The Lonely Earl (13 page)

Faustina said repressively, “I confess it still escapes me.” She turned away. If she had her own way, she would never see Helen Astley again. But of course in a small society such as this, it was inevitable that their social lives would cross more often than not. She allowed herself to speculate on the possibility of the earl’s moving Astley to another living. Far away. Northumberland, perhaps?

By the time she had let her fancy run, she began to feel in better humor. Catching Ned, she whispered, “Poor Helen! She feels so out of it.”

Bluffly Ned replied, “And well she should. But I’ll see what I can do.”

It was hard going, Ned thought. He had long ago conceived a strong distaste for talkative women, having had his fill at home, and Helen, delighted by attention, fulfilled all his fears. Not until he had turned her over to another young man, and himself escaped with a murmured excuse that he must dance with others, did he make his bow to Mary Bidwell.

To his satisfaction, Mary Bidwell’s dark eyes widened with pleasure and she stepped out lightly on the floor. To his surprise, she danced well, fitting her steps easily to his, and dancing with inborn grace.

And in almost total silence.

Faustina noticed from the door that Mary was really quite pretty, with that shine of enjoyment lighting up her eyes, and seeing Ned’s faint smile, she turned away thoughtfully.

Faustina was not the only one to catch sight of Mary’s pleasure. When the dance was over, Helen called sharply to Mary as she went past on Ned’s arm. 

“Mary, it’s getting chilly in here. I suppose you didn’t notice. I wonder if you will fetch my shawl for me. You know the one I wore tonight, the pale yellow silk.”

As though blown out like a candle, Mary’s glow vanished. But nonetheless she said pleasantly enough, “Of course, Helen. I didn’t feel the chill myself. I’ll get it at once.”

Ned, to his amazement, was conscious that he was angry. Not simply in a pet, or irritated, but caught in the grip of a vast sweeping anger that shook him.

It was significant, he knew. But, equally, he could not pursue his newfound interest. He had a mission here, and it must come first. He had shared his purpose with no one, not even Lord Egmont, but he was carrying a heavy burden, not his own. He could not allow himself to be diverted from that goal. Not yet.

There was a certain amount of clandestine business on foot in Devon. And it was equally sure that a widespread organization conducted this activity. Certain hints had come Ned’s way in the line of his position, and since he was more familiar with Devon than most in his department, and since it was his own ultimate responsibility to curb such nefarious transactions, he had chosen to come down to Trevan himself.

Such a widespread network, he thought now, must be known to and probably connived at by a man, or men, of authority and position in the county. And therefore, such a man might well be among his uncle’s guests this night.

Ned found a position in the doorway of the great drawing room of Kennett Chase. From here he could see all the dancing guests, and, if he turned slightly, he could see the overflow who had sought the cool of the terrace, where waiters were carrying trays of drinks.

He noticed that Lord Egmont’s thoughtful gaze was full upon him, and, unobtrusively, he inched over to speak to his uncle.

“Something on your mind, Ned?” Egmont queried. “You can’t hoax me that you’re down here on a friendly visit to your relation.”

“No, sir, I’m not. And you know what a surprise it was when I saw my mother here.” He became silent for a moment, then added, “Not a pleasant surprise, either, sir.”

“No,” agreed Egmont cordially. “I quite agree. Do you know what she is after?”

Ned seemed surprised. “To get out of town after that Abernethy episode, I suppose.”

“Then she could have gone to Beaufort,” argued Egmont reasonably. “It’s my thought she’s angling after the earl.”

“Pendarvis?” Sheer astonishment swept over Ned’s face. “He’s fifteen years younger!”

“You think that matters to your mother?”

“No,” chuckled Ned. “But it might matter to Pendarvis!”

Egmont regarded him thoughtfully. “Your mother says, of course, that she wishes Julia to encourage him.”

Ned was startled. “Good God, that child? It’s monstrous! I won’t permit it!” He fumed for some time. “No, sir” — he shook his head in denial — “I can’t see it. It won’t wash. Anyway, anybody can see where Pendarvis’ interest lies. And it’s not with my sister, sir.”

Together the two men turned to look into the drawing room, where Hugh was dancing again, this time with Helen Astley. The vicar stood at one side of the room, an expression of ineffable satisfaction clear on his face. And Helen herself, since she was not sulking, was quite pretty, animated, and talking.

“You can’t mean Helen?” Egmont’s outrage caused his voice to quiver. “I’ll go to India if Astley comes to lord it over me as the earl’s father-in-law!”

Amused, Ned protested, “I quite agree, sir. But I think you know well where his interest could be fixed. He did not look quite so bored as now when he spoke with my cousin!”

The two men, so unlike in appearance, yet startlingly similar in their thoughts, looked at each other in complete understanding.

Ned and his uncle were not the only ones who noticed the vicar’s beaming countenance. Hugh, from the corner of his eye, caught sight of him, and with a jolt realized that he was behaving quite badly. If from any word or deed of his, Helen Astley thought he was attracted to her, there would be a good deal of trouble when she learned that his interest in her was merely civil and almost negligible.

At the first possible moment, Hugh excused himself, leading Helen back to her chair and murmuring, “I must go to dance with my hostess, or she will forbid me the door again!”

“Oh, Faustina’s not like that,” exclaimed Helen seriously. “She is not petty.”

Hugh merely bowed, and left swiftly in search of Faustina. When he led her onto the floor, he noticed that her color was unusually high. With a devilish grin he said, “Perhaps you are too warm? Shall we move onto the terrace, where you may become restored?”

Her glance was blazing. “Thank you, sir,” she said with exaggerated civility, “for your consideration. But I believe I would rather dance.”

“Than bring yourself to reliance upon my untender hands,” supplied the earl. “I believe you are wise not to trust yourself in the obscurity of the lawn, especially with an odious villain.”

She could not answer him — at least, not in public. Her mind seethed with excoriating remarks that would put him in his place, but she could not voice one.

“I suppose I should say now how attractive you are when you are angry,” he said after some moments. “Unfortunately, I am not in a position to compare your beauty when angry with your beauty under more serene influences.”

With determination Faustina said firmly, “I think the music is quite good. A trio from Exeter.”

“Imported at vast expense,” Hugh added solemnly. “See, now, you’re angry again, and all I wanted to do was to make conventional chitchat with my hostess. I am sadly out of practice, Miss Kennett.”

“I noticed,” she said crisply.

They danced through another figure before he spoke again. “I must apologize for my temper. A devilish failing, and one I must strive to overcome.”

“I too,” she admitted. “I can’t remember when I have been so angry.”

“You know, I do remember you. From when I was at home. Some small animal — a bird?”

“A lark,” she told him. “Caught in a string. You got him loose.” Her voice was carefully unemotional.

“Yes. What a plain child you were,” he mused, “all red hair and eyes.”

“Thank you.”

He took up the conversation again. “Someone wrote to me in Paris… mentioned your name. Didn’t they say you were about to marry? I can’t remember the name, but I think some marquess.” He glanced swiftly at her. “But obviously you didn’t.”

She had regained control of her thoughts to a degree. All red hair? That forgotten marquess had, poetically, likened her locks to amber. She turned a cool glance on the earl. “Obviously, I didn’t,” she agreed.

Eventually, just as she thought the evening would go on forever, the simple country ball was over. Too weary to speak, the inhabitants of the house trudged upstairs, and to bed.

Even after Faustina had gone to bed, she could not sleep. The earl took up far too much of her thoughts, she realized. Between the earl and her aunt, sleep was impossible. She really did not know how to go on …

While these thoughts agitated Faustina, Hugh’s mind was also churning, in a far happier fashion. He mounted his horse and trotted down the long carriage drive from the Chase. Most of the carriages had long ago crunched their way down the gravel and onto the road to Trevan. The moon was high, and the white stone drive was clear in the moonlight.

Hugh was well satisfied with the results of the evening. He had, in the last two days, come to the conclusion that Miss Faustina Kennett had become very high in the instep and needed a good set-down. And since her father was too indulgent, and even her cousin Ned, although a sound fellow, was overly tolerant, it devolved upon him, Hugh, to apply the proper discipline to the lively heiress.

It did not occur to him to wonder why he should take it upon himself to be responsible for modifying the behavior of Faustina Kennett. It was sufficient for him to know that he owed her a score or two — for some of the things she had told him to his face, and for some, even worse, that he had overheard beneath her window.

He was an odious monster that no one in her right mind should marry — was he? He’d see that she changed her mind on that subject, and then she would find she had changed it just too late!

So, musing on the anticipated pleasures of revenge, Hugh traversed the carriage drive of Kennett Chase and crossed the road into Crale property. It had been his habit, when a boy, to take a shortcut from the road to the stables, and it seemed natural now.

The great gates of Crale Hall lay far down the road, but Crale land stretched for miles along the south side of the road, opposite the Kennett Chase property. He guided his horse into a small gap in the hedge that set him upon the well-remembered shortcut. The path led through dense shrubbery until it debouched onto a farm lane that ran along broad fields and approached the stables from the rear.

The shrubbery shut out the rays of the overhead moon, and Hugh slowed Revanche to let the horse pick his way in the darkness.

His thoughts dwelt on Faustina — a very pretty girl, one that, he thought reluctantly, had many of the virtues that he had learned, through their opposites, to prize in a woman. But she had an arrogant way about her, and he would see to that.

He did not look beyond the moment when her great pride would be humbled, when she would see in him, if not the hero of dreams, at least a man she longed to marry. He refused to consider what the effects of his plan might be on the lovely Faustina. He had the queerest notion — it came to him fleetingly — that the effect rebounding on himself might be disastrous. Nonsense! he said to himself. Too much brandy!

He was almost through the darkest part of the shrubbery when Revanche jibbed, dancing sideways.

Hugh leaned forward impulsively to pat the neck of his horse in encouragement. Murmuring a word in the horse’s ear, he was about to straighten when it happened.

A gun went off, very near. He heard the bullet whistle behind his head. Then there was another shot.

His first thought was:
Poacher
. But the shot was too damnably close. He heard the bullet’s impact, and Revanche reared, neighing in pain.

Hugh slid to the ground and applied himself to calming the plunging horse. It took a few moments. It was useless, of course, to search for a man with a gun, in the dark, and alone.

He explored with his fingers until he located the hole where the bullet had penetrated the neck. It was not bleeding much. He decided the wound was not dangerous.

But he led the horse the rest of the long way to the stable. The back of his neck prickled. Who was to say whether a man, having shot twice, might not shoot again?

A poacher? No. A poacher would make sure that one shot would do the trick. Besides, Hugh remembered that first shot, whistling past his ears. Just about the place, he judged, where his head would have been had he not bent forward to steady his shying horse.

Revanche’s keen senses had detected someone in the shrubbery, and he had shied, thus saving Hugh’s life.

By the time Hugh reached the stable, he was positive of one thing. Someone knew he would be returning to his house by way of the shortcut.

And that someone had tried to kill him.

Chapter 10

Hugh halted, oddly reluctant to enter the lighted area surrounding the stables, where a lantern hung in the doorway to light him home if the capricious moon failed.

Or to light him up as a target, in case the gun in the shrubbery missed?

Yet, of course, the chance had to be faced. Revanche nuzzled his shoulder, and Hugh, remembering the horse’s pain, stepped boldly forward. There was no need to advertise his wariness, he decided. And there could possibly have been only one man with murderous intent.

Hearing the horse’s hooves, Werdle, the groom, appeared in the doorway, stifling a yawn. He wakened completely when he saw his master on foot, leading the big gray.

“Werdle,” said Hugh, “here’s trouble for you.”

Soundlessly Werdle held the stable door wide and took the bridle. “What happened, sir?” he asked.

“Let’s get inside,” said Hugh, stifling an impulse to glance over his shoulder, “and I’ll explain.”

Once inside, and away from the half-door, Hugh explained tersely.

“Shot? A poacher, do you think?” Werdle asked, his mind only half on what he was saying. To him, the injury to a horse overshadowed in importance anything that might have happened to the earl. And rightly so, reasoned Hugh. The horse’s wound was an area in which Werdle was exceedingly competent. As to who might want to shoot the Earl of Pendarvis, in Werdle’s opinion the fewer questions asked, the fewer answers given. And that was die way he wanted it.

“No, I don’t think so,” said Hugh. “What kind of game would be galloping through the copse, Werdle? The gun went off too close to the path. He couldn’t have helped hearing us come. And Revanche could not possibly be mistaken for a stoat.”

Murmuring soothing words to the horse, Werdle was engrossed in his work. Hugh watched him for a few minutes, noting with one portion of his mind the expert hands and knowledge at work. Another part of his mind trailed off on paths of its own.

Werdle had come to the door yawning. Had he been asleep? Could it be possible that the man hadn’t heard the shot? Hugh calculated that it might be the better part of a mile from the spot where the gun went off to the stable. On a clear evening, could a shot be heard so far? The answer, of course, was yes.

But perhaps not inside the stable.

At the moment, he must forget Werdle, since he did not know how the man could have reached the stable before he had. The shrubbery would not have concealed him for more than the first few yards of his escape, had he come in this direction.

Hugh left Revanche in better hands than his, and entered the house without unnecessary advertisement. The side door had been left unlocked for his use, and he was conscious of only a moment’s hesitation before he entered the dark interior of the hall.

No sound reached his ears until he had traversed the long carpeted corridors and gained his own room above the entrance of the house. Dawson’s monkey face was wide-awake.

“An enjoyable time, my lord? A good thing to be back among people we know, ain’t it?”

His remarks died on his tongue as he took a closer look at his lordship’s grim face. “Dawson,” said Hugh, “someone shot Revanche.”

“Revanche?” echoed Dawson blankly. “Dead?”

“No, it’s only a flesh wound, in the neck. Two inches from my hand. He shied, don’t you see, and I thought he simply smelled blood, a rabbit’s perhaps.”

“Werdle’s got him? Then he’s all right, my lord. You remember Werdle from the old days. He could talk to horses in their own language.”

“I remember Werdle,” said Hugh.

Dawson glanced at his master. He had served Hugh here in Crale Hall and had without hesitation left behind all he knew to follow the young master wherever he led. Glad enough he had been to head back toward Devon again, thinking that all the master’s troubles were behind him. But he was wrong, wasn’t he? Young Vincent was still living at Crale Hall, usually in the sullens, and he had always been trouble.

He glanced again at Hugh. If he suspected his half-brother, Dawson was sure no word of it would pass his lips. Not until he was quite sure of his facts.

“Probably a poacher, my lord?” ventured Dawson provocatively, helping Hugh off with his coat.

“And hitting a horse no more than a few yards from him?” said Hugh harshly. “I hope my poachers are better shots than that!”

“That’s very comical, my lord,” said Dawson dutifully. Then, in an altered voice he added, “Was it the first or second shot that got Revanche?”

“The second,” said Hugh automatically. Lifting an eyebrow, he added, “How did you know about the second shot?”

“Now, then, sir, you can just stow your suspicions. It’s plain as can be there were two shots.” Seeing Hugh’s dark blue eyes only pinpoints of light in his face, Dawson said simply, “The first one, my lord, got your new coat from Nugee.”

He held out the garment for Hugh’s inspection. “See here? Ruined your coat. Worn only once, too. Pretty near the mark, wasn’t it, my lord?”

Dawson’s words were calm enough, but his face mirrored his appalled thoughts. Someone could have killed Hugh — nearly had, for this shot that caught the top of the sleeve was only inches from a vital part of Hugh.

“I heard the bullet,” mused Hugh thoughtfully, “but I thought it had gone by harmlessly.”

“Who did it, my lord? No poacher!” 

“I don’t know.”

“You didn’t see anybody?”

“No.” After a pause Hugh added, “No, but there is nothing to prevent me from saying I did, is there? If someone thought I knew more than I do… I see, Dawson, that you don’t approve of that.”

Dawson was vigorous. “No, my lord, I do not. Not that I’m against baiting a trap, so to speak. But…”

“First we have to know what kind of bait to use. I daresay you’re right.”

“It could be,” muttered Dawson darkly, “that you wouldn’t want to catch the man.” Hugh’s head came up sharply. Dawson eyed his master steadily. “Sometimes it’s a bitter thing, to know.”

Dawson’s cryptic remarks were no puzzle to his master. Dawson had suffered through too many years with him for Hugh not to know the way Dawson’s mind marched. But Hugh shook his head. “I might have agreed, once, Dawson. But I’ve got some things to do here before I let a sniper fix my dock. So I must take precautions, you know.”

Dawson barely refrained from sniffing. He knew well that his master was right. Crale, taking the broader view, had been neglected for too long, and the earl’s duty was clear. But that didn’t mean that Dawson was going to like it
He helped the earl disrobe. Standing ominously before him, Dawson said, “Now, my lord? It’s not for me to say, but—”

“Then, Dawson, don’t say it,” said Hugh, taking the sting out of the words by his sweet smile. “We are too old friends to have to put some things in words.”

Dawson allowed himself to feel gratified. But nonetheless he decided that watchfulness would be the word from now on, whether the earl’s suspicions lay along the same line as his or not. He left Hugh sitting meditatively before the black, cold grate.

Hugh did not know how long he sat there. But when at last he stirred, several things were clear in his mind. First, the bullets were meant for him. No one could have mistaken him for anything other than what he was, not at that short distance. And then, the other side of the same coin — at that short range, who could have missed? Either an exceedingly bad shot, or else the attack was meant simply as a warning.

Either way, Hugh thought with a grimace, it wasn’t the best way to celebrate a homecoming merely two weeks old.

Acting upon Dawson’s unexpressed suspicion — which Hugh, although he would not have admitted it even to an old friend like Dawson, shared — he rose to his feet and slipped silently into the hall. Faint light from the waning moon slid through small windows to light the corridor. Hugh’s footfall was muffled by the heavy carpet, and he approached his half-brother’s door unheard.

With infinite care he opened Vincent’s door and listened. He could not see, in the darkness, as far as the bed, except to make out the vaguest shapes of bed and chairs. But there came the unmistakable sound of heavy and regular breathing. Vincent was in bed, and sleeping. And, therefore, could not be the man in the shrubbery.

A conclusion, Hugh was aware as he tiptoed back to his own room, unwarranted except by his own very real reluctance to believe that his father’s other son could wish to commit murder. Vincent could have come back, undressed, fallen into bed, and drifted into sleep half a dozen times while Hugh and Dawson were conferring.

But could Vincent sleep after such an escapade? Or would he be worrying about whether Hugh saw him?

Hugh shook his head. He simply did not know his half-brother well enough. Yet, the breathing had been regular — too regular, perhaps. Hugh was thoughtful as he closed his own door and, after a reflective moment, pushed the bolt home with a soft snick.

At the stable, early the next morning, he found Werdle already astir. The swish of brooms, the soft thud of hooves on dirt, told Hugh that Werdle was not a man to let the day come upon him with his work not done.

“Good morning, Werdle,” said the earl, leaning over the open half-door. “How is he?” 

“Doing fine, my lord,” said Werdle. ‘The fomentation has drawn out the pain, so to speak. Anyway, he’s not so restive, and there’s naught feverish-looking.”

The earl nodded satisfaction. “A poacher, Werdle,” he said. Werdle looked up sharply. A significant look passed between the two men, and Werdle at last nodded. “No doubt of it, my lord. Would you be wishing to see Maddox?”

“Maddox?” said the earl cautiously. “My game warden,” he added in comprehension. “Yes, that would be suitable, I think. Thank you, Werdle. Would you happen to know where he is now?”

“No, my lord. But I can send word that he’s wanted. It’s not my province, you understand, my lord.”

“Of course. I’d be glad if you were to get word to him that I should like to see him.”

The earl ate a solitary breakfast of succulent Devon ham, a mountain of eggs, freshly baked bread, and gooseberry jam. “I mind it was always your lordship’s favorite,” beamed Mrs. Robbins. His appetite left no suspicion that his mind was abstracted.

He did not ask for Vincent. Oddly, he was reluctant to show any curiosity, lest his latent suspicions become common knowledge, and perhaps bring Vincent to a more definite plan — or a better aim! the earl thought grimly.

Nonetheless, he could not afford any further abstraction of mind. Last night he had been engrossed in his plan to topple Faustina from the pedestal she had put herself upon — knowing what was best for his daughter, so she said. He remembered only too well certain mamas of marriageable daughters in Brussels who had used that approach to him — but once was enough. The next time, he would marry, not to please himself, but to please his ancestors. And he wished to consider the situation without passion and without prejudice. He began to consider his next move…

He set out on his duty call on Faustina and her aunt. This time, he decided, he would walk down the open drive and avoid shortcuts — and his usual habits. At least, for a while. An assailant would be handicapped if his prey never did the same thing twice.

By the time he arrived at the terrace door of Kennett Chase, without seeing anything more dangerous than a fleeing hare, he began to wonder whether he wasn’t making himself too important in the incident. An assassin might have expected Vincent to ride through the shortcut Had Vincent walked the night before?

Remembering Vincent’s early proclivities, he thought it quite in the cards that he had made an enemy or two himself. Determining to make a study of this possibility later, he stepped through the door opened for him by Bone.

“Good morning, my lord,” said Bone. “May I say I am glad to see your lordship in good health?”

The earl lifted an eyebrow.

“Word has come, sir, of the unfortunate accident.”

“Ah, has it? But not so terrible, Bone, because, as you see, I am unharmed.”

“For which we are happy, my lord,” said Bone in a heartfelt manner, having known Hugh since he was in leading strings. Bone at one time had toyed with the thought of embracing in wedlock an assistant cook at Crale Hall, and became, as it were, an intimate of the household for a brief period. Funny, he couldn’t remember her name now — only the cinnamon buns that were her specialty, raisiny and touched with the exotic flavor of oranges.

When Hugh was ushered into the drawing room, Faustina half rose from her chair at the sight of him. He thought she was unusually pale, but it was no doubt the result of her late hours the night before.

Lady Waverly came toward him, hand outstretched, bracelets jingling below her wrist ruffles. “My dear Pendarvis!” she cried. “Are you sure you are well enough to be out of your bed? We were all so shocked! I do trust they have laid the stupid poacher by the heels!”

“Aunt, one question at a time. How can he answer if you don’t let him?”

He bent over Lady Waverly’s hand, but his eyes glanced sidelong at Faustina. “I was not hurt in the least, Lady Waverly,” he told her. “But my poor Revanche! However, Werdle tells me he will be all right, although I dare not think when I will wish to ride him again.”