Love Alters Not (31 page)

His answering smile was like a warm embrace. He said softly, “Few of us are quite what we seem, are we, Mrs. … Deene?”

She blushed guiltily. He extended his arm. Taking it, she walked beside him towards the house, Farrar following.

“It is most kind in you to have made such a generous observation.” Marbury directed a glance over his shoulder. “Never hide back there, Anthony. You know very well I shall have to be told about your face. By the way, where is Shuffle? I do not—” He broke off. “I have said something gauche, I perceive. You may leave us, my boy. I wish to hoard this beautiful young creature to myself for a little while.”

Farrar bowed, threw an uneasy look at Dimity, and strode off.

The duke led the way to the bench under an old beech tree that dappled a lacy shade beside the drive. “Farrar is angry with me,” he said, taking out his handkerchief and spreading it on the wooden bench before allowing Dimity to occupy it. “But I am consumed with curiosity and beg your indulgence of a lonely old man who leads a very dull life.” He sat beside her, and went on, “Advancing years have not led, in my case, to a diminution of selfishness, and thus, before I burden you with the plethora of questions that come to mind, I beg you will explain your kindness in behalf of my deplorable grandson. I had somehow formed the opinion you were an unwilling—ah, captive.”

“Yes. And also, most curious, sir. Forgive, but—are you
really
his grandsire? You do not look—”

“I know.” He patted her hand. “He is revoltingly handsome. How perverse of Nature to indulge evil with beauty, while someone as pure and noble as myself—”

She laughed. “Out upon you, sir! I did not mean that, which you know perfectly well! 'Tis just—well, Otton must be at least—nine and twenty…?”

“I suppose,” he said with a twinkle, “that did I tell you he is an elderly sixteen, you'd not believe?”

“I would try,” she answered, amused. “But—heaven help the world if 'twere truth!”

He sighed. “You have a point. So I must confess—I was wed very young, and my lamentable son was seduced by Roland's mother when he was barely eighteen.” She looked at him uncertainly, but his face was bland and unreadable, and he went on, “But we do not speak of the fascinations of Marbury, but of Roland Fairleigh Mathieson, who calls himself,” he shuddered, “Otton.”

“Yes, and your Grace had asked why I spoke kindly of him.” She paused, considering. “I think I do not understand it myself. Certainly, if he is as cruel as you implied … Yet—there is something rather likeable about him. Perhaps it is just that he does not pretend to be other than what he is. Then again,” she added musingly, “one cannot always judge a man by his reputation. Only look—” She broke off, startled by the realization that she was speaking her thoughts aloud.

Marbury, who had been watching her intently, murmured, “I have seen
you
look at Farrar, which is more to the point. Ah, how prettily you blush.” He took her hand, his pale eyes that had been so piercing and terrible when he questioned his grandson, now very kind.

“When I came here,” she said ruefully, “I hated him. Indeed, it would be wrong not to despise such a man.” She searched his face. “No?”

“Because of Peregrine? How is the dear lad? Now you really must not regard me so fearfully, child. I am not a witch or a warlock—simply a man with an eye for family traits. Your brothers share with you the Cranford contradictions of a tender mouth and a stubborn chin. Besides which, long before you were born, I knew your lovely mother, God rest her. I have absolutely no right to ask, but shall, of course; why did you come here, if you hated Farrar? And why—dare I be so impolite?—does a gentle and lovely lady of Quality wear the gown of a—er, rather less cultured person?”

Dimity uttered a little ripple of mirth, eased her foot from beneath Beast, who had fallen asleep on it, and began, insofar as was possible, to explain.

*   *   *

Emerging from his study following a lengthy discussion with his bailiff, Farrar was not greatly surprised to discover that the duke had left without talking with him. But Lady Helen was, he knew, very fond of Marbury, and he went rather anxiously in search of her. The footman and lackey of whom he enquired were unable to provide him with her whereabouts. He wandered down the steps and turned into the small dining room. The table was set for luncheon. He was staring rather blankly at those two neat and so meaningful covers when he was the object of a ferocious charge. From his own place at the head of the table (quite bare of cutlery) came a miniature tiger, all whiskers, flying paws, and perking tail, to hurl itself at his waistcoat, claw its way to his shoulder, and collapse across it, worn out.

Farrar's laughter died abruptly. The tiger's tracks were clear upon the snowy table linen. Blue, red, and yellow. “Oh—Gad!” he groaned, and looked down at himself. Small paw prints now decorated coat and waistcoat. Colourful, but decidedly unorthodox. “You furry imp,” he said, “you've been in my palette!”

“Sir Anthony, I cannot find—” Hurrying into the room, Dimity paused and scanned the debacle. “Oh, dear!”

His heart leaping, Farrar came around the table to her. “Miss Mitten—how lovely you are.”

She smiled up at his handsome, battered face, wondering how to tell him the whole truth. Once she did so, this idyll would be done. She had only these few days—hours, perhaps—with this man; this strange mixture of strength and cowardice of whom, against all common sense, she became more fond with each passing moment.

Farrar, watching her with the eyes of love, said gravely, “Yes. It is quite hopeless, my dear.” She flinched and started to speak, but he put his fingers over her lips and said, his voice low and husky with emotion, “You will never—never know how unspeakably dark my life was, until you came. You can never begin to imagine what it meant to me to learn to laugh again. To see your disgust of me begin to fade into—I dare to think—a kinder feeling. Now,” he lowered his hand, “what is it that you are unable to find?”

Fighting tears, she said quaveringly, “Yes, I think— I mean—Oh, I cannot find Carlton anywhere. I have searched and searched, but—”

“Sir … Uncle…”

They both turned in response to that desperate, gasping voice. Carlton, dishevelled and very red in the face, staggered across the hall and reached out to Farrar. “Nasty … Captain,” he gulped. “Coming. Ran … miles…”

Holding the boy's hands strongly, Farrar sent a strained glance to Dimity.

“Tony!” she whispered, the colour draining from her cheeks, “Ah, no! My God, no!”

Horses were clattering along the drivepath. She heard Captain Holt's harsh voice and her heart shrank. Leonard and two footmen hastened to the front doors. Farrar lifted the somnolent kitten from his shoulder and handed it to the tearful child.

Carlton pleaded, “Go, sir! Run quick, and you—you might—”

“Thank you,” said Farrar, “but—to run away does not seem to serve very well. If I should have to leave for a while, you take care of her for me, please.”

The boy took the yawning kitten, but could not speak.

Farrar reached out and Dimity flew to take his hand. He pressed her fingers to his lips, turned his cheek against them for an instant, then walked swiftly into the hall.

Captain Holt marched through the front doors, waving aside Leonard's attempted intervention.

Aware that his aunt had come halfway down the spiral staircase and paused there, Farrar said quietly, “Captain, I am—”

Holt's cold eyes had widened when they saw the oddly decorated waistcoat and bruised features, but he now interposed, “You are the victim of a fraud, sir! This woman is not Mrs. Catherine Deene. Her name is Miss Dimity Clement.”

For an instant, Farrar was weak with relief.

Dimity, on the other hand, felt quite sick.

“You will be so good, madam,” the officer growled, “as to explain your reasons for the impersonation. And to produce your identification papers. At once!”

“I see no need for you to take that tone with the lady,” frowned Farrar, recovering his wits.

“What you see is of no slightest interest to me, sir,” snapped Holt. “Since you are obviously not startled by the news of her imposture, perhaps you are in this with her. Faith, but it'd not astound—”

Taken aback, Farrar demanded, “In—what?”

“A dangerous rebel was cornered six nights ago on the North Downs. He managed to give our men the slip, although he was known to be wounded. He last was seen riding near Basingstoke, and—”

“And you think that this lady might be your rebel? Jove, sir, but you've a fervid imagination!”

Holt flushed and said grittily, “I think she might well have given him aid. Why else would she hide by stealing the identity of another lady?” His chin jutting, he growled, “Have you a better explanation, Miss Clement? You would do well to tell the truth, else it will go hard on you
and
your accomplices!”

Her brothers and Tio must not come under suspicion. And there was the cypher—above all, that little document must be kept safe. It would mean more lies, but …

“Well, ma'am?” grated Holt. “Your papers?”

Lady Helen was coming to them, and the servants stood about, watching anxiously. There was not a doubt in her mind but that Farrar would fight to get her clear if it came down to that, and he had sufficient trouble. She gathered her courage. “I have no papers,” she admitted. “I left my home in such a flame I brought only my horse and my purse.”

“A likely story,” sneered Holt. “A lady riding alone after dark and in the howling storm there was on that night!”

“I
had
to ride after dark. 'Twas the only way I could escape my brothers. They—they would never have let me come.”

“Indeed? And where is this magical disappearing horse, pray tell?”

“A gypsy lad stabled him for me in Short Shrift.”

“Describe the animal, if you please.”

“He is a tall bay stallion named Odin.”

The sergeant who had followed Holt volunteered, “The reb rode a big black, sir.”

“I am aware of that,” flared Holt testily. “Your tale makes little sense, madam. There remain the matters of the stolen child, the stolen identity, your masquerade here. For what reason save but to hide yourself?”

Her heart aching, she said, “I had meant to come here from the start. I just never dreamed to be given so golden an opportunity.”

Farrar turned his head and stared at her.

“And may we be favoured with the real name of so designing a lady?” asked Holt, ironically.

She bit her lip. “I am Miss Dimity Cranford.” From the corner of her eye she saw Farrar's right hand clench tight, and rushed on, “My twin brothers fought in Captain Farrar's battery at the Battle of Prestonpans. One of them was maimed for life because—”

“Oho…!” said Holt, with a suddenly amused glance at the rigid and motionless Farrar. “So you'd vengeance in mind, had you, ma'am? Commendable. What exactly had you hoped to accomplish, eventually?”

“You underestimate the lady. She
has
accomplished her objective.” Farrar bowed cynically. “You are a splendid actress, Miss Cranford.”

The grin faded from Holt's face. He eyed Dimity narrowly. “Is she indeed?” he murmured.

He was not convinced. Somehow, her tone harsher than she guessed, Dimity said, “It is nigh to a year since Prestonpans, Captain Holt. We lost two dear friends there, and my brother was—was a splendid athlete. He will never walk easily again. That this—” she gestured scornfully towards Farrar “—this creature should be allowed to go free is a national disgrace!”

Confused and frightened, Carlton came to stand directly in front of her and tug at her hand. “But—but Aunty Mitten—” he pleaded.

“Be quiet. You do not understand,” she said sharply, and squeezed his hand in a silent, desperate warning.

Holt looked from the tall hauteur of the girl to Farrar's set white face, and burst into a hearty laugh. “By Jupiter, ma'am, but you've more than your share of gumption! I'll wager your brothers will have your ears for this, but were you
my
sister, I'd be dashed proud, I can tell you! As for you, sir,” he turned to Farrar, “the boy's aunt has recovered and will be here very soon, I've no doubt. And when
that
one descends on you, you will assuredly wish Miss Cranford had
really
been Mrs. Deene!”

Farrar looked at him without comment.

Not for the first time, something in those steady eyes made Holt uneasy. He bowed to Dimity. “I offer you my escort, Miss Cranford. You'll have no wish to stay here.”

“I shall be quite safe with Lady Helen, thank you. I have sent off a letter to my brothers, you see, and expect them momentarily, so there is no need for me to delay you whilst I pack.”

As it chanced, Holt was most anxious to ride over to Fayre Hall to nose about a little. He was fond of Roland, but it did not pay to let that one have too long a rein. He hesitated.

Farrar, torn between rage and a bitter desolation, kept his eyes fixed on the stained-glass window. He knew that he had brought all this on himself, and it was as well it should end now and in just this fashion.

Lady Helen said, “I will vouch for Mrs.—Miss Cranford's safety, Captain. I cannot but be in sympathy with her, you know.”

At this, Farrar's iron control faltered. He jerked his head away and walked swiftly from the room.

Holt said dubiously, “You are sure, ma'am? He would not … er…?”

“Take out his anger on us? No. Whatever else, my nephew would never harm a woman.”

“Very well, my lady, I'll take you at your word. As a matter of fact, there
is
another matter I've to attend to. Miss Cranford—my deepest respects.”