Dedicated Villain (34 page)

MacTavish said rather brutally, “So should I.”

Mathieson glared at him, then muttered, “I only ask … Rob—I
swear
I won't touch a groat—not a farthing of it!”

“Splendid. When do you leave?”

Mathieson gritted his teeth. “I don't. I
cannot!
I must stay. I
must
see you all safely done with—”

MacTavish laughed until the tears crept down his cheeks and he was overcome by more coughing. Wiping his eyes, he moaned, “They say—laughter is—is the best medicine … And I believe it! If you—” A hand was clapped over his mouth. Mathieson's black eyes, narrowed and deadly, blazed down at him.

“Damn you! I should have killed you when first I came in!
Listen
to me!”

Impressed by the power of his personality, and baffled by his apparent sincerity, MacTavish lay mute, watching that grim face.

“I'll give you something to really laugh at.” Mathieson smoothed the pillow and straightened up again, loathing what he meant to do, but sufficiently desperate to resort to it. “Have you heard of my family?”

“Which one? You've so many names, I—”

“Otton is assumed. It was necessary after a—ah, certain indiscretion
concerning the wife of a London Alderman. My real name is Roland Fairleigh Mathieson. Does that mean anything to you?”

“No. Oh, I've heard of some Mathiesons, of course. The duke who helped Tony Farrar is—Good God!
Marbury
? You—you're not—?”

Mathieson bowed gracefully.

“Why—why then, you must be his—”

“His grandson. The infamous bastard. Then you've doubtless also heard of the splendid gentleman who was my sire?”

MacTavish nodded, and wrinkled his brow. “I think I saw Lord Fairleigh once when we all came to London to spend Christmas with relations. An exceedingly well-favoured man, and very popular. Yes—I remember that he was killed the following year and that my aunt was much grieved. A hunting accident, wasn't it?”

“Fortunately.”

MacTavish's eyes widened predictably, and Mathieson smiled his cynical smile and went on. “When I was nine years old, I displeased that—‘very popular' gentleman. Worse, I humiliated him. And he was an aristocrat who held himself very much up, and had done the noble thing by owning me to be his bastard and giving me his name—if nothing else. I disgraced that name, and him, in front of all his friends. The cream of the county aristocracy. And being the gentlemen they were, they sniggered behind their hands. He, poor fellow, was mortified. He never forgave me or ceased to punish me for it.”

Frowning, and not a little incredulous, MacTavish asked, “He beat you?”

“That was of no consequence. My real punishment was to be kept from the one person in this world I loved—and whose happiness was, I knew, wrapped up in me. I was instructed very precisely as to what kind of a—thing—I was, and dear Papa saw to it that I was reminded of it with unfailing regularity. I grew up on a great estate, where I was treated with more contempt and far less kindness than the lowliest bootblack.” He
paused, his eyes looking back broodingly into the bitter past. “Just to be sure I knew what I was missing, I was sent back to Paris each summer, to be with her for a few days—we never knew for how long—so that we both might suffer the pain of parting again and the dread that the next year's meeting might be denied.”

“Your mother?” asked MacTavish gravely.

“My beautiful,
Maman.
A lady who never had an unkind thought—never did a bad thing in her saintly life.” Mathieson wandered over to stare down at the candle flame. “Much good it did her! Her health began to fail, and I went in terror that she might die, pining for me, before I could reach her. The summer she became really ill, I was not allowed to go. My valise was packed, the coach was at the door, and then—my father summoned me into his august presence and made me stand at attention while he read me her letters—letters that begged and pleaded … so piteously … that she was ill, and that I be allowed to visit her. Regrettably, he said, he had changed his mind. My Parisian journey could not be made this year. When I flew out at him, he knocked me down and—laughed, and told me what kind of vermin I was.”

“Jupiter …” whispered MacTavish.

Mathieson turned, and shrugged, his eyes empty and his smile brittle. “But we can learn from everyone,
n'est-ce pas
? I began to study him. He was a handsome fellow, as you said, and could be very gracious if it pleased him. He was much admired. Especially by the aristocratic ladies—silly vapid women who are impressed never by character, but only by looks or money. They said he was charming, brave, gallant; a truly great gentleman. I learned how exceeding well
mon père
enjoyed all the good things of life. And I knew he was a great villain. And I saw
ma chère Maman
—broken-hearted, abandoned, slowly dying. And I knew she was a saint.” He paused again, one of his slender white hands clenching spasmodically. He said low-voiced, “I laughed and danced for joy when he was killed in that stupid hunting accident! He could not keep me from
Maman
, anymore! I was free! I stole some money from his strong box, went to Paris, and stayed with her and managed to make her last year a comparatively happy one. When she died, my grandfather brought me back to finish my schooling. He hoped, I think, to turn me into—a gentleman.” He gave a soft, mirthless laugh. “I had already dedicated my life to villainy. I had learned, you see, that the good earn only sorrow and savagery, while to the evil go all the rewards.” He straightened the ruffles at his wrist, and murmured, “But—do you know, Rob, I am inclined to believe that, despite everything he accused me of being, everything he said I
would
become, as deplorable as I became in truth, I have never yet reached
his
level of villainy.”

MacTavish did not know what to say. And because he had for a while been blessed by the love of a gentle mother and had grown up under the guidance of a doting aunt and his wise and kindly father, he was appalled. In a very different voice from that of a few minutes ago, he asked at length, “Why do you tell me all this?”

Mathieson looked up. He was very pale, and his hands were tight-gripped behind him. “I never thought I would find true happiness in this life. I—don't say I have found it now. Or that I have any right to it if … I could win it. But I have caught a glimpse of it. I—who judged women by the creatures who adored my father; I—who believed
Maman
was the only angel who ever walked this earth—have found another angel.”

With the true Briton's horror of any display of emotion, MacTavish was nonetheless impressed. Whisht, but it was an intense creature! Only see how the sweat shone at his temples. No play-acting here! The man meant every word, by God! And which lady had won the heart of such a renowned rake—heaven help her? Surely not … “Miss
Bradford
?” he gasped.

“You may well be astonished,” sneered Mathieson. “Do you also believe one word I have said?”

“Aye. But—but …”

“But the leopard cannot change his spots—is that what you think?”

“Er—I'm sorry, but—yes.”

“Well, I mean to try, damn you! I mean to … to somehow … be worthy of her.”

MacTavish stared at him, baffled. “What is it you want of me?”

“You owe me, Rob!”

“Aye. As you've reminded me!”

Mathieson's intense pallor was tinged by a slight flush. “My apologies. I am—desperate, you see. We were attacked today, or were you too far gone to notice?” A little muscle began to twitch beside his mouth. He said harshly, “That peerless innocent—that trusting beautiful little creature would have been beaten and shamed and—and raped, had I not chanced to arrive! Oh, never curl your lip, devil take you! I don't claim to have saved them all, single-handed! I balanced the odds is all. Which has nothing to say to the matter.” He limped closer to the bed again and bent lower in a sudden and unexpected pleading that shook MacTavish more than any brutality would have done. “Rob—don't you
understand
? She should not
be
here! You know what the military would do if they came up with us. You know what would become of her!
Mon Dieu
! The very thought—” His face twisted betrayingly; he gave an oddly wild gesture and wrenched away again. “Once more, I must apologize,” he said, recovering himself after a hushed moment, and standing very straight and stiff. “You will recollect I am a half-breed, and sometimes I slip into the abyss and become
porté à l'émotion
and—very French. Horribly embarrassing for the British side of me. And for you. Much more comfortable when I appear as a—a base but rather amusing rogue, eh?”

“When I get up,” said MacTavish wrathfully, “I'm going to poke you on the beak, Fairleigh—”

“Mathieson this time, don't forget.”

“Mathieson, then. What the devil makes you think you're the first man ever to have loved a woman? How the hell d'you think
I
felt when your damnable cousin was hard on our heels
with his troop, and that confounded ship sailed off and left Rosamond?”

“W-Well then,” stammered Mathieson eagerly, “if you understand—”

“I'm to believe you mean to play the game like an honest man, for once in your life? I'm to keep my mouth closed to all my friends who have risked their lives countless times for our Cause? I'm not to tell them what you did to Quentin Chandler? That you were paid to ambush and kill Geoff Delavale and damn near succeeded? That you drove poor Meredith Carruthers half out of his mind badgering at him to give up the cypher Lascelles carried? That you came slithering around Rosamond and her family, and—” scowling at the bowed dark head, his voice softened “—and wound up saving our lives, blast you?” He was far from insensitive, and sensing what these revelations had cost the other man, he said earnestly, “If 'twas my life only, as God be my judge, I'd leave it in your hands. After what you've done for me personally, even if you sold me to the block, I'd not count the debt paid. But—mon, d'ye no see? Wi' the past tae be considered— Y'r reputation … ! I
canna
keep quiet!” He recovered his accent and said with stern dignity, “No, Mathieson. I'm sorrier than I can say, but—there is far too much against you to justify taking such a risk. This is a desperate business, and these faithful people have sacrificed much. They
must
be told the whole. 'Twould be to betray them all, else! I've absolutely no choice in the matter.” And anticipating the desperate appeal that would follow, he added hurriedly, “Nor, I might add, would have Lady Ericson.”

Mathieson drew a deep breath. His eyes became glittering and hard, his mouth a thin, ruthless line. He stepped very close to the bed. “I see,” he said coldly. “Well, I'm sorry. I tried to not have it come to this.”

The Scot tensed, and vowing to sell his life as dearly as possible, said, “It's to be death for me then, is it?”

“Not at all.”

Mathieson smiled, and dealt his trump card.

By morning the weather had changed with a vengeance; a cold wind came out of the east bringing with it a steady drizzling rain that pattered at the caravan roofs, reduced the lane to a sea of mud, and made Lady Ericson's fingers ache with the rheumatism she would never admit to. She betrayed no sign of this however, as she sat beside the cot in the lurching, jolting caravan, and watched MacTavish's pale face incredulously. “Lad—are you sure?”

“Quite sure,” came his harsh whisper.

“But—the danger! And with you so ill …”

He smiled and patted the hand that clasped his own. “I whisper only because it helps to keep me from coughing. I feel rather astonishingly improved compared to this time yesterday.”

“Thank God for that! But I fancy your improvement is largely due to the good sleep you've had. The first in weeks, I'll be bound, eh? Do you start rushing and tearing about, planning and organizing and using your own energy to bolster everyone else's—It still could turn to the pneumonia, Rob.”

“I'll have plenty of help, and besides—”

“What help? My son's also a touch improved today and swears he'll play his part tonight, but much of that is vanity, for Bradford loves every minute he's on a stage. Cuthbert has more than his share of gumption and says he can manage his role, but he'll be considerably slowed is there trouble. And poor Heywood can almost see this morning. You know how much worse ailments become at night, and how we are to manage to do all the loading and—”

“My fellows from Chester will do it.”

“But you said they were worn to a thread from the hard work you've done.”

“True. We all are. Needs must when the devil—” He
checked, frowning a little, then said, “Besides, I'll have Mathieson's help.”