Raith spent the night in an agony of affliction. When he remembered back to those moments prior to the fated arrival of Lord Forteviot, he could not but be struck with a burning sense of the unfairness of it all. He was ashamed of his treatment of Rosina. He had come home to make his peace with her, and had ended in a worse quarrel. A curse upon the villain! What was his association with Rosina?
He wished fervently for Ottery’s return, knowing he could not hope for it for another day or two at least. Yet how might the guardian’s testimony help? Only it must, or Rosina would not have left his house. Had not her nurse intimated there were two men involved? Forteviot must be the other. What was the connection between them?
He had resolved to curb his impatience, and treat his wife with the civility that was her due. He must refrain from questioning her further, and let her be. Though how he was to do either of those things when the sight of her threw his hurt into high relief, he did not know.
He could only be glad she did not appear at breakfast. He had determined to resume his inspection of the estate, and had accordingly donned riding dress. It was Wednesday, and his agent did not yet know he was back. But he would send to Longridge, and meet him wherever the man had currently reached in their investigations. He needed occupation.
“Your pardon, my lord.”
He looked up from the coffee he was drinking. “What is it, Kirkham?”
“Does your lordship plan to use Parton this morning?”
“Why? I was going to send him to my agent, but what do you need?”
The butler coughed. “You know how short of staff we are, my lord, and I would be obliged if I might ask Parton to ride to Kington to deliver a letter for her ladyship.”
A cold hand seemed to seize within Raith’s chest. “Kington?” He stared at the man, a startled query in his mind. “Where is the letter?”
Kirkham went to the sideboard and picked up a salver. It was of pewter, there being no silver remaining in the house. He brought it to Raith, who snatched up the sealed missive and read the inscription. All thought of inspections went out of his head. He leapt from his chair.
“Have Parton saddle my horse. I will take the letter myself.”
Within ten minutes he was astride his mount, cantering cross-country, making for the bridle path that led over some three miles to Kington. He had taken a snap decision, but as he rode, he had leisure to find justification for it.
If he had felt murderous towards Rosina last night, he was now doubly so, but towards Forteviot. He might have broken the seal and read the letter. As her husband, he had the right. What man would not choose to read a letter penned by his wife to another man? And one of whom he entertained the gravest suspicions? He might have confronted her, but that would make her even less inclined to part with her secrets.
No, this was the best solution. It would afford him infinite pleasure to be able to take Forteviot at fault. It would serve him out for at least some of the foul wit he had exercised at Raith’s expense.
He had himself played a loathsome part last night. He had acted in much the manner of Piers, and Forteviot had begun, he thought, to believe in it. Why should he not? It was seven years since they had met, for Forteviot had formed one of the party on the fiendish night when he had suffered that final humiliation at his brother’s hands. That he had fought back had earned him Forteviot’s jeering remark about heroics.
Raith set his teeth, turning the horse onto the bridle path, and letting him have his head. He was no longer a raw youth. Let Forteviot beware him this time.
He covered the ground in some fifteen minutes, cantering easily into Kington, and rode into the yard at the Cross Keys, bidding the ostlers good day. He was already known at this inn, and the landlord greeted him with offers of refreshment.
“I want nothing, I thank you, Tarbert.” He divested himself of hat, gloves and whip. “I came only to see Lord Forteviot. I trust he is still with you?”
“Oh, yes, my lord. He has just rung for his breakfast. Would you wish me to show you up to his private parlour?”
Forteviot was lounging in a cherry-striped morning gown, a nightcap covering his unwigged head. He was reading a newspaper, but he glanced up as Raith entered the room. A startled look came into his face, but he summoned a smile, and spoke with all his usual urbanity, rising from the chair.
“My dear Anton, what an unexpected pleasure.”
Raith made no attempt to disguise his acute dislike. He stared at the man, and watched with satisfaction as the smile faded. Was that wariness in those slitted eyes? Raith withdrew the letter from his pocket and held it up. He allowed the disgust he felt to sound in his voice.
“This is from my wife. It is addressed to you, Forteviot. Perhaps you would read it, and then be good enough to tell me why my wife is writing to you.”
The other’s eyebrows went up. “Is she indeed?” He resumed his seat, crossing his legs in an attitude of nonchalance. “Why don’t you read it for yourself, my dear Anton? I feel sure it can contain nothing that cannot be seen by a husband’s jealous eye.”
Raith looked him over with contempt. “Don’t attempt to trifle with me, Forteviot. The game is up. I know that you have had dealings with my wife.”
“If you know, my dear Anton—”
Raith lost patience. “If you once more address me in that supercilious fashion, you lying cur, I shall knock your teeth down your throat!”
The other smiled in an infuriating way. “Yes, I rather thought your manner of last night was assumed. This is much more like you. My dear — but I must not call you that. Really, how difficult it is to know quite what to—”
“Will you cease this prevarication?” Raith crossed the room, and threw the letter down on the table. “Read it!”
