Sunday dragged past without bringing any news of Peregrine to his sister. She went to church with Mrs. Scattergood in the morning, and on coming out after the service was hailed by her uncle, who came hobbling towards her, leaning upon his stick. She had not seen him since some days before Peregrine’s disappearance, and so strong was her mistrust of him that she found it hard to greet him with the distinction their relationship demanded. He did not look to be in health; his usually red cheeks had a sallow tinge, but he ascribed it all to his gout, which had kept him indoors for the past week. This, he told his niece, was his first day out. She experienced a strong feeling of suspicion upon his so pointedly telling her this, but forced herself, from a wish not to be backward in any attention that was due to him, to inquire whether he had tried the Warm Bath. He had done so, but without receiving much benefit from it. It was evident that he did not wish to make his own health the subject of his conversation; he begged his niece to give him her arm to his carriage, and was no sooner walking slowly away with her than he looked anxiously round into her face, and said in a low tone: “You know, I should have been with you two days ago, my dear, had I not been aground with this curst foot of mine. It is a dreadful business! I do not know what to say to you. I would not have had such a thing happen for the world! Ay, poor girl, I see how you feel it!”
His hand squeezed hers; meeting his eyes she saw so troubled an expression in them that she could almost have acquitted him. She thanked him, and said: “I do not let myself despair, sir. I believe Lord Worth will find Peregrine.”
“Ay, and so I hope he may do,” he answered. “It is a dreadful business, a dreadful business!”
“My cousin is not with you today, sir?” she observed, not wishing to discuss Peregrine’s fate with him.
“Eh?” he said, recalling himself with a start. “Oh no! Did you not know Bernard has gone off to do what he can for you? Ay, so it is. He set off last night; could not be kicking his heels in Brighton with his cousins under the hatches, as we say. Ah, my dear, if you knew the depth of my boy’s regard for you—but I do not mean to tease you, I am sure, and this is no time to be talking of bridals.”
They had reached the carriage by this time, and he climbed into it, groaning a little. Miss Taverner was resolute in declining his offer to convey her to her door, but she could not believe his sympathy to be quite hypocritical, and took leave of him with more kindness than she would have thought it possible to feel for him.
Monday brought her a letter from Sir Geoffrey Fairford. He wrote from Reddish’s hotel, in St. James’s Street. He had seen Worth, and although he was not able to give her any news of Peregrine, he was confident that a very few days must put them in possession of all the facts. He wrote in haste, and meant to carry his letter to the Post Office, that there might be no delay in its despatch. He could only counsel her not to lose hope, and assure her that her guardian was doing all that lay in his power to bring about a happy issue.
With this brief note she had to be satisfied. Her dependence was now on Captain Audley’s promise to escort her to London. Every day spent in wretched suspense at Brighton was harder to bear than the last. Mrs. Scattergood’s attempts to keep up her spirits, alternating as they did with fits of the gloomiest foreboding, could only make matters worse. She so obviously gave Peregrine up for lost, that Judith could not feel her company to be any support; and since at the end of three days she was unable to sleep without the assistance of drops of laudanum, and spent the greater part of her time on a couch, with a bottle of smelling salts in one hand, and a damp handkerchief in the other, the only advantage of her presence was that she gave Judith something to do in looking after her.
No tidings came from Worth. Judith believed him to be in London, but even Captain Audley could give her no certain intelligence on this point.
On Wednesday morning, more from an inability to be still than from any real expectation of finding a letter from her guardian, Miss Taverner put on a street dress, and a hat, and went out to call at the Post Office. But the night-mail had brought no letter for her, and it was with a heavy heart that she walked back to Marine Parade. She was within sight of her house when she suddenly heard her name called, and turned quickly round to see her cousin jumping down from a light travelling carriage which had drawn up behind her.
She hurried to meet him, her countenance expressing all the eagerness she felt on beholding him. “Cousin! Oh, have you discovered something? Tell me, tell me!”
He grasped the hands which she held out to him, and said in a repressed voice: “I was on my way to your house. But this is better still. I believe—I trust—that I have discovered something.”
His face, which was very pale, led her to suppose that his news must be bad. Her own cheeks grew white; she just found strength to utter: “What is it? Oh, do not keep me in suspense! I can bear anything but that!”
“I think I have found him,” he said with an effort.
Her eyes dilated. “Found him! O God, not dead?”
“No, no!” he replied quickly. “But in what case I dare not say!”
“Where?” she demanded. “Why do you not take me to him at once? Why do we stand here wasting time? Where is he?”
“I will take you to him,” he said. “It is some little distance, but I have brought a carriage for you. Will you come with me?”
“Good God, of course I will come!” she cried. “Let me but run home to leave a message for Mrs. Scattergood, and we may start immediately!”
His clasp on her hand tightened. “Judith, most solemnly I beg of you do not do that! A message to Mrs. Scattergood will ruin all. You do not know the whole.”
“What are you trying to tell me?” she said. “How could a message to Mrs. Scattergood ruin all?”
“Cousin, every suspicion has been confirmed. You are not meant to find Peregrine. The place where I shall take you is hidden away in the depths of the country. I believe him to be held there—you may guess by whom.”
She had the sensation of having received a blow that robbed her of all power of speech. She made a queer little gesture, as though to ward something off, and without a word turned, and hurried towards the carriage.
He assisted her to get into it, and took his place beside her. The steps were folded up, and in a moment the horses were turned about, and driven at a trot up the Steyne towards the London road.
Though the day was sunny, and very warm, Judith was shivering. She managed to articulate one word. “Worth?”
“Yes,” he answered. “It was he who kidnapped Perry; how I know not.”
“Oh no!” she whispered. “Oh no, oh no!”
He said in a constrained voice: “Does it mean so much to you that it should be he?”
She managed to control herself enough to say: “What proof have you? Why should he do so? This is not credible!”
“Do you think Perry’s fortune is not enough to tempt him?”
“He is not heir—” She broke off, and pressed her hands together in her lap. “Oh, it would be too vile! I will not believe it!”
“You are the heir,” he said. “But do not flatter yourself you were ever destined to be Worth’s bride, cousin. Had I not discovered by the veriest chance the plot that was being hatched you would have been forced, by some devilish trick or other, into marrying Charles Audley.”
“Impossible!” she said. “No, that I cannot believe! Captain Audley has no thought of marrying me.”
“Yet Captain Audley was to take you to London tomorrow, and Captain Audley carries a special licence in his pocket.”
“What!” she exclaimed.
“I have seen it,” he said.
She was utterly dumbfounded, and could only stare at him. After a moment he continued: “I imagine that you were to be safely tied up to him in the few days that remain before you come of age. Have you considered that by Friday you will be free from Worth’s guardianship?”
“What can that signify?” she said. “Oh, it will not do, cousin! Captain Audley is a man of honour, incapable of such baseness!”
“Money can drive a man to measures more desperate than you have any notion of,” he said, a hard note in his voice. “Worth has made attempt after attempt on Perry’s life. You know it to be true!”
“No,” she said faintly, “I do not know it to be true. I cannot think—my head feels empty! I must wait until I have seen Perry. How far do we have to travel?”
“You would not know the place. It is some miles west of Henfield. I was led to it by a series of circumstances—but I will not weary you with all the miserable details.”
She did not speak; her senses were almost overpowered; she could only lean back in her corner, trying to conjure up every recollection that should prove or disprove his accusations. He looked at her compassionately, but seemed to understand her need of silence. Once he said, as though impelled: “If I could have spared you! But I could not!”
She tried to answer him, but her voice failed. She turned her head away to stare blindly out of the window.
The carriage was bowling along at a brisk pace, only checking at the turnpikes. For many miles Judith was scarcely aware of the distance they were covering, but when they left the pike-road and branched off on to a rough lane she roused herself, and looking at her cousin in a blank way, said: “Have we to go much farther? We must have come a long way. Should we not change horses?”
“It will not be necessary,” he replied. “This pair can accomplish the journey, for the carriage is a light one. We have only another ten miles to go. An hour should see us safely arrived.”
“If I find Perry—alive, all the rest can— must —be borne!” she said. “Forgive me for being so silent a companion! I cannot talk of it.”
He pressed her hand. “I understand. When we arrive will be time enough for all that must be said.”
“Is—is Lord Worth at this place?” she asked.
“No, he is in London. You need not fear having to meet him.”
“But why has he—why is Perry kept in this place you are taking me to? If all you have said is true, how comes he to be alive? Surely—”
“You will know presently,” he said.
She said no more. The carriage was jolting along a twisting lane between high, tangled hedgerows; a scent of hay was wafted in on the warm air; occasionally she caught a glimpse of a vista of rolling fields, with a blue background of hills in the distance. As they plunged deeper into the country, and she felt herself to be within reach of Peregrine, the numbness that had been clogging her brain gave way to an impatience to arrive. She turned to her cousin, and demanded: “Are we never to reach this place? Why did you not have the horses changed half-way?”
“We are nearly there now,” he answered.
In another five minutes the weary horses had turned in through a gateway, and were going at a jog-trot up the rough cart-track that led between rank fields to a fair-sized cottage, nestling in a hollow of the ground. It was surrounded by a fenced garden, and a huddle of outhouses. A few hens were to be seen, and a pig was rootling amongst some cabbages at the back of the cottage. Judith, leaning forward to see more plainly, turned with an expression of surprise on her face. “But this is nothing but a villager’s cottage!” she exclaimed. “Is Perry kept here!”
He opened the door and sprang out, letting down the steps for her. She could scarcely wait, but almost jumped down on to the ground, and pushing open the low gate, walked quickly up the path to the cottage.
The door was opened before she had time to knock on it by an old woman with wispy grey hair, and the rather vacant look in her eyes which belongs to the very deaf. She dropped a curtsy to Judith, and in the same breath begged her to step in, and to excuse her not hearing very plain.
Judith swung round to face her cousin, her brows drawing close over the bridge of her nose. “Peregrine?” she said sharply.
He laid a hand that shook on her arm. “Go in, cousin, I cannot explain it to you on the doorstep.”
She saw his coachman leading the horses round to one of the barns at the back of the house. Her eyes darkened with suspicion. “Where is Peregrine?”
“For God’s sake, Judith, let us go in! I will tell you everything, but not before this woman!”
She looked down at the deaf woman, who was still holding the door, and nodding and smiling at her, and then stepped over the threshold into a narrow passage with some stairs at the end of it. Bernard Taverner threw open a door and disclosed a low-pitched but roomy apartment with windows at each end, which was evidently the parlour. Judith went in without hesitation, and waited for him to close the door again. “Peregrine is not here?” she said.
He shook his head. “No. I could think of no other way to bring you. Do not judge me too harshly! To deceive you with such seeming heartlessness has been the most painful thing of all! But you would never have come with me. You would have gone to town with Audley, and been tricked into marrying him. You must—you shall forgive me!”
“Where is Peregrine?” she interrupted.
“I believe him to be dead. I do not know. Do you think if I did I would not have led you to him? Worth made away with him—”
“Worth!” she said. “No, not Worth! I am asking you! What have you done to Perry? Answer me!”
“Judith, I swear to you I know no more than you do what has become of him! I had no hand in that. What do I care for Peregrine, or his fortune? Have I proved myself so false that you can believe that of me? It is you I want, have wanted from the day I first saw you! I never meant it to be like this, but what could I do, what other course was open to me? Nothing I could have said would have prevented you from going to London with Audley, and once you were in his and Worth’s hands, what hope had I of saving you from that iniquitous marriage? Again and again I have warned you not to trust Worth, but you have not heeded me! Then came Peregrine’s disappearance, and once more you would not listen to me. Even so, I should have shrunk from taking this step had I not seen the marriage-licence in Audley’s possession. But I knew then that if I was to save you from being the victim of Worth’s fiendish schemes I must act drastically—treacherously, if you will!—but yet because I love you!”
She sank down on a chair beside the table, and buried her face in her hands. “What does that matter?” she asked. “I do not know whether you are speaking the truth or not; I do not care. Perry is all that signifies.” Her hands fell; she stretched them out to him. “Cousin, whatever you have done I can forgive, if you will only tell me Perry is not dead!”
He went down on his knees by her chair, grasping her hands. “I cannot tell you. I do not know. It was not I who made away with him. Perhaps he is not dead; if you will marry me we will—”
“Marry you!” she cried. “I shall never marry you!”
He rose and walked away from her to the window. With his back to her he said: “You must marry me.”
She stared at him. “Are you mad?”
He shook his head. “Not mad. Desperate.”
She said nothing. She was looking about her as though she had just realized the significance of this cottage, lost in the Weald. After a moment he said in a quieter tone: “I must try to make you understand.”
“I do understand,” she said. The fingers of her right hand clenched and unclenched. “I understand why I was not to leave a message for Mrs. Scattergood, why you would not change horses on the road. The woman who lives in this place—is she in your pay?”
“Yes,” he replied curtly.
“I hope you pay her handsomely,” she said.
“Judith, you hate me for this, but you have nothing to fear from me, I promise you!”
“You are mistaken; I do not fear you.”
“You have no need. I want you to be my wife—”
“Would you want me to be your wife if I were not possessed of a fortune?” she said scathingly.
“Yes! Oh, I shan’t deny I need your fortune, but my love for you is real! Too real to allow of my doing anything now that could set you more against me! I am aware how much I have injured my own cause by this step I have taken. It is for me to show you in what respect I hold you. I shall not presume even to touch you without your leave, even though I must keep you here until I have your promise to marry me!”
“You will not get it, I assure you.”
“Ah, you do not understand. You have not considered! That I should be obliged to point out to you—But it must be done! Judith, do you know that a fortnight—a week—spent in my company, hidden away from your friends, must make it impossible for you to refuse? Your reputation would be so damaged that even Worth himself must counsel you to marry me! In plain words, cousin—”
A voice from the other end of the room interposed coolly: “You need not speak any more plain words, Mr. Taverner. You have said quite enough to compromise yourself.”
Judith gave a cry and turned. The Earl of Worth was seated astride the window-sill at the back of the room. He was wearing riding-dress, and he carried his gloves and his whip in his hand. As Judith started up from her chair he swung his other leg over the sill and stepped quickly into the room, tossing his gloves and whip on to the table.
“You!” The word burst from Bernard Taverner’s pale lips. He had spun round at the sound of the Earl’s voice, and stood swaying on the balls of his feet, glaring across the room, for one moment before he sprang.
Miss Taverner uttered a shriek of terror, but before it had died on her lips it was all over. At one moment the Earl seemed in danger of being murdered by her cousin, at the next Bernard Taverner had gone down before a crashing blow to the jaw, and was lying on the floor with an overturned chair beside him, and the Earl standing over him with his fists clenched, and a look on his face that made Miss Taverner run forward and clasp her hands about his arm. “Oh no!” she gasped. “You must not! Lord Worth, I beg of you—!”
He looked down at her, and the expression that had frightened her died out of his eyes. “I beg your pardon, Clorinda,” he said. “I was rather forgetting your presence. You may get up, Mr. Taverner. We will finish this when Miss Taverner is not by.”
Bernard Taverner had struggled on to one elbow. He dragged himself to his feet, and stood leaning heavily against the wall, trying to regain full possession of his senses. The Earl picked up the fallen chair and handed Miss Taverner to it. “I owe you an apology,” he said. “You have had an uncomfortable sort of a morning, and I am afraid that was my doing.”
She said: “Peregrine—he said it was you who kidnapped Peregrine!”
“That,” said the Earl, “is probably the only correct information he has given you.”
She turned very white. “Correct!”
“Perfectly correct,” he said, his gaze resting mockingly on Taverner’s face.
“I don’t understand! Oh, you could not have done so!”
“Thank you, Clorinda,” he said, with a faint smile. “But the fact remains that I did.”
She glanced towards her cousin, and saw that he was staring at Worth with a mixture of horror and incredulity in his eyes. She got up. “Oh, what are you saying? Where is Perry? For God’s sake, tell me, one of you!”
“By this time,” said the Earl, “Peregrine is probably in Marine Parade. Don’t look so surprised, Mr. Taverner: you cannot seriously have imagined that I should permit you to ship my ward off to the West Indies.”
“In Marine Parade!” Judith repeated. “The West Indies! Bernard! Oh no, no!”
Bernard Taverner passed a hand across his eyes. “It’s a lie! I did not have Peregrine put away!”
“No,” agreed the Earl. “You did your best, but you reckoned without me. However, you may console yourself with the reflection that your careful arrangements were not wasted. The master of that highly suspicious vessel off Lancing was quite satisfied to receive Tyler in Peregrine’s stead. In fact, I am inclined to doubt whether he even appreciated that an exchange had been made. I was quite sure, you see, that you would not expect to see Tyler back again in Brighton. That would have been too dangerous, I feel. So it was really very safe for me to dispose of him precisely as he meant to dispose of Peregrine.”
“Lord Worth, you may attempt to foist this monstrous story on to me if you please,” Mr. Taverner said. “You will find it hard to prove.”
“I might have found it hard to prove had you not so obligingly abducted Miss Taverner today,” said the Earl. “That error of judgment, my dear sir, has made it so easy for me to prove the rest that I am confident you will not put me to the trouble of offering my proof to a Grand Jury.”
Miss Taverner sank back into her chair. “All those other attempts— you made? But the duel! Ah no, that at least cannot have been your doing!”
“I am sorry to disillusion you, Miss Taverner,” said the Earl implacably, “but that duel was Mr. Bernard Taverner’s first attempt to dispose of Peregrine. The news of it was brought to me by my tiger, who, by a fortunate coincidence, was in the gallery of the Cock-Pit Royal when the quarrel between Peregrine and Farnaby took place. By the way, Miss Taverner, while I have grave doubts of that surgeon’s ability to recognize your cousin, I have a reasonable dependence on his recognizing me.”
She exclaimed: “It was you who stopped the duel? Oh, fool that I was! But you did not tell me! Why did you let me think it was my cousin who had done it?”
“I had several reasons, Miss Taverner, all of them good ones.”
Bernard Taverner lifted a hand to his cravat and mechanically straightened it. He moved across to the empty fireplace and stood by it, leaning his arm on the mantelpiece. An ugly bruise was beginning to disfigure his face; he looked to be very much shaken, but he said with all his customary calmness of manner: “Pray continue! You are blessed with a lively imagination, but I fancy that any jury would require more precise information than this before convicting me of so wild a crime. You accuse me of contriving that duel, but I should be interested to hear what proof you would offer to your Grand Jury.”
“If I could have brought proof to bear you would not be at large to-day, Mr. Taverner.”
Judith was looking at the Earl in wonderment. “When did you suspect that the duel was brought about by my cousin?” she asked.
“Almost immediately. You may perhaps remember bringing me word once of Peregrine’s being got into a bad set of company. You mentioned Farnaby’s name, and it crossed my mind that I had seen Farnaby in your cousin’s, company once or twice. At the time my only suspicion was that there might conceivably be a plot on hand to bleed Peregrine of his fortune at cards. I dealt with that by frightening Peregrine with a threat to send him back to Yorkshire if I found he had contracted debts of honour above what his allowance would cover. I thought also that a discreet inquiry into the state of Mr. Taverner’s finances might not be inopportune. I admit, however, that I was so far from suspecting the truth that I committed the imprudence of sanctioning Peregrine’s betrothal to Miss Harriet Fairford. In doing that I undoubtedly placed him in jeopardy of his life. While Peregrine remained single there was no pressing need to be rid of him. I imagine that before he arranged for the boy’s death your cousin would have made sure of you, had his hand not been forced. The betrothal made it necessary for him to act quickly. Mr. Farnaby was hired to shoot Peregrine in a duel, and might well have succeeded had he chosen a less public spot for the forcing on of that quarrel. Upon learning from my tiger what was intended I set him to discover the surgeon Fitzjohn meant to employ. The rest was simplicity itself.”
Judith pressed her hands to her cheeks. “It is too terrible! too shocking! Ever since that day Peregrine has been in danger!”
“Hardly that,” replied the Earl. “I have had him carefully watched ever since then. I believe Ned Hinkson has never been a favourite with you, Miss Taverner, but you will admit that his prompt action on Finchley Common last year compensated for his lack of skill on the box. He is by profession a pugilist, and although I have reason to believe that my tiger—a somewhat severe critic—doubts his ability to shine in the Ring, I myself feel that, given a patron, he may do very well indeed.”
“Hinkson!” Miss Taverner exclaimed. “Oh, I have been blind indeed!”
“I am aware that an attempt was once made to hold my cousin up on Finchley Common,” Bernard Taverner said contemptuously. “Is that also to be put to my account?”
“I am quite sure that it might be put to your account,” replied the Earl, “but I scarcely think a jury would be interested. But they might be interested in a certain jar of snuff at present in my possession, and still more interested in the effects of that snuff upon the human system.”
Bernard Taverner’s hand closed convulsively on the edge of the mantelpiece. “I fear I am far from understanding you now, my lord,” he said.
“Are you?” said the Earl. “Have you never wondered why that snuff did not seem to affect Peregrine? I concede you a certain amount of forethought in thinking of a means of poisoning your cousin through a medium on which I am known to be an expert; but you might have considered, I should have thought, that while I might certainly be suspected of having put up the snuff, if its being poisoned were ever discovered, there was also a strong probability that I should be the very person to make that discovery. The circumstance of the mixture being heavily scented was enough to make me suspicious. I found the opportunity, while he was staying at my house, to abstract Peregrine’s snuff-box. It was a little difficult to determine the exact proportions of the three sorts used in making the original mixture, but I believe I succeeded fairly well. At all events, Peregrine detected no difference.”
“His illness in your house!” Miss Taverner cried. “That cough! Good God, is this possible?”
“Oh yes,” said the Earl in his matter-of-fact way. “Scented snuffs have long been a means of poisoning people. You may remember, Miss Taverner, that I found an excuse to send Hinkson up to Brook Street while you were at Worth?”
“Yes,” she said. “You wanted the lease of the house.”
“Not at all. I wanted the rest of Peregrine’s snuff. He had told me where the jar was kept, and Hinkson was easily able to find an opportunity to go up to his dressing-room and exchange the jar for another, similar one, that I had given him. Later, when I was in town again, I visited the principal snuff-shops in the whole of London—a wearing task, but one which repaid me. That particular mixture is not a common one; during the month of December only three four-pound jars of it were sold in town. One was bought at Fribourg and Treyer’s by Lord Edward Bentinck; one was sold by Wishart to the Duke of Sussex; and the third was sold by Pontet, in Pall Mall, to a gentleman who paid for it on the spot, and took it away with him, leaving no name. The description of that gentleman with which the shopman was obliging enough to furnish me was exact enough not only to satisfy me, but also to embolden me to suppose that he would have no great difficulty in recognizing his customer again at need. Do you think a jury would be interested in that, Mr. Taverner?”
Bernard Taverner was still clenching the edge of the mantelpiece. A rather ghastly smile parted his lips. “Interested—but not convinced, Lord Worth.”
“Very well,” said the Earl. “We must pass on then to your next and last attempt. I will do you the justice to say that I don’t think it was one you would have made had not the fixed date of Peregrine’s marriage made it imperative for you to get rid of him at once. You were hard-pressed, Mr. Taverner, and a little too desperate to consider whether I might not be taking a hand in the affair. From the moment of Peregrine’s wedding-day being made known you have not made one movement out of your lodgings that has not been at once reported to me. You suspected Hinkson, but Hinkson was not the person who shadowed you. You have had on your heels a far more noted figure, one who must be as well known as I am myself. You have even thrown him a shilling for holding your horse. Don’t you know my tiger when you see him, Mr. Taverner?”
Bernard Taverner’s eyes were fixed on the Earl’s face. He swallowed once, but said nothing.
The Earl took a pinch of snuff. “On the whole,” he said reflectively, “I believe Henry enjoyed the task. It was a little beneath his dignity, but he is extremely attached to me, Mr. Taverner—a far more reliable tool, I assure you, than any of your not very efficient hirelings—and he obeyed me implicitly in not letting you out of his sight. You would be surprised at his resourcefulness. When you drove your gig over to New Shoreham to strike a bargain with that seafaring friend of yours you took Henry with you, curled up in the boot. His description of that mode of travel is profane but very graphic. I am anticipating, however. Your first action was to introduce a creature of your own into Peregrine’s household—a somewhat foolhardy proceeding, if I may say so. It would have been wiser to have risked coming into the foreground at that juncture, my dear sir. You should have disposed of Peregrine yourself. Well, you made arrangements to have Peregrine transported out to sea. Was he then to be dropped overboard? It would be interesting to know what precise fate lay in store for him. I can only trust that it may have befallen Tyler, whose task was undoubtedly to have overpowered Peregrine at a convenient moment during his drive to Worthing, and to have handed him over to the captain of that vessel. To make doubly sure, Tyler tried to drink Hinkson under the table before setting out. But Hinkson has a harder head than you would believe possible, and instead of remaining under the table, he came to me. I waylaid Peregrine on the West Cliff, and requested him to come back with me to my house on a matter of business. Once I had him under my roof I gave him drugged wine to drink, while Henry performed the same office for Tyler. Hinkson then drove Tyler to the rendezvous you had appointed, Mr. Taverner, and delivered him up to your engaging friends. It was he who wrote you the message which you thought came from Tyler, telling you that he had done his part, and would meet you in London. Peregrine was carried out of my house that evening and taken aboard my yacht, which was lying in New Shoreham harbour.”
“Oh, how could you?” Judith broke in. “What he must have suffered!”
He smiled. “Charles felt very much as you appear to do, Miss Taverner. Fortunately I am not so tender-hearted. Peregrine has suffered nothing worse than a severe headache, and a week’s cruise in excellent weather. He has not been imagining himself in any danger, for I gave my captain a letter of explanation to be delivered to him when he came to his senses.”
“You might have told me!” Judith said.
“I might, had I not had an ardent desire to try your cousin into betraying himself,” replied the Earl coolly. “It was with that object that I left Brighton. Charles did the rest. He led Mr. Bernard Taverner to believe—did he not, my dear sir?—that he and I had concocted a scheme to lure you to town, and there to force you into marriage with one or other of us. He dropped a special licence under Mr. Taverner’s nose and left the rest to his own ingenuity. You took fright, sir, precisely as you were meant to, and this is the outcome. The game is up!”
“But—but you?” demanded Miss Taverner, in a bewildered voice. “Where were you, Lord Worth? How could you know that my cousin meant to bring me here?”
“I did not know. But when Henry was able to report to Charles that your cousin had left Brighton on Saturday night, Charles sent the tidings to me express, and I returned to Brighton on Sunday night, where I have been ever since, waiting for your cousin to move. Henry followed you to the Post Office this morning, witnessed your meeting with Mr. Taverner, and ran to tell me of it. I could have overtaken you at any moment during your drive here had I wanted to.”
“Oh, it was not fair!” exclaimed Miss Taverner indignantly. “You should have told me! I am very grateful to you for all the rest, but this—!” She got up from her chair, rather flushed, and glanced towards her cousin. He was still standing before the fireplace, his face rigid, and almost bloodless. She shuddered. “I trusted you!” she said. “All the time you were trying to murder Perry I believed you to be our friend. My uncle I did suspect, but you never!”
He said in a constricted voice: “Whatever I may have done, my father had no hand in. I admit nothing. Arrest me, if you choose. Lord Worth has yet to prove his accusations.”
Her mouth trembled. “I cannot answer you. Your kindness, your professions of regard for me—all false! Oh, it is horrible!”
“My regard for you at least was not false!” he said hoarsely. “That was so real, grew to be so—But it does not signify talking!”
“If you stood in such desperate need of money,” she said haltingly, “could you not have told us? We should have been so happy to have assisted you out of your difficulties!”
He winced at that, but the Earl said in his most damping tone: “Possibly, but it is conceivable that I might have had something to say to that, my ward. Nor do I imagine that with a fortune of twelve thousand pounds a year to tempt him Mr. Taverner would have been satisfied with becoming your pensioner. May I suggest that you leave this matter in my hands now, Miss Taverner? You have nothing further to fear from your cousin, and you cannot profitably continue this discussion. You will find that the chaise that is to convey you back to Brighton has arrived by now. I want you to go out to it, and to leave me to wind up this affair in my own way.”
She looked up at him doubtfully. “You are not going to come with me?” she asked.
“I must ask you to excuse me, Miss Taverner. I have still something to do here.”
She let him lead her to the door, but as he opened it, and would have bowed her out, she laid her hand on his arm, and said under her breath: “I don’t want him to be arrested!”
“You may safely leave everything to me, Miss Taverner. There will be no scandal.”
She cast a glance at her cousin, and looked up again at the Earl. “Very well. I—I will go. But I—I don’t want you to be hurt, Lord Worth!”
He smiled rather grimly. “You need not be alarmed, my child. I shan’t be.”
“But—”
“Go, Miss Taverner,” he said quietly.
Miss Taverner, recognizing the note of finality in his voice, obeyed him.
She found that a chaise-and-four, with the Earl’s crest on the panels, was waiting for her outside the cottage. She got into it, and sank back against the cushions. It moved forward, and closing her eyes, Miss Taverner gave herself up to reflection. The events of the past hours, the shock of finding her cousin to be a villain, could not soon be recovered from. The drive to Brighton, which had seemed so interminable earlier in the day, was now too short to allow her sufficient time to compose her thoughts. These were in confusion; it would be many hours before she could be calm again, many hours before her mind would be capable of receiving other and happier impressions.
The chaise bore her smoothly to Brighton, and she found Peregrine awaiting her in Marine Parade. She threw herself into his arms, her overcharged spirits finding relief in a burst of tears. “Oh, Perry, Perry, how brown you look!” she sobbed.
“Well, there is nothing to cry about in that, is there?” asked Peregrine, considerably surprised.
“No, oh no!” wept Miss Taverner, laying her cheek against his shoulder. “It is only that I am so thankful!”