It was the first time that Jane heard the name of her rival.

  “Ah!” she moaned. “So he wants you to marry Miss Harcourt?”

  “Yes, the heiress and her father’s huge fortune. But I will never marry her, do you hear me, Jane?”

  She gave him a sad smile and murmured, “Poor Philip!”

  The young man’s heart sank.

  “I don’t understand you,” he said. “What have I done to deserve this treatment?”

  Jane didn’t reply. Philip looked at her. He thought he understood the reason why she refused to flee with him.

  “It’s because you have no faith in me, that you will not accompany me in my flight.”

  “No. I have trust in you.”

  “What is it, then? Is it because my father will leave me penniless? Is it the money?”

  She raised her head high in the air and said proudly, “Up till now, my clear conscience has enabled me to hold my own against all the gossip that has been going around. Now it says, “Halt, Jane Worrall! Do not go any further.” My heart is breaking, but I must step back from the brink of total disaster now. No, Philip, I love you, but I will not run away with you.”

  She stopped for a moment, as though unable to proceed. She collected her courage and her thoughts so as to better express them.

  She went on with more firmness, “Were I alone in the world, I might act differently, but I have a family, whose honor I must guard too.”

  “Your family? They only care about your older brother.”

  “That may be so, but that does not diminish the burden I carry. Leading a virtuous life is not easy.”

  Philip could not forget her example of rebelliousness, which had lit the fire in him.

  “My heart and my conscience tell me the same thing. When a woman, a young woman at that defies the rules and laws of society, she is looked at with contempt by all and I know you will never care to look at me with respect if our peers looked on me with contempt.”

  “Who do you think I am?”

  “You are a man, Philip, but consider my position. Let us suppose that I flee with you. What if the next day I should hear that my father or brother got into a fight and killed a man to protect my good name? What then? How could I live with myself? Believe me, dear, when I tell you to flee alone. It is the best advice I can possibly give you. You will forget me, Philip, I know that, but that is the best I can hope for.”

  Her words were muffled by her sobs.

  “Forget you!” interrupted Philip, angrily. “Can you forget me?”

  His face was so close to hers that she felt his hot breath on her face.

  “Yes,” she mumbled. It required all her strength to lie to him and to hide her true feelings. “Yes, I can. Today is the last day we’ll ever meet in this life.”

  Philip was taken aback by her unexpected answer. He looked in her eyes trying to read the meaning more fully.

  “If you go away,” he said with tears in his eyes, “you might as well take the sun away.”

  A sob burst from the young woman’s heart and her strength seemed to desert her.

  “I have my destiny,” she answered. “I will return to my home, where everything will shortly be known. My father will be furious. He will put me in a car and the next day I will find myself far away under the care of doctors at an insane asylum.”

  “No! I forbid this!”

  “Yes,” she answered, “I would live in agony, but when the burden grows too heavy, I have this.”

  She took the little green bottle from her bosom and showed it to Philip. He immediately knew what it was. The young man tried to take it from her, but she resisted. The fight seemed to exhaust what little strength she had left. Her beautiful eyes closed and she fainted in Philip’s arms. The young man desperately touched her face to ascertain if she was dying. There was sufficient life in her to enable her to whisper to him in a soft and low voice.

  “My love, let me have it back. It’s all I have left.”

  With a perfect clearness as though talking in a delirium, she repeated all the deadly properties of the poison and the directions for its use, which the Weasel had given her.

  On hearing the woman whom he loved with such intense emotion confess that she would rather poison herself and die than live without him, Philip’s mind began to spin.

  “Jane, my own Jane!” he cried, covering her face with kisses.

  She went on feverishly, “Ah, Lord Swaffham, you’re a hard and pitiless man. You have robbed me of my only love in the world, tainted my reputation and tarnished my honor and now you force me to give you my life.”

  Philip cried with such anger, that even Newton, listening at the keyhole sprang up. Philip placed Jane tenderly on a sofa.

  “No, you will not kill yourself, nor will you leave me.”

  She smiled wistfully at him and held out her arms to him.

  “No,” he cried, holding up the green bottle. “This poison, which you want to use on yourself will become my weapon of vengeance against the man, who has wronged you.”

  And with the gait of a man on a mission, he left the Weasel’s office.

  Hardly had the young man’s footsteps died away, when Newton rushed back into the room. He was terribly agitated at the scene he might find, so he could hardly believe his eyes, when he saw Jane, whom he had supposed to be lying unconscious on the sofa, standing at the window, gazing after Philip, as he hurried along the road leading away from his cottage.

  “This woman!” he mumbled. “Unbelievable, magical, wonderful woman!”

  When Jane lost sight of her lover, she turned to Newton. Her face was pale and her eyelids were swollen and teary, but her eyes were full of fire.

  “Tomorrow, Mr. Newton,” she said, “tomorrow I will be Lady Swaffham.”

  Newton was so overwhelmed by her cold-bloodedness, usual as he was to underhand trickery, he could find no words to express his feelings.

  “I will be,” added Jane thoughtfully, “if all goes as it should tonight.”

  Newton felt a cold shiver creep up his spine, but summoning up all his strength, he said, “I don’t understand you. What are you doing tonight?”

  She gave him such a contemptuous look, that the words died away on his lips. He could clearly see the mistake he had made. He had thought that he could play with her feelings as a cat played with a mouse. But here she was playing with him and she, a simple woman, had bested him, a wily man of the world.

  “I will succeed, of course. I have to,” she said coldly. She sighed then continued, “But Philip is bullheaded and bullheaded people are often impulsive.” She sighed again and glanced at the clock on the wall. “Ah, dear me!” she said, as her composure slipped away for a moment, “will this night never end and give way to the brilliant light of dawn? I must go home, now. Farewell, Mr. Weasel. When we meet again, things will be different, one way or other.”

  With that she left. Miss Worrall’s parting shot hit its mark. The Weasel was very unhappy. He sat down in his chair and tried to review his position thoroughly. He did not wish to go down in flames again. He was too old to move to a new location, where no one knew him and start anew.

  Philip was on the road leading to Swaffham Manor. He had entirely lost his mind, but his goal was clear and distinct. The world was in a whirl, but in his mind his murderous intentions were rational and reasonable. He had already decided on the means to do the deed. At the table a common beer was always served to the laborers at the table. The lord kept a bottle of brandy for his own drinking. This bottle was placed on a shelf in a cupboard in the dining room after each meal. It was within everyone’s reach, but not a soul in the household would have tried to drink from it. Philip’s thoughts were with this bottle and in his mind’s eye he could see it standing in its usual place. He crossed the courtyard and the laborers, engaged in their every day tasks, looked at him with curiosity. They did not say a word. He did not say a word. He walked past them and entered the dining room, which was empty. With a caution, which no one would suspect in a man this far gone on the path to insanity, he opened each door, in order to make sure that no one was spying on him. Then quickly he grasped the bottle of brandy, removed the cork with his teeth and dropped three pinches of the poisonous powder in the bottle. He hid away the small green bottle. He looked around. No one was in sight. He shook the bottle of brandy gently to dissolve the powder. A few crystals of the white powder clung to the tip of the bottle. He wiped them off with his handkerchief. He put his handkerchief in his pocket, put the bottle of brandy on its shelf and sat down in front of the fire.

  Lord Swaffham was walking up the driveway. For the first time in his life he had come to the conclusion that his behavior had been foolish in the extreme. His violent behavior had cost him the trust of his son and maybe the enmity of an important family, if Jane was supported by her family in her endeavors in regards to his son. Apart from that there were laws to take into consideration. He knew that such an idea would never cross Philip’s mind, but there were many people, who would not hesitate to suggest it to him. The many dangers of his current course of action were clear as crystal to him. He had not given up on his ideas or his demand that his son marry Miss Harcourt. He would never give up on those. He knew he needed to be more diplomatic in his tactics to attain his goals. The first thing he had to do was persuade Philip to come home and he greatly doubted whether his son would comply with his wish. As he hastened to the entrance of the house with a face full of gloom, one of the footmen came running up to him with the news of Philip’s return.

  “He came back,” he mumbled as he entered the house.

  When the Lord entered the dining room, Philip didn’t stand up from his seat and look at him.

  “It would appear,” he thought, “that the young man has lost none of his stubbornness whatsoever.”

  He didn’t allow his anger to show on his face. The sight of blood on his son’s clothes, which he had not yet changed, made him uncomfortable.

  “Philip, my boy,” he said, airily, “are you in pain? Why have you not had a change of clothes and a bath?”

  The young man didn’t reply.

  His father continued, “Have you left the blood there to point the finger of guilt at me? There is no need for that, my boy. I deplore my mistake.”

  Philip still didn’t answer. The lord took his bottle of brandy and filled a glass. Philip shook from head to toe at seeing this.

  “Come, my boy,” continued the lord, “try and find some forgiveness for the actions of your old father. I want to apologize to you. You’re not a boy anymore. You’re a man and I should treat you as one. Come, come, my son, a man of honor is never ashamed to acknowledge, when he was in the wrong.”

  He raised his glass up and looked at the light brown liquid. Philip held his breath. He closed his eyes for a moment as suddenly the whole world seemed to turn violently around him.

  “It’s hard, very hard,” continued the lord, “for a father to ask forgiveness to his son like I’m doing right now, but I’m proud of you, son.”

  Philip saw the old man place the glass to his lips. He was about to drink, when the young man, as waking from a dream, could no longer hold his feelings in. He sprang up, snatched the glass from his father’s hand and threw it out of the window.

  “Don’t drink, father,” he screamed.

  His father could read the whole ugly truth in the face of his son. His face grew purple and his eyes filled with blood. He tried to speak, but only an inarticulate rattle could be heard. He grabbed his chest, then his throat. He swayed backwards and forwards and then fell, hitting his head against the fireplace. Philip ran to the door.

  “Help!” he cried. “I’ve killed my father.”

  Mr. Harcourt was a much happier man in his younger days, when he was known simply by the name Buskin which was his father’s name, whose only wish for distinction was to be looked on as an honest man. In those days he was admired by all as a man, whose brilliant mind had allowed him to amass a magnificent fortune. And what’s more, he had done so honestly. His life changed completely, when he came up with the idea to add the aristocratic title of count to the name of the estate he had bought near Nottingham.

  From that moment, the nobility laughed at his demand for respect of his hereditary rank, while the middle classes shook their heads at his wish to be superior to them. Life had thus become impossible in Australia, so he had decided to retreat to England for good. He had hoped for a better reception.

  He was therefore very anxious to bring about the marriage between his daughter Renee and the son of a nobleman of undisputed heritage, the Lord of Swaffham. He was willing to sacrifice a large part of his immense fortune for the honor of being seen as one of them by the aristocracy. He would have happily given all his money to have a grandchild in whose veins ran the blood of the Buskin family and the blood of the Swaffham family.

  The day after he had received a positive reply from the old lord, Mr. Harcourt decided that it was time to inform his daughter of his intentions for her future. He thought that she would agree immediately and that she would be just as delighted as he was at the honor that awaited them. He was seated in a luxuriously furnished room, which he called a library. He rang the bell and ordered a footman to inquire of his daughter’s maid if her mistress was willing to grant him a meeting. He worded his request so formally, that it didn’t fail to impress the servant. With an air of the utmost importance he walked to the lady’s rooms.

  Shortly after the good man had left on his important errand there was a little rap at the door.

  “Come in,” exclaimed Mr. Harcourt, imperiously.

  Miss Renee ran in and gave her father a kiss on each cheek. He frowned slightly at her lack of proper etiquette. He extricated himself from her embrace.

  “I thought it better to come to you, daddy,” she said, “than to give you the trouble of coming all the way to see me.”

  “My dear lady, you always seem to forget that there are certain procedures and ceremonies in place for a young lady of your position.”

  Renee gave him a gentle smile, because she knew her father’s eccentricities and sometimes absurd whims. She tolerated them, as she was very fond of him. She was a charming young lady and the description that Lord Swaffham had given of her to his son was correct. Renee was beautiful. She was tall and well proportioned and had all the easy elegance of movement, characteristic of a woman, who had spent all her life running around barefoot in the endless grasslands of Australia. Her large soft eyes offered a vivid contrast to her hair, which in complete disregard of the fashion at the time was loosely knotted at the back of her head. Her nature was soft and affectionate.

  “Come, daddy,” she said, “don’t reprimand me. The Baroness of Chatteris has promised to teach me how to behave myself according to all the rules of high society next winter and I promise you, daddy, that I will learn them by heart and practice them at all time. You will be very proud of me, daddy.”

  “How woman-like!” mumbled the father. “She doesn’t care about matters of importance.”

  He sprang from his chair and placing his back to the fireplace, he raised his head high and took up an imposing position, one hand buried in his waistcoat and the other ready to gesticulate as the tone of the conversation required.

  “Afford me your deepest attention, Miss Harcourt” he began. “You are eighteen years of age this month and I have an important message to convey to you. I have received an offer of marriage for you.”

  Renee looked down and tried to hide the surge of emotions that went through her at this news.

  “Obviously, before coming to a decision on a matter of such great importance,” he continued, “it was necessary for me to investigate the matter in question most thoroughly. I have spared no money obtaining information. I have even hired the foremost authority on this issue, detective Jules Poiret. I have come to the conclusion that the proposed marriage would be conductive to your future happiness. The suitor for your hand is about your age. He’s very handsome, very rich and he’s a real viscount. I mean by blood. Very old blood.”

  “Has he spoken to you?” asked Renee, blushing.

  “He? Who do you mean by he?” asked Mr. Harcourt.

  His daughter didn’t reply.

  “Has he spoken to you?” he asked.

  “Who? Thomas St. Ives?”

  “What have you to do with Saint Ives? He’s that dandy with the small mustache, isn’t he? I’ve seen him hanging around you all winter.”

  “That’s him,” stammered Renee.

  “And why should you think that he has asked me for your hand? Did he tell you that he was going to do so?”

  “Daddy, I swear...”

  “Ten thousand furies! A daughter of mine listening to the love declarations of a man, without my knowledge? Has he written to you? Where are those love letters?”

  “Daddy!”

  “Silence, child! Where are those letters? Let me see them. Come on. I will have those bits of paper, even if I have to burn the whole house down.”

  With a sigh Renee walked to the door and gave her maid the order to fetch her much prized missives. After the maid gave them to her, she handed them to her father. There were four letters, fastened together with a pink ribbon.

  Mr. Harcourt took one and read it out loud.

  “Dear Miss Harcourt, though there is nothing on earth that I dread so much as your anger, I must, in spite of your strict orders not to do so, write to you once more. I’ve learned that you’re about to leave London for Nottingham for several months. I’m twenty-four years old. I have no father and no mother. I’m entirely my own master. I belong to an old and honorable family. My fortune is large and my love for you is even larger and of the most honorable and devoted kind. My uncle, Mr. Fenstanton, knows your father well and he will convey my proposal of marriage to him on his return from Germany, in about two or three weeks’ time. Yours respectfully, Thomas St. Ives.”