Never Doubt I Love (18 page)

As if aware he was the lucky one, the little ginger Charlemagne rolled over and offered his white stomach for grooming.

Lady Julia murmured worriedly, “I can only be grateful to Mr. Cranford for bringing you off safely. My poor dear London … What a sorry pass she has come to!”

“I had no notion there was so much trouble,” said Zoe. “Do you know what it is all about?”

“I fancy there are several causes. A great many people secretly resent our Hanoverian King. Indeed, I believe there was widespread sympathy for the Stuarts who, with all their faults,
are
British.”

Zoe dismissed Charlemagne, and turned to Viking, who at once sat down and panted at her expectantly.

“La, but he is bigger than you are,” said Lady Julia, laughing. “You shall have to stand up to reach him, my dear.”

Zoe stood and took off the hound's studded collar. “It sounded to me as if those people were full of hatred for all the Quality. The horrid man who attacked Mr. Cranford shouted that he was a ‘nob,' which means aristocrat, does it not? And he said some very bad words. I was quite surprised, you know, that—stand
up,
Viking! No, I do not want your paw, sir!—I was quite surprised that Mr. Cranford was able to floor him so deedily. He is not a big brawny type of man, but he has a punishing left!”

Lady Julia gave a ripple of laughter and shook her head. “Zoe, Zoe! Where do you come by such terms? Is from growing up in the country with your brother, I suppose! I shall write and scold the young rascal! What does your papa say of him, by the way? You had a letter this morning, I believe?”

“Yes. But Papa has not heard from Travis. It seems a long while since he last wrote.” Troubled, Zoe said with a sigh, “I pray all is well. I know I should be pleased that he has been given this wonderful opportunity, but I do wish he were not so far away. He is very dear to me, and it will be years, I dare swear, before I see him again.”

“Try not to be sad, child. He will get a leave, you may be sure, and in the meantime you should picture him as being happy and contented in his new life. Now pray tell me more about the riot. You say that Mr. Cranford was able to knock down the lout who attacked him?”

“Yes, ma'am.” Viking nudged Zoe's hand, which had stilled, and she smiled and resumed her task. “And he made me run, for there was fighting all around us. In fact— Oh, but I expect Whipley will have told you.”

Her ladyship looked puzzled. “Whipley? How should he know of it?”

“Why, he was there, ma'am. I saw him across Fleet Street, just before the commotion.”

“Are you sure? He ran some errands for me, but none that would have taken him so far east. I think perhaps, with all the uproar, you must have been mistaken.”

“Oh dear. I do seem to be making a lot of mistakes of late. But, I was so sure…”

“Then I shall ask him about it, although 'tis of no real import. Perchance the naughty fellow has a light o'love in the district. I trust Mr. Cranford was not hurt in the encounter?”

“No, ma'am. Well, not exactly. His wound troubled him a little, I think, but only because he is foolishly proud and will not wear a peg-leg. As I told him.”

“You never did! My goodness! Whatever did he say? Was he vexed with you?”

“Oh, yes.” Zoe giggled. “I think he was ready to murder me. But he promised to wear his peg-leg when he takes me driving tomorrow.” She added hastily, “By your leave, ma'am.”

“Of course you have my leave. Did you suppose I meant to keep you locked up with an invalid four and twenty hours a day? Mr. Cranford is, I think, a most commendable young gentleman, and one who knows the Metropolis and will treat you with the utmost respect while showing you about.”

“Respect! He told me I was a wretch! But I think I was wrong about the accident, just the same. I shall have to change the statement I promised to Bow Street.”

“I trust he did not bully you into that decision, my dear.”

“No, ma'am! He is not that type of man at all. His temper is quick and he can give a crushing set-down, but I cannot imagine him ever mis-using a female. Indeed, he was quite terrified when the flower seller struck him, and he made me run away from her.”

Lady Julia said softly, “And you like him after all, do you not?”

Again, the brushing ceased while Zoe considered that question. “Yes,” she said slowly. “I suppose I do. He is rather nice.”

“I agree. Now, 'tis almost time to change for dinner, but first—
do
tell me, why did the flower seller strike the poor soul…?”

*   *   *

Jolted from sleep, Zoe sat up in bed, her heart pounding madly. It was cold and pitch black in the room and she pulled the eiderdown up around her chin. Scarcely daring to breathe, she huddled there, straining her ears. Not a sound broke the stillness, but just as she decided she must have had a bad dream there came a stealthy movement, as though someone was opening her door. She gave a scared gasp, then slipped from her bed and threw back the window curtains. It was a windy night, and tattered clouds raced across a half-moon that gave sufficient light for her to distinguish that her door was tight shut. Relieved, she crept to it and leaned her ear against the panel. She gave a yelp and jumped back as the door rattled. Shivering, she called tremulously, “Who—who is it?”

The reply prompted her to groan with mingled relief and exasperation. She opened the door. Attila's dog, the little white terrier called Boadicea, charged past, leapt onto the bed and turned around three times, barking excitedly.

Zoe ran to the bed and threw the eiderdown over her unwanted visitor. “Be quiet, you silly creature! Whatever are you doing in this part of the house? Don't you know you will get your mistress into the greatest trouble?”

Boadicea made it clear that she thought this a great game and had no worries.

Desperate, Zoe ran to close the door, but the terrier was before her and scampered merrily into the corridor. Zoe's mad lunge failed. Boadicea raced triumphant to the stairs and plunged down them, her little legs flying. Zoe moaned and ran after her. She could hear the click of nails when she reached the ground floor, but in the darkness could not see which way the dog had gone. Her low calls and threats brought a sudden mad dash. Boadicea galloped around her and shot away again. Cold and vexed and fearing that at any minute someone would hear, Zoe tried another tactic. “Bo! Come!” she called softly. “Walkie!”

The bribe succeeded and the terrier rushed to throw herself at Zoe's feet, tail wagging trustingly. She was caught up at once. Zoe said, “I am sorry, little Bo. That was deceitful. Never mind. I'll scratch behind your ear; you like that.”

The consolation prize was graciously accepted, and Zoe hurried back to the stairs, the terrier under her arm. With one very cold foot on the bottom step, she halted, breath held in check as she heard a man's voice, low pitched but angry.

“… have been diverted, for a space, is all. I wish to God we might have written
finis
to the lot!”

Footsteps. A light began to move along the upper corridor. It dawned on Zoe's numbed mind that several gentlemen were coming towards the stairs. And that in her haste to prevent Boadicea from disturbing Lady Buttershaw she had not stayed to put on her dressing gown. At any second she would be discovered
en déshabillé!
She could well imagine the uproar. Beyond doubting, she would be sent packing at once; back to Travisford in deepest disgrace. And Mrs. Mowbray would rant and rave until she made poor Papa's life a misery!

She turned and fled across the entrance hall and into the red saloon. Boadicea wriggled and whined a protest. Zoe held the little dog close and scratched her ear, whispering commands that she be quiet.

She could see the glow of the candle brightening, and a second higher-pitched voice murmured warningly, “… would all too likely be believed, had we taken such a step. Which must not happen.”

They appeared to have halted in the entrance hall. Zoe thought prayerfully, ‘Oh,
why
do I do such silly things? Open the door! Hurry and go home, please!'

Instead, a third and even more agitated voice exclaimed: “No, it must
not,
by God! Not at this stage of the game. Zounds, but if the others got so much as a hint of what that confounded spy made off with—”

“You had best see to it they do not!” snapped the man who had spoken first. “I do not intend to be blocked now! She was clever, I grant you, to have secured the most likely contacts. But she's too confident by half!”

The high-pitched voice said, “We have left nothing to chance, Squire. Our people are in place. When our long-awaited Lady Aranmore makes—”

Boadicea whined, and struggled to be released.

“What the devil? Who's there?”

A flurry of running steps. Desperate, Zoe put the dog down and huddled behind the jut of the sideboard.

Boadicea raced out.

The light from the candle seemed blinding. Zoe threw her hands over her mouth to muffle her breathing.

“'Tis only the little terrier,” said the agitated man.

The one they had called Squire said dryly, “We shall hope the creature does not wake the house! Ah! I hear the coach.”

Footstops, receding. The sounds of hooves and wheels outside. Murmurs Zoe could not catch. The front door was opened and quietly closed. She heard the carriage driving away. Then, silence.

Shivering with cold and fright, she breathed a little prayer of gratitude that she had not been discovered, started out of her hiding place, then shrank back again. Once more footsteps approached. Had she been seen after all? Was she about to be denounced? She could have wept with relief when there arose a sleepy grumbling, and the grating of bolts being shot. Bo yapped as she was caught and borne away, and the shuffling steps, the glow of the candle faded and were gone. One of the footmen or a lackey had been sent to lock up, of course.

How strange, she thought, were the ways of going on in London. Faith, but there were more differences between town and country customs than she ever could have imagined. 'Twould be downright scandalous for guests at Travisford, or any other home she knew of, to wander about the house in the middle of the night without the escort of their host or a servant; certainly, they would not depart without being politely ushered from the premises. She might be a country bumpkin, but she could not admire such careless hospitality!

There were no further sounds, but she waited for several minutes before daring to creep up to her bedchamber. Snuggled in the blankets, waiting for her icy feet to get warm again, she wondered what it had all been about, and who they were. Most probably, something to do with money … She yawned. Lots of money if the urgency of that discussion was any indication. Her last thought before she fell asleep was that the lady they were waiting for must be someone of great importance …

C
HAPTER
VIII

Furlong's hand shook visibly as he offered the Madeira, and Ramsey Talbot sprang up to snatch the glass and guide the swaying man to an armchair.

“My dear fellow! You should be abed! I wonder Cranford let you get up!”

“He—he forbade it,” faltered Sir Owen, mortified by this unexpected relapse. “Truth is, I thought I was-was over it this mor-morning?”

“Well, you ain't. I'd best ring for his fellow.” Mr. Talbot stretched a pudgy white hand towards the bell on a small and cluttered table.

“No!” Trying to enunciate clearly, Furlong said, “Be better in a minute. Pr-promise you. Tell me about—what was his name?”

“Skye.” Taking a chair and dragging it closer to Furlong's, Mr. Talbot sipped his Madeira and, watching the younger man narrowly, asked when Gideon Rossiter was coming back to town.

“He sent a note yesterday. The damage to his farmhouse is ex-extensive, it seems. And Ross is detained by the local constable. They've a suspicion, you see, that 'twas arson. He hopes to be b-back in London by the end of the week.”

Talbot grunted. “One trusts it won't be too late.” Furlong looked startled, and Talbot went on, “Where's that madman August Falcon?”

“Down at Ashleigh. His sire took a nasty toss.”

“Did he, though! Neville's a fool to buy those showy hacks. Only man I ever knew who could fall off a horse when 'twas standing still! What about Glendenning, or Morris? Either of 'em about?”

“Glendenning's off to Bristol to enquire after my brother's arrival. Jamie's in Guildford. His married sister's coach overturned.”

“By thunder!” Talbot's shrewd brown eyes were suddenly very round. “Too many nasty coincidences here! The League's work?”

“So I think.” Furlong nodded, and held out a tanned hand. “There. Much steadier now! And I'm afraid you shall have to make do with me at all events, sir, unless you can wait till Ross comes back. Is it about the accident on Tuesday? I assume you saw the account of it in
The Spectator?
”

“I did. A strange affair, and no charges brought as yet, I gather. Are you up to telling me about it?”

Furlong's account was concise. When he finished, Mr. Talbot was leaning back in his chair, frowning at the swordbelt that hung over the edge of the mantelpiece, and the holstered pistols propped against the fender. He said, “The article fell short of blaming Cranford, and the witnesses were not mentioned by name. Are you judging it to have been an execution?”

Furlong shrugged. “The Squire allows but one mistake, as you know. Farrier was a valuable tool, but he had f-failed on several counts. He let Horatio Glendenning wriggle out from under the axe; allowed a treacherous co-plotter to slip through his fingers; and then Gordon Chandler escaped the very neat web he'd woven. I think Farrier was-was killed and then tossed under the hooves of my team in an attempt to throw the blame on me.”