Anne Barbour (26 page)

“All is well, then?” asked Justin.

St. John passed a hand over his forehead, leaving a streak of white that was somehow ludicrous against the black of his face. “Yes,” he replied, sighing gustily. “The fire had only progressed as far as a couple of chairs in your room—not even that far in mine.”

“Yours?” asked Justin, startled.

“Yes.” St. John frowned. “It was just pure damned luck. I tossed about for some time after I retired.” He shot a glance at Justin. “I had a great deal to think about. I think I must have just fallen asleep, when I was wakened by I knew not what. I had the impression of someone slipping from the window over the balcony outside. Almost before I was full awake, I noticed the smell of smoke. Imagine my surprise to discover that someone had set the hangings alight.”

Justin almost chuckled at St. John’s expression of disgruntled indignation.

“I rose immediately, of course, and rang the bellpull—and then I’m afraid I rather lost my head. I rushed out into the corridor shouting for the servants. I ran back into the room and began throwing water from my basin and pitcher onto the flames, as well as from the carafe by my bed. Naturally, it didn’t take long to accomplish this, and it was only then that I thought about you in your room just a few doors away. Well,” he added in an exculpatory rush, “I had rather a lot on my mind at the moment.”

Again, Justin knew an illogical urge to laugh.

“At any rate,” continued St. John, “the fire is out now. I sent some of the footmen to check out the premises to make sure that nothing else is alight, but it appears that all, as you say, is well.”

“Except,” murmured Justin, “that someone is apparently prowling the hallowed grounds of Sheffield Court with the intent of killing off the entire Belforte line.”

“Yes, there is that.” St. John rubbed his chin. “Shall we repair to my chamber? I think I could stand a nip of something.”

“Righty-ho,” said Justin, climbing from the bed. “As long as it isn’t laced with laudanum.”

St. John had the grace to look shamed.

“Ah. Well, I had a bit of it in my desk, left over from Father’s medications. I didn’t want you waking in the middle of the night and haring off before I had a chance to talk to you.”

The two men exited the room and Justin instinctively turned to the left. St. John laid a hand on his arm. “I’m in the master’s suite now,” he said awkwardly.

“Of course, you are,” responded Justin smoothly, turning.

Entering the duke’s sitting room, he looked about him curiously. So far, Sinjie had made few changes. The same massive chairs that he remembered from the previous occupant, dotted the room like upholstered boulders, and the other furnishings—several tables, a commode, a wardrobe, several cabinets, and a small desk—were fashioned of some species of dark, malevolent-looking wood. Hangings of a heavy dark green damask shone dully at the windows and the bed that could be seen in an adjoining chamber.

“Yes, it’s all just the same,” said St. John, following his brother’s gaze. “I—I plan some changes, but... It seems so soon.”

Justin said nothing, merely nodding as he settled into one of the boulders. St. John went to a cabinet and brought forth a bottle and two glasses. Pouring a liberal splash into both, he handed one to Justin and took the other to a nearby chair.

“It appears I owe you an apology,” said Justin at last.

St. John raised his brows.

“I accused you of evil intent on my life. I was evidently wrong.”

“Yes, you were, and what I want to know is why—”

He was interrupted by the sound of voices raised in acrimony in the corridor outside the master’s suite, followed almost immediately by a thunderous pounding on the door. Exchanging a glance with St. John, Justin leaped to his feet and hastened from the room to the bedchamber, where he paused, out of sight of whoever might enter.

Whoever proved to be a pair of stalwart footmen. Sandwiched between them was the struggling figure of Robbie McPherson.

What the devil—! thought Justin, gaping unbelievingly. What was Robbie doing here?

Shoving Robbie ungently into the room, one of the footmen approached St. John.

“We caught this feller lurking about outside, my lord. Sneaking toward the west terrace, he was. He says—

At this point, Robbie wrenched himself from the hands of his captors. “I was not sneaking,” he said testily. “I saw smoke, and I was running toward the house.” He bent a significant stare on St. John. “I am a friend of a rather close relative of yours, and I want to know what you’ve done with him.”

“What!” exclaimed St. John. “What have you got to do with my—with my relative.”

“If you’!! send these fellows about their business, I’ll be happy to discuss the matter with you—Your Grace.”

“Ho!” interposed one of the footmen. “Send us away, would ye, ye—ye miscreant?”

St. John glanced toward his bedchamber, where Justin stood in his line of sight, but not that of Robbie or the footmen. Justin nodded frantically.

“No, it’s all right,” said St. John curtly. “Leave us.”

The footmen, obviously feeling their master had taken leave of his senses, backed slowly from the room, muttering barely concealed objections to this plan. As the door closed behind them, Justin emerged from the bedchamber.

“Robbie! For God’s sake, what possessed you—? How did you know I was here? Why did you—
T’

“Justin! Are you all right?” asked Robbie, ignoring his friend’s sputtered greeting. “You look like a death’s head on a mop stick. Though”—he shot a glance toward the duke—”at least you don’t appear to be in durance vile.”

“Do you two mind?” interposed St. John with some asperity. “Justin, it appears this person is known to you ... ?”

Wearily, Justin waved his hand. “St. John, this is Robbie McPherson, meddler extraordinaire and thruster of spokes into wheels. I think you must remember him?”

“McPherson.” St. John frowned. “Yes, I do recall him. Scruffy little brat who talked too much. Always abetting your escapades. But what the devil is he doing here?” St. John’s voice cracked in bewilderment.

In reply, Justin merely turned to fill a third glass from the bottle in St. John’s cabinet. He handed it to Robbie with a gesture toward another chair and indicated firmly to St. John to return to the one he had been occupying before the interruption by the footmen.

“Now,” he growled to Robbie. “Speak.”

“Weil,” began Robbie after a long pull at his glass. “I visited the Keep early this morning and was told by Catherine that you’d gone tearing down here—against everyone’s advice. I decided to come down and look in on the proceedings, just in case you—He glanced at St. John. “Just in case you ran into any trouble.”

At this, St. John rose abruptly once more. “I fail to see,” he said in a strained voice, “why everyone seems to be laboring under the ludicrous delusion that I wish to put a period to my brother’s existence.”

“Considering the fact,” retorted Robbie, “that you and your father made life a living hell for his entire boyhood, and the fact of your loudly stated intentions later on to make him pay for ruining your life, I don’t think such an assumption is anything like ludicrous. You have always hated Justin. We have only to discover how—”

“You insolent cur!” St. John had gone quite pale, and the hand that was raised to Robbie trembled with a rage that could not be doubted as sincere.

Justin rose to intervene.

“This is getting us nowhere. Robbie, St. John just saved my life. Sinjie, Robbie has been my friend for a very long time. A disaster has befallen me, and he’s merely looking for answers. The fact that a paper covered in your handwriting showed up on the desk of a French officer who was interrogating me with some severity, caused some, er, misgivings for both of us.”

“Anyway,” continued Robbie hastily without giving St. John the opportunity to voice the protest that bubbled almost visibly on his lips, “I reached the court just after dusk, and I was reconnoitering, when I almost ran into you.”

“That was you on the road!” exclaimed Justin. “Why did you slink off into the shrubbery?”

Robbie shifted uncomfortably. “Because I knew you didn’t want me there. I just thought to avoid any unnecessary, er, discussions on the matter.”

“I see,” remarked Justin dryly. “Go on.”

“I saw you enter the house, and I just waited around for a while. Getting soaked to the bone, for all the thanks I got,” he added in some dudgeon. “After a while the rain stopped, and I decided at last to find an inn. I planned to come back later for more reconnoitering. I was some distance away from the house when I saw smoke coming from an upstairs window. I hustled back to investigate, only to be set on by those two young behemoths.”

“Serves you right, cloth head,” commented Justin unfeelingly. “If ever I heard such a bird-witted scheme. Once I was inside the house, what did you think to accomplish, prowling about the place like a villain in a gothic novel?”

Once again, Robbie squirmed in his chair, but lifting his chin replied pugnaciously, “I got here in time to save your bacon, did I not?”

“Yes, you did, dear boy,” replied Justin, “or, at least you would have if Sinjie had not already brought the situation under control.”

Robbie sneered. “Did he, now? Or did circumstances arise that
made it imperative to call off the attempt and make it look like he was saving your bacon? Have you forgotten the existence of his midnight visitors?”

“No I have not, and—

“Midnight visitors?” interposed St. John querulously.

“No, I have not,” continued Justin, holding up his hand to stay St. John’s further questioning. “And I intend to get to the bottom of all of it.”

He turned then to St. John. “You see, brother, it was not just the existence of that paper that encouraged my unseemly suspicions. When I returned to England and began investigating your activities, I discovered that you had begun keeping some very strange company. Perhaps you can explain the presence at the Court—at some very odd hours—of a pair of specimens who ordinarily would never have made it through the front gates had they shown their faces here in daylight.”

Justin searched St. John’s face, but could find nothing beyond blank bewilderment there.

“Specimens?” he echoed. “I don’t—oh.” His cheeks flushed as comprehension crept over his features. “You mean Bentick. And the other one—Briggs.” He began to pace the floor. “Look here, Justin, I don’t know why you could not have just come home and faced me—and father.”

“Of course,” interjected Robbie savagely. “He should have just strode in and said, ‘Excuse me, Father, Sinjie, but it appears one or both of you is doing his best to see me hanged. And taking potshots at me to boot.’ “

“Potshots?” St. John swiveled to face his brother. “You told me of being shot. What—?”

“I was just getting to that. Robbie, I would like to speak to St. John alone. If you would not mind—”

“Yes,” chimed in St. John irritably. “Tell the fellow to go away.” He moved toward the bellpull. “I’ll have you shown to a room. One relatively free of smoke and flames, although I’m not yet convinced you had nothing to do with the fire.”

Despite Robbie’s roar of indignation, it was obvious that St. John was merely venting his spleen with this accusation, and once more, Justin held up his hand.

“Please, let us have no more recriminations. Robbie, do as St. John asks. He is hardly likely to do me in now, particularly with a suspicious friend hovering on the premises.”

For some moments, Robbie growled inarticulately, but when, at
last, a footman appeared—not, fortunately, one of his erstwhile captors, he left the room with reasonably good grace.

“Strange fellow,” murmured St. John as the door shut behind him. “What the devil did he mean by my hating you? And Father?”

Astonished at the question, Justin did not answer, but merely goggled at his brother. St. John peered at him in growing consternation before finally taking a seat near him.

“My God, Justin, do you really think—?” He drew a deep breath. “I thought you knew—that you understood. Justin, Father loved you. He loved you more than anything else in the world—as he did your mother.

“And it was a love that utterly destroyed him.”

Chapter Seventeen

Justin felt as though the universe had suddenly skewed in its ordered progress. For some moments he gaped at St. John. He opened his mouth, but could form no words.

“What the devil are you talking about?” he said at last in a harsh growl. “To Father, I was lower than a cur he might have found in the streets. Surely, you must remember. You reminded me often enough of his loathing for me.”

“Oh, God,” said St. John tiredly. “Yes, I treated you badly, but I thought you knew—” He uttered a long, shuddering sigh. “I thought you must know why.”

As Justin continued to stare at him, stupefied, St. John spoke again. “First of all ....” he began awkwardly. “About Lady Susan. She’s dead now, did you know?”

Wordlessly, Justin nodded.

“When she knew she was going to die, she apparently got religion. She came to me and confessed that you were not responsible for her pregnancy. Justin, she was having affairs with three men at the time! She told me that you and she had never—that is, she said that you were more interested in tweaking my nose than pursuing a romance with her. I should have written to you, but it—it seemed more the sort of thing I should say to your face. And I did not know how to find you at the time. So, you see, it is I who owe you an apology.”

Justin was silent for several minutes. For some reason, he felt like crying. Surely, he should have experienced some pleasure at his vindication, but he felt only a deep sadness.

“Yes, you do,” he said at last, forcing his tone to lightness. “However, having just pulled me away from a fiery death, I suppose we can consider the account square.”

St. John sagged in his chair and remained so for several seconds. He shook himself at length.

“Well, then,” he continued in an unsteady voice, “getting back to Father. You must know the story of how he met your mother.

“He never spoke to me of her until his later years. She was beautiful beyond imagining, he said, and floated through life as though wrapped in a bubble of warmth and wit and sparkle. One had but to look at her to become enchanted. Despite the fact that she was abysmally unsuitable, and over the violent objections of his family, he married her.”