The Wagered Widow (35 page)

Millie plumped her pillows while she washed, and when she got back into bed put a breakfast tray across her lap, then went over to waft a cup of hot chocolate under Snowden's nodding head.

“What?” he exclaimed, leaping upright. “Millie—you saucy wench! Give me that.”

She chuckled, gave him the chocolate, dodged the affectionate pat he aimed at her broad hips, and went out.

“So you're awake at last, are you?” Boothe yawned. “Thought you meant to snore all day.”

“You know perfectly well I do not snore. And— Good lord! I'd forgot! What o'clock is it? Is Treve—I mean, is Mr. de Villars—”

“It is nigh eleven o'clock. And he is downstairs, having breakfast.”

“Down …
stairs?
He must be mad! He was in no condition to—”

“With that confounded Holt,” Boothe finished, his eyes grim.

“Dear God!” Rebecca put down her toast with a trembling hand. “Never say he suspects?”

He scowled. “He suspects something, but how much of the truth he has there's no guessing.”

“Then … then all our lives are in de Villars' hands!”

“Never mind the dramatics, my girl! Treve will do his possible. It ain't him I tremble for, but your bird lover!” He came to his feet. “I'd best get down there before Ward faints dead away!”

“No—wait!” Rebecca put the tray aside and leaned forward, regarding her brother tensely. “I must know the truth of it. Snow, am I wrong, or are you involved in this?”

He stared at his cup, not replying at first. Then he said slowly, “Only to the extent that I was with de Villars, and—”

“
With
him? But—oh, if I could but comprehend all this! Snow, you mean to
fight
de Villars! Why on earth—”

His head lifted. He said with steady emphasis, “Trevelyan de Villars is a rake and a rascal. And he is also one of the finest gentlemen it has ever been my honour to know. I discovered it rather—late, is all.” He raised his right hand to silence her astonished indignation, and the lace fell back to reveal the bandages about his wrist. Nodding to them, he continued, “This confounded sprain almost brought me to Point Non Plus last evening, I can tell you!”

Rebecca flung back the bedclothes, stepped into her slippers, and pulled a wrapper about her. Snowden put down his cup and returned to his seat resignedly and she drew up the nearest chair and sat close to him.

“We are not discussing boxing the watch, Snow. Or outrunning the constable. You and I, and many others, could yet stand accused of treason. I'll have the truth, if you please.”

A twinkle came into his eyes. With a touch of admiration, he said, “You can be surprising regal at times, did you know it, Becky? Oh, very well. I will tell you as much as it is safe for you to know.”

“Snow—
den!
”

“And that is
all!
” Boothe glanced to the door as though four troopers pressed their ears to the far side, and drew his chair even closer until he was almost knee to knee with his sister. “Firstly,” he began, low-voiced, “I did not go up to Newcastle in Forty's behalf. An old and dear friend—I'll name him Jason—was, I knew, engaged in a desperate attempt to come south.”

“A Jacobite gentleman?”

He nodded. “Poor fellow was badly wounded at Culloden, and it had taken weeks for him to recover to the point he dare venture from his place of concealment. He sent word to me that he dreaded lest the people who shielded him be discovered, and so he meant to strike out alone and would try for the home of a friend in Newcastle. I went up to help as best I might. Failed miserably. You will be thinking me a fine weakling to have involved Forty in it all. Truth of the matter is, he also knows our rebel and wanted to help.”

“As would I, had you only taken me into your confidence!”

Boothe smiled, but said sternly, “The least you know of it, the better, at present! And you are to mention no word of this to my aunt—or anyone else!”

“Of course. How can you think me so henwitted? Do I know this poor fugitive?”

“You'll not get an answer to
that,
my girl. Next you'll be wheedling at me for his name—the which you shall not have, either!”

“All right, all right! Do go on. Did you find your friend in Newcastle?”

“No, blast it! I missed him by a day only. He had been all but caught and had to run for his life. I sought high and low, and came so near calling attention to myself that I finally had to buy a confounded slug of a hunter, only to try and fool the military. Egad! Wait till you see him! The most deceitful damned— Oh, well. Never mind about that. I had lost so much time pulling the wool over the eyes of a blasted persistent lieutenant, that I gave up, finally. My hope then was that—er, Jason might have headed for London and my rooms. He had not, of course, but I come back to Town and waited. Didn't know what else to do. It occurred to me that he might go to your house, so I stayed there, and Forty kept an eye on my flat. When Forty came to John Street after the duel, it was to tell me he'd received word that Jason had been hounded towards Bedfordshire. We decided that your being at Ward Marching would serve as a perfect explanation for our presence there.”

“So
that
is why you urged me to return!”

“That is why. Forty and I come up, and rode hither and yon, trying to keep as much in the open as possible, just as I'd done up north, hoping the poor fellow would spot us. Instead, de Villars found me.”

Intent, she asked, “Accidentally?”

“No, as a matter of fact. He is already up to his neck in—Never mind. At all events, his great-uncle what's-his-name—”

“Geoffrey? Lord Boudreaux?”

“That's it. What a dashed fine old sportsman! He was also anxious for our rebel, and had sent word to de Villars to be on the lookout for him. Yesterday morning when I went into the village, Treve suddenly rid at me from a copse. Scared the wits out of me, I don't mind telling you! He warned me that Broadbent was in the vicinity and poor Jason heading this way and very likely to run right into a trap. We agreed to separate. Forty came here, I went north, and de Villars to the west. By purest luck, I found my man at sundown, but it was hell for leather then, and good old Jason so wrung out I could scarce keep him in the saddle.”

“How awful! Poor soul. Had you planned to rendezvous with de Villars?”

“Well, of course I had. D'ye take me for a cloth head? I was almost there, too, when Jason tumbled head first from his horse. The troopers were close behind, and with this stupid blasted arm I could not lift him. Jupiter! I thought we were done for, I can tell you! Then Treve came up. He boosted Jason into his own saddle, for Jason's hack was nigh foundered, and told me to head for the hiding place we had decided upon earlier, and that he would lead the troopers off. I knew he had little chance. I was barely clear when they shot the poor hack, and then shot Treve. I started back, but I knew the horse would not carry all of us, and I damned well
had
to get Jason clear.” He was silent for a moment, his lips tightly gripped together.

Rebecca waited breathlessly, her heart racing.

“I saw Treve trying to get away,” muttered Boothe. “I could tell he would not last long.” He swore under his breath. “I doubt I have ever felt quite so wretched in my life.”

Rebecca leaned back in her chair. “And this—Jason?”

“Is safe. For the time, at least. No, really, Becky. He is tucked away where they could never find him, and with some of Boudreaux's loyal people caring for him.”

She nodded. Then, smiling faintly, said, “De Villars once told me that any man so stupid as to embrace the cause of Bonnie Prince Charlie in effect
deserved
the retribution that must follow.”

Snowden laughed. “Did he so? What a complete hand he is! Speaking of which—” He stood again. “I must go down and lend a hand. Treve is likely feeling as queer as Dick's hatband by this time.”

When Boothe strolled into the breakfast parlour a few moments later, however, he found de Villars lounging in his chair, laughing at some remark of Ward's. Of the other guests, only Kadenworthy and Glendenning were present. Captain Holt sat next to de Villars. He was smiling, but very obviously on the alert.

“I wish I
might
have been your man,” drawled de Villars. “For I vow 'twould break the monotony of life. I am like to die of boredom.”

“Do you allow this impertinent clod to so criticize your hospitality, Ward?” enquired Boothe, sitting down, and very conscious of Ward's pallor and the two spots of colour high on de Villars' cheekbones.

“I am resigned,” said Ward in a brittle voice. “Besides which, one must excuse a man who surely is still well over the oar.”

“Indeed I am not,” de Villars said aggrievedly. “Do I look bosky, Holt?”

The captain scanned the flushed features and shadowed eyes. “A touch, perhaps. Though I do not recall that you were in your cups at the ball. In fact…” He took up a fork and toyed with it idly. “I do not recall your appearing, at all.” As he spoke his glance shot keenly to de Villars. He was disappointed. A look of elation came over the sardonic features.

“I win!” exclaimed de Villars, thumping one fist exultantly on the table. “He did not recognize me! Pay up, my Peter.” And he reached out, snapping his fingers.

A pulse beating nervously under his eye, Sir Peter managed to grumble, “I shall write you a draft.”

Holt scowled from one to the other, his hoped-for promotion seeming to fade with each passing second.

“Treve was a lackey,” Boothe chortled.

“And tendered you a tray,
mon capitaine,
” de Villars lied with an air of triumph.

“Indeed,” said Holt silkily. “Of what?”

Ward's face became even whiter. Holt was not a drinking man, but de Villars could not know that. His heart pounded sickeningly.

De Villars shrugged. “Lord knows. I'll admit I do not recall last night very clearly.”

“Well, I recall,” said Rebecca teasingly, coming to join them at that moment. “And I saw the captain refuse your offering, de Villars.”

The men stood as she entered. She saw de Villars flinch slightly, but his head was turned from the captain's relentless surveillance, and she kept her own smile intact as she begged that they be seated. Sir Peter pulled out a chair, and occupying it she said, “'Twas a glass of champagne, Captain. And I remember thinking how admirable it was that you would not take strong spirits whilst on duty.”

“The captain never takes strong spirits,” said Sir Peter, his tense gaze meeting de Villars' calm one.

“And I was not on duty at that time,” said the captain. “But I am now and must be on my way.”

Six anxious hearts were eased by this statement, but even as he seemed about to leave, Holt turned back. “By the by, de Villars. I understand you are related to Lord Boudreaux.”

“The head of my house, Captain. Are you acquainted?”

His face cold and closed, Holt said, “Not well. But I suspect he is a Jacobite sympathizer.”

Very aware of how narrowly he was watched, de Villars shrugged. “I wish you might prove it,” he said dryly. “He disinherited me years agone, sad to tell.”

“Did he so?” The captain's brows lifted. “You are to be congratulated, sir.” And as if to make amends for his former coolness, he smiled and clapped de Villars heartily on the shoulder.

It was the left shoulder. De Villars' face convulsed.

Rebecca's heart seemed to leap into her throat and choke her.

“Now—curse you for a … clumsy clod,” groaned de Villars, clutching his brow with a shaking hand. “Oh! My poor head!”

Kadenworthy laughed although he was suddenly deathly pale. “And you not bosky this morning, eh?”

Glendenning sighed. “To my sorrow, I know exactly how you feel, Treve.”

The captain said an amused, “You had best give him the hair of the dog that bit him, Sir Peter. Good morrow, ma'am. Gentlemen…” And he walked out, Ward ushering him politely from the room.

De Villars leant back in his chair. “The devil!” he gasped. “That was a close run thing!”

*   *   *

The Midsummer's Eve Ball had provided Sir Peter's guests with a supply of
on-dits
that they would be able to recount for weeks to come. The fact of their host's obvious
tendre
for Mrs. Rebecca Parrish, and of my Lord Kadenworthy's sudden infatuation for the lady, were also well worth the sharing. The military involvement had, however, brought with it memories of the recent and tragic flare-up of the Rebellion and, disturbed, the guests did not linger. By early afternoon many of those who had overnighted at the mansion were preparing to depart. Lord Kadenworthy, the Boudreauxes, the Streets, Mrs. Monahan, Mr. Melton, and Lord Graham Fortescue were among those who remained. Neither Major Broadbent nor Captain Holt returned, but the presence of the several individuals who were unaware of what had actually transpired in the blue ante-room on Midsummer's Eve forbade that the matter be discussed. After a late luncheon, Rebecca and her aunt retired to the cottage and found Anthony and Patience awaiting them in a fever of excitement. They had seen the soldiers and, much to their delight, the cottage had been searched. Millie had been cross, but had thought the sergeant in charge of the search party was “quite a nice chap.” “I think he must have liked her, too,” said Anthony brightly, “for he has been here twice this morning.”

Rebecca exchanged a swift, scared look with her aunt.

Not to be outdone, Patience chirped, “I helpt-ted the tholdierth look
everywhere,
ma'am. I wath a good helper. They telled me.”

Again, the ladies looked at one another in horror. Chilled, Rebecca gulped, “Oh, Aunt! This
wretched
slaughter! Will it never end?”