“The Penfro gate?” She raised her eyebrows.
“Rebecca brought glorious destruction to it,” he said. “But I suppose you know no more about it than anyone else in Glynderi or on any of the farms?”
“No,” she said.
He nodded curtly. “I thought not,” he said. “I would have you know, Marged, that the men who join Rebecca play a dangerous game.”
“But there are no men here,” she said. “What does this have to do with me?”
He was buttoning his waistcoat with dirty hands over a dirty shirt. And it looked so deliciously expensive.
“And it will become more dangerous,” he said, “as more players are added. Special constables. Soldiers. Do I make myself clear?”
“Yes,” she said. “You are issuing a warning that I am to carry to the men living about here.” She looked directly back into his eyes. She would not allow him to play cat and mouse with her.
“Anyone who is caught,” he said, “will be dealt with harshly. You know all about that, Marged.”
She breathed in very slowly through her nose. Oh, yes. And there would be no mercy. She knew all about that too. His eyes were icy cold.
“Anyone who is willing to put an end to it,” he said, “would be doing everyone else a favor. And would be compensated for any—unpopularity he might have to endure. Or she.”
She was not quite sure she was hearing him correctly. But oh, yes, she was. “An informer?” she whispered. “You are looking for an informer?”
“Shall we call him—or her—a friend of the people?” he asked.
She should have looked back at him as coldly as he was looking at her. She realized that afterward, when it was too late. But then she would not have denied herself the satisfaction of what she actually did, though it was less wise. Before she could think, before he could know what she was about to do, her hand whipped across his face, turning it sharply to one side, and causing him to lose his impassivity and wince quite noticeably.
“Get away from here!” she cried. “Get out.”
He picked up his frock coat, drew it on, and buttoned it, watching her all the while. His cloak followed. And then he picked up his hat. She watched, fascinated, as one of his cheeks reddened into a scarlet hand. And she thought of Rebecca as he had been at the Penfro gate, both arms raised, holding a few hundred impatient men in check while he talked courteously to the gatekeeper and his wife and gave them time to remove all their personal belongings from the house and make their way to safety. She thought of him bringing her home. And kissing her.
And yet this man, cold and arrogant and cruel, and others like him were prepared to use their wealth and their power to persuade someone to inform on him. It would take only one. She understood then why Rebecca had refused to tell her who he was or where he lived and why he had refused to remove his mask even in the darkness. Torture would not drag the information from her, but he was wise to trust no one.
The Earl of Wyvern turned to leave without another word to her. She watched him go. But she could not let him disappear without saying the words that stuck in her throat but must be spoken if she was to retain her self-respect.
“Geraint,” she called, and realized too late that she had used his given name.
He turned.
“Thank you,” she said, tossing back her head. “Thank you for the help.” She was pleased to hear that she sounded more as if she were telling him to go to hell.
He nodded and touched his hat to her and was on his way.
He felt dirty. He looked down at his grimy hands and grimaced at the sight of ten blackened fingernails. His shirt felt uncomfortably wet under the arms. He could smell himself. His boots—he looked down at them and winced— might well be irredeemable. His cheek was still stinging.
One thing was clear. He could not pay any more calls today.
But he grinned unexpectedly. He felt rather wonderful. He had enjoyed the morning visits, much as he had expected them to be distasteful. It had given him a perverse sort of pleasure to tyrannize all the people who had expected him to be a tyrant and who had repulsed all his efforts to be otherwise. And it had amused him to look into blank, stupid faces—only Marged had offered any variation on that theme—and to remember many of the same faces blackened for disguise and the arms belonging to the faces smashing a gate and a house.
It seemed so long since there had been any real excitement in his life. This suited him perfectly, this playing a dual role.
And Marged. He fingered his cheek rather ruefully for a moment. He had given up feeling guilty for bringing her home and holding her close on Saturday night. And even for kissing her. If she was going to be reckless enough to follow Rebecca and then to ride home with a stranger and allow him to kiss her—and even kiss him back—then she must bear the consequences. Far from feeling continued guilt, he had enjoyed just now looking into her eyes, keeping his own cold, and imagining the look on her face if she knew that it was he, Geraint Penderyn, Earl of Wyvern, who had kissed her.
Probably at this moment he would have two stinging cheeks instead of one, plus two black eyes and a smashed nose. He could remember once when he had persuaded her to sneak into Tegfan park with him and he had been surprised by a mantrap that had been moved to a new location and had almost caught his leg in its steel jaws. She had hauled him away, and though it was he who had almost been hurt, not her, she had pummeled him with her fists and kicked his shins with her shod feet—and then cried all over him.
He grinned once more. He was feeling more and more like that boy again.
And then his little reincarnation suddenly appeared, tripping along at his side. Idris Parry. Geraint looked down at him in some surprise. He would have expected the child to keep his distance after their encounter in the park.
