“Too little, alas. I know that he was educated at Liège, and that he has wandered throughout Europe in the years since the Jesuit order’s suppression. I am reasonably certain that he came to these shores aboard His Majesty’s ship St. Alban’s, and that he has lately been staying in Brighton with Mrs. Fitzherbert — as you have done yourself, Conte. I suspect that he has come to rest in Southampton — and that he haunts the ruins of Netley Abbey in a long black cloak.”[25]

The Conte drew breath as though he would hurl Lord Harold’s claims in his face, but Sophia Challoner intervened. “His lordship knows everything that moves in England, Ernesto,” she said softly.

“That is why you require his influence. Do not be a fool.”

I recalled with a shudder the looming black form in the tunnel’s depths, and glanced at Orlando. He had suffered much at that creature’s hands. The valet’s countenance was pale and set; his eyes were fixed not on his master or the Portuguese Count, but on the lifeless form of Flora Bastable.

I had very nearly forgot her.

“This is all very well,” Dr. Jarvey declared, “but I would beg you to canvass your mutual acquaintance at another time! We must attend to a corpse! This unfortunate girl was your serving-maid, Mrs. Challoner?”

“I turned her off,” the lady retorted, “almost a week since.”

Dr. Jarvey stared down at all that was left of Flora Bastable. Her gentian blue eyes were fixed, unblinking, on the morning sky. “She is very young, is she not? Too young to wander the country alone at night.  One must question how she came here— exactly here, on your intended dueling ground... ”

“What are you suggesting, Doctor?” Mr. Ord enquired. The American’s eyes glittered dangerously in the waxing sunlight.

“My dear sir — the girl was most certainly murdered, and murdered here. Her blood has soaked into the earth. It is as though she were left in this spot for a purpose. I must ask again: why? ”

“Don’t you mean — which of us?” Lord Harold observed.

It must be true. Only a select party had known of Mr. Ord’s challenge, and the isolated spot in which it should be carried out: the company presently assembled on Butlock Common — and Maria Fitzherbert, who awaited the duel’s outcome in suspense at the Lodge.

“That is absurd,” Sophia Challoner said tautly.

“The girl lived in Hound, but a half-mile distant. She might have wandered here for any number of reasons. A legion could have killed her.”

“But in dying as she did,” Lord Harold countered, “she fulfilled a peculiar purpose. She forced the suspension of this duel for an indefinite period — and one at least of our acquaintance shall be heartily glad.”

The lady threw back her head and laughed — a harsh, ringing sound in the silence that surrounded the lifeless girl’s body. “Did you fear to meet Mr. Ord so much, my lord?”

“Not nearly as much as Mrs. Fitzherbert feared his meeting me, ” the Rogue returned. “I wonder which of us should consider murder a means of preserving a life?”

Mrs. Challoner raised her whip as though she might cut him across the face — but the Conte da Silva grasped her wrist tightly in gloved fingers.

“You are overwrought, my dear,” he said in his studied way. “You must return, now, to the Lodge.”

I saw the wild rage surge into her countenance — saw her hand strain against her captor’s — and then her gaze fell before the Count’s implacable black eyes.

“Yes, Ernesto... You are right. I believe I am ... overly sensible to the scene. Pray — would you be so good as to give James your horse, and manage the phaeton for me?”

“I should be charmed, my dear.”

The Conte released her whip hand with utmost gentleness, and helped her into the carriage; and never, until that moment, had I disliked Sophia Challoner so acutely. The murdered girl, with her grotesquely ravaged throat, might have been a fox thrown to the local hunt for all the concern her late mistress spared her. Indignation rose up in my breast, and I might have uttered ill-advised words — but Lord Harold spoke before me.

“How did the maid come to lose her place in your service, Sophia?”

“That is none of your concern,” she retorted.

“Hold your tongue, my lord, lest you be visited with a second challenge!”

“There shall be an inquest,” Dr. Jarvey interposed, his hand at the horses’ heads. “We shall all of us be called.”

Without deigning to answer, the Conte da Silva lifted the reins, and immediately, the matched greys stepped forward. The doctor fell back, his gaze following the pair. Their action was sublime — almost as sublime as the insouciance of the lady who rode behind them, the black feather of her Cossack Hat bobbing merrily in the wind occasioned by the equipage’s passage.

“My lord,” said Mr. Ord as he mounted the Conte’s horse, “I believe we should declare this matter between us at an end.”

“It is no great sacrifice on my part.”

“You have my full apology for the hastiness of temper with which I visited you; I accept complete responsibility for the consequences.” Ord raised his black hat, and bowed; then he kicked the gelding into a canter and caught up with the diminishing phaeton.

“That is a waste of a fine seat,” observed Dr. Jarvey regretfully, as he stared after the self-destined priest.

“What — do you think a Jesuit will have no cause to ride? I imagine nothing that young man does is wasted — except, perhaps, the hours he has devoted to Sophia Challoner.” Lord Harold gazed down at the serving-maid’s corpse. “I shall go in search of the girl’s people in Hound. Orlando is acquainted with the cottage.”

“I shall accompany you.” Dr. Jarvey knelt down, and drew the edges of the Prussian-blue cloak about Flora Bastable’s frame. In places, blood had stained the cloth purple. All her young life, clotted in the wool. “We might carry her home in my hack”—the doctor had travelled to the ground in a hired conveyance, like ourselves—“if the driver does not protest.”

“Take mine,” Frank said abruptly. “I drove it myself, and can have no objection.”

“Excellent thought.” Lord Harold extended his hand, as though we parted from nothing graver than a rout at his brother Wilborough’s in London.

“Captain Austen — be so good as to take charge of the doctor’s chaise, and convey your sister back to Castle Square. Pray accept my deepest apologies for the considerable inconvenience to which you have been put this morning.”

“Not at all,” Frank replied. “You will supply us with the inquest’s direction?”

“Provided I am at liberty so long,” the Rogue said.

Chapter 25

The Rogue’s Toss

Saturday, 5 November 1808

The inquest into the death of Flora Bastable was to be held at two o’clock today at the Coach & Horses Inn.

“Another murder, Jane!” my mother cried. “And why must you go traipsing about the town in search of sensation, merely because a serving-girl has got her throat slit? You had much better remain at home, in expectation of a call from Lord Harold. I am amply supplied with brandy at present.”

I had said nothing of the duel, or my earlymorning jaunt yesterday in Frank’s company to Butlock Common; and the three-quarters of an hour required for our return trip along the Netley roads had so restored our sensibilities that we might face our relations without the slightest evidence of deceit.

At our return to Castle Square, at half-past seven o’clock, nobody else in the house was even stirring — but for Phebe in the kitchen. I found to my consternation that my hands would not cease shaking, and my brother’s countenance was unwontedly grave. Frank and I fortified ourselves silently with fresh coffee and bread, and greeted the others in their descent from the bedchambers with the virtuous air belonging to all early risers.