“Yes, she was always good with servants. But she was not as biddable as you might think, Mrs Joyce.”
“So we discovered, Master Giffard, when she went off so sudden. None of us had the least notion she was planning to escape.”
“Escape? You call it that?”
Mrs Joyce sniffed and hunted in her pockets, pulling out a square of linen handkerchief and dabbing at her eyes. “It was not a happy marriage, sir, that I would swear to. Neither she nor he were at all fond. They barely spoke. And I know for a fact his lordship had a —” She broke off, consternation leaping to her eyes.
The inference did not escape Giff. “He had another interest? A mistress?”
“Oh, I beg your pardon, Master Giffard! I had no right to —”
“I prefer the plain truth, Mrs Joyce. Who was she?” A disturbing notion leapt in his head and he gave it immediate voice. “You are not going to tell me he was in a liaison with Piers’s mother, are you? Is he my father’s bastard, Mrs Joyce?”
Having collected both Tarporley and Sattar, Giff made for the ruin of the original keep, passing back through the archway and setting a path across overgrown terrain towards the scattered blocks of old stone and the partially standing wall. Whether the place was suitable for a swordfight remained to be seen. He’d chosen it at random, thinking only it was sufficiently removed from the house to provide a modicum of privacy. The last thing they needed was servants gathering to watch.
Tarporley pointed. “I can see Rhoades.”
Giff caught a flash of the captain’s red coat up ahead, between the trees. “Looks as if he’s found a clearing of sorts. Good man.”
A mutter of Hindi came from behind. “Foolish boy! Why must you fight?”
“Piers needs a lesson,” Giff returned in the same language. “I’m in two minds and the fight may settle it.”
Tarporley glanced from one to the other. “What is it, Giffard? You’ve not said if that woman confirmed your identity.”
No, he’d kept silent on that head, merely enquiring if Piers had come down. Upon learning Tarporley had delivered the message and Rhoades had escorted his cousin to the ground, Giff lost no time in following.
He switched back to English. “She showed me a portrait of my mother dandling an infant.”
“That would be you?”
“Without doubt. But it is scarcely adequate proof.”
“Her testimony then?”
“Perhaps.”
Truth was, he was less concerned with proving himself than with the implications concerning Piers’s origins. But he must have the mastery over the man before anything else.
Captain Rhoades had evidently seen them as the party approached the ruin, for he waved and called out a greeting.
Close up, the wall was much higher than Giff had at first supposed. Its curve provided a convenient protected space, but pitted with fallen blocks, worn by time. Where the wall had come down altogether, evidence of its considerable width was visible in the foundation as Giff crossed to where Rhoades and his cousin were standing.
Piers was looking grim, a trifle pale, his arrogant stance somewhat reduced. He was in possession of a sword, already unsheathed, its point resting on the ground. He waved a hand to encompass the space. “You appointed an impossible rendezvous, cousin. We can’t fight here.”
Giff had to agree. There were too many obstacles to trap unwary feet. Neither man would be able to concentrate. Rhoades spoke before he could say as much.
“I’ve had a look around. If we move some fifty yards in that direction, there is a clearing. It should prove adequate, I think.”
Piers cast him a glance of dislike. “You can’t know there are not stones hidden in the grass.”
“Tarporley and I will walk it first.”
So saying, he beckoned to the younger man and together they went off towards a belt of trees further into the wooded area that had grown up beyond the ruin.
Piers lifted his eyes to Giff, an echo of his usual mockery within them. “You are determined on this foolery?”
“What do you think?”