Regency Buck (42 page)

Captain Audley, who had retired to the window, stepped forward. “You will allow me to accompany you?” he said.

She smiled. “Yes, indeed, I should be glad. I daresay we shall find Perry in Marine Parade after all. Mr. Brummell, I wish you had not been here, for I am aware how I must have sunk in your estimation! You told me once never to betray emotion, and here I am, on the high road to hysterics! No, no, do not come out with me, Lord Worth! Captain Audley has me in charge.”

The Earl, however, accompanied her to her phaeton, handed her up into it, and saw her drive off. When he returned to the saloon he found Mr. Brummell standing where he had left him, sipping a glass of Madeira. Mr. Brummell said in his pensive way: “It occurs to me, Julian, that though
I
might not be so well informed, the news of a mill to be fought in the district must have reached
your
ears.”

“You would think so,” replied the Earl shortly.

Mr. Brummell looked at him over the rim of his wine-glass. “Well, do you know, I do think so,” he said. “The cocking was a better notion, and if
you
are satisfied with it, it would be absurd for
me
to cavil.”

“I am not in the least satisfied with it,” said the Earl. “But something had to be said. If you have any suggestion to offer I shall be glad to hear it. What is in your mind, George?”

“Who,” asked Mr. Brummell, “is the heir to Peregrine’s fortune?”

“To a great extent, his sister.”

Mr. Brummell shook his head. “I cannot feel that Miss-Taverner would be guilty of the impropriety of murdering her brother.”

The Earl poured himself out a glass of wine, and tasted it before he answered. “Murder, George, is a very strong word,” he said. “There was also a groom, and a tilbury, and a pair of horses.”

“True,” agreed Brummell. “Yet I am of the opinion that a resourceful person might—at a pinch—find the means of disposing of a groom, a tilbury and even a pair of horses.”

“It is a possibility that has already occurred to me. It is not, however, one that I intend to present to Miss Taverner.”

Mr. Brummell set down his glass, and opened his snuff-box again. “How many years have I known you, Julian?” he inquired.

“Precisely eighteen,” replied the Earl, with disastrous promptness.

“Nonsense!” said Brummell, considerably startled. “It was not as long ago as that, surely, that I joined the regiment?”

“You were gazetted to the 10th Hussars in June of ’94, and you left us in ’98—upon the regiment’s being moved to Manchester,” said the Earl inexorably.

“I remember
that
,”
admitted Brummell. “But how very shocking! I must be thirty-four or five!”

“Thirty-four,” said the Earl.

“My dear Julian, I beg you won’t mention it to anyone!” said Brummell earnestly.

“I won’t. What was it you wanted to say?”

“Oh, merely that during the years I have known you I have always thought you a man of considerable resource,” said Brummell.

“I am obliged to you,” said the Earl. “You have only to add that the most determined suitor to Miss Taverner’s hand is one Charles Audley, and we shall understand one another tolerably well.”

“But I have known you for eighteen years,” objected Brummell. “And it does seem to me that I have seen another determined suitor—a very civil gentleman who is, I think, a cousin.”

“Admiral Taverner’s son,” said the Earl briefly.

Brummell nodded. “Yes, I met the Admiral in Brook Street once. He is a fellow, now, who would send his plate up twice for soup. I am perfectly willing to suspect any son of his.”

“Yes,” said the Earl, “I rather fancy that if nothing is heard of Peregrine, suspicion will point to Mr. Bernard Taverner. That would be unfortunate for Mr. Bernard Taverner.”

“I collect,” remarked Brummell, “that the gentleman in question is no friend of yours.”

“So little my friend,” replied the Earl, “that I shall own myself surprised if he does not presently set it about that it was I who caused Peregrine, and his groom, his tilbury, and his horses to disappear.”

“Which is absurd,” said Brummell.

“Which,” agreed the Earl, “is naturally absurd, my dear George.”

In Marine Parade Miss Taverner spent an uncomfortable day, running to the window at the least sound of carriage wheels stopping outside the house, and trying to think of some good reason for Peregrine’s prolonged absence. While Mrs. Scattergood did her best to reassure her, it was evident that she too felt a considerable degree of alarm, and when, at six o’clock, there was still no sign of Peregrine, it was she, and not Miss Taverner, who sent a footman round to the Steyne with an urgent note for the Earl of Worth.

He came at once, and was ushered into the drawing-room, where both ladies were awaiting him. Miss Taverner was looking pale, and greeted him with a rather wan smile. “He has not come back,” she said, trying to speak calmly.

“No, so I am informed,” he replied. “And you, I perceive, have been fancying him dead this hour and more.”

His coolness, though it might argue a lack of sensibility, had always the power to allay any extraordinary irritation of nerves in her. She had been thinking Peregrine dead, but she at once felt such fears to be nonsensical. But Mrs. Scattergood exclaimed, with a strong shudder: “How can you say such things? If that is what you think—”

“No, it is what Miss Taverner thinks,” he answered. “Am I right, my ward?”

“Lord Worth, what am I to think? He has disappeared. I know no more than that.”

“You would do well not to imagine more,” he said. “Your brother is an extremely careless young man, but because he has chosen to slip off on some adventure without letting anyone know of it, is no reason to be in despair.”

“It will not do,” she said. “
You
know how much reason I have to fear the worst. All day long I have been recalling that duel, the attempt to shoot him on Finchley Common—even his illness in your house! Have you forgotten these things?”

“No,” he replied, “I have not forgotten them. I am leaving for London to-night. I can get no news of him on the Worthing road. You must try to trust me, Miss Taverner. Meanwhile, I wish that you will remain in Brighton, and continue as much as possible your ordinary pursuits. Until we have more precise information it would be undesirable to start any public hue and cry. The fewer people who know of Peregrine’s disappearance the better.”

“I have told no one but my cousin,” she said. “You can have no objection to that.”

“None at all,” he said with a grim little smile. “I should even be interested to hear how he received the news.”

“With a concern that did him more honour than your sneer does you, Lord Worth!” she retorted fierily.

“I can believe it. Have you ever asked yourself, Miss Taverner, who would be the person most interested in Peregrine’s death?”

“Don’t, don’t use that dreadful word!” besought Mrs. Scattergood. “Not but what I think you are right. I never did like the man!”

Miss Taverner got up swiftly, and stood leaning one hand on the table, her eyes fixed on the Earl’s face. “You forget, I think, that you are speaking of one who is nearly related to me: of one, moreover, who has earned my trust in a way that must for ever preclude my lending ear to such suspicions. Had my cousin wished to kill Peregrine he would not have stopped his duel with Farnaby last year.”

“I had certainly forgotten that,” agreed the Earl.

“Perhaps you might, but I never shall. Mr. Bernard Taverner had nothing to do with Perry’s disappearance. He dined with friends, and was with them until past midnight.”

“And was it not Mr. Bernard Taverner who recently introduced a servant of his own into your household—a servant who, by the oddest coincidence, is also missing at this moment?” inquired the Earl.

Mrs. Scattergood gave a sharp scream. “Mercy on me, so he did! Oh dear, what will become of us? I shall not sleep a wink to-night!”

“Lord Worth, you shall not make these insinuations!” Miss Taverner said. “If Peregrine was overpowered, so too must Tyler have been.”

“Miss Taverner, you have said that you fear Peregrine may have met with foul play. If your cousin is to be above suspicion, whom do you mean to choose for your villain? Since he has only one arm, Charles, I fear, is ineligible. There remains myself.”

Her eyes sank. “You are wrong. There is another,” she said, in a low voice. “I have—always held him in mind, even though every feeling must be outraged by such a thought! But my father did not trust him. I cannot get that out of my head.”

“Are you referring to your uncle?” asked the Earl. She nodded. “I see. Your cousin, meanwhile, to remain blameless. It does not seem to me very likely, but time will show. I shall hope to be able to send you more certain tidings in a day or two. Until then, I can only advise you to wait with as much patience as you can.”

“What do you mean to do in London?” asked Mrs. Scattergood. “Do you think Perry can have gone there?”

“I have no idea,” answered the Earl. “I am hoping that the Bow Street Runners will be able to help me to find out.” He held out his hand, and Miss Taverner put hers into it. “Goodbye,” he said curtly. “Keep a stout heart, Clorinda.” He bowed, and in another minute was gone.

“What was that he called you?” asked Mrs. Scattergood, momentarily diverted.

“Nothing,” replied Miss Taverner, flushing. “A stupid jest, that is all.”

She saw her cousin on the following morning, when he called to inquire whether any news had been heard of Peregrine. She informed him of Worth’s having gone to London, and requested him not to mention Peregrine’s absence to anyone. He said quickly: “I should certainly not speak of your affairs without leave, but why do you particularly wish me to be silent? Is this Lord Worth’s doing?”

“He thinks it best not to spread it abroad. I daresay he may be right. I must be guided by him.”

He took a turn about the room, and presently said with a little reserve: “I am aware that it is not for me to criticize. But what reason can he have for wishing to keep Perry’s disappearance secret? You tell me he has gone to Bow Street: that would be well done indeed—if he may be believed.
You
are to do nothing, to set no inquiries on foot: it is all to be left to him. Does he know that I am in this secret?”

“Yes,” she said. “Certainly he knows.”

He looked at her intently. “Ah, I understand! I am suspect.”

“Not by me,” she answered.

“No,” he said with a slight smile, “but by him. If anything has happened to Perry—which God forbid!—Worth will do his utmost to lay it at my door. The very fact of my having recommended Tyler to Perry, though I did it to avert this very event, gives him a weapon.”

“You did it to avert—you placed him with Perry to guard him?”

“Yes, to guard him. I have been uneasy these many weeks. Judith, who put the man Hinkson in Perry’s service?”

“Hinkson! Why, no one! Perry stood in need of a groom; Hinkson applied for the post. I know nothing more than that, cousin.”

“Nor I, but I have long believed him to be in Worth’s pay.”

“What reason have you for saying such a thing? I cannot credit it!”

“The man was never a groom in his life. There is part of my reason for you. For the rest, can you tell me why Perry’s groom should be seen going into Worth’s house? I have seen that.”

She was startled, but a moment’s reflection caused her to reply with a good deal of calm sense: “When I have had occasion to send a message to Lord Worth, Hinkson has very often been charged with it. I cannot allow his having been seen by you to be a reason for supposing him in Worth’s pay.”

“Where was Hinkson yesterday when Perry set out for Worthing?”

“He was in some tavern—I cannot tell you which. He was drunk.”

“Or he wished it to be thought that he was drunk. One more question, and I have done. Where was Lord Worth that night?”

“At the Pavilion,” she answered at once. “I was—I was taken faint there, and he brought me home.”

“He was there throughout the evening?”

“No,” she said slowly, “he came late.”

He faced her, frowning. “Judith, I have no proof, nor do I wish to make accusations which may well be unfounded, but I tell you frankly I have a profound conviction that Worth knows more of this affair than he has disclosed.”

She got up with a hasty movement. “Oh, I cannot bear it!” she cried. “Is it not enough that I should be almost distraught with anxiety for Perry? Must I also be tortured by such suspicions as these? I would not listen to Worth when he warned me against you, and I will not listen to you! Please leave me! I am in no case to talk to you, or anyone.”

“Forgive me!” he said. “I should not have troubled you with my suspicions. Forget what I have said. I will do everything that lies in my power to aid you in this search. To see you in such distress—” He broke off, and caught her hand in his, holding it very tightly. “If I could have spared you this anxiety! It is a damnable business!” He spoke with real feeling; both air and countenance showed him to be strongly moved. He pressed her hand to his lips for an instant, and with a last, eloquent look went quickly out of the room.

He left her wretched indeed. She knew not what to believe, nor whom to trust, and as the morning wore on, and no news of Peregrine came, her spirits grew more and more oppressed, until she found herself even looking on Mrs. Scattergood with doubt. Mrs. Scattergood did what she could to induce her to walk out with her and take the air, but Judith felt herself quite unequal to it, and begged with so much earnestness to be left in solitude, that the good lady judged it wisest to humour her, and set off alone to try and find some new publication upon the shelves of the circulating library sufficient enthralling to distract even the most overwrought mind.

She had not been gone above ten minutes when Sir Geoffrey Fairford’s card was brought up to Miss Taverner’s room, where she was laid down to rest. Her feelings, on reading it, were all of thankfulness, for on Sir Geoffrey’s integrity at least she could place absolute dependence. She got up, and with trembling fingers tidied her hair, and adjusted her dress. Within five minutes she was in the drawing-room, clasping both Sir Geoffrey’s hands with a look of relief so heartfelt, that the circumstance of their being but barely acquainted was forgotten, and Sir Geoffrey, drawing her to the sofa, obliged her to sit down, and commanded her, as though she had been his own daughter, to put him in possession of all the facts.