Jane Feather - [V Series] (48 page)

“The same as before,” Marcus said. “Nothing overly demanding, Winkler. Your … your
guests
are to be found above the stables as usual, I assume?”

The landlord licked his lips and glanced anxiously around, as if expecting to see a Bow Street Runner spring
up out of the dust in the corners of the hallway. “If you say so, m’lord.”

“I do,” Marcus said aridly, turning on his heel. “Oh, and should you hear any undue disturbances, you will be sure to ignore them, won’t you? I know how deaf you are, Winkler.”

The landlord wiped his forehead with his apron. “Whatever you say, m’lord.”

“Just so.” Marcus smiled with the appearance of great affability and walked back outside. He crossed the yard at the back of the inn. The stable was a substantial red-brick building at the rear of the courtyard. Beneath its sloping roof were two connecting rooms available to those who knew of them and were able to pay substantially for their use. No questions were ever asked of the various, generally felonious, occupants, and what went on in those rooms was known only to the participants. So far, Winkler and his clients seemed to have escaped the attentions of the law.

Marcus glanced up at the latticed, tightly curtained windows overlooking the stableyard just before he entered the building. He saw no flicker of movement at the curtains and he could hear no sound of voices as he trod softly up the wooden stairs at the rear of the dim interior. He paused, listening at a door at the head of the stairs. His heart had started to thud and he realized he was listening for the sounds he’d heard once before at this door. The sounds that had sent him bursting into the room with his whip raised. But there were no whimpering cries this afternoon. A chair scraped on the wooden floor and then there was silence.

He lifted the latch, then kicked the door open with his booted foot.

Gracemere leaped to his feet, a foul oath on his lips. The chair clattered to the floor behind him.
“You!”

“Surely you were expecting me, Gracemere,” Marcus said. “You must know that I always keep my promises.” He glanced around the room. The curtains were pulled tight over the windows blocking out the afternoon’s sunlight. The room was lit by thick tallow candles and the bright glow of the fire.

Harriet huddled on a wooden settle beside the fire. At the sound of Marcus’s voice, she sat up with a cry, staring wild-eyed at him as if he were an apparition. Her eyes were swollen with weeping, her hair in disarray, her expression distraught, but he could see no marks of brutality.

He crossed the room swiftly. “Are you hurt, child?”

She gulped, tried to shake her head, then burst into a torrent of weeping that mounted alarmingly toward hysteria.

Marcus wasted no time in soothing her. He turned back to the earl, who still stood as if stunned. “Foolish of you to return here, Gracemere, but then a rat usually goes back to its own dung heap,” he observed, cracking the thong of his whip on the floor. His eyes went to the door in the middle of the wall; he knew of old that it connected this room with its partner. “Where is Lady Barret? I should like her to witness the next few minutes.”

Gracemere’s face was bloodless. He looked desperately around the room and then grabbed for a bread knife on the table. Marcus’s whip snapped, catching him across the knuckles. He gave a cry of fury, of fear, of pain, snatching back his hand.

Marcus advanced on him, taking his time, his eyes never leaving his face, the whip curled loosely at his side. Suddenly the whip cracked again and his quarry jumped backward. Again the thong whistled and snapped, and again Gracemere jumped back. In this fashion, Marcus
pursued his prey until the earl stood backed against a heavy armoire.

“Now,” Marcus said softly. “Now, let us begin in earnest, sir.”

“Let us indeed begin in earnest, my lord.” Agnes Barret stood in the door connecting the two rooms. She held a serviceable-looking flintlock pistol in her hand, pointing directly at the marquis. “Give the whip to Gracemere. I think he might enjoy putting it to good use.”

The earl chuckled and held out his hand.

“Don’t think I won’t shoot, Carrington,” Agnes said with a tight smile. “Of course, I won’t kill you. The consequences of your death might be a little difficult to avoid, but I will break your knees. We shall all three be long gone from here by the time you recover your senses sufficiently to drag yourself down the stairs.”

Harriet screamed. Gracemere snatched the whip from Marcus.

Within the inn, the landlord was struggling for breath as the jarvey cheerfully tightened his boldly checkered scarf around his throat, inquiring for the second time, “Where’ll we find the gennelman cove, friend?”

“Perhaps he can’t speak,” Judith suggested as the innkeeper flailed desperately in the jarvey’s choke hold. “You are squeezing him rather tightly.”

The jarvey slackened the material a trifle and Mr. Winkler gestured outside with a hoarse but informative, “stables.” His expression clearly indicated that he no longer had the least interest in preserving anyone’s privacy, and would willingly yield up whatever secrets of his house and its guests were demanded of him, and even those that weren’t.

“Stay here and keep an eye on him,” Judith instructed
the jarvey, taking the pistol from her pocket. “If I need you, I’ll call.”

“Right you are, lady,” the jarvey said. “ ’Andy with that popper, are you?”

“Handy enough,” Judith said.

Gathering up her skirts, she ran to the stable building, having no idea what she would find. In the dark, manure-scented interior, she stopped and looked around. Then she heard Harriet’s scream and the sickening hiss and crack of a whip.

She hurled herself at the stairs, stumbled, picked herself up, and flung open the door at the head. Her eyes, accustomed to simultaneous observation and assimilation of half a dozen hands of cards, instantly took in the tableau. Agnes Barret with her pistol raised, aimed at Marcus; the two men swaying, grappling for possession of a whip; Harriet, paralyzed with horror, her mouth open but now no sound issuing forth.

Judith didn’t pause for reflection. She fired her pistol and the flintlock spun out of Agnes’s grip. Agnes stared numbly at the hand that had held the gun. Blood welled from the torn flesh and dripped to the floor.

“Dear God in heaven!” Marcus breathed, wrenching the whip from Gracemere’s abruptly slackened hold.

Judith sprang across the room to retrieve Agnes’s pistol. She directed the flintlock at Gracemere and looked properly at Marcus for the first time.

“That’s quite an aim you have,” he observed. “But I can’t imagine why that should surprise me.”

No response seemed required and Judith glanced toward the settle where Harriet sat, now looking utterly bemused. “Harriet …”

“She’s frightened but has taken no serious harm,” Marcus said. “What interests me rather more is what the devil you think you’re doing here.” He pulled out his
handkerchief and went over to where Agnes stood, still staring in disbelief at the blood welling from her hand.

“It seems fortunate I am here,” Judith responded rather tartly. “You didn’t really expect me to leave you to conduct this business alone?”

“I had thought I’d made it crystal clear that was exactly what I expected.” Taking Agnes’s hand, he wrapped the handkerchief over the wound.

“But I
love
you,” Judith cried with an edge of exasperation. “I couldn’t possibly stand by when you might be hurt.”

Marcus looked up from his bandaging, and a smile touched his eyes, then spread slowly across his face. “No, I suppose you couldn’t,” he said. “Where you love, you love hard and long, don’t you, lynx?”

“And you?” It was a tentative question and she seemed to be perched on a precipice with joy on one side, desolation on the other.

“I’ve never loved before,” Marcus said, still smiling. “But it does seem to be a very powerful and exclusive emotion.”

Despair, anxiety, tension drained slowly away, leaving her empty of all but bone-deep relief and a well of loving warmth. It was going to be all right. She hadn’t lost Marcus and his love. “And forgiveness?” she asked. “Can love include that?”

“It seems to promote it,” he said, tying a knot in the handkerchief. “Is that comfortable, Lady Barret?”

“Comfortable is hardly the word I would have used,” Agnes stated. She looked across at Judith with a strange smile quirking her lips. “I have to say, Charlotte, that for two such mewling babes, you and Peter have certainly turned out unexpectedly. Whatever could George have done, I wonder, to have given you both so much strength of character?”

Gracemere flung himself on the settle beside a shrinking Harriet and began to laugh. It was an unsettling sound, totally without mirth.

Judith stared at Agnes. “What do you mean?” But she knew. She knew as she had always known. Only the knowledge had been in blood and bone and sinew, in the threads of a primitive instinct, not in absolute words speaking absolute truths.

“Can’t you guess, my dear child?” Agnes said, a taunting note in her voice. “But yes, I see that you can. Curiously, I find you a worthy daughter. I hadn’t expected George’s children to have any red blood in their veins.”

“I thought you were dead,” Judith said, her voice hollow.

“Alice Devereux is dead,” Agnes said. “She died a convenient death in a convent somewhere. And then she rose again, as you see.” She passed her uninjured hand down her body in mocking explanation.

“Marcus …?” Judith spoke his name hesitantly, her eyes searched for his, her free hand went out toward him in apprehensive plea.

“I’m here,” he said softly, taking her hand, squeezing it tightly as her mother continued to talk.

“Your father was so blind. He never knew … never guessed that Gracemere and I had been lovers since we were little more than children. Since between us we hadn’t a feather to fly with, one of us had to marry for money. But it didn’t work out as it was supposed to. In the end, we had to get rid of George.”

She was speaking quietly, cradling her bandaged hand, almost as if unaware of her audience. “He was in the way, always making demands … protestations of love. He wouldn’t leave me alone. He made it impossible for me to be with Gracemere as I had to be. And there
was Peter and then you, ten months apart, for heaven’s sake. I had to get away from him.”

Judith felt nauseated but she could no more move away or even interrupt than the fly stickily entwined in the web. She gazed at her mother, who continued her explanation with almost an assumption of shared comprehension.

“I couldn’t simply leave your father, you must understand, because then I would have been as penniless as if I’d never married him. What were we to do?” It was a genuine question. “I could only leave your father if we had possession of his money. So Gracemere took it from him. We did what was necessary.”

“Sebastian and I would have been in your way, of course,” Judith heard herself say. “You’d hardly want to be saddled with a pair of brats when you started on your new life.”

Agnes shook her head impatiently. “I never wanted children but George insisted. If he chose to take you with him when he left, why would it matter to me?”

“Why indeed?” Judith agreed distantly. “I quite see that.” She shook her head as if to dispel the cobwebs of confusion. In some essential way, the story seemed to have nothing to do with her at all, but she couldn’t quite clarify how or why that should be so.

“It seems that the affair has come full circle, ma’am,” Marcus said into the silence, still holding Judith’s hand. “Your children have ruined you and your lover as completely as you and your lover ruined their father. There’s a nice symmetry to it, I’m sure you’ll agree.” And it did now seem to him that it was the only right thing to have happened. Listening to the evil in this woman, who for passion’s sake had condemned her children to a life as outcasts, he felt only satisfaction for what Judith and her
brother had achieved. Vengeance was an ancient and savage imperative.

“But my mother needn’t be ruined. Perhaps she would prefer to remain with her present husband in London,” Judith suggested with a razor-edged smile, her voice hard. “I’m sure Sebastian—or rather, Peter—and I would really enjoy getting to know her properly.”

Agnes regarded her daughter with a glimmer of respect. “That could almost be an amusing prospect. However, my dear, you’ll never see me again. You must make my farewells to your brother.” She turned and went into the connecting room. Gracemere rose from the settle, offered a mocking bow to Judith, and followed his mistress.

Harriet whimpered. “I don’t understand …”

“No, of course you don’t,” Judith said swiftly. “What a terrible time you must have had, love. There’s a hackney downstairs. The jarvey is most reliable and he’ll convey you back to Brook Street immediately. In fact, I’ll accompany you—”

“No, you will not,” Marcus interrupted. “I’m not letting you out of my sight again. Come, Harriet.” He picked up the bewildered, tear-streaked girl, who lay limply in his arms. “I’m going to put you in the hackney and direct the jarvey to take you to Sebastian. I think you’ll find greater strength there than in your mother’s company, and he will know just how to explain matters to your parents so that they have no idea of the truth. Davenports are very good at that.” He cast his wife a darkling look that nevertheless carried a hint of rueful amusement. “Stay here, Judith, until I come back.”

“I’ll be here,” she said. She stood looking at the closed door to the other room. How much of her mother did she have in her? Was she infected with her mother’s evil? But she knew she wasn’t. The person she was had
more to do with the circumstances of her childhood than to any blood, bone, and sinew she shared with Agnes Barret. Her mother’s abandonment had been the greatest service she could have rendered her children. If she’d stayed in their lives, they would probably have learned to be as warped as she.

She went to the window, watching as Marcus carried Harriet across the yard. She felt curiously at peace, despite the dreadful revelations of the last minutes. It was as if something had been completed. The last piece of her past was fitted in place. She knew her mother, had avenged her father. Now she was free to be her own person.