A Conspiracy of Ravens (19 page)

“I don’t know no earl. You off your rocker?”

“I want you to sit very still, Roland, and I’m going to tell you a story. Don’t say anything until I get through.”

“All right. As long as I get a free meal out of it, I’ll listen to your chatter.”

The food came almost at once, and Dylan said, “Serafina, perhaps you ought to tell this story.”

“All right, Dylan.” She began, “The Earl of Darby is a good friend of mine. He and his wife have no children—that is, he has no heir to leave his title and his estate to . . .”

Roland ate steadily and had to have his ale refilled twice while Serafina was carefully telling the story. Finally she ended and said, “So, I know this sounds fantastic, but I believe you are the son of Edward Hayden, the Earl of Darby.”

Roland suddenly laughed harshly. “Wot’s this all about? I never ’eard such a fairy tale in all my life!”

“I know it sounds that way, but let me tell you this, Roland. You look almost exactly like Edward Darby.” She had realized this while she was speaking, and she studied the young man’s face. She said, “You have the same cleft in your chin, the same tawny hair with a touch of red, the same light blue eyes. There’s a portrait of him in his home. It was made when he was about your age. I want you to come and look at it, Roland, and to meet the earl.”

Disbelief scored the young man’s face, and Serafina said, “Your name is Trevor Hayden.”

“I don’t believe a word of it.”

“What can you lose?” Dylan asked.

“I ain’t no bloody lord!”

“You could be,” Serafina said. “You could be Trevor Hayden, the next Earl of Darby.”

Her words seemed to hang in the air, and Roland—Trevor Hayden—stared at Serafina in disbelief. He finally drank the last of the ale and shrugged his trim shoulders. “I’ll ’ave a go at it. Like you say—wot can I lose?”

TWELVE

I
wonder if this rain is ever going to stop.” Edward Hayden had been standing at the window, looking at the rain falling in slanting lines across the earth. December had brought some snow, but that had faded, and now Edward drummed his fingers on the windowsill nervously and turned to say with some irritation, “I hate this kind of weather!”

“Sit down, dear. You’re gong to wear yourself out,” Heather said. She nodded to the chair upholstered in a design of damask roses, its wooden arms heavily carved. An antimacassar protected the back of the chair, and as Edward came over and threw himself into the chair, she said, “Try not to be agitated, dear.”

“I’ll try.” Taking a deep breath, Edward looked around the room, contemplating the deep wine-red curtains and the muted pink of the embossed wallpaper. The proportions of the wallpaper were perfect, and he had always liked it, but now he was thinking of things other than the beauty of a room. Finally he turned and said abruptly, “Perhaps we should have told the family what’s going on, Heather.”

“We couldn’t have done that, dear.”

“Why not?”

“Because we weren’t sure ourselves. We still aren’t, are we?”

“I suppose you’re right.” He picked up a pipe, opened a humidor, and filled it with fragrant tobacco. He picked up a lucifer and struck it, remarking, “You know, when I was a boy we didn’t have things like this, this match I mean. One of the few innovations I suppose I’m really in favor of.”

“It makes life a little bit easier.”

The two sat there, and each of them felt a reluctance to speak of the future, but finally Edward said, “If we accept this young man as our son, Heather, it’s going to make a great many differences in our lives.”

“Yes, it will, and in the lives of the whole family.”

“It’s going to be difficult telling them, but it’ll have to be done.” He drew on the pipe and sent a cloud of purple smoke toward the ceiling. He sat there tapping his foot nervously, then got up and walked over to the fireplace where he poked at the log with short, vicious jabs. The action sent myriads of fiery sparks like miniature stars swirling up the chimney. “This fireplace always smokes a little,” he said. Suddenly he replaced the poker and moved quickly to the window. “They’re here.” He stood straighter, and his face had lost some of its ruddy colour. Heather rose and moved over to the window. He put his arms around her, and neither of them could speak, for the tension seemed unbearable.

As soon as Rupert came into the room, he put his eyes on Arthur and shook his head with disgust. “Do you have to get drunk every day?”

“He’s not drunk,” Gervase said defensively.

“Yes, he is.” Rupert stared at his younger brother and shook his head. “No sense preaching at you. You’ve had that for years. Nothing seems to do you any good.” He started to say more, but Gervase came over and put herself between Rupert and her father.

“I don’t think we need to discuss this, Uncle Rupert.”

She stood there protecting her father. Rupert scowled, and as he turned he muttered, “No blasted good to anybody on earth. Try to straighten up, Arthur—but then there’s no point telling you that, is there?”

As soon as the door slammed, Gervase turned and went over to her father. He was sitting at the desk, staring down at it. When he did look up, she saw the misery written in his eyes. He was a smaller man than both Rupert and Edward. The three brothers had the same father, but Arthur had a different mother.

Arthur Hayden was almost frail-looking beside the bulk of both Rupert or Edward Hayden. His face was thin, and he had an esthetic look about him that artists have sometimes. He looked up now at his daughter and said, “I’m sorry, dear. I shouldn’t be drinking this early in the morning.”

Gervase did not answer. She moved behind his chair and put her hands on his shoulders. “Don’t worry about it. Nobody’s ever going to please Uncle Rupert.”

Arthur suddenly rose from his chair and turned to Gervase. His whole life was a failure, it seemed to him, and now he said as much. “If I had been stronger, or if your mother had lived, life would have been much better for you, Gervase.”

“I haven’t had a bad life.”

“Your mother made things different. I didn’t have her long, but she was like the sun in the sky to me.”

“I wish I could remember more about her.”

“Well, you were only four when she died.”

“I’m glad you made all those paintings of her, Father. I look at them every day.” But Arthur Hayden knew his own limitations. The signs of dissipation were evident on him. He was like a man who had a lingering illness. He reached out and took Gervase’s hand and held it for a moment. “What’s going to become of you?”

“Oh, I’m going to marry an earl with all sorts of money. Then we’ll travel. Remember how much fun we had on our trip to France?”

“Yes, and to Italy. That was the happiest time of my life, I think.” He suddenly smiled briefly. “What about your husband? He wouldn’t want to drive a broken-down father-in-law around on a trip.”

“Oh, when I get a husband I’ll make him happy. But you’ll always be my best friend.” She reached out and gave him a hug and kissed his cheek, and when she stepped back, her eyes were filled with mischief. She had a great deal of humor in her, this daughter so beloved by Arthur Hayden. “Husbands,” she said, “are like pet dogs. You’re fond of them, and you see that they’re fed and are comfortable. But a woman can’t get overly concerned with pet dogs or with husbands. There are more important things than that.” She leaned forward and put her hands on his cheeks, and with her thumbs she pushed his mouth into a smile. “There. Fathers are more important than husbands.”

The two stood there, and, as always, Gervase was able to bring her father out of the gloomy pit of melancholy into which he fell. She loved him dearly, and no one was more conscious of his weakness than Arthur himself.

“I don’t think you can ask Edward for money for a horse, St. John.”

Looking up at his mother, St. John smiled and lifted one eyebrow in an expression of surprise. “Why, of course I can. What would one more horse mean to him?”

“We’re living on his charity.”

“Well, we always have, Mother. I suppose he’s used to it by now.”

“You know, even if he said yes, you’d have to get Rupert to agree—and he never would.”

“Maybe you could talk to Edward. You’re close to him.”

“As close as a brother and sister could be when we were younger, but things have changed now.” Leah St. John was suddenly moved by an inner thought that brought a grimace to her thin lips. She remembered very clearly at that moment how close she and Edward had been when they were children, but after she had married, that had all changed. Edward had not approved of Roger St. John, the man she had married, and from the time of her marriage they had drifted apart. After the death of Roger, who died in bankruptcy due to his reckless gambling, Leah had little choice but to seek shelter under his roof. “Edward’s been a good brother,” she said, “saddled with a sister and a nephew.”

“Mother, it’s only a mare, and she’s a beauty. I can even make money off of her, I think. I can buy her cheaply enough and then sell her for cash.”

“Rupert would never agree to it.” A bitterness tinged Leah’s words, and she spoke the thought that was always in the back of her mind but which she had kept hidden from St. John. “You know how terrible life would be for us, Son, if Edward were to die?”

Looking up quickly, St. John nodded. “I’ve had nightmares about that.”

“Life would be very unpleasant.” The two fell silent for a moment, and then St. John lifted his head.

“Someone’s coming,” he muttered. He walked over to the window, followed by his mother, and the two stared out at the carriage that approached. The wheels sent spirals of water high as it drove through the puddles, and the coachman huddled, soaked, no doubt, to the skin. “Who can that be traveling in this kind of weather, Mother?”

Looking closely, Leah said, “It’s Lady Trent.”

“Yes, and that actor fellow Tremayne . . . but who’s that other fellow there?”

They watched as three figures got out of the carriage and moved quickly toward the shelter of the front porch. “A bad day for visiting,” St. John remarked. “You know, I might persuade Lady Trent to invest in that mare. She loves horses.”

“Don’t ask her. It would be absolutely unthinkable to become a beggar.”

St. John gave her a stare, and his lips twisted bitterly. “Well, that’s what we are, isn’t it—beggars?”

“Lady Trent is here,” Crinshaw announced as he stepped into the larger parlour where Lord and Lady Darby saw visitors.

“Is she alone, Crinshaw?” Edward asked quickly.

“No, sir. There are two gentlemen here. One is Mr. Tremayne, and I don’t know the other gentleman.”

“Show them in, Crinshaw.”

Edward and Heather stood there, each of them thinking the same thought.
What if this is really our son?
Turning to Heather, Edward took her hand. “You’re pale. Your hands are trembling. This is probably not what we think. I expect that other fellow is some detective Serafina and Tremayne have hired to help find our boy.”

Then the door opened, and Serafina Trent entered, followed by Tremayne and the third man. Heather gasped as the young man turned his head toward her. She stared at him and suddenly felt unsteady, as if she needed to sit down.