Anne Barbour (33 page)

“I decided to try to effect his escape, for in doing so I would also redeem myself in the eyes of the French. I told Bentick to obtain false identification papers for the general. Then, rather than allow Bentick to meddle in the project, I went to Spain myself. There, disguised as a shoemaker, I made my arrangements. And meticulous arrangements they were, too. Everything was taken care of, from Rivenchy’s flight through English lines, accompanied by Roger Maltby, to securing the escape route by sending an order that the bridge at Huerta be abandoned. Then I learned that Wellington, with that damnable efficiency of his, had thought to assure that the bridge remain secure.”

“How very inconvenient for you, to be sure,” murmured Justin.

Carefully, Charles lay the letter opener on the desk. “Yes, and then I learned that you were the officer ordered to see to that little matter. Justin, I—I truly did not wish any harm to come to you. I arranged that you would be captured but—you see, I wanted to make it seem as though I were handing an additional gift to the French—one of great value, as witnessed by the file on your background I provided for them, augmented by papers I had stolen from your tent—I also arranged that you would be allowed to escape. It was all very difficult,” he said earnestly.

“Surely, you do not expect my gratitude.”

“No,” returned Charles shortly, “of course not. At any rate, Maltby, who had been following your progress at a distance, saw to it that you were almost dispatched on your return to camp from your imprisonment.”

“It appears I owe Maltby a considerable debt,” interposed Justin, his gaze slashing into Charles’s. “One that I hope to address very soon. My refusal to cooperate in his scheme must have come as an unpleasant shock to him—and to you.”

Once again, Charles’s gaze fell. “You were the obvious choice as scapegoat for Rivenchy’s escape. When you disappeared, it was imperative that you be, er, replaced.”

“So you—or was it Maltby, found a ringer in the person of Private Kemp and arranged to have him killed. A little sloppy, perhaps, but not bad in such a pinch. And then I showed up here in England. You must have had a very busy time of it, Charles, making plans for my demise.”

“No!” Charles almost cried out the word. “I had nothing to do with that, Justin. I promise. It was all Bentick. I wanted matters to take their own course. If you were brought to trial, you might have at least a chance of being exonerated, without my—activities—being revealed.”

“Thoughtful of you.”

“But Bentick insisted. He said he was going to go ahead with plans to have you—eliminated whether I cooperated or not. It was he who contacted Jasper Naismith to have you killed. I assume this Snapper Briggs was Naismith’s tool. He was watching Sheffield Court when you showed up to confront St. John, and it was he who was responsible for the fire. Believe me, Justin, I had no part in any of it.”

Justin stared at him levelly. “But you could have stopped it, Charles.”

Charles’s head sank against his breast. “Yes,” he said in a low voice. “I could have stopped it.”

He looked up from beneath his brows at Justin. “What do you intend to do now?”

“As I said, I intend to go to Wilkerson.” As he spoke, the fleeting thought brushed through Justin’s mind that, though the breeze mat wafted through the study’s open window was warm, he felt chilled to the core. “It is my intention to bring you to his home now. It’s late, but I expect he will not mind being awakened for a matter such as this.”

“There is another option,” said Charles slowly. Justin said nothing, but stared at him with lifted brows. “I could leave here tonight, and by tomorrow morning I could be on my way to the West Indies to a snug plantation I own there.” He stood. “I must say the latter plan holds a much greater appeal to me.”

With an air of reluctance, he reached inside his waistcoat pocket and drew out a small pistol. Justin made no response, but felt his muscles tense reflexively.

“Foolish boy,” said Charles with an inutterably sad smile. “Did not the fact that I was prepared to see you killed tell you that my affection for you is not strong enough to overcome my venality? I might have taken a bullet for you, Justin, were the circumstances to arise, but I cannot face disgrace and ruin for you. Did you think otherwise? I thought I had trained you better.”

He raised the pistol so that it was level with Justin’s breast. “I must—”

“No, you must not, Charles,” said a voice from the window. Justin jerked spasmodically, and Charles spun about.

“McPherson!” Charles all but shouted.

“Robbie!” gasped Justin simultaneously. “Robbie, what are you doing here?”

“I wish everyone would stop asking me that,” said Robbie pettishly, moving inside the room to stand before the windows, the pistol he held pointed at Charles. “What happened was,” he said to Justin, “when I reached the coast, I hired Ben Jarvis to take me across. Before we set off, he imparted some extremely interesting information. It seems our Charles”—he waved the pistol—“hired him a couple of weeks ago to take him to Opporto on the Portuguese coast. He was wearing a black wig, and his skin was darkened—and it seems he was dressed in a most peculiar fashion. It was the sort of outfit a Spanish peasant might wear, made of homespun or some such. He was carrying a pack, and when it fell open for a moment, Ben discerned that it was apparently full of scraps of leather, some small hammers and awls, and a quantity of tiny nails. In short, Charles was got up as a shoemaker!

“Well, it hit me then. Shortly after the victory at Salamanca, I noticed a shoemaker who had set up shop in the street just outside a local cantina. He caught my eye because of his marked resemblance to Charles. At the time, I thought my wits must be addled, but when Ben finished his little tale, I realized it could only mean one thing—that Charles was the man we’ve been seeking. And,” Robbie concluded, casting a darkling glance at Charles, “it appears I was right.”

“Indeed you were, old friend,” said Justin dully.

“Right, then,” said Robbie, lifting the pistol again in a menacing fashion. “Let us just tie up this rascal and haul him off to the nearest magistrate.”

“I don’t think—” began Justin, only to be interrupted by two separate but equally startling occurrences.

First, Caliban burst through the open doors of the study. He careened immediately into Robbie, who hurtled forward, dropping his pistol. Next, in Caliban’s wake, Catherine ran into the room, brandishing a large, unwieldy horse pistol, which she was obliged to clasp in both hands. With a harrowing yell that would have done credit to Boudicca, she rushed at Robbie and delivered a crushing blow to the back of his head with the pistol.

As Robbie sank to the floor like a felled oak, Charles stared, mouth agape, in understandable astonishment at the presence of upward of two thousand pounds of horse in his study. His hands dropped to his side, his pistol hanging limp.

Gathering together what little presence of mind remained to
him at the moment, Justin grasped at Caliban’s bridle, bringing him to an immediate and docile halt.

“Catherine!” His voice emerged in a croak.

But, Catherine ignored him. Instead she brought up her horse pistol to aim it waveringly at Robbie. “You viper!” she spat, uncaring that her victim could not hear her. She turned to Justin, and her eyes widened. “Justin, you are injured!”

As she spoke, her weapon sagged in her hand, and the next moment, a deafening report filled the room as it discharged. Since the pistol had by now faltered in its aim, the ball buried itself harmlessly in the carpet a foot or two away from where Robbie lay supine.

Catherine screamed, and scrambling over Robbie’s inert form, flew to Justin’s side.

“Dear Lord, Justin, I did not mean ... I did not even think to bring a weapon with me! I found this in the carriage. What happened?” She swung fiercely back to Robbie, who was beginning to stir painfully. “Did you do this? By God, I wish I
had
killed you!” She raised the pistol again. “Perhaps I’d better try again.”

Gently, Justin removed the pistol from Catherine’s grip. “Not with that weapon, you won’t. It only holds one shot, you know. At any rate, my dear, Robbie is not responsible for this, and I am quite all right. I’m afraid you have struck down an innocent man.”

Catherine’s eyes grew round with astonishment. “Robbie? Innocent? Oh, no, Justin, you do not understand. He was coming here to kill you!”

“On the contrary, my dear young woman.” It was Charles who spoke from behind the desk, where he had taken refuge, still holding his pistol tight in his hand. “I am the villain of the piece. Robbie simply came to warn his friend of the danger he was—is—in from me.”

“You—you are Charles Rutledge?” Catherine stammered. Charles nodded. “But I don’t understand.”

“It was Charles, Catherine,” said Justin wearily. “It was Charles all along.”

“Oh. Oh, dear God,” whispered Catherine in growing comprehension. “Oh, Justin, I have been such a fool. I’ve ruined everything.”

“It appears so,” said Charles, his mouth contorted in what might have been called a smile. “As I was just informing Justin, when I was so, er, rudely interrupted, I have no intention of simply being led to my doom. It was singularly foolish of him to think I would allow him to beard me in my den, so to speak.”

“Actually,” said Justin, with an air of calm that went only as deep as the nerve endings that quivered beneath his skin, “I was fairly sure you would act just as you are doing. I am aware that you always carry that little pistol. However, I am banking rather heavily on the assumption that you will not use it on me.”

“But why not? I did not cavil at allowing Bentick to have you snuffed.”

“No, but there is a vast difference between ordering the job done and doing it oneself. Frankly, Charles, though you have stooped far lower than I would have ever thought possible of you, I do not think you have the stomach for murder, especially mine.” Justin lifted his hand, palm upward. “Give me the pistol, Charles.”

A very long moment ensued, during which everyone in the room seemed to cease breathing. Charles and Justin remained motionless, each staring unblinkingly into the other’s eyes. At last, something inside Charles crumpled. His shoulders hunched, and he leaned against the desk as though exhausted. Justin took a step toward him, then halted abruptly. He said nothing, but simply stood motionless, his eyes questioning, as though waiting.

“I—I’m sorry, Justin,” Charles whispered brokenly, “I am—so very—sorry.”

“I know, Charles. I am, too.” And indeed he was, thought Justin. For the whole bloody, ugly, sad mess. His gaze still held that of Charles, still waiting for what he knew was to come.

He turned slightly, toward Robbie. “Get Catherine out of here,” he ordered in a desperate whisper.

But he was too late.

In a swift, odd, flicking motion, as though he had practiced it many times, Charles lifted the pistol once more, this time to his temple. In the next instant, he fired, and slumped to the floor at Justin’s feet.

Chapter Twenty-two

As Justin bent over Charles, he was dimly aware of Robbie behind him, hustling a sobbing Catherine out of the door through which she had come. When he thought later of the remainder of the evening, he remembered only that, although everything occurred with bewildering speed, time itself seemed to slow, crawling in a painful blur.

A couple of footmen, wakened by the sound of gunfire, burst into the room, followed a few moments later by the neighborhood watchman, brought by the same noise. After that, there were constables and a hail of questions and the appearance not long afterward of Sir Henry Wilkerson, summoned by one of the magistrates. It was dawn before matters were sorted into a semblance of coherence and Charles’s body was removed to an upstairs bedroom.

“Bless my soul!” exclaimed Sir Henry to Justin, as the two, followed by Robbie and Catherine finally left the house. Sir Henry was a tall man, rotund and ruddy, with a deceptively simple face. “I am exceedingly pleased, of course, that you are returned to us, my boy, your reputation cleansed. However, I cannot fully express my astonishment and my great sadness at the story that has unfolded here. Charles Rutledge! Who would have thought…?”  He trailed off into a dismal silence.

“Certainly not I,” replied Justin heavily. “And now, sir, if you are through with us for the moment, I believe I must return my friends to their homes.” He gestured toward Robbie, who stood with a protective arm about Catherine.

“What?” Sir Henry roused himself from his unpleasant reflection. “Oh. Yes, of course. I expect it will be a week or so before we can put an inquiry together. You will all make yourselves available, will you not? Good. Afterward”—this to Justin—”you may return to your unit, although ...” He frowned. “It would be better, of course, if we could keep this whole matter quiet, but with all the commotion that has already attended the affair, you
will be very much in the public eye. Thus, these events will certainly destroy your value to us as an undercover operative. Perhaps you will wish to sell out and rest on your laurels. Oh, yes,” he said with a smile. “For you will be a hero, you know.”

“What?” asked Justin blankly. He felt as though he were wrapped in a layer of thick, damp wool. Even the fact that he would now be able to take his place again among the living, and that he was free of the taint of treason did not serve to lift the fog of misery that surrounded him, penetrating his very bones.

“Why, of course,” continued Sir Henry jovially. “You are an innocent man exonerated. The public loves that, and you have unmasked a traitor at considerable risk to your own person.”

“Oh,” Justin responded dully. Then he simply stood there, staring blindly about as though searching for something.

Robbie, at a nudge from Catherine, stepped forward.

“Right, Sir Henry,” he said. “Thank you for appearing so promptly. We shall await your summons, of course, but in the meantime—it’s been a very long evening.”

Sir Henry sighed. “Quite right, my boy. Good-bye, then.” He waved benignly as he mounted the carriage awaiting him in front of Charles’s house.