My Lord Murderer (3 page)

“Yes I do. If Rowle’s end—as I suspect—was as cowardly and ignominious as his life, it will come as no great shock to her.”

Selby looked at his wife with admiration. “I think you’re right, Hetty, for once. If a man is a loose screw and a rotter, his wife is bound to realize it before very long. What good are we doing, Drew, to protect Lady Rowle from something she already knows?”

Drew didn’t answer. He was lost in a brown study, his lips curled in a small, secret smile, his eyes fixed on the middle distance. Wys watched him in annoyance. “Come now, Drew, you can’t still refuse us permission to clear your name! Hetty has given us an excellent reason why secrecy in this matter is unnecessary.”

Drew turned to him, forcing himself to apply his mind to the question just posed. “The reason still exists, Wys. I’m sorry, but I cannot release any of you from your promise to secrecy.”

“But—?” Selby began.

“Rowle’s
mother
is alive, and she’s bound to hear the story. And we have only Hetty’s
theory
about the relationship between Rowle and his wife. We could not take a chance on so unsubstantial a theory. I think it best to let matters rest.”

The men sat back in their chairs, defeated. Hetty, seeing their complete collapse and knowing her brother well enough to realize that he was not likely to change his mind, resorted to her last means of attack. She permitted two tears to roll down her cheeks. “And I? Am
I
to be left in the dark, to face the accusations and the sneers of all my circle without even the inner knowledge of the truth to sustain me through the ordeal?”

Drew looked at her with a twinkle. “Come now, Hetty, you’re doing it much too brown. You know perfectly well that I’m no murderer. That knowledge should sustain you quite adequately. It’s only your
curiosity
that can’t be satisfied.”

“Quite right, Drew,” agreed her husband. “He has you there, m’dear.”

Hetty looked from her husband to her brother in disgust. “Very well, I
admit
I’m curious. I’m
bursting
with curiosity, as you both have guessed. And I intend to find out. I’m willing to give my word of honor not to tell a soul, if you insist, but I want to know the truth of this affair so that I can understand why all this secrecy is necessary. I shan’t rest, nor shall I give any of
you
any rest, until you’ve told me the whole story. After all, Drew, I am all the family you have. Next to Selby, you are the dearest person in the world to me. Have I not the right to know the truth?”

Drew hesitated. Selby, taking advantage of that momentary lapse, put in quickly, “Tell her, Drew. Tell her, if you’ve any feeling for me at all. My life will be a nightmare if you don’t.”

Drew looked at Wys, who nodded his agreement. “Your sister has the ability to disturb
my
life too, I have no doubt,” he said, with a rueful smile at the tiny but forceful Hetty.

“Very well,” Drew sighed. “But, Hetty, you must give your word that the story will go no further than this room—that no matter how sorely you are tried, nor how many nasty things are said about your brother, you will be strong and refuse to reveal any information you learn today.”

“Oh, but Drew, what if—?”

Selby cut her short. “Hetty!” he said, his voice filled with warning.

“Oh, very well,” she pouted. “I give my word.”

“Good,” said Drew shortly and rose from his chair. “If you’ll excuse me, I’ll let Wys tell you about it. I’m going to dress. I have a call I wish to make this morning.” With that, he left the room, but the others took no notice. They leaned toward each other, eager to review the fascinating particulars of the occurrence, six months before, when Edward Brockhurst, Lord Rowle, met his untimely end.

It had been a mildly pleasant evening at White’s, Wys related, until Sir George Pollard had made his appearance, bearing with him his friend, Lord Rowle. Rowle, whose reputation as a gambler was unsavory, had never been offered membership at this the most reputable of the gambling clubs, but his admittance could not be refused if he came for the evening under the aegis of a member. This was not the first time Sir George had brought his crony along. Sir George himself was not popular among the membership, being a very clever player and a winner perhaps too often to avoid attracting suspicions concerning the honesty of his play. But no trace of dishonesty had ever been proved, and Sir George was therefore a member in good standing. He could be found almost every evening sitting in his accustomed seat, his ebony cane (a distinctive piece with a carved ivory handle, which he carried everywhere) propped up against his chair.

Wystan had been inveigled to join in their game and found himself winning heavily from Rowle, who was badly foxed. He’d tried two or three times to withdraw from play, but Rowle insisted on a chance to get even, and the play continued. Suddenly, Rowle’s luck began to turn and he won two hands in quick succession. Wys again made a movement to end the game, but now that he was winning, Rowle insisted that Wys remain. Wys sighed and resumed his seat. Rowle continued to drink heavily. His cheeks were flushed, his dank blonde hair was matted with sweat, his eyes were wild. The bets went higher and higher despite Wys’s attempts to keep them within bounds, but there was no reasoning with Rowle.

Drew’s game at another table had ended, and he came looking for Wys, hoping for his company on the walk home. He paused behind Rowle’s chair and watched the play. Suddenly, his hand swooped down, pinning Rowle’s arm to the table. “What—? Who—? What’re y’doin’?” cried the drunk Lord Rowle.

Without a word, Drew lifted Rowle’s arm from the table. Under Rowle’s sleeve rested a hidden card. A gasp went up from the men at the table and those standing near by. Rowle went white, and Wys jumped up from his seat. “I think you’re a bit too foxed to play tonight, eh Rowle?” Drew said suggestively, giving Rowle the chance to say that he was too drunk to know what he was doing. “Pick up the pot, Wystan, and let’s go home. I think Lord Rowle has had enough for tonight.”

Sir George, who had been watching, felt a wave of relief. The man he had sponsored had been found cheating, and this would reflect on him, too. Lord Jamison had given them both a way out. Pleading drunkenness, they could apologize and make their escape with no reprisal other than a flurry of gossip which would soon die down. “Yes, good idea,” he said quickly, shoving the chips toward Wys. “Let’s get you some air, Rowle, old boy. Do us
both
good.”

But Rowle’s face flushed angrily and his eyes glittered with hate. He picked up his glass of wine and turned to Drew, flinging the contents in Drew’s face. “Accuse me of cheatin’, will you?” he muttered. “Nothin’ for it but to make you call me out.”

“Don’t be a fool,” Drew said quietly. “Get out of here before you make things worse.” And he took out a handkerchief and calmly wiped his face.

Freddie Knightsbridge, who had been one of the players at the table, shook his head in disapproval. “I don’t think you should let him get away with this, Drew,” he said in a low voice.

“Do you want this to end in a shooting match? The man’s drunk. Get him out of here, Pollard, and quickly!” Drew said.

“Come along, man, come along,” Pollard said urgently to Rowle.

But Rowle was too far gone. “Won’t go without m’ winnings. Was my game. Mine! Would o’ won if Jamison hadn’t interfered. Ought to ’pologize or meet me.” And he reached shakily for the chips lying unclaimed on the table.

Sir Reginald Travers, a distinguished, white-haired gentleman who had been a member of the club for longer than anyone else present, leaned over the table, put his hands over the chips and shook his head. He gave Drew a quick glance and shrugged, then turned his eye to Rowle. “There will be neither winnings nor an apology to you, Lord Rowle. The game is Mr. Farr’s.”

The observers exchanged looks. Sir Reginald’s meaning was clear. Rowle’s chance of escape was no longer open. “No other way,” whispered Freddie to Lambert Aylmer who had squeezed his way into the circle of men surrounding the table. “Rowle’s gone too far.” For Rowle now had no choice but to face the consequences of his act of cheating.

Wys glanced at Drew. “
I
shall meet him, of course,” he said quickly. “Will you second me, Drew?”

Drew gave his friend a little smile. “Thank you, Wys,” he said, “but it was
I
who had the challenge.” And he showed the wine-stained handkerchief to support his claim. “You will second
me
, I hope.” Wys made an unhappy but acquiescent bow.

“And I, of course, will second Lord Rowle,” Pollard said curtly. “I shall see him home and call on you in your rooms, Mr. Farr.” With those words, he led his drunken friend from the room.

The arrangements were made for the following morning, and it was a very pale Lord Rowle who descended from the carriage at a country inn ten miles from London. Wys surmised that Rowle’s friend, Sir George, had made him painfully aware that he’d been a complete fool. First he had cheated at White’s—in that unforgivably clumsy way—and then he had challenged the man whose accuracy with a pistol was legendary. Drew had given Rowle three opportunities to withdraw from the challenge, but he had drunkenly—or stubbornly—ignored them. There was only one hope for Rowle now—that Drew would delope.

To shoot wide, or fire in the air on purpose, was a practice forbidden in the
Code Duello
, but outside of Ireland the rule was often violated. Deloping was, in fact, a not-uncommon practice. Wys suspected that Drew intended to delope, knowing that his friend did not wish to inflict further harm on poor Rowle, whose reputation would be forever marred by what had happened the night before. Wys was therefore not very concerned about the outcome of the duel. When Rowle saw Drew raise his arm toward the sky, he was bound to do likewise, in relief and gratitude. The requirements of honor would thus be met, and no blood would be shed.

But the events did not follow the predicted pattern. Pollard and Wys checked the pistols, the participants were armed, the paces were measured, and they took aim. As Wys had surmised, Drew raised his arm skyward. Rowle, with a cry of relief, shot off his pistol before the order to fire was given. But he did not shoot in the air as Wys had expected. He had aimed right at Drew! The shot struck Drew on the underside of the arm that he’d raised in the air. With a wince of pain, Drew dropped his arm, and, having been about to fire, he unwittingly pulled the trigger as his arm fell. To everyone’s horror, the shot gave Rowle a fatal wound.

With Rowle dead and Drew wounded, Wys had no choice but to call in the magistrates. Their inquiry was short and conclusive: with the evidence of the doctor who had been an eye witness, and the situation of Drew’s wound—proof that he’d been about to fire into the air—Lord Jamison was completely exonerated. All the witnesses agreed to sign the statement that Rowle had shot too soon and had thus caused his own death. The case was closed.

In sympathy for the widow and the mother who survived Lord Rowle, Drew had immediately pledged the participants to silence, and Wys had carted him home. Selby, who by this time had heard rumors of the doings of the night before, was found waiting nervously in Drew’s hallway. The sight of his brother-in-law, pale from the loss of blood and tense with pain, upset him considerably. He and Wys helped Drew to bed. Since Drew was too weak to discuss plans to hide from the world the fact of his wound, Selby was drawn into the group who were privy to the events of the morning. He and Wys concocted a story about Drew’s having left London to take care of some business at his country estates; and while he recuperated, they busied themselves in spreading the word that Rowle had died accidentally. When no contradictory word was issued from Rowle’s family, the story had to be accepted, and eventually the gossip died down.

Hetty sat back in her seat, her brow wrinkled in thought. “There’s something I still don’t understand,” she said. “If the explanation of Rowle’s death was not questioned by Rowle’s family, how is it that Gwen accused Drew of murder?”

“I have no doubt of the answer to that,” Selby said bitterly. “Pollard!”

Wys shook his head mournfully. “I’m very much afraid you’re right. The man’s a rackety loose screw, and sure as check he told Lady Rowle just enough about the duel to make Drew the villain of the piece.”

“Dash it!” Hetty cried, shocked. “I won’t sit still for that, I can tell you!” And true to her word, she jumped to her feet. “I won’t have that man maligning my brother that way! I’m going to tell Gwen the truth this very morn—!”

“Hetty, sit down!” ordered her husband sharply. “You gave your word, not one half-hour ago. You’ll not break it while I have a breath in my body. So take a damper!”

The willful Hetty stuck out her chin and looked at her husband rebelliously. She met with a firm and quelling stare. Wys watched in amused fascination while her eyes dropped and she meekly lowered her head. Selby was not such a milksop with Hetty as Wys had supposed.

“A bad promise, like a good cake, is better broken than kept,” Hetty muttered as she resumed her seat.

“Don’t feed me platitudes,” Selby ordered. “You are honor-bound to keep your mouth tightly closed in this matter. Is that clear?”

“Yes, my dear,” she said with a small sigh.

Wys pushed away his teacup and leaned back in his chair to face Selby. “It’s all very well to keep your wife in line,” he said, “but we have come up with no plan for clearing Drew’s good name. With all this talk, the only thing we’ve accomplished is adding one small female into the select circle of people who know the truth. And she was on his side by act of birth anyway.”

“Wys is right,” Hetty said. “If you won’t let me talk about this, how
are
we to clear his name?”

Selby shrugged. “Why look at
me
in that accusing way? What can
I
do? Drew is the only one who can do anything about this brangle, and he won’t.”

“Can’t we think of anything else? Surely there must be something—?” Hetty asked in desperation.

“I’ve been up all night trying to think of something, but I confess I’m completely defeated,” Wys admitted in complete discouragement.