Lucien Tregellas (27 page)

 

Lucien's eyes raked through the darkness. A full moon hung high in the sky, glimmering silver upon the expanse of rippling dark sea, casting the castle ruins up ahead as a sinister silhouette. Nelson trotted closer until Lucien reined him in and dismounted, preferring to lead the horse the rest of the distance. Salt and seaweed and dampness hung heavy in the air, undisturbed by the wind blowing in from the sea. His hand touched briefly against the solid form of the pistol hidden deep within his pocket. He walked the horse up as close as he dared, tethering the reins on a scrubby bush by the final entrance to the site. He paused, instincts alert, face harsh beneath the pale moonlight, eyes scouring the castle walls that lay ahead of him, or at least what remained of them. No sign of Farquharson. The ground was solid beneath his feet as he slipped out from behind the cover of his horse, exposing himself to any shot that Farquharson might care to take. One step, and then another, keeping close to the shadow of the rising crag to his left, he edged round and climbed the steps to the upper ward. His gaze swept every ancient stone. The high place was empty. And that meant that Farquharson had to be in the island part of the castle. Lucien turned and headed towards the narrow winding pathway that would lead him there.

Lap and swirl of waves sounded against the rocks far below, crashing and frothing with a ferocity that contrasted with the tranquillity of the ocean beyond. The men that had built Tintagel Castle had chosen their site well. The castle straddled an unstable neck linking Tintagel Island with the mainland. The remains of the upper and lower wards lay on the landward side, the inner ward and chapel remnants on the island. A pathway connecting the two dropped away to sheer jagged rock. Frothy white water swirled below. A defence designed to thwart the best of attackers. Lucien knew that it was here on the pathway that he was at his most vulnerable. His heart thudded fast yet steady, waiting each moment for the hidden shot to ring from the castle ruins. The longest walk of his life. The slowest. And still the shot did not come. Every step taking him closer. Every breath buoying his confidence that he would make it. He was so close that he could see the individual-hewn stones that made up the thick walls, the ruined apertures of windows and doorways. So close. The path led him directly into what had been one of the castle baileys. He scanned ahead. Wind howled. Emptiness echoed. The hairs on the back of Lucien's neck prickled. Eyes searching, ears straining for the slightest hint of Farquharson's location. Nothing. No one. Lucien's fingers slipped into his pocket, closed around the pistol handle, extracted the weapon. He held it down low, brushing beside his thigh, all the harder for Farquharson to see it. He backed against the rear wall, poised, ready.

‘Farquharson!' The wind snatched the shout, to carry it away unanswered. Sweat beaded upon Lucien's upper lip. ‘Farquharson!'

A small scrunch of a sound from the other side of the wall.

Keeping his body close to the protection of the ancient stone structure, Lucien moved with stealth to the end of the wall. Readied the pistol, finger on the trigger. One swift lunge and he peered round the other side, pistol aimed with precision at the spot from whence the noise had issued. Bare soil and rock, a trickle of pebbles…a cat disappearing in the distance. Lucien's gaze drifted down from the wall, down to the abrupt fall of the cliff. A shiver tingled down his spine. Close by the solitary cry of a gull sounded. Distorted. Ghostly. A portent of doom. Icy foreboding gripped him.

He retraced his steps, covering the ground as fast as he dared, slipping from the cover of one wall to another, scanning each and every part of the ruin in turn, ever ready for the surprise assault that did not come. Empty. Back across the precarious pathway. Still no one. Still nothing. Chill grew greater. Alone. Blood ran cold. The seed of doubt germinated, grew, and blossomed to reveal the truth. The pistol uncocked, stuffed within his pocket. He ran back through the inner ward to where the great black horse stood, still tethered where he had left it. Didn't even break stride to swing himself up into the saddle.

Lucien rode like he had never ridden before, coat flying, throwing up mud and water in his wake. Through the streets of Tintagel village to Bossmey, then Davidstow, following the road down towards Camelford. Riding as if the hounds of Lucifer snapped at his heels, riding until his lungs were fit to burst and his muscles shook from the strain. Past the gloom of the great moor. Hoping. Praying. Knowing even as he did, that he would be too late.

The knowledge that Farquharson had tricked him was a bitter pill to swallow. For if Cyril Farquharson was not at Tintagel, there was as like only one other place he could be. What was it that Collins had said as he lay bleeding upon the entrance hall floor?
He asked us questions about this place…
The place that now lay unprotected. The place that held the one thing that Farquharson wanted above all else. The place in which Lucien had left his wife, thinking her to be safe. And that place was Trethevyn.

F
or all that Madeline had said to Mrs Babcock, she knew that she would not sleep that night. How could she, knowing what her husband was riding out to meet, knowing that Farquharson would kill both Lucien and his brother? She had seen what the scoundrel had done to Collins. She did not doubt how much worse he would inflict upon the man who had thwarted him. The knowledge caused her heart to freeze lest it shatter into a thousand pieces. The fire burned low within the grate, a few small flames licking around a glowing mass. Gooseflesh raised upon Madeline's arms. She had no awareness of the dropping temperature within the bedchamber, nor of the draught that flitted through the great window to ruffle the curtains that hung still drawn back to frame the paned glass. She blew out the candles and watched the wispy smoke, from their quenching, curl in the air.

The sky was an inky dark velvet decorated with a pearly white button moon and a scatter of stars that glittered like diamond pinheads. She stood in the darkness, a small solitary figure garbed in the plain white cotton of her nightdress, and stared out across the lawns that lay before Trethevyn. Lucien would be at Tintagel by now, walking straight into Farquharson's hands like a lamb to the slaughter. She did not allow her thoughts to stray to what that slaughter would entail. And through it all Madeline could not really believe that it was happening. Was it true what they said, that when a man's life ebbed away his soul leapt out and appeared to those he loved? Surely she would know if he were dead, wouldn't she? But Madeline felt nothing of that; indeed, she could feel very little at all due to the numbness that had spread throughout her body.

She turned Lucien's words over in her mind a thousand times, hearing the story of what Farquharson had done again and again. A devious man. A fox. A villain. A man that would always play dirty, for there was no other way of winning. She thought about Cyril Farquharson. She thought about Guy as his hostage. She thought about Collins's tortured body and the words that had strained from his lips. And amidst all of her thinking the truth made itself known to Madeline. It didn't strike like a bolt from the blue. It wasn't a blinding enlightenment. Instead, it just slipped into her head quietly and without any fuss. And she accepted the realisation without question.

A curious torpor settled upon Madeline, a sense of inevitability that stretched almost to relief. She should have been paralysed with fear and dread and terror. But she wasn't. Certainty filled her. Knowledge, even. Worry vanished. Madeline knew what was coming and she was glad, for it could mean only one thing: that Lucien was safe.

She fetched Lucien's knife from the drawer of his desk in the library and slid it, still sheathed, into the pocket of her dressing gown. Then she returned to her bedchamber and sat down in the small armchair in the corner. The knife lay heavy and reassuring against her thigh. Her fingers, hidden within her pocket, rested comfortably around the handle. The monster was coming to get her, yet Madeline was not afraid. It was her nightmare become reality, but Madeline was calm. For once in her life she would not flee. She refused to hide. She had done with running. As she had told Lucien, she could not live her life for ever looking over her shoulder;
they
could not live life forever looking over
their
shoulders.

She knew now that Farquharson would never leave them alone. He would pursue them for eternity. He had already taken Guy. It was just a matter of time before he caught her and Lucien. Madeline could not let that happen, for she loved Lucien above life itself. And all the while Farquharson breathed, Lucien would not be safe. She understood now why Lucien had been so vigilant. She could see now that what she had dismissed as an obsessive hatred had been a frank appreciation of the danger that Farquharson posed. Lucien had been right. He had not underestimated Farquharson. He alone had known of what the fiend was capable. And now Madeline knew. And she knew too that she had a chance to stop this madness. The time had come to face Cyril Farquharson.

The house was quiet with waiting, the servants about their chores or in their beds. There was no point in endangering their lives. It was Madeline that he wanted, and Madeline he would get, alone save for her husband's knife. Max made no sound in the small dressing room that lay beyond. And so Madeline sat and waited for the fox to come to her door.

 

Cyril Farquharson slipped into Trethevyn like a shadow, silent and unnoticed. The latch on the windowed doors that led from the front garden into the library was easily coaxed into submission. The door swung open beneath his touch. His red hair was paled by the moonlight. He moved without a sound across the floor, thankful that Varington's valet had been persuaded to share the details of the inner layout of the house. The clock on the mantel struck eleven. Anticipation coursed through him.

Of course Tregellas would have long since realised that he had been duped. How long had the Earl spent searching the ruins before he had known that he was there alone? All alone. Searching for a man that was not there. Three hours from home. A smile cracked Farquharson's face. It was not hard to imagine how Tregellas had felt in that moment of realisation. Rage, dread, fear. Excitement tingled deep within Farquharson's gut. Even now, Tregellas would be spurring his horse hard over the roads that led from Tintagel. Pushing himself to the limit, fighting against the inevitable. Three hours was a long journey to make, knowing all the while what was happening to your wife, and being helpless to stop it. In your own bed, with your own servants none the wiser as to what was happening so very close at hand. Farquharson almost sniggered aloud. Tregellas would arrive home just in time to play his part in the final stages of Farquharson's plan. And what a plan it was. Superbly crafted by a master. Executed stage by stage. Using Varington to lure Tregellas to Tintagel, Varington, with whom Farquharson would deal later. And the whole of it built on knowing Tregellas's character, knowing that the Earl would never take Madeline there, knowing that he would leave her here all nicely tucked up ready for Farquharson. Farquharson's thoughts flitted to the woman above, the woman who was no doubt sobbing herself to sleep at this very moment: Madeline.

She had defied him from the start, humiliated him in front of all London. And for that she would reap the punishment that he had promised. How many nights had he lain awake with its planning? For how many months had he waited and watched? Sowing his seeds, biding his time until the right opportunity arose. How very tempting it had been to have her taken that day upon the moor with the maid screaming that Harry Staunton was coming. Or the time she had gone alone to visit the sick old woman on the other side of the village. Not much had escaped Cyril Farquharson's notice, thanks to money and his paid spies.

He knew when Madeline walked in the gardens and when she sat with her needlework by her bedchamber window. Even her midnight sojourn to the library and the drunken harsh response of her husband had not escaped his attention. The faked letter had done its work well, driving a wedge of suspicion between Tregellas and the woman he had stolen. Farquharson remembered those light golden brown eyes, the dark blonde hair swept so primly back. Madeline Langley was no beauty, but she had everything that he wanted in a woman: innocence, modesty and, more importantly fear…and that was what Farquharson craved above all. She had a shy reserve that held her apart from the crowd. She did not chatter the inane nonsense of most of the young ladies of the
ton.
She did not pout or stamp her foot or dab at a tearful eye. Not Madeline Langley. She just melted into the background, and watched what was around her with those magnificent eyes of hers. A little wallflower that hid something beneath. Unless Farquharson was very much mistaken, what flowed in those frightened little veins of hers was a passion that had not yet been brought to life. He hardened at the very thought and moved with impatience steadily closer to Madeline's bedchamber.

 

Lucien gritted his teeth and rode harder. How the hell could he have been so stupid as not to realise that Farquharson would have double-crossed him? Didn't he know the man for the sly malevolent villain that he was? Now, because of his mistake, because he had allowed Farquharson to outwit him, Madeline would suffer. Lucien had been fully prepared to face his own death, not Madeline's. He pushed aside the thoughts of exactly what Farquharson would be subjecting her to, just harnessed the rage and focused it to carry him with speed in the direction of Trethevyn.

The moon, so clear and high above, lit his path, helping him push Nelson faster than he normally would have dared along the muddy road close by Bodmin Moor. But no matter how much he or his beloved gelding gave, nothing could diminish the distance that separated them from Madeline. Even illuminated as well as it was, the rutted road was too long, too slow. He was approaching Camelford when he found himself plunged headlong into a shroud of thick mist. No warning, just a blanket of low cloud that hid the road ahead. ‘Hell, no!' Lucien shouted aloud and pulled Nelson up hard. Breath came in heavy pants and sweat dripped from his face. Every muscle fired with adrenalin. All around was the eerie silence of the moor.

Just a pocket of mist, he told himself. He need only pass through it. It would lift as suddenly as it had descended. ‘Come on, Nelson.' He tried to coax the horse to walk on, steering with his knees, making the little clicks of reassurance that the gelding liked to hear. Nelson obstinately held his ground, apparently impervious to all means of persuasion. The gelding's ears flattened and his black eyes rolled to become edged with white. Hind legs stumbled back. Snorting breath muffled in the unnatural quiet that surrounded them. Lucien tried to calm the frightened horse, but to no avail. From somewhere in the distance came a whinny. Nelson's ears pricked up. Lucien backed him out of the mist, scanning the undulating moorland. There, up on the hill to the left, not so far away, outlined black and stark against the brightness of the moon, was a solitary rider on his horse.

Lucien's fingers touched to the heavy weight of the pistol hidden within his pocket. The figure beckoned. Another trap? Farquharson or one of his cronies? Across the distance the man looked to be wearing an old-fashioned cocked hat. The stranger's voice filled the space between them. It was a deep voice, thickly accented with the familiar Cornish lilt. ‘If you've a mind to get anywhere fast then you'd best go over the moor, past Brown Willy, cross the main coaching road at Jamaica Inn, then on between the Downs. Could cross it in an hour…if you can ride well and know the land. Goin' that way myself, if you care to follow.' The great black horse reared up on its back legs and both man and beast disappeared over the brow of the hill.

For all his suspicion, Lucien knew the man to be right. He didn't trust him. The stranger might be a cut-throat or a highwayman. It was a risk Lucien was prepared to take. If he didn't reach Madeline in time, none of it mattered anyway. A brief touch of a booted foot to Nelson's flank and they were off, following in the man's wake, galloping across the clear moonlit hills, crossing hedges and streams, kicking up great clods of mud and grass, pressing onwards at breakneck speed, struggling to maintain the distant figure in sight, breath straining hard in a cloud of condensation. Rider and horse merged.

Urgent. Intent. Madeline. Madeline. Madeline. Her name sounded silently again and again amidst the pounding rhythm of hooves and hearts. Faster and faster, until the first faint sight of Trethevyn's lights appeared in the distance and the stranger was gone.

 

When at last Madeline saw the doorknob turn and heard the quiet click, she felt a peculiar sense of relief. The waiting was over. The door opened in towards her, sweeping silently across the floor to admit the shadowy figure that followed in its wake. She watched the man creep towards the bed. He seemed smaller than she remembered. A dark shape moving stealthily forward into the room. Even bleached and muted by the silver moonlight, his hair was still discernible as red. The skin on his face was illuminated an unearthly white. He hesitated by the bed, caught unawares by its empty state. Then, like a fox scenting its prey, he raised his head and looked directly at her.

Through the darkness she met his gaze.

He was wary, the situation not quite as he had anticipated. A furtive glance all around, trying to ascertain if she was alone or if he himself had just walked into a trap.

‘You came at last,' she said. And her voice sounded strangely calm.

‘Madeline,' he breathed, and she heard the promise in the word.

‘I did not know if I could wait much longer.'

His steps paused. She could almost see the puzzlement upon his face. ‘You knew I was coming?'

‘You promised.' She unfolded herself from the chair and stood up.

His perplexity was so palpable as to reach across the distance between them.

‘In your letter,' she said as if by way of explanation.

Farquharson made no move towards her, his body poised as if to take flight at any moment.

Her gaze sought his across the room. ‘You said that you loved me.'

A sharp frown appeared. His eyes shot right, then left. His hand touched to the shape of a pistol hidden beneath his coat.

‘Did you speak true?' The game she played was a dangerous one, but it seemed to be working. She had never seen him so discomposed.