Mistress Wilding (13 page)

There was such hard finality in his tone that she recoiled, beaten and without power, to return to the assault. She had played and lost. She had yielded her lips to his kisses, and —
husband though he might be in name — shame was her only guerdon.

One look she gave him from out of that face so white and pitiful, then with a shudder turned from him and fled his presence. He sprang after her as the door closed, then checked and stood in
thought, very grim for one who professed to bestow no seriousness on the affairs of life. Then he returned slowly to his writing-table, and rummaged there among the papers with which it was
encumbered, seeking something of which he now had need. Through the open window he heard the retreating beat of her horse's hoofs. He sighed and sat down heavily, to take his long square chin in
his hand and stare before him at the sunlight on the lawn outside.

And whilst he sat thus, Ruth made all haste back to Lupton House to tell of the failure that had attended her. There was nothing left her now but to embark upon the forlorn hope of following
Richard to Taunton, to offer her evidence of how the incriminating letter had come to be locked in the drawer in which the constable had discovered it. Diana met her with a face as white as her own
and infinitely more startled. She had just learnt that Sir Rowland Blake had been arrested also and that he had been carried to Taunton together with Richard, and, as a consequence, she was as
eager now that Ruth should repair to Albemarle as she had erstwhile been earnest in urging her to seek out Mr. Wilding; indeed, Diana went so far as to offer to accompany her, an offer that Ruth
gladly, gratefully accepted.

Within an hour Ruth and Diana — in spite of all that poor, docile Lady Horton had said to stay them — were riding to Taunton, attended by the same groom who had so lately accompanied
his mistress to Zoyland Chase.

CHAPTER X

THEIR OWN PETARD

IN a lofty, spacious room of the town hall at Taunton sat Sir Edward Phelips and Colonel Luttrell to dispense justice, and with them, flanked by one of
them on either side of him, sat Christopher Monk, Duke of Albemarle, Lord-Lieutenant of Devonshire, who had been summoned in all haste from Exeter that he might be present at an examination which
promised to be of so vast importance. The three sat at a long table at the room's end, attended by two secretaries.

Before them, guarded by constable and tything-men, weaponless, their hands pinioned behind them — Blake's arm was healed by now — stood Mr. Westmacott and his friend Sir Rowland to
answer this grave charge.

Richard, not knowing who might have betrayed him and to what extent, was very fearful — having through his connection with the Cause every reason so to be. Blake, on the other hand,
conscious of his innocence of any plotting, was impatient of his position, and a thought contemptuous. It was he who, upon being ushered by the constable and his men into the august presence of the
Lord-Lieutenant, clamoured to know precisely of what he was accused that he might straightway clear himself.

Albemarle reared his great massive head, smothered in a mighty black peruke, and scowled upon the florid London beau. A black-visaged gentleman was Christopher Monk. His pendulous cheeks, it is
true, were of a sallow pallor, but what with his black wig, black eyebrows, dark eyes, and the blue-black tint of shaven beard on his great jaw and upper lip, he presented an appearance sombrely
sinister. His nether-lip was thick and very prominent; deep creases ran from the corners of his mouth adown his heavy chin; his eyes were dull and lack-lustre, with great pouches under them. In the
main, the air of this son of the great Parliamentarian general was stupid, dull, unprepossessing.

The creases of his mouth deepened as Blake protested against what he termed this outrage that had been done him; he sneered ponderously, thrusting further forward his heavily undershot jowl.

"We are informed, sir, of your antecedents," he staggered Blake by answering. "We have learnt the reason why you left London and your creditors, and in all my life, sir, I have never known a man
more ready to turn his hand to treason than a broken gamester. Your kind turns by instinct to such work as this, as a last resource for the mending of battered fortunes."

Blake crimsoned from chin to brow. "I'm fore-judged, it seems," he made answer haughtily, tossing his fair locks, his blue eyes glaring upon his judges. "May I, at least, know the name of my
accuser?"

"You shall receive impartial justice at our hands," put in Phelips, whose manner was of a dangerous mildness. "Depend on that. Not only shall you know the name of your accuser, but you shall be
confronted by him. Meanwhile, sirs" — and his glance strayed from Blake's flushed and angry countenance to Richard's, pale and timid — "meanwhile, are we to understand that you deny the
charge?"

"I have heard none as yet," said Sir Rowland insolently.

Albemarle turned to one of the secretaries. "Read them the indictment," said he, and sank back in his chair, his dull glance upon the prisoners, whilst the clerk in a droning voice read from a
document which he took up. It impeached Sir Rowland Blake and Mr. Richard Westmacott of holding treasonable communication with James Scott, Duke of Monmouth, and of plotting against His Majesty's
life and throne and the peace of His Majesty's realms.

Blake listened with unconcealed impatience to the farrago of legal phrases, and snorted contemptuously when the reading came to an end.

Albemarle looked at him darkly. "I do thank God," said he, "that through Mr. Westmacott's folly has this hideous plot, this black and damnable treason, been brought to light in time to enable us
to stamp out this fire ere it is well kindled. Have you aught to say, sir?"

"I have to say that the whole charge is a foul and unfounded lie," said Sir Rowland bluntly. "I never plotted in my life against anything but my own prosperity, nor against any man but
myself."

Albemarle smiled coldly at his colleagues, then turned to Westmacott. "And you, sir?" he said. "Are you as stubborn as your friend?"

"I incontinently deny the charge," said Richard, and he contrived that his voice should ring bold and resolute.

"A charge built on air," sneered Blake, "which the first breath of truth should utterly dispel. We have heard the impeachment. Will Your Grace with the same consideration permit us to see the
proofs that we may lay bare their falseness? It should not be difficult."

"Do you say there is no such plot as is here alleged?" quoth the Duke, and smote a paper sharply.

Blake shrugged his shoulders. "How should I know?" he asked. I say I have no share in any, that I am acquainted with none."

"Call Mr. Trenchard," said the Duke quietly, and an usher who had stood tamely by the door at the far end of the room departed on the errand.

Richard started at the mention of that name. He had a singular dread of Mr. Trenchard.

Colonel Luttrell — lean and wiry — now addressed the prisoners, Blake more particularly. "Still," said he, "you will admit that such a plot may, indeed, exist?"

"It may, indeed, for aught I know — or care," he added incautiously.

Albemarle smote the table with a heavy hand. "By God!" he cried in that deep booming voice of his, "there spoke a traitor! You do not care, you say, what plots may be hatched against His
Majesty's life and crown! Yet you ask me to believe you a true and loyal subject."

Blake was angered; he was at best a short-tempered man. Deliberately he floundered further into the mire.

"I have not asked Your Grace to believe me anything," he answered hotly. "It is all one to me what Your Grace believes me. I take it I have not been fetched hither to be confronted with what
Your Grace believes. You have preferred a lying charge against me; I ask for proofs, not Your Grace's beliefs and opinions."

"By God, sir, you are a daring rogue!" cried Albemarle.

Sir Rowland's eyes blazed. "Anon, Your Grace, when, having failed of your proofs, you shall be constrained to restore me to liberty, I shall ask Your Grace to unsay that word."

Albemarle stared, confounded, and in that moment the door opened, and Trenchard sauntered in, cane in hand, his hat under his arm, a wicked smile on his wizened face.

Leaving Blake's veiled threat unanswered, the Duke turned to the old rake. "These rogues," said he, pointing to the prisoners, "demand proofs ere they will admit the truth of the
impeachment."

"Those proofs," said Trenchard, "are already in Your Grace's hands."

"Aye, but they have asked to be confronted with their accuser."

Trenchard bowed. "Is it your wish, then, that I recite for them the counts on which I have based the accusation I laid before Your Grace?"

"If you will condescend so far," said Albemarle.

"Blister me . . .!" roared Blake, when the Duke interrupted him.

"By God, sir!" he cried, "I'll have no such disrespectful language here. You'll observe the decency of speech and forbear from profanities, you damned rogue, or by God! I'll commit you
forthwith."

"I will endeavour," said Blake, with a sarcasm lost on Albemarle, "to follow Your Grace's lofty example."

"You will do well, sir," said the Duke, and was shocked that Trenchard should laugh at such a moment.

"I was about to protest, sir," said Blake, "that it is monstrous I should be accused by Mr. Trenchard. He has but the slightest acquaintance with me."

Trenchard bowed to him across the chamber. "Admitted, sir," said he. "What should I be doing in bad company?" An answer this that set Albemarle bawling with laughter. Trenchard turned to the
Duke. "I will begin, an it please Your Grace, with the expressions used last night in my presence at the Bell Inn at Bridgwater by Mr. Richard Westmacott, and I will confine myself strictly to
those matters on which my testimony can be corroborated by that of other witnesses."

Colonel Luttrell interrupted him to turn to Richard. "Do you recall those expressions, sir?" he asked him.

Richard winced under the question. Nevertheless, he braced himself to make the best defence he could.

"I have not yet heard," said he, "what those expressions were; nor when I hear them must it follow that I recognize them as my own. I must admit to having taken more wine, perhaps, than . . .
than . . ."

Whilst he sought the expression that he needed Trenchard cut in with a laugh."
In vino veritas,
gentlemen," and His Grace and Sir Edward nodded sagely; Luttrell preserved a stolid
exterior. He seemed less prone than his colleagues to forejudging.

"Will you repeat the expressions used by Mr. Westmacott?" Sir Edward begged.

"I will repeat the one that, to my mind, matters most. Mr. Westmacott, getting to his feet and in a loud voice, exclaimed, 'God save the Protestant Duke!'"

"Do you admit it, sir?" thundered Albemarle, his eyes glowering upon Richard from under his ponderous brows.

Richard hesitated a moment, pale and trembling.

"You will waste breath in denying it," said Trenchard suavely, "for I have a drawer from the Bell Inn, and two gentlemen who overheard you waiting outside."

"I'faith, sir," cried Blake, "what treason was there in that? If he . . ."

"Silence!" thundered Albemarle. "Let Mr. Westmacott speak for himself."

Richard, inspired by the defence Blake had begun, took the same line of argument. "I admit that in the heat of wine I may have used such words," said he. "But I deny their intent to be
treasonable. There are many men who drink to the prosperity of the late King's son . . ."

"Natural son, sir; natural son," Albemarle amended. "It is treason to speak of him otherwise."

"It will be a treason presently to draw breath," sneered Blake.

"If it be," said Trenchard, "it is a treason you'll not be long committing."

"Faith, you are right, Mr. Trenchard," said the Duke with a laugh. Indeed, he found Mr. Trenchard a most pleasant and facetious gentleman.

"Still," insisted Richard, endeavouring in spite of these irrelevancies to make good his point, "there be many men who drink daily to the prosperity of the late King's natural son."

"Aye, sir," answered Albemarle; "but not his prosperity in horrid plots against the life of our beloved sovereign."

"True, Your Grace; very true," purred Sir Edward.

"It was not so I meant to toast him," cried Richard.

Albemarle made an impatient gesture, and took up a sheet of paper. "How, then," he asked, "comes this letter — this letter which makes plain the treason upon which the Duke of Monmouth is
embarked, just as it makes plain your participation in it — how comes this letter to be found in your possession?" And he waved the letter in the air.

Richard went the colour of ashes. He faltered a moment, then took refuge in the truth, for all that he knew beforehand that the truth was bound to ring more false than any lie he could
invent.

"That letter was not addressed to me," he stammered.

Albemarle read the subscription, "To my good friend W., at Bridgwater." He looked up, a heavy sneer thrusting his heavy lip still further out. "What do you say to that? Does not 'W' stand for
Westmacott?"

"It does not."

"Of course not," said Albemarle with heavy sarcasm. "It stands for Wilkins, or Williams, or . . . or . . . What-not."

"Indeed, I can bear witness that it does not," exclaimed Sir Rowland.

"Be silent, sir, I tell you!" bawled the Duke at him again. "You shall bear witness soon enough, I promise you. To whom, then," he resumed, turning again to Richard, "do you say that this letter
was addressed?"

"To Mr. Wilding — Mr. Anthony Wilding," Richard answered.

"I would have Your Grace to observe," put in Trenchard quietly, "that Mr. Wilding, properly speaking, does not reside in Bridgwater."

"Tush!" cried Albemarle; "the rogue but mentions the first name with a 'W' that occurs to him. He's not even an ingenious liar. And how, sir," he asked Richard, "does it come to be in your
possession, having been addressed, as you say, to Mr. Wilding?"