Anne Barbour (2 page)

Comprehension spread across Justin’s features in a wave of anger. “And now I suppose I’m the prime suspect for that.”

Charles said nothing, but squirmed uncomfortably.

“Pah!” muttered Justin. “Very well, then, I’ll hie myself to Hertfordshire.”

“Your father’s place near—where is it—Barkway?” asked Charles doubtfully. “I’d think that would be one of the first places anyone would look for you, outside London. You’ve always had a fondness for it.”

“Yes, but I want to stay within skulking distance of the city. I’ll only stay at Longbarrow for a day or two. There’s no one there except for old Bribbage, and he’s closemouthed as a post. By the time my assorted ill-wishers realize I’ve flown our fair metropolis, I’ll think of someplace else. I’ll let you know when I alight more or less permanently.”

“What do you mean, skulking?” Charles’s voice sharpened again.

The mocking smile dropped from Justin’s lips. “I can’t just sit with my hands folded waiting for you to pull my groats from the fire, Charles. I know you will do your best, but I mean to uncover the truth of what happened as quickly as possible. You see,” he finished, fixing the insouciant grin in place once more, “while I freely admit to being notably lacking in moral scruples, I don’t fancy being blamed for something I didn’t do.” He sat back in his chair, searching for another subject with which to distract Charles. He glanced around the room and chuckled.

“How often have I sat in this chamber, old friend? In this chair. Lord, I remember the first time I came to you here. I’d just been sent down from Oxford with my tail between my legs with not a friend in the world.”

Charles lifted a hand in negation. “I was just pleased you thought to seek refuge with me. Mary was, too.”

He referred to his wife, who had passed away many years ago.

“God knows, I was headed for trouble.” Justin shook his head, glancing about once more with appreciation. “I’ve always liked this room. You have a collector’s eye, Charles. But—Isn’t something missing? Yes, that infernal clock. It used to hang above the mantel, and its ticking drove me daft. And, by God, you’ve done away with that statue of Venus or some other scantily clothed deity.”

“The clock is out for repairs,” replied Charles dryly, “and the Venus has been removed to my drawing room. I created a grouping of classical figures there, and I see what you are doing. I am not to be diverted, Justin. I wish you will disappear for a while and leave this business to me.”

“You always were very free with your advice. I clearly recall—once again sitting here in this chair—the times you upbraided me for my wild ways. Not nearly so severely as did my father, but still, I always thought it a case of pots berating kettles, for you gamble yourself from time to time, do you not?”

“Yes,” replied Charles austerely. “I admit I enjoy a little flutter occasionally, but I never made it my life’s work as you seemed to be intent on doing. Now, if you can drag yourself once and for all from your little journey into the past, I want you to listen to me.”

“Charles!” exclaimed Justin, all bruised sensibility. “I always listen to you.”

“Good,” said Charles, unmoved. “Then hear this. Stay away from London. Stay away from Robbie. Stay out of trouble. Do nothing until you hear from me. Do I make myself clear?”

“Perfectly, my dear fellow.” Justin smiled sunnily.

Some hours later, as dawn slanted through the streets of London, a nondescript figure made its way out of London along the Huntingdon Road. Garbed in serviceable breeches, coat, and boots, he did not look precisely disreputable, but no one, even on closer inspection, would take him for a gentleman, except for his horse. He rode a magnificent stallion, a fine, ribbed-up hack, albeit rather oddly shaped, and Justin sat him with a muscled elegance that belied the humble clothing. Justin had thought long and hard about bringing Caliban with him in his exile, for the animal rather tended to stand out in an inn stable. However, master and mount had been through a great deal, and the stallion’s speed and stamina had saved Justin’s bacon on more than one occasion. In addition, Caliban was possessed of a number of tricks that came in handy now and then.

His thoughts as Caliban trotted at an easy pace were not pleasant. He marveled at the suddenness with which one’s life could suddenly plunge into the sewer. He’d been in scrapes before—indeed, sometimes it seemed as though his whole life had been one, long horrific predicament. He had been accused of many wrongdoings before, up to and including felonies—often with good reason. There had been the time he had purloined an entire ship, after all. But it had seemed like a good idea at the time, and he had managed to squeak through the episode without serious inconvenience to himself.

However, this was treason, and somehow it carried a different ring. Treason could not be carried off as an excess of high spirits, or a necessary route to the accomplishment of a purpose one considered important. No, there were some depths to which even he would not sink, and treason was one of them.

And then there was the matter of the attack against him. Two attacks, if one counted the encounter with a pair of street thugs on a dark street in London—one of whom muttered his name. He recalled his interrogation by the French officer at Huerta. How had the good
capitán
come into possession of so many details of his life? It seemed certain that someone close to him was aware of his mission and had revealed that information to the nearest French garrison. A wave of nausea swept over him as he considered the one detail of the interrogation that loomed in his memory—the one detail he had omitted in his report to Charles. The officer had referred repeatedly to a file that lay on his desk, and on the top of the packet rested a sheet of paper, covered with a handwriting that was familiar to Justin.

Even now, the memory of the fleeting, upside-down glimpse he had caught of the paper brought the taste of bile to his mouth. Perhaps he should not have been surprised, but he was. The realization of the identity of the man—the man who may have contributed the information that almost caused his death—had come as an undeniable and appalling shock-—one which he still could not bear to contemplate.

Just before he reached the village of Buntingford, Justin turned off the main highway into a leafy lane that circled the little hamlet. Soon, he turned again; this time into a barely discernible track. It was a byway that would cut several miles from his journey, and it served the additionally useful purpose of taking him out of the way of inquisitive fellow travelers. Justin had used it many times, even though it led through private land.

He returned to his painful musings. Lord knew there were enough scoundrels and miscreants among his acquaintances who might well have conspired to spirit General Rivenchy away from his stone prison near Salamanca, but who in Scovell’s cadre of operatives would fill that description? The men he knew there were fanatically devoted to the British cause, risking their lives—many times to no good purpose that he could see—for God and country and all that other balderdash. He sometimes wondered how he had ever fallen in with such an idealistic lot.

Because of Charles, of course. Charles, who had scooped up a troubled, disillusioned boy, teetering on the brink of ruin. Justin had just been sent down from Oxford, and was very badly in need of a friend when he’d first met Charles. The Duke of Sheffield had recently washed his hands of his second son for the last time, and Justin had endured yet another lecture from St. John, starting with his evil nature and his ingratitude and proceeding through the whole tiresome list of his iniquities.

Charles had been the friend of one of his tutors, one of the few individuals at Oxford who regarded the young Lord Justin with anything warmer than the gravest disapproval. On reaching London, alone and friendless, Justin had approached Charles, who promptly lent him the money to purchase a commission in the army. It was not long afterward that Justin stumbled on Charles’s true profession—that of intelligence agent for His Majesty’s Army. To Justin, the news was almost too good to be true, and he begged Charles to let him join in the fun.

Justin grimaced. Yes, that was how he had envisioned the life of a spy—as a glorious adventure. And, for once, he would be on the right side of an adventure—risking life and limb for God and country. By God, he’d be a hero!

The reality, of course, had been a far cry from that exhilarating vision. He had plunged into a miasma of lies, deceit, and trickery from which, nowadays, he rarely emerged. Not that lies and deceit were beneath him, of course and, truth to tell, he enjoyed the occasional, masterful piece of trickery, but it had all grown tedious in the extreme.

And now this—slinking out of London with his tail between his legs, all because—

His attention was caught by a sound from a small, dilapidated shed set a few yards off the track. He did not slow, but he stiffened, every sense alert. The sound came again. It sounded like the cry of a woman, and—yes, tethered outside the shed was a dainty mare.

Justin shrugged and urged his mount forward. Rescuing damsels in distress was low on his list of priorities at the moment, and he had no desire to make his presence known in the vicinity. He wished to arrive at Longbarrow before nightfall. He had chosen his bolt hole well, he thought. It was one of his father’s smaller estates and Justin had always loved it. It was currently in the care of an elderly couple who had known him since boyhood and who could be counted on to keep his presence a secret.

Justin glanced curiously at the shed as he drew abreast of it. The thought snaked through him that no female in her right mind should have so much as set foot in a hovel so obviously on the verge of collapse. Perhaps—A loud crack sounded, and before Justin’s bemused gaze, one side of the little building slowly gave way. The other walls tilted accordingly, until one side of the roof sagged to the ground.

The woman inside the shed screamed again, and without thinking, Justin leaped to the ground. In seconds he had reached the doorway, now twisted and gaping.

“Hello!” he called. “Is someone here?”

“Oh!” The answering voice was melodious, but at the moment, high-pitched and trembling. “Thank God! I’m stuck, I’m afraid. Can you help?”

Gingerly, Justin forced his way inside the shed. Peering through the dust rising from the collapsed wall, he could see no one.

“Where are you?” Inhaling a bit of debris, he sneezed violently.

“I’m over here—near the hearth.” The woman continued as Justin followed the sound of her voice. “I followed Silk—my dog—in here. I don’t know what she was after, but she’s stuck, too, I’m afraid. I think a table fell on her, and she yelped. When I began pulling it off, the whole place collapsed, and—

By now, Justin had reached her side. The female appeared to be tall and slender, and she was attired in a plain riding habit. A quick glance served to apprise him of that she was indeed—stuck. She lay, or rather sat, crouched, under several timbers that had fallen directly across her legs. Other, smaller pieces of roof, were strewn across her shoulders.

“Are you hurt?” Justin asked, moving to tug at the largest of the timbers.

“No—only my pride. It was such a stupid thing to do, charging in here when I knew this old shack was on its last legs.”

“You’re right,” snapped Justin. “It was. A stupid thing to do, that is.” He ignored the sputtering protest that greeted this statement, and with great care, he removed the remainder of the timbers, releasing her from her temporary prison. Brushing the remainder of the debris from her person, he assisted her to her feet.

He had been right. She was a very tall woman.

“Oh, my goodness,” she gasped. ‘Thank you so very much. Now, what about Silk?”

With a muttered exclamation of impatience, Justin directed his attention to the source of a flurry of growls and whimpers that emanated from a spot a few inches from where the woman had been trapped. Dropping to all fours, he reached under the collapsed table to grasp a furry backside that waggled indignantly under his fingers.

“Come along, you insufferable little mutt.” He was by now growling rather impressively himself, which only caused the little dog to wedge herself farther into the pile of debris.

Cursing freely under his breath, Justin shifted position, and with both hands clutched at the little animal and gave a mighty heave. An ominous creaking sound filled the area, and at a warning cry from the woman, Justin looked up. Time slowed as he watched the roof crumple, and the last thing he saw was the swaying of the nearby chimney piece as the stones separated and seemed to reach toward him.

He did not know how much time elapsed before he woke. His head ached abominably, and as he struggled to sit up, cool fingers pressed against his forehead. For a moment he thought he must still be in that Spanish cow byre. However, he was enveloped in the fragrance of clean white sheets, and a fresh breeze from a window bathed him in a sunny warmth.

Cow byre? The memory was oddly fragmented, and he was unable to grasp it again.

“Mariah, I believe he is regaining consciousness. Oh, thank God. Sir, you must not sit up. Please, just rest.”

He glanced about the room in which he found himself. It was large and elegantly furnished, if rather feminine in atmosphere. He was lying in a tester bed, beneath a light comforter. A wardrobe, commode, and dressing table were set along the walls of the chamber, and a small writing desk had been placed under one window. Some rather fragile chairs completed the complement of furniture, and on one of these, pulled up to the bedside, sat a young woman.

No, not a young woman. She must be, he judged, coming up on thirty. But, well preserved. Yes, indeed, for despite the sensible cap that covered a mane of thick, lustrous hair of an unusual shade of honey-gold, she possessed the figure of a girl. Her most startling feature, however, was a pair of wide-set eyes of a deep, pure green—which, at the moment were fastened anxiously on his face.

Another woman moved into view. She, too, wore a cap and looked to be a comfortable sort, with short, curly brown hair and brown eyes. She was neat and plump and moved with brisk efficiency as she placed a basin of water on the bedside table. Having done so, she turned to survey the patient.