Chapter Twenty-Five

Simon paced the length of the attic room once more, stopping to look, unseeingly, out the grimy window onto an unimpressive view of streets and rooftops. Another lodging in someone else’s house. Sometimes it grew tiresome, this business of traveling, even when he had been able to come and go as he pleased. Sometimes he wished he had one place to stay, to come to. A home.

Matters were worse now. Since arriving in Dover yesterday he’d spent most of his time hiding in the office at the theater, until he’d been smuggled last night into this room, which he shared with Ian. He was disguised as an old man again, a somewhat more detailed disguise than the one he’d used in London, but as subject to discovery. Anyone who gave him a close look would realize that he was not as old as he appeared.

The door behind him opened, and he turned, grasping the cane that served as both prop and weapon. “Peace, friend,” Ian said, closing the door behind me. “‘Tis only me.”

Simon lowered the cane. “I didn’t hear you come in.”

“Then you should be more alert. I made enough noise.” Ian rubbed his hands together as he pulled off his coat, slinging it onto the bed. In public there was no one more fastidious; his clothing was always clean and fashionable, his hair faultless, his manners impeccable. In private was another matter. “Damned cold out there. Feels more like autumn than summer.”

“No chance of crossing the Channel today, then?”

“No, unless you swim. And ‘tis damned cold for that.”

“What?” Simon asked, seeing Ian suddenly smile. “What have you been up to now?”

“I could answer that several ways.” Ian settled into the comfortable bow-backed chair, fingers steepled. “Arguing with a man about his taste in clothing, teaching him to swim—any number of ways.”

Simon waited. From long experience he knew that Ian had a tale to tell, and was working up to it as dramatically as possible. “What man?” he asked, mildly.

“Quentin Heywood.”

“Good God!” Simon stared at him. “He’s here?”

“Aye.” The laughter had left Ian’s eyes, and his mouth was grim. “You’d best sit down, Simon,” he said, gesturing toward the bed.

Simon didn’t move. “Does he know where I am?”

“No, not yet, but he knows you’re here. And I suspect ‘tis my fault.”

“Why?”

Ian stared at his fingers. “‘Tis possible he followed me.”

“Ah.” Simon nodded. “So that’s why you were set free from gaol. I should have guessed. Why is he chasing me? Do you know?”

“Unfortunately, yes.”

“What do you mean?” Simon demanded.

“Have you never wondered, Simon, why Miller was killed when he was?”

“I don’t know. Coincidence, I thought. Or—”

“Or?”

He frowned. “Someone wanted me blamed for the killing. That’s occurred to me, though I can’t think who.”

Ian looked up at him. “Can’t you?”

“My God.” Simon dropped onto the bed. “You know.”

“I suspect.”

“Who?”

“Heywood.”

“Good God! Why?”

“Why, I don’t know. As to the rest—”

“Have you known this all along?”

Ian stared at his fingers. “Yes.”

“Bloody hell!” Simon jumped to his feet. “I could have been hanged! I spent months in prison and I’ve been on the run since, not to mention what I’ve done to Blythe. And all the time, you knew.”

“There was no proof,” Ian said, simply. “Even now, I’m not sure.”

“Why?” Simon turned from the window, where he’d paced. “Why did he do it, and why didn’t you tell me?”

“I told you, I don’t know his reasons.” Ian kept his gaze on his fingers. “The rest is more difficult.”

Simon crossed his arms. “I have time.”

Ian winced. “Well. They say confession is good for the soul. We shall soon see. Simon.” He looked up, his face serious. “Heywood knew you would be at Miller’s because I told him.”

“And just why did you do such a thing?”

“Gambling debts.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“Gambling debts. You may not recall, you were in some difficulties yourself, but I had managed to run up a substantial sum. It had to be paid, or course. A matter of honor.”

“Gambling debts. And the price of redeeming them was—”

“Information about you.”

“I hope you gave fair value for your thirty pieces of silver.”

Ian winced again. “I deserve that.”

“You do,” Simon said grimly. He was so angry, so stunned, that he was numb. Ian, feckless and unthinking, had used people in the past to get himself out of his own messes. This went beyond anything, however, that Simon had ever known.

“If it comforts you, Simon, I’ve paid for it every day since.”

“How?” Simon lashed out. “With your good name? By spending time in prison? By nearly being hanged?”

“Don’t shout. You’ll be heard.”

“I don’t give a damn. I—”

“You should. Heywood may very well find out where I lodge.”

Simon snatched up his cane. “Damn you. You led him here—”

“Actually, I threw him off the quay.”

“What?”

“I threw him into the harbor.” Ian looked up at him over his fingertips, an affectation Simon had never detested before now. “I stopped to see Giles before coming here. He’s finding another place for you.”

“Which you, no doubt, will tell to Heywood.”

“I have no more gambling debts.”

“Bloody hell, Ian, my life is at stake and you make jests?”

“Sorry! Sorry. But I’d no idea it would lead to this. Sit down. Please.”

Simon glared at him for a moment. Ian’s eyes were pleading. Behind his facile exterior lay a complicated, and sensitive, man. Sometimes. “Tell me what happened, or I’ll beat it out of you,” he growled, sitting again, though some of his anger had eased. Even now he found it difficult to remain angry with Ian for long.

Ian nodded. “I wouldn’t blame you if you did. Yes, I’m getting to it!” He held up his hand as Simon shifted on the bed. “Yes. Well. It started in Canterbury, when we were having that good run at the King Theater. Remember?”

“I can hardly forget.”

“I met Heywood in the green room. Someone introduced us, I don’t know who, and we got to talking. His name wasn’t Heywood, by the by. It was Tansy. Well, before you know it, we adjourned to a tavern, where we both had a trifle too much to drink.” He frowned. “At least, I did.”

“So?”

“So I fear I talked rather a lot. He didn’t seem particularly interested in you, by the by. He just seemed to enjoy theater gossip. You know the type.”

Simon nodded. “I do.”

“Well. He came to the green room again a few nights later. Now I think on it, I know why you never met him. You and I weren’t in the same plays. Well. He invited me to dine afterwards, and then introduced me to some friends. I had some wine, played some cards...” Ian spread his hands. “The rest, you can guess.”

“You lost.”

“Badly. I was actually relieved, you know, when Heywood purchased my markers. He was a friend, he said, he wasn’t going to press me for payment. And I said that I was good, else I’d have to go to a moneylender and end up as you did.”

“Ah. Now we come to it.”

“Yes. He started asking questions about you, Simon, but the impression I had at the time was that his grudge was against Miller.”

“Really. Why?”

Ian rubbed at his nose. “I’m afraid I can’t remember. Too much wine. In any event, when he asked what you were going to do, I told him, and when.”

“And?” Simon said, when Ian paused.

“And that night you were arrested for Miller’s murder.” Silence fell in the room. “The next day Heywood came to the theater and returned my markers.”

“Bloody hell! So you knew—”

“Oh, yes. I knew. He thanked me for the information, laughed in my face, and left. And all I had for proof were the markers.”

“Bloody hell,” Simon said again. “Why didn’t you tell someone?”

“I did, but Heywood was gone, and no one knew of him, at least not as Tansy. I had no proof,” he said. “The magistrate, King’s counsel, the gaolers—no one would listen.”

“He set it up well.” Simon pursed his lips, no longer angry. It was past, and Ian had more than redeemed himself. He had saved Simon from hanging. “Your story was so implausible, people would think you were just trying to protect me.”

“Yes.” Ian leaned back, his face lined, aged. “I suspect he also managed to have Mrs. Miller walk in at just the right—wrong—time, but I don’t know for certain.”

“Probably.”

“But that’s past,” Ian said, echoing Simon’s earlier thoughts. “The problem is now.”

“Yes. How did you come to throw him into the harbor?”

“What? Oh, that.” Ian smiled. “We had a disagreement over his coat. Red velvet with gold lacing.” He shuddered.

“Ian—”

“‘Tis the truth,” Ian said, spreading his hands and looking so wide-eyed innocent that Simon knew he’d just been fed a Banbury tale. No good trying to get the truth from him; once Ian decided to keep a secret, it stayed secret.

“I should beat you for this.”

“But you won’t. I—hush!”

“What?” Simon said, but then he heard it, too, the stairs creaking outside and an odd sound, a squishing sound. As if someone were walking in wet shoes. The two men looked at each other and then, in unspoken agreement, took up posts on either side of the door, Simon with his cane and Ian with his sword stick. The creaking stopped. There was a rustling, as of clothing being adjusted, and then someone pounded on the door.

 

Blythe stared up at the portrait. The brass plate on the frame identified the subject as the Honorable Geoffrey Vernon, with no other explanation. The likeness to Simon was uncanny, though this close, Blythe could see differences that went beyond the man’s clothing, out of date by some twenty years. His eyes were light, hazel, she thought; Simon’s were dark. His nose was somewhat thinner than Simon’s, his chin, somewhat rounder. Not Simon, then, but someone enough like him to be his twin. Who was he?

 

“Ahem,” a voice said behind her, and she turned, to see the butler who had earlier let her into the hall. “The viscountess regrets that she is not receiving visitors today.”

“Who is this?” Blythe demanded, gesturing at the portrait.

The butler looked down his nose at her again. “I believe that is obvious, miss. He is the Honorable Geoffrey Vernon.”

“Yes, but who is he?”

“He would have been the fourth viscount,” the butler said, and the regret in his face made him look human for the first time.

“Would have been?”

“Yes. He’s been gone these many years. Ahem.” He straightened, pulling his dignity about himself. “The viscountess will not receive you. You may leave.”

“Of course,” Blythe murmured, and, with one last look at the mysterious portrait, went to the door. It closed behind her with a solid thud, leaving her standing under the portico, baffled and stunned.

“Miss?” McNally called from the cart. “Are you well?”

Blythe looked up, startled. “Oh! Yes. We’d best leave,” she said, her voice lower as she climbed into the cart. “There’s something very strange here.”

“Problems?”

“No.” She stared blankly ahead as McNally drove along the drive. “Joseph, has Simon ever been here?”

He frowned. “Not that I know of, miss.”

“Then why...?”

“What?”

“Nothing.” She shook her head. “I must think on this.”

McNally cast her a look, but otherwise made no comment, for which she was grateful. Deep in thought about what she had seen, she was unaware that a man on horseback was approaching from the opposite direction, until McNally hissed. “What?” she said, looking up, to see the horseman passing them. She went very still. It was Quentin Heywood.

 

Quentin turned in his saddle, staring back at the old farm cart rumbling on up the hill. The devil, but he could swear that was Blythe Marden in that cart. She looked different; older, heavier, but that meant nothing. She was obviously in disguise. What was she doing here?

He watched the cart for a moment, and then, shrugging, turned back, guiding his horse along the drive. A few hours earlier he would have pursued her, but things had changed. He had had enough. He was getting out.

It was a little thing, really, unimportant to most people, but vital to him. A man with his lack of resources and his sense of fashion could not afford to have his fine clothes ruined. So far in this escapade he had lost a pair of boots, some breeches, and an expensive wig. Now his fine new coat of red velvet was gone, ruined beyond repair by the filthy water of Dover harbor. It was too much. He had been running around England doing Honoria’s bidding, and for what? Loss and humiliation. It was time for her to pay.

At the house he tossed his reins to a groom and strolled inside, hat tucked carelessly under his arm. The butler bowed, went to announce Quentin’s presence to the viscountess, and then returned, to lead him up to her boudoir. And all the time, Quentin thought of the strange sight he had just seen.

Honoria looked up from the blue velvet chaise longue, where she reclined in apparent relaxation, one arm along the back displaying her lush figure in all its glory. “Well? Have you news?”

“Yes.” Quentin set down his hat and sat in one of the spindly velvet and gilt chairs which furnished the room, crossing his legs. “What was the Marden woman doing here?”

“Who?”

“The Marden woman. The one who’s been with—the actor.”

Honoria frowned. “You are talking in puzzles, Quentin. No such person has been here.”

“No? I saw her leaving just now.”

“Leaving—oh. The charity person.”

“What?”

“Someone was here, collecting for some charity. I sent her away, of course. But her name wasn’t Marden. It was—let me see, something absurd. Higglesworth, I think?”

“She was in disguise,” Quentin said patiently. “Are you saying you didn’t see her?”

“Of course I didn’t.” Honoria leaned forward, her careful pose forgotten. “Are you seriously telling me the actor’s companion came here?”

“Yes.”

“Why didn’t you stop her?” she demanded, getting to her feet and pacing the room. “Really, Quentin, your incompetence amazes me at times!”

Quentin gazed at her over his folded hands. She was, as always, lovely in an open robe of pale blue silk, her hair tossing magnificently about her shoulders and her body—ah, that body. Strange that he wasn’t the least bit moved by her. Strange that he ever had been. “It is for compliments like that that I do what I do,” he murmured.

She whirled about, glaring at him. “You think this is funny? A jest? Because I warn you, Quentin—”

“Spare me.” He held up a languid hand. “Do you know, Honoria, I think—no, I know I do—I believe I see wrinkles about your eyes?”

Honoria’s hands flew to her face, and then back down. “I do not like being insulted, Quentin.”

“Pity,” he went on, as if she hadn’t spoken. “You were a great beauty, but there’s a certain”—he tilted his head—“coarseness about you, now. Too much paint on your face, I think, my love.”

“I am not your love!” she exclaimed, and slapped him open-handed across the face.

Quentin barely flinched, though his cheek stung. “No. You never were, were you.”

“You are trying my patience, Quentin. Say what you have to say, and then get out.”

“This makes me wonder what my reward would have been had I stayed the course. But, my love, I will do as you just requested. In fact, I have come to tell you that very thing. I’m getting out.”

“What are you talking about?”

“Just as I said. I will not be a party to your schemes any longer.”

Honoria stared at him for a moment, and then threw back her head in a laugh. “You can’t be serious! Why, you know I’d expose you in a moment!”

“Would you, my love?”

“Yes. It would be very easy, Quentin, to find someone who would claim to have seen you leaving Miller’s. Perhaps if I pay him enough he will say there was blood on your clothes.”

“Pity. For then I shall have to tell your husband what I know about Fowler.”

She went very still. “Fowler? I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Don’t you?” He was rather enjoying this, watching her realize that she no longer held the upper hand. “But I think you do. Ethan Fowler, who was steward here, and who stole so much from the estate? Money and other things of value, I believe. And then who came to such a tragic end, drowning in the Channel.” He shook his head. “Or do I have the name wrong?”

“He did those things,” Honoria said through stiff lips, “though we could never prove it. But what has that to say to anything?”

“Interesting how your cohorts seem to meet unsavory ends,” he mused. “I believe one of the objects stolen was a valuable miniature of the first viscount. Something like this.”

Honoria jumped forward as he pulled his hand from his coat pocket, opening it to display a miniature painting of a man in Cavalier dress, with hair in ringlets. The painting itself was unremarkable; the frame, however, gold encrusted with pearls and rubies, was not. “Where did you get that?”

“A pretty thing, and valuable. I can understand why you wouldn’t wish to part with it.” He smiled at her. “I found it in your jewel box, my love. Did you not know it was missing? No? Careless of you.” He clucked disapprovingly, shaking his head. “You really should have disposed of it, Honoria. Not left it where anyone could find it.”

Honoria was standing transfixed, a few feet away, her hand raised as if to snatch the miniature from his hand. “I had that locked up.”

“Oh, so you admit it?”

“No! When Fowler took it, I—”

“No, love.” He shook his head. “Good try, but no. Because I have it, now.” He tossed it up in the air, caught it one-handed, and then carefully stowed it away. “I think the viscount would find it interesting, don’t you?”

“He wouldn’t believe you.”

“He might not,” he agreed, “but do you want to take that chance? As I recall, he was quite upset about the whole thing. He’d be quite upset with you.” He let the silence spin out. “We appear to be at a stalemate.”

“Why are you doing this?” she asked, seemingly bewildered. “After all we’ve been to each other—”

“I was your pawn, nothing more, haring about England and taking all the risks while you sat here in safety, with never a word of thanks from you. And, if it came to it, you would have put the blame on me, would you not? Ah. Don’t answer that, my love. I see it in your eyes.” He rose. “I was a fool, letting you dictate to me, but I’ll be fooled no more. I am out of this affair.”

“But—Miller—the actor- “

“I care not about him. He may go to the devil, or he may go to the Continent. As I believe I shall do for a time. He is not my concern any longer.”

“Quentin!” she wailed, as he reached the door. “What about me?”

He paused. Once he had loved her, or had thought he had. More fool he. “I care not,” he said, and went out, closing the door very, very quietly behind him.

 

The knocking came again at the door, where Simon and Ian waited, weapons at the ready. “Ian! Are you in there, man?”

“Giles,” Ian said, lowering his walking stick at the same time as Simon, and opened the door. “You gave us a scare.”

Giles walked in, frowning. “Why?”

“We were just discussing that Woodley, here, should be moved. He is a dashed uncomfortable person to share quarters with.”

Simon smiled. “Uncomfortable, Ian?”

“Yes, unless one likes the imminent threat of being carted off to gaol.”

“Heywood is here,” Simon explained to Giles. “He and Ian had a conversation.”

Giles grimaced. “Well, that’s done it. Though where we’ll put you, lad, I’ve no idea. Have you seen McNally?”

“Not today, no.”

“Well, no matter. He said something about going up the coast. Possibly something to do with your passage. You know you’ll not be going tonight?”

Simon nodded, just as another knock came on the door. The three men stiffened. “‘Tis me,” Blythe said, and they relaxed.

“Well, princess?” Simon opened the door, letting her in. “And what are you doing in that get-up?”

“I’ve news.” She put her hand to her heart, and Simon could see that her breath was coming quickly. Dressed all in black, with her hair covered, she looked dowdy, older. “I saw Quentin Heywood not an hour ago.”

“Where?” Ian said, sharply.

“At...” She looked at Simon. “Simon, I need to talk with you.”

He frowned. “Is Heywood coming here?”

“No, you’re safe enough, for now.”

“We’re moving him elsewhere, anyway, lass,” Giles put in.

She paled. “To the Continent? So soon?”

“To a safer place,” Simon said. “It seems Heywood is acquainted with Ian.”

Blythe glanced from him to Ian, who appeared relaxed as he leaned on his stick. “I don’t understand.”

“It matters not. Where did you see Heywood?”

“At Moulton Hall.”

Simon frowned. “Where?”

“Then you don’t know of it?”

“The Stanton estate?” Giles said. “Why were you there?”

“Bloody hell!” Simon put his fists on his hips. “Did you go to see the viscountess?”

“Yes, but she wouldn’t see me. Simon, I saw something strange—”

“That was dangerous, Blythe. What do you think you’re doing, risking your fool neck like that?”

Blythe straightened, folded her hands, raised her chin. Before his very eyes she had suddenly become someone else. “To save your fool neck, of course.”

“I think,” Ian said, “I shall go for some ale. Join me, Giles?”

Giles didn’t look at him. “Hm? What?”

“Ale, Giles.” Ian took Giles’s arm, leading him to the door. “We’ll discuss finding you a safe place,” he said to Simon. “We won’t be above twenty minutes.”

Simon nodded as the door closed, leaving him and Blythe alone. “Well?” he said. “Why were you at Moulton Hall?”

“Pray do not take that tone with me, sir,” Blythe said, sinking into the chair, her back ramrod straight, her skirts arranged in precise folds and her face dour. “I will not tolerate it.”

Simon grinned. “Who are you supposed to be?”

“Leonora Higglesby,” she said in a more normal voice, and pulled at her bonnet ribbons. “An insufferable prig, if you must know. I thought if I posed as someone collecting for a charity I might see the viscountess.”

“And do what, Blythe? Ask her what her grudge was against Miller?”

“It sounds foolish, I know. But the answer is there, Simon.” Her face sobered. “I saw a portrait of a man who could have been your twin.”