Heir to Rowanlea (17 page)

Several of the young men were by this time decidedly merry, and it was a very lively group that made their noisy way to Jermyn Street. As the rest of the night wore on, however, they became more concerned with the cards, only a couple of them retiring too foxed to understand what they were doing.

Claude was flushed and bright-eyed, and Harry watched him covertly. It might have been that Claude was exhilarated by his success, for the pile of coins and notes of hand beside him grew steadily larger, but Harry had the nagging feeling that something else was pleasing his cousin.

Another hand ended, and Richard tossed his cards down in disgust.

“You have me, Norville,” he exclaimed, and scribbled another note. “You’ve the devil’s own luck tonight, for sure!”

“Oh, I am always lucky,” Claude said with a smile, and proceeded to deal for the next hand.

“Too lucky, begod!” a slurred voice commented, and Claude glanced contemptuously at its owner, who was slumped in his chair, and had provided a high proportion of the notes he now held.

“I keep my wits about me,” Claude replied equably, and for a while the game absorbed them all, until once again Claude won handsomely.

“I should not be the one to suggest a close,” Claude remarked, sweeping the cards towards him, “but I am devilish tired. Will you all, if you agree to end now, come and have your revenge with me one evening soon?”

There were cries of protest from a couple of the men who had lost most heavily, and with a shrug Claude smiled and agreed to continue for a while longer. He still won, and Richard laughingly asked him to tell the secret.

“For it cannot be pure chance,” he said ruefully.

Claude flashed him a quick look.

“What do you accuse me of, Mr Davies?” he demanded quickly.

“Accuse? Why, I do not accuse!” Richard laughed. “Merely I imagined you must have some system, some knowledge of the cards we do not. There are people, you must know, who can calculate in a second the chances of drawing particular cards.”

Claude looked hard at him, then smiled briefly. Harry, however, had been struck by some note he had never before heard in his cousin’s voice, and looked at him carefully as he played the next hand. It struck him Claude was holding the cards in a slightly awkward fashion, against his free hand on which gleamed a diamond ring set in an old-fashioned, elaborate claw. A horrid suspicion occurred to him, and it was all he could do to prevent himself from bursting out with it there and then. Impatiently he waited until it was a natural movement for him to pick up some of the cards, and he scrutinized them quickly. On the backs of most of them, scarcely noticeable amidst the pattern, were tiny scratched marks.

Richard, whose turn it was to deal, held his hands out for the cards, but Harry shook his head.

“You had best examine them, Richard,” he said quietly. “They seem to have been marked, and as Claude has won all night, it would appear he has some explaining to do!”

The rest of the young men swooped on the cards, and with many exclamations of disgust pointed out to one another the faint marks. Claude had risen to his feet, pale but steady, and faced Harry.

“You accuse me, I apprehend?” he said coolly. “If you do, you lie!”

“Then how do these marks come to be here?” Harry demanded. “You could have made them with your ring, for it has sharp enough points!”

“I cannot explain it apart from suggesting that on some former occasion these cards have been marked.”

“No such thing, for I opened new packs tonight,” Richard said, shaking his head.

“You have won, you wear a sharp-edged ring, and it is the obvious conclusion!” Harry declared.

“Obvious to a fool, no doubt!” Claude returned furiously. “I will not be so accused! I see it now, it is a trick to discredit me, to blackmail me so that you may deprive me not only of my fair winnings tonight, but also of what you have always resented my inheriting. But do not be too sure of killing me, Harry. I too can shoot. I demand satisfaction! Who are your seconds?”

Richard, aghast, tried to intervene, but Harry brushed him aside.

“No, Richard, it has gone too far. Jack, will you stand my friend?”

“Of course,” Jack replied quietly, and turned to Claude with an enquiring look.

“Sir David Clarkson will act for me,” Claude said briefly, and turned to stride out of the room.

It was by now almost dawn, and Harry, shaking off his solicitous friends at last, returned to his rooms to sleep through the morning. Jack appeared later to say all had been arranged for the following morning, and he was just off to engage a surgeon and book breakfast at an inn near Paddington Green.

“I’ll call for you at about half past seven,” he said cheerfully. “I’ll bring my pistols, they’re a pair of Manton’s, and accurate to the inch. Have you any idea if Claude’s a good shot?”

“None,” Harry replied. “I doubt it, for he does not appear to care for any sport except riding, and I’ve never heard of him practising at the galleries.”

“Well, you’d best not kill him!” Jack warned.

“No, by heavens, or it would be said I’d forced this quarrel on him through jealousy over Rowanlea! Jack, old fellow, if he should be a better shot than we think, I’ve left letters for my father and—” he stopped suddenly. “Willis has them, and will give them to you if necessary.”

“It won’t be, we’ll be laughing at it by this time tomorrow.”

Chapter 10

Jack departed, and Harry, knowing news of the duel would by now be all over town, could only hope his father and the other members of his family would not come to hear of it until after it was finished with. He went out to dine, and to visit some of his favourite haunts, showing himself as careless and debonair as possible, so that none could accuse him of being afraid. It was late when he returned home, and there were few enough hours left of the night. Even so, he could not sleep, and was heavy-eyed when Jack appeared.

Jack nodded approvingly at the dark coat, from which Harry had removed the bright buttons, and the black cravat. He kept up a cheerful flow of conversation as they drove out to Paddington and Harry did his best to appear insouciant. It was a quarter to eight when they arrived, and Harry chided Jack for making him wait so long.

“We can take a turn and you will feel better,” Jack said off-handedly, and went on to speak of their plans for the next few days, apparently oblivious of Harry’s lack of response.

The church bells announced the hour, and Claude had not arrived. The surgeon had appeared a few minutes earlier in a discreet dark-coloured chaise, and Jack strolled over to greet him, bringing him back to be introduced to Harry. They chatted desultorily, but Harry kept looking towards the town, expecting Claude to appear at any moment. The quarter rang out, and then the half hour, and he was becoming angry. Jack began to suggest Claude had lost his courage and would not appear, but the doctor gave it as his opinion they should wait for the full hour before they gave up. By nine o’clock there was still no sign of either Claude or Sir David, and they made their way to the tavern where breakfast was awaiting them. The surgeon declined to accompany them, and Jack was not attempting, now the danger was over, to hide his relief it had all turned out so satisfactorily. Harry, however, was furiously angry and ready to label Claude a poltroon, a lily-livered, chicken-hearted rascal who did not deserve to bear the name of Norville.

It was there, some time later, while they were partaking of excellent ham and even better ale that Sir David Clarkson found them. As he entered the coffee room where they were seated, Harry rose to his feet with an exclamation of disgust.

“Well, has that paltry cousin of mine condescended to appear at last?” he demanded.

“I am afraid he will not be coming, Mr Norville. I had the utmost difficulty in dissuading him, but since he has his right hand in a sling, it really was impossible. I could not permit him to attempt to shoot left-handed, which is what he wished.”

Sir David smiled deprecatingly as Harry snorted in disbelief.

“A sling? What is this? How comes he to have such an excuse?”

“It is no excuse, I do assure you,” Sir David said coldly. “As he made his way home last night he was attacked by a gang of ruffians. Lord Norville made a gallant attempt to fight them off, but in doing so he sustained an injury to his right arm, and can most certainly not hold a pistol.”

Jack laughed, and Harry turned to him in disgust.

“I might have known he would have been too great a coward to face me. An ingenious excuse, is it not? Well, Sir David, I am naturally bound to believe you,” he added, not bothering to hide his sneer, “and beg you to return to your principal and arrange another date, when we must hope yet another accidental injury will not prevent the meeting!”

Unexpectedly Harry found neither Jack nor Sir David would agree to this.

“Don’t be a fool, Harry. The magistrates will have got to hear of it, and will be sure to stop it,” Jack told him bluntly. “Claude has defaulted, for whatever reason, and your honor is satisfied. Now it must end.”

“I regret the imputations you are making, Mr Norville,” Sir David said curtly, “but Mr Weare is right. I wish to make it plain that the inability to appear was in no way the fault of Lord Norville. Now it must be considered at an end. Good day to you both!”

* * * *

He departed, and some time later Jack and Harry followed him. Back at his rooms Harry found Willis in a state of considerable agitation at his long absence, and also waiting to inform him his father had sent a message to ask him to call on him as soon as possible.

Knowing this summons must mean his father had become aware of the duel, Harry braced himself for what did indeed turn out to be a most uncomfortable half-hour, during which he endured his father’s reproaches in silence, only explaining what had led to the duel when Mr Norville, having run out of ways of expressing his displeasure, demanded to be told what he had to say for himself.

Incredulous at first, then forced to believe Harry, he sat behind his desk and shook his head sorrowfully.

“Frederick must be turning in his grave,” he said heavily. “I never thought to see the day when one so near to me could cheat at cards!”

Harry eventually took his leave, but found Charlotte lying in wait for him, and she whisked him into the morning room, saying her mother had gone out and Lady Norville was with Claude.

“Oh, there has been such a commotion!” she exclaimed, “and I cannot fathom the half of it. Aunt Claudine seems to think you have tried to murder Claude, and had him attacked last night.”

“So that’s his story, is it? Is he really hurt?” Harry said, but Charlotte shook her head.

“I have not seen him, but I would not be surprised if he is shamming, for he is the greatest coward,” she said angrily. “But do pray tell me all about it, Harry,” she coaxed, and he did so.

“Lord, he isn’t a bit like he used to be!” Harry concluded. “In the old days he would never have thought of cheating, even in a game of hide the slipper.”

“No,” Charlotte said slowly. “Harry, I have been thinking, and there are so many strange things. It seems impossible, for Aunt Claudine is real enough, but what if he could be an imposter after all?”

Harry stared at her, then shook his head.

“You have windmills in your head if you imagine that, I know it is what we might like to believe, but it cannot be true.”

“It does seem unlikely, but listen to me,” Charlotte ordered. “First there is the fact he is afraid of dogs, and Frederick never was. He could get any animal to trust him, and the dogs adored him. Wolf seems to have taken a dislike to Claude. He says he was bitten badly, but I do not think that could have turned someone like Frederick so completely against dogs.”

Harry shook his head.

“You were very young when you last saw him,” he reminded her. “You cannot be sure of what he was like.”

“No, and it is difficult to be sure after so long about those slight differences we noticed in his appearance—his hair being darker and no scar on his lip. But his memory is truly dreadful, he does not seem to recall anything about Rowanlea and the people there.”

“Anyone can forget names,” Harry argued.

“Yes, but I would not have thought anyone could have forgotten Mrs Turner’s gingerbread. He had completely forgotten her and the gingerbread when he was asking me about a cottage for Bagshot.”

“A cottage for Bagshot?” Harry said in puzzlement.

“Yes, he said he wanted to come over here now that his sons ran his farm—which he apparently got through his French wife—and he was old and homesick. Do you recall him? He was Uncle Frederick’s man, was he not? I think he was the small wiry one with sandy-colored hair. Yet if he exists he would know about Claude, unless the cottage is a bribe.”

“Did Claude tell you what he looked like?”

“Well, I described him and asked if that was he, for I could not remember the name, and he agreed.”

“This gets odder! The small fellow was MacDonald, and I remember there being some trouble just before Uncle Frederick went to France. He hired a new man, Bagshot, but he was tall and burly, and was already married. His wife went with them as Aunt Claudine’s maid.”

“Then it could not have been Bagshot, even if his wife had died and he had married again. Claude had heard the name but never known what the man was like. I wonder if he does not really want a cottage, but threw out the name to make me less suspicious when he did not remember Mrs Turner? That must be it.”

“Yes, possibly, but there could be other explanations,” Harry protested.

“For one, or two mistakes, or lapses of memory,” Charlotte agreed, “but not all this! Do you recall when Jack disturbed that nest of wasps once?”

Harry grinned at the recollection.

“It would be hard to forget! Frederick dancing about and in the end jumping into the river to escape from them. He was livid with Jack because it had not been he that was stung.”

“Yes,” Charlotte agreed, “but when I mentioned it to Claude, he pretended to remember, and said he recalled Jack being stung! Surely he must have known was he, and that he ended up in the river.”