Love & Folly (35 page)

"But Owen, you don't understand. I'd be your bride!"

He took another step backwards and bumped the closed door. "I shall worship you forever, my
lady. Our souls are wed, certainly, but--"

The tea Jean had drunk churned acidly. "But what?"

"I am in no case to be married!" he exclaimed. "I've no means to support you. My
parents--"

"What have they to say to anything?"

His eyes widened. "They would not approve my marriage to you, my lady."

"On what grounds?" Jean cried, stung. Who was a country rector to be objecting to an earl's
daughter for his son?

"My mother dislikes the connexion," he muttered. "It won't do, my lady. You are too much
above me, too young--"

It was Jean's turn to back away. Confusion and hurt warred with pride. "But you said you loved
me!"

Owen ran a distracted hand through his fair hair. "I do. I adore you. I worship you as men
worship Truth--"

"But you don't want to marry me."

"Marriage is for fettered souls, men like Dyott with no dream and no mission. I cannot marry. I
must be free to serve my country's liberty!" His eyes took on the glow that meant he was off on a flight of
lyricism.

Before he could unloose his muse, Jean said in a hard voice, "If your words of devotion to me did
not bespeak marriage, Owen, did you perhaps intend to give me a slip on the shoulder?" She chose the
crudest phrase she could think of.

His mouth gaped.

"Never mind. I can see I misunderstood you. Forgive me for causing you embarrassment."

Owen flushed a deep, unbecoming red. "Forgive you? My lady--"

"I'd esteem it a favour if you left me alone."

"But Lady Jean--"

"Go!" she whispered. "In God's name."

He fled, leaving the door wide behind him. Jean did not bother to close it. She sat slowly on the
nearest chair. Her eyes felt as if someone had sprinkled sand in them, but she had no tears. Instead she felt a
strong urge to cast up the tea. She shut her gritty eyes and clenched her teeth.

Presently the nausea passed and she felt cold, though the day was warm and the morning sun
shone merrily through a tall window. What a fool she had been. No wonder Clanross was willing to risk the
meeting. He must have known Owen had no real desire to marry her. Fury--at Owen, at Clanross, mostly
at herself--drove the cold away. What had she left? Pride and her name. Well, she would hold to
both.

When Sims stuck his head in the door half an hour later, Jean was sitting at the table making a
good pretence at eating breakfast and never mind that everything was cold.

"Are you all right, my lady?"

"Perfectly." She raised her chin. "You may tell Clanross it's safe to return."

"Safe." Sims's shrewd eyes regarded her without expression. "As you say, me lady."

Her brother-in-law came in almost at once.

Jean set her teacup down because her hands were starting to shake again. "Mr. Davies and I have
decided we shall not suit." She didn't look at him.

"Very well," he said quietly. "I'm sorry, Jeanie." He was alone, and he looked underslept and far
from happy.

Jean shut her eyes. She would not cry in Clanross's presence.

"What do you mean to do about Polly?"

Jean's eyes opened. "Polly?"

"Your servant. You must know that Mrs. Smollet will be unable to give Polly a good character
after this episode."

"Hang Polly," she said bitterly. Her heart was broken, and he was prosing on about
servants.

Clanross drew a chair. "One of the first things I learned when I took up my commission--I was
about your age--is that an officer must take care of his men."

Jean stared.

His grey eyes met hers gravely. "The analogy may seem strained, but you should be able to see
the parallel. You've involved Polly in an independent action against orders. Is it right that she should suffer
for your misjudgement?"

"She was willing to come."

"She admires you, Jean."

Jean swallowed. "What must I do?"

Clanross smiled a little. "Ask Elizabeth's advice, and ask Polly what she wants to do. The
consequences could be graver for her than they will be for you, and it's her life, after all.
I'm
satisfied so long as you understand your responsibility to her."

"I'll see to it."

"Has Davies gone out?"

"I don't care where he's gone," Jean muttered. "I told him to leave me." That sounded too much
like a confession. "I needed time to think," she amended.

"I see." He looked down at his hands, which were clasped on the table. "I ought to leave you
alone, Jean, but the blasted trial begins tomorrow and I must go off to Town in an hour or so." He glanced
over at her and smiled slightly.

She forced a smile.

"If things had gone as I meant them to, Owen would have sailed and you would have writ
him."

She drew a breath.

"I fancied you'd find a way to correspond, Jean. I trusted your ingenuity."

"Much good it's done me."

He touched her hand, but she wasn't ready for comfort and drew back. He sighed. "You'd have
writ him and he'd have replied--it sometimes takes three months for a reply to come from America--and
you'd have writ again. His next letter, or ode, or jeremiad, would have taken longer to reach you. After
awhile you would have understood what you discovered so cruelly today. If I'd seen any other course, I'd
not have exposed you to that."

"He doesn't love me!" The words burst out.

"Owen loves his idea of you. After you made your avowal that day in the Brecon library, I
charged him with trifling with your feelings. He was honestly shocked. He believes his words, Jeanie. Some
men have a gift of words so intoxicating they seduce themselves."

Jean said nothing. It was easier to hate Owen than to try to understand him.

After a moment Clanross pushed himself up. "I've no gift for words, unfortunately, or I'd find
some comfort for you."

"I've learnt a lesson." She knew she sounded sullen.

He said wryly, "'Keep you in the rear of your affection, out of the shot of danger...'"

"'And desire.'" She completed the quotation for him and made herself meet his eyes. They were
kind and troubled. She forced another smile. "Don't worry so, Clanross. I know I've been a fool."

"We're all fools for love, my dear."

"Not I. Never again." She bit her lip.

"You've always had courage, Jean. Judgement will come when you've seen a bit of the world, but
don't harden your heart. That's the worst kind of cowardice, being afraid to feel."

She digested that, or tried to. "Don't go yet."

"All right."

Slow tears began to leak from her eyes. "I love you, Clanross. Oh, I don't mean romantically,
though I once imagined I did. I mean as I ought, as your sister."

He said nothing, but came to her again and held her while she cried for her own folly.

When the worst storm was over he handed her a large lawn handkerchief. "Blow."

She gave a damp giggle and blew. "Tell me what I must do now."

"You know what to do."

"Maggie." She swallowed hard.

"Maggie, certainly, and Elizabeth. She loves you, too, Jean, for yourself and because she loved
your mother."

"Lizzie will flay me "

He laughed. "She'll ring a peal over you. She's concerned for your reputation--as I am. People
tend to judge a pretty young woman--"

"I beg your pardon, Tom," Colonel Falk said from the door, "but I think the second act of the
drama is about to begin."

Clanross took a step toward him. "The Runner?"

Falk glanced round the room, nodded to Jean. "Sims and Johnny are trying to forestall him, but
I'm afraid--"

Sims's massive form filled the doorway. "Begging your pardon, sir, Miss Carter, there's a person
'ere won't take no for an answer." He stepped aside.

The stranger everyone had noticed in church ducked under Sims's arm. "I'll 'ave you for
obstructing an officer of the court, my man. See if I don't."

"Wotcher," said Sims.

The Runner advanced into the room, bristling with truculence. "Me lord, I 'ave reason to believe
you're 'arbouring a wanted man."

"I?"

The man flushed.

Clanross said icily, "I don't believe I've had the honour."

The man gave a stiff bow. "Samuel T. Pickens, of the central criminal court, Bow Street, at your
service." He handed Clanross a card.

Jean had risen at his entrance. She began to edge away from the table.

"Well, Sergeant?" Clanross sounded lordly, for once.

Jean hadn't believed he could.

"I 'ave with me a warrant for the arrest of one Owen Talbot Davies for seditious correspondence
and inciting to riot."

"Do you see your man?"

"No, sir, but I've reason to think your servant," he jerked his head at Sims, "has been 'arbouring
the fugitive under an assumed name."

"Owen Davies is my employee," Clanross, said coldly. "So is Sims. It's natural for Sims and
Davies to associate. There can be no question of 'harbouring a fugitive' until it's known that a crime has been
committed. The charge is absurd."

"That's not for me to say, me lord. A warrant was sworn out against the said Davies on
information received, and it's me duty to serve it. Anyone 'indering me in the exercise or me duty is liable
to charges, as your lordship well knows."

"Then serve your warrant."

"Where is the miscreant?"

"I've no idea."

"E was 'ere last night. I followed him into the taproom. When 'e went upstairs the waiter said 'e
was stopping at the inn."

"Then find him and serve your warrant. You're intruding on a private conversation between me
and my ward."

Jean had edged as far as the sideboard. The man's shrewd eyes fell on her. She gave a smile that
felt like a grimace.

The man laughed, a barking sound like a seal. "Madam led me a fine chase."

"I thought you'd a warrant for Davies's arrest," Colonel Falk murmured. He was leaning on the
doorjamb. "What has his lordship's ward to do with anything?"

"Ward?" the man snorted. "She's 'is sister-in-law, and it's my belief she's 'and-in-glove with the
aforesaid Davies. If you don't produce the fugitive, my lord, I mean to take 'er ladyship in for questioning.
As a material witness."

"I think that would be unwise," Clanross said mildly.

"Where's Davies?" Pickens looked from one impassive face to the other. No one spoke. Johnny
Dyott bit his lip.

"Very well," the Runner said heavily. "Lady Margaret Conway, it is my duty to--"

"Stay, you shall not!" cried a voice from the hall. "
I
am Lady Margaret Conway!"

* * * *

Three hours later Tom and Richard had almost sorted things out.

The Runner, unable to say absolutely which twin was Lady Margaret Conway, at first threatened
to take both girls into custody. A very young "widow" had delivered the seditious poem to a house in Greek
Street. He would lay odds the widow was one of the girls.

"But you don't know which," Richard observed, "and your witness can't swear--"

The man growled like a baited bear.

Keeping his face as blank as he could, Tom turned to Sims. "Sims, you can identify Davies. Go
with Sergeant Pickens. He will be wanting to find Owen and serve his warrant."

Sims's eyes, nearly invisible in their rolls of fat, didn't blink. "I understand you, me lord."

Tom was in dire peril of falling into the whoops. That would have been a fatal error, offending
both the Runner and the twins beyond apology. He avoided Richard's eyes and turned back to the Runner.
"I daresay you're aware that the queen's trial begins tomorrow."

"Aye, me lord."

"If I do not attend, for whatever reason, I shall be fined a hundred pounds. You'll understand why
I must start for London within the next few hours. Even driving all night, flat out, I'll be cutting it
close."

"Yes, sir."

"Go with Sims and find Davies. Serve your warrant, if you can. If not, come with me in my
curricle and we shall both go to your superiors and seek their advice."

A flicker of relief in the small eyes told Tom the man was looking for a way out of what had to be
a discomfortable duty. He felt sorry for Pickens. The law was an ass, but its officers were sworn to uphold
it, however foolish and impossible to enforce it might be.

He added what he hoped was the clincher. "I'll guarantee, on my word as a peer of the realm, to
produce Lady Margaret Conway at any time the court wish to hear her testimony."

"I dunno, me lord."

"Your warrant is for Davies, is it not?"

"Yes, but I'm allowed to take material witnesses."

"I shan't deter you from interviewing Lady Margaret once you've arrested Davies. Perhaps you
ought to go about it." He hoped Owen had lost himself thoroughly in the back streets of Bristol, or stowed
aboard the
North Star
, preferably in the scuppers. Well, that part of the operation was in Sims's
hands, and Tom knew his man's ingenuity.

The longer the Runner stood arguing, the greater Owen's chances of eluding him. Pickens knew
it. It took a bit more persuasion, but the man left at last, in Sims's safekeeping, to inspect Owen's room.
Tom hoped the poet's fear of matrimony had driven him far afield.

When the Runner had gone, the twins flew into one another's arms and engaged in an affecting
reunion. Tom knew from Richard's rapt attention to the scene that his friend was busy composing the next
satire.

Tom sat and poured himself a cup of cold coffee. What he wanted was a tumbler of brandy.

"Sir!"

He looked up. Johnny Dyott, eyes blazing, had finally broken his heroick silence.

"My lord, may I have your permission to ask your sister-in-law to marry me?"

Which sister-in-law?
Tom left the frivolous response unspoken. "Now is not the time,
Johnny."

"If she is to be hailed away to prison, I want her to know she shall have my protection."