“I don’t expect he is writing to Papa about a
carte blanche,”
Rorie answered pertly.
“Carte blanche is it? It beats me how the young ladies nowadays get away talking like a parcel of light skirts, and never a word of retromand. Is he writing your father?”
“Yes, when I tell him he may.”
“Think you’ve got him under your thumb, do you? He’s too big a man to stay put, missie. Give him a good long leash, and never let him off it, nor out of your sight.”
“I trust him,” Rorie said, and wished she could mean it, for in truth she was not happy that he was going to see Clare again. But he would do whatever she said, and she should support him.
“You’re either a fool or slyer than you’ve been letting on. Why is he going back there?”
“To try to scare her. He wants to brush the family scandal under the rug, where it belongs.”
“The rugs will be a foot off the floor in that case,” Malone advised, and walked away smiling happily.
Chapter Seventeen
Raiker waited till after dinner before going to call on his stepmother. He wanted ample time to prepare his bargain. At eight o’clock he was handing his curled beaver and malacca cane to Wilkins and being shown into the Blue Saloon, where Clare sat alone with a piece of writing paper on her lap and a pen between her fingers.
“Good evening, sir,” she said, smiling tolerantly and offering her hand.
Kenelm raised the fingers to his lips and kissed them, before taking a seat beside her. “Good evening, Mama,” he said with a sardonic smile.
“No need to call me so, sir. There is no one here to listen to your performance this evening.”
“Which led me to hope you might give up your play-acting, Clare. It’s time you and I got down to hard bargaining. You know I’m going to insist on my full rights. My boyish behaviour in the far past misled you into thinking you might make a fool of me again, but it is not the case. I took full blame for
your
misdeeds the night Papa caught you laying siege to me, but really, you know, when you accused me of beating him and him of shooting me in the back, you went beyond forgiveness. That was your undoing. I came prepared to be generous to you, to forgive and forget. You were young yourself in those days, and life with an old man cannot have been easy for a lusty young girl, but you brought it on yourself, and I do think still you might have looked for more eligible lovers than your husband’s sons. I don’t know how you hoped to prove I am not Kenelm, when all my friends and relatives have recognized me. You thought they would not do so, perhaps, but you were wrong. It’s time to give up the game, and strike the best deal with me you can.”
“Do you think so, Mr. Rutley?” she asked, smiling serenely.
“Another mistake, claiming I am he, when we both know the man is alive, or was five years after his mysterious disappearance, in any case. A bit of a problem for you if he should turn up,
n’est-ce pas?”
“You have turned up, Mr. Rutley. The problem would be if Kenelm turned up, but I don’t think it at all likely, as he is dead and buried.”
“Well then, let us say a problem if the gypsies began instituting enquiries regarding the disappearance of Ferdinand.”
Her eyes narrowed, and she shifted uneasily in her chair. “Who is this gypsy you speak of?”
“How unreliable that memory of yours is! The one you sketched so prettily in your book just before Papa died. The one who is dead now, and buried in the unmarked grave wearing my outfit. Tell me, Clare, for I must confess those two points continue to nag. Why my uniform, and even more curious, why my rings? I thought that they, like the emeralds, you would have squirreled away for a rainy day.”
“I don’t have the emeralds!” she said quickly.
“I think you must, Mama.
I
don’t have them. They were not buried with my rings and Ferdinand, and they are not among the heirlooms. Ergo, you have them.”
“You overlook Horace Rutley,” she said.
“Now this is more like it. You are beginning to talk sense.”
She looked at him, a short, calculating glance, and he went on blandly. “No, no, I have not swallowed that nonsense that poor old Horace has the necklace. I mean the good sense of not bothering to pretend you think I am Rutley. You’re at a standstill, Clare. Your plan has failed miserably. I can almost admire your nerve in attempting it, but it has collapsed; let us get down to terms. How much for withdrawing your objections to my claim, and for returning the emeralds? I am pretty well-to-do, even beyond my inheritance. Business prospered in the east. You won’t want to remain here when all this is over. I suggest Tunbridge Wells again, where you landed Papa. I’ll give you sufficient to set yourself up in the height of fashion. You might even do better than a baron this time. You’re not quite gone to seed yet.” He looked her over assessingly, and she bristled.
“No time to show your hackles, my girl. There is still Ferdinand to be explained away. Better for you to do it privately. I am not eager to see my stepmother in the dock for murder. If you can give me a plausible story, I’ll be quiet.”
“Don’t think
I
killed him!”
“You know who did. Let’s hear it.”
She sat a moment, drawing deep breaths and running her mind over a likely story. Events had turned out badly for Lady Raiker. She really had thought Kenelm was dead. Eleven years, and never a word from him outside of that card the first year. Dozens of Englishmen succumbed to fevers and liver in the east. Why couldn’t he? It seemed hard that he should turn up on the
very day
she was presenting Charles as the lord, and herself as his guardian, with the estate and income in her keeping. She had hardly recognized Ken herself, and she knew him so very well, better than all the others who eagerly backed him up. She had had only a moment to make her decision, and had had to do it in a crowded room with dozens of eyes on her. It had seemed entirely possible that she might defeat his claim.
There was the body in the grave pointing to him, and if that failed, there was his old infatuation with her to fall back on. But he had proved to the board of questioners that he was Kenelm Derwent, had proved impervious to her charms. She thought the worst that could happen was that she would be shown to be mistaken. She claimed no personal knowledge of the body in the grave. With her husband dead, she could impute any story to him without fear of contradiction, so that was all right. But now that the truth about the gypsy was known, she must reconsider.
It had been a bad blow to find Horace Rutley not only alive, but possibly even in England. He had disliked America, had spoken of returning. It seemed every step she took sank her deeper into trouble, till at last she nearly wanted to unburden herself. But she must move cautiously. She had to say either his father or Rutley killed Ferdinand. The father was dead, which weighed the scales in his favour. But then Kenelm had taken deep offense at her other charge of his father’s having shot anyone in the back. Shooting a thieving gypsy would not be as bad as shooting a son, presumably, and might not it be wise to protect Rutley, to have that little edge over Horace in case he too showed up? On the other hand Rutley must be held accountable for stealing the necklace, and it would be easier to have only one culprit.
“I think it must have been Rutley,” she said. “Of course, I wasn’t there myself. Your papa
said
it was Rutley.”
“Oh my poor father!” Kenelm cried, looking at her with a totally disbelieving eye.
“It happened in this way. I had been sketching that gypsy fellow, as you have apparently learned. From one of the girls in the caravan, I presume?”
“That’s right.” He smiled. “It was her happening to mention to me that I reminded her of Ferdinand that made me twig to it.”
“He was here one evening when I was going to a party with your father, wearing the Raiker emeralds. I saw him looking at them, admiring them.”
“What was he doing here at such an hour?”
“I had been sketching him, and they were feeding him in the kitchen afterward. He was leaving just as we came out of the house. That same night, about an hour after we had returned from the party and the emeralds were put in the vault, Rutley came to see your father. He was in trouble over that horse-trading deal, and wanted money to go abroad. Your father went to his study to the vault. There was a movement in the corner, and the gypsy made a run for the window. Rutley had a gun with him, and shot him as he tried to jump out.”
“I take it the gypsy wasn’t wearing my uniform at the time?”
“Gracious no! That was your papa’s idea. He was afraid the gypsies would come back looking for him and dig up the grave some dark night. He thought if they saw an impressive uniform they would take it for someone else. And the rings were put in as an added inducement. Even if they came early enough to recognize the dead man’s face—and of course your father hoped they would not—he thought they would content themselves with stealing the rings. They couldn’t very well report the death if they had stolen those rings.”
“A posthumous bribe. It doesn’t sound like Papa, Clare. Are you certain that wasn’t your idea?”
“I may have thought of it. Your father discussed it with me. I don’t really remember where the idea came from initially.”
“Did it occur to you that early on they might also lead people to think the body was mine, should it be necessary to dig it up?”
“Certainly not! Both your father and Bernard were alive and well. I never foresaw the day
you
would be Lord Raiker.”
“Just a happy accident, then. I daresay it weighed with your thinking you could palm the body off as mine. But you really should have made sure Horace was dead before doing it.”
“He won’t come back. We discovered after the gypsy was buried and Horace gone that the emeralds were missing. The gypsy had been after them, we assumed. Why else would he have been there? But he didn’t get them. Didn’t know how to get the vault open, I suppose. He must have spied around till we returned from the party, and seen your father put them away, for he was in the right room at least. But they were gone, and it must be that Horace pocketed them in the confusion of finding the gypsy here. Your father had the vault open to give him money—it would have been possible for him to slip them out.”
“I hope you’re telling the truth. I mean to find Horace, if I have to comb the world to do it.”
“Well, as far as that goes, we don’t
know
he took them. The gypsy could have got them out of the vault and closed it up again, passed them along to an accomplice who got away while Ferdinand looked around to see what else was worth taking. They were gone. That is all we know, and the rest is assumption.”
“You know damned well Horace hasn’t got them, in other words, and are beginning your explanations early. You’ve told me this much, Clare. Why not be honest and give up the necklace while you’re about it?”
“I don’t have it, I tell you. It’s gone.”
“You know perfectly well I hadn’t taken the emeralds, as I’d been gone six months. Knew all along I was Kenelm. How do you excuse that series of lies? Your foolish story that I attacked my father, and was shot in the back by him?”
“Oh, Ken, your father was dead and I truly believed you were too. What was the harm in telling a little story about two dead men, just in the greatest privacy? I didn’t recognize you at all when you came back. You have grown so tall and handsome, so manly. You were only a boy when you left. How should I recognize that boy in you? Kennie used to like me, and you were so cold and hard. I had to do something to secure your brother’s rightful inheritance. I could see at a glance you were so determined and clever and so handsome all the girls were ready to back you, whoever you were. I took you for some reckless adventurer, an impostor trying to seize the Raiker title and fortune from Charles. I had to make a very strong effort not to fall in love with you myself, for you
did
remind me a
little
of Ken, whom I always was fond of,” she added with a speaking smile.
“Cut line, Clare. I’m older than sixteen now. You thought I’d changed enough that you might pull it off, taking into consideration my outfit and rings on the gypsy’s body.”
Clare looked closely, and decided he was not to be won by flattery. She assumed a wounded face, and remained silent to see what he would say or do next.
“Now where do we stand?” he asked himself. “Any loose ends, barring the emeralds? We’ve accounted for the body in the grave and the outfit on him, for your thinking you could oust me, and for Rutley’s remove. Ah yes, my letter to Papa. What did you do with it?”
“There was no letter received, Ken. But the post from such an outlandish place as Karikal, anything might have happened to it. Why didn’t you write again?”
“I don’t recall mentioning that I wrote from Karikal.” He looked at her with a triumphant smile. She opened her lips to offer some explanation, then closed them again. “Obviously you would have kept any other letters from me as well. Ah, one other detail. The grave—what did you do with the Jenkins baby formerly occupying the spot?”
“Your father mentioned something about disliking having a bastard child who was not family there. He wished to have it moved—sent to the mother’s own parish—and chose that time to do it, I assume.”
Kenelm lifted a brow at this, mentally jotting down one more point for further consideration.
“You
must rescind that infamous story about Papa shooting me,” he said.
“How can I do so?” she asked.
“Claim it was the delirious ramblings of a man
in extremis.
As I am alive everyone knows it to be a lie in any case. Say I have convinced you of my identity, so you have concluded Papa was delirious. You might dilute the story in stages. You will know how to do it better than I,” he added with a satirical smile.
“I could say I only had it of Joe Miller,” she suggested.
“Excellent! There is no one like a dead man for a witness. But I hardly have to tell
you
that. If only we could know Horace is dead, what a lot of worry you would be saved, eh, Clare? But I give you fair warning, if I find him freshly murdered, you won’t get away with it. And I’ll find him. Better get busy watering down tonight’s story.”