Love Alters Not (28 page)

The servants eyed each other uneasily.

Struggling to free himself, Farrar panted, “Do your own dirty work, for once! Send your seconds to me and I'll oblige … the world by blowing your slimy head off.”

The butler contemplated his employer's gobbling hysteria and took matters into his own hands. Snatching up the pistol, he brought the butt down hard on the back of Farrar's head.

Dimity gave a sob of horror as Farrar slumped and hung loosely in the grip of the footmen.

“Take him out to his horse,” the butler growled, “and get him off our land.” Green being so obliging as to faint at this point, he added, “Best be quick about it, or we'll have the master forcing us to throw him to those damned great hounds. And that's murder, and you know who'd swing on Tyburn for it!”

The two men nodded sombrely and dragged Farrar's limp body out. The butler and the remaining footman started to lift Green.

Recovering from the shock that had held her motionless, Dimity hurried to bend over the battered Green with every appearance of deep concern. “Is—is he … dead?”

“Not quite, ma'am.” The butler directed a sly wink at his underling. “But I'd say he got the worst of it.”

“Sir Anthony done the master up tidy,” agreed the footman cheerfully.

Green opened his eyes and blinked at Dimity without recognition.

She touched his cheek caressingly. “Poor Rafe,” she cooed, and bent lower to kiss him as she slipped her other hand into his coat pocket.

“Wh—what…?” he groaned.

“It's in your coat pocket,” she whispered, her lips at his ear.

The butler rolled disgusted eyes at the footman. “Best stand clear now, if you please, ma'am.”

She watched them carry Green from the room. Then, with the feeling that a great weight had been lifted from her shoulders, she turned to the window, only to stop and stare at a miniature which had fallen from the desk. She snatched it up. The artist had tried, but there could be no mistaking that fleshy face and cruel little eyes. Nor could there be any doubt about the resemblance. Rafe's eyes were different, but there was the same large nose and chin, the coarseness to the features, the thick lips. “My lord” was Lord Hibbard Green, and his son was the man Farrar had caught cheating at school. “Farrar!” she thought, and throwing down the miniature, ran to the window, clambered through it and, picking up her skirts, ran to the trap into which Farrar had been thrown.

Green's servants were starting back to the house and they eyed Dimity curiously as she came up. “Get him away as fast as may be,” one of them called over his shoulder. “If the master wakes up, he'll set the dogs loose for certain!”

Younce muttered something under his breath and assisted Dimity into the trap.

Farrar was sprawled unconscious on the narrow seat. Frightened, she touched his still face and asked, “Is he badly hurt, do you think?”

“He's not going to snuff it, ma'am. He's come through worse. But we must get him out of this. I'll ride his horse, if you can manage to drive.” He propped Farrar against the seatback making room for Dimity.

She took up the reins. “I can manage, but this will never do. He'll fall out. Try if you can lay him across my knees.”

Younce struggled until Farrar lay face down as she suggested. “Got himself properly whipped,” he muttered glumly.

“From behind,” said Dimity with vehemence. “And you should only see Mr. Green!” He checked and looked at her, his eyes brightening. “Is this all right, ma'am? I'm afraid your gown—”

“Never mind about my gown. That's much better. Now hurry! Hurry!”

He jumped from the trap and went over to the solemn-eyed stableboy who was with difficulty holding the big grey. Dimity slapped the reins on the back of the roan and the animal started off at a trot. Seconds later, a shout rang out, and the stallion shot past, Younce clinging to his back and sending a startled look at her before he was borne from view. She urged the roan to greater speed and followed. The trap jolted along, and Farrar's head slid helplessly. She put her arm across him to keep him from falling and prayed they would get safely back to The Palfreys before Green sent his dogs after them.

She judged that ten minutes had passed, and she was beginning to be really afraid that Farrar was seriously injured, when she heard a smothered moan and then he clutched her knee, dragged himself up a little, and peered at her in bewilderment. A contusion was darkening along the right side of his jaw, the cut above his eye had broken open and bled profusely, and the side of his mouth was lacerated, adding its mite to his gory countenance.

Appalled, she said, “Oh, you do look dreadful! I am very sorry, but I did not dare stop and try to help you. Is there a stream where you can wash?”

His hand was still on her knee. He stared down at it and said feebly, “You did help me. The Lord only knows … why.” He snatched his hand away then, and gave her an aghast look, a faint tinge of colour staining his white face. “Good God! Your—your pardon! I—”

She said calmly, “Don't be silly.”

He blinked at her. “I cannot think how you got me away, but—” He broke off, frowning, then asked in a firmer voice, “Where are you taking me, ma'am?”

“Home, I hope. Why? Am I going the wrong way?”

With an obvious effort, he pulled himself upright. “Not—if you wish to go to Fordingbridge. Give me the reins.”

She hesitated, but he seemed capable, for all there was a frown between his brows and he was so pale. She handed him the reins. “I may have taken the wrong turn at the crossroads. There was no sign and I've a dreadful sense of direction. Your groom was carried off by your great Polly.” She checked and asked inconsequently, “Why do you call him that?”

“I don't.” He turned the roan off the road, swore under his breath as the trap bounced, and added, “His name's
Poli,
which is French … and means—”

Dimity smiled. “He did not look very
refined
when he went charging off with your poor servant hanging on for dear life!”

Farrar drew rein in the shade of some trees at the foot of a broad hill. He stared at Dimity for a moment, then climbed from the trap. “There's a stream—” he began in a fading voice, and swayed, clutching dizzily at the tall wheel.

Dimity scrambled down and tethered the roan to a shrub. Farrar was trudging off erratically. She followed and took his arm. He stopped and looked blearily down at her. “Be damned if I can make you out,” he muttered.

“I know. And I can tell you the truth now. Oh dear, you
are
feeling poorly! Can you manage if you lean on me?”

He managed, but when they reached the stream, he sat down abruptly on the bank and closed his eyes, looking so close to swooning that she abandoned formality and ransacked his pockets until she found his large handkerchief. She dipped it in the stream. When she turned back with icy water dripping from the linen, Farrar's head was bowed into his hands. She pulled his shoulders back and began gently to bathe his face. The cold water restored him, and in a short while he opened his eyes and said faintly, “If you could be so good as to wet it again, I'll put it on this cricket ball on the back of my skull.”

She rinsed out the handkerchief and folded it into a square. Farrar's head was downbent again. She untied the black velvet riband, spread the fair hair and found the large lump. Thanks to the thickness of his hair, the skin was unbroken but it was already starting to bruise. With caution, she laid the handkerchief over the injury.

Farrar gave a groaning sigh and reached up to hold it in place. “Thank you. Though why you should help me instead of staying with … your lover, I—”

“Oh, he is only one of many,” she said, kneeling beside him and watching his battered face with compassion.

He tilted his head back, looking at her, his eyes narrowed painfully.

“Poor soul,” she said. “I know you must feel dreadfully. I remember when one of my brothers was struck on the head by a falling tree branch, and it hurt so badly he was sick.”

“I echo his feelings,” he said threadily, “but perhaps I may refrain from being sick if you will relate the next chapter.”

Dimity settled herself more comfortably, unable to blame him for the dry scepticism in his tone.

“Oh, Gad,” he exclaimed, then, “I've bled all over your gown. My apologies.”

She glanced down. “It is not my gown.”

“Ahh…” breathed Farrar.

“Nor am I Catherine Deene,” she went on. “And Carlton is not my nephew.” He watched her steadily and she reached up to dab her handkerchief at the cut on his brow. “A dear friend had asked me to deliver a message of great importance. He was—taken ill, you see, and could not deliver it himself. His … enemies were determined to prevent me from completing my task, and I was very afraid they would find me.” She paused uneasily. It did not sound nearly as convincing as when she'd rehearsed it on the way here. She peeped at Farrar and met a sardonic grin, so hurried on, “When the accident happened—”

“Which one? My life—since you came into it—seems to have been one long accident!”

“I know.” She gave him a repentant look. “I am truly sorry. I mean the accident when the Portsmouth Machine turned over. I was stunned, and when I woke up they had mistaken me for Mrs. Deene because her reticule had become draped over my arm.”

“So you let them keep on thinking it, for fear your—er, friend's enemies—or is it your enemy's friends? … would find you.”

“Yes. And because I had no papers with me.”

“Thus, you were glad to hide at The Palfreys. But—are you not anxious to complete your mission?”

“I have. Today.”

He stared at her. “Do you mean that your message was for that creature I just—argued with?”

“Yes. But I had never met him, you see, and I'd no idea he was the son of that horrible man we met in Salisbury. He is—no?”

“Yes. Rafe's father is Lord Hibbard Green. And your—er, message is safely delivered?”

“At last! I am free. I don't have to pretend any more!”

“Egad—what a melodrama!” He frowned. “Then—where is the real Mrs. Deene?”

“Recovering, I'm afraid— Oh dear! I don't mean that exactly, but she will probably be coming to claim Carlton at any hour. She lies at a hedge tavern near Winchester where we were carried after the wreck.”

“I see. Then—you cannot know whether Carlton is, or is not, my legal nephew?”

“No. He is a very dear little boy, though, do you not think?”

“Very dear! As witness my broken coach and shattered bridge—to say nothing of his confounded House Tour!”

Dimity chuckled. “Yes—and the paints you bought him, and the time you have spent trying to teach him how to go on. You likely thought I did not notice.”

Farrar was experiencing the inevitable reaction from his debauched night and violent morning. His head pounded savagely, and his arm felt even worse than it had yesterday. He knew a grim sense of satisfaction because he had in some small measure punished Green for his beloved Shuffle's death, but that loss was still too terrible a thing to be faced, and he escaped it by allowing another realization to please him. If what she said was truth this time, this beautiful and courageous girl was not engaged in trying to defraud him, and may well have had a reason for some of the outrageous things she had done; certainly for those disgraceful gowns. With the startled awareness that he had been staring at her, he said, “Your pardon—what did you say?”

“I said,” Dimity replied, her cheeks rather pink because of the look in his eyes, “that Mrs. Deene is rather a—formidable lady, I would think.”

“Is she, indeed? It would be interesting to know if that is the reason why that young rapscallion did not remain with her.”

“As a matter of fact, he was most willing to leave her and told me he would as soon have me for an aunt instead.”

“So would I,” said Farrar, foolishly. Then, colouring up he added, “By the way, ma'am, may I ask—what is your real name?”

Her real name … Oh, dear! “It is Dimity—Clement.”

“Aha! Now I understand the ‘Mitten'! And—is it—
Miss
Mitten?”

“Yes,” she said, miserable suddenly because she must still lie to him about her true identity, and even more miserable because if he learned her real name he would know how her brothers despised him—how she
should
despise him. She stood and took his arm. “Now, come. I must get you home.”

Farrar leaned on her heavily as they returned to the trap. It was a battle to climb in, and when it was accomplished he sat in a strange sort of daze. He was not too dazed, however, to be enchanted by the glimpse of her lovely ankles as she clambered up beside him and took the reins. He leaned his head against the back of the seat and gazed dreamily at her.

“Miss Mitten,” he murmured.

Dimity turned to him, a kindness in her face that made his heart leap. He knew he was a prize fool. It seemed that on at least half the occasions when he'd seen her, some rake had been exploring her bosom. She had lied to him from the beginning. There was no reason to believe that this time she had told him the truth—that she was not, in fact, a quick-witted mercenary adventuress. Yet, how sweet the rich curve of her lips; how dainty the shadow of the thick lashes on her delicate cheekbones; how enchanting the slant to those liquid hazel eyes.

“Yes?” she answered. It was so very difficult to keep in mind that this man was a coward, responsible for the loss of many lives and for her beloved Perry's maiming, and even believed by some to have deliberately engineered his own cousin's death. ‘It is a filthy lie!' she thought fiercely. But then she was frowning because for a soldier to panic and run from the battlefield, deserting his comrades, was a dark and shameful thing, but for an officer to surrender to fear, to abandon his men to their fate while he fled to protect his own skin—that was vile; a deed beneath contempt. And she wished she did not like him so very much.