Love Alters Not (43 page)

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The cell was cold and dank, moisture seeping down the ancient stone walls. There were no windows, for Captain Lambert had decreed that this prisoner was in considerable danger from the outraged populace, and must be kept isolated. Sitting on the floor, his back propped against a wall, wrists balanced on his updrawn knees, Farrar frowned at the chain that looped between the manacles and tried to remember details. He could see the anguish in Mitten's dear face; and then fists raining at him. Everything that followed seemed blurred and unreal.

He was in gaol, of course. But whether he had been carried to the Horse Guards, or whether he was in the Tower, he had no notion. It seemed that he had been pushed into a coach of some kind … Yes, for he remembered the wheels rattling over cobblestones. Perhaps he'd fallen asleep. He smiled faintly; how very blasé, to have dozed off on one's way to Death …

He wondered where the trial was to be held—and whether he would be allowed to name the officers who would judge him. When he was permitted to speak, he would plead for a firing squad rather than to be hanged. He shuddered. To be denied a soldier's death and instead hanged as a common thief was beyond bearing. They would allow him some small vestige of an honourable dying, surely…? His tired mind began to turn over names … Thaddeus Briley had been discharged as a result of wounds sustained in the Low Countries, but he would still hold the rank of major, and he was a good fellow; however revolted he might be by the charges, Thad would probably consent to serve. He frowned, remembering that someone—Gordon, he thought—had mentioned that Briley had hurt his foot, or was it his knee? and was away somewhere …

He had not heard the approaching footsteps and was startled when the door was swung open. The glare of the lantern dazzled him, and when he instinctively made to fling up a hand to shield his eyes, the heavy chain dragged bruisingly on his wrists. He sat back against the wall, blinking, waiting for his eyes to adjust to the brightness.

“Dear me,” said Brooks Lambert. “‘How are the mighty fallen,' to be sure.” Farrar remaining silent, he strolled into the tiny cell and went on, “My poor fellow, you do look dreadful. Have you been brought your supper?”

“I am sure you are aware I have not.”

“You misjudge me, Farrar. Really, you misjudge me. The cook here is quite competent. I know, for I just dined. I will order a tray sent in at once. Is there anything else I may do to oblige you? Only name it.”

“Some water, if you please.”

“But of course.”

Farrar could see the young captain now. Beyond his scarlet splendour, a rough-looking civilian held up a lantern whose light revealed flagged floors, and walls of stone blocks. Puzzled, he asked, “Which barracks is this?”

Lambert raised his brows innocently. “Barracks? You are not in a barracks. You are held in a keep, no less. A most—er, distinguished gaol for your kind, assure you.”

A cold fear beginning to gibber at the edges of his mind, Farrar said, “I have a right to be tried as—”

“But, of course you will be tried. Speaking of which, my dear fellow, since you do not dispute the charges, a confession has been drawn up for you to sign. It will shorten the whole beastly procedure.” He stepped closer, smiling genially, and holding out several sheets of paper.

Farrar tilted them to the light, and scanned them quickly. Looking up, he said contemptuously, “What poppycock! I'll not confess the murder of my cousin.”

Lambert shook his handsome head. “Unwise, Farrar. Most unwise. You know how these country magistrates are. Any unnecessary delay irritates 'em beyond—”

“
Magistrates?
What have magistrates to do with it? I will be court-martialled, not—”

“Ah. You are confused, I see. No, friend, your trial will be civil.”

Farrar dragged himself to his feet—a far from graceful procedure during which he was unpleasantly reminded of his bruises. “I am a soldier! I—”

“You—
were
a soldier,” corrected Lambert softly.

“And I've a right to a military court-martial, which—”

“Which certain—ah, people feel has been delayed—much too long, I regret to say. Therefore, the Magistrate of this district felt the time had come to—er, expedite matters.”

“What in hell does it matter what he feels?” raged Farrar. “A civil magistrate has no jurisdiction in a mili—”

“You may well be right,” Lambert agreed musingly. “The point is, my dear fellow, that I am a servant of the people, and if a peer of this realm, who is also a magistrate, asks for my assistance in quelling a riot in a public place, I can scarce—”

“By God!” Farrar grated, his eyes narrowing. “This begins to have an odour! Name this magistrate who dares flout military authority!”

Lambert made a graceful gesture towards the open cell door.

Faintly, through his shocked incredulity, Farrar had been aware that the light was not quite as bright as before. Now he saw why. Much of the aperture was blocked by the great bulk of the man who stood there.

Lord Hibbard Green gave a soft, gloating chuckle. “All these months, dear Anthony, you have escaped the consequences of your craven cowardice; the families whose dear ones died, or were maimed because of you, stand unavenged. But you are in my jurisdiction now!” He touched his bandaged hand, smiling. “Tomorrow morning you will be tried, judged, and hanged for the shivering poltroon you are!”

It was ridiculous; impossible that this should be happening. Norris would soon intervene. But, knowing that his lordship could very easily see to it that his solicitor was kept from any intervention until it was too late, Farrar felt so cold that it was as if the finger of death had already touched him. He tossed his head higher, and said scornfully, “You would not dare! Decimus Green is outside your jurisdiction. You'd be called to account before—”

“Before we could hang you? Oh, but no, I assure you! I am a legally appointed magistrate. I was present when you caused a riot, and if I was so outraged by your infamy that I carried you off for immediate trial…” he shrugged. “Who would really care? It would, at most, be a case of shutting the barn door when the horse has fled. Why, how pale you are become! Frightened again? Perhaps—a glass of cognac…? Have you fed the poor lad, Lambert? I'd not have anyone accuse us of—unkindness.”

They grinned at each other.

With a snarled oath, Farrar leapt forward. Using his chain as a weapon, he swung it with all his might. Lambert uttered a muffled shout as the chain smashed across his arm, sending him reeling back and the papers flying. Lord Green was very eager to jump clear but, impeded by blubber, his movements were too slow and the heavy chain flailed into his stomach. He uttered a most ungenteel belch and sat down with solidity if not grace. The gaoler, knowing better than to laugh at the embarrassments of the Quality, threw one hand over his mouth and backed away, then gave a gasp as Farrar leapt Green's bulk and came at him.

My lord uttered a wheezing howl.

Cursing, Brooks Lambert sprang after Farrar, gripped his shoulder and spun him around. Farrar, slowed by the manacles and by the beating he had taken at the bazaar, raised his chained hands to defend himself, but Lambert's fist was already whizzing at him. It struck home, hard and true. Farrar was slammed back, and fell down and down into an echoing half-world.

Lambert went at once to assist the profane peer to his feet. Raging, Green staggered to Farrar and kicked him viciously. His oaths and the smell of him, caused the soldier's lip to curl. “Not too much, my lord,” he murmured. “We must—ah, restrain our enthusiasm for, most assuredly, there will be an investigation.”

“All the more … reason…” gasped his lordship, holding his middle painfully, “that he must … sign that confession … Did he?”

“No. He balks at the admission of his cousin's murder.”

“Damned carrion! Unbalk him, then.”

Lambert looked at him steadily. “It will be—expensive, sir. The risk is not inconsiderable…”

Green thrust his empurpled face under the captain's slim nose. “Blast your eyes! Do not speak to me of risk! My son will lie abed a month and more by reason of this clod!” He glanced at the discreetly distant gaoler and lowered his voice. “I want that confession
signed,
” he hissed. “By morning! You'll be well paid.”

“Double?”

My lord swore. “Oh—very well. Double. Damn you!”

Captain Brooks Lambert bowed.

*   *   *

Fate, reflected Roland Otton, standing before his mirror, could only be directed by the mind of a female, it was so capricious. For instance: his steadfast pursuit of wealth had led him not to the legendary pot of gold, but to a lady who would have suited him very well as a wife—had she not for some inexplicable reason rejected him (even when he'd offered marriage!), choosing instead to share the perils and eventual enforced exile of a wretched Jacobite. Twice since his Penelope had run away with Quentin Chandler, he had come close to laying his hands on the key to the location of the vast and elusive Jacobite treasure, having been thwarted once by Fate, and once, devil take it, by his weakness in coming to the aid of a friend. ‘Which should teach you, my good fool,' he informed his reflection, ‘that friendship is a luxury not to be indulged in by a dedicated villain.'

He glanced up as his man-of-all-work came, soft-footed, into the room. “Sorri,” he said, “I look frightful. I think we must powder my hair before I venture down to dine. In the morning we shall leave this miserable place.”

Sorenson, regarding his handsome employer's tall, elegant figure with amused affection, enquired, “Have we not prospered here, Mr. Roland?”

Otton grinned whimsically. “Do you know, I can scarce recall when last we prospered.”

“There was the matter of the Alderman's lady…” murmured the valet, reaching for the powder box.

“Ah, yes … the delectable Mrs. Hancroft's mislaid pomander…” Otton chuckled. “Thank you for reminding me.” He seated himself before the dressing table. “We do sometimes triumph—eh?”

Sorenson, who would have died for this careless young soldier of fortune, but had his own ideas of the “triumphs” they enjoyed, unfolded the powder wrapper, hesitated, and said blandly, “Perhaps I should first ask the lady to wait, sir?”

Otton's dark head jerked up. “Lady? You scoundrel! Where? Who is she?”

“She says her name is Mrs. Catherine Deene, but she has no card, sir. She is downstairs.”

Catherine Deene. Now why was she come? Not the type of lady to have a card, certainly, nor the type he would have hoped to entertain on a sultry August night, but—The White Dragon was becoming a bore, and one should never overlook an opportunity. “Show her into the parlour,” said Otton, waving away the wrapper. “We'll manage without powder after all.”

He brushed back his thick hair, retied the riband, placed a large ruby pin in his lace cravat, and slid the heavy and ancient gold signet ring onto his finger. From the press, he selected a coat of dull maroon satin and, having donned it, returned to survey himself in the standing mirror. He would have had to be a blind fool not to realize he was an extremely well-favoured man, and he grinned at his reflection. “You dashing devil,” he murmured. “Where were Penny's wits gone begging that she could have preferred Chandler over you?” And staying only to hang a gold-chased quizzing glass about his neck, he opened the door to his private parlour.

The lady who waited there stood at the window looking into the dusk. She wore a fine French shawl and a gown of pale pink silk over moderate hoops. Her hair was simply dressed and powdered, and she seemed taller than he remembered. “Good evening, ma'am,” he began, advancing towards her.

She turned quickly and as quickly he halted, his amused dark eyes narrowing. So it was
this
Mrs. Deene! He bowed gracefully. “But how different you look. Now, this is a great piece of luck, because I was hideously afflicted with
ennui
and—” A frown came into his eyes. The lady had been weeping and her hands wrung and wrung at the dainty handkerchief she clutched. Stepping forward, he bowed her to a chair. “You are troubled, Mrs.—but it is not ‘Mrs. Deene,' I hear.”

“No.” Dimity fought for control, but her voice was unsteady as she said, “I am Miss Cranford.” He smiled and bowed again, and she wondered how much he knew. It was ironic that this wicked and notorious gentleman should be her only hope. Piers and Peregrine, and Tio, bless him, were doing the best they knew. Any one of the three would have been horrified to see her—alone, at this hour of the evening, in the private apartments of a rascal and a libertine. It was outrageous conduct, but she had not dared wait. The life of her beloved was measured by hours; no stone must be left unturned in the battle to help him. “I would not presume to—to trouble you,” she went on, “but—there is so little time. And I—I do not know where—to turn.”

The last thing Otton had needed, he thought glumly, was to be visited by a watering pot, especially one related to so volatile a pair as the Cranford twins. Still, she was very lovely, and she was waging such a desperate fight to keep her pretty lips from trembling. He drew her to the rather drooping sofa, sat beside her, and took up one cold and shaking hand. “Now, surely,” he said, stroking that hand soothingly, “it must be very bad if you are come to me. You'd best explain, ma'am.”

And so, trying to ignore the fact that he sat much too close, that his knee touched hers, that his hand showed no inclination to release her own, she told him. She began to take heart when she saw the twinkle fade from his dark eyes to be replaced by a frown, and she was further heartened when she described Anthony's brutal arrest and felt the sudden tightening of his long fingers.