Scoundrel of Dunborough (10 page)

Chapter Ten

“S
orry to disturb you, Sister,” Lizabet called from the bottom of the ladder to the garret. “Marmaduke and Bartholemew are here.”

Surrounded by old wooden packing boxes and dusty furniture, Celeste sneezed, then rose from her knees and brushed off her hands. “I’m coming.”

She went to the ladder and carefully began to descend. “There are a few pieces of furniture up there,” she said to the maidservant when she reached the bottom. “Once they’re cleaned, I should be able to sell them. Otherwise, it’s mostly dust and cobwebs.”

And no sign that anybody had been up there in years.

With a nod Lizabet returned to the kitchen and Celeste went to meet the men to whom Audrey probably owed the most, if her wardrobe was any measure.

The two were waiting in the main room. The stain was now covered by the carpet that had been in Audrey’s bedchamber, and the remaining furniture had been put back in its rightful place. The needlepoint had been packed away in a leather pouch for Celeste to take with her, and the stand dismantled. The candleholder had been moved to the center of the table, probably when Lizabet polished it.

One of the men was tall and thin, the other short and plumper. Both were very well dressed, the tall one in a long tunic of soft blue wool with a wide leather belt around his slender waist. The other had on a short yellow tunic over green breeches and was holding the most amazing yellow-and-green-striped cap she had ever seen. The colors were so bright it almost hurt her eyes to look at them.

“Good afternoon, Sister,” the short one began. “I’m Bartholemew and this is Marmaduke. We would have come to express our condolences for the loss of your dear sister sooner, but we thought you might need some more time to...time to...”

“Grieve,” Marmaduke supplied.

“Yes, grieve,” Bartholemew continued. “However, Lewis gave us to understand you wished to see us right away.”

Their willingness to wait until she summoned them, as well as their genuinely sorrowful and respectful demeanors—so different from most of the tradesmen she’d already met—made her like them instantly.

“We didn’t really get the chance to know your sister well,” Bartholemew admitted, twisting the cap in his hands. “Still, I’d like to think we were her friends. Isn’t that so, Marmaduke?”

“Indeed! She had many friends, and admirers, too. Such a lovely woman! And she always dressed so well.”

“Audrey did like pretty things,” Celeste said.

“She certainly did!” Marmaduke confirmed.

A blushing Bartholemew cleared his throat. “Costly things.”

Celeste hurried to set them at their ease, at least on this one point. “I suspect she owed you money for some of her gowns.”

“As a matter of fact,” Bartholemew began, while Marmaduke looked down at the toes of his polished boots, “there is the small matter of the last three bolts of fabric she had yet to pay for.”

“Naturally you must either have the money repaid or the fabric returned,” Celeste replied. “Unfortunately, I’ve found no bolts of fabric, only gowns. I have no need for such finery, so will you take the gowns as payment instead?”

The two men exchanged uneasy glances. “We don’t deal in clothing already worn,” Marmaduke said after an equally uneasy silence.

“They are hardly worn,” she said. “And there are silk veils, too, and scarves. The value of all should be more than enough to cover your loss, I’m sure. Won’t you please come upstairs and look at them?”

Again the men exchanged wary looks.

“I must confess to you, gentlemen,” Celeste reluctantly continued, “that if they will not satisfy you, you may not get all that you’re owed. Audrey had many creditors, and even with the sale of the house, there might not be sufficient—”

“No, no, it isn’t that,” Bartholemew interrupted.

The two men turned as red as ripe apples before Marmaduke leaned forward and whispered, “I fear it wouldn’t be proper, we being men, you see, and you a woman, to go upstairs together.”

“I am a nun,” she replied with a smile, appreciative of their concern for her reputation, especially when other men were not, and sorry that she had to lie to them. She nodded at the entrance to the kitchen. “There is another woman in the house, so I see no harm.”

The two men relaxed. “If you see none, we will be glad to go with you,” Bartholemew said.

Together they followed Celeste up the stairs and into the large upper chamber.

Bartholemew immediately rushed toward the bed. “By blessed Saint Dorcas!” he exclaimed, feeling the fabric. “Look at these bed curtains! Venetian silk, as I live and breathe!”

“And look at that tapestry!” Marmaduke cried. “It has to be Italian, too, or maybe French.”

“They will have to be sold, as well,” Celeste noted as she opened the large chest.

Out of the corner of her eye she saw the men give each other significant looks and guessed the bed curtains and tapestry were as good as sold if they could agree upon a price.

She lifted out the red gown and refused to feel a pang of regret. What use would she ever have for such a garment? And the one time she’d worn it had been a disaster.

“Oh, my!” Bartholemew gasped.

“It’s lovely, simply lovely!” Marmaduke declared, hurrying to hold out the full skirt while Bartholemew carefully examined the embroidery. “I’ve never seen anything so well done,” he murmured reverently.

“I think Audrey did it,” Celeste said with a hint of pride. “She was good with a needle.”

Bartholemew ran a measuring gaze over her. “It would fit
you
, I think.”

“Indeed, I believe it would!” Marmaduke cried with sudden excitement. “And the color would suit you perfectly! You would look like a queen, wouldn’t she, Bartholemew?”

“I should say so!”

Shaking her head, Celeste stepped back. “I have no wish to look like a queen.”

“Ah, yes, forgive me, Sister,” a chastised Bartholemew replied.

“I’m not offended,” she quickly assured him. “Will you take the clothes in lieu of payment?”

“Although as I said, we don’t usually deal in worn gowns,” Bartholemew answered, “I believe in this instance we can make an exception. Isn’t that so, Marmaduke?”

His companion nodded.

“All these things are worth somewhat more than the debt. If you include the bed curtains and tapestry, we’ll give you...” Bartholemew glanced at Marmaduke, then back at her. “Twenty marks, as well.”

“That is most generous of you!” she replied with heartfelt gratitude.

“Unfortunately, we didn’t come prepared for such a transaction and have a shipment from London to deal with before the day is out,” Bartholemew said. “We could return tomorrow.”

“There is no great hurry if tomorrow will not do,” she replied. “I don’t intend to leave until the sale of the house is concluded.”

And I’ve either found my father’s money or searched everywhere I can.

“Excellent. We do have a bit of time at the moment to see more of the gowns, Sister, if we may.”

“Of course. Please, go ahead.”

Sitting on the stool, she watched as the two men removed gowns, shifts, caps and veils from Audrey’s chests and boxes. They gave many excited exclamations and were clearly delighted.

Yet these had been her sister’s things. Gowns and caps and veils and scarves Audrey had worn. Lovely things she’d no doubt enjoyed.

If only she could have spent more time with Audrey and gotten to know her better. She remembered Audrey as so much older and more mature, although only a few years had separated them.

The ginger cat padded into the room and wound itself around the stool. A tear fell down Celeste’s cheek as she bent to stroke it.

At the same time, she realized Bartholemew and Marmaduke had stopped talking. They were regarding her with sorrow and sympathy once again, and she quickly wiped her cheek.

“We’re sorry, Sister, if we’ve upset you,” Bartholemew said quietly. “Under the circumstances, we should have given you more time to consider.”

“No, no, it’s quite all right,” she said, putting on the mask of placid calm she had learned to wear. “It’s just difficult thinking about Audrey.”

“We quite understand, and if you’d rather we depart—”

“Not yet,” she interrupted. She clasped her hands together and regarded them with sincere longing. “I know so little about my sister’s life since I went to the convent. I want to think she was happy and admired before she...died.”

“She was certainly admired!” Marmaduke exclaimed.

“Indeed! So many admirers! And offers to wed, too, no doubt. I thought Sir Roland would marry her. However, in hindsight, I think it was for the best he didn’t. Such a grim fellow, and your sister...well, Gerrard would have been a much better match.”

His words were like a cold finger down Celeste’s spine. “Did he ask for her hand?”

Batholemew looked stricken, as if he’d said something rude. “Not that I heard of, and I don’t think she would have accepted.”

“Nor I,” Marmaduke agreed. “Your sister was an, ahem, ambitious woman.”

It was true Gerrard had no wealth or title, and Audrey had wanted both. Even if she had felt something for Gerrard, she would never have married him.

As for what Gerrard might have felt for Audrey...

It would have come to nothing. Audrey wouldn’t have risked any gossip about a liaison with Gerrard lest it hurt her chances to catch a rich and powerful husband.

Celeste gave them both another sad little smile. “I’m aware that my sister wanted to marry well. I admit I’m as surprised as anyone that she hadn’t wed already, unless...”

Both men leaned closer.

“Was it common knowledge she was in debt?”

They both reared back. “
We
didn’t know,” they said in unison, and so firmly she believed them.

They might not be ignorant of other things concerning her sister and her household, though. “Did either of you ever think that Duncan MacHeath might hurt her? Or that she should fear him?”

“No,” they replied together.

“He was clearly a rough and rather savage fellow,” Bartholemew added, “but we never thought he’d hurt her.”

“And he’s paying a terrible, everlasting price for his crime, especially if he killed himself,” Marmaduke said.

Gerrard hadn’t said that MacHeath had ended his own life. “I was told he fell into the river after Roland wounded him.”

“Well, he might have,” Bartholemew hastily admitted. “Nobody knows what happened to him, not exactly. He’d been wounded by Sir Roland and they found his body in the river. That’s all we know for certain. He
could
have fallen in.”

“He didn’t seem the remorseful sort,” Marmaduke helpfully noted, “but when you think about what he did—”

Bartholemew put his hand on his partner’s shoulder and steered him toward the door. “Either way, he drowned,” he said with firm dismissal. “Now you really must pardon us. That shipment may be here already. Good day, Sister!”

“If there’s anything more we can do, please ask!” Marmaduke called over his shoulder.

When they were gone, Celeste sank onto the bed, wondering what else she hadn’t been told. Surely she had a right to know everything about Audrey’s death and the fate of the man who’d killed her. That would be only just.

She recalled what she did know about Audrey, Duncan MacHeath and that horrific day.

Audrey had been ambitious, eager for a rich and titled husband. Duncan MacHeath, who was neither, had claimed to love her and had killed her in a fit of jealousy when she rebuffed him. Afterward he’d gone after Roland, thinking he was her lover. He’d nearly killed him, but Roland had wounded the Scot, who had then been found dead in the river.

On the surface, it seemed a simple, horrible tale with a deadly ending, until questions began to surface. Why hadn’t Audrey, who’d been dealing with eager, lustful men for years, recognized that MacHeath was a danger? Or as much of one as he proved to be?

What had prompted MacHeath to reveal his feelings that particular day? Was it possible someone had inadvertently prompted him to confess his love?

Or had someone provoked him?

If Audrey had refused a different man and he was upset by her rejection of his suit, and if this other man had an inkling of MacHeath’s feelings, how difficult would it have been to inspire MacHeath to tell Audrey how he felt, guessing the Scot would also be rejected and likely exact a harsh punishment for that rejection? It would have been very convenient for that person if Duncan MacHeath died right after.

Perhaps MacHeath hadn’t fallen into the river by accident or taken his own life. Maybe someone had pushed him.

Who in Dunborough knew how the Scot had felt about Audrey? And who else in Dunborough might have wanted Audrey dead?

Celeste went to the window, looking out at the great mass of the castle now dark in the dusk. She couldn’t leave Dunborough until she had the answers to these questions, and if that meant talking to Gerrard to get them, she would.

Chapter Eleven

“B
ella, beautiful Bella!” Gerrard called out as he staggered into the brothel much later that night. “Where are you, Bella?”

The brothel-keeper hurried to help him over the threshold. Edric didn’t want Gerrard to fall or rouse the neighbors. Everyone in Dunborough and for miles around knew of his brothel, and most were willing to turn a blind eye as long as he kept a peaceable establishment.

At least for now. Edric had his doubts that Sir Roland would let his business continue, although soldiers needed such recreation.

There were a few soldiers from the castle there now, and if they were a bit surprised to see Gerrard come staggering in, well, what of it? The man’s money was as good as theirs and he wasn’t married or betrothed, so it was with a smile that the proprietor closed the door and got Gerrard into a chair.

The very drunk Gerrard. Edric didn’t need to smell the ale on him to be sure of that. The slurred words, loud voice and glazed eyes were more than enough.

“Where’s Bella?” Gerrard demanded, blinking and giving Edric a sodden grin. He frowned. “Busy?”

“Not too busy for you!” Edric hurried to reply. “Stay here and I’ll fetch her.”

“Now that’s what I like to hear,” Gerrard declared to no one in particular. “Respect!”

Bella appeared, pulling her bodice back into place, her face wreathed with smiles, her dark brown hair disheveled. She pushed a lock behind her ear as she hurried toward Gerrard. She was not particularly slender and not as pretty as Celeste, but she was attractive enough in her own way.

“Aha!” he cried, pulling her down onto his lap. “You like me, don’t you, Bella?”

“I should say so,” she answered, planting a kiss on his lips.

“Missed me?”

“Ain’t I just?” She rose and grabbed his hand to lead him to one of the several small rooms where she and the other girls plied their trade.

Gerrard didn’t protest. He let her take him to her little chamber. There was a bed, a washstand and not much else. The linens weren’t the cleanest, but he could be sure there were no fleas.

He sat heavily on the messy bed and rubbed his temples. “I think I need some wine.”

Bella slipped her bodice off her shoulders and sat down beside him. “I think you’ve had enough for tonight, my honey.”

He turned to look at her, his expression unexpectedly serious. “Do you really like me, Bella?”

“O’course I do!”

“If I didn’t pay you, would you still like me?”

“O’course! Now what’s got into you?” she asked, stroking his cheek. “You ain’t usually so serious.”

“I fear, Bella my dear, that I’ve developed a conssh...a consken... I don’t feel right about this anymore.”

Bella drew back in disbelief. “What?”

Gerrard started to stand, swaying as if he were on the deck of a ship at sea. “She wouldn’t like it. Neither would Roland, and neither do I. Not really. It’s not the same if you have to pay.”

Bella rose, her face red with anger. “What’s that you say?”

He patted her cheek. “Sorry, sweet. Those days are done. Now be a lamb and get me some wine, will you?”

“Get it yourself!” Bella said angrily, and she shoved him out the door.

* * *

Long after the moon had risen, Verdan yawned as he and his brother left the stables and headed toward the hall. They’d gone to check Arnhelm’s horse again, for Arnhelm found it impossible to rest until he’d made sure Oaken was all right. Verdan, who knew more about horses than his brother, had agreed to accompany him.

“Just as well there’s no letter for you to take back yet, eh?” Verdan noted as they skirted a large puddle. “Gives Oaken more time to heal.” He slid his brother a sly grin. “And you get more time with Peg.”

“Aye, that’s so,” Arnhelm replied, but not with the good humor his brother expected.

“What? There’s no trouble between the two o’ you, is there?”

“Peg and me? Not a bit!”

“Are you worried Ma won’t ever come here?”

“Well, there’s that, too.”

“What else, then?”

“I can’t fathom why Gerrard won’t write a letter to his brother. Seems simple enough for them as knows how to write.”

“Gerrard’s a busy fellow. Might not have the time.”

Arnhelm gave Verdan a puzzled look as they neared the gate. “He’s got plenty o’ time if he wants it. Seems he’d rather ride out or oversee the trainin’. I can understand that, but not when his brother’s waitin’ on an answer.”

“What’s the question?”

“D’ya think I know? Sir Roland ain’t about to confide that sort o’ thing to me, or anybody else ’cept his wife.”

“Well then, maybe it’s a question takes a lot o’ thinkin’ about,” Verdan proposed.

At the same time they heard a strange sound on the other side of the castle wall.

“What in God’s name is that?” Arnhelm demanded, turning toward the gate.

Verdan squinted as if that would improve his hearing. “Somebody’s singing.”

“If you could call that singing,” Arnhelm muttered while young Hedley, standing guard, moved forward to open the wicket gate.

A man stumbled over the threshold and grabbed Hedley’s shoulder for support while loudly and drunkenly warbling, “Oh-h-h, I told her that I loved her and she
spit
right in my face!”

“S’truth, that’s Gerrard!” Verdan gasped.

“Drunk as a tinker at a fair,” Arnhelm grimly agreed.

The brothers trotted toward the gate while Gerrard continued to hang on to Hedley as if he’d fall without the man’s support.

That was likely the case.

“Ah, Arnhelm! And Verdan!” Gerrard cried when he saw them. “Evening, men! I was just saying to eagle-eyed Hedley here that it’s a chilly night. Cold enough to freeze your toes to icicles, like Roland when he’s angry. And her, too, only she’s
worse
.”

Arnhelm had no idea to whom he was referring, but he did notice a distinctly unpleasant odor of dung coming from the vicinity of Gerrard’s left boot. Trying to ignore it, he ducked under his shoulder to help support him. “Come along, sir. Time for bed.”

“Bed?” Gerrard cried, pushing him away, then swaying like a tree in a heavy wind. “Bed? Why, man, it’s early! Bed? Not for merry lads like us, eh?” He frowned and peered at Arnhelm and Verdan. “Such good brothers. Friends forever. Not like me and mine.”

He grabbed Arnhelm’s shoulder. Leaning forward and breathing full in the man’s face, he patted Arnhelm’s chest. Meanwhile, Arnhelm reared back as far as possible to escape Gerrard’s wine-soaked breath.

“And now you’ve got sweethearts, too!” Gerrard continued, his words slurring. “Lucky chaps! Some of us aren’t. Never going to have that kind of luck, either.”

After barking a laugh that was not joyful, he started to sing again. “I told her that I loved her and she
spit
right in my face!”

He took a step forward and fell flat on his face.

As if of one mind, Arnhelm and Verdan reached down and hauled the semiconscious man to his feet.

“God’s blood, he stinks!” muttered Verdan. “How much wine did he have?”

“Far too much, that’s for sure,” his brother replied, “and I don’t want to know what else he might have got up to.”

“I got
nothing
up,” Gerrard declared as he twisted away from their grasp and attempted to brush himself off. “No more whores for me, men. Those days are done. Not that some people will ever believe it, even if they dress in red gowns and act like Delilah.”

The brothers exchanged confused looks before they again attempted to take hold of Gerrard.

“Come along, sir, it’s late and getting later,” Arnhelm cajoled.

“Late? Aye, too late,” Gerrard agreed as his legs seemed to lose what strength they possessed and he started to sink to the ground. “Too late to change, no matter how much...”

His voice trailed off as he landed facedown once again, barely missing a puddle.

“Oh, God help us, he’s out,” Verdan muttered with dismay.

“Might be for the best,” Arnhelm grunted as they did their best to lift the deadweight of Gerrard’s unconscious body.

They got their shoulders under his arms and half carried, half dragged him to the hall and up to his chamber. After they got him on the bed and pulled off his stinking boots, they looked down at the snoring, mud-splattered young man.

“I really thought he’d changed,” Arnhelm said with regret.

“Aye, me, too. Do you think you ought to tell Sir Roland?”

Arnhelm stroked his beard. “I suppose so. If Gerrard’s going to drink like this, he’s not fit to be the garrison commander.”

“Aye,” Verdan said with a sigh as they went out and closed the door.

* * *

His head aching, his throat dry as a desert, Gerrard cracked open one eyelid to see a shaft of weak sunlight coming through the slightly open shutters. Without moving his head, he looked around.

He was on his own bed in his own chamber and it was morning.

With a low moan, he closed his eyes again. He could remember going to the Cock’s Crow and then the brothel, and that Bella had been angry. Everything else was a mystery.

You weak, stupid, disgraceful fool!

He didn’t hear those words in Roland’s voice. Or Celeste’s. His own was bad enough.

As he eased himself upright, he noticed he was fully clothed, except for his boots. They were on the floor on the far side of the chamber. Somebody must have brought him here and taken them off. Otherwise, they’d likely still be on his feet.

Gingerly he got up and went over to the washstand. He lifted the ewer of frigid water to his parched lips and drank before pouring the rest into the basin and rinsing his face.

He leaned on the washstand and wondered who had brought him back and who else might have seen him in that drunken state. Please God not Celeste. She thought little enough of him as it was.

He sniffed. God save him, was that...?

Not his clothes, although they were soiled and muddy. Thank heaven for small mercies.

He looked around and saw his boots and the origin of the odor.

Sweet saints, how drunk
had
he been?

Did it matter? He could already hear the gossip. See the looks on people’s faces. Celeste’s—Sister Augustine’s—too.

Having her here was like having Roland back. Like his brother, she made him want to drink until he forgot everything that troubled him and didn’t feel like a worthless rogue.

No, she made him feel worse. Not only stupid, but unredeemable, too. The virtuous, untouchable Sister Augustine, driving him to drink.

He shook his head. He was past blaming others. It was his weakness, and he alone was to blame. Perhaps it would indeed be better if he left here and began again somewhere else where no one knew him, maybe taking a different name, like Celeste, albeit for a very different reason.

After he changed his tunic and breeches, and found his old boots under the bed, Gerrard decided he would feel better if he had some bread. That usually settled his stomach after a night of carousing. Carousing meant drinking and—

Heaven help him, was there more to regret? He quickly grabbed the purse he carried in his belt and counted the coins.

Thank God most of it was still there—a small triumph, but still a triumph, enough to make him feel not quite so wretched as he went to the hall.

There were a few off-duty soldiers and servants still breaking their fast.

And one habit-clad woman waiting on the dais.