Love Alters Not

by Patricia Veryan

  “Tony,” sighed Otton, shaking his handsome head ruefully. “Would you knock an old comrade down for accepting your lady aunt’s kind invitation?”

  “’Twould give me the greatest pleasure.”

  Otton regarded that grim face thoughtfully. “Do you know, I really believe you would. And thus.” He spread his slender hands in a faintly French gesture, turned to Lady Helen, and bowed low. “As always, your hospitality is a joy, ma’am, but—” he shrugged. “Que faire? I must depart lest I bring you more grief. Adieu, mesdames.”

  Tearful and quivering with rage, Lady Helen said, “Roland—I … I have never been so—”

  He kissed her fingertips. “But you must not distress yourself over so little a thing. Anthony has a good enough reason, for I am the rogue he believes me, you know. No—you don’t know. But, believe it, dear ma’am, and do not scold him too harshly.”

  She smiled at him mistily.

  “Otton,” gritted Farrar, “you try my patience.”

  Otton chuckled and, swinging his quizzing glass, meandered towards the stables. He called over his shoulder, “Have you had Rump saddled for me, Tony?”

  “I have.”

  “Merci beaucoup. Cheerio, old fellow.”

  “Good-bye,” said Farrar with finality.

  Dimity, who had been frozen with embarrassment, slipped towards the steps, but stopped as Lady Helen moved regally in the same direction.

  Farrar followed his aunt. “Ma’am, I beg you will forgive the need for—”

  She rounded on him, pale and furious. “There was no need! No possible justification for you to cancel my invitation. Whatever Roland may have done, how dare you of all people—stand in judgement on him?”

  He halted, gazing up at her. “I know I have brought you shame and—and disappointment, but—”

  “Disappointment?” she echoed, and laughed rather hysterically, such a wealth of disgust in the sound that he winced.

  Low-voiced he said, “What I did was—is past forgiveness, I know. But, it was not done with cold and calculated cruelty, nor for personal gain, and—”

  Lost in fury, my lady interpolated, “Are you very sure of that, Farrar?”

  His tall figure jerked as though she had struck him. There was a short, terrible silence, during which it seemed to the appalled girl that her heartbeats must be audible. Then, Farrar gave a strangled cry and reached out to grasp his aunt’s arm.

  “My God! You cannot think … You could not believe … Dear Lord! How could you stay here, thinking I—”

  Lady Helen pulled away. “I stayed only so as not to give the gossips grist for their mills. But—now that you dare to dictate whom I may or may not welcome here, I can stay no longer. I shall—”

  “No!” His hand went out again as though to touch her, but was withdrawn when she jerked back. “I—beg of you. Do not go. You need not speak to me. I’ll stay out of your sight as much as possible. But—please do not go.”

  “You have left me no alternative. I shall leave so soon as I can complete other arrangements.” She made her way with dignity up the steps but, despite herself, tears glistened on her cheeks.

  For a moment, Farrar watched her retreating figure. Then, without a word or a glance to indicate that he was aware of Dimity’s presence, he turned and walked away, Shuffle at once springing up and following. His head was bowed, his shoulders sagged, and he did not seem to notice when his feet left the path and stumbled through a flower bed.

  He looked, Dimity thought, a broken man, whose last hope has been snatched away.

  * * *

  It was late and Roland Otton was tired when he guided his tall chestnut horse into the yard of the White Dragon posting house on the Salisbury Road. Having made provision for Rumpelstiltskin, he proceeded to the dining room and was doing justice to some tender roast beef and fried potatoes when a shadow fell across his plate. Without looking up, he invited, “By all means, cousin.”

  Captain Jacob Holt threw gloves and tricorne onto the opposite settle and sat down. “Well?”

  “Not markedly.”

  Holt called for a tankard of ale. “I’d fancied you would wangle a dinner invitation, at the least.”

  “So I did. Farrar squashed it.” Otton sighed. “Firmly.”

  “Lord! From what I’ve heard, one might suppose the fellow would be grateful did a buzzman offer to sit at his board.” Otton looked aggrieved, and Holt chuckled. “My apologies. No simile intended.”

  “To an extent you’re right, Jacob. Farrar would, I think, have accepted a pickpocket rather than myself. Fellow holds a grudge.”

  The devil-may-care look had vanished, and Holt regarded with curiosity a seldom-seen grimness. “Which disturbs you, I see. I wonder why. You know, Roly, I have always felt there was a deal more to that business with Quentin Chandler than I knew.”

  A pause, and then Otton answered slowly, “I’ve few friends, Jacob, but among ’em is a thoroughly decent fellow who calls me a rogue, but says he also names me friend because he knows me better than I do.” His smile was brief and held a rueful quality that astounded his cousin. “I think I am a rogue. Certainly, I am a dedicated villain. But—I have never been so thoroughly the latter as in my dealings with Chandler. It—disturbs me sometimes.”

  Regarding the pensive countenance with interest, Holt prompted, “You fought him, I know—though you have never said where the duel took place. There is nothing despicable in fighting a traitor, and if that is all—”

  “I wish it were.” Otton gave an impatient shrug and said brightly, “I don’t hold it against him that he proved the better swordsman, wherefore I lay abed for a month. He is safe away to France with—his love. It is over. Nothing I did would have changed the outcome.”

  The sleepy waiter carried over a tankard and yawned ostentatiously. Holt drank deep and ignored him. “Farrar’s a pretty one to be criticizing others,” he grunted, setting the tankard down and wiping his mouth fastidiously. “How much lower could a gentleman sink than to be a cowardly deserter?”

  Almost, he thought his cousin flinched, but he decided he must have been mistaken when the merry light returned to the dark eyes. Otton said lightly, “I’m no longer considered a gentleman, thank heaven. And—to business. Jacob, I could catch no whiff of a concealed rebel, but—” he shook a slice of potato at the officer, “there is a luscious chit at The Palfreys calling herself Mrs. Deene.”

  “Yes. I’m aware.” Holt’s chilly blue gaze narrowed. “You think she uses a false identity?”

  “As to that, I cannot say, but I’d venture a guess she is not what she seems. Her gown was—shall we say an open invitation? Yet when I attempted to avail myself of its—ah, bounty, I was balked and scolded as severely as though she was a perfect lady.”

  “Lord, Roly,” said Holt contemptuously, “is there no woman whose bodice is safe from you?”

  Otton leaned closer and returned so ribald a response that even his hardened cousin looked embarrassed. Chuckling, Otton pushed his plate away and reached for his tankard.

  “At all events,” said Holt, “I’d be glad of a shilling for every well-born lady who now finds herself reduced to a pinched style of living. These are hard times.”

  “Agreed. But most well-bred ladies who are so unfortunately circumstanced still somehow manage to retain an aura of gentility. And the gown our Mrs. Deene wore properly belongs on a trollop. Not only that—when I spoke of the Jacobites in a sympathetic way—”

  Holt leaned back his head and gave a crow of laughter.

  “I’ll have you know, Jacob,” said Otton, indignant, “that I am sympathetic to the poor devils! That merciless swine, the Duke of Cumberland—”

  Holt jerked upright. “Quiet! You idiot! Would you lose your head?”

  “I likely will at all events. Soon or late.”

  “Well, I’d as soon not accompany you! Do you say our beauty showed pleased when you indicated a kindness for the rebels?”

  Otton nodded. “And
gave me the most odd look—a sort of hopeful searching.”

  “Hmmnn. ’Tis little enough to go on, but when added to what I suspect … Do you mean to stay here?”

  “For a few days. Even if nothing comes of my—our quest, the Widow Deene is a tasty morsel.” He smiled dreamily. “I’m ready for a dalliance, Jacob. And I fancy the lady is ripe for it.”

  Holt’s lip curled, and he stood. “You and your women!”

  “They’re all a joy, my dear coz. But not one worth more than a week, at most.”

  Chewing his lip, Holt scanned that lazy smile. His cousin was a disinherited, penniless rogue. A man without conscience or kindness, and with perhaps one friend to his name. A man whose own family would have none of him, and who was forbidden every great house in London. He should be crushed, shamed, and starving; a pitiful wreck whose best option in life was to creep into some dark corner and politely blow his brains out. And yet it sometimes occurred to Holt that, of the two of them, Mathieson—or Otton as he called himself—derived the most enjoyment from life.

  “One of these days, Roly,” he said judicially, “you’ll meet a maid you want to spend your whole life with. And is she a lady, she’ll have none of you. I wonder what you’ll do then?”

  Laughing, Otton came to his feet and clapped a hand on Holt’s broad shoulder. “Why, I shall but admire her the more for her impeccable judgement. But never tease yourself, dear boy. The lady does not exist for whom I would be willing to give up all others.”

  Holt grunted and they walked to the stairs together; cousins, yet as unlike as two men could be, save for one characteristic—a driving ambition that made each in his own way, completely ruthless.

  X

  The tall case clock in the music hall struck three, and Leonard, who had dozed off in the chair just inside the front door, jumped so that he almost fell to the floor. He stood and stretched wearily.

  From the third step Jordan advised, “He’s not back yet.”

  Leonard walked closer. “How long have you been here?”

  “Midnight.” Jordan looked tired, but said staunchly, “Not that I’m worried, of course.”

  “No. Of course not. We probably should go to bed. He always tells me not to wait up.”

  They looked at each other, then Leonard returned to his chair and, again, silence held the room in the hollow of its hand.

  When the clock struck the quarter, Jordan said, “Mr. Leonard. Did you … hear?”

  “Yes.”

  “She’s never even hinted at it before … as I recall.”

  “Sometimes, I’ve thought ’twould have been better if she had. But … at this particular time…”

  They exchanged another long look through the gloom that was brightened only by the solitary candle on the table.

  In a very quiet voice, Jordan said, “His new French pistol is missing.”

  Leonard closed his eyes and whispered something inaudible.

  When the clock struck the half-hour, Jordan murmured, “At least, he has got Shuffle with him.”

  “Yes. He has got Shuffle.”

  At a quarter to four o’clock, Jordan stood, and stretched wearily.

  Leonard said, “No. You stay here in case I don’t find him.” And he went up to the servants’ quarters situated on the partial third floor to get his coat and hat.

  * * *

  Standing at her window, Dimity saw Leonard depart, holding a lantern high. Aeons earlier, a round-eyed and silent Rodgers had brought her a dinner tray. She had eaten half-heartedly, and the glass of wine had made her drowsy. When Rodgers returned to take the tray, she had told the abigail she would have no further need of her services, and at about nine o’clock she had fallen asleep in the armchair, waking stiff and uncomfortable when she heard Leonard’s steps on the drivepath. She thought drearily that it was none of her affair. She had not brought this about. Captain Otton would have come even had she not been here, and the outcome would have been the same bitter quarrel between Farrar and the aunt he worshipped. But conscience whispered that his eyes this morning—yesterday morning—had held a very special light. And in the afternoon, he had found her with Roland Otton’s hand in her bodice. Was it possible that had he not done so, his temper might not have escaped him? That he might not have challenged Lady Helen’s right to entertain a man he despised?

  Deeply troubled, she tidied her hair and then took up a candle. The hallway was dark and hushed. She tiptoed along it, as she had done once before, and went down the spiral stairs and through the Gothic archway that led into the chapel.

  She sank into a rear pew and leaned back, letting the peace of this hallowed place soothe her soul. It was quiet and cold, and smelled of beeswax and brandy. Brandy? She sat up and lifted the candle, peering through the quiet sanctuary.

  He was in the fourth pew, leaning forward, his head bowed onto the arms that were folded over the back of the pew before him. Shuffle, faithful as ever, lay with chin on paws in the aisle. The spaniel woke as the candlelight brightened the chapel and sprang up with a short, uncertain bark. Farrar’s head lifted and he turned, blinking to the glow of the candle.

  Dimity thought she had never beheld so haggard and hopeless a face. But even as she watched, the despair in the shadowed eyes changed to a blazing wrath. Her compassion changed to fear. She stood and ran to the aisle.

  He passed her, moving very fast, and with a breathless shout flung himself to lean back against the door. “Slut…” he panted thickly. “Wha’ the hell y’ doin’ bringin’ y’dirty skirts into thish—thish holy … place?”

  She thought, ‘My God, he is drunk!’ and said as steadily as she could, “Sir—I know how it must have looked, but I swear I never saw Captain Otton before today, and he—”

  “Y’never saw Roly,” he leered, his contorted face and glinting eyes terrifying her, “an y’din’t know m’ cousin! No decent woman’d ’low either of the—the dirty bastards ’thin armsh length. But—I f’get. You’re not decent, are you, Mish’s Deene? Took me fer a blind fool, d’intcha? Were r-right! Blinder ’n blind. D’you know…” he wagged a finger at her, “d’you know I almost— ’N all th’ time you were laughin’ and ro-rompin’ with Otton ’n Ellsworth. ’Tended y’ din’t know Rafe, neither. You know him, all right! Dirty, lyin’ li’l harlot…”

  He looked so wild, so maddened and Lord knows he had reason. She stretched out her hands appealingly. “Anthony—you must not use such language in—”

  He seized her hands, laughing a racking, humourless laugh. “Y’know ’bout language, don’tcha?” He leaned to her, his eyes glinting and merciless. “Know ’bout lotsa other things, ’swell!”

  Trying not to show how afraid she was, she said, “You must be very tired. You should—”

  “Not too tired t’ take a … whore…!” On the word, he sprang.

  Dimity’s shriek was muffled as he forced her head back, mumbling low-voiced accusations and profanities that fortunately were so blurred she could scarcely hear them and did not comprehend what he said. But she knew beyond doubting that she was about to be raped, and all kindness and understanding fled, swallowed up by an overmastering wrath. This was not the same man who had painted those pastoral scenes with such sensitivity; this was not the man whose eyes had been frantic with fear when Shuffle was hurt. This was a lusting brute, his intellect blurred by liquor, his civilized impulses wiped away. She was not desired with love but with savage anger, and no man was going to force her to his will! And so she fought him, retreating herself to the primeval instinct for self-preservation: kicking, clawing, biting, and all the time gasping out words to try to break through the fog that brandy had wrapped around his mind, reminding him that he was in a house of God, that he was wrong in what he thought of her, resorting even to curses to try to shock him back to understanding as she half-sobbed, half-screamed that he would so bitterly regret this—that he was drunk.

  “Yeh, I’m drunk,” he admitted, gripping her chin in an iron hand. And despite her
desperate struggles, his mouth found hers and violated it until her resistance ebbed away and she gave herself up to the bittersweetness of that brutal kiss. She was half-smothered when he lifted his head, but she saw the look in his eyes and with all her strength struck him across the face.

  “Sir Anthony! Wake up! You—you’re mad! Don’t! Tony—please, please—don’t!”

  But he was past reason, past anything but hurting and disillusionment and the need to strike back at the girl who had precipitated it all, and whom he had, in spite of every vestige of common sense, begun to love. “You’ll not lightly … cheat another,” he growled, wrenching her close. His hands were steel, pawing her, shaming her, even while he kissed her throat and whatever he could reach with her fighting like a wild thing. She kicked out hard, and he growled and found her lips again, his hand sliding down and down …

  With a surprised exclamation he flung her from him, and peered at the scrap of parchment he had found in his depredations. “Wha’sis?” He was unable to read, but saw enough to realize it was poetry. “Your stinkin’ love note…!”

  His diverted attention gave Dimity the chance she had prayed for. She picked up her skirts and fled. Farrar flung the parchment away and started after her. She had no choice but to run towards the altar, her heart in her throat, as she heard him reeling in pursuit.

  And then he stumbled over Shuffle, and the dog yelped shrilly.

  Farrar halted and stood swaying. With a groan of remorse he bent over the dog. “Poor ol’ lady. Din’t mean t’hurt you.”

  Dimity tiptoed around the far side of the pews to the rear of the chapel. She could hear him murmuring softly to the spaniel and so dared to search for the priceless cypher. Dawn was beginning to brighten the great rear window and by its glow she saw the parchment at last, crumpled in the corner of a pew. She was kneeling to facilitate her search, and she snatched it up and restored it to her bosom. Farrar came stumbling along the aisle. Fighting not to breathe so hard, Dimity flung herself down and lay under the pew, holding her skirts as close as she could, and praying.