Never Trust a Rebel(27)

‘He was a boy, young and impressionable, who was caught up in events beyond his understanding.’

‘Did he send you to me to plead his cause?’

‘He does not know I am here, Sir Edward. He thinks you can never be reconciled.’

‘And he is right.’

She smiled. ‘If that were so, why did you take him in and allow Mrs Parfitt to nurse him?’

‘Any Christian would do as much.’

‘Would they? I think it was more the action of a man who still cares for his son.’

He glared at her. ‘You would be advised to keep out of what does not concern you.’

‘But it does concern me, Sir Edward. My father made Drew my guardian, because he knew him to be a true and honest friend. And so he has proved himself to be. He has risked arrest to come to England and take me to Lord Whittlewood. He was wounded protecting me from highway robbers. It is only right that I should try in return to help him. We have one more day here, then he plans to leave Hartcombe and never return. I would beg you to make your peace with him.’

‘Never.’

‘Sir Edward—’

‘No!’ He swung around in his chair, turning away from her. ‘If that is all you have to say then you had best leave, madam, for I shall not change my mind. Go. Go, damn you!’

Elyse rose.

‘I know Drew to be an honourable man, Sir Edward. You should be proud to have such a son. It would mean a great deal to him if you could acknowledge him.’ When he did not speak she continued quietly, ‘My father was a restless man who travelled Europe, living on his wits. When he died he left me with money, but very few memories of him. He provided handsomely for me and my mother, while she was alive, but he rarely visited us. My biggest regret is that I never really knew my father. You have a chance to make peace with Andrew, I beg that you do so, sir, and make the most of the time you have left together.’ She walked to the door, where she turned, speaking to his rigid, unmoving back. ‘I pray you, sir, do not leave it too late.’



Drew’s bedroom candle guttered and he threw aside his book. He should be asleep, but he was too restless. He eased himself off the bed and fetched a fresh candle, lighting it from the stub of the old one before pushing it into the candlestick. His thoughts turned constantly to Elyse Salforde. He wanted her, he could not deny it. She bewitched him and not just with her beauty. She had the power to soothe away his anger. Walking with her in the gardens, having her beside him, had eased the pain of the memories he had recounted, memories he had shared with no one, not even Harry. And she was not indifferent to him, he would swear it, but that made it even more important that he did nothing to hurt her.

He could offer her nothing save a tainted name and a life of constant wanderings. He could not even claim any burning zeal to return the Stuarts to the throne. He had followed his uncle into battle in a spirit of youthful adventure but he had never been truly wedded to the Stuart cause, which made his actions all the more disreputable. He had dragged his family through so much for nothing more than a youthful indiscretion. He turned restlessly in his bed. He could do nothing about the past, but he could discharge his promise to Harry honourably. He would make sure Elyse reached her future husband safely.

The thought of the marriage contract made him frown. It was watertight, he knew that, and biased heavily in Elyse’s favour. He would ensure the terms had not been changed before he relinquished his guardianship. Harry had done his best to ensure his only daughter’s happiness, but even with a measure of independence she would still be wed to William Reverson and would that really make her happy? Drew pondered the question and was surprised to realise just how much Elyse’s happiness meant to him.

A gentle scratching at the door caught his attention.

‘Stinchcombe! What are you doing here?’

His father’s valet stood in the doorway, a pile of white linen in his hands.

‘Sir Edward thought you might need your dressing changed, sir.’

‘But it’s near midnight.’ Drew swung himself off the bed. ‘Well, now you are here you had best come in. It will save you doing it in the morning.’

The valet waited patiently while Drew stripped off his shirt then got to work removing the old dressing.

‘Sir Edward is not sleeping well, Master Andrew.’

‘Well, what of it?’

Drew tensed as the bandage came away, but there was very little pain. The wound was clean and healing well.

‘If you wrap it lightly I will be able to wear my coat tomorrow,’ he told the valet.

‘Yes sir.’ A fresh dressing was wound around the arm. ‘But if I might suggest, Master Andrew…’

‘Well?’

‘Sir Edward is not abed yet. When I left him he was pacing up and down his room.’

Drew gave a bark of hollow laughter. ‘He would hardly thank me for disturbing him then.’

Stinchcombe stood back, surveying his handiwork.

‘That’s the point, sir. I think he would like to see you.’

Drew frowned.

‘He would?’

Stinchcombe reached out and tidied away a loose end, never meeting Drew’s eyes.

‘I think he would, Master Andrew. I think something’s troubling him.’

Drew put his shirt back on and allowed the servant to re-tie his sling before he dismissed him. He scowled. He was damned if he’d go to the old man. It could only result in another roasting. There was too much bad blood between them. Too much that could not be forgiven. He prowled about the room, picked up his book and climbed back on to the bed, but the words swam before his eyes and made no sense.

‘Hell and confound it.’

Stinchcombe would not have come to him if he had not been seriously worried about his master. Drew swung himself off the bed again, pushed his feet into his boots and went out.

A thin line of light shone beneath Sir Edward’s door. Drew knocked and received a curt invitation to enter. His father was sitting by the fire, a single candle burning on the mantelshelf.

‘What in hell’s name brings you here?’

The greeting was every bit as unwelcoming as Drew had expected. He bit back an equally curt retort.

‘I saw your light under the door.’

‘What of it? Can’t a man sit in his own room now without being disturbed?’

‘Is anything amiss, sir? Can I help?’

With a curse the old man pushed himself up out of his chair.

‘Of course there is something amiss and no, you cannot help, since you are the cause of it.’ Drew waited silently while Sir Edward strode over to the window. ‘I was thinking of your mother,’ he said at last, gazing out into the darkness. ‘And Simon. Both gone.’

‘I am very sorry, Fa—sir.’

‘And so you should be.’

Drew’s jaw clenched hard. He should not have come, but now he was here he would have his say.

‘I do not see any reason why you should believe me, but I deeply regret what I did in ’forty-five. If I had not been so young, so foolish, I would have come back to England, discussed it with you before I took such a reckless step.’

‘You know I would have forbidden you to join the rebels and you, like as not, would have run counter to my commands, as always.’

‘There is always the possibility that I might have heeded you.’

The old man gave a scornful laugh.

‘It would have been the first time.’

A long silence followed. Drew heard the crackle of the fire as a burning log collapsed into the embers. The timbers of the old house creaked, settling for the night. He should not have come. He was about to bid his father goodnight when the old man spoke again.

‘You are hot-headed, like me. Your mother always said so. Stubborn, too.’

‘Another trait I inherited from my sire.’

Sir Edward turned with a snarl. ‘Do not blame me for your misfortunes.’

‘I do not,’ Drew flashed back. ‘I blame no one but myself.’ He turned away with an exasperated sigh. ‘I was a fool to come here tonight. What is broken cannot be mended.’ He strode to the door. ‘One more day, sir, then you will be bothered with my presence no more.’

He left the room and closed the door behind him, hoping but not expecting his father to call him back.

There was only silence.





Chapter Seven

Drew was relieved when the first grey fingers of dawn crept into the room and he could get up. He had not slept well; his rest had been disturbed by dreams. After making a few tentative moves with his arm he decided to leave off the sling. The new dressing Stinchcombe had put on was much less bulky, and his frock-coat slid easily over his shirtsleeve. The dark stain was still visible on the sleeve of his coat. It would have to do until he reached Bath. He would buy himself some new clothes there before he returned to France.

And what then? He stood before the mirror, staring at his reflection. He had been a fool to come to England, it had set him yearning for a life he could not have.

‘Why not?’ he asked himself aloud. ‘I could live in England as Andrew Bastion. Buy a little property away from here. In the north, perhaps, where no one knows me.’

The thought was pleasing, but it did not last long. Such a life would give him no rest. He would always be wary of being recognised, nervous of every knock at the door. No, he would return to the Continent. Perhaps not Paris, but there were other cities, fortunes to be won, ladies to be wooed.