Love Alters Not (47 page)

The foreman of the jury, happily convinced that he would enjoy a pleasant dalliance with the buxom lass in the front row of the spectator section, leaned forward and whispered to the jurors, one of whom had to be woken up so as to respond.

Dimity closed her eyes and leaned her cheek against her brother's shoulder. Her betrayal had been for nought; Otton had likely never had the least intention of trying to help. And her beloved, there could be no possible doubt, was to be taken out and hanged by the neck until dead … Her grief was so intense that it was a sharp pain within her. She knew vaguely that Dr. Steel was comforting Lady Helen. She was aware of her brother's ragefully whispered promise that they would rush an appeal to the king, that this farce was a disgrace to every concept of British jurisprudence. And she knew that Perry was as without hope as she; that the gallows waited outside for its helpless victim; that Anthony would hang because of the evil and greed of a man who misused his power. But, prepared as she was, her heart felt as though rent apart when the foreman coughed and said that he had now conferred with his fellow jurymen. She jerked erect, her fingers tightening convulsively on Peregrine's hand, her face so deathly pale that her brother felt hot tears of sympathy sting his own eyes and turned a blurred but rageful gaze on the magistrate.

Triumphant, and therefore expansive, his lordship said smilingly, “I want it understood that you are quite free to take all the time you need to reach a decision. Are you perfectly sure you do not desire to withdraw?”

“Ain't no need for it, melord,” said the foreman with a careless shrug.

“Oh, but you know, I really think there is.”

The voice came from the rear of the great room. It was not a loud voice, and yet it seemed to ring through the quiet and all heads turned to see who had spoken.

A gentleman strolled gracefully up the aisle. A figure not overly tall, but of impressive elegance, with a splendid French wig upon his head, and a silver-laced tricorne tucked under one arm. His cloak was thrown back carelessly to reveal a coat of dark blue velvet richly embellished with silver thread, and a waistcoat of lighter blue whereon delicate bluebirds were depicted. His small clothes were blue-grey satin, his shoes sported chased silver buckles and the high heels made a firm clicking sound as he proceeded towards the bench.

Scarcely a figure to alarm, yet a certain Captain of Dragoon Guards stationed at the side of the room whistled soundlessly and stepped back into the shadows; the prisoner, trapped in an unending nightmare of thirst, pain, and despair, stiffened, stood straighter, and a gleam of hope dawned in his dulled eyes; Mr. Peregrine Cranford gasped an exultant, “Now, by Jupiter, only look who's come, Mitten!” and his sister, half blinded by tears, whispered a heartfelt, “Thank God!”

The King's Magistrate did not appear to share such sentiments. Indeed, a dark scowl had descended on his brow and a slow flush warmed his unfortunate features. “Your Grace honours us with his presence,” he snarled, “but you will forgive an we respectfully request silence. The prisoner is about to hear his sentence.”

“Oh, by all means, my lord,” murmured the Duke of Marbury, glancing with a twinkle at the awed faces of those about him. “I would not be here at all, you know, save that the king has charged me with the onerous duty of ensuring that justice, as he—ah, perceives it, is being enacted in his courts.” He moved in his casual fashion to where the clerk sat, and smiled upon him until that gaping individual recovered sufficiently to relinquish his chair and back away.

My lord, about to respond, was obliged to wait until the dolorous howl of a large dog somewhere outside the courtroom had ceased. It was well known that Marbury had the ear of His Majesty, wherefore his lordship rephrased the irate and perhaps unwise remark he had been about to utter. “I was not aware,” he said, “that your Grace had been appointed to such a post.”

“You surprise me,” said the duke mildly. “A notice was, I am sure, sent to all magistrates. Perhaps you have not kept abreast of your correspondence, my lord?”

Green, who very seldom read anything that his overburdened secretary could deal with, blew out his cheeks and replied in rather resentful fashion that his calendar was very full and there were not enough hours in the day to read every scrap of paper that crossed his desk.

“'Tis precisely because you are so overworked, my lord,” Marbury said earnestly, “that I am come. To help you.”

“You are too kind. As soon as this case is disposed of, I—”

“
With
this case,” Marbury interpolated. “You see—there are certain facts relating to the accused, of which I think you may be una—” Here, having for the first time looked squarely at the dock, his Grace checked. For a taut moment he sat very still and many of those present found themselves holding their breath. “I see,” he resumed, his voice having a slight edge now, “that you have been extreme conscientious in your handling of the prisoner.”

“We do not coddle traitors, sir, if—”

“Might one enquire,” went on his Grace, as though Green had not spoken, “why Sir Anthony is gagged?”

“Because he has a foul mouth,” said his lordship awfully. “And I will not have ladies offended in my courtroom.”

“Untrue!” shouted a voice from the crowd.

His Grace, having a fair notion of who had dared such an accusation, did not turn towards Peregrine, but nodded to the guard. “Remove the gag, if you please,” he said politely.

The guard glanced to the suppressed fury that was the King's Magistrate. This dandified shrimp might be a duke, but my lord Green would make mincemeat of him if he thought to come it over— At this point, having had no instructions from the judge, he turned his gaze again to the duke and, meeting the light blue eyes, received the horrifying impression that he had been pierced by a lance levelled from the back of a fast galloping warhorse. His fingers shaking in their eagerness, he untied the gag.

Farrar drew in a grateful breath, coughed, and staggered. Chains clanked. The duke's eyes opened a shade wider and he turned to the bench, eyeglass levelled, incredulity in every line of him.

“I think you do not apprehend, my lord Duke,” rasped Green, “that this is a most desperate and despicable rogue who not only betrayed his country, but has done bloody murder upon his own kinsman!”

Marbury pursed his lips. “Despicable, indeed,” he agreed. “How say you, Farrar?”

Striving desperately to defend himself now that hope was re-born, Farrar could no longer find the strength. His voice rasped incoherently. Lifting a feeble hand to his throat, he tried in vain to make himself heard.

“I think…” said the duke, very softly, “the prisoner does not constitute a major threat in his present … condition. Perhaps you will be so good as to remove the chains.”

“I presume you are aware, your Grace, that this is
my
Court, and that you are impeding the execution of the king's justice!”

Marbury said nothing, but the fingers of one hand snapped like a pistol shot in the quiet room. The guard was not a man of powerful understanding, but he had detected a shift in the balance of power; he fairly jumped to unlock and remove the manacles, and when the prisoner sagged weakly, his was the strong arm that supported him.

“Is there,” enquired that cool, resonant voice, “a doctor or apothecary present?”

Steel sprang up. “Here, your Grace! And if I dare remark it, the prisoner has been most cruelly treated and—”

Up went that slender hand again. “My dear sir, you may remark whatever you wish. Later. For the present we must not impede his lordship's justice any longer than is necessary. Do you be so good as to tend to Sir Anthony's immediate needs, and we will proceed.”

“He has asked for water, your Grace, but was denied. Indeed, I think he has been denied all night.”

“Then by all means give him some,” said the duke, still smiling although the smile no longer reached his eyes, which seemed to Hibbard Green to glitter most unpleasantly. “A little brandy would not come amiss, doctor, are we to hear from him today.”

“Now, by God!” snorted the magistrate, rising.

The Counsel rose.

The Court rose.

The duke did not. “I do apologize, my dear Green,” he said in his amiable way. “You were about to pronounce sentence, I believe you said.”

“I was.” Green, Counsel, and Court sat down again. “If you have no objection,” he added with heavy irony.

“But, my dear, none in the world.”

“Thank you. Foreman, you were saying that—”

“Only—I think you have forgot a witness,” put in the duke meekly.

“All the witnesses have been heard, your Grace,” said Mr. Eccles with an expression of sad resignation. “To no avail, alas.”

“Well, of course not. For you have left out the most important one.”

A flurry of excitement stirred the onlookers, who were having the time of their lives.

Lord Hibbard, who was not, opened his mouth to protest.

“And I am assured you are the most just of men,” murmured the duke, “and would not ever wish that a helpless prisoner be deprived of his rights…”

Green glared, chewed his lip, and said nothing.

The duke took a folded paper from his pocket and offered it to the clerk.

Hurrying to take and open it, the clerk stared, gasped, and turned terrified eyes to the bench.

“You
can
—read…?” asked the duke, curious.

For a moment it seemed that the clerk could not, for on his first attempt his voice was as faint as that of the prisoner. He cleared his throat and said failingly, “Call … Major Horace Rhodes!”

Farrar, who was beginning to feel less dazed now that his terrible thirst was eased and the brandy was burning through him, choked on a mouthful, dropped the glass, and reeled up from the chair Steel had dragged in for him. Gripping the bar, he gasped, “Oh … my God!” and stared, his face between the bruises, white with shock.

Amid a flurry of neck-craning and excited comment, a tall man in regimentals limped in, leaning heavily on a cane.

Almost as pale as her love, Dimity sat very still, her mind spinning.

“He's—
dead!
” a woman shrieked, crossing herself.

“Burn it, but he's not!” Peregrine exclaimed joyously.

Lady Helen, a flush lighting her cheeks, uttered an odd little cry, and sat up very straight.

“My lord,” enquired the duke with gentle deference, “is it your wish that Major Rhodes be sworn?”

The magistrate's wishes at that moment had very little to do with Major Rhodes, but he bowed to the inevitable and the major was duly sworn.

Mr. Eccles jumped up and asked shrilly for some proof of the gentleman's identity. Major Rhodes handed Counsel several documents and his calling card. My lord Duke commended the prosecutor for his astuteness.

“I am Counsel for the Prisoner, your Grace,” gulped Mr. Eccles, scarlet.

The duke lifted his eyeglass and surveyed the learned gentleman. “Dear me,” he murmured. “Perhaps we may hear your deposition, Major.”

Horace Rhodes, keen of eye and ramrod stiff of back, was a career officer who had been in the army for twenty-eight years, having purchased a cornetcy at the age of twenty-two, but exchanging to the artillery five years later, intrigued by the big guns. He had not been acquainted with Captain Anthony Farrar prior to his appointment to the Battery and had been pleasantly surprised to find him a steady and reliable officer with a good head on his shoulders and a nice touch with the men.

“Surprised…?” murmured his Grace.

Major Rhodes looked at him levelly. “I was unacquainted with Anthony Farrar. I had, however, met Lieutenant Sir Harding Farrar,” he hesitated briefly, “and his mother.”

“And you expected the cousins to be of similar temperament?”

The major shrugged. “I've known cousins be as close as twins. These two weren't. Fortunately.”

Lord Green said bitingly, “If his Grace is done with cross-examining the witness, perhaps we may continue with the deposition!”

With an apologetic smile Marbury sketched a bow, and the major resumed. “I do not propose to bore your lordship and this Court with a recapitulation of the Battle of Prestonpans. Nor of the trials that beset us from the very start. Suffice to say it was a disaster. My own personal disasters were many. I was extreme fortunate to have so splendid a second-in-command as Captain Farrar. I relied on him heavily.”

“How shocked you must have been when he deserted,” sneered Lord Green.

“
After
you were killed, my dear Rhodes,” inserted his Grace sweetly.

“Neither of which happened,” said the major, with a faint grin.

Farrar reeled and through a wave of blinding dizziness clutched the rail convulsively.

Dimity's heart gave a great leap, and her breath was snatched away.

“Aha!”
whispered Peregrine.

“In that event,” cried Lord Green, purpling, “one might expect Captain Sir Anthony Farrar to have protested his innocence!”

“One might indeed, my lord,” said his Grace. “But, pray continue, Major.”

“We were under heavy attack,” the major went on, “when one of my officers lost his nerve and ran. You may suppose this to be a common occurrence. I assure you it is not, especially in the case of a well bred-up young gentleman instructed from childhood in the Code of Honour. I have seldom been more shocked, but—if there was a second crime involved, it was—alas, my own.” His eyes fell. He hesitated and said in a less crisp voice, “I knew the boy's mother, and what it would mean to her to have her son desert under fire, so I—I took a risk I'd no right to take.” He turned to where Farrar watched him with bewildered intensity. “I sent you after him, Captain—don't you recall?”