The Highwayman Page 9

  He raked a hand tiredly through his hair, wanting nothing more than to go back to bed and ignore all and sundry for several hours.

  "You look as though you are in pain," Perry commented quietly.

  Bart jumped in his seat, realizing that at some point Perry had moved to stand beside his chair. "A bit," he said. "It is nothing more than I deserve. A bit of distraction will do me good, although I suppose I could simply take the tonic Rogers has been attempting to shove down my throat all morning." He looked with distaste at the bottle set pointedly in the center of the tea tray upon the nearby table.

  Perry moved to the table and retrieved the brown glass bottle, tall and wide and sealed with a cork. He pulled the cork out and sniffed, then replaced it and set the bottle aside in disgust. "No good will come of that," he said coldly. "You would do better to avoid it, Bart."

  "What the devil?" he asked, astounded by the look upon Perry's face—cold and hard, the eyes like stone, but all of it underscored by anguish and pain.

  "It only goes to show that the king's laws are little more than pretty words upon a moldering piece of vellum," Perry said. "I do not know where Rogers obtained that tonic, Bart, but he would do better to find a new chemist. That tonic contains dragon blood."

  Bart startled. "What in the hells are you talking about?"

  Perry dropped down in the seat across from his and rubbed his own forehead. Bart at once felt terrible. He did not recall much of the night, beyond waking up feeling ill with the sinking suspicion that he had at some point passed out, but he did remember that Perry had been there at some point. "Dragon blood, since it comes from Drakomar—literally, from the great lizards there, though it's not actually their blood that's drawn, but a substance made from their venom. Part o the process turns it red, hence the rumor it's blood." He gave a long, soft sigh.

  "You are familiar with dragon blood?" Bart asked. "Although I suppose I shouldn't be surprised; you have traveled extensively these past several years."

  Laughter filled the library, but it was not a happy sound. Perry almost sounded as though he were crying. Bart hated it.

  "Familiar?" Perry finally said. He propped his elbow on the armrest and pressed his fist against his mouth, staring into the empty fireplace. When he at last dropped his hand some minutes later, he looked like a man resigned to some terrible fate. "Yes," he said quietly, still staring into the fireplace. "I'm familiar with it. I'm very much one example of why it should be outlawed in every civilization."

  "Perry…"

  "I traveled, as you said. Somewhere in those travels, I fell in with the wrong people, but did not have enough sense to realize it straight off." He smiled sadly, bitterly. "A good, well-behaved boy from a little village, raised by a strict priest… All of the sudden freedom and new sights and sounds went straight to my head, and in all the worst ways. Someone persuaded me to try dragon blood and I have only been completely free of the stuff for the past two years."

  Pain twisted through Bart. "Perry, why did you never…"

  "Write you? Seek you out?" Perry laughed. "Bart, I did not know into how much danger and trouble I had fallen until it was too late. I finally broke free of that life, but it came at a steep price. Believe me, if you think I look a stranger now…you would not have known me when I craved dragon blood. Shame kept me from you, my friend, when I finally had enough sense about me to realize I needed help." He looked slowly toward Bart, pain and fear and hope in his eyes. "It's over now and has been for two years. I'm fine."

  He wasn't fine, however, not even remotely close to it, but Bart did occasionally know when to leave well enough alone. Did it have something to do with his estrangement from Father Thomas? Another question he must not ask, at least for now.

  "I'm glad you are all right," Bart said quietly. "I am sorry I was not there for you. I wish I had known."

  "Oh, Bart," Perry said with a real smile, weak though it was. "It was not your problem to solve and you seeing me in such a state would have hurt us both. Best for everyone that it happened as it did, I promise you."

  Bart nodded, keeping his thoughts to himself only with great effort.

  "You need to rest," Perry said at last, slowly standing again. "I am disposing of this and will speak with Rogers about his preferred chemist. You—" He pointed at Bart, expression turning stern. "Will remain here until I give you leave to move. Do nothing more strenuous than read a book and drink tea. I will return later to see how you are faring, and perhaps I will permit you to move to a different room."

  "So kind of you, my lord," Bart said dryly.

  Perry grinned over his shoulder as he departed and the genuine happiness in it did much to improve Bart's mood.

  He was just settling into his book when the door opened. Rogers presented a tray, on which were piled several envelopes.

  "The post, my lord."

  Bart took it with thanks and set his book aside. A note from his father was on top, and he could practically hear the shouting in the terse words ordering him back to the city at once, and his father would not tolerate any manner of refusal.

  Very well, Bart decided; he would simply send no reply whatsoever. See how his family liked that. Anyway, it would be best to avoid them until his arm healed.

  He sorted lazily through the rest of the post, nothing catching his eyes until the very last. His breath caught in his throat as he realized that he at last had the response for which he had so impatiently been waiting. The familiar seal stood out sharply in dark blue wax and the costly vellum smelled faintly of amber and sandalwood. Yes.

  Breaking the seal, he pulled out the response, all but devouring the neatly written words.

  Bart,

  One of these days we shall break you of your dreadful habit of trying to fix every problem you stumble across. Did we not all have a story about the pitfalls of interfering shoved down our throats in the nursery? If you did not, I begin to see the problem.

  I confess that your inquiries startled me. My impression of Greendale, on my few trips there as a boy, was of a dreadfully boring place. We passed by recently on a trip to see a friend and it looked as boring as I recalled. Looks can be deceiving, though. No one knows this better than I.

  You seem to have acquired quite the collection of interesting individuals in your not so boring village, my friend. I set Benedict to answering two of your inquiries, since he was far better positioned to do so, but undertook the matter of the perfume myself.

  The scent derives from a little shop a few hours west of the city, several days from Greendale. It was created on the request of a man the shopkeeper remembers well, simply because the scent was quite exotic for someone who looked as though he would prefer something much simpler. Your highwayman is slightly above average height, slender, with extremely short blond hair and pale green eyes, and speaks with a calm, even voice, no discernable trace of accent. The perfumer said that he would be better suited to something with honey and cloves. I hope this helps.

  As to your other inquires, I apologize for taking so long. Benedict believes in being thorough, and so he checked and rechecked all that he heard until he felt confident in reporting what I now transcribe.

  First, your Alfred Burr: we could find no Burr, but we did learn of an Alfred Burton, who seemed to fit the man you described. No gentleman, or even a well-off middleclass man, but rather a paid companion to gentlemen. One man who claimed to have thoroughly enjoyed his companionship was good enough to offer a description, which I have included, so that you might decide for yourself if it is indeed your man: black hair of moderate length, blue eyes, slender and tall, smooth features, extremely handsome. The man remarked that 'Burton had an especially pretty mouth.' He was apparently quite the companion, indeed, but as of several months ago, no one has seen or heard from him. Benedict and I did not see fit to inform anyone of his current possible whereabouts.

  Your Peregrine Thomas is not so simple an affair; I do not presume to know your relationship with the man, if any relationship
exists at all, but my advice is to tread carefully around him. If he is the very same one about whom I am to write, then he is dangerous.

  We could find nothing about a man named Peregrine, but a smart man would not go by a real name as distinctive as that. We did, however, already know the rumors of a man known only as Hawk. I am astonished that you have not heard of him. He was the rumored lover of a man you most certainly should have heard about, one Scarlet Winsted. In fact, Winsted was hanged two years ago on charges of murder and thieving. Most notably, you might recall, was his murder of Lord Aubin, distant cousin to the Grand Duke of Boltane. It created quite the tension between our countries for a time, as Winsted was unfortunately born here, but like so many of our kinsmen, liked to travel abroad. I don't recall anyone being particularly disappointed in the death of the little rat, least of all the Grand Duke, but it was a good excuse to be rid of Winsted and have done with two problems.

  Rumors abounded about how many were actually present the night of the murder and how many men were killed or did the killing, but only Aubin's body was ever found. Men claimed to have seen Winsted do the shooting and said another man had been party to it, but they had not seen him clearly. Most believe the witnesses were lying about everything, but as I said—no one was going to put up a fuss about details when everyone wanted Winsted to swing.

  Everyone claimed, however, that Winsted had a lover, a pretty blond thing just as dangerous as Winsted himself. No one, however, seems capable of describing him better than that. The one thing they do recall was that he had a voice like no other—smoky and languid, like a good brandy, one man said. Another claimed that the mysterious Hawk's voice sounded the way a warm fire felt. When Winsted was arrested, his mysterious lover was nowhere to be found. To this day, no one knows if he was fact or fiction. Even those men who claim to have met him, we suspect of merely bragging about things they did not actually see. Perhaps you have found the mysterious lover. That would certainly be in keeping with you.

  The wisest course, if you do indeed find yourself in the company of Hawk, would be to turn him over to the authorities. That being said, I know nothing of your present situation, so I hesitate to give advice upon the matter. I, of course, have taken no action, for I trust you to handle the affair as you see fit.

  No doubt I am wasting good ink in writing these parting words, but I once more admonish you to stay firmly out of harm's way, or at least do not go rushing recklessly about as is your want.

  Do write and let me know how the affair concludes.

  Sincerely,

  Rae

  Bart sat in his chair for well over an hour, letting his thoughts wander as they liked, unable to settle too long upon any one thought for fear that it would overwhelm him—it was too much to take in.

  Of course Bart had heard of the scandal surrounding Scarlet Winsted. Who had not? The bastard was the shame of the nation and his murder of the Grand Duke's cousin had very nearly shattered a long-established peace.

  Hawk. Peregrine. He could not connect his Perry with the terrible rumors surrounding Scarlet and his beautiful, mysterious Hawk. No, he would think upon it later. Right now, it was simply too much and there were other matters to which to attend—such as Burr. A paid companion for gentlemen. So Burr had once been a high-class whore. He dreaded Weaver discovering that? Bart did not know much, but he knew Weaver was not so shallow.

  Standing, Bart rant the nearby bell pull and then moved back to his seat to pen a quick note.

  "Rogers," he said, when the door opened to admit his head footman. "See this is delivered with all haste to Baron Weaver. Instruct the footman that he is to wait for a reply. Prepare tea for two in about an hour and a half."

  "Yes, my lord," Rogers said, then bowed and departed.

  Bart took a deep breath and released it slowly. Yes, one step at a time. First, he would speak with Weaver about Burr. When that matter was addressed…then he would figure out the rest.

  Eleven

  Bart attempted to calm the nervous racing of his heart, but just as he thought he had managed it, he heard the sound of a carriage coming up the drive. Weaver had arrived, and now Bart must figure out how to tell him about Burr. He hated this part—invariably it was when he got yelled at for being an interfering busybody who should learn to mind his own business. But it was not his fault if they all botched their own affairs to the point of causing needless suffering and misery. Honestly, if not for him, very likely his brothers would still be moping.

  Oh, there was no point in fretting now; his decision was made and he would see it through to the end. But no matter how many times he repeated the words, they did not keep him from almost cringing with anxiety when he heard Weaver's voice in the hall, the click of heels on tile as Rogers escorted him to the study.

  Weaver's mouth was quirked in a smile of faint amusement, but he did not speak until the door had closed behind him. "You are being quite mysterious, Lord Bart. A matter of extreme urgency? Be certain I came alone? Possibly a matter of life or death?"

  "Cloak and dagger, perhaps," Bart said, "but none of it exaggerated, for all that."

  The amused smile faded, replaced by a look of concern. "What is this about?"

  "It is about your ward," Bart replied. "If you will take a seat, I will explain."

  "Please do," Weaver said stiffly. "Although if you have come to warn me off him or relay to me that he is evil, I am afraid it will do a great deal of harm to our friendship, my lord."

  Bart smiled. "Nothing of the sort. I am on Burr's side, I promise."

  Weaver relaxed. "Very well, then. Explain this mystery to me."

  "Shortly after my return, I found myself faced with several puzzling questions. Your ward was amongst them."

  "Why? Alfred has hurt no one. All he wants is a home."

  "I know," Bart replied. "I cannot be the only person to question if perhaps he was the highwayman." He held up a hand when Weaver started to launch into a protest. "The idea, however, did not seem to mesh. So in penning a few other questions to a friend in the city, I also inquired after Burr."

  Weaver's mouth tightened. "I see."

  "I meant no harm," Bart said quietly. "On the contrary, I wanted to be certain that I understood everything before I made an ill-informed decision. As it happens, it's quite fortunate that I made my inquires."

  "Why is that?" Weaver asked, all but vibrating in his seat—but he did not lash out, only waited to hear Bart out.

  "Because two days ago I was at the tailor and happened to overhear an extremely unpleasant conversation between William and Burr."

  Weaver frowned. "I never understood why Alfred spends time with him; he claims to like the man well enough, but it is plain to see he loathes that miscreant."

  "He does so because William is blackmailing him."

  There was a long pause, Weaver frozen in disbelief. "What in the hells are you talking about?"

  "William is involved in a smuggling operation," Bart said, and slowly explained what had really transpired the previous night. "Burr was forced into it by William, who is blackmailing him."

  "Blackmailing him how?" Weaver asked.

  Bart picked up the letter he'd set on the desk. "Burr, according to the conversation I overheard, feared you finding out some terrible secret from his past. I received a response to my inquiries today, including the terrible secret I believe Burr fears you discovering. I have marked the relevant paragraph."

  Weaver accepted the letter in silence, frown deepening as he read. He handed it back after a moment and sighed softly. "The irony in this mess is that I already knew that about Alfred. It was not so hard a thing to figure out, although I did not look for it. I may be reclusive but that doesn't mean I'm inexperienced with the world. Quite the contrary. He has been William's victim because of something as stupid as this?"

  "I am sorry to be the one to tell you," Bart said. "No one likes a messenger who bears bad news."

  "No," Weaver replied firmly. "I am glad that someone tol
d me. If I had remained ignorant of this terrible situation, I shudder to think what would have become of Alfred. If he'd just told me, I could have dealt with this matter ages ago; at the very latest I could have soothed his fears. Smugglers…I had thought all of that nonsense well in the past."

  Strange that he had forgotten that Weaver would remember the incident well. Very few had actually witnessed it all; Bart had only been thirteen or so when the bodies of the smugglers were found.

  "Do you remember the smugglers?"

  Weaver shook his head, sighing again. "I found the bodies; they—or pieces of them—washed up on the beach near my home. I am not likely to forget it."

  "I had not realized," Bart said. "I apologize."

  "I requested that my role be kept as quiet as possible," Weaver replied. "I had no desire to be the subject of relentless gossip."

  Bart smiled faintly. "I would imagine not."

  "What are you intending to do about the smugglers?" Weaver asked.

  Bart shook his head. "I do not know. I am still attempting to take it all in. Right now, my greatest fear is that they will harm those closest to me, as they know full well that I was the one in that tunnel last night."

  Weaver nodded. "Yes. Although, you could simply go to Crane at this point."

  "The moment I speak to him alone, William will know why. I dare not risk it."

  "You have managed to get yourself into quite the dilemma, but I am certain that the three of us will manage to come up with something. I do not doubt that Alfred would love the chance to double-cross his blackmailer." Weaver grimaced. "The good constable does not deserve to learn that his son is a smuggler."

  Bart murmured an agreement. "I think there might be four of us to put a stop to this, as it happens."

  "Four of us?" Weaver repeated.