Anne Barbour (27 page)

“From all accounts,” interposed Justin harshly, “he had an odd way of showing his love.”

“Well, that was just it. You know how he was, a veritable pillar of duty and conscience. In the end, he could not reconcile his standards with what he’d done, and as a result he made both your mother and himself utterly miserable.

“He could not simply accept his feelings for her and enjoy them. No, he found it necessary to find fault with her. I suppose somewhere in his twisted sense of morality, he came to believe that by constantly belittling your mother, flagellating her—and himself—with her unworthiness, he could somehow assuage his guilt in falling under her spell.”

Justin snorted. “There are so many flaws in that reasoning that I don’t know where to start unraveling them.”

“I agree, but who looks for reason in an obsession? And that’s what his failure in his duty became to Father. When you were born, his guilt was compounded. Because you were the son of her body, he loved you.” St. John paused. “More than he ever loved me,” he added in a low voice. “But, again, he could not allow himself to admit it. To hide his affection, even—or perhaps, especially—from himself—or possibly to try to kill that affection, he meted the same treatment to you that he had to Amelie. In later years, I think he’d managed to convince himself that you really were worthless. In the end, however, the spark of affection that remained in him for you, blazed once more into an inferno.”

“Except in the little matter of treason. He evidently had no difficulty in believing that.”

‘Treason!” exclaimed St. John, startled. “He never thought for an instant that you were guilty of treason. Nor,” he added brusquely, “did I.”

It seemed to Justin that he had ceased to breathe some fifteen minutes ago, and he now expelled an explosive gust of air. He could not take in what St. John was telling him. He wanted so badly to believe his brother that he could fairly taste the words as they rolled around in his mind. His Father had really loved him?

No. Impossible. No man who loved his son could have reviled
him so thoroughly over the years. Justin twisted his mouth into a smile.

“You make a lovely story out of it, Sinjie. And your own contribution to my boyhood wretchedness? I am breathless with anticipation of your explanation of that.”

A dark crimson flooded St. John’s cheeks. “I suppose I can’t blame you for finding this beyond belief, but it’s true. I know it is. As for me—” He rose to pace the floor. “In the beginning—when we were small—I was jealous of you, but I admired you. You were so many things that I was not—bold and quick of wit, with the gift of making people love you.”

“With one glaring exception,” murmured Justin.

St. John dropped his gaze “In the beginning I prated at you from an honest desire to change your ways. I thought that if only I could make you understand your failings in Father’s eyes, you would make an effort to fit his idea of what you should be like. As I grew older, however, I began to realize that Father was covering his true feelings for you. You see, in conversations with him when you weren’t around, he spoke of you far differently. His love for you and his pride in your strength and intelligence—even the daring of some of your pranks—was as evident to me as though he had painted them on a sign. I—I grew to resent you—and yes, for a while I hated you.”

“For the first lime,” interposed Justin dryly, “I believe you.”

“He told me later,” said St. John, seating himself once more, “that it nearly broke his heart when you appeared to be fulfilling all his prophecies of disaster for you. Oddly, he professed a complete mystification as to why you should be turning out so. By the time you left for Oxford, he believed there was no hope for a reconciliation between you, and that your general wickedness had reached a point where he could no longer control you. That, of course, is when he decided to cut the connection.

“I have never seen a man so despondent. A hundred times after that, he began a letter to you, only to toss it into the fire. His pride would not allow him to admit any wrongdoing on his part—in fact, I believe all he ever had to say on the subject was, ‘Perhaps I was a little harsh on the boy.’ In any case he could not bring himself to apologize. It was only when word hit the newspapers that you were suspected of treason that his world truly came crashing down on him. You did know of his illness, did you not?”

“Of course. The news that my perfidy had caused him to suffer a paralytic stroke was brayed in every journal in the country.”

“It was not your perfidy, it was the accusation of it that brought
about his collapse, and, of course, the news of your supposed death. To the very end, he believed in your innocence.”

“I thought you said he had come to believe I was truly depraved and vicious and altogether rotten to the nub.”

St. John rubbed his nose. “Not that rotten, apparently. ‘Sinjie,’ he said to me over and over, ‘there was hardly a limit to the boy’s wildness, but, by God, I know he would never stoop to betraying his country.’ “

Hearing the echo of his own words, Justin felt tears pricking at the back of his eyes.

“All very touching, I’m sure,” he growled.

“He set about trying to prove your innocence, you know.”

“What?” Justin sat up very straight.

“He went to the Horse Guards and pounded on every desk there. He tried to see Charles Rutledge, for he knew you two were particular friends, but Rutledge was not about. Someone said he thought he was temporarily out of the country. So Father made do with one of the other high-ranking personages there. He made a bloody nuisance of himself, declaring the impossibility of the reports of your crime. He got nowhere, of course, and in the end, no one there would so much as talk to him. Later, he hired a clerk from the Intelligence department to dig up the facts.”

“Cyrus Bentick!” Justin fairly leaped from his chair and began pacing the floor in the same route taken earlier by St. John.

“Yes.”

“What about Snapper Briggs?”

“How did you know he and Bentick had been here?”

Briefly, Justin detailed his instructions to Jack Nail to keep tabs on the residents of Sheffield Court.

“My God,” gasped St. John. “You set someone to spy on us?” His strong, thick fingers formed into fists, only to relax a moment later.

“I suppose I cannot blame you,” he said heavily. “If you suspected me of trying to do away with you, it behooved you to, er, take steps.”

“Yes, I thought so, too. And I’m not sure I still don’t.”

He sighed heavily, and for an instant he simply wished the world and all the problems that seemed all at once to overwhelm him, would just go away, leaving him alone with—with Catherine in this candlelit bedchamber.

What the devil... ? Was he actually lusting after a woman at a time like this? But, no, it wasn’t lust that caused her to appear suddenly in his thoughts or prompted this peculiar, immediate
yearning for her. He just wanted to talk to Catherine. To mull aloud with her over St. John’s astonishing revelations. My God, Sinjie was asking him to reverse the hurts and slights of a lifetime—to completely rethink his feelings for his father and his brother. It was all, he thought dizzily, too much. He had never in his adult life felt the need to turn to someone for advice and support—but, if he could only talk all this out with Catherine, perhaps he could make some sense of it all.

He jerked his attention to St. John, who had begun to speak again.

“It was not until after Father had suffered his stroke and we had removed from London to the Court that Bentick showed up. He was aware, he said, of Father’s efforts on your behalf, and he said he might be of some help. Frankly, I didn’t trust him, but Father was desperate. He paid the little toad a thousand pounds to garner information for us. It didn’t take me long to perceive the fellow was a complete fraud. He crept in periodically with reports casting suspicion on everyone from your commanding officer to Wellington himself.” St. John chuckled dryly. “He mentioned several officers in your unit—even that McPherson chap, and at one time I think he even dragged in Castlereagh.”

He shook his head. “At any rate, after Father passed away, I gave him his walking papers.

“As for Briggs, we hired him at Bentick’s insistence. He seemed to feel he needed some backup in prying information out of various people he thought might be helpful. Smugglers, for instance.”

“Smugglers!”

“Well, yes, Bentick said that in any plot involving people on both sides of the Channel, some way must have been found to transmit messages quickly and secretly.”

“Ergo, smugglers.” Justin stared thoughtfully at the fire. “I suppose that makes sense.”

“In any event,” said St. John, “I got rid of him, too. He wasn’t providing anything useful, and it made me uneasy just having him around. I could all too easily envision us waking up one morning with ice picks in our backs.”

To Justin’s surprise, the chuckle that rose to his lips was unforced. He realized that St. John’s monologue was having an effect on him. It was too much to say that he accepted all that he’d been told this extraordinary night, but he was appalled at how badly he wanted to believe it all. He had thought any feelings he’d had for the old man dead beyond redemption. But, God, how
he wanted to let himself be immersed in the tale, to let it soothe away the hurt and humiliation of all his growing-up years.

“Did you not get my letter?” asked St. John.

“Letter?” echoed Justin, still staring bemusedly at the fire.

“Yes. Father had a series of strokes, you know. After the last one, he realized that he was about to turn up his toes, and he dictated a letter for me to send to you. In it, he spoke of some of the things I’ve told you tonight. In addition ...”—St. John paused, seemingly for dramatic effect—”he wished to inform you that he was willing Longbarrow to you.”

“Longbarrow!” exclaimed Justin.

“Yes, he knew you loved the place, and he wanted you to have a home of your own. And, I think, he wanted to make amends somehow for his mistakes.”

“When did you send this letter?” asked Justin, his heart pounding so that he could hardly speak.

“It must have been about a month ago, I suppose. You never received it?”

“I think I might have,” said Justin slowly, “and not even known of it. I think it must have been delivered to my tent and subsequently stolen.”

Enlightenment sprang to St. John’s broad features. “The paper! The one with my handwriting all over it!”

“Yes,” replied Justin musingly. “At least,” he amended hastily, “it may be. At any rate—Longbarrow is mine now?”

“All yours. ‘Should’ve done it long ago,’ were his words, as I recall. And he bequeathed a healthy fortune to you, as well.” St. John rose again to stand before his brother. “Justin, I must know. Do you believe me? You cannot think I was ready to commit treason and have you blamed for it! And tried to have you killed in the bargain?”

Justin lifted his eyes. “God knows, I’ve tried, St. John. It would have been the easiest route, and such a neat solution to my problem, but I cannot... No, I do not—and never did, really—believe you tried to ruin me—or kill me.”

For an instant, Justin thought St. John was going to throw himself at his feet. Instead, after an abortive gesture toward Justin, he straightened slowly, as though he had just rid himself of an intolerable burden.

“Thank God,” he whispered. “Thank God.” His expression lightened, and Justin realized for the first time that there was a striking resemblance between himself and his brother.

“What will you do now?” he asked, returning to his chair. “I
wish you would remain here, now that you’ve finally decided to come home.”

“But I am not home,” replied Justin softly. “Thank you for your invitation, however, someone seems to have learned of my presence here, and I think it best to move on.  At any rate—” He smiled, albeit somewhat painfully.  “Sheffield Court has not been my home for a long time. My home lies at Longbarrow now. Although, right now it’s as dangerous for me as the Court. No, there is only one place I can think of where I can remain safely hidden.”

A small, bright flame lit within him that soon spread its warmth into every corner of his soul. “I’m going back to Winter’s Keep—and to Catherine.”

Chapter Eighteen

“Ah, this is good,” sighed Justin, waggling into his chair.

He and Catherine sat opposite one another at the breakfast table in Winter’s Keep. Justin had arrived there late the night before, long after Catherine had retired for the evening. She had heard the rattle of his vehicle on the gravel, however, and had hastened downstairs to greet him outside the front door as he pulled the curricle to a halt.

She was dismayed at how glad she was to see him. She had not expected that he would return—at least not so soon. After ushering him into the house, she propelled him to the kitchen, where she prepared a midnight meal with her own hands of cold meat, cheese, and bread, washed down with liberal drafts of the estate’s home-brewed beer.

Justin informed her almost immediately that he no longer regarded St. John as a suspect. He also told her a little about the fire and of Robbie’s appearance at the Court. A hundred questions bubbled in Catherine’s mind, but observing that Justin’s eyes were closing of their own volition in weariness, she held her tongue and instead bade him sharply to remove himself to his bedchamber before he fell into his plate.

“Excellent advice, as always,” Justin had said, and brushing her cheek with his lips, he did as he was told.

Now she watched him consume a large portion of eggs and York ham, aware that her gaze devoured him just as ravenously. Lord, what was the mailer with her? she wondered, a panicky flutter rising within her. Not that the answer wasn’t obvious, of course. He had played her false, and he had as much as admitted he had done the same with countless others. He had apparently seduced his brother’s fiancée and then refused to marry her. Not that she was one to talk of marrying to avoid scandal, of course, but still ... The man was a self-admitted villain, and she had fallen in love with him.