Dedicated Villain (56 page)

“Pray tell his Grace,” said my lady, “what happened that day at the hunt when Roland was nine.”

Sorenson frowned. His feelings for the old gentleman had mellowed considerably this past week. The duke looked worn and rather pathetically bewildered. “My lady,” he said hesitantly, “perhaps another time would—”

“Now, if you please.”

He sighed, and capitulated. “Master Roland was a very gentle lad in those days, your Grace. He didn't want to go on the hunt, but Lord Fairleigh insisted. The end of it was—the dogs caught the fox. And—well, it was the boy's first hunt, you see.”

Muffin stared, appalled. “But—he was just a
child!
”

“His father was a proud man, sir. He wanted to be proud of his son. The tail was torn off—the blood smeared over the boy's face. My lord said it was—the initiation.”

“Good … God!”

“Master Roland was horrified and fought to get away, sir. His father was—displeased. When the—er, ceremony was done, the boy—well, he fainted. My lord's friends laughed.” Sorenson shrugged.

“And—that's
all
?” stammered the duke. “Do you say that for so—so trite a thing Lord Fairleigh took his son in dislike?”

“My lord felt he had been, shall we say—let down, sir. He was embarrassed. Publicly embarrassed. From that day, he made Master Roland's life most miserable. He never forgave him; never ceased to sneer at and revile him.”

Marbury sat in stunned silence. After a long pause, he looked up. Sorenson had gone. Lady Clorinda was holding out a glass of wine. He accepted it gratefully. She stepped closer, scanning his face anxiously. “Clifford—forgive. 'Tis just—I thought you should know why Roland was—or believed he was—such a very wicked fellow.”

His Grace could not speak. With a hand that shook, he lifted the glass, then paused as running footsteps sounded in the corridor. He thought, ‘Oh, Lord—not yet! Not yet!'

Sorenson rushed back inside. “Sir!” he gasped. “They think … the crisis!”

My lady gazed with great frightened eyes at the panting valet.

Marbury slammed down the glass, and not even noticing that it toppled, ran most undignifiedly for the door. For the first time in memory, Beast ran also.

A lackey came sprinting towards them from the Great Hall, his expression terrified. Marbury slowed, and halted, preparing himself for the worst.

“Your—your Grace,” the man panted. “A—a colonel, sir! And a troop!”

Marbury stood very still. “Hell!” he whispered.

Lieutenant Colonel Mariner Fotheringay settled his long, lean self in a comfortable chair of this charming morning room, took a sip of excellent Madeira, and allowed a pair of hard dark eyes to meet the duke's veiled ones. Marbury was neither a large man, nor of formidable aspect, but Fotheringay, a shrewd judge of character, knew that all he had heard of this aristocrat was very likely true. Not giving away a
soupçon
of information was my lord duke. He looked taut and pale however, and the light eyes were tired, ringed by dark smudges. Understandable.

Mariner Fotheringay was a hard and demanding officer who kept very much to himself and had few friends, but he had a reputation for fair play, and his men liked him if only because they always knew where they stood with him. A career soldier, his rank had of late been as stable as England's weather. Until earlier in the year his military record had been superb. And with this Jacobite Uprising he had fancied himself well on the way to becoming a full colonel, but he'd been demoted for a stupid bungle which had allowed a valuable Jacobite fugitive to slip right through his fingers. Almost immediately he'd won back his rank with the
capture of another fugitive under most adverse circumstances, and now he meant to let nothing stand in the way of his determination to become a general before he was sixty.

His face unreadable, he said, “I believe your Grace has a grandson named Roland. Who sometimes goes by the name of—Otton?”

Marbury became even more pale, but he answered steadily. “I—hope I have, Colonel.”

Fotheringay's hand jolted slightly. “He
is
here, then?”

There was small point in lying, thought the duke wearily. He wished Clorinda was not here, but perhaps she and the others could be shielded in some way. Did he dare to hope that the king would stand by him this time? Odd, that he could consider his own death in so dispassionate a fashion … He replied, “I think you are well aware that he is here, Colonel. I take it you also are aware—”

Fotheringay interpolated hurriedly, “Sir—there are no words! That any one of my officers should—should so abuse his authority!”

Marbury's ears perked up, and he became very still. With not the slightest change of expression he said a cool, “Then, you were not directly responsible for my grandson's—interrogation?”

“Responsible! Good God, duke! I am known as a hard man, but—from what the sergeant told me—By Jove, 'twas damn near unbelievable! I can only hope …” he levelled a rather hunted gaze at the cold blue eyes so unnervingly fixed on him, “'tis not as bad as I was told.”

Considerably bewildered by now, Marbury gave no sign of it. “Your hopes are ill-founded, Colonel. Captain Mathieson is at this very moment waging a—a losing battle for his life.”

Fotheringay heard that slight check, the break to the voice, that was so sure a betrayal of grief. Genuinely aghast, he set down his glass, and said earnestly, “Sir—I cannot convey the depth of my shame. That such—such bestiality could have been perpetrated by an officer of my own regiment is—is an affront—a blotch on the pride of every one of us!”

“I agree,” said Marbury arctically. “My grandson has been unable to tell us of the reason for his savage treatment. Perhaps you would be so good as to enlighten me.”

The colonel tightened his thin lips, but refused to back away from this. “I do not normally discuss military procedures, duke. But—in this case—I will keep nothing from you. I presume you know that your grandson was held at a farm outside Cricklade? I learned of it by chance, and the instant I arrived there, and learned what had gone forward, I launched an investigation. Lieutenant Lambert had the unmitigated gall to try and pull the wool over my eyes! He informed me that Captain Mathieson was shielding Jacobites; that he had information about them that we have long sought; that he had, in fact, cooperated with fugitives to get the Stuart treasure aboard ship to France, and then tried to shield them by leading the troopers a wild goose chase.”

He gave a contemptuous snort. “I have no wish to offend, your Grace, but I have for some time been aware that your grandson has been, shall we say—relentless in his pursuit of the Jacobite gold. I know that he had a hand in the capture of one of the rebel couriers, who subsequently bested him in a sword fight and escaped. Of all men, Captain Mathieson would be the last to hold a brief for the Jacobites who damn near killed him! And to expect me to believe he would have helped fugitives ship off the very treasure he has assiduously pursued these many months—! Zounds, but I hope I am not such a fool!”

“A ridiculous tale, indeed! 'Tis my understanding that Roland was questioned at great length and without mercy. Surely, he must have offered some defense?”

“From what I can gather— From what I suspect, your Grace—Captain Mathieson—er, appropriated five caravans from the Jacobites, believing them to contain the Jacobite treasure. When Lambert's troop came up with him, he apparently feared to be caught with the treasure, so he ran.”

Marbury said cautiously, “From what I know of Roland your surmise is—very likely the true one. And that being the case, he was certainly liable to arrest, though I'd think he could have
claimed to have intended to restore the treasure to the Crown and—”

“There was no treasure, sir. Your grandson was tricked by the rebs. At least, so I believe.”

“But …” The duke frowned as though trying to make sense of all this. “If there was no treasure, what had Roland done that could warrant such inhuman savageries? One trusts you have been able to obtain an accounting from this Lambert?”

Both tone and words stung. The colonel gritted his teeth, but humbled his pride. “I have occasionally suspected that there were aspects to Captain Lambert's character which— But that is by the way. One of the men in his troop chances to be a sergeant who served with me in Flanders, and of whose integrity I am very sure. 'Tis a practice I detest, but in this instance I felt well justified to question Sergeant Patchett in private, under my personal guarantee of his protection against possible—reprisals. What he told me—!” The colonel shook his head grimly. “I could scarce believe it. The other men confirmed his story, however.” He stared broodingly at his glass and was silent.

“I remain at a loss, sir. Surely, Lambert must have had
some reason
?”

The colonel said reluctantly, “Apparently there had been bad feeling between the two men for some time. Patchett heard Lambert taunting Captain Mathieson and saying he intended to ‘even the score,' and that no man made a fool of him without he paid the price.”

“My God!” thundered the duke, leaping to his feet. “Do you say this monster used his military rank to capture and destroy my grandson out of—personal animosity?”

The colonel flinched. “It—would appear so, your Grace. I—I cannot fully convey my horror, my regrets, but—”

Marbury drew himself up. He seemed to the miserable Fotheringay to be ten feet tall. In a voice of ice he said, “I apprehend your horror and your regrets. Pray respect mine. Roland has been stricken with a raging fever, and I have just been told that he has reached the crisis; otherwise colonel, I
think I would demand that you come upstairs and see what your officer has wrought with his—his legalized savagery! I take it you know Captain Mathieson is—blind?”

Fotheringay had also stood. At this, his proud head bowed. He said in a near whisper, “Oh—Lord!”

“Any man,” gritted the duke, “who would stoop to such barbarism—who would use his boots to blind a helpless and badly hurt man, is not fit to dwell among decent human beings! Whether Roland lives or dies, I intend to make it my business to see Captain Lambert punished to the fullest extent of the law. I only wish it were still possible to enforce the ‘eye for an eye' decree! As 'tis, I would prefer to have the swine hanged, but—”

“Impossible, your Grace.”

“We'll see that! At the very least, I'll have him imprisoned and transported.”

“You will not be supported in either attempt, sir.”

Marbury stared. “Am I to understand the army means to do nothing? I find that hard to believe!”

“My apologies, your Grace. But no action will be taken against Brooks Lambert.”

“The
devil
you say! Why don't you give him a medal for—” But something in the colonel's expression stopped him. He said shrewdly, “Explain yourself, if you please.”

Before complying, Fotheringay drained his glass. Setting it aside, he said in a low, grave voice, “When I had what I believed to be all the facts in the case, I called Lieutenant Lambert into a private room, and I proceeded to tell him exactly what I thought of him, and what he could expect in the way of discipline. I think I never saw such rage in a pair of eyes. I knew that Lambert would like to have throttled the life out of me, but he said not one word in his own defense. When I invited him to do so, he just stood staring at me in what I can only describe as a—most peculiar fashion. Then—he started to giggle.” The colonel took a deep breath. “He ignored my commands, and began to—to take off his clothes. All the while, he leered at me and giggled, and whispered the most horrible
obscenities.” Dragging out his handkerchief, Fotheringay mopped his pale, sweating face and said unsteadily, “I do assure you duke, I had a lot rather face—a massed charge of Scots Highlanders, than ever endure another such interview! Brooks Lambert is stark raving mad. He has been put in Bedlam.”