Gamble With Hearts (17 page)

‘No? He poured himself a glass. ‘I am sure you are wise. But you do not object if I indulge?’

‘You seem to have indulged a good deal already, sir,’ she answered with asperity. He cast her a look in which anger and passion were so blended that she became really frightened. It was in a small voice that she asked him once again what it was that he had to tell her.

Pentherbridge flung himself down onto a sofa. He seemed to have recovered his good humour for he was smiling as he began to speak. ‘You want to know what has happened to Charles, do you not, my lovely one? Do you know I am the only man in the world who can tell you? What are you prepared to give me to find out? What is Carlington's life worth to you?’

‘I do not understand you! What is it you want of me?’

He rose and crossed the room to where she sat nervously watching him. She seemed to shrink in her chair as he came closer and laid his hand on her bare arm. His palm was hot and sticky. He bent his head until his mouth almost touched her ear. ‘I want you,’ he whispered, so softly that she could barely hear him. ‘I want you!’

She gave a little cry and pulled away from him. ‘You—you—foul traitor, you scoundrel! I would rather die than let you touch me!’

He gave a little laugh. ‘But it will not be you that will die, my dear, but your beloved Carlington!’

‘What do you mean?’ she shot at him, her cheeks drained of colour.

‘I mean that at this moment Charles Carlington is crossing the Atlantic in a ship belonging to an acquaintance of mine. When he lands he will be put to work in the fields. Imagine that. Viscount Carlington working as a field hand. Amusing, is it not, my pretty one? Of course, that is, if he is lucky. If you cooperate with me he might live for several years. If not, then I am afraid that your lover may well meet with an unfortunate accident. Such things are not uncommon out there, they tell me. Life is very cheap!’

Charlotte could have laughed aloud with relief. Pentherbridge had no idea that Charles had escaped. She had nothing to fear now but for form's sake she cried: ‘You dastard! Carlington is your own brother's son. What kind of a man are you?’

‘A desperate one!’ he answered with suppressed anger. ‘If Carlington were to reach his majority, I would have to pay the estate in the region of twenty-five thousand pounds, or spend the rest of my days in gaol. Not an attractive prospect. So you see, there really was nothing else I could do.’

‘Twenty-five thousand pounds!’ she repeated incredulously. ‘What in God's name have you done with all that money?’

He shrugged. ‘Investments that went awry, gambling, women. Where does any man's money go? '

‘But it was not yours! It was Charles' inheritance!’ she pointed out indignantly.

‘Oh yes, I was forgetting. It belonged to Charles. Everything belongs to my nephew, including you. Lucky Charles!’

The amorous expression was back in his eyes. Desperately she kept talking, hoping all the time that Carlington would arrive to rescue her from this intolerable situation.

‘I suppose then that it was you that murdered Farnley?’ she hazarded.

'Just between ourselves, my dear, yes, I did. Of course, it little matters that you should know. A wife cannot testify against her husband, I believe.’

Charlotte swallowed hard. ‘A wife? What are you talking about?’

The smile she was learning to hate appeared upon his undistinguished face. ‘I quite thought that you understood me. I want you for my wife, Charlotte.’

‘But why?’ she cried. ‘You cannot possibly love me!’

‘No? You underestimate your charms, my dear. I have loved you since the first moment I set eyes upon you.’

‘Then God defend me from ever encountering such love again!’ she cried angrily. ‘I suppose you brought me here in the belief that I would have no choice but to accept you. You will find you are mistaken, sir! I am not such a poor creature!’

Slowly he crossed the room towards her. The look in his eyes frightened her. She had seen the same expression in Carlington's eyes and welcomed it, but this man inspired in her nothing but disgust. Frantically she pushed a small table between them, but he kicked it away. She glanced wildly around for a weapon but there was nothing within reach. He was very close now, his breathing raw and harsh as he reached out for her. The room felt suddenly unbearably hot, there was a buzzing in her ears. Dimly, from far away, she could hear frantic knocking upon the street door; his hot lips were moving over the delicate skin of her throat, and for the first and last time in her life Miss Wrexham fainted quietly away.

When Viscount Carlington had been unceremoniously bundled into a dilapidated hackney carriage and carried in triumph to Bow Street, his two friends were left in a state of considerable consternation. Charles had not thought it necessary to furnish them with the exact location of Charlotte's rendezvous but he had said enough to make them both view Miss Wrexham's situation with misgiving.

‘I t-tell you what, Ricky,’ announced Lord Fitzroy after giving the matter some thought, ‘We can't let the poor girl sit there all night waiting for Charles. There's no knowing what may happen t-to her.’

‘Of course not, Fitz, but how are we to find her? Charles has got that damned letter in his pocket and we can't search the whole of the Borough for one female!’

Lord Fitzroy nodded in mournful agreement, much discouraged by this powerful reasoning.

‘There's only one thing for it,’ declared Captain Osborne at last. ''I'm off to find Ruthin. He's the man we want in this situation. Are you coming, Fitz?’

Lord Fitzroy was a little confused. ''I'm not saying Ruthin ain't a d-devilish good fellow, Ricky, b-but what d-do you expect him t-to d-do?’

‘We have to speak to Charles to find out where Miss Wrexham is, haven't we? Very well then; Ruthin is important enough to get us in to Bow Street, for all I know he may even have friends there. In any event, he has more chance of getting in to see Charles than we have!’

Lord Fitzroy was very much impressed with this, and readily agreed to follow Osborne in search of the Marquis. As it happened, Lord Ruthin was not particularly difficult to find. A brief call upon his house in Grosvenor Square elicited the information that my lord was dining at his club and the two young men repaired thither with all speed. They found their quarry seated in a comfortable armchair sipping a glass of brandy and perusing a newspaper.

‘Beg pardon, sir. Could we have a word with you in private?’ asked Captain Osborne respectfully.

One glance at the strained young faces in front of him was enough to convince the Marquis that the matter was of some urgency, and his first thought was that Carlington had been taken. Quickly he ushered his young friends into a small antechamber where they might be undisturbed, and there he was made acquainted with the events of the evening.

When Captain Osborne had finished his tale he saw with some surprise that the Marquis, far from seeming cast down, was positively glowing with satisfaction.

He smiled at Osborne as he noticed his bewilderment. ‘I'm sorry, Osborne, you must think me a callous fellow, but the truth is that Mr Pentherbridge has so obligingly played into our hands that I have great hopes that Charles will be freed and his name cleared this very night!’

‘How sir?’ demanded Osborne. ‘What have you in mind?’

‘My dear boy, the stage has been set, indeed, the play is almost over. Come, we shall go to Bow Street and see Charles. I think you will find him far better situated than you had feared.’

Neither of the young men entertained very sanguine hopes, but upon their arrival at Bow Street it became obvious that the Marquis was rather better informed than they had thought. Instead of finding Carlington cast into some noisome cell, he was discovered in a comfortable apartment, the remains of a large meal upon the side board, engaged in a game of piquet with a most gentleman-like personage who greeted the Marquis as an old friend.

‘Captain Osborne, Lord Fitzroy, I would like to present you to one of my oldest friends, Sir William Pomfret,’ said the Marquis with a smile.

Both men were familiar with the name of the Chief Justice of Bow Street and their confusion was much increased by the friendly way in which he treated the Viscount. The Marquis judged it time to take pity on them and explain what was going forward that night.

The Marquis, it transpired, had informed Sir William as soon as he had been informed of Charles' arrival in London. He had, however, been in communication with Bow Street before that and had been able to influence Sir William to some extent on Charles' behalf. Both men had believed Carlington's tale and Ruthin, who had been convinced from the first of Pentherbridge's guilt, had been confirmed in his belief by Charlotte's experience. Therefore, a trap had been set using the unfortunate Miss Wrexham as bait. From the moment that Pentherbridge despatched his note, his every movement had been under surveillance. He had been followed to the Borough, his actions in hiring a room in the ramshackle house had been noted. Neither had Miss Wrexham been unescorted. A Runner had been behind her at every step of the way to Pentherbridge's lair. And now the trap was set, baited and ready to be sprung.

‘There is little time to lose now. Miss Wrexham will have reached the rendezvous by now. Let us be off. But do not worry, she is in no danger, our men are everywhere. The most she will have to suffer is an uncomfortable half hour or so.’ With these heartening words the Marquis led the way out into the darkened streets and within a very few minutes they were rattling over the cobblestones at a pace frantic enough to earn them the vociferous disapproval of more moderate road users.

When Miss Wrexham swooned so dramatically into her would-be ravisher's arms, he was somewhat taken aback. For one thing, Miss Wrexham was built on statuesque lines and was no light weight. Pentherbridge was obliged to drop his burden to the floor, for the knocking at the street door had by this time penetrated his consciousness. He did not have any idea that Bow Street was involved; his thought was that the lady's fiancé had found him out. He cast a quick glance around the dingy apartment. There was no way out. Men were running up the rickety stairs now, the heavy tread of several pairs of boots made the whole floor tremble. Miss Wrexham lay, a beautiful corpse-like figure upon the floor where he had left her, and for one horrified moment he wondered if she were indeed dead.

They were at the door now; the flimsy lock could not keep them out for long. Rendered suddenly cunning by fear, he scooped up the inanimate form of Miss Wrexham and held her before him as a shield. Feverishly, he felt in his pockets for the pistol he carried, the pistol with which he had murdered Farnley. As the door burst open and several men half stumbled into the room, he calmly lifted the gun and held it to the beautiful, insensible head that rested upon his breast. ‘No further if you please, gentlemen,’ he requested in something like his old manner. ‘As you see, Miss Wrexham is in a rather hazardous situation!’

Suddenly, one of the men emerged from the group and edged forward. As he did so he unwound a heavy muffler that had until now been concealing his features. He spoke softly and at the sound Pentherbridge paled. ‘I tell you this, Uncle,’ said that soft voice. ‘If you hurt so much as a hair upon her head, you are a dead man!’

‘You!’ Pentherbridge cried hoarsely, the pistol half slipping from his suddenly nerveless hand.

‘Did you not expect to see me, Uncle? I fear your seafaring friends are not as reliable as you had thought.’

‘I do not know what you are talking about!’ shouted Pentherbridge, wildly. ‘You, all of you, why do you not arrest this man? He is a murderer!’

The Marquis stepped forward. ‘Odd as it may seem, Pentherbridge, there are those among us who, despite your efforts, do not believe that Charles killed Farnley. We had heard his story and we have looked about us for another culprit. Someone who hated Charles; someone who stood to gain a fortune by his death, and above all someone who faced prison, if not death, should the Viscount reach his majority. We know everything, Pentherbridge; there is no escape for you now!’

‘I deny it! I deny it all,’ he shouted, his voice rising hysterically.

‘Listen, Pentherbridge. The Captain of the vessel you hired is more than willing to identify you. The ship was brought back to port by a Navy cutter only yesterday. There was enough contraband aboard to keep him locked up for a very long time. He will talk to save himself!’

Specks of froth appeared at the corners of Pentherbridge's mouth. His eyes held a wild, hunted look. They met those of the Marquis, cool and implacable. ‘Damn you! Damn you to hell!’ he shouted suddenly.

‘Look out!’ came a warning cry from Carlington as the pistol was levelled at the Marquis. At that moment the still body of Charlotte came suddenly to life. With strong hands she grabbed the hand that held the pistol and brought it down with all her might against the edge of the iron fire grate. He screamed in agony and Charlotte twisted out of his grasp, just as Charles launched himself upon the prostrate figure. It was over very quickly. Pentherbridge had lost all control. He hit out wildly but he was no match for the Viscount now. Within a very few minutes he was led from the room, half crying, half cursing, and in his frenzy incriminating himself further at every moment.

When the Marquis returned to the upstairs room, having seen the prisoner safely on his way to Bow Street, he found Lord Fitzroy and Captain Osborne observing with some approval the passionate embrace being exchanged by a lady and gentleman who seemed totally oblivious of their surroundings. They were recalled by a delicate cough from Lord Fitzroy. ‘No wish t-to disturb you at all, b-but here's Ruthin, very g-good sort of fellow. Wants a word I d-daresay.’