Love Alters Not (27 page)

“No need. The trap is waiting,” he said relentlessly, and opened the door.

A groom sat in the trap, reins in hand. Another man clung to the head of Farrar's grey stallion and threw a desperate glance at his employer.

“Fresh, is he?” enquired Farrar, handing Dimity into the trap.

“As a—bloomin' daisy, sir,” gasped the groom.

Farrar swung into the saddle and took the reins. “Stand clear!” he called, and the man leapt away. The grey shot into the air and bucked, startling the well-mannered roan between the shafts of the trap. Farrar pulled the rambunctious stallion down with an iron hand. “Drive Mrs. Deene to the Hall, Younce,” he called, and was off at a plunging gallop.

Dimity did not see him again as they drove through the brightening morning. The trap followed the estate road for a while, then turned northward. The groom looked miserable, and Dimity, busied with her own sad thoughts, was silent. At least the cypher was safely in her bosom. She would give it to Mr. Green as soon as she ascertained that he was the proper recipient. Then, she would return to The Palfreys and tell Sir Anthony of her part in this horrible business. She would not dare speak of the cypher, of course, but certainly she should be able to invent some plausible tale to account for her need to impersonate the real Mrs. Deene. Perhaps, when he understood that she had been helpless, he would not be so contemptuous of her. If only she could make him listen … He was obsessed just now with his loss. Poor little Shuffle … She sighed, and wondered if Anthony would kill the man who owned those mastiffs.

XI

Dimity had hoped Farrar would accompany her, if only to ensure that she gain admittance to Mr. Decimus Green's home. That kindness having been denied, she realized that she would present more than a figure of fun to Mr. Green; very likely he would judge her as fast as she was unkempt. Her best hope was that he was not of the same stamp as Ellsworth and Roland Otton, who had both obviously decided she was a wanton and behaved accordingly. With luck, Mr. Green would turn out to be a gentleman who, however repulsed by her appearance and by the want of manners that sent her to his door unescorted at this hour, would not abuse her.

The drive took a little over half an hour. The morning was mild, but the sun had not yet warmed the air and, with no shawl to cover her bare arms and shoulders, Dimity was shivering by the time they reached the lodge gate. The gatekeeper came out in response to Younce's hail, shrugging into his coat, and with eyes becoming very wide when they beheld Dimity. The young female was most certainly not dressed for driving, besides which he considered Farrar's groom a poor substitute for a chaperone. He opened the gate, however, after exchanging some witticisms with the groom, and stared derisively as Dimity was driven past.

They followed an ill-kept drivepath that wound through sadly neglected grounds. It was some minutes before the house came into view; a sprawling grey stone edifice rather too blessed with architectural extravagances in the Italian style to suit Dimity's taste, but quite well maintained, which must be no mean task in view of its great size. Her heart sank when she thought of facing the butler who would likely open the door and at once deny his master to such a poorly bred female. She was grateful when they pulled up before the massive front steps and Younce tossed the reins to a goggle-eyed stableboy, jumped down to help her dismount, then walked close behind her up the steps.

They passed between two stone lions who turned their lofty noses and wide empty eyes upon the simple trap as though disdaining anything less than a coach of State. Dimity began to wish she had approached via the tradesman's entrance, but she was reminded suddenly of the occasion on which she and her brothers had been invited for the first time to Glendenning Abbey. Perry had said nervously that he was terrified of Tio's illustrious sire and Tio had laughed and told him that if ever he was afraid of a man, he must picture him clad only in his underclothes. Fortified, she waited as the groom tugged on the bell chain.

After a moment the door was opened to reveal an inscrutable and elegant individual who, with increasing horror, surveyed her from head to toe. The dark brows lifted, and the door swung an inch or two closer to being shut as he enquired in frigid accents, “Are you perhaps lost, madam?”

“If this is Mr. Green's residence, I am not,” she said, managing to sound cool. “I am quite aware that I present an unfortunate appearance, but there has been an accident. I bring a most urgent message to your employer. Please announce me to him at once.”

Her unruffled manner and quiet, cultured voice, were points in her favour apparently, because after a brief hesitation she was admitted to a great marble hall. A part of her mind registered the fact that it was cold and smelled damp, but then she was dealing with the butler's inevitable question by admitting that she had neither reticule nor card case with her, but that she was Mrs. Catherine Deene.

She fully expected to be denied, but although he looked most shocked, he eventually pursed up his lips and took himself off. He had a long way to go, for she heard his footsteps echoing into the distance. She waited, shivering, and uncomfortably aware that an upstairs maid who peeped at her from a railed balcony that ran along the far end of the hall, had evidently beckoned a friend, for stifled giggles could be heard. She was relieved when the butler trod his stately way back to her, and announced that Mr. Green was about to depart for an early ride, but could spare her a few minutes. The elevation of his nose clearly implied that this was a regrettable lapse, but he conducted her across the hall, along a dim, echoing corridor, and into a beautifully appointed study, at which point he gave her the barest of nods and left her alone.

Dimity glanced around curiously at well-stocked bookshelves, a large desk, and a reference table that had an unused appearance. There was a particularly fine print above the fireplace, showing a Saxon settlement with huts and arable lands and animal pens clearly and neatly laid out. She was studying this when a high-pitched voice behind her said rather irritably, “Well, ma'am? What—”

She spun around and recoiled with a shocked gasp. The tall young gentleman who faced her, impeccable in a dark blue riding coat and corded breeches, was the owner of the mastiffs.

An incredulous smile dawned on his face. “Well, well. We meet again!”

She said numbly, “
You
—are Mr. Rafe Green?”

“
Assurement,
my delectable creature…” Clearly captivated by the enchantments of her bodice, he advanced with a glint in his rather protuberant eyes that she did not at all care for. Stunned, she thought, ‘Oh—Lord! No wonder Anthony was so furious with me! He must have thought I knew this horrid creature that day in the clearing!' Green was bearing down on her. He reminded her of someone, but she could not think who it was. She retreated quickly, stammering, “And—and you are familiar with—the fair, sir?”

He checked, puzzled. “Good Gad, I should hope so! You are
in
it, Mrs. Deene. This is Fayre Hall.”

Then there could be no further room for doubt although that this could be the man she was to entrust with the life-and-death cypher was incomprehensible. And how ridiculous that she should feel so. Because Tio was such an honourable man did not ensure that every Jacobite sympathizer would be well-bred. Nor did the fact that this man had been responsible for killing Shuffle make him an ineligible recipient of the cypher.

Nonetheless, she said, “Mr. Green—how could you have done so dreadful a thing? How
could
you have sent your dogs to attack that poor little spaniel?”

“I most certainly did not do so, dear lady.” He put up his glass and surveyed her through it, the magnified eye alight with sly amusement. “I am fond of animals.”

Appalled, she stammered, “Then—then you meant to kill
Farrar!
My God!”

The frown returned to his petulant face. “You would find it very difficult to prove such a thing! For my part, ma'am, I think it incredible that so—er, peerless a creature as yourself should protest the matter. You're busily intent upon defrauding him yourself, by what Ellsworth tells me!” His eyes narrowed. “Is your message to do with that business? Are you come at this ungodly hour and in that—er, costume because dear Anthony has—er, tossed you out upon your delicious derrière?” He strolled nearer.

His smile held the element of lust she was beginning to recognize. She retreated once more. She had obviously misunderstood when she'd thought Tio said “fair” and “all”; he must have been trying to say Fayre Hall. Certainly, it was near Romsey, and this creature
was
Mr. Green. But she felt intuitively that something was not right, and so said in desperation, “Are you expecting a message, sir? A—very special message, perhaps?”

He paused, looking at her narrowly. “Curse me, but I am! Though I'll own you are not the person I'd thought would deliver it! 'Tis an extreme—delicate matter.”

“And highly dangerous, Mr. Green.”

He nodded and lowered his voice. “You're a cool one, I'll admit. Have you it about you?”

Her hand slipped instinctively to her bodice.

Green laughed softly and sprang, seizing her in a crushing embrace. “No, but you must give
me
the pleasure of collecting it, ma'am.”

Dimity had often heard her grandfather remark that clothes make the man. During the course of this nightmare adventure she had learned beyond all doubting that the adage also applied to females. Struggling furiously, she made a mental vow that for so long as she lived she would never again wear a plunging neckline.

A voice of ice cut across her squeals of indignation.
“Green!”

Dimity's heart seemed to stop beating, and she felt the man who held her give a sort of jolt before he released her and spun around.

Anthony Farrar stood just inside the open window to the garden. His head was slightly lowered, his unblinking stare fixed with deadly menace on Green, every inch of his tall figure poised for violent action.

Green whispered his name and made a mad dash for the desk and the pistol that lay there.

As fast as he moved, Farrar was faster. His face contorted with the lust for vengeance, he launched himself across the room, catching Green at the knees and bringing him crashing down. Farrar rolled, smooth and catlike and was on his feet while Green still sprawled. Frantic, Green kicked out and Farrar reeled back. Scrambling up, Green made another wild dive for the desk, but Farrar was after him. One hand caught Green by the shoulder and wrenched him around, the other came up explosively to connect under his chin and send him hurtling across the desk and to the floor beyond it. Farrar vaulted lightly over the desk, but Green was not one to fight fair. Blood streaking from the side of his mouth, he was on his knees, bringing up the pistol which had gone down with him, his thumb pulling back the hammer, a murderous triumph in his eyes. Farrar made a lightning snatch for the pistol and wrenched it aside. Green's left fist swung with the strength of desperation and landed hard beside Farrar's ear, staggering him. Farrar's left arm was considerably weakened, and it was all he could do for a minute to hang onto Green's wrist with both hands and keep the pistol pointing away from him.

Getting his second wind, Green snatched up the heavy marble Standish and flailed it at the point where throat and shoulder meet, and Farrar, unable to breathe for an instant, saw stars. He hunched his shoulders up and hung on dazedly through a rain of blows. Driven to his knees, he lost his hold on Green's wrist. With a triumphant shout, Green whipped the pistol around, but the mists were clearing from Farrar's mind. He lurched up and with all his strength rammed his head into Green's midriff. Green said an explosive
“Ooosh!”
and doubled over. He clung to Farrar and both men went down. Farrar landed on top and caught Green by the throat.

“You filthy … slug,” he panted, tightening his grip. “You didn't have the backbone … to come after me yourself. You trained those hounds to do your … dirty work! If you blamed me for—for Harding's death, why didn't you—call me out like … a man?”

Consciousness fading, his eyes starting from his head, Green abandoned the fruitless attempt to dislodge Farrar's merciless hold. He managed to grasp the fallen Standish and with all his remaining strength swung it upward. It struck home just below Farrar's left elbow and his arm became useless, the pain sickening him.

Sobbing for breath, Green snatched up the pistol and brought the muzzle into line with Farrar's heart.

Dimity screamed at the top of her lungs, and Green's hand jerked. Farrar flung himself sideways. The explosion was deafening, but the ball smashed harmlessly into the wall.

Green howled curses and fled weavingly. Farrar staggered in relentless pursuit. Green reached the bell pull and tugged it desperately, a split second before Farrar's knotted first connected solidly with his jaw. He went down and lay sprawled and moaning, his arms flapping about helplessly. Farrar advised his victim in acid if breathless terms of his deplorable ancestry. “My little … spaniel,” he finished unsteadily, “was worth …
ten
of you, you unutterable worm!” Having said which, he stepped onto the middle of Green's waistcoat and proceeded to wipe his boots with great deliberation on that already ravaged garment while Green shrieked and gasped out obscenities.

The butler and three footmen sprinted in.

Dimity screamed,
“Tony!”

Farrar was slowed and he turned too late. The footmen grabbed him by the arms and dragged him from the writhing and bloody creature that was their master.

“Kill … him!” sobbed Green, clutching his stomach. “Set the … dogs … on the—stinking—swine!”