Lord Satan (24 page)

“Are you not close to Lord Cauldreigh? He is very like his
father in looks and, I must believe, in behavior also.”

Libbetty burst into laughter, relieved that Mrs. Whitelow
had so mistaken which Colton man endangered her. “Oh, no, there is nothing
between us. He enjoyed a flirtation with me this past summer, but he only
thought of passing the time until he could go back to his regiment.”

“He never offered marriage to you?”

“Far from it; he made it clear that he had no plans for
marriage for some time yet.”

Mrs. Whitelow smiled, a smile that made Libbetty uneasy; in
fact with proximity to the notorious woman came an increase in her feeling of
disloyalty to everyone who meant anything to her. Before she could form the
words to take her leave, a man rushed precipitously into the room.

He paused when he caught sight of Libbetty, saying, “Excuse
me, Aunt Maude, I didn’t realize you had company.”

Mrs. Whitelow had paled upon his entrance, and her saucer
shook in her hand, but she pulled herself together. “Oh, my dear, how you
startled me. I have told you my nerves are sensitive, and I cannot stand your
being so—so impetuous. Miss Bishop, this is my late husband’s nephew, Mr.
Owen Whitelow. Owen, Miss Bishop, the vicar’s daughter.”

“How d’you do, er, Miss Bishop,” said the young man
perfunctorily. He passed by the tea tray and took a biscuit before throwing
himself into a chair some distance away from where Libbetty sat. “Aunt Maude,
how d’you expect me to drink this cat-lap? I need some ale to quench my
thirst.”

Mrs. Whitelow jumped up, saying, “I will tell Molly to bring
you some,” and left the room.

Libbetty had not previously heard that Mrs. Whitelow had
brought any relatives with her to Rose Farm. Her curiosity aroused, she forgot
her intention to leave. Could this young man possibly be the mysterious White?

Owen leaned forward in his chair and scrutinized Libbetty.
“How came you to call, Miss Bishop? My aunt has found the ladies of
Peasebotham disinclined to recognize her before now.”

As Libbetty struggled with an answer to this, Mrs. Whitelow
returned. Smiling at Owen Whitelow, she said, “Molly will bring the ale
shortly.”

She seated herself and smiled at Libbetty. “Tell me, Miss
Bishop, do you have a beau? Oh, you must think that a foolish question. A
pretty girl like you no doubt has several young men courting her.”

“No, I don’t have anyone.” Heat rushed to her face.

Owen laughed. “That pays you out for being so inquisitive,
Aunt Maude. Why should the girl tell you about her suitors? It probably
brings bad luck to talk about them before they come to the point, doesn’t it,
Miss Bishop?”

As Libbetty looked at him, a sense of something familiar in
his appearance overcame her. She scanned him more carefully. Perhaps around
twenty, his sullen attitude did not altogether dispel his handsomeness. He had
long, thick eyelashes, high cheekbones, and full, pouting lips.

“I know. You were one of the men working on the repairs to
the vicarage,” Libbetty blurted. White? But if so, why would this man have
tried to kill Lord Cauldreigh? And had she seen him at the inn? She could not
recall.

Mr. Whitelow looked startled and his aunt tittered. “Yes,
he did work on that job. My husband was a builder. Since he had no son to
carry on after him, he took Owen under his wing. Owen inherited the business
after Mr. Whitelow died last year. When I decided to return to England, he
came along to see what new techniques he could adapt.”

“Luckily Uncle Whitelow has excellent workers. The business
has not suffered from my few months’ sojourn in these islands,” the young man
said.

“He has spent most of these last months traveling to
different parts of the island to learn everything he could, but now will return
to America shortly. I will miss him.”

A glance passed between the two, full of some intense
feeling, and Libbetty wondered if they were lovers. She had the impression
Mrs. Whitelow’s husband had been much older. Of course the woman was older
than Owen, but still attractive.

If he was White, and Mrs. Whitelow harbored some resentment
toward her lover, Lord Cauldreigh’s father, it was possible she had persuaded
young Whitelow to carry out her vengeance on the next generation. Libbetty
tried to conceal her sudden fear.

Owen leaped up. “Where is Molly with that ale? I swear a
man could die of thirst here.” He charged out of the room.

A small silence ensued, and then Libbetty arose from the
settee. “I must go. My mother will be needing me.”

“Oh, must you go so soon?” Although Mrs. Whitelow
protested, Libbetty had the impression she actually felt relief.

Libbetty forced herself to ride away slowly, not looking to
see if Owen Whitelow, or anyone from Rose Farm, followed her.

She wished her relations with Lord Neil would allow her to
discuss her discovery with him. It seemed so far-fetched to think there could
be any connection between Owen Whitelow and the attempts on Lord Cauldreigh’s
life.

All the same, she did not relax until she arrived home.

In an exodus from Peasebotham, Freddy and George went back
to school. Sybille and her family and Jonathan Colton departed for London the
same day.

The date for Tom and Alonso Hayes to go to Oxford quickly
approached. Facing these farewells blighted Catherine’s usually sunny mood,
and Libbetty condoled with her, but she did not reveal to her sister the cause
of her own dejection.

Mrs. Bishop had reached the final weeks of her pregnancy,
and still worked to complete her baby’s layette. One afternoon, feeling
restless, Libbetty begged her mother for some work, and was hemming a flannel
blanket when Lord Cauldreigh called. Tom left a last attempt at studying to
join them.

“I’ve just returned from London. The doctor has pronounced
me fit for duty,” Cauldreigh announced as he lowered himself into a
needlepoint-covered chair and stretched out his legs. “I will leave to join my
regiment in the Peninsula in a few days.”

Libbetty’s stomach lurched. Would Lord Neil go too? If he
went back to London, he took with him all hope she might have of sometimes
seeing him.

“Famous.” said Tom, leaning upon the mantelpiece. “Wish I
could join you, but Papa insists that I go to Oxford.” Libbetty had not
formerly heard Tom express any desire to join the Army.

She looked more closely at Tom and realized for the first
time how fully he had modeled himself after Lord Cauldreigh—from the casual
knot in his neckcloth, to the lounging pose. She had scarcely paid any
attention to Tom lately, but of course he would take a heroic man a few years
older than himself as his example.

Mrs. Bishop frowned at Tom, then said, “This is mixed news,
my lord. We are happy that you are recovered, but concerned that you will head
back into danger. We will pray for your safety.”

“Thank you, ma’am. I have found this sojourn a very
pleasant interlude. I know it will restore my spirits to contemplate this past
summer in the midst of war.”

“Will Lord Neil remain here?” Libbetty asked. Immediately,
she ducked her head and feigned deep interest in her hemming. She wished she
had bitten her tongue before giving way to her curiosity.

“Uncle Neil will return to London as soon as I leave. He
has been chafing about neglecting his duties there and stayed in Peasebotham
for my sake.” He gathered himself to rise.

“Oh.” Of course, she thought. He always said only his
concern for his nephew kept him from London. Would he ever return to
Peasebotham? Perhaps she would always regret that her awkwardness with him had
caused them both pain.

In a few years, he likely would have married. Being
confronted with his wife would bring her the most acute pain. She forced her
attention back from these disagreeable musings to see Lord Cauldreigh taking
his leave.

“I’ll see you out,” Tom said, and the two left together.

Libbetty jumped up, abandoning her work on the blanket. She
needed air. She put on a pelisse and went outdoors. Taking the path around
the house to the stableyard in back, she discovered Tom and Lord Cauldreigh
still talking, Cauldreigh holding the reins of his mount. As she drew close,
Tom said, “It’s at Hinton’s barn tomorrow evening.”

“Let’s attend. What say you to one last fling before we
each take up our duties?”

“Where do you plan to go?” Libbetty asked.

Tom gazed at her thoughtfully before replying, “There’s a
cockfight at Farmer Hinton’s.”

An adventure. It would distract her from her broken heart.
She said, “I’ve never been to a cockfight. I want to go.”

“Girls don’t go to cockfights,” said Tom, and Cauldreigh
added, “Absolutely not. No respectable woman ever attends one.”

“Perhaps I don’t want to be respectable,” Libbetty said.
“It sounds like fun. Please take me?”

“It would ruin you if anyone saw you,” the marquess said.

“I could go in disguise, wearing George’s old clothes. No
one would even guess I was there.”

The two young men looked at each other.

“It might be a lark to take her.” Lord Cauldreigh’s eyes
glinted mischievously.

“Father would kill me if he finds out,” Tom said. “In fact,
he would kill Libbetty and me both.”

“He wouldn’t actually kill us, only look at us in that way
that makes us wish we were dead. Besides, he won’t find out.”

“All right,” Tom said slowly.

*

Libbetty had an exhilarating sense of freedom. She wore
George’s outgrown buckskin breeches and a brown riding coat, a Belcher kerchief
at her throat, and her hair pinned up under a cap set low to shield her face.
She had stuffed handkerchiefs into the toes of George’s old top boots to keep
them on her feet.

She rode a well-mannered hunter from the Cauldreigh
stables. It felt strange to ride astride, forcing her to use her leg muscles
in an unaccustomed way. For the first time in weeks, her despondency had
vanished. Instead, she tingled with anticipation of adventure and a thrilling
dread of being caught in her male disguise. Tom and Lord Cauldreigh, similarly
clad in sporting attire, accompanied her. Tom rode Concobhar, and the marquess
had his usual mount, Pandora, a bright bay mare with a white stocking and a
blaze. The spirits of all were giddy. Her masquerade had added an air of
danger that infected the young men as well.

Afternoon sunshine warmed them despite the hint of fall
crispness. In the orchards, ripe apples and pears hung heavy in the trees,
their winy fragrance perfuming the air.

Hinton’s Farm lay five miles out of the village on the road
to Crossfield. They met others with the same destination, on horseback,
walking, and in vehicles from farm carts to dashing curricles. A variety of
humankind was attracted to the spectacle, from shady-appearing characters to
neatly dressed farmers, even some gentry. But no women, Libbetty noted.

Luckily, she had thus far recognized no one among the
cockfight fanciers, and no one paid particular attention to her group, or to
her. A holiday mood prevailed, everybody laughing and discussing the odds on
the various combatants.

Tom and Cauldreigh entered into the discussion. “I hear
Crocker’s new black is the favorite,” Tom said to a hulking farmer astride a
dun plow horse.

“I dunno. Granthurst’s Old Red has beaten everything that’s
come his way. My money’s on him.”

“Nay,” said the man’s companion, a middle-aged, paunchy man
with a flushed face. “The black’s by The Slasher, the greatest fighting cock
that’s been seen in these parts. Comes from a long line that’s up to scratch.”

“Never seen a gamer one than Old Red,” insisted the farmer.

Others in the vicinity joined in, and the argument seemed as
if it would last the rest of the way to Hinton’s.

Suddenly Libbetty’s horse stumbled, almost unseating her.
She hung on, but as she gathered the horse to continue, he limped. “Wait,” she
called to Tom and Trevor, who had ridden ahead, unaware. “Something’s wrong
with my horse.”

Lord Cauldreigh dismounted and examined the hunter’s foot.
“He’s cast a shoe. Can we go on? I don’t want to miss this.”

Several voices echoed with, “Nay, you don’t want to miss all
the fun” and similar sentiments.

“We’ll manage,” Tom assured him. “Li-Leigh and I can ride
double. We can lead h-his horse back after the cockfight.”

Tom gave Libbetty a hand, and she climbed up behind him.
They led the Cauldreigh horse the rest of the way.

Hinton’s barn, a large, moss-covered stone building, had
undergone conversion into a cockpit. Hinton had never known success as a
farmer and now made his living from cockfights and other sporting diversions.
The barn held two hundred or so, and at least that number crowded into it on
this occasion, everybody jostling to attain a good observation post.

Libbetty pulled her cap lower to prevent its being knocked
off, and tried to follow her brother and Lord Cauldreigh as they shouldered
their way to the front of the pit.

Tom and Cauldreigh seemed to forget about Libbetty as they
continued their discussion with their companions of the road. Cauldreigh
placed bets with them and with several others nearby, and Tom also wagered his
allowance, which Libbetty knew he could ill afford to lose, on the black cock.

Shouts of “Six to five on Old Red!” “I’ll wager a pig on
Thunderer!” and similar sentiments rang out.

The noise overwhelmed her, as men called out their bets amid
good-natured altercations as to the virtues of the birds. The air grew
increasingly heated and rank with the press of bodies. Bottles and jugs were
passed around, and Libbetty wondered if the atmosphere might become even more
boisterous as the evening advanced. For the first time, she questioned the
wisdom of her adventure. As she looked around, however, she became caught up
in the excitement and forgot her misgivings.

It took an age before they brought out the fighters. When
the cocks did appear, they disappointed Libbetty. The roosters she knew in farmyards
around Peasebotham were beautiful creatures with shining plumage and bright
combs. These exemplified a different breed altogether, short-legged, squat and
ugly, with scarcely any feathers and no crests. They seemed unaware of their
deficiencies, however. Released one at a time to strut in the small, round
pit, each flaunted itself proudly, beady eyes gleaming with disdain. Their
sharp spurs and beaks proclaimed that the animals were equipped to wound and
tear at each other.

The spectators frenziedly placed last-minute bets after
weighing the merits of each cock. Old Red and Thunderer were set at opposite
sides of the pit and released. The birds immediately set to, screaming
savagely, tearing with their claws and beaks.

Shouts of encouragement added to the cacophony, every man
urging on his favorite. Trevor and Tom yelled, “Go Thunderer!” Feathers flew,
wounds opened, gouts of blood dripped onto the floor and stained the birds’
plumes. Libbetty thought surely the fight must end soon, as one or the other
bird turned tail.

The battle went on and on.

Her excitement changed to nausea as the black fell over and
lay still. The red jumped onto the body of his vanquished foe and crowed, to
the loud roars of his adherents, but abruptly Thunderer revived and leaped up
to renew the battle.

Taken by surprise, the red faltered under the onslaught.
The black raked his opponent’s throat with bloodied spurs, and the red fell in
his turn. His owner, a short, wizened man, pleaded, “Come on, Old Red. You
ain’t never been defeated. You can’t be dead.” But the bird did not move.

Libbetty’s head felt light and her body boneless. She might
have fallen, but the crowd around her kept her upright. Tom and Trevor leaped
and pounded each other in congratulation.

A new opponent was readied for Thunderer. Her companions
collected their winnings and argued the odds of their champion repeating his
victory. She had no hope of inducing them to go.

The heat and smells of excited, drunken, and unwashed bodies
nauseated her. She mopped her damp forehead with the rough sleeve of her coat,
pushing her cap up on her head.

Suddenly Lord Neil stood before her, his eyes black with
anger as he accosted Cauldreigh and Tom. “What do you mean by bringing her
here?” he hissed in low tones.

His face red, Tom bluffed, “This is my cousin L-Leigh.”

“I’ll deal with you later,” promised Lord Neil, ignoring
this plumper. “I’ll take you home.” He tugged Libbetty’s cap down to screen
her face. She nodded, her limbs weak with relief.

“Give me your cloak,” he ordered Cauldreigh.

The younger man unhesitatingly complied, saying at the same
time, “Uncle Neil, Captain threw a shoe on the way here. Tom and—his cousin
need to double up on Concobhar to go home.”

“We’ll take Pandora. You take turns riding Tom’s horse and
leading Captain home.” Lord Neil threw the dark blue cloak across Libbetty’s
shoulders and led her out, forging a path through the throng, whose attention
centered on the pit. She wanted to cover her ears against screams for the new
combatants.

Her legs threatened to collapse as they reached the open
yard, and she shivered in the chill air. It had grown nearly dark, and a
crescent moon rode low in the eastern sky. She noted with surprise how much
time had passed inside Hinton’s barn.

Lord Neil found his horse, Camisard, and then Cauldreigh’s.
Helping her astride Pandora, Lord Neil mounted his horse and rode toward home.
The spirited mare quivered and whickered, but settled in alongside Camisard and
trotted smoothly.

At first Libbetty could think only of the cockfight and her
brother’s and Lord Cauldreigh’s enthusiasm. How could they have found any
pleasure in the violence and bloodshed?

The moon’s glow dimly lit the road, and crisp autumn air
revived her spirits. She forgot her difficulties—the cockfight, the risk of
exposure, the past weeks of misery, in the pleasure of riding with Lord Neil.

Their horses moved in rhythm with each other, the sounds of
their hoofbeats scarcely disturbing the quiet. The scents of leather and horseflesh
agreeably perfumed the air. She glanced at Lord Neil, his profile in reverse
silhouette against the evening sky.

With time to reflect, embarrassment at once again being
caught in a hoydenish scrape by Lord Neil grew paramount in her mind. “You
acted arrogantly again, taking me out of there without even asking me if I
wanted to leave,” she complained.

“Oh, did you wish to stay?”

“No, but I would like you to ask.”

“I am sorry.” Humor echoed in his voice, detracting from
her satisfaction at his apology.

She sniffed.

“Are you all right?” His quick words deepened her guilt.

“Yes, of course. I—I have to thank you for rescuing me.
It was horrible—I never dreamed it would be so sickening and cruel. And I am
taking you away from the cockfight as well.”