Guyfford of Weare

Jeffery Farnol

Description

In the darkness Sir Richard Guyfford, aware that some one is breaking into his house, stands rigid and alert. A leap, a faint cry followed by a fall, and light of a candle reveals his victim -- Lady Helen D'Arcy, reigning beauty and toast. She had come to steal a letter written to Sir Richard. Taunting him for being the villain and reprobate that gossip asserted, Lady Helen leaves -- with the letter in her possession.
The beginning of this delightful and typically Farnolesque novel of England in the early seventeen hundreds is but a taste of what is to follow. There is Cousin Julian, who more than deserves Richard's reputation, a group of shady gentlemen in Julian's power, an Irish duchess with a French name, and many another, equally picturesque.
And there is more, much more as Sir Richard is accused of the murder of his double-dealing cousin.
Needless to say, the story is a network of intrigue and misunderstandings, all of which are handled with Mr. Farnol's extraordinarily skillful touch and with a literary charm reminiscent of his many successes.

Sujets

• Policier & Thriller
• Thriller
• Romance historique
• Fiction
• Romance
• Regency
• Historical
• Romance policière

Informations

• Publié par: Rare Treasure Editions
• Date de parution: 16 septembre 2022
• Nombre de lectures: 0
• EAN13: 9781773236476
• Langue: English

Extrait

Guyfford of Weare
by Jeffery Farnol

Firstpublished in 1928
Thisedition published by Rare Treasures
Victoria,BC Canada with branch offices in the Czech Republic and Germany
[e-mail]
All rightsreserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted inany form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, includingphotocopying, recording, or by any information storage or retrievalsystem, except in the case of excerpts by a reviewer, who may quotebrief passages in a review.

Guyfford of Weare




by JEFFERY FARNOL

CHAPTER I
Telleth How One Entered and Two Departed
by a Window
The flash of a face glimpsed beyond opening door, a puffof breath, and the candle, suddenly extinguished, chokedhim with its reek. Rigid he stood, peering into the engulfingdarkness, every faculty keenly alert, every nerveand muscle strung for swift action; thus for a long momenthe waited, grimly patient, until there stole to hima vague rustle of stealthy movement, then, dropping thecandlestick, he leapt—to grasp draperies that tore inhis fierce clutch—to hear a faint cry, a stumbling fall.
Uttering a smothered exclamation, he started backwardsto the door, locked it, groped feverishly for anothercandlestick, took out tinder box and struck a light, allin as many moments.
She crouched within a yard of him, her face and formhidden in the folds of a long cloak.
“Well, who—what are ye?” he demanded.
“Your prisoner, ’twould seem,” she answered; and hefrowned to hear her voice so smooth and untroubled.
“Ay, I have ye fast enough,” he nodded grimly. “Butwho are ye? Here’s to see!” With movement incrediblyquick he stooped and plucked back the hood of hercloak. . . . Grey eyes, black-lashed, that, stared up athim from the pale oval of a face framed in dark tressesof lustrous hair; vivid lips firm-set and resolute like hersmooth-rounded chin. But it was her eyes drew and heldhis regard, eyes wide-set beneath low-arched brows, eyesthat met his unquailing and with never a sign of fear. Sheviewed him serenely, from his disordered wig to muddyriding-boots; his sombre eyes deep-set beneath thick, blackbrows, his dominant nose, the sardonic bitterness of curlinglips, the grim line of jaw; a middling tall man, alllean strength and supple poise despite the careless slouchof broad shoulders, who met her calmly appraising scrutinywith a half-sullen, half-mocking air, and whistledsoftly between white teeth.
“You must be Julian Guyfford!” said she, at last.
“Ha, must I so?” he answered, scowling suddenly.“Why then—so be it. And what then?”
“You will help me, sir, to avert shame and misery fromone I love.”
“A man?”
“A woman, sir, and very young—very guileless.”
“Guileless?” he repeated. “Breathes there suchwoman indeed?” And seating himself upon a corner ofthe table, he lounged there, swinging muddy riding-bootto and fro. “And pray, ma’m,” he went on, seeing shewould deign him no answer, “why should I help you?”
“For your mother’s sake.”
“She’s dead.”
“She lived once.”
“But died ere I could know her. So this plea fails you.”
The grey eyes flashed him sudden anger, the red mouthwas eloquent of disdain, but when she spoke her voice wassoft and smooth as ever.
“Then I ask your aid because you are a man.”
“But a man that scorns womenkind!” he retorted.
In one lithe movement she was upon her feet, facing himwith chin up-flung, viewing him beneath drooping lids, avery figure of scorn.
“I doubt but some dairymaid hath flouted you of late,poor youth!” she murmured. “ ’Tis possible years shallheal the smart and bring you a little manhood!”
The muddy riding-boot stilled suddenly, the black browsfrowned, then he laughed harshly and bowed.
“ Touché , madam!” quoth he, slapping his knee; “Iprotest ’tis most palpable hit. A little manhood, saysyou—hum!”
“Mr. Guyfford, are you a man of honour?”
“Faith, ma’m, I fear not——”
“For shame, sir! Have you indeed no sentiments ofkindliness and generosity, of that quality of sympathythat lifteth man above the mere brute?”
“None, ma’m, not one! Question those respectablegentlefolk my neighbours, and they shall assure you of thefact, with divers deplorable particulars. Howbeit you willperceive I have at least the virtue of candour.”
“Nor do your looks belie you, sir.”
“My looks, ma’m? Ha, you’d say my poor visagematches my reputation! Egad, am I so satyr-like? Praywas it to brow-beat a disreputable dog or plead his aid tosome unknown purpose that you broke into his house?”
“Neither, sir; ’twas merely to steal.”
“Gad so, here’s more candour, i’ faith!”
“To recover a letter addressed to your cousin, SirRichard Guyfford.”
“Addressed, says you, to my cousin? To—Sir RichardGuyfford. So-ho, damn my cousin!”
“Heartily, sir!” she murmured, nodding at him fiercely.But he was staring at the candle, whistling softly betweenhis teeth again, quite lost in gloomy thought; whereuponshe surveyed him anew with quick feminine eyes. Hisage? Anything between twenty and forty. And was it,indeed, the face of an evil man? In puckered brow, grimmouth and indomitable chin was there not an air of latentpower—and more, a hint of something nobler? And,despite sullen look, his features were good enough; also hewas younger than she had supposed. Now was he trulyan evil man or bitter disillusioned boy? His age shouldbe about thirty—and then all men were children——
“And yet,” said he suddenly, “I have neither seen norheard of such letter!”
“How should you, sir? ’Twas addressed to yourcousin Sir Richard, and he is away in London. But ’twasdelivered here this afternoon to a man in livery with ascar on his face.”
“Ha, this will be Tom Pitt! And he received the letter,you are assured o’ this?”
“Beyond all doubt.”
“And you came hither to steal it, ma’m?”
“Or buy it back at any price before Sir Richard shouldreceive it.”
Reaching out to a bell-rope beside the chimney, hejerked it violently and a distant bell tinkled.
“What would you?” she exclaimed.
“We will question a rascal, ma’m—nay, if you fearto be seen, get ye behind the curtains,” and he noddedtowards the deep window recess. For a moment shehesitated in frowning perplexity, but, at the sound ofapproaching footsteps, vanished behind the draperies, as,crossing to the door, he unlocked and threw it wide, andthere entered a man who bowed and peered with narrow,close-set eyes.
“Tom Pitt, I want the letter was brought you to-day,a letter inscribed to Sir Richard Guyfford.”
“Letter, sir? There was none, sir, none indeed.”
“However, I want it, Tom, a letter that was put intoyour claws this afternoon. Do I get it?”
“Oh, impossible, sir, quite impossible indeed; therewas no——” Tom Pitt’s sleek head rapped sharplyagainst the panelling, and he gasped and choked in thesudden gripe of sinewy fingers.
“Do I get it, Tom, lad?”
With feverish haste Pitt thrust hand into bosom, and,drawing thence a heavily sealed letter, gave it up withouta word.
“Exactly!” nodded the other, glancing at the superscription.“Now begone, Tom, and close the door afteryou.”
He was turning the missive over and over when sheparted the curtains, her serene assurance whelmed in atremulous eagerness.
“You—you will give it to me, sir?” she questioned.
“I wonder?” he answered, his saturnine featurestwisted in sardonic smile. “ ’Tis Sir Richard’s propertytrue enough; here is his name very fairly inscribed.”
“Julian Guyfford,” said she, sinking her voice to passionatewhisper, “twas writ to a villain by a foolish girlwho bitterly repents her folly. Should it come to his, toSir Richard’s hands, only God knoweth what of evil andhow much agony it may work. Sir, you as Sir Richard’scousin, must be sensible of his ill-repute, but of his soullesscruelty, his wickedness and black deceit, none but awoman may know——”
“You are well acquaint with this right villainous SirRichard, ’twould seem, ma’m?”
“Enough to hate his name and run this hazard to-nightthat I may snatch one poor victim from despair.”
“Faith, ma’m, you paint him monstrous villain—ablacker rogue, begad, than—even I had thought him.You shall tell me more of his sinning.”
“Nay, ’tis vile subject! And I am expected—I prayyou give me the letter.”
“Aha, the letter!” he sighed and, in that moment, brokethe seal, unfolded it and began to read. “Pah!” he exclaimed,and turned to glance at the signature. “Areyou ‘Saccharissa’?”
“No!” she cried, fiercely scornful. “And what mannerof thing are you to so dishonour yourself—to pry—oh,shame!”
“Considering you are a thief, ma’m, a house-breakercaught in the act. I prove in you a singular absence offear, a deplorable lack of confusion! A very arrogantcriminal, a most imperious gallows-bird!”
“Will you give me the letter, sir?” sighed she wearily.
“Do you know the purport of this missive you hazardthat white neck for, eh, ma’m?”
“I know ’twas writ by a poor distracted girl.”
“Have ye read it?”
“Nor do I wish to!”
“Then be seated, ma’m, and I’ll read it to you.”
“I’ll not hear it.”
“Then cover your ears, ma’m.” And holding the letterto the candle, he read aloud:

Dear Sir Richard, I will meet you to-night at the houryou appoint by the old Mill House, trusting to your honourto return my letters. But oh, Richard, you have promisedso often, pray God you will keep your word to-night andreturn the letters. I think it would be my ruin, mydespair and lasting misery. Indeed, Richard, they waswrote you before I knew what love was—but I do love atlast with all my heart—do not break this poor heart Ipray thee, and return these letters and I will rest yourgrateful, loving friend Saccharissa.
“Well, sir, the letter speaks for itself. Are you satisfied?”
“And here is your letter, ma’m,” said he, handing it toher with mocking bow. “Our Sir Richard is proved avery complete knave, ma’m. What manner of letters arethese she pleads for, think ye?”
“Romantic folly writ by an innocent school-miss to adesigning villain, trifles of none account; ’tis this lettermight work the harm!”
“Trifles? Yet