Dedicated Villain (55 page)

His left hand stirred in agitation on the coverlet. Something very sharp scratched his fingers and he caught his breath. If he didn't know better … He set his jaw and struggled desperately, and managed to move his fingers again. They touched a warm softness, a small form. He heard a faint trill and horror seized him. He tried to call out, gasping with the pain that effort cost him.

A muttered exclamation; quick, soft steps, and a woman's voice said kindly, “It's all right, Captain Mathieson.” A blessedly cold cloth touched his cheek. “Just try to lie—Sir! Thank goodness you've come! He's awake and in a awful state!”

“Where …?” Mathieson whispered, fear lending him strength. “Where …?”

“You're at Dominer, dear lad. Perfectly safe. And …”

The rest of it was lost in astonishment, because his mind could only handle one thing at a time.
Muffin
? Was that Muffin's voice—so kindly, so concerned? Was this Muffin's hand, gently smoothing back his hair? But—if he was at Dominer …! “Sir,” he panted in febrile agitation. “Treason … dragoons … Mustn't keep me … here!” And he drifted again into the emptiness before he could ask the all important question.

The next time he awoke, his bed was on fire and he was struggling feebly to escape Lambert, who kept pushing him down into the flames, hurting him as only Lambert knew how
to hurt. He gasped a plea for water, and almost at once a glass was at his lips. A gentle hand was bathing his face. He awoke fully. It was so hot, so terribly hot, but there was something—some question … He remembered, and whispered, “Fiona …”

“Yes, beloved. I'm here.”

Horrified, he groaned aloud. “No!
Ah, mon Dieu! No!
”

A muffled sob. “Darling,” said the voice he loved above all others, “I know all about it. How wickedly … wonderfully, you lied to—to protect me. How—gallantly you went away and left me.”

“Didn't … want you—to know … to see me … like this …” he moaned, his head tossing distressfully on the burning pillows. “Go! Don't—don't want … you …”

Her cool hand was caressing his cheek. She said lovingly, “Stop being so silly and thrashing about, Roly, or you'll hurt your dear self. I found you, and I have no least intention to leave you. Ah, beloved, never grieve so. Do you think I could have lived without you?”

But distraught and half delirious, he raved and tossed and would not be comforted. Her tender voice faded. The shadows closed in around him and he was lost and alone in an unending dark nightmare of heat and suffering, wanting only to give up this cruel fight, but always held back by two little hands that clung to his own, or bathed his face, or held water to his dry lips. By the voice he so loved, yet dreaded to hear. By the tender kisses pressed on his cheek, on his hands. By her love that was so deep, so faithful.

After a long time, he woke again. His hand moved in a faint groping; his head tossed fretfully. She wasn't here. Perhaps she never had been here. Perhaps he'd dreamed it all. He was weaker now and the pain was very bad, and cravenly, he whispered her name. At once, his hot hands were clasped by her small, cool ones. He gave a faint sigh of relief. “You—didn't go, then …”

“Foolish boy. I shall never leave you. Don't think to be easily rid of me.”

“Should—make you go … Selfish. Wrong to—to …”

“To let me stay? Because you are—just for a little while—unable to see?”

“Not—just for—little while, sweet … child. Should—send you 'way. But—I'm only …” His voice faded.

Wiping away her tears, Fiona leaned closer to the bed. “Only—what, beloved?”

“Only,” he sighed wearily, “very amateur … hero.” And then, as the pain worsened and the deep pit loomed, he cried, “Fiona! Don't—don't leave me …! Please …”

Her hands tightened on his. “Never, beloved,” she said huskily. “I swear it.”

Comforted, he let the pit claim him.

Marbury sat with his elbows on the desk and stared blindly at Beast, stretched out in a sunny spot on the carpet. The end was very near. There was so much he had wanted to know—so much he would like to have said. But there was no time now … Fever had come, as though Roland had not enough to bear, and was destroying what was left of the boy. Before their eyes, despite the frantic efforts of the doctors and the eight nurses and Clorinda and that splendid girl, it raged ever more destructively, the delirium racking him, the tossing and the pain exhausting the last vestiges of his strength. And that ghastly shape in the corner was halfway across the room now. The girl, so magnificent, so untiring, fought to hold it at bay, but from the corner of his eye, at dawn this morning, he had thought to see it … creeping, creeping …

“Clifford …?”

The duke wrenched his head up and forced a smile. My lady
was peeping shyly around the door. Hopefully, she'd not seen him drooping like a spineless fool. He rose and went to greet her.

Lady Clorinda had never entered this comfortable room, and once inside she stood still, staring through the pale beams of winter sunlight to the mantel. “Oh—Muffin …! Did—did
you
do that?”

He glanced at the portrait. “Yes. I—used to keep it in my bedchamber, but I—rather like to have it by me … now. I think—later, you know—I shall hang it in …” His voice faltered; he went on bravely, “in the Great Hall.”

Her little hand tightened on his. Her eyes were very soft. “Yes. I agree. That is where it belongs. In the place of honour.” She took the chair he drew up and watched him walk around the great desk. How very tired he looked. They all were, of course. Fiona, in particular. Dear little Fiona, who seldom left that quiet room for fear that she might come back and find the battle lost. And thinking all this, my lady said none of it, murmuring instead, “I knew you had great talent. But—you surprise me, Clifford. That was painted with—with love, I think? Yet …”

Marbury sighed. “I know. I've never been able to understand it myself. Loving him—in spite of what he was. And now … 'tis even more puzzling, for from what you've all told me, it would seem he is a very gallant young man. Whereas—”

“You had been told otherwise?”

He shrugged. “I did not have to be told,” he said wryly. “He made no secret of it. His misdeeds were common knowledge. The gambling, the women, the wildness. He was expelled from school, you know. Not surprising. In a word, m'dear—notorious. Later … there was his reputation for—shady dealings, and that driving fixation for the gold … And now—this! So out of character. I just … cannot understand.”

“Poor soul,” she said kindly. “You never have.”

He shot a startled glance at her. “Have you?”

“I knew Dudley.”

“Well, so did I. He was my son! And he—”

“Lied to and deceived you from start to finish! No Clifford! Never freeze me with your icy stare, for I'll not be frozen, and so I warn you! He hated Roland—did he tell you that?”

Marbury was shocked. “
Hated
… his own son? Madam, I—”

“Oh sit down do, and don't be so confoundedly ducal. Yes, I said confounded, sir! I am tired and irritable, and I swear at times—lots more wicked words than that, I assure you!”

A faint smile coming into his eyes, my lord duke sat down again. Of course she was tired. And she had been so good with the boy. Day and night she had helped through this last terrible week. He said gently, “You mistake the matter, ma'am. Dudley was
disappointed
in Roland naturally, but—”

“
Un
naturally, more like! But pray tell me now about the so-called slut your son seduced. Did you ever see her?”

“Fortunately—no. And
she
seduced
him
, Clorinda—just as I was seduced!” He looked at her, wistful-eyed. “Cast your mind back, my dear. Do you not recall?”

She smiled sadly. “We were so young, Clifford … So terribly in love. And that wicked Mary Frobisher said you had assaulted her and got her with child. Such nonsense, when you were but seventeen years old—and so gently shy. And she was what—twenty-five?—and bold as any tart!”

He blinked and corrected, “Twenty-two, Clorinda. And one should not speak ill of the dead, my dear.”

“Why not? She was pure alley cat when she was alive. I doubt she has changed a whisker! Oh, how I hated the vixen! Did you really rape her?”

“
Clorinda.
”

“Of course you didn't. 'Twas more likely t'other way round! But they made you wed the little b—Oh, I'll not shock you further. And then Dudley was born … and grew up to be so very handsome.”

“He was—but with all his mother's failings, and far too many of my own, alas. I had such hopes for him, Clorinda. I tried so
hard … but … And then—to run off with—that creature! It was years, you know, before I found out about their child.”

“You made Dudley acknowledge Roland as his son. He didn't like that, Muffin.”

“Had I known what the boy would do—”

“
Did
you know, then? You surprise me. I always fancied Dudley had lied to you—as he lied about poor Juliette de Fleury.”

Marbury stood again and came to draw a chair nearer and sit beside her. “What do you mean? Dudley had no reason to lie to me—I had made him quite financially independent, and he knew he would inherit my fortune and titles. Why should he poison me against his mistress? Against his illegitimate son?”

“Partly, as I said, because you found out about the child, and shamed him by forcing him to admit it. But—did you know he married her?”

“WHAT?”
Marbury leapt to his feet, and the chair went over with a crash. For a moment he gazed at her; flushed, shocked beyond words, while she met his wide, horrified eyes coolly. Then, he recovered his aplomb, righted the chair, and occupied it again. “You—quite startled me, my lady. But you are mistaken, I do assure you. Had they been wed there would have been records; marriage lines, banns. Dudley would have brought his wife to be presented, however much he knew I would have despised her—he would have made the attempt. Or she, knowing that now she had a right, would have applied to me for funds. Neither of those things happened. I once ordered a search, Clorinda, for I had a small suspicion— But there was nothing. Neither in England, nor in France.”

“No. Quite so. The tragic thing is that poor Juliette thought there was. He arranged a ‘ceremony,' do you see? A quiet one, but with a ‘priest' and a proper ‘service.' He couldn't have her, else. And he wanted her. She was so very beautiful. He hid her away in a secluded little love nest, but he feared you might hear of it, so he took her back to France. And—for three years she thought herself Lady Fairleigh. Poor, innocent child. When she discovered the truth—it was much too late. She was ruined.”

Very pale now, Marbury stared at her small grim face in horrified disbelief.

“Oh, yes,” she went on, relentless. “'Tis quite true. He deserted her when he realized she no longer loved her betrayer. He had to be loved, you see. He would probably never have looked at Roland again had you not discovered his misdeeds. Then, he had to make some pretense at meeting his obligations, so he brought the boy over here for his education. It was an education, all right!”

Marbury said feebly, “Clorinda, you—you have been misinformed. What you say is—is not—
cannot
be so! Dudley was weak, and—and an immoral wastrel, but—”

“He took Roland on his first hunt when he was nine years old,” she overrode inexorably. “From the time he had been obliged to acknowledge him, Dudley kept him away from his mother save for a brief yearly visit. But the damage was done. For five years Juliette had schooled Roland in her own gentleness. She taught him to love all living things—especially animals. This, then, was the child Dudley took hunting!”

“And—?” asked the duke, despite himself.

“I don't know. Dudley claimed Roland disgraced him. Afterward, he used every possible means to break the boy—to make him into what he himself was. As Roland grew older and became more and more handsome, his resemblance to Juliette ever more marked, I really believe Dudley was almost insanely jealous of him. He delighted to tell Roland that he was worthless—that he would always be bad.” She sighed. “The boy began to believe it, I suppose.”

Aghast, Marbury murmured, “But—but, if what you say
is
truth—what was it that he did? How did he so enrage Dudley, as to cause such terrible rage and bitterness?”

“I do not know. Nor did I know all of this. But I brought the man who told me, and who can answer you.” She raised her voice. “Sorenson—you may come in now.”

The door opened, and Sorenson slipped in, as neat and elegant as ever, but with despair written large on his haggard face.