Ask Me No Questions (27 page)

"With my—
what
?"

"Yes, the word was ill chosen, perhaps. However, 'twas your letter that—"

"Aha! We arrive at the reason I came.
What
letter?"

"The letter you writ to my father, of course, recommending Mrs. Allington to restore the fresco that—"

"Hell and the devil! Are you run mad? I writ no letter. I scarce know the woman by sight, much less— To restore—what?"

"Our fresco. We discovered it in the chapel when— But never mind all that. If you did not write the letter, who in blazes did?"

Falcon finished his meagre breakfast and rose to his feet. "I should very much like to know. Have you this entrancing missive?"

"I saw it on my father's desk only yesterday. Come. We'd best get to the bottom of this."

A quarter of an hour later, Falcon looked up from the notorious letter and said savagely, "How a'plague could you be such a fool as to fancy this disgusting collection of mangled grammar and primitive scrawl originated at my hand?"

Dreading the answer, Chandler asked heavily, "Is a forgery, then? Do you—er, recognize the writing?"

"I can scarce recognize what is not! I do know the unmitigated villain and unprincipled scoundrel who perpetrated this monstrosity and had the colossal gall to append my name to it! Zounds, but I'll force him to that duel, if I have to bind him and cut him into gobbets to do it!"

Brightening, Chandler said, "You think Morris forged it? But why on earth should he?"

"Because they knew I would have none of it!" Falcon crumpled the letter and hurled it into the fireplace, then ran to snatch it up and try to smooth it out again.

"They… ?" ventured Chandler, beginning to grin.

"Aye. Him and his conniving accomplice, Gwendolyn Rossiter. They tried to prevail upon me to assist your widow in St. James's Park one day, only because she'd become involved in an imbroglio with the Buttershaw dragon."

"You're an uncouth devil," murmured Chandler.

"Yes. I thank you."

"I heard her ladyship had dropped the handkerchief in your direction."

Bristling, Falcon declared, "That female may drop every tablecloth, sheet, and curtain in Christendom for all I—Devil take it! Find it amusing, do you? Wait till I get my hands on that damned slippery forger! I promise you
he'll
not be amused!"

Grace and the twins were busied with the morning lessons when Ruth reached the cottage. She went straight to her bedchamber and sat in the window-seat, staring unseeingly at the weeping willow tree. She had spoken truly when she'd told Gordon Chandler that she had loved her husband. Thomas Allington had won her affection by his unfailing kindness, his gentle ways, his unselfish and generous devotion. But her heart had never leapt to the sound of his voice; her breath had never quickened if his hand chanced to brush against hers; never had his gaze held the wistful tenderness that she had glimpsed once or twice in a pair of steadfast grey eyes and that, however swiftly veiled, caused her to feel weak and shaken.

'Ruth… how glorious is your hair…' The memory of those awed words brought a lump into her throat. 'Resolution!' she thought. He was betrothed. Even if that so special light in his eyes shone for her alone. Even if he had never given his heart to the beautiful Lady Nadia de Brette. The marriage had been contracted when they both were children, and the announcement had been published in the newspapers. No gentleman could in honour draw back from such a contract. Besides, Sir Brian obviously adored the lady who would soon become his daughter-in-law, and nothing would induce Gordon to wound his father.

"Resolution!" murmured Ruth hopelessly.

"You are so very lovely…'

Sighing, she stood and moved to sit at her vanity table and scan her reflection. 'I really am not very lovely,' she thought. But he had seen her with her hair down—and in her nightdress! Had
he
really judged her to be lovely?

'It seems such a waste

Sadly, she thought, 'It is indeed,' and knew she must abide by her decision to see as little of Gordon Chandler as possible.

An hour later Thorpe, whose "Jacob Day" it was, galloped from the cottage, passing a lackey who brought a request that Mrs. Allington favour Sir Brian with her company at luncheon. With a perverse leap of the heart, and a sigh for Resolution, Ruth changed her gown, tidied her hair, and walked up to the main house.

The hall was a bustle of servants conveying a small mountain of valises, bandboxes, and portmanteux up the stairs. The butler explained that Sir Brian's cousin, Mrs. Bertha Witterall, had come down from Rochester to act as his hostess and was even now being settled into her suite. Mr. Gordon had taken some guests to West House, which contained, in addition to the magnificent ground-floor ballroom, a kitchen, dining room, and several ante rooms, while on the first floor were guest suites and quarters for their servants. The unmarried gentlemen would stay there, and single ladies and married couples would be accommodated in the main house.

"Master Jacob," Starret told Ruth with a smile, "is in the kitchen with Mrs. Tate."

Thorpe was perched on a stool in a quiet corner of the busy kitchen, eating a muffin and chattering with the housekeeper. "Chef's gone over to West House, Aunty," he advised, wiping butter from his chin, "else I wouldn't be here."

"Disturbing Mrs. Tate," said Ruth severely.

The housekeeper turned a laughing countenance. "No, never scold him, ma'am. 'Pon my soul, 'tis like having Master Gordon and his brother young again, and laughter back in the house."

"Has you seen Miss Falcon yet, Aunty Ruth?" Thorpe's eyes were round. "I 'spect a princess would look like that. Grandpapa would've liked to paint her, y'know. And a lieutenant came. 'Least, they said he was a lieutenant, but he's wearing ordin'ry dress an' he doesn't look fierce like a soldier." His eyes sparkled. "Mr. Falcon's the fierce one, an' chased him off."

Ruth looked questioningly at the housekeeper.

Mrs. Tate shrugged. "Mr. August Falcon and Lieutenant Morris do not cry friends." She turned from the boy and lowered her voice. "A wicked temper has Mr. August, for all his good looks. And heaven help the gentleman who crosses him. People say, 'tis what comes of being half-foreign. He's always fighting someone, and never loses."

Ruth said as softly, "Good gracious! He'll not fight here, I hope. Surely, Sir Brian would put a stop to it?"

"You may be sure he would, ma'am. Especially with Lady de Brette arriving at any instant." The housekeeper's lips tightened. "He'd allow nothing to upset that one! Or her brother!"

There was a grimness in the brown eyes. One gathered that Mrs. Tate had no high opinion of my lady or her brother. Intrigued, Ruth said experimentally, "Mr. Aymer says that Lady de Brette is the most beautiful woman in London Town."

"Does he, indeed. Well, if you want my opinion, Mrs. Allington, the most beautiful woman in London Town already arrived. With
her
brother."

She meant Miss Falcon, of course. Ruth asked, "Is Lady de Brette's brother as dangerous as Mr. Falcon?"

The housekeeper gave a secretive smile. "They should be here soon, ma'am. You will be able to judge for yourself."

Despite her curiosity, Ruth found herself singularly reluctant to meet the great beauty, and leaving "Jacob" with instructions to do exactly as Mrs. Tate told him, she retreated to the chapel.

Opening the door, she stepped into chaos. A sturdily built gentleman appearing to be in his mid-twenties gave a whoop as he vaulted one of the pews. Mr. August Falcon sprinted along the centre aisle in hot pursuit, and Gordon Chandler stood watching them, clearly torn between exasperation and amusement.

The fugitive's inexpertly powdered hair showed traces of the light red shade called sandy. Dodging around the end of the pew as Falcon started along it, he turned a pleasant featured countenance, notable only for a pair of green eyes and freckles. "No, really, August," he called laughingly, "how can you be so resentful only because I tried to give a bad dog a good name?"

"
Dog
, is it?" snarled Falcon, then disappeared from sight, apparently having tripped. "You're a confounded forger, sir!" He heaved himself up again, as flushed as his quarry, and with his once neatly tied-back hair rumpled. "An you've any honour at all, Morris, you'll meet me—to defend it!"

"But the poor little widow was in distress," protested Morris. "Surely the milk of human kindness ain't so sour in your veins that—"

"There is
no
milk in my veins, you accursed villain! And furthermore—"

"And furthermore," put in Chandler, moving forward purposefully, "I really cannot permit that you desecrate our family chapel with Morris' blood, Falcon. The letter that was sent in your name was a blessing to us—all, and I am grateful, no matter who wrote it, but—"

"Well you owe
me
no gratitude, blast you!" snapped Falcon.

Morris caught sight of Ruth and said sharply, "Guard your tongue, man! There's a lady present."

Chandler jerked around, his irked gaze softening as he saw Ruth.

"I thought you might wish me to explain my work to your friends, Mr. Chandler. But if—" She broke off with a shocked gasp as Falcon lunged at Morris and fastened hands about the lieutenant's throat.

"Stop that at once!" Angered, Chandler started forward

A slight young lady, whom Ruth recognized as having been with Mr. Falcon on that fateful day in St. James's Park, limped rapidly along the aisle. She carried the handbell that Mr. Swinton was delegated to ring for various services and she rested a detaining hand on Chandler's arm and advanced upon the combatants. Swinging the bell up, she rang it vigorously beside Falcon's ear. It was an old bell, well cast, and remarkably powerful.

Falcon uttered a howl, clapping his hands over his ears, and shrank away. Equally afflicted, Morris sat down, panting. Chandler and Ruth exchanged mirthful glances.

The young lady put down the bell and turned, holding out her hand. "How do you do," she said, smiling warmly. "You must be Mrs. Allington. I am Gwendolyn Rossiter. I do apologize for my friends, but gentlemen are very silly at times, do you not agree?"

Her eyes alight with laughter, Ruth agreed.

August Falcon did not share these sentiments, however, and between moans he voiced an impassioned denunciation of unprincipled forgers, and cruel bellringers. Despite his grumbling it seemed to Ruth that his real wrath had spent itself. She returned her attention to Miss Rossiter and was surprised to see anxiety in the girl's eyes as Falcon made his way slowly from the pew.

Chandler came up, with the lieutenant beside him. "Allow me to present Lieutenant James Morris, ma'am. Jamie, this charming lady is Mrs. Allington."

Ruth dropped a curtsy. "How do you do? I rather gather, sir, that 'tis you I must thank for intervening in my behalf. I am indeed grateful that you should have gone to so much trouble."

Morris blushed and took her hand as though it were made of the sheerest glass. "Very glad to—to have been of service," he mumbled shyly.

Her voice sharp, Miss Rossiter asked, "Have you hurt yourself, Falcon?"

"Much you would care if I had," he responded bitterly. " 'Tis not enough I am met with stale bread and shiny cheese! 'Tis not enough I fell over Chandler's stupid hassock and sustained severe injuries! You must deafen me for no more reason than that I was trying to—"

"To do away with poor Jamie," Miss Rossiter interrupted. "You have reaped a just reward for your savagery. But you had best let me look at your foot."

Chandler said, "Jove, are you really hurt, Falcon? I'm very sorry if—"

"Why should you think I am hurt?" interrupted Falcon rudely. "I only limp like this to keep certain people company."

Ruth was taken aback by such an unkind remark. Miss Rossiter however, seeming not at all put out, said an emphatic, "Pish! If you were really hurt you'd not utter a word. Now, sit down, do."

"Yes, please do, sir," urged Ruth. "If you have twisted your ankle, you cannot walk on it."

Falcon said with a grand gesture, "There is nothing a man of decision cannot do, Mrs. Allington, does he really put his mind to it."

Morris, who had followed this exchange with interest, said, "I'd like to see you put your mind to making an empty flour sack stand upright."

They all laughed. All except Falcon, who snatched up the handbell and hurled it at Morris.

The bell missed, its target having jumped aside.

The Reverend Mr. Aymer, entering with Miss Katrina Falcon and Sir Brian, was less fortunate.

Luncheon was a merry meal. Poor Mr. Aymer appeared to have recovered from the shock of being, as Morris put it, "belled in the breadbasket," and he had accepted Falcon's apology, the abject nature of which was somewhat dimmed by a following remark that it was a great pity the bell had not tolled for the proper party.

Chandler was amused by Miss Rossiter's candour, and pleased by the swift repartee between the guests, which so often drew a chuckle from his father, although Mrs, Witterall only stared uncomprehendingly. Cousin Bertha was not his favourite relation. Small of stature, with beady brown eyes, quick jerky movements, and a high-pitched voice, her pointed nose and chin had caused the irreverent Quentin to dub her "Birdwit." She was actually a quickwitted lady, especially with regard to her own interests, and lost no opportunity to ingratiate herself with Sir Brian. Gordon could have forgiven her such behaviour, had it stemmed from gratitude for the allowance his father made her. He considered her gratitude doubtful, however, and her innate snobbishness and ability to find fault with those she did not need made it impossible for him to do more than be polite to her and count the minutes until her departure. Mrs. Witterall was aware of his antipathy, and because she believed that very soon now he would inherit the title and estates, she tried to say nothing that might offend him. It was a great strain at all times, and she soon realized that this particular visit would tax her powers of restraint to the limit.

Ruth was very soon made aware of the fact that she did not meet with Mrs. Witterall's approval. Sir Brian introduced her to the lady, and after a raised eyebrow stare clearly expressing disbelief that such a person should be invited to take luncheon with family and guests, Mrs, Witterall said, "I think I did not quite understand, dear sir, Is this the
artist
you have hired to work on your fresco?"