Love Alters Not (23 page)

“Goodness, no. We go over to St. Michael's. It's not too far, and a nice young priest has taken over while Father Morehead is away. Such a fine looking boy. He preaches a sermon rather more—controversial than is entirely popular, alas, but he's a charming way with words, and
such
a lovely sense of fun.”

“Which likely sets up even more backs.” He said musingly, “Puts me in mind of a friend who also went into the clergy. Charles was a very simi—”

“Charles? Why, that is the name of our curate. Charles Albritton.”

“The very same!” He drove a fist into his palm. “How famous! I shall have to hear him preach and tease, the rascal. Now, dear lady, one more question before I tell you all you wish of Town
on dits.
Am I wrong, or do I detect a hint of the ah—unexpected in the charming Mrs. Deene? An I speak out of turn you may tell me to put my curiosity in my pocket.”

Lady Helen hesitated, but his handsome face was very attentive, his smile gentle, his long dark eyes so kind. She had always had a soft spot in her heart for him, and so she said confidingly, “'Tis the most incredible development, Roland…”

*   *   *

“Incredible,” agreed Jordan, shaking powder into Farrar's thick locks. “I would have come up at once, only I chanced to overhear something I thought might interest you, sir. All things being—er, equal.”

“Well, all things were not equal in here,” grumbled Farrar. “I was
never
more embarrassed! A whole herd of gawking females and staring children, and me standing in the altogether like some dripping damned museum exhibit! I fancy I shall have nightmares about it for years to come! How I'm to go down and face 'em all, I cannot think!”

His valet, managing with a strong effort not to grin, kept a discreet silence and after a fuming moment, Farrar grunted, “What's this you think will interest me? If 'tis too alarming you'd best not tell me, for my nerves are already tattered!”

Jordan considered Sir Anthony to have the steadiest nerves he'd ever encountered, and he stifled a chuckle. “Why, it's about Mrs. Deene, sir. The most ridiculous thing. It seems the maids are terrified of her because she bought a spell from a witch.”

Farrar, who had tensed at the mention of Dimity's name, now pulled up his downbent head and shoved his hair back, the better to view his man. “You been at the brandy, Jordan?”

“Sir, I assure you my first reaction was exactly the same, but the silly wenches are petrified. I overheard them whilst I was in the linen room getting your towel, and by what I can make out, Mrs. Deene put the fear of doom into them, saying that if they dare repeat her secret, the spell would be broke, and a dreadful fate would overtake them.”

“Good God! What stuff!” And, contradictorily, “What kind of spell?”

“Why, it seems that Mrs. Deene purchased a love potion,” explained Jordan, resuming his powdering.

“Did she now?” said Farrar, his eyes beginning to sparkle. “How does it work?”

“She has a note writ by her lover” (here, Farrar's eyes ceased to sparkle), “only the gentleman is reluctant to offer. So the witch told her, if she sleeps with the note under her mattress each night, she can bring him up to scratch.”

“I see. So 'twas not a cricket.”

“No, sir. She said she put that about because she didn't want folks to know the truth. But the
really
incredible thing, Sir Anthony, is that the gentleman for whom Mrs. Deene has such a
tendre,
is—” he grinned broadly, “is Mr. Rafe Green.”

The powder box went flying. His eyes slits of wrath, his face pale save for two spots of colour high on his cheekbones, Farrar was out of the chair, his valet's cravat twisted in his hand. “You lie!” he grated savagely. “By the God that made you—you
lie!
”

*   *   *

Astonished, Dimity stared up into Roland Otton's laughing face. “I beg pardon, sir? I must have misunderstood.”

Otton was already much too close for comfort, but he moved closer so that she was obliged to press back against the tree. “I said,” he repeated, running a fingertip down the side of her cheek, “you are dealing from a fuzzed deck. How charmingly you do employ the wide eyes and heaving bosom, m'dear. Especially,” his hand strayed, “the latter.”

Furious, Dimity smacked his fingers away and said through her teeth, “How
dare
you! Were my brothers here, you'd answer for—”

“Sweet little widow, who wears no marriage ring,” he scolded, pressing his finger to her lips, “kiss it better. Come now, be generous. I am but trying to do you a kindness; you must not repay with cruel words and blows. After all, we are kindred souls, as it were.”

His slumbrous eyes teased her; his hands were everywhere. But also, his words made her uneasy so that, restraining a clutch in the nick of time, she gasped, “What do you mean—kindred souls?”

His lips parted and he bent lower. “I can show you better than—”

“Stay back! An I tell Lady Helen you—”

“My lady has gone to change her dress. I am invited to dine, so you need not fear I shall vanish away, love.”

“Fear, is it? I am more like to vanish you away with the nearest blunderbuss! What is this talk of—Oh! Stop at once!—of fuzzed decks and—”

“Heaving bosoms,” he grinned, with a fast caress where appropriate. “Simply this, fairest, if you seek to pass off that brat as Farrar's nephew, you're fair and far out, because—”

“Good evening, Mrs. Deene.”

The deep voice fairly splintered ice. Dimity tore free. Farrar stood nearby, Shuffle beside him, as usual. He had already dressed for dinner and was more elegant then she had ever seen him, in a splendid coat of dark green velvet, the great cuffs and pocket flaps embroidered in light green. His waistcoat was of gold brocade, his unmentionables palest green, and stockings with green fans adorned his well shaped legs. Not even the darkening bruise on his face could diminish his proud hauteur, and Dimity thought him magnificent.

“Hello, Tony.” Otton put out his hand.

Ignoring it, Farrar drawled, “So you acknowledge me. You are more charitable than I, sir.”

Otton's hand fell, but he said, unruffled, “Fustian. You forget we fought together in the Lowlands.”

“I forget nothing. You are the one forgets.” And as Otton watched him with eyes suddenly wary, he went on, “Quentin Chandler is a friend of mine.”

“Ah-h…” Otton took up his quizzing glass and began to swing it gently on the long silver chain that hung about his neck. “You're right. I had forgot that attachment. Gordon has been this way, I take it.”

“So here you all are.” Lady Helen, who had changed into a graceful
robe volante
of dark rose silk, walked to the edge of the terrace, her rather uneasy gaze moving quickly from one man to the other. “Mrs. Deene, you will dine with me, of course. Roly, pray come upstairs and we can—”

“No, madam.” Farrar's voice cut like a knife through her words.

She stared at him. “Roland dines with me this evening.”

“My regrets, ma'am, but Captain Otton is not welcome here.”

She gave a shocked exclamation. “He is
my
guest, Farrar,” she pointed out, her cheeks flushing and her fine eyes bright with anger. “You will own 'tis seldom enough that I am given the pleasure of company.”

Farrar said implacably, “I am aware. My deepest apologies to you, but Captain Otton cannot be welcomed into any house of mine.”

Superb in her wrath, she drew herself up. “Come, Roland. I am sorrier than I can express that you should be subjected to such rudeness.”

His eyes glinting with covert laughter, Otton stepped forward.

Farrar took one long stride and blocked his way.

“Tony,” sighed Otton, shaking his handsome head ruefully. “Would you knock an old comrade down for accepting your lady aunt's kind invitation?”

“'Twould give me the greatest pleasure.”

Otton regarded that grim face thoughtfully. “Do you know, I really believe you would. And thus.” He spread his slender hands in a faintly French gesture, turned to Lady Helen, and bowed low. “As always, your hospitality is a joy, ma'am, but—” he shrugged. “
Que faire?
I must depart lest I bring you more grief.
Adieu, mesdames.
”

Tearful and quivering with rage, Lady Helen said, “Roland—I … I have
never
been so—”

He kissed her fingertips. “But you must not distress yourself over so little a thing. Anthony has a good enough reason, for I
am
the rogue he believes me, you know. No—you don't know. But, believe it, dear ma'am, and do not scold him too harshly.”

She smiled at him mistily.

“Otton,” gritted Farrar, “you try my patience.”

Otton chuckled and, swinging his quizzing glass, meandered towards the stables. He called over his shoulder, “Have you had Rump saddled for me, Tony?”

“I have.”

“
Merci beaucoup.
Cheerio, old fellow.”

“Good-bye,”
said Farrar with finality.

Dimity, who had been frozen with embarrassment, slipped towards the steps, but stopped as Lady Helen moved regally in the same direction.

Farrar followed his aunt. “Ma'am, I beg you will forgive the need for—”

She rounded on him, pale and furious. “There was
no
need! No possible justification for you to cancel my invitation. Whatever Roland may have done, how dare
you
of all people—stand in judgement on him?”

He halted, gazing up at her. “I know I have brought you shame and—and disappointment, but—”

“Disappointment?” she echoed, and laughed rather hysterically, such a wealth of disgust in the sound that he winced.

Low-voiced he said, “What I did was—is past forgiveness, I know. But, it was not done with cold and calculated cruelty, nor for personal gain, and—”

Lost in fury, my lady interpolated, “Are you very sure of that, Farrar?”

His tall figure jerked as though she had struck him. There was a short, terrible silence, during which it seemed to the appalled girl that her heartbeats must be audible. Then, Farrar gave a strangled cry and reached out to grasp his aunt's arm.

“My God! You
cannot
think … You
could
not believe … Dear Lord! How could you stay here, thinking I—”

Lady Helen pulled away. “I stayed only so as not to give the gossips grist for their mills. But—now that you dare to dictate whom I may or may not welcome here, I can stay no longer. I shall—”

“No!” His hand went out again as though to touch her, but was withdrawn when she jerked back. “I—beg of you. Do not go. You need not speak to me. I'll stay out of your sight as much as possible. But—
please
do not go.”

“You have left me no alternative. I shall leave so soon as I can complete other arrangements.” She made her way with dignity up the steps but, despite herself, tears glistened on her cheeks.

For a moment, Farrar watched her retreating figure. Then, without a word or a glance to indicate that he was aware of Dimity's presence, he turned and walked away, Shuffle at once springing up and following. His head was bowed, his shoulders sagged, and he did not seem to notice when his feet left the path and stumbled through a flower bed.

He looked, Dimity thought, a broken man, whose last hope has been snatched away.

*   *   *

It was late and Roland Otton was tired when he guided his tall chestnut horse into the yard of the White Dragon posting house on the Salisbury Road. Having made provision for Rumpelstiltskin, he proceeded to the dining room and was doing justice to some tender roast beef and fried potatoes when a shadow fell across his plate. Without looking up, he invited, “By all means, cousin.”

Captain Jacob Holt threw gloves and tricorne onto the opposite settle and sat down. “Well?”

“Not markedly.”

Holt called for a tankard of ale. “I'd fancied you would wangle a dinner invitation, at the least.”

“So I did. Farrar squashed it.” Otton sighed. “Firmly.”

“Lord! From what I've heard, one might suppose the fellow would be grateful did a
buzzman
offer to sit at his board.” Otton looked aggrieved, and Holt chuckled. “My apologies. No simile intended.”

“To an extent you're right, Jacob. Farrar
would,
I think, have accepted a pickpocket rather than myself. Fellow holds a grudge.”

The devil-may-care look had vanished, and Holt regarded with curiosity a seldom-seen grimness. “Which disturbs you, I see. I wonder why. You know, Roly, I have always felt there was a deal more to that business with Quentin Chandler than I knew.”

A pause, and then Otton answered slowly, “I've few friends, Jacob, but among 'em is a thoroughly decent fellow who calls me a rogue, but says he also names me friend because he knows me better than I do.” His smile was brief and held a rueful quality that astounded his cousin. “I think I am a rogue. Certainly, I am a dedicated villain. But—I have never been so thoroughly the latter as in my dealings with Chandler. It—disturbs me sometimes.”

Regarding the pensive countenance with interest, Holt prompted, “You fought him, I know—though you have never said where the duel took place. There is nothing despicable in fighting a traitor, and if that is all—”

“I wish it were.” Otton gave an impatient shrug and said brightly, “I don't hold it against him that he proved the better swordsman, wherefore I lay abed for a month. He is safe away to France with—his love. It is over. Nothing I did would have changed the outcome.”

The sleepy waiter carried over a tankard and yawned ostentatiously. Holt drank deep and ignored him. “Farrar's a pretty one to be criticizing others,” he grunted, setting the tankard down and wiping his mouth fastidiously. “How much lower could a gentleman sink than to be a cowardly deserter?”