The Rogue's Return (2 page)

His mind turned to beautiful Brideswell, a rambling stone manor house four hundred years old in parts, set amid rolling Lincolnshire countryside. It sat close to the village of Monkton St. Brides, where houses and cottages snuggled together and streets wound about as fancy took them. Neither place could be less like raw, squared-off York, and it was so long since he'd been home.

Simon stood in the silent hall, breathless at the thought that he might not see Brideswell again. He'd been away four years and he'd missed it frequently, but he'd never—not even when fighting off the invading Americans—imagined that he would not return.

Was this a premonition?

He shook that off and sat to remove his boots with the jack. Then he picked up the candle that stood waiting for him, glowing steadily within a glass storm lantern. Jane's work. Whatever her peculiarities, she was an excellent housekeeper. In the past year the bachelor residence had taken on little graces—flowers in season, potpourri, and a change in the polish used on the wooden floors so that they gleamed brighter. Simon could smell it as he went upstairs, subtle but reminiscent of an English spring.

He turned his mind to things he must do. A will. Letters—to Isaiah, to his parents.

God.

The nearest door opened.

Jane Otterburn stood there, wearing a nightcap that tied beneath her chin and a long green robe that showed her nightgown only by frills of white at the high neck and wrists.

How could she look so
undressed
?

“Yes?” he asked, hearing irritation in his voice. “Is something the matter?”

Oh, Lord. Has she heard?

She looked as awkward as he felt. “Isaiah isn't well,” she whispered. “Another attack of the ague, but he refused to send for Dr. Baldwin.” She bit her lip. “I'm sorry. There was no need to interrupt you. I'm sorry.”

He reminded himself she was only eighteen. “If he's no better in the morning, we'll deal with it.”
If I'm alive.

“Yes, of course. Did you have a pleasant evening?”

What could he say? “Tolerable. Good night, Jane.”

“Good night, Simon.”

Simon carried on quietly past Isaiah's door to his own large room at the back of the house. The bed sat in an alcove concealed by a curtain during the day, which gave the room the look of a parlor. Sometimes Simon entertained friends here, though mostly he used the downstairs parlor. Isaiah enjoyed young company.

He looked around at the welcoming fire with the jug of water nearby, covered to keep it warm. Strange to
think that this might be the last night he'd sleep here, the last night he'd wash his face and clean his teeth.

He shook himself.

He poured himself a glass of brandy and drank half, and then sat at his desk to write his will. There was little to it, for though he was heir to Brideswell, at the moment he owned only his personal possessions and a modest amount of cash left from the income his father provided.

The letter to Isaiah was more difficult, for sooner or later he'd learn the cause of the duel and feel responsible. Simon couldn't see how to avoid that, so he wrote a grateful, affectionate farewell, emphasizing that he'd chosen the duel as a way to expose the festering sore of corruption here.

The most painful task was the letter to his parents, and for a while he couldn't bring himself to write it.

They'd tried so hard to keep him safe. It was the Brideswell way. St. Brides of Brideswell stayed close to home. They served their country but in quiet ways from Lincolnshire. For generations they'd flourished there, with large, healthy families, but like a hive.

He'd wanted to follow his friends Hal Beaumont, Con Somerford, and Roger Merrihew into the fight against Napoleon, but his mother had thrown fits, and his father had talked of Simon's responsibilities as the oldest son. As if his younger brothers, Rupert and Benji, didn't exist.

In the end, they'd allowed him to take a post as secretary to Lord Shepstone, who was traveling to Canada to make inquiries into discord with America. It had involved a somewhat risky sea voyage, but even he hadn't expected to land in a war.

When the Americans had invaded, however, duty had required him to fight. Despite the inevitable horrors of war, he'd reveled in it, and by the time the invasion was repulsed, he'd been outraged by the treatment of Britain's Indian allies. He'd stayed to fight new battles. . . .

He realized he was trying to excuse himself to his parents and dipped his pen. Though he could imagine all too well their agony and tears if he died tomorrow, surely reading something from him would be a comfort.

In the end the letter was brief. What was there to say that would help? He simply told them how much he loved them and how much he appreciated their guidance and care. He ended it:

All I am that is good I have from you, my dearest parents. Any follies can doubtless be ascribed to Black Ademar's hair.

He wondered if a family joke was the wrong tone, but how could there be a right tone in such a damnable letter? And it was true.

Most St. Brides of Brideswell saw no pleasure in adventure, but far back on the family tree lurked Ademar de Braque.

Ademar had been born a younger son of a poor knight of the thirteenth century and made his fame and fortune through violence—on crusade, on the battlefield, and especially in tournaments. He had doubtless deserved to be called Black Ademar for many vile reasons, but it was said his other nickname, Diable, came from Teˆte du Diable because he had black hair shot through with red.

The same devil's hair Simon saw in a mirror.

It was an attribute that lurked for generations, but whenever it popped up, the parents knew they had a cuckoo in the nest—a St. Bride who at best would want to wander and at worst would be a fiery hothead best suited to war. His poor parents had two. When a baby girl had arrived with the hair, they'd stared down fate and called her Ademara. Mara hadn't run wild yet, but then she was only eighteen.

He left the joke, signed the letter, folded it, and sealed it. As he placed the three documents on top of the desk,
he realized there was something else to take care of—the evidence he'd collected here.

Not all of it was irreplaceable. Evidence of the sufferings of the Indians—of promises broken, tricks played, and vast lands purchased for a pittance—was all too easy to find. Others, especially the Quakers, were working hard for reparation.

However, he also had evidence of trickery and even crimes committed by McArthur and his associates. Some documents were signed and witnessed testimony from people now suspiciously dead. Others were copies of cryptic messages that needed to be studied exactly as they were. He'd become sure that references to “coin” and “land” were actually codes for individuals in the administration or the military, but he couldn't break them.

If he died, the papers must go safely to England. But who could he trust? Isaiah was unwell. Friends here could have divided allegiances or even be hand in glove with McArthur. Lieutenant Governor Gore, the chief administrator, was an honest man, but even he might be tempted to bury trouble.

Simon thought of Jane—but it was too weighty a burden to place on an unworldly girl. In the end he unsealed the letter to Isaiah and asked him to take care of things. Even ill, he'd know what to do.

He then took out his pistols to clean and check them. They weren't dueling pistols, but they were excellent guns. He hoped to able to use them, but if McArthur had a matched pair, they'd toss for it.

Then he poured himself a little more brandy and sat before the dying fire, trying to think profound thoughts. It didn't work, so he went to bed.

W
hy the devil did people duel at dawn? In greatcoat, hat, and gloves, Simon paced to keep warm. He glanced to where heavy clouds seemed to be weighing down the rising sun, wondering if rain or even sleet would halt the affair entirely. No one could risk damp powder.

No birds sang. Not even a dog barked. The only sound was the constant muffled moan of the great forest. Simon didn't usually notice it anymore, but he remembered how it had struck him when first here. White men found it foreboding, but for the Indians it was the music of home.

He supposed the early hour was to avoid the authorities. Pointless here, where lawyers and military officers were as likely to duel as anyone.

No wonder McArthur had hit upon this way of getting rid of him. A sprig of the aristocracy shot in a duel over a woman. Unfortunate, but not outrageous. It gave Simon satisfaction to know that whatever happened, a duel over embezzlement would never be seen as trivial.

And he hoped McArthur was choking on that.

He looked to where his opponent was also pacing and couldn't read any expression. The man was brave and bold enough—he'd grant him that. But a villain. Greed had driven him to fraud, theft, and, though Simon couldn't prove it, murder.

Delahaye and Norton were meticulously settling the last details. At a distance, Playter, the garrison surgeon, stood hunched and disapproving, his wide-brimmed hat pulled well down, a woolen muffler wrapped twice around his neck. He'd greeted everyone with a curt “Damn folly!” and then taken himself and his ominous dark bag aside.

The seconds paced off the distance and then marked the firing lines with short lengths of rope.
Come on, come on,
Simon thought.
Let's get it over, live or die.
But the proper procedures were important or someone might hang for murder, even including the seconds.

Norton and Delahaye went to one side to inspect and load the pistols. In the end they'd agreed to use a set of dueling pistols borrowed from someone else. No advantage to either and theoretically more accurate, but guns were unpredictable. Norton was loading Simon's. He hoped the man would take sufficient care.

Seeking calm, Simon turned to face the distant grayness of Lake Ontario. It didn't help. The lake was so huge that it could be the sea—it even had its own navy. But it wasn't. Abruptly it mattered that he might die so far from the North Sea, which he'd been able to look out on from his bedroom window at Brideswell. Where he'd spent idyllic summers out in boats. That smelled of salt, which this freshwater lake did not.

In wartime, caught up in urgent purpose, he'd not pined about where and how he'd die, but now it threatened to distress him.

Come on, come on. Get on with it.

He heard someone approach and turned. Norton with the pistol in his hand. Simon's heart started to pound as it had before facing an onslaught, so as he stripped off his gloves and coat, he did as he'd learned to do and took steadying breaths.

His heart rate wasn't fast from fear, but its intensity could make the hands shake.

He handed his clothing to Norton, taking the pistol in
exchange. Steadiness returned. He walked to take his place, concentrating on the justice of his cause and on the absolute necessity of returning safely to his family.

Would McArthur shoot to kill?

Almost certainly.

Which meant he should.

But he knew he couldn't. He'd aim high, hoping to hit the shoulder and put an end to it that way.

He presented his side, the narrowest target, murmuring under his breath, “Ademar,
aidez-moi
.” It was a habit he'd formed during the war, and as always it brought the cool detachment he needed.

Delahaye was to give the count—one, two, three—and then drop a handkerchief. That was so that the duelists would have to watch him, not concentrate on aim.

“One.”

Simon cocked the pistol and raised it.

“Two.”

He took steady aim on McArthur's upper torso.

“Three.”

He looked to Delahaye. . . .

“
Stop!
Stop, I say!”

McArthur fired.

Simon whirled to the voice, feeling the ball whistle by him.

With the noise still shaking the air and smoke curling from McArthur's gun, everyone turned shocked fury on Jane Otterburn, running across the frosty field, skirts hiked up to her knees, hair flying loose.

Simon was tempted to shoot her out of pure fury. “Jane, go home.”

“No! Uncle Isaiah—” She stopped to heave in a breath. “An accident. He's
dying,
Simon. He wants you.”

She wore her usual dark dress and cloak, but her red-gold hair rioted loose down to her waist, shocking in its magnificent abundance.

She sucked in more breaths. “Come on. You men can kill each other tomorrow!”

After a numb moment, Simon gave his pistol to Norton and strode off.

“My God,” McArthur protested, “you shan't slide out of it like this, you coward. I'll have you horsewhipped!”

Simon wheeled on him. “I'll fight you tomorrow, McArthur, and kill you tomorrow. With pleasure. Now, I attend my friend.”

He began to run toward his horse. He became aware of Jane only from gasping breaths and slowed. “What happened?”