Never Doubt I Love (41 page)

Lady Julia held up her frail hand, silencing what promised to be a lengthy monologue. Looking with great sad eyes at Zoe, she pleaded, “Why, dear child? Why must you treat me so unkindly, after all we have—” She broke off.

Falcon, leaning back against a table, was clapping his hands. “Jolly well done, m'dear,” he said mockingly. “You missed a great career in the theatre!”

For just an instant Lady Julia's martyred gentleness slipped.

Watching her keenly, Lord Hayes thought, ‘Good Lord!' He said, “In view of the seriousness of the charges, and the fact that similar charges have been made before this, I fear we have no choice but to refer the matter to—”

“You may refer the matter to his gracious Majesty, for all we care,” roared Lady Buttershaw, her face dangerously red. “But I will be
damned,
my lord, if I will allow you to upset my sister further. In case it has escaped you, sir, Lady Julia Yerville is an
invalid!
I will say without equivocation that any man who could look upon her pitiful frailty and suspect her capable of engaging in treason and violence has a seriously disordered intellect and should be put under strong restraint! Now—be so good as to take yourself and your unpleasant acquaintances from my house, sir! AT—ONCE!”

“You know,” drawled Falcon as they all returned to the waiting coaches, “you have to admire the woman, if only for her colossal gall.”

Mopping his brow, Morris said unsteadily, “You admire her because she admires you. For myself, being a mere mortal man, she scares me to death!”

Cranford handed Zoe into the coach. “She won that round, certainly. I wonder if we have made any headway at all.”

As he sat beside her, Zoe said, “How could they doubt us? After all that my brother was able to tell them, besides what we said. And when I think of poor Sir Owen…” She shook her head regretfully.

Climbing in and taking the opposite seat, Falcon said, “Poor Sir Owen made mice feet of the business by allowing sentiment to blind him to reality.”

Indignant, Zoe exclaimed, “How can you be so unkind? He
loved
her! And he lies there, breaking his poor heart and blaming himself—”

“As he should. No man with half a brain, m'dear lady, would allow himself to become so attached to someone that he could be reduced to such a pitiable condition.”

Morris seated himself next to Falcon and said with a grin, “What he's really saying, Miss Zoe, is ‘If you can't find the right button, sew up the buttonhole!'”

“Oh—
Egad!
” snarled Falcon.

Cranford smiled, and patted Zoe's hand as the coach began to move off. “Never fret, ma'am. Had the ball hit an inch to the right, 'twould have pierced the lung and we'd be burying him. But luckily, the lady is a poor shot.”

Zoe sighed. “Or a very good one.”

“Either way,” said Morris, “Owen's pluck to the backbone. He'll make a recover.”

“
He
may,” said Falcon. “The question is—will we? Without that da—er, without that Agreement, I doubt the great East India Company director believed a word we said.”

Morris snorted, “If you were to ask my opinion—”

“Extreme unlikely,” said Falcon.

“—the mighty director,” Morris persisted, “couldn't direct a starving flea to a fat dog!”

There was laughter at this, but Cranford said, “That may be so, but d'you know, Jamie, I think Skye believed us.”

“Oh, splendid!” drawled Falcon. “Exactly what we need. The backing of a young naval subaltern. Mercy, but the Squire must be shaking in his shoes!”

Zoe said loyally, “You may mock, Mr. Falcon, but I agree with Peregrine. And it seemed to me that Lord Hayes did not regard us with disgust, either.”

Cranford thanked her for her support, and asked with proper nonchalance if he was to be permitted to escort her back to Richmond.

She blushed and said shyly that he was very kind but it was not really necessary, since Gorton and Cecil Coachman awaited her at the Inn of the Silver Cat.

“As you wish,” said Cranford, and concentrated on the passing scene.

Morris opened his mouth, met Falcon's ironic stare, and closed it again.

*   *   *

The following day Gideon Rossiter returned to Town. He was a tall, lean young man with thick, curling brown hair and a pair of intelligent grey eyes. He had been distracted with worry because of his enforced absence from Town, and was aghast when his friends apprised him of the latest developments in their battle against the League. He went at once to the Madrigal to visit Furlong. He had himself spent a year of misery in hospitals after being severely wounded in the War of the Austrian Succession, and he seated himself beside the sickbed and looked down at the drawn face on the pillows with understanding and compassion.

“How do you go on, my poor fellow?”

Still very weak, Furlong turned his head away. “I properly—let you down, Gideon. That—that damnable Agreement was in my hand! Did you know? With it, we could have borken the League! And I—I allowed it to be—”

“I'd scarce call getting a hole blown through you
‘allowing'
—”

Sir Owen interrupted wretchedly, “I don't know what they've told you. I collect they tried to spare my feelings. The truth is—”

“Now, Owen, do have some sense,” said Rossiter with a smile. “Can you picture Falcon trying to spare anyone's feelings?”

“I can guess that … he must hold me in—deepest contempt.”

Rossiter said gently, “I think August has not yet known what love is. Or the power of it.” Meeting Furlong's haggard eyes, he added, “I have, you see. So I've a fair notion of what you're going through. Did they tell you she had put a pillow under your head, and tried to apply a bandage?”

Not trusting himself to speak, Furlong managed a slight nod.

Rossiter said, “Perhaps you should consider that 'twas a very sad case of your simply being on opposite sides. Two people, neither of them evil, bound by ties that were impossible to break. From what I've heard, I rather suspect this has been almost as hard on the lady, as on you.”

Furlong moved his hand feebly, and Rossiter took it in a firm, cool grip.

“Gideon,” said Furlong, his voice shredding, “you're such a—a blasted good friend. I am—so
sorry!
”

“That will not do, sir!” Rossiter drew back, man-like, from all this soul-bearing. “Did you know that little Miss Grainger overheard a woman declare that the Squire is ready to strike? Or that the fragile Lady Julia Yerville has warned us of
châtiment quatre?
Hurry up and get well, dear old boy, we need you! I believe that our fourth chastisement may very well pull us into a fight to the finish!”

*   *   *

The room at the Horse Guards was cold and quiet. Waiting, Lord Hayes glanced over interlocked fingers at the men seated around the table. In addition to himself and his aide, some of the most powerful gentlemen in government had gathered here. An admiral, his usually agreeable features reflecting irritation; a thickset, craggy-faced general; a gravely dignified cabinet minister; a highly regarded diplomatist; a prominent member of the House of Lords; and a bushy-browed and quarrelsome-looking member of Parliament.

Hayes prodded, “Well, gentlemen? You've heard it all.”

“Aye, and we've heard it all before,” said Admiral Anson, frowning. “Or I have, at least. Six months ago young Gideon Rossiter was filling my ears with the same tale, more or less.”

“And did you believe any of it, sir?” asked Hayes.

The admiral hesitated. “At the risk of sounding gullible, I must admit I was concerned. The trouble is, they've nothing to back their allegations. And one does not make unfounded charges 'gainst a belted earl, a fabulously wealthy baron, a highly regarded landed gentleman. Least of all, 'gainst a gentle, long-suffering
invalid
lady, who is admired and respected throughout the
ton,
and her sister, who—well, God help us all! Of course, had they anything more than conjecture and some odd coincidences…”

The Honourable Mr. Willis-Formby, a frown on his lofty brow, said thoughtfully, “They've the sworn testimony of some very-well-born young fellows.”

“Almost every one of whom has something smoky in his background,” argued General Early, glowering at the cabinet minister, whom he privately considered to be an intellectual do-nothing.

Sir Jones Holmesby's well-modulated voice was raised. “And one of whom, with nothing in the least smoky in his background, has an astonishing faculty of memory, and from all I can gather was damn near murdered for his efforts to bring a treasonable document all the way from Calcutta.”

Lord Hayes leaned forward. “I agree. I also was sceptical at first, I'll own. But there cannot be all this smoke without a flicker of flame
somewhere,
gentlemen. Dare we ignore these warnings?”

“We certainly cannot deny that London's streets are becoming ever more violent,” observed Lord Tiberville, whose nervous tic and high-pitched fretful voice belied a fine mind. “Street riots are practically a daily occurrence, and the public is unprecedentedly hostile to any figure of rank or authority.”

“Being stirred up,” barked Henry Church, Esquire, thumping a fat fist on the table. “Egged on! Blasted revolutionaries!”

“Which is exactly what Rossiter and his people claim.” Hayes nodded to his nephew and the lieutenant stood.

“Gentlemen, at Lord Hayes' request, one of London's most venerable journalists is here.” Skye saw storm clouds on several faces and went on hurriedly, “A man who has his pulse on the Metropolis, if anyone does.” He went to the door and ushered in the “venerable journalist.”

Sir Jonas Holmesby smiled faintly.

“Oh,” grunted the Member of Parliament, mollified. “How do, Talbot?”

Ramsey Talbot bowed. “My lords … gentlemen.”

A little flushed, Lord Tiberville said dryly, “Give you good day, Ramsey. Hayes says you've your finger on London's pulse. I thought I had. Be glad to hear your views.”

Ramsey Talbot glanced around the group and laid his tricorne on the table. Not taking the seat Skye offered, he said sardonically, “D'ye know, I doubt that, my lord. But I'll give 'em to you, anyhow.”

He spoke for fifteen minutes.

When the door closed behind him, there was a short silence.

“Zounds…,” muttered Admiral Anson. “I'd not realized it had gone that far.”

Sir Jonas mopped his pale brow and said solemnly, “Hayes is right, gentlemen. We must act!”

They were, at last, in agreement, and there ensued a debate upon when, where, and how the action should take place. An hour later they were again agreed, if not quite unanimously.

November had arrived. The holiday season was fast approaching, and many members of the cabinet and the Horse Guards were already deep in festive plans. But action would be taken. After Christmas.

Having reached this decision they filed out well pleased with themselves, as evidenced by a burst of talk and cheerful laughter.

Admiral Anson, Lord Hayes, and Skye remained.

They looked at each other in silence.

The admiral shook his head.

The lieutenant, his dark eyes glittering wrath, swore under his breath.

Lord Hayes said softly, “My poor England … how does she ever survive?”

C
HAPTER
XVII

The wind was frigid, and occasional drops of sleet drove at Cranford's face as he rode towards London Bridge. It was stupid to be going down to Richmond again. Already the turnpike keepers at the toll gates were beginning to greet him like an old friend. It was a long ride, and were it not for the fact that he meant to be on hand in case Rossiter needed him, he'd take a room somewhere and stay down there. “And for what?” he thought gloomily. To hover about for hours on the lane leading to Lady Minerva Peckingham's estate, hoping to catch a glimpse of the sweet little face he missed so terribly? Stupid! But then, he seemed unusually adept at stupidity. He had, for example, imagined himself to be in love with Loretta Laxton, who had proven to be fickle and without kindness. And yet he could not look back on their brief
affaire de coeur
and fail to be grateful to the lady. She had, as his twin had tried to warn him, used him to advance herself socially, but whatever her reasons, for a little while she had made him happy. And, to be fair, his affection for her had been scarcely less shallow, to a large part built on pride that so admired a beauty would glance his way. Certainly, he had experienced not one iota of the deep hallowed devotion that is real love. A gentle, outrageous, unaffected, incredibly valiant country girl had brought him that wondrous joy, when she'd crept unbidden into his heart and made it her own.

He sighed heavily. But no more than Loretta did Zoe want him. His proposal had, in fact, embarrassed her. The memory made him wince, and he thought bitterly, ‘Small wonder, you sorry fool,' and once more acknowledged that it was the height of stupidity to try again; to risk the deeper and final hurt.

He'd been stupid these past four days, to no avail. He never seemed to be there when Zoe drove out, but he was determined to persist, and to improve upon his first and so horribly clumsy proposal. This time, he would be smoothly assured; in full possession of himself. No halting, awkward words, none of that unmanning inward terror. Poised and debonair—as August might be at such a moment. He had several scenarios ready for use in the unlikely event he should encounter her. In the first, he would say airily that he'd just come down to discover how her brother went on—and pray she didn't simply tell him and drive on. In the second, he would be astounded, and say he'd been visiting friends and had not dreamt Lady Peckingham dwelt nearby. That one was a touch chancy, because she might ask him to name the friends … The third scheme called for his bringing a great bouquet of roses, dropping to one knee beside her coach, and telling her how much he adored … worshipped … loved her with all his heart. He sighed. Which was perfectly true. He'd actually bought the great bouquet of roses once, and they'd been dashed costly, because the season was done. They'd also been very cumbersome across his saddle bow, and had evoked some rude comments from stray children and a couple of impertinent yokels. He had scratched himself on the thorns, and on being splattered with the mud thrown up by a passing carriage it had dawned on him that if he knelt in the road, not only would Zoe not even be able to see him, but he'd likely get covered with mud and look a proper figure of fun as her coach rolled on past him. The fourth scenario made his throat close up with fright whenever he tried to rehearse it. So all he'd done thus far was to skulk about like a lovesick idiot and prepare himself for another rejection. It would be final, for in that dreadful event he must respect her decision, and abandon hope.