14

The house was very quiet when Montclair struggled down the stairs next morning. His descent was something of an acrobatic feat which involved balancing on his right foot while he swung the crutches one step down, then lowering himself to the same stair. Since his right hand was as useless as his left leg, this was a decidedly hazardous business, with each step presenting a new challenge. When he was three steps from the bottom he lost the knack of it, over-balanced, and descended in a wild hopping rush that left him teetering in the hall, fighting to stay upright, and very much out of breath.

“You are quite mad, sir!”

Pleased with himself despite this harsh verdict, Montclair turned an unrepentant grin on Susan, who was coming in at the front door carrying a basket of freshly cut flowers. The warm breeze billowed her pale green gown of India muslin, and the sun bathed her with brightness, waking a sheen down one delicately contoured cheek and revealing that her grey eyes were wide with fright.

Delighting in the knowledge that she had been concerned for his sake, he panted, “And you … look the very spirit of summer, ma’am.”

“Never mind trying to turn me up sweet, Valentine Montclair!”

“Oho! Cant on the lips of the lady,” he laughed, hobbling along with her.

“And never seek to turn the attack to my want of propriety.” Frowning at him in a way he thought adorable, she scolded, “Do you yearn to be laid down upon your bed for another six weeks?”

“I yearn to be able to get about without being a confounded nuisance to everyone.”

“Pride goeth before a fall,” she said, turning down the hall towards the kitchen, her long hair tossing in the way it did when she was vexed with him.

“And the Lord helps those who help themselves,” he countered.

She shook her head and went into the kitchen, and Montclair chuckled and turned back, determined to investigate the strong smell of paint emanating from the front of the house. He glanced into the withdrawing room as he passed. The sunlight splashed a bright avenue across the floor and his eyes followed it to Mrs. Henley’s spinet. Until now he had managed to ignore the instrument, but he eyed it wistfully, then made his way to it. Welcome was reluctant to be evicted, but Montclair banished him from the keyboard, and with his left hand began to play the theme of the first movement of his new concerto. A moment later, the paint forgotten, he had laid the crutches beside him and was sitting rather awkwardly on the wide bench. He dropped the melody into the bass clef and played it through. When he finished, he stared blindly at the keys, lifted his right hand, and tried again to move the fingers. Not by the slightest tremor did they respond. His shoulders slumped. Surely by this time some feeling should have returned? Surely he had not permanently lost the use of his hand…?

A burst of applause brought his head up. Susan, Martha, Mrs. Starr, and Deemer watched him from the doorway. He essayed a slight bow.

“Oh, that was lovely,” exclaimed Mrs. Starr.

“Perfectly beautiful,” agreed Susan, her eyes alight. “I think I have never heard it before. What is it called?”

“I was going to call it ‘Goddess of—the River,’” he said solemnly. “But I may change it to ‘Lament for a Dead Painter.’”

Mrs. Starr giggled and shepherded Martha and the butler away.

Susan gasped, “My goodness! Do you say— Did you write that lovely piece?”

He flushed with pleasure. “I wish I could play it for you properly.”

“It sounded splendid just with the left hand. Will you play it once more?”

“If you will sit beside me.”

She came at once to occupy the end of the bench, and Montclair played for her, interspersing his performance with comments. “Here,” he said eagerly, “is where the orchestra comes in … like so. The solo introduces the second movement … and the orchestra enters pianissimo in a foreign key—thus…”

He glanced up suddenly. “Good God! How I must be boring you! My apologies, ma’am!”

“I resent the implication,” she said, indignant. “I find it most fascinating. I wish I could play the right hand for you, but even were you to write out the music for me, I think my talents are too mean to—”

He interrupted, “You play, Mrs. Sue?”

“A little.”

“But this is wonderful! If you’ve music, would you humour me and take the right hand while I play the left…?”

She would, and did, humour him. They played together for more than half an hour, and she was both touched and amazed to see his often grim expression become so open and boyishly eager. This was a Valentine she’d never beheld—so animated, so happily engrossed by their mutual efforts. Often, she stumbled, and they would laugh and try again; several times he suggested different fingering, pausing so that she could follow his advice, as pleased when she argued as when she acquiesced. How he loved his music. Whoever married this man, she thought pensively, would have to accept a competitor for his time and affection; an inanimate competitor, but a merciless one. She stifled a sigh. A competitor she would so willingly tolerate …

They finished Mr. Haydn’s piece with a rather ragged chord, and laughed together.

Montclair turned a glowing face. “Thank you, Mrs. Sue! You play very well.”

“I had thought I was fair—until I heard you, sir.” She saw his gaze become sombre as it slanted to his injured right hand, and added kindly, “You will regain the use very soon now; don’t worry so.”

He looked up at her and said gravely, “I would worry less, dear ma’am, if I dared believe myself forgiven.”

“For what? Tormenting my guest last evening?”

“Just so.”

“You should ask his pardon, sir. Not mine. Although,” she added in an afterthought, “you really were very naughty.”

He bit back the instinctive reaction, and for a moment they sat in complete silence, gazing at each other. Then he asked softly, “Do you care for Monteil, Susan?”

She had initially thought him a bad man. She realized now that he was also a criminal. It must be little short of a crime to lower his voice to that tender note that was almost a caress; to light up the amber flecks in his dusky eyes; and to tilt his dark head toward her so that the finely chiselled cheekbones, the straight nose, the sensitive mouth with its lurking half smile must be forever engraved on her memory. And memory was all she would have. He would go back to his great manor house and plunge into his music and forget her. That awareness was so unkind that she was obliged to turn away, her voice failing her.

“You do not reply.” He took up the end of her sash, and looked down at it absently. “I wish,” he muttered, “that you were not so very beautiful.”

Even more flustered, she stammered, “Y-you surprise me … Mr. Montclair.”

“Do I? Why? Certainly you must know you are beautiful.”

“I—I am flattered. But—”

“Nonsense! It would be flattery had you a face like a ferret. But you have not.”

“Oh.” Afraid that others might hear this conversation, Susan stood and helped him buckle on the right crutch, then handed him the other. “And are you displeased because I—er, do not resemble a ferret?”

He chuckled, and struggled to his feet. “If you did, perhaps Monteil would turn his greasy eyes elsewhere. How long have you known him?”

“About the same length of time as I have known you, sir.”

They started towards the front door and he grunted, “Humph. And you store his cargo in my—I mean, in the cellars. Did he tell you why he found such an arrangement desirable?”

“Certainly he makes no secret of his hopes to purchase this house. If he cannot, he says he will buy property somewhere in the neighbourhood.”

“One can but hope he will be unsuccessful,” he said dryly.

“I cannot echo that hope, Mr. Valentine.”

He frowned at the front steps, then said, “It would be much easier for me if I might have your arm, ma’am.”

He had not seemed to need a supporting arm when he’d come so precipitately down the stairs, and Susan hesitated.

“You said I was mad when I descended the last time,” he reminded her demurely.

“Hmm,” said Susan, but she carried one of his crutches and allowed him to put his arm across her shoulders as he hopped awkwardly down the steps. She could feel the warmth of his lean body, and their closeness was, to say the least, unsettling. Then he appeared to lose his balance, so that she threw her arm around his waist, clinging even more tightly.

“That’s much better,” he said with a grin.

She made no response to this impropriety, but pulled away immediately they reached level ground.

“Alas,” he sighed. “So ends the idyll. But I thank you for it. You are ever gracious, ma’am. Even if you have allowed Monteil to pull the wool over your eyes.”

“How odd,” said Susan, “that I’d the impression another gentleman was doing precisely that. Or trying to.”

“Not so,” he said, injured. “I merely strive to warn you. Very bad of me, perhaps, but I mistrust the fellow’s glib tongue. Lord knows he’s rich as Croesus, but—”

“Fair game for a mercenary widow, eh, Mr. Montclair?”

He gave her an irritated look, which changed to a glinting amusement, and reaching up, touched the end of her nose lightly. “This charming article is the barometer of your mood, did you know it? When it is…”—he tilted her nose skywards—“elevated, you are very cross with me. When it is—a little uplifted—I have vexed you. When it is … down—like that, you are flustered. And when it is neither up nor down—like this—I can breathe easier.”

They had stopped walking and stood very close together. His long fingers lingered on her cheek. Susan murmured dreamily, “I must take care never to—to have it cut off, sir. Else—you’d be all at sixes and sevens.”

Just as dreamily, he said, “And you’d not be able to breathe.”

Still his fingers touched her cheek. So lightly, like the flutter of a butterfly’s wings. Yearning to lean into that caress, she laughed instead, and forced herself to move back, saying with some embarrassment, “What rubbish we are talking!”

“Then I shall be very earnest. Susan, if you count Monteil your good friend, may I hope that I can be judged as kindly? I know we did not—ah, see eye to eye at first, but”—he searched her face—“you don’t still believe me your enemy, do you?”

She met his anxious regard briefly, then, driven by self-preservation, looked away. “No. Of course not.” She thought, ‘Only, there is an unbreachable wall between us.’

“In that case, I ask that you allow me the right to help you.”

A little pucker disturbed her smooth forehead. “In what way, Mr. Valentine?”

“In whatever way I can. If you are in—I mean, if you need—”

Inwardly cringing, she lifted her eyes to meet his and said candidly, “If I need—money? Is that what you mean?”

It sounded bald, to say the least of it. He was unskilled in what his brother termed frivolity, flattery, and fal-lals. Uncomfortably aware that he was flushing, he balanced himself on his crutch so as to take up her hand. It was very soft and warm, even if the fingernails were discoloured and too short. “What I am trying to say is that—I want to be—more than just a friend to you, dear ma’am.” Because he was looking down at her hand he did not see her sudden pallor, or the spasm of pain that flickered across her face, and went on, “I know you are faced with financial troubles and that life is difficult for you, and—er…”

‘Oh, no!’ thought Susan, anguished. ‘Do not, Valentine! Please do not!’ But she said quietly, “And you want to—smooth my path?”

He smiled. “That is one way of wording it, certainly.”

It was a way she had heard before. Wounded to the heart, once more she had to turn from him. “You told Priscilla you were not rich.”

“One does not discuss such delicate matters with a child. Certainly I can afford to take a—”

‘Oh, God!’ thought Susan. ‘Oh, God!’ And desperate to stop him from saying that horrid word, she interpolated, “Do I understand you to say you are … are willing to, as Andy would say, tow us out of the River Tick?”

He said heatedly, “You see? You should not even know such a term! Lyddford does not protect you properly, Sue! Dash it all, I—”

“Do wish to … protect me?”

“Assuredly! And if Imre Monteil has offered to—”

Very pale, she rounded on him. “Monsieur Monteil has never made me an offer of any kind, sir!”

“Well, he will, let me tell you, which isn’t surprising!”

“Indeed?” she said, controlling herself with an effort. “He has been a perfect gentleman, and if—”

“Perfect gentleman, is it? The way the beastly fellow leers at you makes my skin creep! How you can bear to let him slobber over you I don’t—”

“Slobber?” she echoed, her voice becoming unwontedly shrill. “Your charm of manner, sir, is exceeded only by your arrogance! Whatever else, he does not—that is, I would not— And—and besides, when I came to your silly Folly, Mr. Valentine Montclair, it was to help a hurt human being. I did not expect to be insulted in return!”

He stared at her resentfully. “Insulted! However could I have deluded myself into thinking I was being generous?”

“And however can I withstand such noble condescension?” she said, quivering with wrath. “La, but it passes understanding!”

“The devil!” Furious, he swung closer to her.

Susan took a few hurried paces to the rear, but rushed on, “It was not bad enough to insult me, you must say vile things behind his back about a gentleman who has been nothing but kind and—and helpful!”

“Aye, he’ll be kind, I’ll warrant! And he’ll ‘help’ you straight into the—”

“Yes, malign him—as you mocked my new workmen and called them ‘disgusting hedgehogs’! They might not be Corinthian dandies—”

Dandies! Now if that isn’t—”

“—but they, at the least, have never spoken one improper word to me, and—”

“I should think not, by God!” His eyes glittering, he said, “Only tell me who—”

“—and furthermore, I am perfectly satisfied with their work, so—”

“Work? What work? Be dashed if I’ve seen them do aught! I vow they’re lazier than my lazy gardener, and if what I suspect is—”

Suspect? Now came fear to add to her misery. Facing it bravely, she demanded, “Now what do you imply? Of what do you suspect us, sir? Do you think it probable that we have stolen the—the Montclair Mermaid from your fountain, perhaps?”

“Egad, woman, but you’re high in the instep! And you speak of my pride! All I tried for was—”

“I am all too aware of what you tried for! But do not feel obliged to limit your reviling of us, sir! I heard there was a plot afoot only a year or so ago to kidnap the Prince Regent. Perhaps you think we have him tucked away in our cellar!”

She was white with hurt and anger, but Montclair’s wrath was cooling, and he said impatiently, “Don’t sneer at me, blast it! This is all so ridiculous! I don’t—”

“You do not wish to be bored by someone ridiculous,” she said with superb hauteur. “But of course. I shall send the Bo’sun to help you. Although perhaps you will not feel perfectly safe with him, since you doubtless suspect him as well!”

“Oh, I do, for he is always slipping away somewhere. I’d fancied he was—”

“Organizing an uprising of the villagers against you?” she sneered.

“No, you must do better than that, ma’am. Let us have him rather occupying a sinister hut in the woods, where he breeds—ah, man-eating moles, perhaps.”

His lips quirked and a dance of laughter came into his eyes. Almost won to an answering smile, Susan remembered his offer, and a fierce pang transfixed her. Suddenly overwhelmed and tearful, she all but ran from him.

Exasperated, Montclair followed her slowly. The ways of women, he thought, were indeed inexplicable. ‘And despite all the fustian she spoke, she did not answer my question. She did not say whether she really cares for that wart Monteil…’

At the foot of the steps he paused, glancing up. Two ladders, unoccupied at present, were propped against the east front of the house. Jove, if the beautiful but provoking widow hadn’t made him forget all about the paint! The trim had been partially restored to a soft cream. He smiled faintly. He’d never really believed she would make good her threat to use that garish red or the purple he had substituted. His inspection was interrupted abruptly, and he cried a startled “Hey!” as he was swept up from either side and carried up the steps.

“Bit too much fer yer, mate?” said a hoarse voice in his right ear.

He had barely time to glimpse a hairy, dirty face under a battered old hat; then he was set down and the even more disreputable individual on his left was shoving the crutch under his arm. ‘Mrs. Sue’s fine new workmen,’ thought Montclair cynically, settling the crutches and scanning a man who might very well be taken for a third-rate pickpocket. He wore a patch over one eye, and the other managed always to avoid a direct glance. His hat was an abomination over an untidy mop of black, greasy hair, and his ragged clothing, several sizes too large, hung loosely from a pair of sagging shoulders. “Worse goin’ up than comin’ dahn, ain’t it, guv,” he said in a nasal whine. “We thought as we’d give yer a bit of a hoist, like.”

“Good deed fer the day,” called the first vagrant, shambling off.

“Yes. Er—well, I’m obliged,” said Montclair, eyeing the unlovely pair without delight.

“Cor! Look whatcha bin an’ gorn an’ done, Seth,” called the first man, climbing his ladder.

Montclair glanced down, and swore. There was a generous smear of cream paint on the sleeve of his blue coat.

“Luvva duck,” moaned Seth, and taking out a filthy kerchief added what appeared to be coal dust and a scattering of tobacco leaves to the disaster zone.

“Let be,” said Montclair indignantly, shoving his hand away.

“Clumsy block,” leered the first man, dipping his brush in the paint pot.

“Jest tryin’ ter be of ’elp, Dicky,” whined Seth.

“Your best help will be to get back to work,” said Montclair, fuming over the ruin of his coat, but unable to scold since the bumbling oafs may have been sincerely trying to help him.

Seth retreated to his ladder, and clambered upward, groaning about his “poor tired bones,” and then engaging in a whispered conversation with his cohort.

Montclair frowned from one to the other.

Dicky leered down at him. “Was yer waitin’ fer some more ’elp, guv?” he enquired with bland insolence.

‘Heaven forbid!’ thought Montclair. “I was waiting to see you get back to work,” he replied pithily.

“Right y’are, sir!” Seth dipped the brush deeply, and swung it out.

Montclair manoeuvred the crutches desperately, and avoided most of the flying paint. “Take care, damn you!” he cried angrily.

“Sorry, guv,” leered Seth.

Dicky pointed out sagely, “Bad luck ter stand under a ladder, mate.”

“Worse luck to be impertinent while standing on one,” snapped Montclair, balancing himself on his right foot and dealing Seth’s ladder a whack with his crutch.

Seth screamed loudly and clung to the ladder like a terrified monkey.

Somewhat appeased but with the unhappy conviction that paint was trickling down his forehead, Montclair turned to enter the house. He thought he heard a muffled laugh and jerked about angrily.

The suspects were industriously and soberly at work.

“Confounded hedgehogs,” he muttered, and swung himself inside.

*   *   *

For the balance of the day Susan contrived to elude Montclair. She felt wrapped in a grey despair, and fought it by immersing herself in the many tasks that had been postponed owing to the presence of an invalid in the house. The rugs in the lower hall and the entrance hall were rolled up and carried outside to be thoroughly beaten. She next decided that the furniture arrangement in the withdrawing room did not please her, and she required Martha and Deemer to help her improve it. Meanwhile, the dining room rugs joined those in the back garden, to be attacked with gusto (and some whispered imprecations) by the Bo’sun.

At three o’clock, drawn by the uproar, Valentine peered over the balcony rail into such a maelstrom of activity that he retreated in horror. He sat at the window of his bedchamber looking out at the golden afternoon and thinking of his brother. Uncle Selby had told him that when he’d first been attacked, a letter had been despatched to Geoff’s last known address advising that he was near death. That had been better than five weeks ago, which meant it was not yet even halfway to India. By the time Geoff came home he would probably be completely well again. He was almost well now—except for his hand. He removed the sling he was required to wear when not using his crutches, and held his arm out straight. He was almost sure his broken leg had mended. Surely then, his hand should have healed also, but his efforts to move the fingers were unavailing.

“Hello, Mr. Val,” called Priscilla. “Won’t they wriggle yet?”

He turned eagerly to the child, glad of her company, and she danced in with Wolfgang beside her, and stared curiously at the inanimate fingers. “Has you tried bending ’em yourself?”

“No. The doctor said I must not.”

“Oh—him,” she said, unimpressed.

He chuckled. “You don’t care for Dr. Sheswell, Lady Priscilla?”

She shook her head decidedly. “Uncle Angelo calls him a wallet in the wind and says he hides his teeth. Miss Babs laughed and laughed, and Uncle Angelo said his soul she makes sing.”

Valentine, also laughing, lifted his brows at this. “Does she, indeed?”

“Well, that’s what he said. I wonder if his soul is singing on The Dainty Dancer. Do grown-ups always have singing souls when they’re in love, Mr. Val?”

He stared at her, then said slowly, “It’s a nice thought. Did you make it up yourself?”

“No. Uncle Angelo telled Miss Babs ’bout it. I like Miss Babs. She talks so soft, when she’s not crying. She does cry a lot.” She tilted her head thoughtfully. “Even more than Mama. I ’spect that’s why Angelo’s always hugging her better.”

“Is he, by Jove! Er—do you see her often?”

“He lets me walk over there with him, in the afternoons sometimes. He won’t let me ask Mama if I can go after my bedtime.”

Incredulous, he asked, “Do you say that Señor Angelo goes to the Manor to take dinner with Sir Selby Trent?”

“No. He jus’ meets Miss Babs in that little garden house on the hill.”

Montclair thought, ‘Why that slippery Spaniard! Junius will break him in half if he catches him!’ He frowned thoughtfully. He had promised his cousin he would not allow her to be forced into marriage with Pollinger, but an impoverished Spaniard was scarcely a satisfactory substitute. Unless Babs had given him her heart, of course. And what a bumble broth that would be! There was no doubt of Uncle Selby’s reaction. As for Aunt Marcia—

“’Scuse me, but—do you, Mr. Val?” asked Priscilla, out of patience.

“My apologies, milady. I didn’t hear what you said.”

“No, ’cause your ears were off somewhere else,” she said accusingly. “I asked you where you think Dr. Shes’ell hides his teeth.” She leaned closer and whispered with high drama, “I wouldn’t be s’prised if it was in the cellar.”

Amused, he tugged one of her ringlets. “You scamp. Is this a new story for us to make up?”

“No! I don’t want a story about him. Or his friend. I like him worse than Dr. Shes’ell.”

“Which friend? My uncle?”

“No. The tall man who calls on Mama. He’s got dead eyes, and his hands are like lard. Ugh!”

Valentine leaned forward. “What makes you think Monsieur Monteil is a friend of Dr. Sheswell?”

“I seed them together one night. It was all Wolfgang’s fault. He’d goed out for a little run, but he din’t come back, so I had to find him, only I found them ’stead, over by the bridge, talking whispery. I ’tended they was Roundheads, an’ I was a Royalist spy, an’ I creeped up on them an’ listened to their secret plans.”

She crouched, looking very melodramatically furtive, and he smothered a grin and asked, “Were they awfully wicked plans?”

“Well, I couldn’t hardly hear them, but I think they must’ve been, ’cause one of them was cross an’ said it should’ve been done by now.”

His amusement faded. Here was more than the child’s active imagination. He asked intently, “Do you know what the ‘it’ was?”

She thought a moment, then said, “I think it was about clothes.”

“Clothes? Are you sure, Lady Priscilla?”

“No-o … But the other man got cross too, an’ said it wasn’t his fault ’cause they hadn’t gived somebody something. An’ he was sorry ’cause it all fitted so goodly an’ would’ve looked right, an’ no one wouldn’t have been a miser.”

Montclair frowned. Might they instead have said—no one would be the wiser? Whatever the plot, clothes, he thought, had little to do with it.

The child went on blithely. “An’ then Wolfgang barked at them and they rid away like cowards, which is when I saw who they was. An’ I wouldn’t be s’prised if Dr. Shes’ell hides his teeth in our cellar, ’cause he prob’ly keeps ’em in a little jar, like Grandpapa used to, and doesn’t like people to see him take ’em out. ’Sides, I’ve heard someone bumping about down there at dead of night.” Her voice lowered again, and she hissed awfully, “When the goblins an’ witches are out! An’ Wolfgang growls, an’ he doesn’t do that if it’s Mama or some of our people, you know. Can we make our story now, please? We were up to the part where the princess finds the unicorn in her coach…”

*   *   *

It was taking so blasted long, but if anyone saw him, thought Montclair, lowering himself carefully onto the next stair, he would say he’d been very thirsty and hadn’t wanted to disturb anyone at this hour of the night. He reached back for the crutch and pulled it to him, but this time he was a shade impatient, and the armrest clipped the rail with a crack that he was sure would waken the entire household. Mentally cursing his clumsiness he bit his lip and sat holding his breath, waiting. No sound disturbed the silence. Another breathless moment, then with a sigh of relief, he eased himself down one more step.

The Dainty Dancer had put neatly into the dock at four o’clock this afternoon. Lyddford had looked tired, and the Spaniard not much better, but Lyddford had insisted the cargo must be off-loaded at once. The Bo’sun and Deemer had joined in the effort, and from his window Valentine had seen Seth and Dicky come slouching to assist, looking more ruffianly than ever with paint liberally splattered on their ragged garments.

Valentine smiled rather grimly, recalling Starry’s barely concealed look of relief when he’d told her he was not feeling “quite up to the rig” this afternoon and if it would not be too much trouble he’d take dinner in his room. No doubt they were pleased to have him out of the way while the cargo was off-loaded. Martha had carried his tray upstairs and in her gentle warm-hearted way had settled him onto the chaise longue, lit the candles, made sure that books and The Morning Chronicle were within easy reach, and spread the napkin across his lap. She’d even given his shoulder a shy little pat. Susan’s remarks about servants had come to mind, and he was forced to admit that Martha might be simple-minded, but if she was in his employ he’d take great care not to lose her.

He’d passed the evening reading and listening to the men clumping about downstairs. Several times he’d gone to the big window in the first-floor hall and watched them toiling up from the river with wheelbarrows piled high with boxes and bales that ostensibly contained Imre Monteil’s “personal effects.” It was past eleven o’clock when the house had quieted. He’d heard the creak of the stairs soon afterwards, then silence had blanketed the old house for another hour. They all had worked so hard; it was to be hoped they’d sleep like logs.

Priscilla’s innocent words had decided him upon this course of action. “I’ve heard someone bumping about down there at dead of night … an’ Wolfgang growls…” He was not quite sure of the significance of Sheswell’s nocturnal meeting with Imre Monteil, but he’d long known that the doctor was a tippler. He was beginning to suspect that Monteil was a Free Trader on the side. Possibly, he supplied Sheswell with wines and cognac which had sidestepped the excise tariff. The doctor might have become angered by delays, and Priscilla had chanced upon the two men while Monteil was making his excuses. Who Monteil’s customers were did not much concern Valentine, however. The points of concern were firstly, that Susan and her brother might have been gulled into shipping and hiding contraband in the belief that Monteil’s cargoes were simple personal belongings; secondly, that the Swiss should have had the unmitigated gall to select Highperch Cottage (admittedly offering the unique advantages of sitting isolated, unoccupied, and on the bank of the river) for a storage and, presumably, distribution point.

When his initial doubts had solidified this afternoon, Valentine had at first thought to seek out Susan and share them with her, but she seemed much taken with Monsieur Monteil. Also, his own offer of financial assistance had sent her straight into the boughs. She was an excessively proud young lady, and resented any criticism of her judgment. Certainly, she’d want to know what he suspected, and if he revealed his belief that she and Lyddford had—however inadvertently—allowed themselves to be dragged into a smuggler’s toils, she’d probably be reaching for her broom again and he’d be banished from her presence forever. And despite her apparent preference for gentlemen of the Swiss persuasion, he found that he was reluctant to be banished from the widow’s presence.

If that slippery Monteil really had dared to use Highperch for illegal activities, if he had carelessly placed Susan and her brother in danger of being arrested as smugglers, then by George, the man was a scoundrel and must be dealt with! First, however, proof must be found. The ideal time to accomplish this was at night, and now that he had discovered he could manage to get about with only one crutch, he saw no reason to delay.

His undistinguished progress down the stairs having been accomplished, he gripped the end post and dragged himself erect. There was a half moon tonight, and the windows were brightened by a silvery glow, the illumination, faint as it was, making it easier to proceed cautiously down the west hall, past the library and what had once been a study, to the stairs that led to the cellars. It was quite a warm night, but luckily the wind was blustering about, effectively drowning the faint sounds of his crutch and an occasional creaking board under his foot.

He eased the cellar door open, and stood very still, listening. There was no flicker of light; no sound. And then suddenly there came a stir behind him. A rush of air. Something flying at him. His nerves tightened. He braced himself on the crutch, made a grab for the Manton he’d tucked into his sling, and jerked his head around to look behind him. With an amiable trill a small shape tore past and charged full-tilt down the cellar steps. Welcome! Of all the— But the cat was invariably put out before everyone went up to bed. And if Welcome had been put out, who had let him back inside? He thought grimly, ‘The Vagrants! I’ll warrant the dirty hounds are down there, robbing Lyddford blind!’

He uncocked the pistol, restored it to the sling, and sat down again, using his left hand to settle the splinted leg onto the steps. It was like descending into a black well. The silence pounded at his ears, and he paused frequently so as to listen. He’d have felt so much less vulnerable with the Manton in his hand, even though his left-handed aim would be poor, but he needed his one good hand to guide his leg and pull the crutch. He went on, sitting from step to step in the pitchy gloom, his nerves taut, but not for an instant considering that he had one arm in a sling, and a broken leg, and might at any instant be attacked by a murderous thief. It did occur to him that he must present a properly unheroic picture, and he grinned faintly, imagining Priscilla’s mirth if she could see him.

Quite suddenly a faint light appeared some distance ahead. His heart gave a jolt. He whispered a hopeful “Jupiter!” and tried to move more rapidly, his eyes fixed to that hovering glow. He had reached the foot of the cellar steps and was struggling to stand, when the light abruptly vanished. The darkness closed in, seemingly more dense than before. He positioned the crutch under his arm and dragged himself upward, narrowed eyes striving to pierce the blackness, heart pounding with excitement. There came the faintest shuffling sound. And then he knew that someone else was very close to him. He balanced himself and groped for the pistol. His fingers had closed around it when he heard heavy breathing scant inches from his face. He could dimly make out a crouching shape and he shouted harshly, “Stay back! I’ve a pistol.”

The answer was a low, bestial growl. Stunned, he thought, ‘By God! It’s the bastard who struck me down in the woods!’ He jerked the pistol upward. His assailant must have the ability to see in the dark, for before he could fire, the weapon was smashed from his hand. His crutch fell as he staggered. Great arms clamped around him, and again that horrifying growl sounded. His ribs were being crushed; he could scarcely breathe. Struggling frantically to free himself, he was whirled around. He was not huskily built, but his long hours at the harpsichord had given his hands unusual strength, and although his injured right arm was trapped, by the grace of God his left arm was free of that deadly embrace. Sobbing for breath, he swung the heel of his hand at the grotesquely large and dimly seen outline and felt it connect hard with what felt like a man’s throat.

A howl of pain and his assailant faltered. With all his strength he clenched his fist and struck again, this time feeling an eye beneath his knuckles. A choked grunt. The vise that was choking the life from him eased slightly. Fighting to free himself, Montclair was suddenly all too successful. Off balance, he reached out blindly, and the iron stair railing kept him from falling. From the darkness came a snuffling. He sensed rather than saw something flailing at him, flung up his left arm and beat it aside, but his invisible assailant had the advantage of two arms, and Valentine felt the full impact of the second as it caught him across the shoulder, sending him flying. He hurtled across the stairs and crashed against the wall. Half stunned, his head spinning, he was briefly grateful that he had not fallen on his hurt leg again. Heavy footsteps were coming nearer. But the attacker was on a lower level now and Valentine had the advantage of lying half against the wall. Gathering his reeling senses he kicked out blindly, connected hard, and heard an agonized grunt.

Somebody else was coming. If the vagrants were in league with the big man, he was doomed. His bones felt like water, but if he lay here waiting for his strength to come back they’d put a period to him in no time. Dazed and panting, he forced his reluctant body up. A guttural voice full of pain groaned, “Who’s … it…?” Then the air was split by a shrill unearthly howl, a sound so unexpected and blood-chilling that for an instant Montclair was frozen. He realized then that one of the pair must have trodden on Welcome’s tail. A deep cry of terror rang out. He leaned over the rail and sent his left fist in a savage jab towards the sound. He connected in a glancing blow, then his arm was seized and he was jerked over the rail as though he had been a child. Powerless to protect himself, he landed hard and lay sprawled, hearing running footsteps that gradually faded into the distance.

Gradually, his mind cleared, and he lay blinking into the blackness, trying to collect his thoughts. He felt bruised all over, and seemed to be lying on a very hard mattress. There was a sense of urgency. He tried to sit up and a complaining mew sounded. Welcome had settled down comfortably on his chest. Memory returned with a rush. The monster had come after him again in an encounter that would surely haunt his dreams for so long as he lived. It was very quiet now. Had both the intruders left? Welcome mewed again, and sniffed with fishy breath at his face. He put the little cat aside, and found the tinderbox in his pocket. Necessity was certainly the mother of invention; he gripped the box between his teeth and was able to scrape the flint with his left hand and awaken a flame.

His eyes sought about desperately. A dark form lay crumpled at the foot of the steps, a candle beside it. Frantic with haste, he dragged himself down to that still figure and lit the candle. The man who lay facedown on the stone floor was slim, certainly not the growling monster who’d tried to kill him. More likely it was one of the vagrants.

Moving as fast as he could, Montclair poured a puddle of melted wax onto the third stair, set the candle in it, then looked about for his crutch. It lay half under the vagrant, for there was no doubt in his mind now about the man’s identity. He wondered if he’d killed the rogue. His question was answered by a faint inarticulate sound. The huddled criminal moved, his stocking-capped head lifting slightly. He was probably armed. Valentine crawled with painful haste to the pistol and snatched it up.

“All right … you treacherous cur,” he panted. “Get up. Slowly. One false move and … I shall fire!”

The vagrant struggled to hands and knees and turned a bruised and bewildered face.

Montclair’s pistol was aimed squarely between the eyes of Mrs. Susan Henley.