Edith Layton (10 page)

“I may not leave my home very often, but I do keep apprised of my family’s doings, sad though they have been in recent years. Precisely because of that I’ve paid dearly for information. And because I’ve done that, I know even more than Bow Street and the pri
vate investigator your cousin just hired,” he added with a nod at the squire.

He looked at Julianne again. “Let us look at the facts. Geoffrey Sauvage and his son were sent to Newgate. The place is a hotbed of disease; fevers kill many before they come to trial. The Hulks, where they stayed before transport to the antipodes, were perhaps worse. And the less said about Botany Bay, the better. Most don’t survive the ordeal. But this fellow who claims to be Geoffrey Sauvage’s son says he has! Survived, and survived again, and yet again? The odds are long against it. Still, his would be better than most,” he added with a thin lipped smile. “If only because I have discovered that Geoffrey Sauvage had three sons.”

“What?” the Squire and Hammond cried in unison.

The squire’s wife looked astonished, Sophie’s eyes went wide. Julianne sat still as death.

The baronet nodded, pleased with the effect of his announcement. But his gaze grew sharper when he saw Julianne’s reaction.

“The reason Geoffrey survived so long,” he went on, watching Julianne carefully, “was because he and his son were befriended in Newgate by a pair of hardened criminals. They may have been boys his own son’s age, but they were already steeped in crime. They’d been street arabs, living in gutters, picking pockets, stealing from shops and carts and engaged in too many other criminal endeavors to even list in polite company.” He waved a thin white hand, “There was no limit to their sins. And so, from having been there before, they knew how to get on in prison. They
helped Geoffrey avoid pitfalls a more naive man would have faced. In turn, they received the protection of a strong grown man, who also had access to money.

“Geoffrey used that knowledge to survive and go on to New South Wales. He won his freedom there. That I do know. When he became a free man, he adopted the two boys, that is, took them as his wards, and called them his sons, too. Now, I ask you,” he said, leaning forward and looking at Julianne, “what odds that Christian survived the wretched deprivations of such a life? In the end, it appears that even the wily Geoffrey didn’t.” His lips curled. “But there were two other boys, both about his own age, who enjoyed Christian’s father’s protection. Neither can inherit, of course, but either could impersonate the heir. And who better to know what a boy’s previous life was like than another boy who shared his life and his stories with him during all the long years of their captivity? I haven’t discovered what became of those two boys, but believe me, I shall.”

Julianne sat rigid, listening, her eyes blank with shock.

The baronet thumped the floor with his walking stick. “Yes,” he said, “I believe this fellow is one of those boys. Or, and this may also be the case, he could be yet another felon from that penal colony. Think of it. A letter comes telling of a vast inheritance. Geoffrey Sauvage is dead, even this fellow admits it. Perhaps Christian Sauvage and the other two boys are now dead as well. But there’s still a fortune to be seized. This fellow knew the men who should
have inherited, as well as their history. He sees an opportunity, and he grasps it. I am here to see that he does not.”

He sat back, triumphant.

Julianne felt sick.

“So what are you going to do?” Sophie said eagerly, “Have the man arrested? Oh see, Hammond, it all will be well again!”

Hammond didn’t smile. Neither did the baronet.

“No, not yet,” Sir Maurice said. “I haven’t enough proof, yet. And there’s more to be proved. Think of the succession to Egremont. So many able men dying in such rapid succession in a series of accidents? I’ve always wondered about the evil coincidence. If what I suspect about this man is true, I’d like to find out if his father or his confederates here had a hand in some of those accidents. Surely this fellow would know about it, and so also be culpable. He wasn’t an infant in the eyes of the law. Twelve-year-olds regularly meet their maker at the gallows, and for good reason.”

Sir Maurice’s eyes glittered as he went on, “Crime knows no age. Nor does tragedy. My Simon was only two-and-twenty, and in robust health. But even a healthy man can’t survive a burst boat on a raging river. They said he hit a rock going over a rough patch of rapids and tore a hole in his boat. It’s true, he loved paddling over the rapids, and had been warned about such dangerous sport. But who could warn him against perfidy? After all, if all men in the direct line to Egremont should die, then even my Simon would have been a candidate for it.”

The squire’s wife gasped, the squire looked grim. Sophie sat frowning, watching Hammond, who looked unhappy.

“But what if this man
is
Christian?” Julianne asked.

The baronet studied her. “You already care for him?” he asked.

Her face grew hot. She remembered Christian’s embraces. She tried to compose herself and remember the reason she allowed those embraces, apart from Christian’s devastating attractiveness.

“I have a care for the truth, sir,” she said. “What if he
is
telling the truth? Some people do survive against all odds. And if he were innocent, then his life would then be in danger, too, wouldn’t it? I’m not just speaking about a possible murderer. You’re also acusing him of impersonation. The penalty would be a heavy one. Shouldn’t we take care to be sure of the truth?”

The baronet nodded. She thought she saw a gleam of appreciation in his eyes. “Indeed,” he said. “The penalty for impersonation would be prison for him, again. If he was actually awarded the estate and title, and accepted it, and deception was discovered, the penalty would increase, of course. Then it would be death.”

Julianne’s hands grew cold, she held them tightly together. “And so, then, a lot of evidence would be needed, of course,” she said.

“Of course,” he said, watching her with what looked like amusement.

“And so,” she went on, trying to hide her anger at
that amusement, “am I still needed to meet with him to discover what I can?”

“Oh, yes,” he said. “If you are willing to continue to help us, we would be grateful. Though I tell you right now,” he said, looking at the squire and his wife instead of at Julianne, “I will not serve you up to him as a sacrificial lamb, as has been done.”

“I never wanted that,” Hammond said, with a scathing look at Sophie. “I protested it.”

“That was correct,” the baronet said. “A young innocent woman is hardly equipped to deal with such a villain. There are historical precedents for such impostures. Some have been amazingly successful. There was a famous case in France, when a man came back from the wars and convinced a grieving widow that he was her husband, returned to her! He was eventually found out. But if a widow was won over, just think of how easily a childhood friend could be swayed. Are you engaged to meet him again?” he aked Julianne.

“Yes, tomorrow,” she said, privately thinking that widow must have been very lonely or a total clunch. “We were going to lunch at the inn where he’s staying.”

“Good. I’d like Hammond and Sophie to join you.”

He didn’t ask her, he told her. Although Julianne was a good obedient daughter and used to obeying the voice of authority, she felt her hackles go up. This man wasn’t her father, nor even, strictly speaking, a relation, except by marriage. And yet he commanded her the same way that he gave orders to everyone in the room. She wanted to rebel. And then she remembered she wanted to see Christian again, and soon.

She nodded and didn’t say more. Instead, she listened to them all talking about Christian and his claims, rehashing what she’d heard until she grew tired of hearing it. Besides, she was thinking of more important things. “May I be excused?” she finally asked. “I’d like to write a letter to my parents before dinner.”

“Of course, my dear,” Sir Maurice said.

Julianne rose. She couldn’t help seeing that the baronet watched her thoughtfully as she left the room.

As Julianne went upstairs, her thoughts twisted around each other like mating snakes, each one birthing another.

They were going to try to set a trap for Christian. Surely, he expected that. What worried her was that they didn’t seem to care if they caught an innocent man in that trap. They had money, position, knowledge of the law, and friends and acquaintances in power in England. And Christian had no one on his side.

But if he really was a cheat and liar?

Even so, she thought, surprised to find tears pricking at her eyes, he hadn’t committed a crime in decades. If he was one of the adopted boys, hadn’t he already suffered enough? And most of all, should a man be stripped of his freedom, not to mention his life, only because he’d planned to do something?

But an attempted crime
was
a crime.

And someone might well have murdered the previous earls and made it look accidental.

By the time she got to her room, Julianne’s head
was aching. She sank to a chair and tried to think reasonably, without remembering clear light eyes, warm hands and breath, and soft kisses.

It was altogether possible this man wasn’t Christian. That he wanted to claim a fortune and a title that wasn’t his. She could believe that of him. But she refused to believe he’d kill for it. It was true she’d never met a murderer, but she’d been brought up to believe in herself and her innate good sense. No, she thought, on a soft, relieved sigh, whatever his sins, she wouldn’t believe he was a killer.

He was intelligent, quick-witted, charming, and only possibly a liar. Even so, she couldn’t think any of those things was a hanging offense. And so then, whoever he was, he deserved to know what they’d discovered.

At worst, if he were a cheat and a schemer, he’d cut and run. If he did, then Hammond would take all. Justice would be done without blood being spilled.

At best, if he really was the heir and knew what the baronet had discovered, Christian would stay on and fight for his rights. He deserved that chance. And the choice he made, Julianne realized, could in itself be a fine test.

She’d see him tomorrow, but she doubted she’d have a chance for a word alone with him. She dismissed the idea of sending him a note to tell him what she’d discovered. Notes were too easy to intercept, at least they were in all the novels she’d read. She had to speak to him. But when?

Julianne came to a decision. It was a dangerous one, at least for her reputation. But these were desper
ate times, at least for him. And she’d been asked here to resolve matters, hadn’t she?

She’d rise early. It wasn’t hard; she might keep fashionable hours here, but she lived on a farm, where everyone rose with the roosters. She’d dress without calling her maid, slip out while everyone was sleeping, and go to the White Hart. She’d tell the man who claimed to be her childhood friend what she’d found out. And then, devil take the hindmost—or the foremost. It would be up to him.

I
t was three in the morning and the countryside slept, except for prowling foxes and gliding owls, and the man who claimed he was the new earl of Egremont. He looked nothing like the calm, collected gentleman who made that claim. Because he sat bolt upright in bed, eyes wide, expression contorted with horror, face drenched with perspiration and tears.

Christian saw nothing but blackness and still heard nothing but the thundering voices that had woken him. He didn’t know if he was sleeping or not. There was only one way to find out. He stumbled from the bed and staggered to where he thought the window was, flung back the curtains, and pulled at the shutters. The drinking glass on the sill fell and landed on his foot. He welcomed the pain as he stood, head out the window, taking in great gulps of cool night air.

It took a while for his heart to stop racing. But slowly, he felt the grip of panic ease. The moisture on his body cooled until it only felt clammy. He shivered. He refused to think about the dream he’d just
had, it was enough that he’d dreamt it again; he would not revisit it willingly.

Finally, he turned from the window and drew the shutters closed again. He went to the pitcher and bowl on the bureau, stripped off his nightshirt, washed the cold stink of nightmare from his skin, and dried himself. Then he drew on another shirt and a pair of breeches. He would not face his pillow again, and not just because it was dank from the residue of his dreams. He wouldn’t risk sleep again just yet.

He pulled on hose and boots, and left his room, taking the stairs on his toe tips, so as not to rouse anyone in the sleeping inn. The kitchens were cold and empty. Even the dog on the hearth only beat his tail on the hearthstones as Christian went through the room, drew open the door, and walked out into the night.

He stood in the kitchen garden and let out his breath. It was a clear night, the stars above brilliant, the moon only a thin sickle as it slowly sailed west. The night smelled of earth and damp grasses and faint pungent odors from the stables. Christian breathed it in as if it were perfume. It was fresh, and cool, and real.

He heard footfalls behind him and his shoulders leapt. But he didn’t run, or spin around to fight. The footsteps weren’t made by anyone creeping up on him. Whoever it was wanted to be heard. But still, because it was ingrained, he ducked and turned, his hand sliding down to his boot.

“Another?” a low voice asked.

Christian nodded, rising to his full height, “Yes, but it’s almost gone now. How did you know?”

“Ah, well,” Anthony Briggs said, “I’m a knowing one. And I heard you cry out.”

“Damnation!”

“Be easy. No one can see your dreams but you, and you didn’t wake anyone else. They sleep like dead men here in England, their stomachs full, their heads empty, and their consciences free. Amazing, ain’t it? Must have been a bad one,” he commented, “seeing as all you have with you is the knife. Left the pistol, did you? Just as well. The way your hand’s shaking, I might have had my liver aired.”

Christian slid his knife back into its sheaf and said nothing. But he frowned, because he realized his hand was still trembling.

“Come,” Anthony said, “let’s sit there, under the tree. There’s a seat, and it’s far enough from the inn so we can talk without worrying about waking anyone but the birds in the tree.”

“You ought to get back to bed,” Christian said.

“Oh, I will, in time,” Anthony said on a huge yawn, “But I’m awake now, and the stars are so bright we could almost play a hand of piquet here, if I’d the cards with me, that is. What I do wish we had is a bottle, but I can get one from my room, if you want.”

“No,” Christian said. “In time, maybe, so I can sleep again, but not yet.”

“I’m not sleepy yet, either,” Anthony said. “Come on, let’s sit and chew over things together. It’ll settle your nerves.”

“You’ve done this too often,” Christian said, frowning.
“No, I just know the way of it,” Anthony said. “Are you coming?”

Christian nodded and followed him to the round rustic bench that encircled the heavy trunk of the old elm.

“Ah,” Anthony said with pleasure, sitting down and stretching out his long legs.

Christian looked at him and laughed. “Lud! I really did wake you suddenly.”

“Always dress like this at this hour,” Anthony said casually, glancing down at himself. He wore his gloves, and carried a long-nosed pistol in one hand. But his chest was bare, as were his feet. Otherwise, he wore only a pair of breeches. “Never mind. I’m not cold. I’d have dressed proper if I’d the time, your earlship,” he added with a smile in his voice. “Your room’s always protected, and I didn’t see anyone creeping about the place tonight, so I guessed it was the nightmare plaguing you. Still, I’d never risk your life on a guess. I couldn’t risk your neck by delaying a minute. I came running. But it got quiet too fast, there were no sounds of a scuffle or anyone moving about after. So I knew what it must be. I waited outside your door just in case, though. Then when I heard the sounds of washing up, I knew for certain. A bad one, eh?”

Christian shrugged. “The usual.”

“Bad enough,” Anthony commented.

A companionable silence fell between them.

“So,” Anthony finally said, “nothing new happened to provoke it?”

“Nothing,” Christian agreed. “Dreams come in their
own time and for their own reasons. The Bible says they’re portents, but that rules out mine, because mine have all happened. I’m a boy again in them, and whatever else the world throws at me,
that
, at least, can’t happen again, thank God. They’re not symbols, either, like Daffyd said the Gypsies believe, because they’re too damned clear. I know what they mean. I suppose I’m just doomed to live some things over and over again.”

“Aye, but you don’t have them as often lately, do you?”

“No, there’s that.”

“So,” Anthony said, “no telling if they won’t just stop one day, and never come back.”

“No telling,” Christian agreed.

They sat in silence again until Anthony spoke. “Say,” he said heartily, “want to go back to my room and have that hand of cards now? Because,” he added on the merest breath of a whisper as he leaned over, making it look like part of the stretching he was doing to uncoil his long body as he began to rise, “there’s something moving at the back door, so how about we get up and you go left and I go right?”

Christian stood. “A good idea. I’m not sleepy, and I’m feeling lucky. Shall we?”

“Nay, lads,” a voice said softly from the darkened garden path, “don’t go on account of me. And put your skewers and cannons away, I’m not looking for trouble either.”

“Murchison,” Christian said, peering into the darkness. “What the devil are you doing out here?”

“Same thing the captain here is, I expect, sir. I
heard you cry out then I heard captain come pelting down the hall, so I followed. But at least I dressed for the occasion.”

The two other men laughed. The runner was wearing his long coat open over a nightshirt and had on only one boot.

“Have a seat then, if you wish,” Anthony said generously. “We were admiring the night.”

“I will, at that,” the runner said, and sat between them. He dug a pipe out of his coat pocket, and as the other two sat in silence, lit it, and puffed it into flame.

“I suffer from the nightmare,” Christian said into the darkness.

“I should think so,” the runner said. “What with the way you and your father were handled—if that is what truly happened, sir,” he added fastidiously. “In my experience, it ain’t uncommon for those who suffered in youth to experience it again in their dreams. Time, and a good wife, can cure it, they say.”

“A good toss, certainly,” Anthony commented, with a straight face. “Or so I hear.”

“It can delay the onset,” Christian said, as seriously. “But it’s no cure.”

“Myself, I sleep light, because of my trade, y’see, and it don’t give dreams a chance to get a good hold of me,” the runner added. “Bits and pieces is all I remember.”

“Not bits, but pieces is what I get,” the captain put in. “My dreams are of an erotic nature more often than not.”

“Lucky fellow,” the runner said, blowing out a long puff of smoke that concealed his expression. “An
army trait, is it? I mean, from being away from females so often and for so long.”

“Just so,” the captain said after a pause.

“Didn’t know you two had made friends,” the runner said to Christian eventually. “I mean you and the captain, sir.”

“I woke him, the least I could do was to be pleasant to him,” Christian said without missing a beat. “And I find that he’s an agreeable chap. Don’t look surprised, Mr. Murchison, you and I have lifted a pint together, haven’t we? I never blame a man for the business he’s in, so long as it isn’t dirty business, and yours and the captain’s is only gathering information. Anyway, why antagonize either of you? Though you both may be looking for a stick to put in my spokes, I know you’re only trying to earn a decent living. I respect that. I’ve known too many men who tried to earn indecent ones. In fact,” he said, “though you follow me like shadows, I suppose you two have even more in common with each other than with me.”

“Why, I suppose we do at that,” the runner said.

“Very true,” the captain agreed.

There was another moment of silence.

“Lovely night,” Christian finally said.

They talked about the weather for a while, then about the innkeeper, who they all agreed was a good fellow. Then Christian stood.

“I really am tired now,” he said, “I know from experience that the dreams can continue if you go right back to bed, but after a lively conversation such as this one, I think I can safely go back to sleep. You fellows don’t have to hurry in. I’m not going anywhere
tomorrow. I plan to sleep late, then lunch here with Miss Lowell.”

“You may be going somewhere sooner than you think,” the runner said, taking out an implement and tamping down the bowl of his pipe.

Christian paused. “Indeed?”

“Aye, the squire has company.” He put the pipe back in his mouth, drew in a puff, and when he exhaled, said, “It’s the baronet. Sir Maurice Sauvage.”

“Maurice? Well, well,” Christian said, his head to the side as he considered the information. “That
is
interesting. The old gentleman left the north to come see me, did he? I suppose it was meant to be a surprise. I’m glad it won’t be. I wonder if Miss Lowell will still be allowed to come here tomorrow. Thank you, Mr. Murchison, that was considerate of you. At least I know what’s afoot. Good night then, gentlemen. I’ll doubtless see you both tomorrow, whether I’m ready or not.”

“Count on it,” the captain said.

The runner only smiled.

The two men watched Christian until he went into the inn.

“It was mighty generous of you to inform the earl of the grand surprise planned for him,” Anthony finally said.

“Ah, well, I’ve taken a liking to him. Anyway, I’ve got no reason to put his neck in a noose, excepting if he insists on it. And you?”

“Me? I like him, too. I’m gathering information, but I don’t like playing hangman either.”

They sat in companionable silence.

“Although,” the captain said slowly, “it’s not such a
revelation if the girl was coming here tomorrow. She’d tell him about the baronet, surely.”

“Oh, likely. But who knows whom they’ll send with her to watch his reaction when she does?”

The captain nodded. “Very true.” He waited, then asked, “So what do you make of this Christian Sauvage?”

“If I knew, my job would be through.”

The captain sketched a bow from where he sat. “Well said.”

“One thing I do know,” the runner said. “The position he’s dying to take up may help him do just that. Being earl of Egremont ain’t a healthy title to hold.”

“Not so far,” the captain agreed.

“It’s a fact that the man who finds the truth in all this can catch himself a murderer. Not just a villain who killed once, but who did it again and again, maybe, who knows?” The runner took his pipe out of his mouth and pointed with it for emphasis. “I mean to know, though. And not just because it’s my job. But topping nobs, now that’s serious business. Leastways, one that would make folks take note. Money’s fine and no mistake, but there’s a thing that would do a fellow’s reputation proud.”

“It would get him more trade with the gentry, too,” the captain commented. “But for myself,” he said carefully, “I don’t care about my reputation, not once I have enough to line my pockets. Then, I’m off, going home, to Cornwall. I’ve been in foreign parts too long. I’m hoping to cut line and sink roots back home at last. If I make a success of this inquiry, I’ll finally be able to. Now, I’m not bragging, but only saying
true that I think this job will do it for me. So I’d take my share of the money, and be gone, for good, letting some other clever fellow take the praise and the credit, no matter what I’d done to help.”

They sat listening to a newly sprung night breeze ruffling the tree above them. The wind had shifted, and a fine mist was blowing in, throwing a thin gray veil over the stars and moon.

“Well, I don’t know about you, Captain,” Murchison said, slapping his knees, “but it’s getting too damp for my bones out here. Still, I ain’t one whit tired. Wake me up thoroughly, and I’m ready to go for hours.”

“As am I,” the captain said. “Mind, if I had to sleep, I could. The army teaches us that. But once up, I can stay that way until I fall down. Would you care to repair to my room? I’ve a dandy pack of cards and a bottle or two. I think,” he said carefully, “it might be to both our advantages to get to know each other better.”

“So it might,” the runner said, as he stood, “so it might. But mind your purse, Captain, I’m a dab hand at cards.”

“As am I,” Anthony said. “This ought to be interesting then.”

“That,” the runner said, looking up him sidewise, “is bound to be true indeed.”

The two strolled back to the inn, shoulder to shoulder, and went inside.

Now, at last, as dawn neared, it seemed everyone at the White Hart was finally asleep. The Bow Street
runner and the investigator from London had put away their cards and found their separate ways to bed. But in that last and darkest hour before dawn, even before the barnyard rooster blinked open his mad red eyes, one man was stirring at the White Hart. He stood in the inn yard and stared into the swirling mists as though it was a crystal ball that would tell him what the new day would hold for him.