Love Alters Not

by Patricia Veryan

  Behind her, another casement screeched. Another nightcap appeared. “Give yer dratted writin’ to un, fer pity’s sake,” cried a woman, irately.

  A light glowed from the next cottage and the front door swung open. “Will ye please to be givin’ himself the letter, me darlin’,” yawned an Irish gentleman in a long nightshirt with a tattered tricorne on his bald head, “and let a body sleep.”

  The window opposite was flung wide. A round-faced man roared, “Woman, he is Pruitt! Can ye not read the sign?”

  All along the street candles were glowing and windows opening to the accompaniment of a babble of talk. Guiltily, Dimity hurried to thrust her letter into the frail, trembling hand. “What sign?” she asked.

  He leaned farther out of the window. “She can’t see the sign,” he screamed.

  Shouts of mirth rang out. A woman called distantly, “What’d she say about the Portsmouth Machine?”

  “Go back to bed, Millie. Does ye wake up Hezekiah, we’ll not hear the end of’t!”

  Dimity dragged herself into the saddle. Starting off, she glanced back. Faintly, through the shadow cast by the moon, she saw that the entire side of the cottage was painted in huge letters, “PRUITT’S SWEET SHOPPE.”

  “Oh, dear!” she murmured, and touched her heels to the mare’s side.

  For quite some time she could hear them calling to each other. The last remark that reached her ears was an irate assessment of people who changed the names of vehicles as had been knowed as Portsmouth Machines fer a thousand years and more.

  She was almost asleep when she approached The Palfreys, which may have accounted for the fact that she did not see the quiet dark shape that blocked the drivepath until she was almost upon him. He sat there, unmoving, like the figure of doom.

  If it was the horrid Captain Holt, she thought, suddenly wide awake, she was as good as beheaded. If it was Anthony Farrar, she was likely about to be strangled. In a thin, quavering voice she called, “Who … is there?”

  A moment of silence, then a laughing voice cried, “Ah, the dashing Mrs. Deene! Now here’s a happy meeting!”

  She drew a breath of relief. “Mr. Ellsworth! My goodness, but you startled me.”

  He walked his horse up, dismounted, and doffed his tricorne, his wig sleek and gleaming in the moonlight. “Faith, but you’re a pretty creature,” he said admiringly.

  Wary, she asked, “Whatever are you doing here at this hour?”

  “Oh, my friend’s dogs are loose and I was afraid they might have come this way. Didn’t want my dear aunt troubled by any more uproars.” A few paces closer and he said softly, “You’re out and about rather late yourself, lovely lady. Meeting the fellow who came calling this afternoon, perchance?”

  It was quite obvious that he thought her a trollop. And who could blame him? But the moonlight revealed the dark bruise along his jaw, and the memory of his disgraceful conduct stiffened her back. “Captain Holt came to see me because—”

  “So that’s the way of it!” He laughed. “I’d the feeling you were not what you seemed. Spying, ma’am? I’ve heard the Intelligence people use females these days, but what would bring you to The Palfreys? I’d think the case against my craven cousin is clear enough.”

  It was ridiculous, but she had the feeling he was deadly serious. And perhaps it was better that he believe such nonsense than suspect the truth. “If I were truly working for the army, sir, I would scarce tell you so.”

  He stared at her thoughtfully. “Do you know what else I think…?” He lunged at her, his arm whipped around her waist and she was torn from the saddle. She gave a squeak of shock, and fought wildly to free herself. He staggered for an instant, but his arms were steel. He bent low over her. “Egad, but you’re a ripe plum, and all widows are willing, they say…”

  “Not this one,” gritted Dimity, pushing against him frenziedly.

  He nibbled her earlobe, crushing her so close she could scarcely breathe. “Why pretend?” he said huskily, kissing his way down her throat. “You may not be a willing widow, but you’re far from an innocent maid—come, yield to me, lovely one, and—”

  He intercepted her tossing head; his mouth closed down hard over hers. She could smell ale, and she felt sickened and half smothered, and kept her lips clamped shut and unresponsive to his attempts to win her cooperation. His hand was busy at her bodice. He chuckled, “You’re a cool one, but I warrant I can warm you up.”

  His handsome face, his purring voice, revolted her. Thrusting away that violating hand, she said fiercely, “I belong to another, Mr. Ellsworth.”

  He kissed her lightly. “A change is often beneficial, sweeting.”

  “And besides,” she said, “I cannot admire anyone who would draw steel ’gainst an unarmed man.”

  He stiffened. An ugly light came into his eyes, and Dimity was afraid, but she managed to wrench free, and said steadily, “I’ve a grudge against Farrar myself, but I deplore your methods, Mr. Ellsworth.”

  “My methods!” He laughed jeeringly. “But yours are fair and aboveboard, eh? You little shrew! Oho, but I think you’re one to be handled firmly!”

  “I prefer not to be handled at all! I bid you good night, sir.” She took up the mare’s reins and walked swiftly towards the stableyard, her heart hammering, expecting at any second to hear him running up behind her, and resolved she would scream if he tried to force her again.

  Instead, she heard a low chuckle, then he called, “Sleep sound, little widow, but do not become too ambitious; ’twould be most unwise.”

  Receding hoofbeats told her he was leaving. She gave a smothered sob and started to run, but her nerves threatened to give way, and she made herself walk steadily across the yard and into the silent barn. Farrar’s big half-broken grey stallion woke up and eyed her suspiciously. Shaking, Dimity unsaddled the mare, and rubbed her down with a handful of hay before leaving the stall and closing the gate softly behind her.

  Exhausted, she slumped against it, closing her eyes, feeling as though she was being drawn deeper and deeper into a morass from which there would be no escape. She started to the house, so weary she could barely set one foot before the other. The rear door did not squeak when she opened it, and she slipped inside and crept to the stairs.

  A sharp grating sound and a flame sprang to life. She gave a small, despairing cry. Anthony Farrar, clad only in shirt, breeches, and shoes, lit a candle and held it out to her. “Would you wish me to escort you to your chamber, Mrs. Deene?” he sneered. “You must be ready for bed. One way or another.”

  “I-I just went out for—a breath of air…” she said feebly.

  His smile unpleasant, he balanced the candlestick on the post at the foot of the stairs. “I saw you. I wonder you’ve any breath left. I’ll own I find Phillip Ellsworth’s taste consistent.” The deep eyes slid down her with a contempt that made her feel shamed and unclad. His hands shot out and clamped bruisingly on her arms. He grated savagely, “What are you about, you scheming, lying little jade?”

  Tears welled into her eyes, which maddened her, and she was so tired, that she ached with weariness. There was small hope of convincing him, but she said in a choked voice, “I did not go to meet him. I—”

  “Liar! I saw him kissing you. He’s in this ugly plot with you, is that it? Tell me the truth, for once, or I’ll—”

  “Do what?” she sobbed. “Maul and abuse me, as your filthy cousin did? Go on, then! I might know you’re no better than he, to treat a lady so, when—”

  “Lady, is it?” He laughed harshly. “Harlot, more like! A scheming baggage who seeks to steal that to which she has no right! A conniving … cheating…” He had drawn her very close now, and the rageful words were uttered just a breath from her lips. They faded into silence. Desire came into his eyes, and once again, Dimity knew she was going to be kissed by a man she scarcely knew. She had no will to resist. Only, of course, because she was so tired; there could be no other reason. Farrar’s lips closed over hers. It was the o
ddest thing, but it was not at all abusive. His hands relaxed their grip and his arms slid about her, which seemed perfectly agreeable. It didn’t matter that she could not breathe or that her ribs were being reduced to powder. She was warm and dreamy and content, save that her heart was beginning to beat its way through her crushed ribs. A fiercely intense wish that he not stop dizzied her. She swayed weakly when he raised his head and drew back.

  He stared at her. The expression of contempt had quite vanished. He looked bewildered and oddly vulnerable.

  Suddenly, Dimity was terrified. With a stifled sob, she snatched the candleholder and fled up the stairs. At the top, she peeped over the railing.

  He was still standing there, gazing after her like a man bewitched.

  * * *

  Jane Guild heard the galloping hooves and sprang from the chair in the withdrawing room, her embroidery falling unheeded as she sped into the hall. Peddars sprinted past and flung open the front door, and Mrs. Burrows, her sleeves rolled up and her arms covered with flour, waddled from the kitchen hall and came puffingly to peer around the footman. The horseman raced around the curve of the drivepath to rein up with a flurry of pebbles and dirt clods. Miss Guild whispered, “Thank God!” and went out onto the steps.

  Billy came running from the side yard and Piers Cranford tossed the reins to him and was up the steps in one long stride. With a muffled sob, Jane threw herself into his arms.

  He said, “Then there is something wrong!”

  “Yes, yes. But how you knew…” She smiled up at him wonderingly. “Did you sense that Perry was in trouble?”

  He kissed her and kept his arm about her as they walked into the house. “Not bad trouble, I hope?”

  He gave hat, whip, and gloves to Peddars, closed the withdrawing room door, and faced his aunt, his blue eyes anxious. “Everyone looks so strained. For the love of God, what— No, never mind. Let’s go up to Perry, then you both can tell me at once.”

  Her hand on his arm restrained him. “He’s not there, dearest. Oh, for mercy’s sake do not be vexed. We have done as best we knew how. Only sit down and I will tell you what a dreadful fix we are in…”

  Five minutes later, Piers sat very still and silent. Watching him nervously, Miss Guild finished, “So Sudbury and Peregrine have searched high and low these three days.”

  “My … God!” he whispered. “And—no sign?”

  “Not a whisper of her. Perry went off again this morning. He is so tired, but— Oh, how glad I am that you have come! Poor Tio just lies there, and—and I really don’t … know what to do.”

  Her voice cracked. Piers pulled himself together and crossed to lift her to her feet and give her a hug. “You’ve done splendidly. Let’s go up and see him.”

  They entered the bedchamber quietly. Glendenning lay motionless and, save for his extreme pallor and the bandages about his untidy auburn head, might have been thought to be fast asleep. Samuels, who had been reading beside the bed, closed the book and sprang up as they entered, exclaiming fervently, “Thank Gawd you come, sir!”

  Piers gripped his arm, then bent over his friend. “Poor old fellow. Has he said nothing at all since you found him?”

  Miss Guild murmured sadly, “A few jumbled words at first, nothing understandable save for the name Green, but not even a movement since early yesterday morning.”

  “He looks very bad. Did the ball go through?”

  “No, thank heaven! We thought at first it had, for there was so much blood, you know. But it was a deep score along the side of his head.”

  “You did not call a physician?”

  “Dearest, we dared not!”

  Piers drew up a chair for her, then leaned on it, staring miserably at Glendenning. “Damned idiot,” he sighed. “If you were acting for Treve de Villars…” He swore under his breath. “My sister has led them off, all right, bless her brave heart. By Jupiter, but when we find her, I’ll break her neck!”

  A halting step was heard on the stairs, and the murmur of voices. The door was thrown wide. Peregrine hobbled in, looking drawn and weary, but his blue eyes brightening when he saw his brother. “What brought you home?” he asked, wringing Piers’ hand crushingly. “I’d not have thought Peale would have had time to find you.”

  “So you sent him, did you? No, he’s likely searching Town for me, poor chap.” Piers pushed him into the chair and leaned on the end of the bed. “For some inexplicable reason I’d the strong notion something was not well with you. Now I find it is nothing more than that you’ve let my sister rush herself into high treason, ’pon my word!” He saw Peregrine wince sharply, and cuffed his shoulder. “Dimwit! I know you’d no part in it. Mitten should be strangled, but I’ll own I’m dashed proud of her!”

  “And I. Though she must have tribes of woodworms between her ears to essay such a madcap trick!” Peregrine ran a hand across his eyes and muttered, “Had she not tried to protect me— No, don’t eat me, I’ll say no more on that suit, but—we’ve searched for miles around … My God! If—if she’s—”

  Piers said bracingly, “You great fool, if she were dead or arrested, we would have dragoons here! Lord knows whom she’s inveigled into helping her, but I’ll lay you odds we’ll—” He stopped abruptly.

  His lordship was moving restlessly.

  Samuels fairly sprang to bend over the bed and murmur a gentle, “Master Tio?”

  Glendenning opened his eyes and blinked at him painfully. In a very faint voice, he said, “That you … Sam? Piers! What—the deuce…”

  “Tio,” said Peregrine. “You makebait! Where the devil have you sent my sister?”

  Glendenning made an effort to sit up and fell back, panting. “Did you—get it there safe?”

  “Easy, old fellow.” Piers shot an irked glance at Peregrine and held Lord Horatio’s shoulders down.

  Peregrine said in a calmer voice, “My memory is at fault. What was I to take? And where?”

  His quiet words wrought even more havoc. His drawn face twisting with horror, his shadowed eyes dilating, the sick man struggled against Piers’ restraining hands. “You forget?” he raved wildly. “Damn you! How—how can you forget? The cypher, you dolt! The cypher! Did you— Did you—deliver…” He groaned, clutching his injured head.

  Miss Guild pushed her disastrous nephews away and eased Glendenning back onto his pillows. “Of course he did. There, my dear, never be so distressed. Peregrine simply could not recollect the name of the man who … Oh dear, I’m afraid he’s going off again.”

  His eyes closing, Glendenning whispered, “Glad … it’s done. Does—my father…?” And with a sigh, he sank from consciousness.

  Piers muttered, “Well, at least he’s alive. I suppose you have sent word to his illustrious—” He leapt from one invalid to the other. “Perry, old lad! What is it? Is that damnable foot—”

  Peregrine straightened in the chair and lowered the hands that had covered his face. “The cypher!” he groaned. “Dear Lord, why did I not guess? You must be aware every dragoon in England is after it, and God knows how many bounty hunters!”

  Piers exchanged a frightened look with his aunt, and it would have been hard to judge whose face was paler. He stammered, “I recall—some weeks back there was a flurry about a—a poem or some such nonsense, but—”

  “Nonsense, is it?” Peregrine leaned forward. “Quentin Chandler is rumoured to have carried one of the stanzas, and got out of England by the skin of his teeth, and half dead! There is a reward of a hundred guineas for information leading to the arrest of any Jacobite found with the cypher on his person! Can you guess the ferocity with which the poor devil is hunted? And now … now my sister has it!”

  Miss Guild wet suddenly dry lips. “Cypher? But—you said ’twas a poem.”

  “It is. In four separately despatched stanzas. Each is said to contain a clue to the whereabouts of the treasure Charles Stuart amassed to finance his Cause.”

  “If that foolish boy had a treasure,” said Miss Guild, wh
o had a soft spot in her heart for the handsome prince, “why ever did he not use it?”

  “It could not be converted into cash in Scotland, so they tried to get it over to France.”

  “I wish them joy of that endeavour,” Piers inserted grimly. “The fleet prowls the waters ’twixt here and France, and I’ve heard a minnow cannot pass but what they search it!”

  “Exactly so. Wherefore the treasure was diverted to England, the hope being to ship it from here, unsuspected. That plan failed also, for the Cause was lost ’fore ever the treasure could be put aboard ship.”

  “And—now?”

  “The Jacobites mean to try and restore it to the original donors. Oh, never look so astonished, Aunt. Half the poor devils are starving and dispossessed for their sympathies. The return of their valuables would mean the difference between life or death to many.”

  Samuels put in dourly, “And the knowledge they’d contributed, an even surer death, to my way of thinking!”

  The twins, who had forgotten he was present, stared at him.

  Piers thought, ‘The devil! Well, too late to be cautious now,’ and said, “I still do not see. Why the cyphers?”

  “Besides,” said Jane Guild, “it seems to me far more dangerous to have sent out four messages instead of one.”

  Peregrine shrugged. “Had a single letter containing all the information fallen into the wrong hands, they’d have the whole. As it is, even if a courier is taken, the military or whoever gets him will have only one stanza, and without the other three, the chances of decoding are judged impossible.”

  Piers had been watching his brother narrowly. “You makebait,” he said, low and furious. “You—damned—stupid—makebait!”

  Peregrine flushed scarlet and stared at the bedpost.

  Miss Guild sighed. “I’d the same thought, Piers. He is involved.”

  “You were to meet Tio—is that it? How deep are you in this, twin?”

  Peregrine said defensively, “I promised to help Tio only if he called on me. I know about the cypher because—a friend told me of it.”