They rode finally into St. Austell.
“Ah, nothing has changed, nothing at all,” Rafael said, drawing his stallion in beside Toddy. “What’s happening? Look at that crowd, Victoria.”
Victoria click-clicked Toddy forward and they drew nearer to the crowd congregated just at the edge of the town.
“Stay here,” Rafael said, and Victoria immediately urged Toddy forward, saying over her shoulder, “I know these people. I’ll find out what’s going on.”
Rafael frowned after her, but knew she was right. Actually, when one of the people in the crowd—Mr. Josiah Frogwell—an ancient relic who owned a local inn, spotted Rafael, he immediately said something to the man next to him.
Rafael heard the whispers and the calls: “Baron Drago” . . . “It’s the baron.”
“Mr. Frogwell,” Rafael called out in a loud voice, “I’m not the baron. I’m Rafael Carstairs, his twin.”
The man’s face immediately broke into a smile and Rafael wondered at it. Had his twin alienated the people of St. Austell? How? he wondered. What the devil had he done?
“Welcome home, Master Rafael.”
“The young master’s home.”
Rafael grinned, then spotted young Ralph Bicton, a childhood playmate and the son of the local butcher. He was wearing a bloodied long apron and Rafael guessed he was now in his father’s place.
“Is it really you, Rafael?” Ralph called, striding forward, wiping his hands, thankfully, as he did so.
Their greeting was boisterous until Ralph seemed to recall the difference in their stations. He withdrew a bit, allowing others to come forward. Victoria smiled and spoke, and responded easily even when confronted by Widow Meneburle, a garrulous sausage-curled matron of uncertain years and equally uncertain temper.
Finally, when Victoria could get in a word, she asked, “Why are you all gathered here, Mrs. Meneburle? Is something wrong?”
Mrs. Meneburle, her sausage curls bouncing beside her plump cheeks, stepped close to Toddy and said
in a stage whisper that Rafael had no difficulty at all in overhearing, “It’s those ruffians, Miss Victoria . . . rather, Mrs. Carstairs”—this was said with an arch look—“aye those ne’er-do-wells have ravished poor little Joan Newdowns. Left her in a ditch. Awful, perfectly awful, and the girl can’t tell who they were. They drugged her.” Mrs. Meneburle was excessively pleased at Victoria’s gasp of horror, and added, coming even closer, “Do you know there were horrible bruises on the girl’s wrists and ankles? They’d tied her down and treated her like a trollop. Poor, poor child.”
“But why is everyone standing here?”
Mr. Meledor, St. Austell’s mayor, a florid, balding man who loved nothing more than to hear himself pontificate, said in his rich baritone, “I’m trying to gather information, Mrs. Rafael. We shall discover the identity of these dreadful men.”
“You attribute this rape to the group calling themselves the Hellfire club?” Rafael asked quietly.
“Aye, Master Rafael, we do. They ravish young girls—how many, we have no idea, for you see, they pay the girls’ fathers to do it. Legal, I suppose, but revolting just the same. But then there was the young lady—a real mistake there—she wasn’t just a simple maid but a peer’s daughter, and that made everyone mad as hornets, and now poor little Joan Newdowns. The little maid really didn’t understand, but her ma did and called for Dr. Ludcott. They’d washed her clean, as one might say, but Dr. Ludcott said she weren’t a virgin anymore and there were still signs of blood and men’s seed. It’s got to stop, Master Rafael, yes, sir, it will stop.”
“Don’t forget those bruises,” Mrs. Meneburle said, her eyes glittering.
“Yes,” said Rafael, “it must stop.”
Damaris began to fidget and Victoria quickly said, “Shall we be off now, Rafael? It’s time for luncheon, and Fletcher’s Pond is a good twenty-minute ride from here.”
He looked at her a moment, then said quietly, “I should like to speak to some old acquaintances, Victoria. Would you take Damaris to Fletcher’s Pond? I will join you within thirty minutes.”
She cocked her head to one side, but said quickly enough, “Certainly. We’re off, Damie.”
Victoria heard murmurs as she eased Toddy into a trot. “Aye, Master Rafael will put a stop to this nonsense.” “Good thing the lads back—a long time away.” “But what of the baron?”
“What a mare’s nest,” Rafael said to George Trelion, a young man who now owned his own farm. “I heard that this poor girl was simply the latest in a long line.”
“Aye,” said George, a man of few words. “Hard to know how many.” Rafael now remembered that George had also been a boy of few words as well. He changed the topic, inquiring after George’s family. He managed to ease his way back to the mayor, Mr. Meledor. He remembered how he and Damien used to steal fruit from Meledor’s orchard, and the round of buckshot that had barely missed them one late summer’s night.
“Aye, a horrible thing it is, Mr. Rafael.”
“Have you any ideas at all of the identity of the men involved?”