Dedicated Villain Page 9

  “Yet ’twould seem you know of me, my lady, so his secret is not so well kept, after all.”

  Her bright gaze flickered over his countenance, noting the faint look of polite boredom, the perfection of nose, mouth, and chin, the high, well-cut cheekbones, the dusky inscrutability of the long-lashed eyes, and the proud tilt to the dark head. She kept silent for a moment, thinking many things. Then, she murmured, “You really hate the poor man.”

  A flash lit the cold eyes, and he started to his feet. “You will forgive madam, an I leave—”

  “Hoity-toity!” Her frail little hands tugged heartily at the skirts of his coat. “I will do nothing of the sort! I am a lonely, abandoned old lady. Would you go away and leave me to the mercy of passing thieves and murderers? Sit down! Sit down! I have a good hold on you, unkind one, and do assure you I shall not relinquish it. You will have to drag me—screaming—all the way!”

  Mathieson could visualize such a scene, and fought an appreciative chuckle. Still, it was true that they were not very far from where Rump had been stolen, and this sharp-tongued old lady wore some remarkably fine diamonds on her slightly gout-twisted fingers. Therefore, he tightened his lips, but sat down again.

  “That’s a good boy,” said Lady Clorinda, retaining her hold on his coat.

  “Madam,” he corrected, “I am neither a boy, nor do I hate my grandfather.”

  “Of course you don’t,” she soothed solemnly. “’Deed but you love him so deeply that when he is mentioned all the animation dies out of your face, and you become so much like a marble statue that I wonder nobody has bought you and put you on display in London!”

  Mathieson’s lips twitched. “Might one ask why you should concern yourself, my lady?”

  “Because Clifford Augustus Fairleigh Mathieson, Duke of Marbury, Earl of Nettering and Mathie, et cetera, et cetera, was the hero of my girlish dreams when I was very, very young and he was a dashing—oh, such a dashing—ensign.” My lady blushed like a girl and lowered her roguish eyes. “Well, enough of that! Suffice it to say that I knew your grandfather when he was simply young Lord Fairleigh, who allowed himself, when he was barely eighteen, to be tricked into marrying that horrid cat Mary Frobisher because she said he had got her with child! Which was nonsense, if ever I heard any, for Muffin was shy—in those days. However, never mind that. The thing is, she gave birth to Dudley—your father.” A frown pulled at her brows making her suddenly formidable. “And your father I knew well.”

  Breathless, Mathieson almost stammered, “And—did you perchance … know my mama?”

  “Oh, yes.” She asked shrewdly, “Is that what you hold against your grandfather, lad?”

  He was silent, for it was a painful topic, and one he discussed only with Rump. But, perhaps because his head pounded so mercilessly, or because for all her teasing there was a kindliness in those bright eyes, he answered at length, his voice low-pitched, almost as if he spoke to himself alone. “She was the loveliest, sweetest natured, most unselfish, and truly good lady I shall ever know. My father—” He broke off, his jaw tightening, then went on, “But Mama was always kind; always understanding and ready to listen … even when she was so very ill, at the end …”

  My lady watched him and wisely held her tongue.

  After a minute, he muttered broodingly, “And the duke rejected her—dared to condemn her and hold her vulgar and—” he spat out the word “grasping! My God! If he did but know …” His hand clenched tightly and he was very still, gazing into the bitter past.

  “Even so,” she prompted carefully, “your papa must have been very proud and pleased with her, that she had given him such a fine son, if—”

  Mathieson’s harsh laugh shocked her, and she drew back eyeing him askance.

  “Oh, my dear lady,” he said, the cynical sneer very apparent, “your gossip serves you indifferent well, I think. I would have supposed—”

  Lady Clorinda did not like to be interrupted, and therefore interrupted in turn, “Never underestimate a gossipy old woman, my lad! I know much of you. For instance, that you distinguished yourself on the battlefield, but are no longer received anywhere. That you are a reckless gamester, a soldier of fortune, a regular Don Juan with the ladies—and a very generous one, ’tis said! That you hover constantly on the brink of being clapped up for debt, yet live extravagantly. That is the sum of it, no? And not so very dreadful, surely.”

  “Because, ma’am, ’tis but the tip of the iceberg. I am a social outcast—by my own choosing. I live by my wits and by my sword and have few if any scruples. Indeed, my depravity has been finely honed and polished. I do assure you I am a thoroughly dedicated villain and enjoy my trade.”

  “Why?” She looked into his cynical smile curiously. “Vengeance?”

  It seemed to my lady that for an instant he did not breathe, but then he chuckled, and said with a careless shrug, “Indolence, ma’am. Pure and simple.” He turned to look at her fully, one dark brow mockingly upraised. “My regrets do I disappoint, but you would have the truth.”

  “What a pity,” she sighed, relinquishing her hold on his coat so as to pat his cheek very gently, “that I did not get it. Ah! Here is my lazy Cuthbert at last!”

  Mathieson, who had regarded her with stark horror and jerked his head away when she touched his cheek, recovered his aplomb only to lose it again when he glanced to the coach which came lumbering along the muddy lane.

  It was an enormous vehicle painted a rich dark red and lavishly adorned with gold shells and swirls and flourishes so that it bore more resemblance to a coach of state than to a private conveyance. This illusion was enhanced by the four white horses, and the red and gold livery of the two footmen who stood up behind. ‘Zounds!’ he thought. Raising his fascinated stare from the equipage, he met a pair of amiable grey eyes in a broad, ruddy visage. This large individual, who was more conventionally attired in a black coat with big gold buttons, must be the mislaid Cuthbert.

  “Lovely, isn’t it?” murmured Lady Clorinda.

  “There are—er, no words.”

  “Evil creature,” she exclaimed with a giggle. “I like ostentation. Sometimes. And I can afford to indulge my whims. Come along now.”

  She held out her hand imperiously. Mathieson offered his arm and led her toward the carriage which had come to a halt. A very young footman sprang down and ran to open the door.

  My lady glanced critically at William Bond’s hack. “Tie that poor creature on behind, Japhet. Truly Roland, I wonder that Muffin cannot at least mount you better than that!”

  “Is not my horse, ma’am.” He handed her onto the first step. “I’ve the finest chestnut stallion in the world—an opinion shared, evidently, for he was stolen, whereby I collected this lump on my head.”

  “Yes, of course. I had forgot you was robbed. How dreadful! Have you any hope of finding your animal?”

  “Oh, I shall find him, ma’am,” he said grimly. “I’ll catch the miserable varmints, I promise you.”

  “What—on that?” My lady pointed to the old horse. “Never! We must find you a better mount, sir.” She peered at him uneasily. “Though you do not look at all well, and must not ride any more today. I forbid it! You shall drive with me, and tomorrow—”

  Touched, because kindness was something he received even more seldom than he gave it, Mathieson smiled at her. “You are very good, and I thank you, ma’am. But I cannot delay. Rumpelstiltskin is absolument irremplaçable. I must get after him at once.”

  She frowned and said grudgingly, “I suppose I must respect you for that. Do you mean to return to Tewkesbury to hire a mount?”

  “From the look of the tracks the thieves headed north, and I daren’t waste time going back to Tewkesbury. I’ll hire another hack at the first livery stable I come to.”

  The coachman coughed portentously.

  My lady glanced up at him. “You’ve a stable in mind, Cuthbert?”

  “One or two, ma’am. But I was wondering … Did I hear you say—
a chestnut stallion was stole, sir? He wouldn’t have two white stockings and a blaze on his nose, I don’t s’pose?”

  “He most certainly would!” Mathieson stepped back and looked eagerly into that square face framed by the blue of the sunlit sky. “Have you seen such an animal today?”

  “Aye, sir! A big fellow, sixteen hands if a inch. I recollect thinkin’ that ’cept fer his ugly Roman nose and them mule ears, he’d—”

  “That’s my horse, by God,” cried Mathieson, too elated to take offense at the aspersions cast on his beloved Rumpelstiltskin. “Where, man? When? Did you see who had him?”

  The coachman rubbed the handle of his whip against his chin. “Lessee now … Musta bin about—sevenish, I’d say. A pair of country-lookin’ coves was ridin’ him, and—”

  “Both of ’em? Damn their eyes! You sure they weren’t gypsies?”

  Cuthbert shrugged. “Mighta bin, at that. They was dark enough—dark as you, sir, now I think on it.”

  Mathieson gave him a searching look, but the broad face was guileless. “And where were these two rogues heading? North?”

  “’Lor’ bless yer, no sir. South. I says ter meself, ‘Them two ain’t got no business with that beauty, Cuthbert, me boy! Like as not they stole him. They’re makin’ fer a cozy hideaway in the Forest o’ Dean, they is!’”

  “Blast!” muttered Mathieson under his breath. If the thieves were gypsies and reached the fastness of the forest, they would disappear as if into thin air. Moreover, if he turned south now he might as well abandon all hope of catching up with MacTavish. He brushed the thought aside. The all-important task was to find Rump. Glancing up, he found my lady, coachman, and footmen watching him interestedly. “My apologies for wool-gathering,” he said. “’Twould seem I must decline your offer, ma’am, for my route lies in the opposite direction, alas.”

  “Ah.” My lady nodded but her smile was wistful. “I should have enjoyed your company, but I wish you well in your search, Roland.”

  Two minutes later, having rewarded the observant coachman and been so bold as to plant a kiss on my lady’s cheek—much to her delight—he waved as the great chariot rumbled away with a tiny handkerchief fluttering from the window.

  The mare was stubborn and resisted all attempts to urge her to a respectable speed. For one of the few times in his life, Mathieson wished he owned a pair of rowelled spurs rather than the short-necked pair he wore and that he seldom employed for even the lightest touch to Rump’s sides. Fumingly abandoning his efforts to hurry the animal, he rode on, and half an hour later was searching for the livery stable a farmhand had told him was “just down the lane, left at the signpost, and stay on ’crost the fields, due east a mile or so, like.”

  His thoughts turned, as they so often did, to poor Bill Bond and some of the wild times they’d shared. There had been one particular leave in Dover … He sighed, and concentrated instead on his meeting with the tempestuous Lady Ericson. Now there was an interesting little creature. Likely she’d a lively past; certainly she had been a beauty in her day. He was convinced that she must have been pointed out to him at some time; in Paris, perhaps, for something about her was so familiar. She had— Ah! Here was the hamlet, and he could hear the ring of a smith’s hammer.

  He rode along the single street. A small girl in a faded blue dress stood watching him, a bright red ball clutched in her chubby little hands. An old man in a snowy smock sat outside the tavern smoking a long clay pipe which he lifted in a companionable greeting. A dog woke up as the mare trotted past, and rolled onto its back to remain thus, all four legs in the air. The only other person in sight was an extremely fat gentleman who stood in the open door of the smithy, apparently chatting with the smith while he waited for his horse to be shod. ‘Poor beast,’ thought Mathieson. ‘With a load like that to carry, ’tis likely glad of a rest.’

  That the fat man’s mount was not the only one in need of a rest, he discovered to his horror. His horse sat down.

  Scrambling from the saddle with neither grace nor elegance, Mathieson stumbled, swore heartily, and added to his humiliation by sitting in the road beside the hack. The sudden violent movements exacerbated his headache which was not at all helped by an outburst of delighted laughter. Furious, he peered upward. The fat man, may he rot, was convulsed, and clung for support to the grey-haired smith, who howled in a lower key, but just as raucously.

  “You cannot know how glad I am,” snarled Mathieson, “to provide you with amusement, gentlemen!”

  The smith straightened, mopping at his eyes with a grubby handkerchief. “No offense intended, sir,” he said in a great boom of a voice. “’Twere just as I hasn’t never seen no horse sit down like that ’un.”

  “Blister me!” moaned the fat man. “No more have I. A—a rara avis you’ve got there, sir! You might—might put her on exhibit and collect enough money to—to buy yourself a horse!” And he and the smith were off again. Uproarious.

  Glaring at them, Mathieson turned when a shrill squeaking added to the assault on his battered head. Drawn by this unexpected entertainment, the small girl was nearby, jumping up and down. Her golden ringlets bounced and her dress swirled. In her innocent delight she clapped her hands and dropped the ball, which rolled down the hill toward Mathieson. He took it up, then tossed it to her, smiling, and she caught it and beamed at him, her joyous little face to some extent alleviating the gloom of this miserable morning.

  He regained his feet, but his head throbbed so that he raised a hand to his temple involuntarily.

  The smith’s eyes sharpened. “Feeling a mite out of curl ’smorning, is ye, sir?”

  Mathieson brushed dirt from his already disreputable breeches. “My horse is, certainly,” he said wryly.

  “Gad, but you’re a sportsman, sir,” chortled the fat man. “Admire a fella who can laugh at adversity. But you are a touch green about the gills. I shall buy you a tankard of ale, sir, deuce take me if I don’t! Nothing like good English ale to put the spirit back into a man!”

  “Thank you,” said Mathieson. “I only wish it might put my own horse back under me! I was robbed last night gentlemen. My stallion was taken and this poor old slug left in his place.”

  The smith shook his head and clicked his tongue and said it was “sinful goings on.”

  The fat man was more vocal. “By Gad, you don’t say so!” he cried with great indignation. “Handled you roughly too, did they? Thieving gypsies, likely. Devil take it all, what is England coming to? I ask you! Not a moment ago I was telling Enoch here I damned near hauled in an ugly little lot late last night, and would’ve by Gad, had we a constable in the village! Rogues, or I’m a Dutchman, sir! Three of the dirty bounders. Unshaven, sir. A disgrace! I doubt there was a groat betwixt the lot of ’em, yet they’d a—Zeus!” His round little eyes grew rounder. “What like was your horse, sir?”

  Mathieson described the chestnut. The smith and the fat man stared at one another.

  “Cor,” said the smith, awed. “White blaze and all! Sounds like the stamper, Mr. Reed.”

  “The stamper?” snapped Mathieson, tensing. “My horse has the habit of stamping is he at stand. ’Tis why I named him Rumpelstiltskin. Have you seen him, then? Do you say these men had my horse, sir?”

  Mr. Reed nodded with owlish solemnity. “Or I’m a Dutchman, sir!”

  Mathieson seized his arm. “By God, but I’ll buy you that ale, Reed! And you too, smith! Now—tell me where I can get a decent horse, but first—late last night, you said? Could you describe me these rogues and tell me where they were bound? Into the Forest, eh?”

  “Dean, sir? No, sir! Devil a bit of it! Tall, skinny fella—gypsy, likely. Big rascal wearing a knitted green cap. Bigger rascal—forty-ish. And all riding north, sir. Most definitely north, sir. North! Or I’m a Dutchman, sir!”

  Mathieson bought ale for Enoch the smith, and Mr. Reed. He also bought a black cloak and a fine grey horse and, although these transactions left him rather dangerously short of funds, h
e was pleased to find that the cloak was warm, and the grey was a good goer.

  His further discussion with Mr. Reed had convinced him the man was in the right of it, and that Rump had indeed been taken northward. Lady Ericson’s coachman must either have been mistaken as to the thieves’ route, or they had changed direction after he saw them, perhaps in an effort to confuse any pursuer. Knowing that they would put as much ground as possible between them and himself, Mathieson headed steadily northward. Despite their good progress, however, his mood deteriorated as the hours slipped away with no sight of his quarry, the dread that he might not find Rump compounded by his frustration because MacTavish had eluded him.

  A light meal at a friendly farmhouse restored his nerves, and, his headache a little less vicious, he mounted up once more. He had scant hope of obtaining word of his horse from hamlets or inns, being convinced the thieves would steer clear of such places, but he asked nonetheless, of carters, pedlars, shepherds, blacksmiths, a man with a load of feathers, a tinker with an irascible donkey, sundry farmhands, and a dimpled dairymaid. He was answered variously with indifference, courtesy, garrulity, and (by the tinker) a curse. The farmhands scratched their heads and tried in vain to recollect such an animal as he described. The dairymaid blushed and fluttered her lashes, but could provide him with nothing more useful than a kiss, which he took without leave and returned when she dimplingly demanded it.

  By late afternoon his hopes were fading into a fuming helplessness. The wind was warm but blustery, sending the clouds to racing the shadows they cast onto hill and dale. He had crossed into Shropshire, and, still avoiding main roads, was high in the hills with lush green valleys to either hand, and far below the sparkle of a river that he rather thought would be the Teme. Beautiful, unspoiled country. Ahead, the thatched roofs of a tiny hamlet peeped above the trees, and a few thin strands of smoke rose only a short way before they were whipped into invisibility by the hurrying wind. Mathieson spurred the grey to a gallop, then reined up frantically as a startled shout rang out, and a young boy with flaming red hair darted from the undergrowth almost under the grey’s hooves. He was clearly scared half out of his wits, but he stopped when Mathieson demanded it, and faced him, trembling.