

‘That’s what you said to me when you paid me to have a go at him,’ Gooding said suddenly. ‘“Make it look like that fool woman’s done it,” you said.’

‘Almost worked, too,’ Chelford said. ‘Still don’t understand how she got out of it.’

‘By being innocent, no doubt.’ The dry voice came from behind the screen. Chelford jumped to his feet as it was moved back to reveal an elderly gentleman in an old-fashioned bagwig. ‘I’ve no doubt of your implication in this matter, Lord Chelford. I am Sir Peter Hughes of the Bow Street magistrates’ court. The question remains of the exact charges to be brought, which cannot be settled here.’

Got him
, Cris thought on a wave of relief.
We’ve got him scared of the court on one hand and Dapper Geordie on the other. He’ll agree to whatever escape route we offer him.

The elderly magistrate moved forward. The Runner stood up, sending the table rocking, made a grab for it, knocked the screen with his elbow and suddenly Chelford moved, pushing the old man into the screen, shoving the table back into the Runner, who fell against Gooding. Cris reached for him and found his arms full of furious, flailing magistrate. The unlocked door behind the screen banged back and Chelford was gone.

‘Servants’ stair,’ Cris snapped as he and Gabe forced their way through the bodies and furniture and out into the passageway. ‘You follow it down, I’ll take the main staircase, then we’ll catch him in the middle when he comes out into the hall.’

As he ran, bursting out into the corner of the reception room, heads turned. ‘Cris?’ It was Tamsyn, pushing her way to the front of the crowd, who were craning and jostling to see what was happening.

‘Stay there.’ He turned his back on her and ran out on to the wide landing at the head of the sweeping curve of the main staircase, deserted now except for a few footmen.

He took the stairs two at a time, landed skidding on the marble floor of the hall and came face-to-face with Gabriel, who erupted from the green baize-covered door to the servants’ area. ‘Where the hell is he?’

‘Don’t know.’ Gabriel swivelled, searching the hall. ‘The staff say no one went through there, there wasn’t time for him to have got through the front door—’

He broke off as someone screamed on the landing above. Then there was silence. They turned as one to the foot of the stairs.

‘Stay where you are.’ Chelford had Tamsyn by the arm, one-handed, the other holding a long knife. The blade glittered in the candlelight, lethally sharp against the pale skin of her neck.

‘Carving knife from the refreshment buffet.’ Gabriel moved to one side to let Cris come up beside him, three steps from the hall. It felt like a hundred miles from Tamsyn.

‘You can’t escape. Put the knife down before someone is hurt,’ Cris said, pitching his voice to reach the shocked crowd who filled the doorway into the reception room. He could only pray none of them made a rash move.

‘I don’t give a damn who is hurt,’ Chelford snarled. He looked almost hysterical with fear and anger.

‘He bolted before we could tell him there’s a way out, that he could leave the country,’ Gabriel said to Cris, his voice low. ‘He thinks he’s going to hang.’

‘He will if he hurts Tamsyn,’ Cris snapped back. ‘If there’s anything left of him to hang.’ He raised his voice again. ‘Chelford, let her go. Something can be arranged. You can leave the country.’

‘Liar!’ It was almost a scream.

‘He’s beyond reason,’ Gabriel said, taking a step back. ‘I’ll get round the back, see if I can find a pistol, take him out from up there.’

‘Don’t move!’ Chelford yelled and Gabriel froze as he moved towards the head of the stairs, dragging Tamsyn with him by the arm, the knife waving at the cringing onlookers.

Cris strained to see Tamsyn, who was twisting and turning, trying to free herself. It must be agony; Chelford had large hands that looked strong, for all his dissipation. Then he saw what she was doing. Her long evening glove was loose, twisting on her arm as she distracted Chelford by screeching in his ear. In a moment, unless he realised what she was about, she could slide her arm out of his grip, leaving him holding the glove.

Gabriel realised, too. ‘There’s nowhere for her to go when she frees herself. That part of the landing is effectively a balcony and he’s between her and the door. He’ll cut her throat or stab her. If she jumps...’

Cris eyed the distance between balustrade and floor. The height was too great, the floor, without so much as a carpet, was mercilessly hard marble. If she jumped without anything to break her fall, she would die.

He stepped backwards to the floor, making Chelford shout and brandish the knife.

‘Tamsyn!’ Her head turned. ‘Remember Jory. Do what he did,’ he shouted.

For a moment her eyes widened in shock, then she gave a frantic twist and pulled her arm from the glove, wrenched away from Chelford and swung herself over the rail.
She’s strong
, he told himself as he ran to stand beneath her.

Tamsyn balanced on the far side of the balustrade, her toes on the narrow ledge, then she crouched, seized two of the wrought-iron uprights and swung down to hang over him.

He couldn’t touch her even if he stretched. A shoe fell off, hit him a glancing blow as Chelford leaned over the rail and swung at her with the knife.

‘Let go! I’ll catch you.’

* * *

The jolt to her shoulder joints as she swung free with all her weight hanging from her hands made her cry out. Tamsyn risked a glance down and almost passed out, the floor beneath her a shifting pattern of black and white moving dizzily as she swung.
Too far, I’ll break my neck, my back.
The memory of Jory’s broken body in the seconds before the wave took it came back with sickening force.

Franklin leaned over, white with fear and anger, swiped at her with the long blade, slicing her knuckles. Tamsyn clenched her fingers in agony as the blood welled and he shifted to try again.

‘Let go! I’ll catch you.’ Below her, out of sight.
Cris
. He had told her to jump and she had trusted him. He must have got something for her to land on, a sofa, some cushions. As the knife whistled down she forced her fingers to open and fell.

She crashed into something, something solid that collapsed down with her. Hands held her, she was pulled hard against cloth and she was still falling and then, seconds after she had let go, she was down, jolting and gasping on to a solid, yet yielding object. Something lashed around her ribs, holding her tight, then fell away.

The fall knocked the breath out of her for a moment, sheer shock kept her eyes closed, then the rising volume of shouts and screams forced her to open them. She was lying face down, her nose pressed into white fabric. She lifted her head and discovered it was a neckcloth and above it was Cris’s face, eyes closed. He was quite still. He had caught her with nothing to break his own fall.

‘Cris!’ Gabriel was on his knees beside them. ‘Are you all right, Tamsyn? Is anything broken?’ He was not looking at her, his fingers busy loosening Cris’s neckcloth, then sliding underneath to search for the pulse in his neck.

‘No.’ She rolled off Cris’s body, landing in a sprawling heap on the floor, the hard, unyielding floor that he had crashed down on to without his hands free to save himself. Down on to his head, his spine, with her whole dead weight on him. She ignored the pain to her overstretched arms, the blood from the knife cut on her hand, as she scrambled to her knees. All she was conscious of was terror. ‘Is he dead?’

‘No.’ Gabriel sat back and shouted, ‘Get a doctor!’ Then he bent to look closely at the side of Cris’s head. ‘No blood from this ear. Your side?’

‘No.’ She knew that was a bad sign if blood came from the ears, but there was so much else to worry about.

Someone came rushing up with a rug, pillows. ‘Don’t raise him or touch his head. Keep him flat.’ Dr Tregarth had told her that when she had helped him with three boys who had fallen from a barn roof. She spread the rug over him and looked across at Gabriel, whose expression was grim. ‘His head, his spine... Gabriel, do you know what to do?’

‘I know not to move him and I know not to let some damned leech of a doctor bleed him.’ His fingers were still against Cris’s jugular.

Tamsyn hardly dare touch the unconscious body. Carefully she threaded her bloodstained fingers through his still left hand and tried to send every ounce of her strength, of her love, to him. Someone brought more rugs, spoke to her. Alex.

‘Our doctor’s coming. He used to be an army surgeon, he’ll know what to do.’ He, too, reached out and laid his fingers on the column of Cris’s neck. ‘The pulse is strong. Chelford’s dead. He tried to struggle with the Runner and the knife—’ Alex broke off as Cris’s lips moved.

‘Curses,’ he whispered. ‘I wanted to break his neck myself.’

‘Cris.’ Her voice wavered and she bit down on her lip until she could master it. ‘Don’t move.’

‘I don’t intend to.’ Incredibly there was the thread of a laugh in his voice. ‘Who is fondling my neck with those cold hands?’ His eyes were still closed.

‘Gabriel and Alex.’ She managed a smile for them both and they lifted their hands away. ‘Can you move your fingers?’ There was a pause, as though he was recalling where they were, then the hand in hers contracted, squeezing her fingers.

‘Tamsyn, are you hurt?’ He opened his eyes, dark with pain or shock.

‘No, I am perfectly all right, thanks to you. And your feet?’

That time the pause was longer, but after an eternity that was probably only five seconds, the rugs over his legs shifted. ‘Wish I hadn’t done that,’ Cris remarked as his eyes rolled up and he lost consciousness.