A Banbury Tale (28 page)

“I am very sorry, my pet,” he replied, but you, too, must die. It is to be a crime of passion, you see. The disinherited brother comes upon the current heir in a lovers’ tryst, and dispatches him speedily. I cannot imagine, in such a situation, that he would allow a witness to live to tell the tale.” Again that chilling smile. “It has all the features of a splendid melodrama, don’t you agree?”

“And,” Clem inquired desperately, “if Kenelm comes with others, as he surely must? What, then, will you do?”

“You must have faith in me.” Lord Bechard carefully slipped the pistol into his pocket. “I have considered even that contingency.”

* * * *

Tilda walked purposefully through the woods, like a terrier following a scent. She was, again, acting imprudently, she knew, but if her suspicions proved correct, she wished no interested audience. Agatha was correct in stating that Lady Tyrewhitte-Wilson’s retainers were unanimous in their devotion to her, but Tilda knew full well that she was a favorite topic of conversation in the servants’ hall. Her retainers would be aghast at the notion of discussing their mistress with outsiders; but this ban did not extend to gossip among themselves. And there were certain matters that Tilda did not wish to come to those faithful ears.

Micah would be furious at this latest enterprise, fraught with peril as it was, but Tilda spared little thought for the Earl. She concentrated on remembering the layout of the gamekeeper’s cottage where Dominic and Alastair had once spent considerable time. Tilda had no notion of what activities transpired there, though she imagined orgies of the most bizarre, and had made no effort to discover the truth. She was only grateful that Dominic had refrained from conducting his nefarious activities in the Abbey, for then she could not have remained so determinedly uninvolved. But Tilda had not been so prudent that she avoided the cottage altogether, and had explored it to her satisfaction during one of her husband’s occasional absences. It was with mingled disappointment and relief that she had discovered nothing there, no indication of depraved rites, or of the presence of certain members of the Paphian set. Indeed, there had been no sign of recent habitation at all, save for a waxen candle stub set amid the cobwebs and the dust.

Tilda paused as the cottage came into view, but saw no sign of occupancy. She moved forward cautiously, careful to make no sound. Had she attached more significance to her suspicions, Tilda would never have ventured forth unaccompanied, but she was merely exploring a vague possibility, or, as Claude de Villiers might have said, playing a hunch. It was extremely unlikely that Alastair Bechard would choose as his base a place as ill kept and lacking in the amenities as Tilda remembered the cottage to be.

However, in view of the remote possibility that his fastidious lordship had secreted himself within, Tilda approached the cottage from the rear. Few knew of its existence, for it lay deep within the wood, and had long been unused, circumstances that made it ideal for Lord Tyrewhitte-Wilson’s mysterious purposes. Anyone coming upon the place unexpectedly would naturally approach the front door, and, if Alastair were truly within, it was that portal he would guard.

Tilda looked once more at the deserted structure, amused by her imaginings. Folly to tarry longer, when Agatha would grow anxious about her prolonged absence. Tilda considered Micah’s probable reaction were it necessary for him to send out another search party, this time for her. Still, since she had come this far, little would be lost if she spent a few more moments and glanced inside. Tilda gingerly pressed her shoulder against the door that led to the kitchen, and shoved. The door opened reluctantly, but with a minimum of noise. Tilda slipped inside. Her eyes widened as they fell upon a loaf of bread that lay upon the table, and some cheese. Heart in her throat, Tilda debated whether to go on or to return with help. There was little question of the conclusion; Lady Tyrewhitte-Wilson moved cautiously toward the cottage’s main room. She firmly grasped the pistol that an acute survival instinct had prompted her to bring.

A dilemma presented itself; there was no way she could enter that room unseen, no way to catch the trespasser off-guard. Tilda frowned and moved stealthily down the dark and narrow hallway.

In the end, it was easy, due to Clem’s resourcefulness. Even with her arms and feet securely bound to a chair, Clem was a force to be reckoned with. “You see?” she inquired of her captor, who had grown increasingly surly with the passage of time. “I told you that no one would come. Kenelm knows I will not marry him, and has abandoned me to my fate. Doubtless they all believe that I have returned to the stage.” Alastair regarded her with none of the affection that one might reasonably be expected to cherish for a lady whom he’d once pursued diligently.

“I can see,” he said grimly, “that I must gag you if I am to have any peace.” He placed the dueling pistol on the table and proceeded to divest himself of his exquisite cravat. It was then that Clem saw a shadow in the doorway. She opened her mouth and screamed, most dramatically. Lord Bechard bounded toward her, his arm upraised to strike, and Tilda aimed her gun.

“One more step,” she announced calmly, “and you’re a dead man, Alastair. Turn around slowly.” The expression on Lord Bechard’s face was one she would surely remember all her days. “You would be very foolish to reach for that pistol.”

Alastair cursed the whim that had led Lord Tyrewhitte-Wilson to while away an idle autumn teaching his wife to handle firearms. Tilda, as a result, was a notable shot. “And now what do you propose to do?” he inquired, having regained his poise.

“Shoot him,” advised Clem.

“I had not considered,” Tilda mused. The gun did not waver. “It would probably be best to allow Micah to deal with you.”

“You will not march me at gunpoint through these woods,” Lord Bechard sneered. “Think of my opportunities to escape! And I warn you, Tilda, if I should escape, it will not go well with you.”

Tilda felt rather like one who has a rattlesnake in hand and does not know how to safely dispose of it. Nor was Clem of potential assistance, bound to the chair and with murderous intent written all over her.

“There is something else to consider,” said Alastair. “You would not care to have our last meeting made public, I fancy.”

Tilda shrugged. “Your credibility has been severely damaged, Alastair. That tale would do more harm to you than it would to me. Unfasten the girl.”

Lord Bechard made no move to comply with this request. He knew that Tilda would not shoot him in cold blood, and he had also begun to suspect that Lady Tyrewhitte-Wilson had undertaken this brave mission alone. If so, luck was truly with him. He shifted his weight, moving imperceptibly closer to the table and the pistol thereupon.

“Shoot him,” Clem repeated. She grew increasingly weary of being trussed up like prime game. “Then you can free me and we may leave this wretched place.”

Tilda frowned. “The plan has merits,” she observed. She grew desperate for an alternative.

“The maiden has scruples,” Alastair remarked, with another slight movement. Tilda glared at him. Pleased to have struck a response, Alastair embroidered upon his theme. “How do you propose to explain your condition to your next husband, my dear? Will you say that Dominic found you so unappealing that he could not bring himself to consummate the marriage, even for the sake of an heir? It would be the truth, you know. Many is the time poor Dominic lamented his folly in marrying you.”

“Toad,” commented Clem. Tilda wore a stricken look. “There are men, my lady, who find pleasure only in the company of other men. This is such a man.”

Startled by this observation, Tilda glanced at Clem, and in that instant, Alastair leaped for his gun. Earlier scruples forgotten, Tilda fired.

“Excellent!” cried Clem. Had her hands been free, she would have applauded so richly deserved an act. Tilda cautiously moved past Alastair, who huddled in agony on the floor, clutching his injured leg, and untied the ropes that bound the girl. “I was afraid, at the last moment, you would lose heart.”

Chapter Fifteen

“It astonishes me,” the Comte murmured, “that my sister-in-law served as the inspiration for such single-minded emotion, particularly in so discriminating a gentleman as Alastair Bechard.” Motley turned her head slightly to gaze upon Lady Henrietta, who wore her usual serene expression. Though it had been many years since Motley had assumed a position of importance in the drawing room, she found it as pleasant to abandon her self-effacement as it was to arrange her hair in a becoming style. Motley could not see what the future might hold, but she was done with governessing. Letty Jellicoe was scandalized, as might have been expected, by this abrupt change in attitude, for Motley had dared remark that a mother’s first concern should be for the happiness of her offspring and not for their consequence, but Motley had no care for Letty’s disapproval. Damian Darlington’s lineage was so illustrious that the Jellicoes appeared mere social upstarts in comparison.

“Henrietta dealt Alastair a severe blow,” Motley replied. She, too, had trouble envisioning her employer as a femme fatale. “She broke off her engagement to him and then eloped with Claude, who already had a reputation as a reckless gambler and not a penny to his name. Lord Bechard could not forgive so grievous an affront to his pride.”

The Comte regarded his brother with disapproval. “Claude,” he remarked, “has always been a heedless scamp. I doubt not his attitude rubbed salt in the wound.”

“Heedless,” Motley agreed, “but at least not a potential murderer. And I fancy Lady Henrietta means, in future, to curb his worst excesses.”

“It is an ambitious undertaking.” Emile did not sound as if he foresaw great success. Motley, who had closer acquaintance with the stubborn will that lay beneath Lady Henrietta’s placid exterior, smiled.

“It seems a trifle extreme,” she mused, “to plot Kenelm’s murder merely to implicate Claude.”

“Nothing is too extreme for a Bechard.” The Comte took Motley’s arm. Eunice Scattergood goggled and quickly drew Letty’s brooding attention, which was centered on her son, to this intimacy. “Ask Wilmington. He experienced that particular trait firsthand.”

The Duchess was an imperturbable hostess, even when confronted by callers at an hour when she might reasonably be expected to be still abed. All were eager to discuss the miraculous rescue. Motley knew that she prompted a great deal of whispered comment, for the Comte showed no interest in the rest of the company and no inclination to leave her side, but Motley cared not how tongues might wag. Even were she condemned to spend the rest of her days as an old maid, she would at least have the memory of this triumph.

“Poor Kenelm,” she murmured, as they made their way slowly to the magnificent chair where Agatha was enthroned. “All his misfortunes stemmed from the fact that Lord Bechard thought him your heir.”

“Rather, fortunate Kenelm,” the Comte retorted. “Alastair did not succeed. It was the curse of the Bechards that no matter how painstaking their plans, the execution was faulty.” His smile was wintry. “I find it ironic that so much has depended on my selection of an heir.”

“And who holds that enviable position now? Claude?”

The Comte wore a distant look. “I have lately begun to consider plans to prevent that contingency.”

This topic was one worth pursuing, but it was impossible to ignore a peremptory summons from their hostess. “Wretched creature,” commented the Duchess, but with approval. Motley looked quite fetching in the elegant frock that Lady Henrietta had insisted she wear, and not in the least like a governess. “I thought you were familiar, but I could not determine why.” She lifted her cheek to be kissed. “I was present at your come-out, child, though you will not remember it.”

“I remember quite well.” Even then Agatha had been a figure of considerable influence. “I was atremble lest you recognize me.”

“Small chance,” snorted her hostess. “Who would suspect that the incomparable Damian Darlington hid behind that severe facade? Foolish girl!” She glanced at the Comte. “It was not kind of you to allow the world to think you dead. Why did you do it?”

“Pride,” Motley said simply.

“How the mighty have fallen?” The Duchess was acute. “Never mind. I can see that it was difficult for you to assume a subservient position to your social equals.” She smiled benignly upon Clemence, who appeared none the worse for her adventures. This was one young lady who would be spared such a fate, for Kenelm made it obvious that he did not intend to again allow Clem out of his sight. “You’ve a home here with me, if ever you’ve the need.”

“A most unlikely probability,” said the Comte. Agatha was not so distracted that she failed to note Motley’s blush, and most becoming it was.

“The neighborhood has not had such excitement,” the Duchess commented, “for a good many years.” The last occasion had been when the wretched Cassandra had tumbled down the steps, but that subject was hardly fit conversation. “Young Kenelm’s determined to have his actress, I apprehend?”

“With my blessing,” agreed the Comte, “though I fear his mother has not taken the news well.” Agatha had been privileged to witness Letty Jellicoe indulging in strong hysterics and had been compelled to administer a strong slap, an act that had earned her the censure of both Eunice Scattergood and Timothy Rockingham. Agatha frowned. It was quixotic of Tilda to encourage the attentions of a gentleman who was dull to the marrow of his bones, but she had divulged some information that, she trusted, would prompt Lady Tyrewhitte-Wilson to do so no more. “It seems the perfect solution,” Emile added, “to Kenelm’s dislike of society, for there will be those with long memories who will never welcome the girl into their homes, because of her unfortunate association with the stage. However, I doubt that either of them will care.”

“You may find,” Agatha remarked, “that my attachment to the chit does much to atone for that unfortunate lapse.” She smiled. “I find myself tempted by the challenge of launching an actress into Polite Society.” The smile broadened as she considered promoting a match between the worthy Timothy and Letty Jellicoe. They were of an age and eminently suited, both being tedious bores. “And your charge?” she inquired of Motley. “What is to become of her?”