Love Alters Not (48 page)

“You …
sent
me?” gasped Farrar. “I—no, I … seem to have lost—so much after I was hit. I thought it was … because I just didn't want to—to remember. I thought I'd run after him because—”

“Of your love for your aunt,” put in his Grace.

Another buzz of comment shook the spectators. Farrar peered at Lady Helen. She was staring at him wide-eyed. Dimity turned and slipped an arm about her.

The gentleman in the front row who had defended Farrar earlier, said a hushed but audible, “Then—it was
Harding
who ran!”

“This is all very dramatic,” rasped Green with a curl of the lip, “but makes no sense whatsoever. Farrar would have us believe that although his mind was clouded from shock he remembers that he ran not for his own safety, but to bring back his fleeing cousin! And all these months he has said not one word about this, but nobly took all the blame to himself? Now come, your Grace! If you mean to imply that he would be willing to carry filial loyalty to the extent of suffering shameful execution rather than upset a relation, I say pshaw, sir! I say rubbish!”

“I agree,” said the duke. “Can you explain it for us, Captain? Tell the Court what you do recall.”

“I remember seeing Harding run,” Farrar said slowly, groping his way back through the misted memory. “I went after him. I was hit. Afterwards, nothing is very clear. While I was in hospital … I was told people came to see me, but—I cannot seem to recall that period. When I was sent home, I began trying to—to put it all together. I thought I'd gone after Harding because I wanted to spare my aunt from being hurt. The colonel who came from Whitehall told me Major Rhodes had been killed just before I deserted and—”

Major Rhodes flung up a hand imperatively. His voice harsh and brittle, he snapped, “One moment! Do I understand you to claim, Captain Farrar, that you were
officially
advised I had been killed? Some while
after
the battle?”

“Yes, sir.” Farrar blinked at him. “By letter, and—and by the colonel's visit to my home.”

Puzzled, Marbury intervened, “But why should they have said you were slain, Major?”

Rhodes shrugged. “Not so remarkable on the field, Duke. I'm told I was a mess. I was hit in several places, one being a head wound that could very well have appeared to have been fatal. Not until after the battle was it found that I yet lived. No, I've no difficulty understanding that part of it. What baffles me is that I
wrote
to Farrar and—” his eyes flickered to the spectators, “—to Lady Farrar, telling them I had survived. It is very obvious now that my letters were intercepted by someone—
someone,
” he glared at Phillip Ellsworth “with a strong motive for mischief. At the time, when I received no answer I simply thought— Well, never mind that. Tell us more about this official visit, Captain Farrar. What further gems of wisdom had this—er, colonel to impart?”

“He warned me to hold myself ready for court martial,” said Farrar, numbly. “I—I knew that regardless of why I ran … I should never have left my post. I had abandoned my men for personal reasons. There was no excusing that, nor any escaping the punishment. I—I could see no least reason to further distress my aunt by revealing Harding's conduct.”

His face a thundercloud, the major growled, “The predictable reaction of a man of honour. However, I know of no officer having been sent to see you, Farrar. Certainly his errand was either erroneous or—a deliberate and vicious misrepresentation of the facts! Do you remember his name?”

Farrar put a hand to his temple. “Knight, I think … No! It was Light! Colonel Light!”

Rhodes said grimly, “I think we shall require a full description of the gentleman.”

“Though I doubt he will ever be found, or Whitehall have any knowledge of him,” the duke murmured.

It was beginning to dawn on Farrar now, and the possibilities were so awesome, the ray of hope so unnerving, that the courage which had sustained him through this long ordeal ebbed away. He found that he was shaking and asked in a thread of a voice, “Sir—am I … are you saying I am—am innocent? That—that this whole hideous thing is—over?”

“Not by any means!” barked Green angrily. “You have admitted you ran after your cousin, but not how he died. Did you catch him?”

“Yes, my lord. I was trying to make him return to his post when I was hit. But, as God is my judge, I swear I did not kill him.”

Major Rhodes looked at the duke. The duke sighed, and shook his head.

Lord Hibbard brightened. The day might yet be saved. “The murder charge against you stands, Farrar. The testimony of the earlier witnesses cannot be ignored.”

“Athough their identities are subject to question,” said the duke dryly.

Once again, shock ran riot in the courtroom. Pounding his gavel angrily, Lord Green roared, “I would give a deal to come at your meaning, your Grace!”

“I make no charge for revealing my meaning,” said the duke. He stood and seemed suddenly very tall and formidable. “I put it to you, my lord, that Captain Sir Anthony Farrar has been the victim of a cruel plot. That those who conspired against him knew how highly he regarded his personal honour and, trading on that commendable trait, did all they might to destroy him. He was never held in anything but the highest esteem in Whitehall. I have, in point of fact, discovered that a letter was sent to him at The Palfreys, commending him for his gallantry on the battlefield. And that this letter also was delivered into the hands of a near relative who was staying there at the time,” he sent a glance of scalding contempt at the white and twitching face of Phillip Ellsworth, “but obviously never received by Captain Farrar!” He held up his hand to quiet the burst of indignant comment. “Am I correct, Sir Anthony?”

His head swimming and his knees like water, Farrar leant heavily on the guard. “Quite … correct, your G-Grace,” he stammered. “But—but I still don't understand.
Everyone
thought…”

“Not everyone, Captain,” interpolated Major Rhodes, his strong face stern as he regarded the battered wreck in the dock. Tony, he thought, fuming, had been put through a year of hell that would have driven many a man into madness. God send this last ordeal did not push him over the edge! “Whoever was behind this despicable affair,” he said raspingly, “despatched messengers to the families of many of our people who fell at Prestonpans. Under the guise of exposing your ‘guilt,' these paid agitators, who'd probably never been near a military barracks, much less fought a battle, stirred up hatred and animosity against you. Rumour, once let loose, is the very devil to silence! Your enemies knew that you had no clear recollection of what had actually happened. It was their hope, Captain, that you would become so crushed by despair, so weary of contempt and villification, that you would oblige 'em and put an end to yourself, thus effecting a perfect murder!”

The room was in a turmoil, the spectators coming belatedly to the awareness that they, too, had been used in this infamous plot.

Over the uproar Lord Green, pale now and having a hunted look, bellowed, “And are we asked to believe that every previous witness has lied? Can you explain, your Grace, why a soldier would swear to have seen the prisoner brutally shoot down his cousin, if that were untrue? Bailiff! Let us have Goodwin and Shortbridge in here again!”

The bailiff was absent for a very few moments, and returned in a state of great agitation with the word that both corporal and sergeant seemed to have slipped away.

“Scarce to be wondered at,” said the duke scornfully, “since both were paid impostors!”

“I shall require proof of that, sir,” raged my lord, becoming ever more pale.

“It most certainly shall be proven,” said Major Rhodes. “And those responsible will be brought to justice!” Again his cold gaze turned with deliberation to Phillip Ellsworth, who shrank, sick and terrified, before that condemning glare. “However,” Rhodes added, “we must first, I think, verify Captain Farrar's actions that day. He did indeed catch his cousin. Harding refused to return to duty and fought to escape. When Anthony tried to detain him, in his terror, he turned on him. It was
Harding
shot you down, Farrar! I saw that much before I was hit myself!”

The babble of excitement that greeted this shocking revelation came only very dimly to Farrar's ears. The courtroom was a blur, and the effort to hold his head up now quite beyond him. He thought he heard Peregrine shout and Mitten's dear voice scream his name, but his tired mind was unable to cope with any more. He was possessed by a terrible fear that this might only be a dream and that he would waken to find Lambert still attempting to force a confession from him. His frantic prayer that it was not so was smothered by an overwhelming exhaustion that swiftly and inexorably dragged him down and down into a stifling emptiness.

The last thing he heard was what sounded like the distant and distressful howling of a large dog …

XX

His Grace, the Duke of Marbury, leaned back in the satin brocade chair in the luxurious cream saloon of Dominer, his favourite house, and gazed over loosely interlocked hands at the handsome bastard who was his grandson.

Impressive in blue and black, Roland Fairleigh Mathieson (who for various reasons went by the name of Otton) shifted uncomfortably in his chair. The silence was becoming nerve-racking; he still did not know why he had been summoned to an estate that usually closed its doors against him, and, perhaps because his conscience was never entirely easy when in the presence of his formidable grandfather, he said with strained lightness, “A penny for your thoughts, sir.”

“I was wondering,” murmured his Grace, “whether your nature might have been—different, had you been born on the right side of the blanket.”

Otton flinched inwardly, flushed, and answered with a shrug, “I fancy not, your Grace. My traits are all inbred, I suspect.”

For just an instant the duke's fine hand clenched.
“Touché.”

Otton's flush deepened, but he met the duke's gaze with a certain arrogant defiance.

“Despite those—ah, inbred traits,” his Grace resumed, “I must confess I was rather taken aback by Farrar's attitude when he ousted you from his home. You did, after all, see service together. One might think—”

Otton gestured with faint impatience. “Much I care what he thinks of me.”

“Hmmn. And yet, Roland, I could wish you had remained in the army. Farrar is a most gallant young fellow and—”

“Is paid a pittance,” his grandson again interrupted, misliking this topic. “In return for which his life was near forfeited and his only reward was a letter of commendation that he never received.” He gave a scornful bark of laughter. “When I venture my life, your Grace, it is only after having been well paid! I do not consider Farrar to have the best of that bargain!”

The duke sighed. “Do you—ever—bestir yourself for other than gold? Is not surprising that you have not a friend in the world.”

This was not perfectly true, but Otton chose not to dispute it. “Only a fool works without pay, sir,” he said disdainfully. “And friends are a questionable asset, at best.”

“So you prefer your horse.”

The sneer in the dark eyes was replaced by a softer expression. “Rump is one in a million. A far better conversationalist and more loyal friend than most men.”

“One cannot but wonder,” murmured the duke, “that you pushed him so hard the night you rode to enlist my aid in Farrar's behalf.”

Otton tensed, catching his breath. He had blundered into yet another of the traps this man was so adept at constructing.

“Or,” went on the duke silkily, “why you would have bothered at all, considering that you care so little for him, or his treatment of you.” His grandson maintaining an enigmatic silence, he went on, “I fancy you have heard about the poor fellow?”

“If you refer to his having been exonerated of all guilt—”

“I refer to the fact that he is gravely ill. He has never regained consciousness, you know. Steel is a good man, and says that from Farrar's delirium it appears he is unable to accept his sudden vindication; that his mind fears the trial was no more than a dream and shrinks from returning to a reality in which he is as deep sunk in guilt and disgrace as before.” He frowned at one cuticle and pushed it back carefully. “It would help, I fancy, were his lady at his side. He calls for her, but she will not come. Odd, is it not? She appeared so devoted.” His eyes lifted then, and Otton saw the glare in them and nerved himself.

“Most odd,” he said, his voice a little strained. “But I quite fail to see—”

“Do not fence with me, sir!” Marbury stood, frowning down at this regrettable kinsman. “You will find me no mean swordsman, I do assure you, for I am not near so old and decrepit as you suppose!”

The voice was a whiplash that brought Otton to his feet with somewhat less than his customary grace. “Indeed, Duke, I—”

“Should by this time know that I have spies everywhere! I have learned, for example, that Miss Cranford visited your rooms the night Farrar was arrested. Why?”

“To—er, to beg that I find you, and—”

“And help a man for whom you cared nothing? ‘Only a fool works for no pay,' remember?”

Otton moistened his lips. “There—there are, circumstances, your Grace, that must change any man's mind, even—”

“Even such a heartless, soulless, mercenary rake and opportunist as Roland Fairleigh Mathieson? Oh, I think not!” The duke stepped closer. “How pale you are become, dear boy! Guilt, perchance?”

Otton fought to collect his shredding nerves. “Not—at all. I—”

Marbury took another pace, and his grandson, retreating, collided with a table and stopped of necessity.