Anne Barbour (31 page)

Justin read further. “My man on-site, of course, near Salamanca now—says he will handle it.”

It was a good two hours before Justin rose from his chair. Turning to Jerry, he put out a hand blindly. “I thank you for your efforts,” he murmured, almost unable to form the words. “You may consider our debt canceled.”

A few minutes later, he left Jerry’s lodgings with the file tucked in his coat and made his way back to the house in Caroline Street. The ladies were not home yet from their night at the opera. Justin walked through the silent dwelling to the library, where he poured a liberal splash of wine from a handy decanter. Without
bothering to light any of the candles in their wall sconces, he allowed himself to be guided by the fading light of the hearth to one of the room’s comfortable leather chairs.

He gazed unseeing into the partial darkness. Somewhere, deep within him, exhilaration lurked. He had in his possession the means to redeem himself in the eyes of the world—at least, all of the world that he cared about. The men who served in His Majesty’s Peninsular Army and those who commanded them—and one other, of course. She had said she believed him, but he relished the thought of putting proof in her hands. Would Wellington offer him an apology for his willing acceptance of his name as traitor? Probably not. Would Scovell welcome him back with open arms to the fraternity of intelligence gatherers? Possibly.

Withal, he was almost consumed by a profound sadness. Unthinkable as it seemed, it appeared that one of the very few people in the world whom he had thought was his friend had betrayed him. This man had been a light in the abysmal darkness that had been his life for so long. Now he must confront him with his treachery.

Justin did not know how long he sat in the gathering darkness of the library. The fire sputtered and died without his knowledge, and the clock on the mantelpiece chimed first one hour, then two. At last, he rose slowly and went to the desk. There, he lit a candle, and opened the packet once more. For another hour he read. As he neared the end of the file, his hands gripped the papers and his breath suddenly caught in his throat.

Dear God, he had it all now, and he knew an urge to lay his head on the desk and sob. Instead, retrieving pen and paper from a drawer, he scrawled a brief note. He folded it and, having written Catherine’s name, withdrew a stick of wax from the drawer and sealed it, using the candle flame. He sat for another five minutes, staring at the letter before he finally stood and left the house. He was almost overcome with a weariness such as he had never known, but it was time to present what he had learned to Charles.

It was well after midnight when he rode into the mews in back of Portugal Street. Soundlessly, he dismounted in almost total darkness at the gate that led from the stable area to the small garden in back of Charles’s house. He did not tether Caliban, but with a few murmured words of instruction to the stallion, be began to lead him through the gate.

He was given only a second’s warning of his assailant’s approach. In a silent lunge, the man was upon him. In the faint
starlight that was the only illumination of the scene, the glitter of a knife blade swung close to Justin’s cheek. Instinctively, he thrust his hand up in protection and felt a burning slash of pain along his arm.

The man instantly followed his advantage with another thrust. Again, Justin dodged, but the residual weakness from his earlier wound became immediately apparent. The knife again found its mark, this time in his shoulder. By now his defensive reactions, never far from the surface, had clicked into place, and pivoting on the ball of his foot, he delivered a stiletto kick to the man’s mid-section.

The man staggered backward, but almost immediately bored in once more. Justin became aware his new wounds were making him even more sluggish. Thai kick should have disabled his assailant, but it had gone slightly wide. And now the man was on him again. This time, he grasped Justin from the back, clasping him about the windpipe with one arm while he pressed the knife to his throat with another. His vision darkening, Justin struggled in the man’s grasp.

“No good your fightin’ it, me lord,” a voice whispered harshly in his ear. “I’ve got you this time. This time you’re finished.”

His strength waning, Justin lunged in the man’s grip, but his effort was futile. Then, gathering the resources that had never failed him before, Justin whistled through his teeth. It was a pitiful effort, really, producing only a gasping squeak, but almost immediately a rushing sound filled the air, and a huge, dark shape hurled itself against the man. With a startled cry, he released Justin and staggered back.

Pressing his advantage, Justin flung himself against his assailant, grasping the wrist that held the knife. His would-be assassin was not large or well muscled, and ordinarily Justin would have had no difficulty in disarming him. However, the man was still in full possession of his faculties, while Justin was weakening rapidly. God, this must be finished in the next few minutes, or he’d be done for.

The two men battled in a ferocious silence. The knife moved closer and closer to Justin’s breast, until he could feel its point pricking through his clothing to his skin. Summoning the last of his energy, Justin twisted the blade away from his own body. In one, final, almost maniacal burst of energy, he pushed with all his strength.

The man uttered a guttural sound and sagged in Justin’s grasp.

Gasping, almost unable to stand, Justin leaned against Caliban’s sturdy flanks, willing some of the great beast’s strength
into his own body. He shrugged out of his coat. The slash on his arm was not deep, oozing a sluggish stream of blood. His shoulder, however, was another matter. The knife had thrust fairly deep, and he was bleeding profusely. It looked, however, as though the weapon had missed any vital spots. With a marked sense of déjà vu, he unwrapped his neck cloth with one hand and pressed it to the wound.

He examined the motionless figure at his feet, turning it over with the toe of his boot.

“Snapper Briggs, I presume,” he murmured without emotion.

In the house in Caroline Street, Timkins swung the front door wide to welcome the return of his three ladies.

“Oh, that was lovely!” exclaimed Mariah, handing her cloak to the butler.

“Yes, it was, wasn’t it? Just lovely,” echoed Lady Jane.

“I do so enjoy Mozart,” said Catherine, removing her own cloak. “I have never seen a performance of
The Magic Flute,
however. Was not Brimonda perfectly exquisite as Pamina?”

“Oh, ho,” retorted Mariah with a grin. “I did not think you were paying much attention to the stage. What was going on in the box seemed of much greater interest to you.”

Catherine flushed, and Lady Jane, observing her, chuckled.

“Indeed, Lord Whissenhurst seemed to find the conversation—or perhaps something else—in the box of equal fascination.”

“If you two are going to start imagining things every time I speak a few words to a gentleman, you’re going to have a busy time of it before we return home.” Catherine could hear the smile in her voice as she spoke. Really, if truth be told, she
had
flirted with the rather weedy Lord Whissenhurst, but it was somewhat in the line of returning to an old game that one has not played for years. It was always a pleasure when one regained a skill long assumed gone forever.

It meant nothing, of course. Indeed, she was not sure she would recognize Lord Whissenhurst if she were to meet him on the street the next day, for all evening long another face had been superimposed on his features. How would Justin look in full evening dress? she wondered. Nothing less than magnificent, she would wager.

She hoped he would not be out all night again on his quest. He claimed to be completely healed from his wound, but, talk as he would, it was obvious his journey to his old home had set him back. The stress of his confrontation with his brother, even
though it had turned out well, in addition to his brush with death in a burning bedroom, had all taken their toll. Tomorrow, she told herself firmly, she would insist that Justin spend the day resting.

“Are you coming up, Catherine?”

She turned to observe Marian at the staircase, her foot on the first stair. Lady Jane was ahead of her and was already halfway to the next floor.

“Yes,” replied Catherine, “I must stop in the study first. I left the book there lent to me by Squire Wadleigh. It’s a copy of Pryne’s thesis on marling, and I want to go over a little of it in my chamber before I retire.”

“Good heavens, child!” exclaimed Lady Jane. “Can you not leave the Keep behind you? You should not be wasting time in London reading up on agricultural methods. Now, come up and get your beauty sleep.”

“In a moment, Grandmama.” Smiling, Catherine waved the two ladies on their way upstairs and proceeded toward the study. The volume she sought lay on the desk, but it was not until she had picked it up and was about to turn away when she noticed the folded paper on which was inscribed her name.

Opening it, she glanced at the signature and received an odd, tingling shock when she recognized Justin’s name. It seemed strange that she had never seen his handwriting before and thus had not recognized it on the front of the letter. She scanned it quickly.

Dear Lord, she breathed when she had come to its end. Justin had acquired the proof he needed to clear his name! Her eyes went to the letter again. “On my way to Charles’s ...” she murmured. Why, he must be speaking to Mr. Rutledge right at this very moment. Perhaps by tomorrow, Justin would be in a position to reveal the fact that he was alive and that he was no traitor.

She hugged the thought to her, her joy dimmed only slightly by the knowledge that if all this were to come to pass, he would be leaving soon for Longbarrow to claim his inheritance. Well, she would face that when the time came. In the meantime—

 Her reverie was abruptly shattered by a sharp rapping on the front door. She knew Timkins had retired immediately after their arrival home and would not hear the knock in the bowels of his butler’s sanctuary, so she hastened across from the study to open the door herself.

“Robbie!” She cried in astonishment. “What are you doing here?”

She stared dazedly at him. She was sure Justin had told her that
his friend was headed for Spain to discover what he could about Roger Maltby’s activities.

Robbie brushed past her into the house without waiting for her invitation. “Good evening, Catherine,” he said breathlessly. “Sorry to bother you so late. Is Justin here? I must speak to him.”

His agitation was obvious, and his face, she noted, was white, almost pasty, even in the ruddy glow of the candles.

“N-no,” she replied uncertainly. “He—he’s out.”

Robbie muttered something unprintable. “Do you know where he went? I must find him. I’ve discovered—that is, I have to tell him—The devil take it! Where is he?”

For a long moment, Catherine simply gaped, her mind seething. He was Justin’s best friend in the world, but she did not trust him. If Justin were here, surely he would tell her to reveal to Robbie that he had gone to see Mr. Rutledge. On the other hand, if what she suspected was true, Robbie McPherson was the last person in the world to be told where Justin was at this moment.

“Well?” asked Robbie impatiently.

“I—I don’t—” she began.

“No, I don’t suppose he would tell you,” he interposed. “Damnation! Sorry.” He ran thick fingers through sandy hair that was already standing on end.

“Well,” he continued, “I know one place he will no doubt stop. I’ll go to Charles’s house now and just wait for him.”

“Charles!”

“Yes, Charles Rutledge. You’ve no doubt heard Justin speak of him.”

“Yes, but—”

“I’m sorry, I have no time to speak further,” Robbie said in a strained voice. “It is imperative that I find Justin as soon as possible.”

“Oh, but—” Catherine put out a hand, but Robbie was gone, slamming the door behind him.

For a few moments, Catherine paced the hall floor in an agony of indecision. Everything in her insisted that Justin would be in grave danger if Robbie were to run him to earth at Mr. Rutledge’s house. She must do something—but, what? At last, she drew a sudden, deep breath.

There was no way she could stop Robbie from finding his quarry, but she would, by God, do her best to prevent harm from coming to Justin.

Pausing only to throw her cloak about her shoulders, she fled toward the rear of the house in the direction of the stables.

In the mews behind Charles’s house, Justin turned away from the lifeless body of Snapper Briggs. With Caliban at his heels, Justin entered the garden gate and proceeded toward the house. Making his way to the long doors that fronted Charles’s study, Justin peered through the glass. He observed his friend, as usual, bent over his desk, all the candles in the room extinguished except for the few that stood about his immediate work area.

With a gesture, he bade Caliban to wait, and without ceremony he pushed open the door and stepped inside. He did not speak as Charles’s head jerked up, but merely flung himself into the nearest chair.

“Justin!” Charles rose so abruptly that his chair was thrown to the floor behind him. “What—? My dear boy, you are hurt!”

He hastened to Justin’s side and gingerly removed the reddening neck cloth from the younger man’s wound. “Good God, what’s toward?”

“It is not serious, Charles. My arm has already stopped bleeding, and I think, if you will lend me your kerchief, I can stop up the nick in my shoulder.”

Charles produced a linen handkerchief from his pocket and unwound his own neck cloth as well. Carefully, he bound the kerchief in place around Justin’s shoulder. “It’s more than a nick,” he growled. “Let us hope we have staunched the flow. Now,” he said, pouring a glass of brandy for Justin and seating himself nearby. “Tell me what happened.”

“I had a little run-in with Snapper Briggs,” replied Justin levelly. “Apparently, he was watching your house, waiting for me to show up. Again, apparently, he knew I would come eventually.”

“And you believe it was he who was responsible for the other attacks? I don’t know any Snapper Briggs. Who the devil could have set him on you?”