Anne Barbour (18 page)

Shortly thereafter, Justin left Charles in the shadowed study, and some time later he found himself again in the murky depths of the Pig and Whistle facing Jack Nail over a heavy wet, reflecting on his conversation with Charles. Could his friend be right? Was St. John far removed from his problem—even now hovering in filial solicitude at their father’s bedside?

Justin was surprised at the depth of what he very much feared was a futile wish that such was the case. He clutched at the table, digging his fingers into the rough wood as Jack’s words served only to confirm his nightmare suspicions.

“It weren’t easy findin’ a position at yer pa’s place,” Jack whispered, the words sliding from the corner of his mouth like escaping prisoners. “Lucky I ran inta a stable boy at the village alehouse one night who ‘asn’t been with the family but a few months. I figgered ‘e wouldn’t be likely t’run t’the ‘ead groom with any tales if I was ta offer him some temp’ry employment elsewhere.”

“And you were able to take his place?”

“Slick as a peeled eel, sojer. Can’t say as I enjoyed the work,” Jack continued meditatively, his eyes squinting almost shut. “Seems t’me as—since I didn’t hire on with ye t’muck out stables, ye owes me a bit more than was pre’v’sly agreed on.”

“I think not. Jack,” Justin replied simply, but in a tone that effectively quelled any further negotiations on the part of his henchman. “Now, what have you learned.”

“Well, there ain’t much comin’ and goin’ at Sheffield Court, what with yer pa bein’ laid up, but there’s been a coupla callers now and then from Lunnon. They come late at night and leave early the next morning. I found out one of ‘em’s called Cyrus Bentick, and ‘e works in the Foreign Office—over t’ the ‘Orse Guards.”

“Yes, he is known to me,” replied Justin, recalling a small, inconspicuous man who apparently spent his days shuffling paper from one corner of his desk in a dim area of the Top Floor to another. “He works for—well, that is of no consequence. But why would he be visiting my father?”

Jack snorted. “Dunno. But, judgin’ from the prad ‘e was ridin’, I wouldn’t say ‘e’s wot you’d call a prime spoke at the ‘Orse Guards. Now, the other fella—I recognized ‘im. Name of Snapper Briggs, an’ I know fer a fact ‘e’s done some work fer Jasper Naismith, a wery unpleasant fella, if ye take my meanin’. Big as a goriller and just as ugly and twicet as mean. Nobody’s ever knowd Jasper t’be up t’any good.”

“I see. In other words, if you were of a mind to do someone a bit of harm—”

“Aye. Jasper’d be yer man.”

From the Pig and Whistle, Justin moved on to Gardiners Lane and Jerry Church. Here, he added a little more to his growing fund of information.

“Cyrus Bentick!” exclaimed Jerry. “By all that’s holy, Justin. I think perhaps we’ve found our man. I investigated all the forgers I know of who might have been used for Rivenchy’s identification papers and struck metal with one Frank Borritch. He did it! Said he’d been told to draw up papers in the name of a Sergeant Major William Waters of the Light Bobs. And who d’you think it was put in the order and paid him a bundle to do it?
And
to say nothing about it?” Jerry was fairly dancing in his excitement.

“Cyrus Bentick,” replied Justin, his own heart beating fast. By God, it looked as though he had his man!

Jerry had little else to report, but Justin, declaring the information worth a hundredweight in gold, thanked him profusely and left with a promise to visit again in a few nights’ time.

Still later that night, Justin paid his last call of the evening. One of the lesser bits of information imparted by Jerry was that Robbie had been wounded at the hands of a French column just outside Burgos. It was a shoulder injury—not serious, but enough to cause a possibly permanent impairment of movement. Thus, he had been transferred to courier duty and sent to London for an indeterminate length of time.

As it happened, this time, Robbie was home, just accepting a brandy from his manservant when Justin tapped at the window.

“Don’t you ever use the front stairs?” he asked plaintively as his man crossed the room unhurriedly to assist Justin into me room.

“Only occasionally,” replied Justin. “‘Evening, Henry.” This to the bulky gentleman who, evincing little or no surprise at the visitor’s unorthodox arrival, took coat and hat from him.

“‘Evening, Major,” responded that personage. “It’s a pleasure to see you again. I’m sorry I was abed when you called before. If you had rung,” he continued reproachfully, “I should have been happy to provide you with refreshments.”

“God forbid I should disturb your beauty sleep, Henry,” replied Justin with a grin. “But, I’ll have a drop of whatever you’re peddling there.”

Justin had learned some years ago that he might repose the same trust in Robbie’s batman that he bestowed on Robbie, thus had no compunction in revealing his presence to the gentleman. Henry smiled benevolently, an expression that sat oddly on a face more accustomed to a certain belligerence of aspect.

“So what’s toward?” asked Justin, seating himself in an easy chair opposite his friend. “How’s the wound?”

Robbie flexed a broad shoulder. “Oh, tol’lol. Nothing more than a bit of a nuisance, particularly since it’s kept me here in London instead of in Spain, where I could be doing more good. It’s hard gleaning information that has to cross the Channel by smugglers’ boat.”

“But you do have something?” Justin asked with barely restrained impatience.

Robbie grimaced. “Oh, yes. It appears that the Spanish officer who was left in charge of the bridge at Huerta failed to receive orders to keep men posted at the bridge—which was your mission, of course. He was given orders—from an officer fitting your description—to abandon the place, thus leaving it wide open for all the Frenchmen fleeing the field at Salamanca—particularly one French general.”

‘The same fellow, I presume, supposed to be me, who ended up dead in a ditch.”

“Precisely. Also—” Robbie shifted in his chair. “I’ve been over to the Horse Guards once or twice. I have to tell you, old man, mention of your name brings nothing but a cold, hard stare.”

Justin made no response, but sat in silence for a long moment. ‘Tell me,” he said at last, “are you acquainted with a Cyrus Bentick over there?”

Robbie’s brandy paused almost imperceptibly in its progress toward his lips. “Bentick? I don’t think—” He sighed. “Actually, he was the one man who seemed inclined to discuss your case with me. He’s an officious little chap—screwed-up face—looks like he’s been constipated for several months. I don’t really know what he does over there—has a small desk littered with papers in a cubicle off in a corner in the dark. When I brought up the matter of General Rivenchy’s escape, he was loud in his assertion of your guilt, and he expressed at some length his regret that you’d been snuffed before you could be brought to justice. What’s your interest in the little toad?”

Justin related his recent conversation with Jack Nail, as well as the information he’d received from Jerry Church, to which Robbie responded with a low whistle.

“Good God, do you really think Bentick is behind the plot? Not just the treason, but the attempts on your life?”

“There seems little doubt of it—except—

“Except what?”

“Except that our Cyrus doesn’t seem like the type to mastermind a scheme like this.”

Robbie, in the act of lifting his drink to his lips, stilled. “Oh, I don’t know,” he said at length. “He might have unsuspected depths. At any rate, there don’t seem to be any other candidates.” He paused. “Unless...” He stared before him. “Does it occur to you that it was awfully kind of Jerry Church to go to so much trouble on your behalf? To say nothing of the risk he must have braved to get that information?”

“Yes, it occurred to me almost immediately. However, as I said, he owes me a debt and—and he rather has it in for his superiors. Ever since he was accused—apparently falsely—of dipping his hand in the till over at Procurement, he’s held a jaundiced view of everyone in authority. Seems to think he was robbed of any chance he might have had for advancement, and he’s an ambitious young chap. At any rate, I believe him to be sincere in his efforts on my behalf. Not that the idea of St. John working with Bentick is incredible.”

Robbie grunted. “Vengeance, like politics, makes strange bedfellows.”

“But—My God, how could St. John possibly have joined forces with someone like Bentick? How would he even know Bentick?”

“It’s hard to say how anyone meets anybody—at his club, perhaps, or at the theater, or—oh, I don’t know—” Robbie threw up his hands. “Feeding the pigeons at St. Paul’s, perhaps. If Church is to be believed, it seems obvious to me that somehow St. John got wind of Bentick’s plot and decided to create an advantage for himself.”

“An opportunity for the revenge he’s sought for so long?”

“Well—yes.”

Justin sighed. “It seems abysmally far-fetched. There must be some other connection—someone higher up known to both Bentick and St. John. Bentick must be working for someone. But who?”

“I think you’re wrong,” said Robbie heavily. “I think Bentick’s our man.”

Justin’s eyes narrowed. “We need more information before we can make a case, however.” He finished his brandy in a single gulp. “I think I shall have to repair to the Court, after all. It’s time I had a talk with St. John.”

“You don’t think you ought to wait until you have some sort of proof?”

“I think proof is going to be hard—if not impossible—to come by. No, I need to talk to St. John. I believe I’ll learn all I need to know when I confront him face-to-face.”

Justin rose. Robbie also stood and walked with him to the window. “By the by, how do things stand with you and your lovely hostess? Does she still believe you to be non compos? Have you made your way into her bed yet?”

Justin flushed. “She still thinks I have no memory of my past,” he said stiffly, “and she is not the sort of woman who entertains stray confidence tricksters in her bed.”

Robbie gave a low whistle. “Sorry, old man. Like that is it? Well, well—the age of miracles is upon us.”

Justin suppressed the surge of irritation that rose in him. “I don’t know what you’re talking about, you ass. I’m simply saying that some women are susceptible to liberal applications of butter from the sauce boat and some are not. Miss Meade is one of the latter. Nor is she worthy of such treatment. And now, if you don’t mind, the hour grows late, and I’d best wend my way homeward. Keep me posted,” he added, swinging his leg over the window ledge.

As he made his way through the silent streets of London toward the Cambridge Road, Justin pondered further on his conversation with Robbie. He had been unwontedly vehement in his defense of Catherine Meade’s virtue. Particularly since he had mounted what could only be termed an assault on that virtue some hours earlier.

He had been astonished at the depth of her response to his kiss. He was gratified, of course, and he would willingly have plundered further the delights of her softly curving body if she had not drawn back. For, of course, he would not pursue a female against her will. Usually, he did not find it necessary to do so. He had learned many years ago to discern which women would welcome his advances and participate enthusiastically in their own seduction, and which would not. He never attempted to overcome the defenses of the latter, for that way lay all sorts of unpleasant repercussions. If the affections of the lady in question were seriously engaged, it usually meant the painful end to a liaison. Lord, he sounded like the veriest coxcomb! He knew himself to be an uncaring cad, but it was no part of his intention to inflict a hurt on anyone, either. He certainly was not prepared to give his own heart—if he had one to give, that is
—
but he had no wish to damage anyone else’s.

What was the state of Catherine Meade’s heart? He rather thought she had her own barriers firmly in place, but the fire she had displayed in his embrace made him wonder. He had a good idea that she had virtually seen through his deception and that she had recognized him for what he was—a thoroughly bad man, in his father’s words. If this were the case, she probably stood in no danger of succumbing to his devastating charm.

Laughing at this absurd conceit, Justin turned into Coppersmith Street on the outskirts of the city. The area was a warren of narrow lanes and alleys that eventually led into the Huntingdon Road, and Justin was glad of the three-quarter moon that illuminated his passage.

His musings continued. At any rate, he thought, his relationship with the beauteous Miss Meade had just taken a new turn, and it would be interesting to see how things developed. He must admit, he was somewhat taken aback by his own reaction to the kiss. He had, not unsurprisingly, experienced a surge of desire as her lips had parted under his and her body had pressed into him. But there had been something else—something he had not experienced with any other woman. He had felt a sense of joining with her, just as he had felt an odd connection with her from the moment he had looked up from his bed to fall into that incredible emerald gaze of hers. It was as though when he had covered her mouth with his, their two halves had been united to make one whole, and when she had pulled back so suddenly, it was as though a part of his very soul had been wrenched from him.

Which was ludicrous, of course. Catherine Meade was a part of the world of Winter’s Keep, which was, in turn, merely a wayside stop—a temporary haven. The day would soon come when he would leave its serenity and peace to take up the sordid chaos of his own life. By then—

Justin felt the bullet enter his body before he heard the shot. He ducked when he heard the crack, but it was too late. For a moment, he felt nothing, but as his searching fingers encountered the wet, stickiness that oozed from his side, the pain hit him like a searing knife stroke, and he fell forward against Caliban.

By a monumental effort, he remained in the saddle. He knew that to fall now would expose himself to another effort by his would-be assassin.

Winter’s Keep. He had to get to Winter’s Keep. Halting when he reached an open area past the cluster of buildings that marked the outer limits of the town, he shrugged out of his coat and balled it into a large pad. Tearing his neck cloth from his throat, he bound the coat tight against his side. He urged Caliban forward then, struggling to maintain consciousness. He had a long ride ahead of him. He must not give up. He must not fall. He must get home to the Keep—and to Catherine.