Folly's Reward Read Free Page B

considerable invention.
    “The last milestone indicated only three more miles, my lord,” his secretary replied.
    My lord hammered with his cane, and the carriage stopped.
    “Then I shall walk to Dunraven from here,” he said. “Another hour more or less will not make any damned difference to the life of a five-year-old boy. I will probably arrive before you, but if not, tell the countess she may expect me.”
    “Yes, my lord,” Roberts said.
    His lordship stepped from carriage.
    The peaks on each side of the road sparkled with whiteness. Above them the sky blazed a clear, bright blue. Under the sudden warmth of the sun, rivulets of water ran from beneath the snow, making little brown channels across the heather.
    The man ignored the mud beneath his boots and strode away up the road. The horses nickered after his retreating figure, then the coachman gave them the signal and the carriage lurched forward once again.
    The gates of Dunraven Castle were closed. He thundered for some time at the huge oak doors that blocked the entrance. Eventually a wizened head peered over the battlements, and a frail fist was shaken at him.
    “Get awa’ yon! Get awa’ frae the yetts! Vagabonds are nae welcome here!”
    “For God’s sake, man,” his lordship said with the icy certainty of rank and privilege. “I am the Marquess of Belham. The Dowager Countess of Dunraven is not only expecting me, she is also my aunt. The present Lord Dunraven, moreover, has just become my ward. If you do not open these gates, I shall burn them down.”
    The owner of the white hair peered down for a moment. The dark-visaged fellow below held a very business-like pistol in one hand. He produced a flask of powder from a pocket. Evidently he meant what he said.
    “Dinna fash yoursel’!” the retainer said. “I’m an auld body. Be patient.”
    Fifteen minutes later, Lord Belham faced Lady Dunraven.
    She seemed to be of a similar age to her servant at the gate, but there was no mistaking that she came from a long line of blue blood. Dressed in black crepe, she sat on a chair that boasted the dimensions of a throne and glared up at her visitor with unrestrained animosity. Her lace cap crowned her head as brightly as the snows crowned the venerable peaks of Beinn Mhanach.
    “So, Marquess,” she said. “You have come to claim the child.”
    “May I sit, Countess?” Lord Belham asked. “I have traveled some distance.”
    “Ha! To think that when my husband’s sister married your father, it was seen to be a grand match! It is not my custom to have black rakes and villains sit at my fireside.”
    “Then I shall stand.”
    He strode over to the peat fire that smoldered sullenly in the hearth and held out his hands. Firelight glinted on a large gold signet ring on his finger. The tiny gleam of warmth was almost entirely swallowed up by the cavernous, feudal chimney and the vast reaches of the stone-vaulted ceiling.
    Silence settled like a shroud. Lord Belham stared up at the portrait over the fireplace. A young man smiled back above a small plaque, which identified him as Henry, fourth Earl of Dunraven.
    “Do you think I have regrets that you once held a different opinion of me?” he said at last. “Fortunately, we need not tolerate each other for very long. It was Henry’s dying wish that the care of his little son come to me.”
    “My son died too young,” Lady Dunraven snapped. “He did not mean it.”
    “Perhaps not. Nevertheless, Henry put his instructions for young Robert’s guardianship in writing with the full blessing of the law. We are both bound by it.”
    “How was my son to know that bad blood runs through your veins like the stink in the gutter of the wynd? I don’t doubt it was your infernal influence that undermined his health with drinking and bad women after his wife died—my only son! You led him to an early grave. Now, should anything happen to the child, you are heir to both lines, aren’t you?”
    Lord Belham turned