“Oh,” said Amaranthus, rising. “So he really is a madman? Maybe you’d best put Mr. Wainwright down, William; he can’t talk like that.”
William reluctantly did so. The blood was pounding through his temples, and he felt as though his head would explode any minute. He let go of Wainwright and stepped back, breathing as evenly as he could.
“Tell me,” he said again. Wainwright was trembling all over now, and sweating heavily, but he nodded, jerky as a puppet, and began to talk.
It took several minutes to get it all out, but Wainwright gradually calmed as he spoke and at last fell silent, staring at the green figured carpet under his feet. William and Amaranthus exchanged glances over his bowed head.
“So this gentleman—well, this person,” Amaranthus said, mouth pursed as though to spit, “wants the duke not to go to England and tell Lord North things about the war, and so he’s kidnapped Lord John and is threatening to kill him unless your uncle acquiesces?” She sounded incredulous, William thought. Richardson’s letter had been hard to believe, but to hear the facts like this … Wainwright was nodding.
“That’s it,” he said, dully. “He—has his own reasons for wanting the war to continue, and he thinks Pardloe might be able to convince the prime minister otherwise.”
“Well, he wouldn’t be the only one with an interest in the war continuing,” William said, beginning to get hold of himself. “War is an expensive business—and that means the men who supply it are making a lot of money. I can think of two or three who might want to stop the duke from spreading notions to the contrary around England. But Richardson—” He eyed Wainwright narrowly, but the man gave no sign of deliberate deception—or of anything, really, save profound distress.
“I told you, I know this Richardson,” William said abruptly, turning to Amaranthus. “And God help me, I think he likely is mad. Some of the things he’s done …” He shook his head.
“Wait here,” he said to Wainwright, and put out a hand to Amaranthus. “Come with me for a moment.”
THE HOUSE WAS quiet; Moira had gone to market and Miss Crabb was lying down. Even Trevor was asleep, thank God. Still, William guided Amaranthus out into the garden, just in case. Sight of the little grape-bower made him think vaguely that neither of them had mentioned his proposal since their return, but the thought vanished like smoke.
“What do you think?” he asked, glancing back over his shoulder at the house.
“I think there must be more truth to the letter this Richardson sent than we even thought. Mr. Wainwright seems more or less sane, but I don’t know about Captain Richardson—is that his rank, captain?”
“Well, it was when he was on our side,” William said with a shrug. “He’s turned his coat now, and I think the Americans may have given him a major’s commission, or even a colonelcy of some kind; they poach officers from European armies with rank because they haven’t got any money. The Americans, I mean.”
“So this Richardson is a turncoat and a madman? The Americans seem not to be very choosy, do they?”
“I gather they made James Fraser a general, if that tells you anything.”
Her eyebrows shot up in surprise.
“I do hope he isn’t mad,” she said, and looked at William speculatively. “I don’t believe that treason shows up in the blood, necessarily, but I’m reasonably sure madness is inheritable. Look at the King, I mean.”
“No,” William said. “Mr. Fraser may be a good many things, but he’s not mad. And I agree with you about Mr. Wainwright. He may be telling the truth about being Papa’s stepbrother; my grandmother Benedicta married a widower, and he may well have had a son. But his being Papa’s stepbrother is just an explanation for his concern, isn’t it?”
“You mean he might have another reason for coming to find you?” Amaranthus leaned to the side, looking round William toward the house.
“Maybe.” William dismissed this with a wave of the hand. “But the basic facts are—according to him and the letter, now—these: one, Papa is actually in the hands of Richardson, who is bloody dangerous. Two, Richardson apparently is holding him hostage in order to compel Uncle Hal to do—or rather, not do something. And three, no matter whether it’s possible for anyone whatever to compel Uncle Hal to do anything whatever—he bloody isn’t here to do it, anyway.”
“Well, but that’s good, isn’t it?” Amaranthus objected. “Presumably, if the only reason this Richardson is keeping your father is to make the duke do what he wants, then Lord John is safe, as long as the duke can’t be found. Isn’t he?”
“Mmphm,” William said, in dubious agreement. “I don’t know; Wainwright says my father’s in danger, and he must have reason for thinking that. Regardless, I have to find him, and as quickly as possible. If Richardson is truly mad, then he’s unpredictable; he might take a sudden whim and toss Papa overboard in the middle of the sea—or sail away to the West Indies.” The thought struck him like an ice pick in the heart. In the shock of Wainwright’s appearance, he’d momentarily forgotten the most important thing the man had said.
“He said they were preparing to move it just as he lef—” He seized her arm so suddenly that she yelped. “I have to go to the docks! If they haven’t sailed—”
“But they have! He said they were lifting the anchor—they’ll be gone by now!”
“Come on, I need to find out where that ship is—or was!” He let go of her arm and, turning, ran toward the house, Amaranthus hard on his heels.
William hit the corridor at a dead run, scaring Moira, who was coming down it with her huge shopping basket overflowing with fish and loaves of bread. She leapt out of the way but lost her grip on the basket. William heard feminine cries behind him but didn’t stop.
The door to the parlor was standing ajar and he was vaguely conscious of a smell as he shoved it open. Brandy. And … vomit.
The source of both was Percy Wainwright, who was lying on the floor, curled up like a hedgehog, his back heaving as he retched. He’d thrown up profusely already, but the smell was overlain by the stronger reek of spilled brandy.
“Jesus,” William said, swallowed, and knelt to grab Wainwright by the shoulder. “Moira!” he shouted, seeing the man’s face. “Amaranthus! Get a doctor! Bring some water and salt, quick!”
Wainwright was conscious, but his face was clenched like a baby’s fist, all lumps and lines. His lips were blue—actually blue. William hadn’t seen that before, but he knew it wasn’t good.
“What happened?” he asked urgently, trying to unfold Wainwright and get him into a more comfortable position. “What’s the matter with you?”
Wainwright heard him. He brought one trembling hand to his chest, pressed hard in the middle.
“It’s … it won’t … I can’t …”
William had seen Mother Claire take someone’s pulse, more than once, and he hastily pressed his fingers at the side of Wainwright’s neck. He didn’t feel anything, moved his fingers, nothing … there. He’d felt a single throb. And then another. One more—then a light, rapid tapping—but this was nothing like the way a heart should beat.