Never Doubt I Love (38 page)

“Oh, if you knew! But— You
don't
know!” She put a hand to her head distractedly. “Perry! I am locked in, and poor Gorton has been drugged, and there is so
much
to tell you, and—Oh, how I
prayed
you would come for me!”

The tenderness in his eyes was replaced with a very different expression. “Why, that wicked old beldam! I
thought
'twas something of the sort! Come along then, my brave tree climber. Out with you! Oh, gad! The casement's not very wide. I'm going to disgrace you again. Take off those paniers.”

“Yes. No! Perry, I had thought the same, but I see now 'tis hopeless. Even without my skirts I could not climb through. Besides—” She flinched and waited out a crashing peal of thunder. “Besides, there is no time. Someone downstairs may see the ladder at any second. I must tell you this very quickly. I heard some of them talking last night. About some kind of change of plans, and—and strange bedfellows, and that ‘she' would be very angry, and—oh yes, that the Squire was
ready!
”

“By Gad, but you've done wonderfully! You can tell me the rest after I get you out. What—”

“No! You must go now! Travis is—”

“I go nowhere without you, my girl! We'll get to your brother in—”

“Oh, stop! Do stop! You
must
listen! He managed to get a letter to me. Lady Buttershaw kept it, but I was able to find it. Travis writ that he would call here.
Here,
Perry! They would not let me go out, so—”

Cranford swore grittily.

Zoe went on, “—so my poor Gorton smuggled a note to him, and I told him to go to Maria! I didn't know where you lived, you see, and—”

“Well, then, all's right and tight. Miss Benevento will send for Owen, and—”

Her hand across his lips cut the words off. She said, “Maria Benevento has another name, Perry. She is Maria Barthélemy. And my brother writ that Marshal Jean-Jacques Barthélemy has allied himself with the League!”

For a stunned moment he perched on the ladder staring at her blankly while the rain soaked his hair and sent little rivulets winding down his face. “So 'tis truth,” he whispered. “Barthélemy! Lord help us!”

“I pray He will! But Travis may have gone to Maria already. They may be—be questioning him at this very moment!”

“He has the Agreement, then?”

“Yes. And he will trust Maria, you see, because I said … like a perfect fool, I said she was a faithful friend! You must go to him! At once! Perry, I
beg
you. Go!”

His jaw set. “And leave you here? Be damned if I will! That stewed prune of a butler will open the front door quick enough with my pistol under his fat paunch!” He started an awkward descent of the ladder. “I'll have you out of there in jig time, and—”

Zoe reached out and grabbed his hair. He gave an indignant yelp, and she said fiercely, “And if anything happens to you, my brother is as good as doomed, and I shall never forgive you, Peregrine Cranford!
Never!
If you go quickly, you can come back for me. They think I am fast asleep, and will likely do nothing to me for a—a long while yet. Don't let them win, Perry! Don't let that—that wicked Maria laugh and gloat because I am silly and gullible and she so easily deceived me! Once you are away you can send your man to me, or summon the Watch, or
somebody!
Only—
please
—oh, please do go!”

For a wrenching few seconds he gazed into her pale, tear-streaked face. She was right, of course. Her brother and the Agreement must be protected at all costs. But what a terrible cost! To abandon the dear brave girl here, alone and helpless…! To leave this gentle creature who held his only hope for happiness. Her hand released his hair, and caressed his cold cheek. He reached up and seized it and pressed a kiss into the palm. Then, without a word, he began the slow and painful descent to the shadowy garden.

The most dangerous moment came when he took down the ladder he had hauled here from the side of the house. He dared not leave it propped under Zoe's window to warn the occupants that someone might have spoken with their prisoner, nor dared he let it bang against the wall but had to guide it cautiously. Candles and lamps had been lit inside the mansion now, sending bright beams shining into the dusk. Even as he lowered the ladder to the ground he saw a lackey lighting a branch of candles in the withdrawing room, only a few feet from him.

The wind got under the ladder and it was torn from his hand to fall with a crash across the terrace and send a large potted plant toppling. Cursing bitterly, Cranford ducked as the lackey jerked around. The casement above his head flew open and he held his breath.

The lackey called, “One of the terrace urns has blowed over!”

A woman's voice shouted indignantly, “Well, close the window, you fool, and go and see to it!”

The casement was slammed shut.

Between a limp and a run Cranford made for the alley wall at the east side of the house. The ladder would have been a great help here. The wall was high and topped with broken glass. The rope ladder Tummet had left for him was still behind the bush where he'd hidden it, but this was the hard part. Much as he'd longed to be the one to climb up to Zoe's rescue, he was aware of his limitations, and had fully intended to keep watch while Tummet did all the climbing. Only there had been no sign of the man, so he'd had no choice. It had been dashed tricky climbing over, but he'd managed somehow, without getting thoroughly sliced by the glass. With luck, the return journey would go as well. He crouched low as lightning flashed garishly, then twirled the ladder over his head, tossed it up, and heard the hooks ring home on the top. Above the clamour of the storm he heard a man's voice. So the lackey had come out. He must be quick. Three years back, he would have been over this wall in a trice. Only it was not three years back. It was now, and just to move from rung to rung was a desperate struggle. He was the only man who could send help to Travis Grainger—the only man who could get his beloved lady out of that loathsome house! Whatever happened, he must not fail!

He was almost to the top when he heard voices close by. A man grumbled, “… say she's been took sick, so I got to take the dratted beasts out in the dratted rain, and I'll have to wipe orf their dratted feet when—”

A deep bark and a shout.

Abandoning caution, Cranford grabbed for the top of the wall. He swore as glass drove into his palm, then scrunched under his boot. Egged on by a cacophany of barks, he jumped down into the alley. He told himself dizzily that his landing could have been worse, but for several seconds he sprawled there, trying to catch his breath, and hearing the clamouring of the dogs and the shouts of the men. A cat yowled as he struggled to his knees, and one of the men voiced a very unkind assessment of both dogs and cats.

A woman shouted, “What's to do out there?”

In a very different tone, the man answered, “Just the dogs chasing a cat, ma'am. Only playing, belike.”

A door slammed, and thunder bellowed again.

The dogs were still barking frenziedly.

It was no time, Cranford decided, to lounge about. He dragged himself up and limped along the alley, praying that Tummet had by now returned to his post. It was unlike the man to have let him down. Only something really important would have lured him away.

He peered cautiously around the corner of the house. The square was deserted. Flambeaux were already lit outside several mansions and flickered as the wind moaned along the street, driving the rain under porches and pediments and almost extinguishing the flames. It was very cold, and Cranford shivered as he walked farther up the square, then crossed the road to the central gardens. His hand throbbed, and in the glare of lightning he saw that his palm was bloody. He wrapped his handkerchief around the cut absently. With every second his fear for Zoe intensified. If Tummet didn't come, he might
have
to leave her, at least until he could get word to Furlong, or Morris, or
someone!
To judge from this square one might think him the only man left in London Town! Where in the
devil
—

“That you, Lieutenant C?”

He gave a gasp of relief. “Yes, it's me! Damn your eyes, Tummet! Where have you been?”

“Got took up, sir. Fer loitering, they said. Lucky fer me, we run into a little war dahn near Spring Gardens, and I was set free. Rescued from the clutches of law'n order by the common man, I was. Cor! From the look of the common men wot come to me rescue, they just broke outta the Fleet Prison! But—” Tummet stopped abruptly, and peered at Cranford in the wavering light from a nearby flambeau. “Crumbs, but you're a mess, guv'nor! You never tried to climb over that there wall yerself? Might'a knowed you'd fall! But I gotta admit as you're a plucked 'un, if—”

“I
did
climb over! I'll admit I made mice feet of the return, but I saw and spoke with Miss Grainger.”

Tummet was all admiration as he listened to a brief sketch of what had happened in his absence, but when he was ordered to rush a warning to Furlong, he protested vigorously. “
I'll
get inside Yerville 'all, Lieutenant, mate.
You
go and find Sir Owen! That 'and o' yourn looks nasty, and—no disrespeck, but if there's more climbing to be done, I can—”

“Manage better than me? Very true. But there won't be a chair or a hackney to be had in this storm. Whichever of us goes after Furlong may very well have to run all the way to the Madrigal, or wherever he has got to. And nowadays I'm not a fast runner.”

“No, and if you goes in there orl by yerself, mate, you'll 'ave abaht as much chance as you'd 'ave of plucking a flea's eyebrows! Unless— You got a good plan to get the lady out?”

“I'll contrive something. Whatever happens, I'll not leave her.”

“But—”

“Oh, have done with your ‘buts'! Find Sir Owen! Fast! He knows where Miss Benevento lives. Then send me some reinforcements, if you can. On the double, man!
Go!
”

Tummet groaned, but responding to the note of command in Cranford's voice, he went sprinting off into the dark.

Left alone, Cranford drew his cloak tighter around him and glanced about. If he were to go and beat on the doors of some of these mansions, would he be given help? He tried to picture the reaction of Lady Buttershaw's neighbours when told that the
grande dame
of Society was part of a treasonable plot; that a maidservant lay drugged in her house; and that a young lady was held prisoner. He gave a cynical snort. They'd have him put under strong restraint, is what they would do! But to try and break into Yerville Hall alone would be a chancy undertaking. The mansion, he knew, fairly swarmed with servants, and although it was doubtful that one of them had a single kindly thought for her ladyship, they feared her, and in any kind of uproar would obey her.

He fought the raging need to go and pound on that confounded door and then force his way inside at gunpoint. He must exercise self-control for once, he told himself sternly; be more like Piers and use his head instead of letting passion rule him. It would not help the girl he loved if he was knocked down. His best hope was to get inside somehow and carry her off by subterfuge. He was racking his brain for a workable scheme when he became aware that something other than rain was being carried on the wind. The thunderclaps were farther apart now, but he could hear shouts, and a grumbling roar, as of many distant voices upraised in anger. Tummet had said a mob had freed him from the constable near Spring Gardens. From the sound of things, there was another disturbance closer at hand.

He brightened. Here, then, was his subterfuge!

He limped across the road and up the front steps of Yerville Hall. Pounding on the door, he heard a carriage clatter up the street, and he began to shout wildly for help.

The horses slowed. From the corner of his eye he saw carriage lamps. “Help!” he howled. “Murder!”

There came a startled exclamation behind him, then the front door swung open and against the sudden flood of light stood Arbour, staring at him in astonishment.

“Help!” raved Cranford at the top of his lungs. “They've taken her! Call the Watch!” He hurled himself at the butler, who retreated hastily.

“Be dashed if it ain't poor Cranford,” drawled a faintly amused and very much disliked voice from the carriage.

‘Fowles!' he thought grimly. ‘The last swine I'd have wished to see!'

Arbour stammered, “Sir, you're hurt! Wh-what on earth—”

“I demand to know the meaning for all this uproar!” Lady Buttershaw marched across the entrance hall, her eyes glittering with anger.

“They've taken her!” Cranford gabbled, staggering towards her. “You must … get help!”

Recoiling, she gasped, “Good heavens! You're all blood!”

“So he is.” Gilbert Fowles sauntered in and scanned Cranford's artistically swaying form through his quizzing glass. “Who has been taken, my poor block? Or are you drunk?”

“Miss—Miss Grainger,” gasped Cranford, restraining an impassioned urge to strangle him. “The mob … dragged us from my coach and we were separated. Arbour! Never stand there like a … confounded statue! Run for a Constable! Quick!”

Lady Buttershaw barked, “Arbour, you will at once see to it that all the servants go down to the kitchens. And
remain
there!”

Only too glad to escape, the butler hurried off, calling to footmen and lackeys.

“What's all this?”

To Cranford's enormous relief, Lord Eaglund came inside, but before he could respond, Lady Buttershaw bellowed, “Poor Cranford has been hurt by those miserable rioters. I fear his brain has become disordered. He thinks Miss Grainger was in his carriage, whereas she is upstairs, asleep in her bed.”