Never Doubt I Love (39 page)

The viscount looked in bewilderment from her ladyship to Cranford's soaked, muddy and bloodied self.

About to declare himself, Cranford checked as Mr. Rudolph Bracksby arrived on the scene. For all his hearty manner and good looks, the powerfully built gentleman had always impressed Cranford as exerting himself to please only those who could be of use to him. It was not hard to believe that he was, as Furlong had said, a member of the League. And if Lord Eaglund cried friends with him …

“She
was
with me,” he howled shrilly. “She slipped out to join me.” They all stared at him, and he improvised in desperation, “We were eloping!”

“NONSENSE!” roared Lady Buttershaw.

“'Faith, but I wonder the poor girl would want you,” sneered Fowles. “She must be desperate, indeed.”

“Why do you
stand
here?” Cranford dodged around her ladyship and made for the stair hall. “I'll
prove
she is not in her room!”

“I say! No—my poor fellow—” Aghast, the viscount started forward.

Arbour and Fowles both ran towards Cranford at the same instant, and the three men collided.

“Idiot!” snarled Fowles, pushing the butler aside.

“Do not
dare
go up there, Cousin!” Accustomed to instant obedience Lady Buttershaw elbowed her way between the men and marched to the foot of the stairs, her great skirts hindering Lord Eaglund as he attempted to pass her. When it dawned on her that she was being defied, she screeched an outraged, “
Hackham!
Stop Mr. Cranford! He has gone mad!”

Hackham appeared on the upper landing. He started down, eyeing the “madman” warily. Cranford reached out to him and appeared to collapse. Instinctively, Hackham grabbed him. Not for nothing had Cranford excelled in sports. Hackham found himself holding what he later described as a steel spring. Cranford straightened and his left fist came up from his knees and landed solidly on the footman's jaw. Lady Buttershaw shrieked and sprang aside with remarkable agility and a glimpse of frilly scarlet drawers as Hackham descended the stairs involuntarily and rapidly. Hard on her heels, Bracksby did not fare so well, and was flattened by the flying footman.

Cranford had a fair idea of the location of Zoe's room and he limped to it with all possible speed. The key was in the lock. Logical enough, he thought, as he turned it and swung the door open.

A strong grip closed on his shoulder, and he was jerked around. Fowles' vindictive face was behind the fist that flew at him. He ducked. Zoe gave a startled cry, and Fowles swore as he missed and his knuckles made a crashing assault on the door. Cranford landed a solid right to the mid-section and, as Fowles doubled up, had the satisfaction of seeing him acquire the look of an expiring trout. Eaglund and Bracksby were almost upon him. Everyone seemed to be shouting at once. With one arm around Zoe's shoulders, he wrenched the pistol from his pocket and held it steady.

The shouting and all movement ceased.

“Thank you,” said Cranford politely. “That's better. Now if you will all be so very good as to go back down the stairs…”

“But my dear boy,” said Eaglund in his gentle way, “you really must try to be sensible. You can see that Miss Grainger really is here, just as her ladyship said.”

“And locked in,” said Cranford.

Zoe cried, “You don't know what has happened, Lord Eaglund. My brother—”

“Back!” snapped Cranford, moving forward, his arm still about Zoe's shoulders. “You waste your breath, m'dear. They're all in it.”

The viscount retreated a few steps.

Straightening up, but leaning against the wall, Fowles panted, “You have only one shot … dear old Perry.”

Peregrine glanced at him. “Are you willing to take it, dear old Gil?”

“Good heavens, Cousin Peregrine! Whatever are you about?” Lady Julia had hurried up unnoticed, and now stepped directly in front of him. “Put that weapon down at once!”

With an exultant shout, Fowles reached around her to snatch for the pistol.

Terrified lest he crown his career by shooting a lady, Cranford managed to wrench the weapon aside. It went off deafeningly. The recoil was agonizing; the pistol fell from his grasp and he clutched his wrist painfully.

Lady Julia rounded on Fowles and her small white hand cracked across his face. In a voice Zoe had never heard before, she hissed, “You clumsy blockhead! You might have killed me!”

Fowles muttered something, and drove a powerful right jab at Cranford that sent him to his knees.

Sight and sound blurred. He knew he was moving, but an indeterminate time later was bemused to find himself sitting on a chair in the blue ante-chamber that he remembered as being adjacent to the downstairs withdrawing room. He blinked in an effort to clear his head. The viscount was no longer among them. Lady Buttershaw was shaking Zoe, who looked tearful and very frightened. There was a livid mark on her pale face, and at the sight, rage seared through him. Starting up, he snarled, “Which of you miserable traitors
dared
to strike her?”

Fowles, who had been standing behind his chair, slammed him down again and Zoe half-sobbed, “Don't hurt him! Oh, pray do not!”

“The devil with that,” growled Cranford, turning on Fowles furiously. “Is this the carrion who hurt
you?
” He looked straight into the muzzle of a pistol and said with disgust, “It takes a brave man to abuse a lady and strike an unarmed man.”

“But I have wanted to strike you for so long, my dear old schoolmate. You cannot think how galling it was to hear everyone rave of your athletic prowess. Of course,” Fowles purred, “those days are over for you … eh?”

Lady Julia sat on a gold sofa and said quietly, “Clara, for heaven's sake bind up his hand. 'Tis gruesome.”

None too gently, Lady Buttershaw unwound the handkerchief. Cranford gritted his teeth. Unmoved, she said, “'Tis an ugly wound, and he has brought some of our wall with him.”

“Glass?” Interested, Fowles said, “No—don't remove it, dear Lady Clara. It might prove—useful…”

Zoe gave a smothered cry, and started towards Cranford. Bracksby stretched out his arm to keep her back. She pleaded, “I beg you—let me help him.”

Bracksby frowned. “Do you know, Gilbert, sometimes you really are an unpleasant creature.” He turned to Zoe. “But he has a point, my dear. If you have any fondness for Perry Cranford, you would be well advised to answer her ladyship's question—now.”

Cranford suspected that by this time Owen would have charged to Travis Grainger's rescue, but it would be as well not to let them suspect that. He shouted, “Zoe! They won't—”

Fowles clamped a hand over his mouth and said lightly, “Our war hero is going to tell you with proper gallantry that we mean to put a period to your brother. But that's not certain, you know. On the other hand, if you refuse to help us…” He glanced over his shoulder, “Rudi, come and hold his arm.”

Distracted, Zoe cried, “How can you be so cruel? Lady Julia, I cannot believe you would—”

“Fight for an ideal?” Lady Julia said, “Ah, but I would, child. The Yervilles have always been ready to lay down their lives when this beloved land was at risk. And she is at risk now. Given away to a German prince who cares not a button for her—or all the centuries of tradition that—”

Cranford tore free from Fowles' clasp and said, “That you are ready to sell to a
French
despot, eh?”

Fowles' grip bit into his shoulder.

Lady Buttershaw swung up a vase and advanced on him, her face red and contorted with fury.

Fowles flung up a hand, warding her off. “What's this?”

Bracksby said, “Pay him no mind. Come now, Miss Grainger. We believe we are doing what is best for England, but we none of us like this sort of ugly business. We'd intended to wait for your brother to—”

“If there has been any dealing with France,” snapped Fowles, “I'll have no—”

“Do not be so shatter-brained as to listen to Cranford!” trumpeted Lady Buttershaw. “You know very well our only arrangement with France is for munitions. Tell him, Julia.”

Lady Yerville looked at her for a moment. “Can you really be such a fool?”

The vase fell from her sister's hand. Her eyes goggling, Lady Buttershaw gasped, “
What
did you
dare
to call me?”

“I called you what you are.”

Lady Julia stood. The gentle invalid had vanished, replaced by a hard-eyed implacable woman.

Staring at her, stunned, Cranford had the brief sensation that nobody in the room was breathing; that they all were in a state of shock.

Still in that cold and remorseless voice, Lady Julia said, “For most of my life you have bullied and browbeaten me, Clara. It was of small importance and in your way I knew you were fond of me, so for the most part I overlooked your nonsense. I even allowed you to believe you were chosen to join the League before me, though that was far from the case.”

Fowles stood as though turned to stone.

Equally immovable, Lady Buttershaw stared at her sister in utter disbelief.

“I have surprised you, I see.” Lady Julia's smile was faint and chilling. “I sought for years for a way to avenge myself on the shallow and cruel society that destroyed me and the man I worshipped. You liked to believe that Percy Gatesford jilted me because I was burned. Not so. His father, aided by our ignoble monarch, forced him to throw me over!” Her pale cheeks flushed, and the big blue eyes glittered with almost maniacal hatred. “His royal majesty dared—
dared
to tell Percy the continuance of his line was more important … more
important
than his love for me…!” She took a deep breath and in a hushed silence leaned back and said in a gentle voice that was more appalling than her hissing fury, “He must pay, do you see? And in this only, Clara, I go my own way—the Squire's way—and will brook no interference from you, or—anyone!”

Cranford thought, ‘We're dead in her eyes. She won't let Zoe or me live after that damning confession!' And he said, “So you mean to give England to a power-mad lunatic like—” His words were choked off as Bracksby seized the wrist of his injured hand.

“We mean to have the Agreement that was stolen,” said Lady Julia, smiling at Zoe. “I really cannot wait any longer, child. Where is your brother?”

Zoe saw Cranford's face twist with pain, and it was more than she could bear. In desperation, she pleaded, “Stop! Please stop! I sent him to Maria Benevento!”

“Barthélemy?”
whispered Fowles, patently horrified.

Lady Julia laughed. “But how delightful. Do you see, Clara, how well our plans have served us? Now pray be so good as to call up my coach. Maria may need our aid.”

Heartsick, Zoe sank onto the sofa.

As if in a daze, Lady Buttershaw nodded and walked to the door. Even as she reached for the latch, it lifted, and Hackham, looking bruised and dishevelled, appeared. He threw a venomous glance at Cranford, and announced, “Mr. Falcon has called, ma'am.”

She slammed the door in his face, whipped around and looked back into the grim room, her eyes dilating. “Julia! I'll not have August harmed!”

“Use some sense, Clara,” said her sister, impatiently. “This is no time to indulge your infatuation for that worthless half-breed!”

Lady Buttershaw's jaw jutted. “Julia … I
warn
you…!”

Lady Julia stood. “Oh, very well. But you must get rid of him quickly.” She glanced at Bracksby and he at once pulled Zoe to her feet.

Freed, Cranford leapt forward, but Lady Julia was close beside the girl. A small dagger glittered in her hand.

She said softly, “Make one sound,
dear
cousin, and this child will pay dearly.”

Zoe whispered, “Perry—she would not!”

But in Lady Julia's pale eyes was the glow of fanaticism and, helpless, he knew that she would.

C
HAPTER
XVI

“But how delightful!” Falcon had followed Hackham part of the way along the corridor, and for Lady Buttershaw all other considerations faded into insignificance. She hastened to intercept him, hand outstretched, and eyes aglow. He bowed and pressed a kiss upon her fingers. Shivering visibly, she simpered, “Such a
frightful
night, and you so gallant as to brave the elements to call upon me.
Dear
August! Come. You cannot yet have dined. We shall have a cozy dinner, tête-à-tête, in my private parlour.” She added with a provocative glance that appalled him, “Upstairs.”

“Tête-à-tête?” His brows lifting, he halted and drawled lazily, “Have I mistaken the matter, then? I'd understood Cranford to say I was to meet him here and that Miss Grainger would join—”

“Silly boy!” Her laugh shrilled out, and she took his arm and leaned as close to him as her wide paniers would allow. “But they have gone, my dear. Mr. Cranford escorted Miss Grainger to dine at Lord Coombs' house.”

Obstinately halted outside the withdrawing room, he bent his head perilously near to her cheek, and breathed, “You sly minx! I think you are a conspirator.”

She was breathlessly still.

Over her shoulder his eyes darted around what he could see of the withdrawing room. Empty. But she had come along this way, and he was sure that the voices he'd heard had been in one of these rooms.

“A … conspirator…?” she echoed with considerably less than her customary resonance.

“With Cupid, wicked one.” He allowed his lips to brush her cheek. “Own it, Clara. Your romantic soul has persuaded that you allow them a moment alone together…”

The unprecedented use of her given name, the touch of his lips sent her heart galloping. Her eyelids drooped and, ecstatic, she swayed to him.