Jo Beverley - [Malloren] (25 page)

“With your indulgence, my lord,” said Lieutenant Cripp, a sober-eyed, ambitious young man, “our duty here is to do with George Cotter and his followers.”

“I have reason to suspect a link, Lieutenant.”

Cripp clearly doubted it, but was wise enough not to push indulgence too far. He had queried his orders, so if it ever came to an inquiry, his skin would be safer.

Once the officers had left, Rothgar picked up the note again, scrutinizing it for anything more it might offer. Abruptly, he left his private rooms and went down to the entrance hall. The footman there leapt forward to offer assistance.

“Where would a guest here find writing paper and implements?”

“In the guest lounge, milord,” said the footman, leading the way.

The room was deserted. Rothgar went to the desk and picked up a sheet of the paper. Not the same as the note. A much lower quality. The note he’d received was on the highest quality of paper, which intrigued him a great deal, especially as it looked as if identification had been torn off the top.

Crested paper. The London Fly. Brand. What could connect the three?

He should return to his room and logical thought, but worry sent him out of the inn, where he would see any arrival sooner. It was country teatime, and the place was virtually deserted, which suited his mood. He wasn’t in the habit of pacing and fretting, but now, waiting for his men to return, he was close to it.

When his father and stepmother had died, his nearest half brother Bryght had been a dark, intense adolescent, difficult in his anger and grief. They’d only found closeness in recent years. Cyn and his sister had been seven-year-old twins, who’d frightened him to death, when he was only nineteen and responsible for everything.

Of his five half siblings, only Brand and Hilda never caused him trouble. Brand had been twelve, generous, sweet natured, and loving, which had been terrifying in its own way to the person who had chosen to steer him through the perils of young manhood. Hilda had been ten and blessedly calm and sensible.

They had been the ones who’d seemed to understand his pain and fear, even though he’d never felt free to show it. They’d done their best to help.

They’d run after the twins, and eased Bryght out of his grim moods. When Rothgar was most uncertain of himself, most overwhelmed with administration and responsibilities, Hilda would appear with her beloved lute and play to him. Sometimes just her smile was enough, reminding him of why he was still fighting the wellmeaning relatives who wanted to take them all off his hands.

Or Brand would waylay him with an urgent question to do with horses or weapons that required him to escape for a little while back to boyish things.

Like any parent—and he often felt like a parent—he tried not to play favorites, but the deepest places in his heart belonged to Brand and Hilda, the two with the sunniest natures, the two most like his magnificently generous and joyous stepmother.

Whom he, of course, had killed by carrying infection back to their home.

Had he killed Brand, too?

If his suspicions were correct, the New Commonwealth was ruthless in its holy purpose. He could see no reason for them to hurt Brand, but who else—

Hard-soled shoes clattered behind him and he turned swiftly, switching the hold on his gilded cane, which was also a sword stick.

The youth skidded to a stop, eyes wide. About thirteen, robust, healthy, rosy-cheeked from running.

“Yes?” Rothgar asked, immediately sheathing his tension so as not to alarm the boy.

“An it please you, sir. Are you the Marquess of Rothgar?”

“I am.”

“Blimey,” he breathed, eyes widening and searching.

“I left my coronet at home,” Rothgar said dryly. “You have a message for me?”

Reminded of his purpose, the youth thrust out a neat, clean, folded note. “For you, milord. The footman back at the Tuns said you’d give me sixpence for it!”

Rothgar took the note, and read the direction. One to Brand’s manservant, one direct to him. Swiftly, he broke the seal and read. Different handwriting, but essentially the same message. This time, however, Brand was mentioned specifically.

Breath became precious. No hint here either as to his condition. Was this a form of torture?

“Where did you get this?”

At his tone, the lad stepped back. “I didn’t do nothing wrong, milord!”

Rothgar realized he had crushed the paper in his hand and made himself relax. “I don’t think you did. But before you get your sixpence, you will have to tell me where you obtained this note.”

Still poised for flight, the boy said, “A lady gave it me, milord. An old lady on a horse. She said to take it to the Tuns, and make sure you got it. But to wait until the clock struck four. I only did as I was told, milord.”

“How was she dressed?”

“Dressed, milord? Like a woman.”

Rothgar felt a spurt of wry amusement. He supposed lads didn’t pay much attention to clothes. “Do you know the New Commonwealthers?”

“Aye, milord.”

“Was she one of them?”

He shook his head positively. “Nay, milord. She were dressed more like a man in skirts. Three-cornered hat and a braided jacket. She had riding boots on, an’ all.”

Curious. “Could it have been a man in skirts?”

The boy blinked. “Why would a man tangle himself up in skirts, milord?”

Rothgar took out a shilling. “Which road was she traveling?”

The lad’s eyes gleamed. “Northallerton one, milord. Her and the other.”

“The other?”

“There was another lady just like her. Two peas in a pod.”

“In boots and tricorn and man’s jacket?”

“Aye, milord!”

Rothgar tossed the boy the shilling, and watched as he ran off with a whoop. Such a simple way to bring excitement to a young life. In the meantime, he felt as if he were caught in a fever dream. Twin ladies dressed like men. Or twin men dressed like ladies?

Add a spotty kitchen maid who behaved somewhat boldly for her position, and her raddled mistress with young hands. They, however, could have no connection with this tangle.

He disciplined his mind back to the notes, which assuredly did. Two notes on different paper and in different writing, sent by different routes, but directing the search to the same spot.

And in all of this, no obvious connection to the New Commonwealth at all. Yet who else could it be? Could they have sympathizers outside the sect?

A suspicion stirred, and he returned swiftly to the inn to check the paper in the lounge again. As he’d thought, the second note had been written on the Tuns’s notepaper. He inspected the pen. Newly mended and then not much used. A quick scribble confirmed that almost certainly the second note had been written here.

By whom? The inn was almost entirely taken up by himself and Brand, but coaches changed horses regularly and passengers ate. Doubtless passengers from the London Fly had spent some time in here. The two notes could have come from the same person.

But the handwriting was markedly different. One message was in neat, rounded lettering; the other in a finer, taller script, sloping vigorously to the right.

God. What did this matter at the moment? Where was Brand? Was he alive?

He couldn’t help going to the doors of the inn to look out into the square. No sign yet.

He made himself turn away and saw the footman hovering in hopes of silver. “Who used the guests’ parlor recently?”

“I don’t rightly know, milord. People come and go.”

“Think.”

The man jerked under the terse command. “The Misses Gillsett took tea in there, milord.”

Rothgar looked at him. So easy? Too easy, surely. “Do they dress in mannish clothes and travel on horseback?”

“That’s them, milord.”

“Do they stop here often?”

“They don’t travel much, milord, but when they jaunt off to York, they always break their journey here.”

“Where do they live?”

“I’m not sure, milord. Up Arkengarthdale somewhere.”

One of the remoter dales, one with no connection to the Cotterites, yet they must have been the ones to pass the boy the note. He’d suspect impostors, except that the footman knew them. They would have to be questioned.

“Who else?”

The man scratched beneath his powdered wig. “A gentleman, milord. One of the Fly passengers who was served his meal first. I think he read the papers. Then two of the ladies from the coach sat in there a while, waiting for their meal.”

So. Three people from the coach. Any two of them could have sent the notes by different means. But why two? That was what fretted at him. The second note didn’t give much more detail than the first, and the first was not likely to go astray.

The second note had been clearly delayed, and yet the first had as good as been sent to him direct.

“And that Lady Richardson.”

He looked at the footman. “What of her?”

“She went into the parlor for a while.”

“Is she a regular guest here?”

“Never seen her before, milord. Hear tell she’s from down south.”

“Do you know anything of her?”

The man shook his head regretfully, obviously aware that information brought rewards. “Only that her spotty maid’s from Surrey, so likely she is, too. She—the maid—has been chatting to the servants here a fair bit. Seems her mistress lives a quiet life, so she enjoyed a chance at a bit of company.”

Rothgar pondered the bold maid and the painted lady, wondering if they could have any part of this. He doubted any devout Cotterite would put on such a disguise, but he placed them in his mental picture just in
case. Lady Richardson was undoubtedly up to something, but it was more likely to be extreme vice than extreme virtue.

It was his way to check everything, so he passed the footman a coin. “Pass the word among the servants that any new information about any of the passengers on the London Fly, or the Misses Gillsett, or Lady Richardson and her maid will be appreciated.”

A clattering in the square alerted him then, and with a careful appearance of calm, he went to the entrance. Ice chilled him. Kenyon knelt in a farmer’s cart, one hand bracing himself on the rough rim. He was looking down, face tense.

Rothgar’s men rode alongside, somber.

The weather-beaten farmer halted his sturdy piebald horse by the portico and Rothgar stepped swiftly to look. Braced for the worst, but praying.

Brand lay on a bed of hay, pale with the fractured breathing of a man in agony. At least he was breathing. And there was no blood. A hand on his brother’s neck found a slow pulse, but quite strong.

“The local doctor. Immediately.” One of his men rode off at a gallop.

To Kenyon, he said, “Broken bones?”

“Not as far as we can tell, milord. The pain seems to be all in his head, but there’s nothing there either.”

Rothgar felt gently around Brand’s scalp. As the manservant said, nothing. That could be worse than a clear cause.

“Bring him in.”

Brand groaned when they moved him, his breathing close to sobs. For once helpless, Rothgar could only make sure he was handled as gently as possible, his head supported at all times.

Then he noticed that his brother had been lying between rich, golden-brown blankets spread over the rotting straw. A clue. A lead to vengeance. He picked them up and followed the men into the inn and up the stairs.

Brand was silent now, and Rothgar checked his pulse again. His brother’s eyes moved behind the lids. Half-conscious, thank heaven. Conscious enough, perhaps, to suppress weak noises.

“It’s Bey,” he said quietly. “You’re safe now.” He took one of his brother’s trembling hands in a steadying grasp, and perhaps there was the trace of a squeeze in response.

Cold fury burned, but it would wait.

As soon as Brand was on a bed in a darkened room, eased carefully out of his jacket, his breeches loosened, Rothgar leaned over and put his hand to his brother’s stubble-rough cheek. “Brand?”

On a thread of breath came the reply, “Who?”

“Bey,” he said again.

His brother shuddered. “Thank God. I can’t do this again, Bey. Stop it, please.”

“I’m not God, alas.”

If only they knew the cause. Drink? Brand didn’t drink like this.

“Again,” he suddenly noted. Recurring, intense head pain could indicate a fatal condition. Brand gave a choked sob, evidence of just how terrible the pain must be.

Rothgar squeezed his brother’s hand to get attention. “What happened to you, Brand? I need to know.”

The eyes scurried around behind the lids. “She … I …” After a lingering silence, Brand said, “It’ll go away. Been here before. Don’t worry.”

“When do I ever worry? A doctor is on his way. Rest …” He suspected that by then his brother had fallen asleep or back into unconsciousness.

She? A woman?

He leaned down and kissed Brand’s temple. “Man or woman, Brand, they will pay.”

Chapter 16

T
he ruddy-faced doctor was little use, apart from confirming that Brand did not appear to have any physical injury or virulent illness, though his belly seemed tight. “I fear he has ingested something that does not agree with his system, my lord.”

“Or it could be a ferment in the brain.”

The doctor looked down. “That is possible, my lord.” And fatal, as they both knew.

“Does this follow that pattern?”

The doctor looked up, clearly alarmed by the rank of his patient. “It is hard to tell, my lord, without knowing the symptoms leading up to it. But the belly is not usually engaged. I think part of the problem must lie there.”

“What then? Drink?”

“Unlikely, if not tainted. Bad food rarely causes this extent of head pain.” He leaned forward and pulled back Brand’s eyelids for perhaps the tenth time. “Still constricted. Some medicine taken unwisely, perhaps, my lord. Or even some fungus.”

“Poison?”

The doctor’s hand began to shake. “It is possible, my lord. I have little experience with such things. However, in that case I … I really should purge him.”

“It will be agony for him to vomit.”

The doctor wrung his hands together. “It will be as you wish, my lord, but it will hurt him a great deal more if he has poison in his system and it continues to circulate.”