Ask Me No Questions (35 page)

"It was kind of you to come for me," she said, holding her skirts against the boisterous wind and avoiding the whipping branches of a holly bush. "Are you to stay here long, Tummet?"

Falcon's unpolished valet allowed as how he was to "keep a eye on things" until his "temp'ry guv" sent for him.

Ruth tried to appear cheerful. "Do you enjoy the country?"

"That I does not, marm!" He took her arm as they were staggered by a gust that robbed them of breath. 'Terrible place, the country. Give me the Big Smoke, any day. Nice and quiet and peaceful. No cacklers crowing fit to wake the dead every morning. No owls asking questions all night. No perishing crickets! Cor, I 'ates crickets! Never was in the country till me bailiffing took me outta London."

Ruth wondered absently what a "baley fing" was, then said, "Oh! you mean you were a bailiff?"

"Ar. Watch that there branch, marm. Lumme! What a blow!"

"Did you mind being a bailiff? I'd think it must be very sad work."

"There you got it right, mate. Sad is just what it is. Specially fer a cove what's got lotsa hen-fer-rent." He saw her puzzled look and imparted, "Sorry, marm. I lapses, me guv says. Rhyming cant. Hen-fer-rent, meaning in other words, sentiment."

Ruth laughed, then paused to detach her shawl from a low yew tree.

"Worse part," went on Tummet, "was the childers. Useter cry something awful when I 'ad ter do a execution." He gave Ruth a dig with his elbow, and a sly wink. "Good thing I knowed about 'em, though. Eh, marm? Only just got you and Miss Grace outta that there bobbery in, as you might say, the nick o' time."

"Poor Grace," said Ruth, wishing that if Gordon would not come and see the discovery she had made, she might at least have a word with him. "I wish I knew what is making her so terribly unhappy." She waited hopefully, but Tummet contributed only a shake of the head, and having freed her shawl she started off again, then asked abruptly, "What did you mean? What—er, bobbery did we escape in the nick of time?"

He took her arm again. "Why—that there bailiff. Didn't Miss Grace tellya as one was on 'is way? If 'ed come and caught you selling them bits of furniture… Cor! Bobbery and no mistake! And when I see that Lady de Bretty at this 'ere very estate! Cor, again! Good thing you'd changed yer curly locks and the way you dress. Not meaning no disrespeck, but I'd not put it above that one to 'ave yer clapped inter Newgate and a rope ready fer that pretty neck o'yourn if—" He checked as Ruth halted and stood staring at him. "Ain't said nothing I shouldn't oughta, 'ave I, Mrs. A?"

Ruth said faintly, "Mr. Tummet, would you please step around to the side of the cottage with me, where we may be out of the wind for a minute or two?"

"The gravy's lumpy, Miss Grace," observed Jacob, peering critically into the pan.

Grace sniffed, and started to stir again. "Never mind," she said hoarsely. "I'll strain it. Now go upstairs and brush your hair, dear. Aunty will be home any minute." She sighed heavily. "Unless she works late again."

The child made for the stairs. "She'd oughta be early. She'd oughta blow all the way 'cross the gardens. P'raps she did." He started up the stairs adding dreamily, "P'raps she's blowed all the way to London, an' is floatin' round St. Paul's…"

Grace muttered to the gravy, "Be best if she had. Be best if—"

The front door burst open. Leaves and twigs blew in; an old copy of
The Spectator
whirled from the parlour table and dispersed itself about the kitchen. Then Ruth managed to shut the door and followed the scattered pages.

"What a dreadful wind," said Grace, setting the pan of gravy aside. They say 'tis causing havoc on the seas, and there's no knowing how many ships—" She had bent to take up a page, and Ruth's shoe stepped onto it. Looking up enquiringly, Grace gave a gasp. Mrs. A's hair was windblown and untidy and there was a leaf over one ear, but on her flushed face was an expression that banished all thought of gales and storm-tossed ships. An expression that caused Grace to straighten up, then draw back uneasily.

"How
could
you?" demanded Ruth, her voice low but ringing with anger. "No! Never look bewildered and pretend you don't know what I mean. Your friend Tummet has just let the cat out of the bag. I know the whole dreadful story, and I want to know—
why
? Why did you not tell me I was committing a crime in selling those things to Lady de Brette? Why did you trick me into leaving early—rushing away like—"

"Oh,
don't
, Mrs. A," wailed Grace, dropping the long-handled spoon and snatching her apron to her tearful eyes. "I didn't—trick you. Not to say—
trick
! I were only trying to help as—as best I knowed! Oh, that horrid Enoch Tummet! Wait till I—"

Ruth advanced on her purposefully. "Never mind about Tummet! How could you think you were
helping
me by making me run away? Do you not realize that you've made me appear a criminal?"

"Oh… Mrs.
A
!" Grace raised a pleading, tearful face, and sank onto the kitchen chair. "I bin… breaking me poor heart, not knowing what to do. I thought—"

"Stop that silly blubbering at once! Tell me, if you please, why you failed to warn me of what I had done. I was unaware I was breaking the law.
You
knew it! Yet you said nothing!"

"But I
didn't
know, Mrs. A! God's truth, I didn't know till Tummet met me in—"

"Yes, I know he met you. And I know he warned you. What I cannot understand is why a'God's name you did not then tell
me
! Had you lost your reason? Did you really think I was so dishonest, so unprincipled as to take that wretched woman's money knowing she could not claim her purchases?"

"But, Miss Ruth—dear Mrs. A.—what else was there to
do
? You'd give all the money away, almost. How could you have paid her back? They'd have put you in gaol sure as sure! All I could think was that the bailiff would likely come walking in at—at any second… Oh, my
Lor'
! I didn't care nothing about her nasty ladyship. If her servants had come quick, she'd have got her goods and no one the wiser. But—oh, dear ma'am…" Grace seized Ruth's hand and pressed it to her wet cheek. "Don't talk to me like you hates me. I—I only done what I thought was best."

Ruth jerked her hand free and said furiously, "
Best
? My heavens! If I go to the authorities now, do you think they'll believe I hadn't known the furnishings were no longer my own? I
ran
—because of you! I have branded myself no better than a—a common felon! If Lady Nadia recognizes me, and why she has not done so I cannot guess, I can be taken away in chains! I can be put into Newgate Prison and—and charged with conspiring to defraud that horrid woman!" Suddenly faced by the full implications of that terrible prospect, Ruth whitened. "If I am hanged, or—or transported— what will happen to the children? Have you thought of that?"

"But it won't never
happen"
said Grace frantically. "Mrs. A, you're not—"

"I
am
! I am
guilty
in the eyes of the law! People have been hanged for stealing a loaf of bread! Transported for picking an apple from someone's orchard! I cheated an earl's daughter out of
one hundred pounds
!" Ruth pushed back her hair distractedly. "Those two dear little boys will be put in the workhouse, or—or on the Parish! And should they survive, God help them, they'll be marked for life! Their father a drunkard who allowed his ship to founder and his crew to perish! Their aunt a felon—a common thief!" Her voice broke, and she bowed her face into her hands.

Grace jumped up and threw her arms about her beloved mistress. "No, Mrs. A. Never even think such things! Mr. Gordon won't let them! He put a stop to it! He—" She stopped as she felt Ruth stiffen.

Lifting her head, Ruth half-whispered, "Gordon—
knew
?"

She looked so white, her eyes wide with shock. Frightened, Grace whimpered, "Y-yes, ma'am. They come for me in the middle of the night. After that ball, it was. And Lady de Brette was there, and saying—oh, the most dreadful things! But Mr. Gordon made her listen to what I said. And he
promised
, Mrs. A. He told me—"

But with a muffled cry, Ruth was gone, running to the front door and out into the storm, desperate to be alone; to hide her grief and her shame. The man she loved had found out that she was not only a liar, but a thief! Indifferent to the flailing of branches, the convulsive dance of shrubs and ferns, even the billowing of her own skirts, she wandered blindly.

"The night of the ball," Grace had said. That then, explained everything. That was why he had turned against her. Why he had been so cold and said such hurtful things. Oh, how he must despise her! She sat on a tree stump and wept heartbrokenly until at last her sobs faded into spasmodic hiccups. She wiped her eyes and leaned there, listless amid the uproar, gazing blindly at the mad gyrations of a nearby sapling.

At worst, she thought dully, she was a thief. At best she had behaved disgracefully. The words seemed to find an echo somewhere. Someone else had behaved disgracefully. Who? Oh, yes. Mrs. Tate had said Lady Nadia behaved disgracefully at the ball. In fact, the housekeeper had seemed disappointed because the banns were to be called. She didn't like Gordon's affianced, of course, but had she hoped… ? Ruth sniffed, and blew her nose. If Lady Nadia had disgraced herself it must have been long before Grace had been summoned, for she'd said they had come for her in the middle of the night. What could the beauty have done? She had very obviously been fascinated by August Falcon, and he, rake that he was, had as clearly led her on. A new and fascinating idea dawned. Could my lady have been so indiscreet as to give Gordon an excuse for terminating their betrothal? Her pulses began to race. Was
that
why he had come to the cottage? Had he fancied himself free? It would explain why he had dared to kiss her with such sweet passion, and why he had so tentatively, so charmingly, asked how she might feel if he "had the right" to address her.

She pressed both hands to her temples. It was silly to hope. To build a drama with no basis in fact. She must not get so excited, but must assemble her facts sensibly, as Papa had taught her to do. Very well, then—firstly: Gordon had certainly not been "very drunk" that night. Secondly: Much later that same night, Grace had been summoned to the main house, and Lady Nadia had said "dreadful things." Thirdly: The next day, Gordon had been so changed. He'd looked drawn and haggard, and she'd thought…

She gripped her hands tightly. Never mind what she'd thought. 'Count again!' Fourthly: Grace said, Mr. Gordon had "put a stop to it." How? Lady Nadia had clearly taken a deep dislike to her, and she was a ruthless woman; she would delight in bringing charges against someone she fancied had cheated her. What possible weapon could Gordon have used to make her drop those charges? Unless… If my lady had determined to be mistress of Lac Brillant and the dream was denied her. Would she fight to protect her interests?

"Yes!" whispered Ruth. "She would indeed! And with whatever weapon was at hand!"

The next thought was appalling. It would be infamous! Surely even Lady Nadia would not stoop to what was no less than blackmail? But yet, it all fit together so neatly. It would be typical of Gordon, who seemed to make a habit of protecting others, to sacrifice his own happiness to save her.

But still, 'twas all conjecture. If only she could know for sure. Grace had said, "Mr. Gordon promised…" She must go back. She must find out at once what it was he had promised!

She began to run, but the wind fought her, and she had to hold her shawl with one hand and her skirts with the other. She had no recollection of coming into the woods, and why she had done so she would never know. But at last she caught a glimpse of the gabled roof. Grace would tell her—

She halted, her anxieties dissolving into a deep tenderness. He was there again. Standing just within the trees, watching the cottage even as he'd said, hands loosely clasped behind him. He did love her, then. How inexpressibly gallant, that he had been willing not only to pay such a price to keep her from shame and perhaps death, but had tried to conceal his sacrifice. And how was she to save him from such dear chivalry? If she confessed her guilt to the authorities, not only would she pay the penalty, but the twins' innocent lives would be wrecked also. If she did not confess, she condemned the man she adored to life with a selfish, spiteful woman, who could bring him only unhappiness.

She was overcome by a need for the comfort of his arms; a need to tell him of her love and gratitude, and to try with his help to find a way out of this frightful dilemma. With a stifled sob she ran forward and, blinking away tears, touched his arm.

He all but sprang into the air and turned, crouching, one hand darting for the pocket of his coat.

Ruth's heart seemed to stop beating. Only the fact that she'd been so distraught and her eyes dimmed had led her to make so terrible a mistake. She gazed not into the clean-cut features of her love, but into a smooth pink and white face and heavy-lidded grey eyes. The countenance that had haunted her on the stagecoach and in Mr. Brodie's Lending Library in Dover. The for once unsmiling face of the man she knew as "the smiling man."

An instant they stared at each other, both momentarily stunned. Then, Ruth gave a choking cry, picked up her skirts, and ran faster than she had ever run in her life, abandoning the Code of Correct Behaviour, which decreed that a Lady of Quality should never, under any circumstances, be so vulgar as to walk in a hurried fashion, much less hold up her skirts and gallop like any hoyden.

Her one thought was to find Gordon and tell him that the smiling man was here again.

Presiding over the teapot in the withdrawing room Lady Nadia refilled Sir Brian's cup and offered it with a glowing smile. He murmured his thanks, but there was no answering smile, and his eyes were grave. She thought uneasily that he had withdrawn the affection that had always been so easy to awaken, and she wondered how much he knew. She had worn the pale green silk
robe battante
with the rosebud trim that she knew he particularly admired. Much good it had done her. He was politely icy. Still, she was safe now. There was nothing he could do, even if Chandler had told him of their bargain. Likely he would not have done so however, for the old man would worry, which Chandler would not at all like.