sixteen and he was eighteen. She loved Rebecca. She hated the Earl of Wyvern. It was impossible to predict how she would react to hearing the truth. Would her fond memories of Geraint and her love for Rebecca outweigh her hatred for the earl? At one moment he thought that they must. She loved so totally and so passionately—his loins ached at the very memory of her passion. But at the next moment he was less sure. She blamed the Earl of Wyvern for her husband’s death and there was no doubt of the fact that she had loved her husband dearly.
But fear of her reaction must no longer stop the truth from being spoken, he thought with a sinking of the heart. He was going to have to tell her. It was very possible, even probable, that he would lose her as a result, and the thought of losing her—again—was frankly terrifying. But it was a risk that must be taken. He owed her the truth. Besides, he was sick of pretending.
Always pretending.
They talked about sheep for a while and about horses and about crops, all in the hearing of other people. And then they strolled out across a lawn and in among the trees, where they could safely discuss other matters. It was almost dark among the trees. The clouds above were heavy with the promise of rain.
“Any further developments?” Sir Hector asked.
“Yes, sir.” Matthew Harley’s tone had changed from businesslike to excited and conspiratorial. “I spent a long time scouting around after returning from Pantnewydd yesterday. I found the bundle—and inside it a white gown, a white wool hood and mask, and a blond wig. The bundle was in an old gamekeeper’s hut on the northern boundary, one that is no longer used. I was on the brink of having him arrested after all, but I waited for your visit and your instructions.”
“Good man,” Sir Hector said, pausing to shake the steward by the hand. “But it still cannot be done. Anyone could have hidden the things there, Harley. Even their discovery in Tegfan park and your eyewitness account may not be sufficient to convict Wyvern. And we certainly do not want him to slip through our fingers when we are so close. No, we need a little more patience and a little more planning. And there is still the difficulty that he is fast becoming something of a folk hero.”
“You have a plan, sir?” Harley asked respectfully.
Sir Hector looked carefully all about him, but there were no gamekeepers in sight. They were safely alone among the trees.
“This is it,” he said. “Tomorrow night the Cilcoed tollgate, the one kept by Mrs. Dilys Phillips, is going to be destroyed—by a Rebecca and a group of followers of my choosing. They will carry guns and they will be brutal and unruly. Mrs. Phillips will be roughed up and beaten—perhaps worse. She is old and frail, I have heard, and may not survive the shock and the manhandling. All the better. And the whole thing will be witnessed by Mr. Thomas Campbell Foster of The Times. He will be invited by Rebecca.”
Harley frowned. Guns in the hands of a mob sounded dangerous. And the beating and perhaps killing of an innocent and defenseless old woman disturbed his conscience. But he was an angry and bitter young man, and he wanted to see other people suffer as he was suffering, most notably the Earl of Wyvern and Ceris Williams and the blacksmith. And this plan just might do it. Besides, he was not being asked to be personally involved.
“Foster will be convinced if the leader is dressed right,” he said. “But what about the people, sir? Will they believe that their precious Rebecca would go out without the bulk of them and would behave with uncharacteristic violence?”
“They will have no choice,” Sir Hector said. “Rebecca and perhaps Charlotte will be caught the same night. Rebecca will be unmasked and will turn out to be the Earl of Wyvern. And the people will realize that they have been duped, that their Rebecca has been leading them by the nose only to betray them and discredit them before the English reading public and the government, which is about to send a commission here. He will not have a friend left in the world, Harley. Not a single one—for as long as he has left in this world. I shall press for the death penalty. If Mrs. Phillips should happen to die, I