Never Doubt I Love (8 page)

Glendenning said grimly, “It's that damned League, rather! They're chastising us again, Jamie.”

His jaw dropping, Morris gaped at him.

Furlong nodded. “'Tis to be expected, I suppose. We've set ourselves up in opposition to a murderous group of aristocratic traitors, and although they're much more powerful than we are, we've managed to upset their plans several times.”

“So now,” said Glendenning, “they're coming after us.”

Furlong muttered, “Or after our loved ones, heaven help us!”

Shocked, Morris exclaimed, “If ever I heard of such a thing! I mean, ‘a lion don't roar at a butterfly!'”

Furlong stared. Familiar with Morris' maxims, Glendenning said, “I think he means that in a war the soldiers fight
one another.
They don't go after the enemy's innocent families. Is that it, Jamie?”

“Well, of course it is,” said Morris. “Deuce take it, whatever else they may be, they
are
gentlemen, and they must know that sort of thing simply ain't
done!
I mean—it's not
fair play!
I mean—is it?”

Furlong said slowly, “Do you think the League of Jewelled Men observes the rules of fair play? I do not. Unless I mistake it, we're under siege!”

Those ominous words came clearly through the open door to the ears of Peregrine Cranford. It was three years since the Battle of Prestonpans had claimed his right foot, but there had been major setbacks, and stairs were still difficult for him. His friends knew better than to offer assistance, that privilege being reserved solely to his twin, Piers, wherefore James Morris, beset by his own anxieties, had paused only to mutter an incoherent apology before galloping up the steep flight. Following slowly, hating his clumsiness, refusing to acknowledge that he would do so much better with the peg-leg that Florian had carved for him, Cranford had fumed and struggled and, when he at last reached the upper landing, had leaned against the wall for a moment to catch his breath.

Now, his dark brows twitching together, he pushed himself clear of the wall, and walked more or less evenly into the room.

Horatio Glendenning was saying, “We must really have hurt them in the Cornish business, but if our families are at—”

Furlong interrupted heartily, “Hello, Cranford! You didn't say Perry was with you, Jamie.”

There was no criticism in the voice, but Morris flushed scarlet and with a look of schoolboy guilt stammered, “Oh—so I didn't! Forgot! I do beg pardon.”

Assuming the apology to be directed to himself, Cranford advanced to shake hands. “Never scold the clunch, Owen. I forgive him for not announcing my regal presence.” He limped over to the chair Furlong drew forward and asked easily, “What's all this about jewels and a siege?”

He anticipated a light-hearted response and was astonished to see stark consternation in Morris' honest eyes. Furlong, who had started to the credenza, checked for a hair's-breadth, and Glendenning shot a taut glance at his back.

Morris gulped, “Oh—that. Just a—er, joke y'know, dear boy.”

In the same instant, Glendenning said, “Cricket!”

Cranford stiffened. “A match you played in Cornwall?” he asked sweetly.

“Right!” said Morris, relieved.

“No!” said Glendenning simultaneously.

Furlong swore softly, and carried a glass of wine to Cranford. “'Twas something of—of a comedy of errors, Perry,” he said, his brain racing.

“Is what you get for wagering jewels,” purred Cranford. “It
was
jewels you spoke of, no?”

Furlong saw the glint in the blue eyes and tightened his lips.

Morris said brightly, “Fools, dear boy! League of
Fooled
Men, we called 'em.”

Cranford set his untouched wine aside. With a determined effort he managed to stand in a swift, smooth movement, and not to wince when his weight came down awkwardly on the abominable new foot. His head high and his voice chill, he said, “I'll be off, gentlemen. My apologies for having intruded upon a private conversation. Gad, where ever are my manners gone to?”

“Now don't be a gudgeon, Perry,” urged Glendenning, slanting an unhappy look at Furlong. “'Tis only—”

“A personal matter between you.” Cranford bowed. “And none of my bread and butter. I spoke out of turn. I'll leave you—friends—in peace.”

Furlong groaned.

Glendenning said, “We'll have to tell him, Owen!”

Aghast, Morris protested, “Tio, you've known him forever! I'd think you wouldn't want—”

It was the last straw. “Good day,” said Cranford, starting to the door.

Furlong leapt in front of him. “Oh, go and sit down, you uppity fire-eater! I vow you're as hot-at-hand as August Falcon!”

“Oh, no he ain't,” argued Morris. “Perry may be quick to take umbrage—”

“The devil!” exclaimed Cranford, trying to detach Furlong's hand from his arm.

“—but he don't go around challenging half the men in England to duels,” finished Morris.

“I
may,
” said Cranford furiously. “If you don't stand aside, Sir Owen—”

“Heaven help us,” moaned Furlong. “He's flinging my title in my face.”

Glendenning sighed. “Next he'll be ‘my lord-ing' me, which I simply will not bear. If Ross cuts up stiff, I'll take the responsibility. Perry, you recall when Sir Mark Rossiter's banks and shipyards failed, and he swore 'twas a conspiracy?”

Resisting Furlong's efforts to restore him to his chair, Cranford said frigidly, “I believe Sir Mark cleared his name, my lord. Sir Owen, if you will be so kind as to—”

“Yes, but he was
right,
” Furlong persisted. “It
was
a conspiracy, Perry. And part of a much larger plot.”

Cranford's eyes widened. He ceased to resist, and sat down.

“Gideon Rossiter uncovered the ugly mess when he come home from the Low Countries,” put in Morris, abandoning his attempt to protect Cranford. “We were both sent back to England on medical grounds, you'll remember, and I got into it with him.”

In a typically rapid change of mood, Cranford asked eagerly, “What ‘ugly mess'?”

Glendenning picked up the wineglass and thrust it at him. “Sit there like a good boy, and we'll tell you. As briefly as possible. Some wealthy gentlemen have banded together in what we call the League of Jewelled Men. An extreme secret society, that has set about to ruin and disgrace many of our most highly respected and influential citizens.”

“And to acquire their estates,” said Morris.

Cranford took a sip of his wine and argued, “But most such estates would be entailed and unable to be— Oh! I see! You said ‘disgraced.' Do you mean by major crimes? 'Gainst the State?” His eyes gleamed with excitement as Glendenning nodded. “Zounds! In which case I believe the estates could be confiscated and sold for debt! Is that how they go about it?”

“In such instances, exactly so,” said Furlong. “We've discovered that they've also purchased estates that were not entailed. If the owners don't want to sell, they resort to such charming persuasions as blackmail or intimidation, or even murder. We don't know how many unfortunately. We do know they've been responsible for some terrible tragedies.”

Glendenning said, “They're also stirring up public unrest. You'll have noted all the little street flurries of late.”

“Now there's a masterpiece of understatement,” said Cranford. “I was nigh embroiled in a couple of ‘flurries' I'd be more inclined to name full-fledged riots! But, what makes you think your—er, League can be blamed for 'em?”

“We don't think. We know,” Furlong answered gravely. “They're well organized and well funded. They've sent out trained agitators whose task it is to spread discontent. They're expert at whipping the people into a frenzy. As prime examples of the degeneracy and corruption of those in high places, they point to the once-powerful gentlemen they themselves have deliberately disgraced and ruined.”

“Be damned,” muttered Cranford.

“Another of their jolly hobbies is wrecking,” said the viscount. “You've read of all the recent shipping losses?”

Appalled, Cranford exclaimed, “But—that would be wholesale murder! Women, and little children! No, surely, you must be mistaken? What would they have to gain?”

“The cargoes,” said Morris.

“But the cargoes were lost with the ships.”

Furlong shook his head. “Not so, Perry. Morris and Falcon are recently come from Cornwall. They found Johnny Armitage there, and—”

“Armitage? Is he still alive? I thought he went down with his ship about two years ago.”

“And in darkest disgrace, eh? Not so. 'Twas more of the League's brutal work, and succeeded to a point. Armitage had a very ugly two years, poor devil. But—”

Morris put in, “But August and I were able to give him a helping hand.” He grinned at the memory. “'Twas a merry brawl, I can tell you! We caught the League red-handed at their tricks, and found out that the ships' cargoes are stolen
before
sailing! Sooner or later during the voyage, the vessels are scuttled so that the thefts go unsuspected.”

Stunned by the enormity of it, Cranford said haltingly, “And the passengers and crew are sacrificed to greed? No, you never mean it! 'Tis past belief that men could plan so dreadful a thing only for—”

“For a great deal of money,” put in Glendenning. “Which is used to finance their plot to bring down the government!”

Cranford's jaw dropped. He half-whispered, “Bring down … the … You never mean … Is it Bonnie Prince Charlie again? Another Jacobite Uprising? Now—may God in His mercy forbid!”

“Amen,” said Morris solemnly.

Through a long silent moment Cranford scanned one after another of their earnest faces. A frown crept into his eyes, and his fingers tightened around the glass. He demanded, “Do you say that you've set yourselves up alone 'gainst a large organization of insane traitors? Are you all gone demented? Whitehall must be told and—”

Furlong gave a gesture of impatience. “They've been told. Whitehall, and Bow Street, and the Admiralty Board, and the East India Company. But the League's been there before us. They've managed to convince the authorities that we're an irresponsible lot, bored and seeking diversion.”

“Besides being of questionable loyalty,” said Glendenning. “True in my case, as you know, Perry, having helped me out of a few tight corners.”

Remembering some of those “tight corners,” Cranford smiled, but his smile was brief. He murmured, “I wonder so ruthless a lot haven't simply put an end to the lot of you.”

“They've given it a good try,” said Furlong. “Rossiter, Gordon Chandler, Johnny Armitage, all have had narrow escapes.”

Morris nodded solemnly. “And they properly trapped old Tio. Came within a whisker of having his head lopped. And his whole family with him!”

Cranford stiffened, and drawled a chill, “Really? How close you kept it, my good friend.”

Glendenning said hurriedly, “Now pray do not go up in the boughs again. 'Twas beastly sudden. And at all events there was no call to drag you into my latest disaster.”

“Very true.” Cranford limped to the window and gazed unseeingly at the rain-swept streets. “What have jewels to do with it?”

Furlong said, “I fancy their ranks number in the hundreds now, but the identities of the six masterminds are kept secret, even from each other. With their heads at stake, they take no risks. We've learned they wear masks at their meetings, and each of them carries a small jewelled token by way of identification. The leader, or the Squire as he is called, may be the only man to know who they all are.”

Cranford made no comment, but his lips tightened.

The afternoon was drawing in. Through a brief silence, Furlong took a taper to the fire and went about lighting candles.

Cranford said, “I'm with you, of course.” Reflected in the glass, he saw the swift and apprehensive glance exchanged by the other three men, and his hand gripped tight on the handle of the casement. “And now that I'm one of you,” he drawled, turning to face them, “I think you must play fair and tell me the rest.”

Morris blinked at him. “The—rest?”

“Who they are. Who is their leader.”

“Oh,” said Morris, avoiding everyone's eyes. “That ‘rest.' Er—well, the truth is—”

“That—alas, we don't yet know,” interposed Glendenning.

“Is that so?” Cranford said silkily, “I'd have thought by this time you must have some suspicions at least.”

Furlong hesitated. “The charges are too deadly to be—er, made without any real proof, but—”

Cranford's cool poise vanished. Flushed with rage, he snarled, “Have done with your lies! A jolly time you've had with me, and I so gullible as to believe you for a while! You fabricated the whole nonsensical tale just for my benefit, did you? Very amusing! Ha, ha!”

Glendenning drew a hand across his eyes. “He's off again! I warn you, Owen—”

“Oh, by all means, warn him.” Cranford stamped recklessly to the door. “Poor fellows—what lengths you were obliged to resort to only to shut me out of whatever you're really about! I'll give you all credit for lurid imaginations!”

At his most judicial, Furlong drawled, “If your temper's this uncontrollable, perhaps—”

Cranford cut him off savagely. “It ain't my
temper
you're concerned with. I saw you all taking your—your blasted silent vote and deciding a feeble cripple wasn't up to snuff! Well, never fret, gentlemen! Your private club will not be burdened by—by such an encumbrance as my useless self! I wash my hands of the lot of you!” Flinging the door open, he stalked through it, and tossed a furious and somewhat muddled farewell over his shoulder. “I give you good day. And you may go to the devil!”