Aurora (26 page)

He arose, bowed punctiliously, and said, “Goodnight, ma’am. I take it my brother is already tucked up? I want to see him next time I come. If you’re thinking of getting rid of him, I will be happy to take him on. He might be a bit of an impediment to a match at Tunbridge Wells.”

“Leave my son! He is all I have left of your father.”

“Nonsense, you have
me,
Mama. And the emeralds, temporarily,” he said with a wicked grin.

“And what am
I
to get out of it?” she asked.

“You have your widow’s allowance. If you can bring yourself to part with the emeralds, I’ll throw in five thousand. Otherwise no deal.”

“There’s no profit in it for me, in other words.”

“Try to think of something other than money, Mama. I could stir up a hive of trouble for you if I told who is in that grave.”

“What you would stir up is a deal of scandal for your father.”

“Ah, has
Papa
killed the gypsy now? Who will he take into his head to murder next? I thought we were to let Horace have the honour.”

“Five thousand, and forget the emeralds,” she said.

He regarded her levelly for a minute. “No,” he said at last. “I might have, had you told the truth. Care for another version of this ever-changing story?”

“I’ve told you the truth.”

“No, Clare, you haven’t even told me a convincing lie. You have only confirmed the facts I knew when I came in here. I knew the body was the gypsy, and I knew Horace was alive. I still don’t know how Ferdinand died, but I’ll find out. This is your last chance to unburden yourself.”

“I’ve told all I know.”

“I think not. Now what I suggest you do, Mama, is to think of little Charles, and think of Bridewell as an alternative to Tunbridge Wells. You will find prison even more unpleasant than the Dower House. No company but females, for one thing! Well?”

“Twenty-five hundred,” was her answer.

“Not a red penny, bitch,” he said ruthlessly, and as he had her on the run, he left her to stew in her juice.

Her first move when he left was to dash for the sketch pad in the studio, and find it gone, and then to curse herself for not having gotten rid of it. Her second was to consider the safe-keeping of the emeralds. But he would never find them. They at least were safe. Her third thought was of Horace Rutley, and she could not agree more strongly with Kenelm that it would be better if he were dead.

Chapter Eighteen

In London, Horace Rutley had fallen on hard times. Having worked his way home from America two years ago, it was his intention to let his mother know he was safely back. He couldn’t write her, or at least she couldn’t read a letter, and it was too dangerous to have the vicar reading that he was back in England. From America, all the way across the Atlantic, he had risked it, but not from England. What he really wanted was to return in style, to give Nel a proper cottage with flowers around the front porch, and some chickens in the backyard. He could never go back to his grandparents, but he had always remembered the two visits he had had with Nel, as he called his mother. What a sweet thing she was, so easy to talk to. Never one to jaw and nag at him for a little spot of trouble or mischief. He was saving up all his money to buy a cottage to share with Nel, but an ostler didn’t make much money. He should have better work—his Papa would be ashamed to know he was grooming horses, he who could read and write. But an ostler was what he was, earning a pittance. By the time a fellow had a bottle of gin once in a while and a game of cards, it took forever to save up a couple of hundred pounds. He would have to go to Hampshire with Nel. Clare had told him he mustn’t show his face in Kent again, ever, after the terrible thing he had done. It wasn’t
safe,
and he never thought of going there. He hardly ever even thought of Kent anymore, but he liked it.

He had brushed down the last of the horses and fed them. The stalls were full, and if any more people came they’d be turned away. He washed and went into the kitchen for dinner. There was a paper being used to hold potato skins, and he glanced at it. He could read very well, though he didn’t get much practice these days. The servant girls were always amazed at how he could read anything after having gone to school. He looked, and was surprised to see the name Lord Raiker, right in a big black headline. How they’d stare if he told them that was his father. No, brother. Half brother. The old man had died. He’d read about that after he came back.

This would be Bernard. A cursed rum touch, Bernard. Never let on to recognize him when they met in the village. Kennie now, he was a bit better. He always smiled and looked friendly, looked as if he’d like to say hello, but didn’t quite dare. He glanced at the piece, and made little sense of it. Then he pulled it loose from the rest of the paper and read it more closely, forming each hard word with his lips.

He was soon possessed of the fact that Bernard was dead, and somebody who might or might not be Ken was taking over. This was vastly interesting. All the chaps had asked Ken questions and thought he was Ken all right. By Jove, if he was, he’d lend his half brother a helping hand. Wouldn’t it be something if Ken gave him back the allowance his father used to give him? Those were the good old days—money every quarter to buy a new jacket or take out a girl. But he was older, smarter now. He’d take his allowance and buy Mama a cottage and some chickens. He ate up his mutton and potatoes, and by winking friendly at cook, got another glass of small ale to wash it down with.

He was really awfully tired of working in the stables. He’d saved up twenty-five pounds, mostly in tips, in two years. It would take ten times that to buy Mama a house. She might be dead by then. Why shouldn’t he go and see this man, see if he was Ken? His twenty-five pounds would buy him a jade, good enough to get to Kent, not so very far away. And if it wasn’t Ken at all, he’d just turn around and come back. No harm in that. He’d go at night so nobody would see him. Clare said he mustn’t be seen, or they’d put him in gaol, maybe even hang him. He felt his neck, and wondered if he dared to go. He could write. But he couldn’t write very well. He wouldn’t want Lord Raiker to see what a messy fist he wrote. He’d buy a jade and go in person. Get Cook to wash his good shirt and give his good jacket and trousers a brushing off, and go to call on his half brother. He was so excited that night he hardly slept.

The next morning early he got up and did his chores, and went around to get Jemmie Sadler to take his job at the inn for a few days. He had the great luck of buying a horse, a little crippled but he could be nursed along, from a chap right at the inn. He’d ridden it in from Sussex and wanted to be rid of it now he was in the city. He was on the road home before ten o’clock, but there was no hurry. He daren’t show his face in the village before it was pitch dark. He got nearly forty miles the first day, and would have got farther, but the nag gave out on him and he had to walk the last ten miles. My, he was tired. All he wanted to do was curl up by the side of the road and sleep, but he had to take better care of his clothes than that. He shouldn’t have worn the good outfit. It was covered with dust. He slept in the stable of the inn at Maidstone and went on the next day with his horse making an even slower pace, but at least carrying him. There was no problem of arriving too early. He was afraid he’d get there too late to call at Raiker Hall. Of course Ken would be at Raiker Hall. Where else would Lord Raiker be staying?

When he got in front of the door, all nice and safe—not a soul had seen or recognized him—he was hesitant to knock. There were lights on. The man was home and up, but was he alone? Shouldn’t he go around to the back and approach his half brother via the kitchen? That might be more respectful, and he didn’t want to be lacking in respect. He walked around to the back and tapped timidly at the door, just as he used to when Papa was alive. He didn’t recognize the fellow that let him in, but he was decked out in the Raiker livery right enough. He recognized that. Wouldn’t that be a soft job, though? Walking around in fancy clothes answering doors and whatnot, and getting more for it likely than he got for tending horses. He said with the utmost deference that he’d like to see Lord Raiker, please, if it wasn’t too much trouble, and would he be so kind as to ask if he might go up.

“Lord Raiker don’t live here, fellow. What do you want him for?”

“Business,” Rutley mumbled. Not here? Where the deuce was he? He worded this question and was told Raiker was putting up at the inn, and that Lady Raiker was still in residence.

“Clare?” Rutley asked bluntly.

“Lady Raiker,” the footman replied with a sneer. But the name had caused the footman to wonder if he hadn’t better tell her ladyship about the person. With all the strange doings of late, it was as well to keep her ladyship informed, and a wide-awake fellow might very well replace old Wilkins, whom her ladyship didn’t like above half. “Just step in and sit down,” the footman said. “What’s your name, eh?”

Here was a poser. He dare not give his name. There might be posters up proclaiming him for the villain he was. “Just say an old friend,” he answered, and sat down. Clare would be angry as the devil he’d come, but no one had seen him, and she would help him. Clare had always liked him, had sympathized with his position. She was a lovely girl, Clare, and so dashed clever she’d know what he should do.

The footman had the ill luck to run into Wilkins on his way to her ladyship, and was told with a supercilious sneer that he would “see the person” himself. Wilkins was very careful about all his employer’s doings these days. But before he had turned to go, Lady Raiker was in the hall demanding to know what was going on. Wilkins tried to dissuade her from seeing the man before he had seen him first, but she was adamant. With a leery look at Wilkins, she sent him off upstairs to close a window shutter she imagined to be banging before having the man admitted.

Her strange behaviour had raised Wilkins’ suspicions to such a height that he hid at the top of the stairs to get a look at the person, and found the likelihood that he was Horace strong enough that he was at considerable pains to get a note off to the inn at once. It was difficult to do, but he had a working agreement with the stableboy, who was always glad to pick up a shilling. His next business was to try to get his ear to the door to overhear what went on between Lady Raiker and her visitor, but she was not to be outwitted by her butler, and took Rutley into her private little study and closed the door. She never spoke above a whisper, either. Wilkins couldn’t distinguish a single word from her, and she kept hushing up Rutley so that not enough came through the door to make any sense.

Clare didn’t quite know whether she was relieved or dismayed to see Horace Rutley. That he was here was of course a giant nuisance, but only think if he had met Kenelm before herself! Here was one blessing. Then, too, she had now the opportunity to be rid of him for good before Kenelm could find him. She immediately set about doing this.

“Horace, what brings you here? You know I told you you must
never
come here again.”

“I see in the paper Kenelm is back. Bernard’s dead. Kennie always seemed a friendly fellow, what little I seen of him. I’m hard up, Clare, with my allowance cut off.”

She discovered by careful questioning and requestioning that no one knew he was here but herself, and with this satisfactory knowledge, she began her campaign. Fortunately Rutley still found her attractive. “It is lucky for you you found
me
here instead of Kenelm,” she said. “The man is changed, Horace. He has been in India amongst the heathens for years, and has come back a hard man. He hates you—would certainly have you turned over to the authorities if he ever discovered you here.”

“He can’t know what I did, unless you told him, Clare,” Rutley answered.

“Of course I didn’t tell him. There have been all sorts of things going on. The gypsy was dug up, and they have found out all about your killing him.”

“How could they know that? You were the only one there. I only did it to protect you. You shouldn’t have been seeing him alone, Clare. It ain’t proper.”

“I told you why he was there. He wanted money. I owed him money for posing for me, and he was in a hurry to get it. His poor little daughter was ill.”

“You were kissing him.”

“No, Horace,
he
was kissing
me.
Forcing his attentions on me, after I was kind enough to meet him that night. You did right to shoot him.”

“Then they shouldn’t hang me for it. You could tell them the truth, Clare, that I did it to protect you.”

“Dear Horace, we must protect the family name.
You
are a Raiker too—the best of them, in my opinion. How proud you must be of your connection with the family. We don’t want the family name dragged through the mud. Lawsuits, and there is no saying the judge wouldn’t decide against you, even if you did the right thing. Lord Raiker has taken you in such strong dislike . . . he is looking all over for you, Horace. He was here this very day telling me so.”

“What does he want me for? I only killed the gypsy. How did they know he was a gypsy, Clare? You had me take off all his clothes and put on Ken’s uniform so no one would think it was a gypsy.”

“So much has happened I hardly know where to begin. The emerald necklace is missing. Someone stole it, the gypsies I expect, but Ken has taken the idea you took it. You didn’t, did you?”

“I never knew anything about an emerald necklace.”

“I never believed for a moment you stole it.
I
know you are not a thief, but Kenelm won’t believe it. I expect he is jealous of you, if the truth were known.”

“Ashamed, more like.”

“He has become abominably proud,” she said, changing tack neatly. “It annoys him that you are a living testimony to his father’s straying. He would like nothing better than to get rid of you.”

Rutley began feeling his neck again, and looking about the room for a hiding place should Lord Raiker come in.

“We must get you out of here at once,” Clare said.

“I have no money, Clare. You’ve got to help me.”