The Rafael Sabatini Megapack. Rafael Sabatini
with a long nose, good lowlidded eyes, a humorous mouth, and a weak chin; at a glance he looked what he was, a weak, good-natured sensualist. He was resplendent at the moment in a blue satin dressing-gown stiff with gold lace, for he had been interrupted by Blake’s arrival in the very act of putting himself to bed, and his head—divested of his wig—was bound up in a scarf of many colours.
At his side, the red-coated captain, arrested by the general’s sardonic cough, stood, a red-faced, freckled boy, looking to his superior for orders.
“I t’ink you ’ave ’urt Sare Rowland,” said Feversham composedly in his bad English. “Who are you, sare?”
“This lady’s husband,” answered Wilding, whereupon the captain stared and Feversham’s brows went up in surprised amusement.
“So-ho! T’at true?” quoth the latter in a tone suggesting that it explained everything to him. “T’is gif a differen’ colour to your story, Sare Rowlan’.” Then he added in a chuckle, “Ho, ho—l’amour!” and laughed outright.
Blake, gathering together his wits and his limbs at the same time, made shift to rise.
“What a plague does their relationship matter?” he began. He would have added more, but the Frenchman thought this question one that needed answering.
“Parbleu!” he swore, his amusement rising. “It seem to matter somet’ing.”
“Damn me!” swore Blake, red in the face from pale that he had been. “Do you conceive that if I had run away with his wife for her own sake I had fetched her to you?” He lurched forward as he spoke, but kept his distance from Wilding, who stood between Ruth and him.
Feversham bowed sardonically. “You are a such flatterer, Sare Rowlan’,” said he, laughter bubbling in his words.
Blake looked his scorn of this trivial Frenchman, who, upon scenting what appeared to be the comedy of an outraged husband overtaking the man who had carried off his wife, forgot the serious business, a part of which Sir Rowland had already imparted to him. Captain Wentworth—a time-serving gentleman—smiled with this French general of a British army that he might win the great man’s favour.
“I have told your lordship,” said Blake, froth on his lips, “that the twenty men I had from you, as well as Ensign Norris, are dead in Bridgwater, and that my plan to carry off King Monmouth has come to ruin, all because we were betrayed by this woman. It is now my further privilege to point out to your lordship the man to whom she sold us.”
Feversham misliked Sir Rowland’s arrogant tone, misliked his angry, scornful glance. His eyes narrowed, the laughter faded slowly from his face.
“Yes, yes, I remember,” said he; “t’is lady, you have tole us, betray you. Ver’ well. But you have not tole us who betray you to t’is lady.” And he looked inquiringly at Blake.
The baronet’s jaw dropped; his face lost some of its high colour. He was stunned by the question as the bird is stunned that flies headlong against a pane of glass. He had crashed into an obstruction so transparent that he had not seen it.
“So!” said Feversham, and he stroked the cleft of his chin. “Captain Wentwort’, be so kind as to call t’e guard.”
Wentworth moved to obey, but before he had gone round the table, Blake had looked behind him and espied Richard shrinking by the door.
“By heaven!” he cried, “I can more than answer your lordship’s question.”
Wentworth stopped, looking at Feversham.
“Voyons,” said the General.
“I can place you in possession of the man who has wrought our ruin. He is there,” and he pointed theatrically to Richard.
Feversham looked at the limp figure in some bewilderment. Indeed, he was having a most bewildering evening—or morning, rather, for it was even then on the stroke of one o’clock. “An’ who are you, sare?” he asked.
Richard came forward, nerving himself for what was to follow. It had just occurred to him that he held a card which should trump any trick of Sir Rowland’s vindictiveness, and the prospect heartened and comforted him.
“I am this lady’s brother, my lord,” he answered, and his voice was fairly steady.
“Tiens!” said Feversham, and, smiling, he turned to Wentworth.
“Quite a family party, sir,” said the captain, smiling back.
“Oh! mais tout—fait,” said the General, laughing outright, and then Wilding created a diversion by leading Ruth to a chair that stood at the far end of the table, and drawing it forward for her. “Ah, yes,” said Feversham airily, “let Madame sit.”
“You are very good, sir,” said Ruth, her voice brave and calm.
“But somewhat lacking in spontaneity,” Wilding criticized, which set Wentworth staring and the Frenchman scowling.
“Shall I call the guard, my lord?” asked Wentworth crisply.
“I t’ink yes,” said Feversham, and the captain gained the door, and spoke a word to one of the soldiers without.
“But, my lord,” exclaimed Blake in a tone of protest, “I vow you are too ready to take this fellow’s word.”
“He ’as spoke so few,” said Feversham.
“Do you know who he is?”
“You ’af ’eard ’im say—t’e lady’s ’usband.”
“Aye—but his name,” cried Blake, quivering with anger. “Do you know that it is Wilding?”
The name certainly made an impression that might have flattered the man to whom it belonged. Feversham’s whole manner changed; the trivial air of persiflage that he had adopted hitherto was gone on the instant, and his brow grew dark.
“T’at true?” he asked sharply. “Are you Mistaire Wildin’—Mistaire Antoine Wildin’?”
“Your lordship’s most devoted servant,” said Wilding suavely, and made a leg.
Wentworth in the background paused in the act of reclosing the door to stare at this gentleman whose name Albemarle had rendered so excellently well known.
“And you to dare come ’ere?” thundered Feversham, thoroughly roused by the other’s airy indifference. “You to dare come ’ere—into my ver’ presence?”
Mr. Wilding smiled conciliatingly. “I came for my wife, my lord,” he reminded him. “It grieves me to intrude upon your lordship at so late an hour, and indeed it was far from my intent. I had hoped to overtake Sir Rowland before he reached you.”
“Nom de Dieu!” swore Feversham. “Ho! A so great effrontery!” He swung round upon Blake again. “Sare Rowlan’,” he bade him angrily, “be so kind to tell me what ’appen in Breechwater—everyt’ing!”
Blake, his face purple, seemed to struggle for breath and words. Mr. Wilding answered for him.
“Sir Rowland is so choleric, my lord,” he said in his pleasant, level voice, “that perhaps the tale would come more intelligibly from me. Believe me that he has served you to the best of his ability. Unfortunately for the success of your choice plan of murder, I had news of it at the eleventh hour, and with a party of musketeers I was able to surprise and destroy your cut-throats in Mr. Newlington’s garden. You see, my lord, I was to have been one of the victims myself, and I resented the attentions that were intended me. I had no knowledge that Sir Rowland had contrived to escape, and, frankly, it is a thing I deplore more than I can say, for had that not happened much trouble might have been saved and your lordship’s rest had not been disturbed.”
“But t’e woman?” cried Feversham impatiently. “How is she come into this galare?”
“It was she who warned