Sutcliff rose from his hiding place next to the lock's gate as I passed it. He stayed in the shadow there, arms folded, and waited for me.
I exaggerated my limp as I moved to him, but when I reached him, I took a step back, unsheathed the sword from my walking stick, and put it to his throat.
"Put it down."
He looked startled, then he gave an I-do-not-care shrug and dropped the pistol he'd hidden in his hands into the tall grass.
"This is interesting," he sneered, looking in the direction of Sebastian and Belinda. "Are you a procurer now? Selling Rutledge's daughter to the Romany?"
"Miss Rutledge will return to the school with me," I said. "And you will say nothing."
"Why not? Because you will run me through if I do? I think not, Captain. You are not a murderer."
"Others have thought so," I said, my tone suggestive.
The light of fear that entered his eyes pleased me. In all of Sutcliff's plans, I was the one unexpected puzzlement. He had never known what to make of me.
"I know what you have done, you little tick," I said evenly. "I know all of it."
He smiled, as I'd expected he would. "What you know does not matter. You have no evidence. No magistrate will charge me."
I moved the tip of the sword closer to his throat. My walking stick was new, and this was the first time I'd used the sword within it. I found it well-balanced and quite suited to my purpose. "I have something better than evidence," I began. I did not want to give myself away, so I damped down my rush of temper. "You sent Jeanne Lanier away, did you not? You sent her to the Continent, to smooth the way for you."
He faced me down the length of the sword. "Then you know nothing. I am not flying to the Continent in shame and fear. I gave her enough money to settle down and enjoy herself. I will visit her from time to time." He snorted at my look of surprise. "Why should I leave England? Everything I have is here. When my father dies, I will be a rich and powerful man, one who will be able to crush you underfoot in a trice. I look forward to it."
I gazed at the uncaring coldness in his eyes. I had seen that coldness before, in the eyes of James Denis. "There are men out there more powerful than you," I said. "I have met them."
"If you like to think so."
I ignored that. "I believe I understand you now. It is not simply the money you enjoy from blackmailing others. You like their fear that you will tell their dirty little secrets. You like gentlemen handing you money while you quietly swindle them. You must have enjoyed sniggering behind your hand the entire time."
He smiled again. "You are a fool, Captain. No, it is not the power. Only you, with your swagger because you were born to a gentleman's family and your pride that you have the most popular man in England to back you, could think it was power. You are a pauper, you can have no idea. My father believes I am not clever enough to handle money. But I am clever. I can turn anything into money-an idea, a secret, anything. I play the game so well that soon I will own the game. My father will come to understand that I am as ruthless as any aristocrat ever was. He will know that I can run his business better than he ever could. You will never know what that is like."
He was no doubt correct. "Greed is all-consuming," I remarked.
He laughed. "You poor idiot. The day of the gentleman is over. Only those with money will matter, only those who can pay will command respect and attention. You are puffed with pride because of your so-called honor, but your honor will disappear. Wealth will become honor, and I will have all of it." His smile widened. "You are not answering, Captain? What is the matter?"
My voice went cold and hard. "I have no wish to waste time lecturing you. You are a fool, and soon you will learn how much of a fool."
I eased the sword from his throat but held it ready. "Go back to the school. You will say nothing to Rutledge, or to Miss Rutledge."
He took a step back, making no move to try to retrieve the pistol. "I will say nothing because it suits me. For now."
My temper fragmented. The point of the sword went to his throat again, dug in a little. "I know what you've done, you little swine. And you will pay for that with every breath you draw, from now until the day you die."
His lips parted as he observed me and my sword. He did not know quite what to do, and I liked that. My sergeant, Pomeroy, had used to claim that I was mad. “You get that look, sir, like you'd do anything,” he used to say. “The lads would rather ride out and face the Frenchies and their muskets than you when you look like that.”
Sutcliff seemed to agree with him. I knew this young man did not give a fig about honor, did not even know what it was. All I had to do was stick the sword into his throat, and the blight would leave the earth. I would hang for it, but what did that matter?
It was not honor that stayed my hand, but knowledge. I knew that Sutcliff would soon be doomed. I did not have all the pieces put together yet, but soon, very soon.
I withdrew my sword and stepped back. "Get out of my sight," I said.
He gave me another uncertain look, then he turned on his heel and scurried away, rather swiftly. I retrieved the pistol, which hadn't even been primed correctly, and sheathed my sword.
Chapter Eighteen
Belinda wept as I led her home. I had little comfort to give her. Inwardly, I decided that I'd rather see her weep than have her walk in cold silence. When a woman, or man, wept, they released their humors, which allowed healing to begin. Holding it inside, I well knew, led to melancholia and other dangerous maladies.
Belinda would weep, and then her heart would mend. I did not tell her that this heartache would likely be easy compared to others she'd face in her life. Let her believe that this was as difficult as things would ever be.
That night, Grenville's fever reached its peak. I did not sleep at all, but sat at his bedside while his skin burned and his pulse beat so fast that I feared his heart would burst. Bartholomew and Matthias continuously bathed his face and body in cold water, but nothing brought down the fever.
Sometimes he swam to consciousness and looked about him with glazed eyes. He would not know us, or he would call the names of people we had never heard of. His hair was matted with sweat, and black stubble marred his face. The room stank of his fever. Grenville, the man so fastidious about his appearance, lay helpless and sweating, and soiled his own bedding.
We washed him and changed the linen and held him down when he thrashed. He'd groan and cry out, then fall into another stupor.
The morning dawned gray and rainswept. I opened the window, no longer able to stand the stuffy sickroom. The air was a bit warmer, April fast approaching. Soon meadows would be filled with flowers and the arch of sky would be a soft blue.
Bartholomew stretched out on his back on the carpet, exhausted and snoring. His brother slept in a chair, his blond head lolling. And Grenville…
His chest rose and fell evenly, his hands resting quietly on the coverlet. His dark eyes were open, and he was looking at me in cool appraisal.
I stepped over Bartholomew, who never moved, and hastened to the bedside. I touched Grenville's forehead. His skin was clammy and cool, the fever broken.
"Where is Marianne?" he asked.
I sank into a nearby chair, my legs suddenly weak. "Is that all you can say?"
He gave me the ghost of his usual sardonic smile. "I prefer to see her when waking. She's much prettier than you are."
"You must be feeling better."
"No, I feel like absolute hell." He turned his head on the pillow, gazed at Matthias who snored on. "Do they always make that racket?"