17

For a moment they all stood like so many statues, no one saying a word. Then Monteil smiled his strange dead smile. “My dear boy, I—”

“Too late for that fustian,” interrupted Valentine. “I know what’s in those crates.”

“And you informed on us, you ungrateful spy,” growled Lyddford, starting forward.

It had been borne in upon Valentine that his hot temper had plunged him into a tricky situation once more. He’d been prepared to tackle Lyddford, man to man. He hadn’t expected to face not one man, who would play fair, but four, three of whom he suspected would not balk at murder. Ruefully aware that he should have sent for Devenish and Vaughan sooner, he said coolly, “Better call him off, monsieur, since you’re the one my pistol is pointing at.”

“But my dear,” said Monteil blandly, “even assuming you have found us out—whatever do you propose to do about it?”

“I propose to hand you over to the Runners, sir.”

One of Monteil’s men stood up. “He ain’t handing me over to no traps,” he growled. “If we was all to rush him at once…”

Valentine smiled and tightened his finger on the trigger. “Your decision, dear Imre.”

“No!” Monteil’s voice squeaked slightly. “Wait, you imbeciles!”

“He won’t shoot,” snarled the second man.

“If he does,” cried Monteil, “you know what Ti will do to the man who caused it!”

This threat evidently gave them pause, and they stood motionless.

Watching numbly, torn by conflicting emotions, Susan saw a stealthy movement on the landing. Several men were creeping in behind Valentine. The men she’d seen at the Folly. She gave a frantic little sob, her hand flying to her throat.

Valentine saw her reaction and guessed at the cause. “You fellows behind me,” he said, “should know this is a hair trigger. The least jog of my arm and it is sure to go off. If you value your master, you’d best throw down your weapons.”

The newcomers hesitated, looking at each other.

Valentine took careful aim.

“Do as he says!” shouted Monteil. “Mon Dieu! He will shoot me!”

Lyddford cried, “Well, he won’t shoot me!” and sprang in front of Monteil.

For a split second Valentine hesitated. It was enough. A savage swipe smashed the pistol from his hand. He ducked, and a large fist whizzed over his head, but another, more powerful one rammed into his back and sent him hurtling down the stairs. He landed hard, struck his chin, and saw stars as he sprawled, breathless.

Susan did not seem to move, but found herself kneeling beside Valentine. He blinked up at her, his eyes dazed, and she said angrily, “Was it necessary to push him downstairs? You might have killed him!”

The Oriental who had pushed Valentine, and who looked almost as broad as he was tall, grinned at her.

The Scotsman strolled down the stairs and laughed. “Aye. We might at that, lassie!”

She glared at him, then asked, “Are you hurt, Mr. Montclair?”

He managed to get an elbow under him. His vision was blurred, but he gasped out, “No. You shall have to … try harder.”

A tall dark man bent and seized Valentine by the hair. “Regarde qui est là, monsieur!”

Monteil gave a rather shaky laugh. “Bravo, Jacques!”

Susan slapped the Frenchman’s wrist hard. “Stop it, you beast!”

“Oh, but madame she frighten me,” he mocked, but he stepped back.

“You came very opportunely,” said Monteil. “Surely you cannot have finished your task so soon?”

The fair-haired man answered in a cultured voice, “Bolton’s mare wandered off—or so we thought. I didn’t like the smell of it, so we left Sam with the waggon and the rest of us went looking for her. We saw Montclair leading her, and followed him here.”

“It was well done. You all shall be rewarded.” The Swiss tapped the handle of his amber cane against his lips. “But this,” he frowned at Valentine, “is a nuisance.”

“Nuisance!” snorted Lyddford. “It’s damned disgusting is what it is!” He put a hand under Susan’s elbow and pulled her to her feet. “Had you not come creeping around like a filthy Excise spy, Montclair, you’d merely have been tossed down the front steps instead of—”

Valentine managed to sit up and propped his shoulders against one of the boxes. “You’ve more than Excise-men after you, Lyddford. I once thought you a fool to endanger your sister with your smuggling. I little dreamed you were no better than a common thief!”

Monteil sighed and seated himself with fastidious care on a large crate.

Lyddford let out a roar of wrath. “Common thief? Damn your eyes and limbs, I’m a Free Trader! One of the Gentlemen! If you were able to stand up, I’d knock you down!”

“And if you are so dense as to suppose that these crates now hold smuggled brandy, or bricks, you’re either—a fool, or a liar.”

Flushing darkly, Lyddford sprang forward and wrenched off the lid of the box Montclair leaned against. “See for yourself,” he snarled, taking out an object and pulling off the wrapping. “You can … see—” His words died. He stood there unmoving, staring with stunned eyes at the exquisite jewelled chalice he held.

Susan whispered, “Oh … God…!”

Monteil clapped his hands. “How very entertaining is this little drama. Exercise your so great gift of the guess, mon cher Valentine. Without turning your clever head, tell me what he found.”

“Part of England’s stolen treasures, which you had the confounded gall to store both here, and in our cellars at the Manor.” Ignoring Susan’s shocked little cry, he went on contemptuously, “And you’re the brains behind the Masterpiece Gang, I’ll go bail.”

Monteil bowed. “Very true. But, alas, I think there can be no—er, bail.”

“What in the … devil … have you got us into?” gasped Lyddford, turning to face the Swiss as one dazed.

Valentine looked at him narrowly. He was very white, his face wearing a drawn look that could not be a pose.

“Why?” whispered Susan, staring at Monteil in stunned horror. “You are a rich man. Why would you do such dreadful things? Several people have been killed in those robberies.”

He shrugged his bony shoulders. “They should not have interfered. You see, dear lady, I am a vindictive man. Two years ago a very fine gentleman and I concocted a little scheme to—ah, relieve England of the encumbrance of her heir apparent and institute a democratic government. But—”

“Claude Sanguinet!” interposed Valentine. “A murdering ruffian without one iota of conscience or decency! Some of my friends took a hand in that game, and rid the world of the crudity you term a ‘very fine gentleman’!”

Ti Chiu lumbered forward. “Ti humbly glad to break man with rude mouth, master,” he rumbled, his small eyes glitteringly fixed on Valentine.

Susan gave a gasp and shrank against her brother.

Monteil said gently, “He can do it very easily, mon ami, as you should be aware.”

Valentine struggled to his feet. His head had cleared and although he was aware of some new bruises, he had come off very lightly compared to what might have resulted from such a fall. He regarded Ti Chiu’s might steadily. The man was a condensed Colossus, but not eight feet tall as the distortion of the shadow had made him appear. He said, “So you are the brave man who strikes down his victims from behind.”

The little eyes seemed to disappear. The Oriental took a step forward, his great hands curving into claws. “You fight Ti Chiu? Face to face?” he offered, grinning.

“Now that would be amusing,” said Monteil.

At once the groom crouched. Monteil lifted his cane. “But not just yet,” he murmured, and with a disappointed grunt Ti Chiu straightened. “The rest of you men, get the work finished,” went on Monteil. “We must be away before dawn.”

Four of the newcomers went over to join the other two men in carefully packing the collection of dusty art treasures into the boxes and crates. Ti Chiu stayed close to Monteil.

Valentine, who had prepared himself for what he knew must be a losing battle, relaxed, and said steadily, “So having lost the first round you still mean to take over the throne, do you? I think you will catch cold at that, Monteil.”

“It is not my intent,” said the Swiss. “I mean to make your country pay me back with interest for the money I lost in our venture two years ago. Also, in stealing her art treasures, I wound her pride. It is, parbleu, a small revenge. But it is a beginning.”

Staring at him, Lyddford asked, “Why the bricks?”

Monteil smiled. “What is your answer to that, my dear Valentine?”

“I think,” said Valentine, “that your benefactor had been storing his booty at Highperch for some time, Lyddford. Like you, he found it an ideal location: isolated from prying eyes, yet with a front door to the river. He had fully expected to buy the place. Probably, my uncle told him he could do so. But at that time my uncle was unaware that Highperch belongs to me. When you suddenly moved in, I fancy Monteil was furious. However, he learned you had a boat, and when he also learned you were short of funds, he hired you to bring many heavy boxes here, telling you they contained his personal belongings. He intended to discard the bricks at some convenient time when you were away, and fill the boxes with the art-works he had stored down here. When the time came to ship his stolen property, everyone would think he had simply taken his own things.” He paused, frowning. “Something has occurred to make him move earlier than he’d intended. What, I wonder? Is there really a Revenue cutter on the way, Monteil?”

“Merely a ruse, dear boy,” said Monteil expansively. “To get the lovely widow and her brother down here without waking the household. One takes as few lives as possible when Bow Street comes sniffing around.”

“Good God!” exclaimed Lyddford. “You’re a blasted monster!”

A hearty laugh sounded from the steps. The epitome of elegance in a many-caped riding coat, his high-crowned beaver hat tilted at a rakish angle on his handsome head, Junius Trent called, “I’d resent that were I you, Imre.”

Monteil shrugged. “Do I not en effet attempt to spare lives?”

Trent sauntered down the steps, his eyes fixed on his cousin. “His—for instance?”

Valentine said contemptuously, “It would be nice to say I’m surprised to find you’re part of this nasty little business. Unfortunately, I cannot. May I ask if my uncle is aware you sent your killing machine here”—he nodded towards Ti Chiu—“after me?”

Junius glanced at Monteil. “Are we to be frank?” he enquired. “Before the lady?”

He was asking if they were all to be silenced. Susan felt cold, and tried not to show how frightened she was.

“But of course. Madame Henley will not speak, I do promise you. To do so would be to sentence her brother to death.” His jet eyes twinkled at her. “Andrew is my partner, you know.”

Lyddford raged, “Not in this filthy business!”

“Ah, but it would be most difficult to prove that, mon ami. And besides, a wife cannot testify against her husband.”

Lyddford swore and plunged at him, but Ti Chiu shoved him back.

Trent chuckled. “In that case, dear cousin of mine, I will give you an honest answer. No. My parents did not know that Ti Chiu was to rid us of you. The credit for that bungle belongs to my Swiss friend.”

Monteil looked at him thoughtfully.

Puzzled, Valentine asked, “Why, Monteil? As a favour to Junius?”

“I never grant favours,” said the Swiss. “The fact is that you displease me on several suits, Valentine. You are an annoyance to Selby Trent, whom I find amusing. He is so delightfully without principles, while presenting such a pious picture to the world. Your friends are unpleasant, and one is judged by the company one keeps—no? Again, you are so impertinent as to address me with thinly veiled contempt. Unwise, mon cher. Mostly, however, your stubborn refusal to sell this house has inconvenienced me. Ergo, you must be removed.”

“You would kill a man—only for such paltry things as that?” gasped Lyddford in astonishment.

“It is more than sufficient,” said Monteil coldly. “However, the Trents may have a more compelling reason, I’ll admit.”

Valentine stared at him.

“But—surely you have guessed?” The Swiss smiled. “You block Junius’s path to the title and the fortune.”

“Rubbish! My brother is the heir—not me.”

Junius gave a snort of laughter. “Your precious brother, my poor clod, was killed by a tiger six months ago. You are Baron Montclair of Longhills.”

Valentine reeled with shock, and put a steadying hand against the pillar beside him. Paper white, he gasped, “You … lie! Damn you! You lie! Geoff’s not dead! I—I would have heard!”

“My father learned of it in a rather roundabout way. He has been able to suppress the news because against all advice your stupid brother had journeyed miles into the jungle and told no one where he was going.”

“Do you see now?” asked Monteil, amused by Valentine’s obvious anguish. “Nobody in this country is as yet aware of Geoffrey’s demise. Therefore, your own premature death would have caused no suspicion of foul play, for who would have anything to gain by—er, hastening your exit?”

Junius looked annoyed and said irritably, “If you hadn’t taken a hand, his exit would have been fait accompli by this time.”

“A twist of fate, my dear.” Monteil sighed. “Who was to guess he had so hard a skull? Or that the child would go to a spot everyone else avoided, and find him before he obligingly died? If he had ever been found, people would only have thought he must have fallen into the Folly by accident.”

Still numbed with shock, Valentine mumbled stupidly, “But—but there is Uncle Hammond…”

“Your brainless Uncle Hammond will be easily ruled by the Trents. For—a while, at least.” Monteil smiled unpleasantly. “Now you really should not look at me with such disgust, dear Valentine. I assure you your cousin’s plan for your—extermination was far less humane than mine.”

Valentine tensed, his narrowed gaze darting to Trent.

“Justifiably so.” Junius nodded. “I’ve many scores to settle, and it was such fun to watch his condition slowly worsening. A little taste of hell that he richly deserved. I think, towards the end, he really began to think his mind was affected … Didn’t you, dear cousin of mine?”

Through his teeth Valentine whispered, “You filthy … bastard!”

Junius chuckled. “Does the light dawn at last? Yes, dear boy. Dr. Sheswell was once—er, indiscreet with a patient, and by a lucky chance I learned of it. He’s been in my pocket ever since. With his help I arranged your first—er, ‘attack.’ And his ‘medicine’ did the rest.”

“Shocking, is it not?” said Monteil. “For the last few months, Baron Montclair, your loving family has been slowly poisoning you. And that was the trouble, do you see. Too slow. And I was in a hurry, so I sent Ti Chiu to—”

With an incoherent cry of rage Valentine sprang at him.

His attack was as swift as it was unexpected. He seemed to blur across the room, and his hands were locked around Monteil’s throat before anyone else could move. Monteil let out a squawk and the two men crashed to the floor. Lyddford snatched a great golden bowl from the open crate, and hurled it at Ti Chiu’s head. The Chinese staggered. Beating frenziedly and unavailingly at Valentine, Monteil gulped for breath.

Jacques sprang to his employer’s aid, but Lyddford hurled himself between them, shouting, “Sue! Get help!”

Susan was already running for the stairs, but Junius was after her. She whipped up the pistol Monteil had given her. Junius halted, eyeing her uneasily. “I’ll fire,” she warned, the pistol steady in her hand.

The fair man joined the attack on Lyddford, who was sent hurtling back, to collapse behind a box.

Simultaneously, the Scot and the cockney ran to tear Valentine away. Maddened with rage, Valentine jammed his elbow into the ribs of the Scot and brought his right hand whizzing into a chop across the throat that sent the cockney reeling. Then an iron hand grabbed his left wrist and twisted it up behind him with brutal force. A mighty arm clamped across his throat. A deep growl of a voice asked, “Master? Ti break this?”

Helpless, unable to move, fighting to draw breath, Valentine knew what the answer would be.

“No!” screamed Susan. “Unless you want me to shoot your friend!”

Clutching at his throat, his face livid, Monteil pointed to his amber cane and one of his men sprang to snatch it up and offer it. “Shoot then,” croaked the Swiss and tottered towards Valentine.

“Hey!” shouted Junius, blenching.

“I will!” Susan screamed.

Ignoring her, Monteil sent the cane whipping across Valentine’s face. “Saleté!” he hissed.

The blow was sickeningly painful. Valentine’s eyes closed and he sagged in Ti Chiu’s grip.

With a sob of desperation, Susan swung the pistol at Monteil and pulled the trigger.

There was a metallic click.

Junius tore the weapon from her hands, his own shaking. “You murdering little doxy! It wasn’t loaded! No thanks to you, Imre!”

Monteil sent him a narrowed, rageful glance. “I gave it to her, you imbecile.” He called silkily, “Valentine…? You are awake?”

Valentine dragged his head up and met that enraged glare. Somehow, he managed a faint grin.

Monteil hissed, “Oui. Break him.”

With a delighted smile, the huge Chinese clamped both arms about Valentine’s ribs. His grip tightened and he began to laugh softly.

Susan saw Montclair’s dark head jerk back, his face convulse. She screamed at the top of her lungs.

With all his rapidly fading strength, Montclair rammed his left foot back at Ti Chiu’s shin. His spur struck hard. The death grip eased and the Chinese uttered a shocked grunt. Montclair smashed his right foot back. A guttural snarl sounded in his ear, and he was jerked around. The craggy face was a terrifying mask of rage. One great arm flailed upward. Wheezing, Valentine ducked frantically and discovered that for all his might, the big fellow was slow. The blow that would surely have finished him whipped over his head.

“Idiot!” raged Monteil. “Kill the swine!”

Susan was struggling in Trent’s hands; Lyddford was downed. Monteil’s unlovely crew made themselves comfortable and watched in amusement as Ti Chiu lumbered in again, scowlingly eager for the kill. There was, Valentine knew, no chance. Breathing hard, he crouched, fists clenched, grimly resolved to sell his life dearly.

“Tally ho!” shouted a familiar voice from the stairs.

“A mill!” howled another equally familiar voice with enthusiasm if not accuracy.

Valentine caught a glimpse of the two vagrants sailing into action. The big Scot grabbed Seth’s bushy hair and it came away in his hand, revealing flattened fair curls. “Dev!” howled Montclair joyously. Dicky, alias Jocelyn Vaughan, took on Trent, shouting a bracing “Jolly good work, Val!”

So his friends had been here, all the time! He thought gratefully ‘I might have known!’

Bo’sun Dodman plunged down the stairs, followed by Deemer, in his dressing gown, clutching an enormous and probably inoperable blunderbuss; and Mrs. Starr, clad in an orange satin dressing gown, hair in curling papers, and rolling pin in hand.

Ti Chiu came on single-mindedly. Immeasurably heartened, Valentine braced himself and drove his fist at the rugged jaw. He had as well have struck a wall of granite. The Chinese launched his great paw in a murderous swipe. Valentine ducked and struck again, then was smashed back as by a battering ram. Dimly, he heard a piercing screech, and saw Angelo fly through the air to land on Ti Chiu’s back and beat at his head with verve and determination. The big man did not even seem aware he was there, and lumbered forward.

Clambering to his knees, Valentine knew in a detached way that he was in the middle of a raging battle. The Frenchman kicked at him savagely. Valentine seized the flying boot, brought the Frenchman crashing down, sat on him, and silenced his curses with a left jab. Gasping for breath, he regained his feet in time to see Susan break a priceless vase over the head of a man wearing a red stocking cap. Imre Monteil was nowhere to be seen. Bewilderingly, the lazy gardener, Diccon, was now fighting Junius for possession of a pistol. Ti Chiu, emitting infuriated grunts, flung Señor Angelo off his back, and the Spaniard landed in the open crate and sank from view. Bo’sun Dodman was knocked down by the cockney’s pistol butt. With a squeak of fury, Mrs. Starr cast to the winds all her concepts on the use of violence and bounced her rolling pin off the cockney’s head. His eyes crossed, and he lost interest in the fight. The Chinese made a grab for Valentine, who dodged aside and rammed his fist into the big man’s midsection. Ti Chiu grunted and advanced inexorably. Vaughan and Devenish ran to Valentine’s aid. With one mighty flail of his arm, Ti Chiu sent all three flying. Deemer collected a bloody nose and dropped the blunderbuss. It went off with a deafening roar. The fair man, who was kneeling over Devenish with a glittering dagger upraised, howled and flew backwards, knocking over the lamp. The cellar was plunged into darkness. Gradually, the groans, grunts, thuds, and crashes diminished. Someone scraped at a tinder box and the small circle of light expanded as a branch of candles was lit.

The cellar looked like a small battlefield, with damaged fighting men scattered all about the floor in varying degrees of consciousness.

Alain Devenish hauled himself to a sitting position and explored a back tooth cautiously. Jocelyn Vaughan, flat on his back, lifted his head, his nose streaming crimson, and groaned thickly, “Did we—win, old boy?”

“I’m not altogether … sure,” panted Devenish, handing down his handkerchief. “That Chinese fella outnumbered the lot of us.”

“What?” said Vaughan, plying the handkerchief. “Has he got away, then?”

“Must have. Don’t see him, my tulip. And he … ain’t an easy one to overlook!”

“Aye…! Mamacita…!” sighed a feeble voice from within the crate, and Señor Angelo’s rumpled head hove into view.

Diccon, his pistol trained on three battered-looking rogues, called in a brisk, business-like voice, “You people all right?”

They were, Vaughan acknowledged breathlessly, all right.

Both eyes almost swollen shut, and with Susan propping him, Lyddford peered from behind a crate and gasped that he was “perfectly fit,” then enquired after Monteil.

“He slid away like the slippery article he is,” said Diccon grimly. “A couple of my fellows are hot after him and his big destroyer.”

Lyddford asked, “Who are you, by the way?”

Diccon vouchsafed a terse “Military Intelligence. I don’t see your friend Montclair.”

“Mices fren,” sighed Angelo, fingering a split lip, “after goings nasty personable foreign yentlemans.”

“No,” said Susan quietly. “I rather think Valentine has gone after somebody else.”

*   *   *

Bent low in the saddle, Valentine did not feel his bruises or the cold driving rain. He had seen Monteil and Ti Chiu go tearing off in a sleek high-perch phaeton, but the Swiss was not his primary target, and he followed his predatory cousin, his rage drowning out all other sensations. Junius had a good head start, and since he had appropriated Allegro, he maintained his lead and was soon out of sight, but Valentine had no doubt of where he was headed.

Lights were still burning in the great house as he galloped the hack straight across Longhills’ velvety rear lawns, reined up behind the great hall, and effected a sliding dismount. He took the terrace steps two at a time. The doors were locked. He kicked savagely and they burst open with a shattering of glass.

Sir Selby and his wife had been walking towards the east hall. They stopped, and swung around. Lady Trent gave a small scream as Valentine ran into the room. His bruised face was further marred by a long welt that angled from his right temple to the point of his chin; his hair was wildly dishevelled, and his clothes were rent and dirty.

Glancing about ferociously, he snarled, “Where is he?”

“Good God!” gasped Sir Selby. “What on earth has happened to you, dear boy?”

Valentine halted, staring at him. “You wicked old humbug,” he said between his teeth.

Sir Selby was suddenly very still and watchful.

“How dare you! You horrid boy!” shrilled Lady Trent, outraged.

Jimson, the third footman, who had hurried up followed by a lackey, checked, and watched hopefully.

“What kind of murderous thing are you,” went on Valentine, pacing towards his uncle, his narrowed eyes savage with rage, “that you could call me your dear boy—even while you did your level best to poison me?”

Lady Trent turned white and threw both hands to her mouth.

Jimson and the lackey uttered simultaneous gasps and exchanged shocked glances.

“You are mad,” declared Trent, blenching, and backing away a step.

Junius ran in from the hall, loading a pistol. “Father,” he panted, “Montclair knows—” He saw his cousin then, and froze.

“By God, but I do!” roared Montclair, leaping at him.

Junius levelled the pistol and fired. At the same instant, Jimson jumped forward and struck the weapon up, and the ball whammed into the ceiling.

Cursing, Junius whipped the footman into the path of the onrushing Montclair, and fled towards the Gallery.

Jimson stumbled and fell. Valentine leapt over him and tore after Junius.

Lady Trent gave a piercing shriek.

“Don’t be a fool, boy!” cried Sir Selby. “You men—Mr. Montclair has gone stark raving mad! Stop him!”

Jimson required the lackey to help him up, and they walked sedately after the combatants.

Glancing over his shoulder, Junius saw Montclair gaining on him, snatched up a lamp, and hurled it. Valentine fielded it with an upflung arm, and ran on. Down the steps and across the gallery went Junius, toppling plant stands, strewing small tables and stools in his wake. Valentine was tripped when an aspidistra crashed at his feet, and went down hard, but he rolled and was up again as his cousin leapt down the steps and disappeared along the side hall and into the South Wing.

There were few servants about at this hour, and the corridor past the ballroom was deserted. Valentine started up the main staircase, and narrowly escaped being brained by a flying bust of the Emperor Vespasian. “Stand … and fight, you cowardly dog,” he gasped out.

He was tiring, but knew suddenly where Junius was going, and made a mighty effort to catch up. He heard glass shatter as he plunged into Selby’s study, and ducked frantically as Junius snatched a heavy Sumatran kris from the display case and sent it whizzing at him. The razor-sharp blade sliced across his upper arm and thudded into the wall. Barely conscious of the sharp burn of pain, Valentine flung himself at his cousin. Junius crashed into the cabinet and it toppled, sending weapons flying. Valentine followed up with a hard left to the jaw, and Junius went to his knees and buried his face in his arms, cowering. “Don’t…” he whimpered. “Please—don’t hit me … again!” Valentine stood over him, fists clenched. “Get—up, you—slimy murdering coward!” he panted. Junius moaned and began to struggle up, then pounced to grab a heavy teak sword-stand carved in the shape of deer horns. He spun, and slammed it at Valentine’s ribs. Valentine doubled up, gasping. Junius laughed gloatingly, and bent to snatch up a double-edged Khanjar knife. Valentine summoned the last dregs of his strength, locked his hands together and swung them up, connecting solidly under his cousin’s chin. Junius was straightened out and went over backwards. He gave an odd, strangled squawk, tried convulsively to rise, then slumped down.

Sagging to his knees again, panting, Valentine saw many legs run in, and heard shocked exclamations. For a minute the room was an echoing blur. Devenish’s voice came through the mists. “Gad Val, but you’re a bloody mess!” Ragged and battered, his friend knelt, supporting him. Valentine said with breathless indignation, “Talk about … pot calling kettle … black!”

“Oh, what a lovely brawl,” said Vaughan, reeling to join them. “Hey! Diccon! We need a doctor here!”

Valentine gasped, “Dev … is she—all right?”

“If you mean the Glorious Henley—yes, dear old boy. The lady is quite safe, but—”

“One of you men,” said Diccon sharply, “ride for a doctor. Fast.”

“I’m—all right,” Valentine muttered. “The Bo’sun will—”

“I think we’ll need a proper doctor,” said the Intelligence Officer, holding up the sword-stand. “I’m afraid your cousin landed on this unpleasant article.”

Valentine peered at Junius. “Is he … dead?”

Working busily over the huddled figure, Diccon said dryly, “Not yet. I think he won’t cheat the hangman, my lord.”

The title made Valentine wince. “I will press … no charges.”

“I understand your desire to preserve your family honour,” said Diccon, a note of irritation in his voice. “But this is too large a matter for you to suppress. If Trent was deeply involved with the Masterpiece Gang—”

“He wasn’t,” said Valentine.

“We’ll see that, sir,” said Diccon.

*   *   *

Four hectic days later, Susan received Lord Montclair in the withdrawing room at Highperch. She was sure she would be able to control herself, but the shock of seeing him wearing blacks, relieved only by the white neckcloth, almost overset her. He looked less battered than the last time she’d seen him, but the welt was still a livid line across his face, and there was a dulled look to the dark eyes that made it difficult for her to meet them. “I had not expected you to call, my lord,” she said, sitting on the sofa and waving him to a chair.

“I had to come.” He sat down and gazed at her pleadingly. “Sue—I—”

“I must ask that you address me properly, sir.”

So she hadn’t forgiven him. Who could blame her? “Yes,” he said. “Er—Mrs. Henley, I have come to most humbly apologize for—for what I—”

“For believing we plotted to murder you.”

“I—suppose I had come to—to expect it,” he murmured. “It seems to have become the national pastime.”

She looked at him sharply. A wry smile hovered about his lips. She frowned and he said hurriedly, “I’m sorry. I seem to be handling this badly.”

“Is there a good way to handle such an accusation?”

He flushed. “Sue—for the love of God—forgive me! I—must have been mad to have suspected such a thing of you. I had once overheard you talking with Starry, and I thought— But I was a fool! You saved my life all over again when you denied me that medicine. I should have known— How did you know, by the way?”

“I had not the least idea,” she admitted. “I merely thought Sheswell a stupid man, and the Bo’sun didn’t admire his instructions or the effect of the medicine, so we abandoned both and followed our own methods.”

“How can I ever thank you? Won’t you please be charitable, and ascribe my own stupidity to the concussion Ti dealt me?”

“In view of my reputation, my lord—”

“Must you keep throwing that title at me?”

“It is as well, sir, to keep one’s place.”

He groaned and threw an irked look at the ceiling.

Her hand went out to him, but was quickly withdrawn. She said in a kinder voice, “I was very sorry to hear of your brother’s death. I know he meant a great deal to you.”

“Yes. He did. Thank you.” He still couldn’t accept the fact that dear old Geoff was gone, and his voice shook a little. He recovered himself and said quickly, “I want you to know that I am renouncing all claim to this house, and I—”

“We do not want your charity, Montclair,” said Andrew, stalking into the room. “Thank you very much.”

“It isn’t—” began Valentine, standing to face him.

“Oh, yes it is! That Intelligence man, Diccon— By the bye, did you bring him in to spy on us, too?”

“No, I did not! He was after Monteil. Now see here, Lyddford—”

Susan interrupted, her voice calm and dispassionate. “We are moving away, my lord.”

“Where?” he demanded, paling.

“Never you mind,” said Lyddford. “I don’t want you following us and making sheep’s eyes at my sister.”

“Sheep’s eyes! Now devil take you, Lydd—”

“I don’t know what else you’d call it, Montclair.” He added mockingly, but with his fine eyes very intent, “Unless—is it possible you have come to ask my permission to pay your addresses?”

“Andy!” exclaimed Susan, her eyes flashing with anger. “How could you embarrass me so? Mr. Montclair—I mean his lordship—made his opinion of us too clear for me to have anything but disgust for such a declaration.”

Lyddford said sternly, “I’ll hear his answer, if you please, Mrs. H.”

Admiral Lord Sutton-Newark had already visited Longhills, and Valentine’s discussion with him regarding the lovely widow had brought a sharp and unyielding verdict. “Unequivocally—and finally—no!” had said the old gentleman. “You are the head of the family now, Montclair. You have an obligation to your name, and to all who have carried it before you. You must marry well and with honour! There can be no slightest hint of scandal about your lady. Susan Henley? No, by Gad! Never!”

Montclair’s head bowed. He said quietly, “No. That is not why I came.”

Lyddford gave a bark of sardonic laughter. “I believe that, at least!”

“But there is no reason,” went on Montclair, “for you to leave here.”

Susan rose to her feet. “There is every reason, sir,” she said. “As my brother started to tell you, we learned that prior to my marriage Diccon was slightly acquainted with my husband. He was kind enough to make an investigation for us, and found definite proof that—that your mama did indeed refund the purchase price of this house. You were perfectly right, my lord. We have, in fact, trespassed, and owe you rent for the—”

Montclair stepped closer to her and said with a blaze of anger, “Do not dare to say such a thing! You saved my life, and in return I am expected to put you out of house and home and charge you rent? If that isn’t the most preposterous—”

“I put it to you, sir,” interrupted Lyddford, “that I don’t like your tone; I don’t like your manner; and I most decidedly will not accept your charity! Bad enough,” he added grudgingly, “that I’ve to thank you for clearing me with the Excise people.”

Ignoring him, Valentine reached out towards Susan imploringly, but she drew back as if his nearness revolted her. He lowered his hand and asked in desperation, “Where will you go? Please—at least tell me that.”

Lyddford stalked over to the door and flung it open. “I tell you goodbye, sir. No more. No less.”

Valentine bit his lip and said huskily, “Lyddford—I beg you. Give me a moment alone with her. Only a moment.”

Andrew Lyddford was a volatile and somewhat selfish young man, but he was far from being insensitive, and this whole unhappy interview was weakening his stern resolution. He hesitated, glancing at his sister.

Susan turned and walked from the room, her dark hair swinging behind her.

For a moment Valentine gazed after her. Then, without a word, he left the house.