Love Alters Not (30 page)

XII

Farrar had a fair idea of the “matter of business” his caller had come to discuss. He told Leonard to show the gentleman to his study and, having excused himself to Dimity, repaired to that chamber. He was glancing blindly at some estimates for the restoration of the old church in Palfrey Poplars, and nerving himself to receive the dread visitor, when Leonard opened the door.

“Mr. Roland Otton, sir.”

It went to show, thought Farrar bitterly, where cowardice led one; if he'd had the gumption to ask the name of his “caller,” he might have spared himself some very unpleasant moments of anticipation. Throwing down the estimate, he sprang to his feet.

Roland Otton, impressive as always and clad in a dark brown velvet riding coat, buckskin breeches, and knee boots, strolled into the room, a faintly insolent grin playing about his lips.

“I warned you,” grated Farrar, starting around the desk.

Otton lifted a languid hand. “I am here in a matter of honour, Tony.”

“Much you know of—”

“Alas, we both are rather—ah, tattered in that regard,
n'est-ce-pas?
No, you really cannot throw me out, my dear fellow. I represent our admirable Rafe.”

Fists clenched and eyes glittering with wrath, Farrar checked.

“Dear me, you
do
look dreadful,” said Otton clicking his tongue.

“Whereas your friend Green is unmarked, no doubt.”

“Acquit me of that! Rafe is not my friend. And as to his appearance, egad, 'tis enough to make a man vomit!”

“But you mean to second him?”

“Unhappily, yes.” Otton sighed regretfully, but his black eyes gleamed with mischief. “I would have acted for you, dear boy, but you'd have none of me and does one stay under a man's roof, one cannot very well refuse…”

Farrar stared. “Do you say that you are acting for him only because you are his guest?”

“Well, I don't
know
the fella! I must say it's very disobliging of you to put me in such a fix.”

“Put you … What in the devil are you talking about?”

“Merely that had you been more hospitable I'd not have had to finagle my way into Fayre Hall, and thus—”

With an effort recollecting his loathing for this scoundrel, Farrar snapped, “When does he wish to meet?” and returned to his chair.

Otton perched on the corner of the desk. “Only give me the names of your seconds.” He inspected a fingernail and murmured mildly, “You—er,
can
muster one or two, I presume?”

“Assuredly,” said Farrar, wondering if Leonard would second him. “When?”

“Tomorrow morning. He's very cross with you, Tony.”

“Pistols?”

“I said he was cross—not stupid. He knows your reputation. Swords.”

‘Damn!' thought Farrar.

Otton read the bleak look correctly. “Yes, I hear he's very good with a rapier. But you did challenge, you know. Loudly.”

Standing, Farrar nodded. “Where?”

“In the meadow by Black Spinney. At seven.”

“Agreed. Good-bye.”

Otton straightened, bowed in his graceful, mocking way and started out, then paused. “You will send your people to the Hall? Green has asked Ellsworth and me.”

“A motley crew,” sneered Farrar. “You had best warn your principal, Ro—Mathieson, that if his dogs come in sight, my seconds are instructed to shoot at once.”

“Shoot his
dogs?
” For once Otton looked shocked. “Jove! But—perhaps I do not take your meaning?”

So he did not know about the mastiffs. Gratified for some obscure reason, Farrar said a clipped, “Green will. Good day to you.”

*   *   *

Dimity hurried across the terrace and down the steps. There was no sign of Carlton, but because she knew how much Swimmer had meant to him, she was anxious to find him, and she followed the drivepath until it curved up to the old bridge. The breeze was stiff, hurrying clouds across the pale sky and whipping the treetops into swirling pirouettes. She had chosen the green gown this morning. It was a sickly colour, but the maids had been unable to remove all the stains the ashpile had left on the blue, nor the bloodstains from the jonquil dress, and she would die before she'd wear that absolutely disgusting bright pink atrocity with the open lacings to the waist! The skirts of the green gown were as voluminous as the bodice was scanty, and she struggled to hold them down as she trod up the bridge. Carlton was not to be seen, and although she called his name several times, he did not appear.

She wandered down the slope towards the river, wondering when her brothers would arrive. If her letter had reached them, they would be here at any moment. Sighing, she turned and was swept into two strong arms.

“Let me go at once!” she cried furiously, pushing against Roland Otton's broad chest.

“Now, sweeting,” he protested, laughing down at her. “Never say you did not put on that—er, delightful dress and trip down here to meet me. Confess, bewitching wanton, that—”

“You have no right—” she snarled.

Brazenly, one long finger traced the hollow between her breasts. “When a lady flaunts her charms so—enticingly,” he said with a chuckle, “what is a poor man to think?”

It was true! Bother the horrid creature, it was true! Enraged by both her sense of sportsmanship and her inability to escape this wretched imposture, she tore free, putting a shielding hand over the area that so enticed him.

“Ah, no! Pray do not hide so lovely a sight,” he pleaded, trying to move her hand away.

“Well, well,” drawled a gentle, cultured voice. “What a surprise, Roland.”

Otton jerked as though he had been shot. All affectation was wiped from his face, and he was suddenly chalk white, his dark eyes wide with shock. He was, she thought, even more attractive without the mantle of cynicism. He spun around then, so fast that his sword slapped hard against her hoops. The word he spoke was so softly uttered that she could not be sure what it was, but it sounded like, “Muffin…”

Following his gaze she saw a magnificent personage standing a short distance up the slope, quizzing glass in one hand and a long, gold-handled cane in the other. He wore a superb purple brocade coat, the front openings and pocket flaps richly embroidered with silver thread. His waistcoat was quilted lilac satin and satin unmentionables of the same shade looked as though the word “crease” was unknown to them; his stockings were of white with a lilac lattice up one side, and upon his feet were high-heeled shoes with amethysts gleaming from the buckles. His countenance was thin and haughty, with a hooked nose, pale blue eyes, and stern mouth. His chin was long and his forehead high. A slender gentleman, somewhere past sixty, she guessed, he was neither brawny nor tall, yet it appeared to her that he towered over the young man who stared at him in such speechless surprise. And sprawling at his side, head lazily propped on an immaculate shoe, was a large dog of dubious parentage and nondescript lines who snored softly into the amethyst encrusted buckle.

“Your … Grace,” gulped Otton.

“How charming in you to remember me.” The duke allowed the quizzing glass to fall to the end of its silver chain and extended his hand.

Otton stared at that slim hand as if he could not believe his eyes, then lifted his gaze to search the bland countenance. In a marked departure from his usual supple ease of movement, he approached the newcomer cautiously, dropped to one knee, but again hesitated, glancing up into the inscrutable eyes before gingerly touching the thin fingers to his lips.

“Perhaps,” drawled the gentleman, smiling at Dimity, “you will be so kind as to introduce me to this lady.”

Otton returned to take Dimity's hand and lead her forward. “Sir, it is my honour to present Mrs. Catherine Deene. Ma'am, his Grace the Duke of Marbury.”

The duke removed the tricorne from his elegant pigeon-wing wig and offered a low bow.

Dimity swept into a curtsey, wishing with all her heart that she wore her riding habit.

The duke bent over her hand. His brows lifted slightly as his glance encountered her bosom and when he straightened he said with a twinkle, “My
very
great pleasure, ma'am. I trust this regrettable—er, person was not annoying you.”

“He appears to have understood that I had come here to meet him, your Grace.”

“Whereas, of course, you had not.” Marbury sighed and shook his head chidingly. “I wonder why it is, Roland, that on the few occasions you cross my path, you either have a sword in your hand or a lovely woman in your clutches.”

“Very few occasions, sir,” said Otton, flushing but steadier.

It was the first time he had recovered himself sufficiently to speak in a normal voice. The effect upon the dog was extraordinary. He writhed convulsively, sprang up, and flung himself at Otton, barking wildly. Laughing and staggering back, Otton fended him off, jerking his head away from the flailing pink tongue and telling him firmly, “Beast! Down! Blast your ears! Down, sir!”

A brief frown disturbed the duke's serenity, then he was saying whimsically, “Do you know, my dear, I can never understand why he does that. It goes to show that dogs are not nearly the shrewd judges of character they are held up to be.”

The waters here were murky, she thought, and she enquired evasively, “Are you a friend to Captain Farrar, sir?”

“Let us say that I am extreme fond of Lady Helen,” he replied, just as evasively. “Now I wonder why you are here, Roland. What—or whom—do you hunt this time?”

Beast sat at Otton's feet, tongue lolling as he panted up at the dark young man. Fondling the head that was neither Alsatian nor Mastiff, but something of both, Otton murmured, “I wonder you can ask, sir, having seen this lovely lady.”

“Do you?” His Grace bestowed a thoughtful glance on Dimity. “You must not underestimate me because I am in my dotage, dear boy.”

“I think I am not so unwise, your Grace.”

“Nor I so foolish as to imagine you pursue Mrs. Deene. Among the things you lack, Roland, is obtuseness. Not only is this delightful creature a lady of Quality, but, knowing her brothers, I suspect any pursuit of her would inevitably lead you into a pair of duels.” He had noted Dimity's start, but went on urbanely, “While I do not mistake you for a craven, I suspect you do not hazard your life—save for gold.”

“
Vraiment,
but you know me better than I thought, your Grace.”

“To the contrary, I know you not at all. It was my misfortune to know your sire, however. And—your mama.” He lifted one hand; an unhurried gesture that yet effectively stopped the response that Otton, his eyes flashing, had been about to utter. “Good afternoon, Farrar.”

Striding up, grim-faced, Farrar bowed. “Welcome, your Grace. I regret I am unable to extend that greeting to your—to Otton.”

“It is quite all right, my dear boy,” said the duke expansively. “Reluctant as I may be, I do not deny the relationship. However, in view of—forgive—your own unhappy predicament, I would have thought, er … You and Roland
did
serve together—no?”

“In the Low Countries, sir.”

“And were at one time—close friends?”

“Times change, your Grace.”

“Oh, indeed. But—pray forgive my curiosity—what brought about the change in this particular instance?”

Farrar hesitated.

Otton said defiantly, “Farrar objects because I was among those who—interrogated a traitor with whom he cries friends.”

“Ah…” The duke smiled gently at the scowling Farrar. “It is not wise, Anthony, to befriend traitors. I am convinced,” he amended, musingly, “we cannot refer to the interrogation of poor Quentin Chandler … But of course not.” He made an apologetic gesture. “Even Roland would not stoop to the savageries perpetrated on that boy, much less participate in such brutality.”

Otton was silent, looking down, one hand nervously fondling the dog's ear.

“Beast!” snapped Marbury, his tone making Dimity jump, “Heel!” In rather startled fashion, the dog at once returned to his master.

No less startled, Dimity saw that the duke's mild eyes had taken on the aspect of Polar ice, the stare he levelled at his grandson causing the breath to catch in her throat.

“I will have your answer, sir, an you please.”

Very pale, Otton said hoarsely, “In—in time of war, your Grace—”

Like a knife of steel, the duke's voice cut through the stammered words. “'Twas not done by reason of patriotism, for you lack a single iota of so worthy a sentiment! I'd heard rumours you were involved in tormenting Chandler, but would not believe you could sink to such a depth of depravity!” The impassioned denunciation ceased. Marbury drew a breath and with a faint smile murmured, “Faith, but I'll own you have outdone yourself.”

Otton's shoulders straightened. “Had you expected anything else?” he drawled with his normal veiled insolence.

“You are right,” smiled Marbury. “I forget myself. One must always keep in mind the adage of the—ah, silk purse and the sow's ear … You may leave us, Roland. As rapidly as may be.”

Otton jerked a bow and, looking neither to right nor left, retreated with an unwontedly rapid stride toward the stables. Marbury bent and patted Beast, whereupon that exhausted animal slid slowly down his leg to sprawl on his shoe again.

Dimity turned a scared glance to Farrar. He lifted his brows and said a silent, “Phew!”

“I am desolate,” said Marbury, standing erect and regarding Dimity wistfully. “I allowed vexation to abrogate manners. I upset you, I fear, and most humbly crave your pardon, dear lady.”

He was all gentle humility once more, but she was not deceived. She had seen steel and knew that a man would do well to tread very lightly around this complex individual. But she was not a man, and the sight of the trickle of moisture on his temple touched her heart. She said kindly, “I think he has many good qualities, your Grace. Perhaps he regrets—whatever it was that he did. Perhaps he is not quite as—as base as he seems.”