Never Doubt I Love

 

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Doubt thou the stars are fire;

Doubt that the sun doth move;

Doubt truth to be a liar;

But never doubt I love.

—William Shakespeare

Hamlet

P
ROLOGUE

LONDON, AUTUMN, 1748

The late afternoon sky was crowded with parading clouds, some wearing grey petticoats that promised rain before nightfall. A chill wind pranced along Pall Mall, tossing trees whose gowns were now more golden and russet than green. Ladies were obliged to restrain flying skirts, gentlemen to clutch at displaced tricornes, and chairmen swore as they threaded their way amongst carriages, waggons, horsemen, darting messenger boys and footmen, street vendors, and a scattering of scarlet-clad dragoons.

The Cocoa Tree coffee house was not crowded at this hour. If the company was thin, it was congenial, and talk and laughter hung pleasantly on the spiced air. Although daylight came but dimly through the mullioned windows, and as yet no candles had been lit, logs blazed and crackled on the deep hearth sending out a mellow glow that flickered on pewter mugs and immaculate china, and illumined the playbills, sketches, and caricatures that hung on the walls. The outer fringes of the large room were shadowed, and against that dimness some occupants, touched by the firelight, stood out in sharp relief; the earnest faces of three gentlemen locked in a political debate; the merriment of a group of young exquisites gleefully exchanging choice items of scandal; the tense expressions of a silent group seated about a gaming table.

The wall hangings fluttered wildly as a tall middle-aged man entered. He shut the door quickly and glanced about, then made his way to a quiet inglenook, where a somewhat portly gentleman a decade his senior was seated alone.

“Hello, Talbot,” said the newcomer, a smile on his distinguished features. “You look to be pondering weighty matters. Should you prefer that I take myself off?”

Ramsey Talbot was a former Member of Parliament who had of late turned to the pen and was creating a small stir with his newspaper articles. He gave an inviting gesture and said heartily, “Not at all, Jonas. Pray join me. I'll be glad of your company. Heard you'd been reprieved from sailing off to Canton.”

“Complications. Always complications. The Chinese do not want us, you know.” Sir Jonas Holmesby handed his cloak to the serving maid who hurried to them, and ordered a tankard of ale for himself, and another glass of Madeira for Mr. Talbot.

Sharing the settle, he stretched his long legs to the fire and said with a grateful sigh, “'Tis good to be out of the wind.” After a closer scan of the company, he qualified his remark, saying regretfully that he might have to withdraw his patronage. “The house fairly swarms with Jacobite sympathizers.”

Talbot nodded. “And gossip. 'Tis one of the best places I know to pick up snippets of information I'd never hear at White's or Brookse's.”

“Aha! Nose to the grindstone once more, are you? And have your snippets been satisfactory?”

“After a fashion, perhaps.” Talbot paused as the serving maid returned with their drinks, then went on, “There's some odd rumours going about, Jonas. You've likely heard them yourself. These street disturbances, for instance, and the growing public unrest.”

Sir Jonas sampled his ale and shrugged. “There are always malcontents. I fancy 'twill all die down now the hot weather is past.”

“Ah, but will it?” Bending a little closer, Talbot lowered his voice. “I heard a fantastical tale last week, holding that the riots are part of a seditious plot that involves shipping also. You find that amusing, I see. Then cast your mind back to all the fine ships that have been lost this past year alone. There's never been such a string of disasters.”

Holmesby's smile faded, and he pointed out with a touch of acerbity, “Nor such heavy loss of life. There have been literally hundreds of innocent victims! 'Tis monstrous to suggest that civilized men would concoct so barbarous a plot! And for what possible purpose?”

Briefly, Talbot was silent. At length, as if reaching a decision, he responded, “The purpose, perhaps, of a malignant secret society; aristocrats all, intent on the eventual overthrow of our so much disliked Hanoverian monarch.” He glanced up from under his brows, and said, “Now what d'ye think of that snippet?”

Sitting straighter, Sir Jonas answered with some force, “I think I would be extreme careful of accusing any well-born gentleman of treason!”

“Guy Fawkes was well born! Oliver Cromwell was well born! Derwentwater, and the Stuarts, and—”

“The
Stuarts?
Zounds! Have we not had enough of bloodshed and misery thanks to their vaunting ambitions? Must irresponsible gabblemongers stir up more tragedy?”

Mr. Talbot stiffened. “If you name me an irresponsible—”

“No, no! You know I do not, Ramsey! I know you for a fine patriot. But it distresses me that you listen to nonsense which contains, I'll wager, not a vestige of truth!”

“Mayhap. I don't yet have all the details. I do know there's a blasted lot of smoke. And where there's smoke…”

Dismayed, Sir Jonas half-whispered, “
Details?
You really
believe
it?”

“I think I did not say that. The thing is, there's a deal of it makes sense. The very fact that Whitehall pooh-poohs it causes my ears to perk up.”

“But—surely you never mean to publish such stuff? 'Twould be purest folly! I beg you will not even consider it till you have proof.”

“By which time it might be too late! No, listen another moment, Jonas. The tale goes that a group of blue-bloods is at work collecting great estates. If the estate is entailed and cannot be bought, they set about to disgrace and ruin the owner to the extent that the property is confiscated by the Crown and sold for debt. Whereupon, they acquire it.”

“What stuff! 'Twould take a long-planned and elaborate scheme to achieve such a result! If for some reason a group of investors wants to buy large properties, there are plenty to be had without resorting to such lengths. And as for the shipping disasters, what would the loss of many great ships and their cargoes avail any sane man? Unless, of course, the passengers were all carefully selected enemies, which is even more fantastical!” Exasperated, Sir Jonas demanded, “Who has been filling your ears with such rubbish?”

“I'll not tell you my source. But I understand there are some fine young fellows fighting this secret group, which is known, by the way, as the League of Jewelled Men.”

Holmesby's lip curled. “Very melodramatic! Who are they?”

Frowning, Talbot said, “I've not such proof as enables me to toss names about. Suffice it to say they're rich and powerful. And deadly.”

Suppressing a snort of derision with difficulty, Sir Jonas asked, “Then dare you name the ‘fine young fellows' who oppose this—ah, deadly League?”

“In confidence, Jonas? I'll have your word.”

Sir Jonas gestured impatiently. “Oh, as you wish. Lord knows, I'm not desirous of spreading such twaddle.”

“Very well.” Talbot glanced around, and leaned even closer. “Firstly, Gideon Rossiter. You'll mind he was sent home wounded from the Low Countries early this year?”

“Aye! And found his sire had brought financial ruin on half London by reason of his gross incompetence, and was for a time suspected of downright embezzlement!”

“Of which he was subsequently cleared! Pray keep your voice down, man! 'Twas young Rossiter first suspected the existence of the League. When the Horse Guards turned a deaf ear to his warnings, he gathered a small band of friends around him, and from all I hear they've engaged in some mighty desperate ploys to oppose the League.”

“Have they! Rossiter, and…?”

“Lieutenant James Morris, for one. He's related to Lord Kenneth Morris, of the Cornwall house. And there's Mr. Neville Falcon's son, August—”

“Zounds, what a combination to strike terror into the hearts of wrongdoers! The first, a cloth-headed ex-cavalryman who'd be easy to inveigle into any scheme, however ridiculous! The second, an acid-tongued half-breed who has publicly stated his loathing for the
haut ton,
well knowing that everyone in Town despises him! 'Fore God, Ramsey, you shall have to do better than that sorry trio!”

Flushed with irritation, Talbot snapped, “I make no doubt you will judge Viscount Horatio Glendenning, Captain Jonathan Armitage, and Gordon Chandler an equally worthless trio?”

Sir Jonas stared, then uttered a bark of laughter. “No doubt whatsoever! At worst Lord Glendenning offered his sword to Bonnie Prince Charlie in the late Rebellion, and at best is believed to have aided and abetted several fugitive Jacobite gentlemen to escape England! As for Captain Jonathan Armitage—why, the fellow is a damned scoundrel who was drunk in his cabin when his fine East Indiaman was wrecked with heavy loss of life, and—”

“Which he denies, and declares he was instead attacked and left for dead in a dastardly plot to scuttle his ship!”

“Yet he saw fit to disappear for two years, during which time he was involved in all kinds of skullduggery in Cornwall. His case has already been considered by two Boards of Enquiry, and may yet go to the High Court of the Admiralty. Certainly, 'tis far from settled, and though he walks free, many in Town favour a public hanging for the rogue! Who else was it? Ah, yes. Gordon Chandler. No, really, Talbot! The fellow's brother is a known Jacobite, and got out of England half a step ahead of a troop of dragoons! And was not Gordon Chandler himself recently suspected of involvement with a wrecking gang? Faugh! A pretty scoundrel!”

“If such were the case, yes. But the version I have is very different, and—Ah, never mind! I see 'tis hopeless, so we'll not argue further. Stay, though! What of Owen Furlong? As fine a fellow as ever I met, and with a splendid military record. D'you name him worthless, also?”

Sir Jonas' brows went up. “Is Furlong with 'em, then? I'll own, he's a good man. Although … Wasn't there something a few months after Culloden? Had to do with the escape of—cannot remember who, but some rebel or other. Another tarnished reputation, Ramsey.”