Farrar smiled mirthlessly. “That piece of news must have really endeared me to Phillip and Rafe.”
“Very true,” said Norris. “You and Harding went off to Scotland, and while you were gone, Lord Green learned how matters stood. He was enraged and told Rafe in no uncertain terms that he was to replace the monies entrusted to him or be disowned. Rafe was frantic. Your cousin Ellsworth has long coveted The Palfreys and all that goes with it. When Harding was killed, you were the only obstacle to his inheriting. The two rogues put their heads together. Rafe promised to help Ellsworth by getting rid of you—which he hoped his dogs would manage for him. In return, as soon as Ellsworth inherited the fortune, he was to repay Rafe’s losses, Fayre Hall would be restored, and everyone would be happy.”
Lady Helen shook her head sadly. “I would never have dreamed Phillip could be so wicked, or so cunning.”
“Well, he wasn’t, ma’am,” said Norris. “Old Hibbard soon wormed the plot out of his son. He approved it, but probably guessed those two nincompoops lacked the brains to murder Tony without being caught, so he decided to mastermind the scheme.”
Beginning to look worn and very grim, Farrar said slowly, “I’m not really surprised. I might have known neither Ellsworth nor Rafe was capable of concocting such a devious plot. The impostor who came from Whitehall to tell me of my—disgrace; the rumour mongering; the families who were visited and told I was to blame for their bereavements … So much trouble; so many details to be handled.”
Norris said, “And well worth the effort if they’d managed to drive you to self-destruction, or so paved the way that you could be disposed of without suspicion falling on them! Shall you press charges, Farrar? If we can find ’em, that is.”
Farrar looked at him sharply. Norris shrugged. “There was quite a commotion in the courtroom when you collapsed, my boy. By the time the smoke cleared, our Grand Inquisitor and Phillip Ellsworth were least in sight. Word is that because of his son’s serious injuries at your hands, my lord has taken Rafe to Spain to recuperate. I rather doubt they will dare show their noses in England for some considerable time to come.”
“And I rather think,” said Dimity, who had been watching Farrar closely, “that our invalid must rest now, ladies and gentlemen…”
When the door closed behind them, she returned to her footstool. Farrar was leaning back with his eyes closed, but another visitor had slipped in. Swimmer had taken possession of his lap and was purring grittily into the curve of his hand.
Dimity sat very still, watching him lovingly. His eyes opened and he returned her gaze, not speaking.
After a quiet moment, she said, “You look very sombre for a man who has won his battles, sir. Of what are you thinking?”
“I was wondering,” he answered gravely, “whatever would have become of me if a madcap girl had not taken it upon herself to confound a troop of dragoons and descend upon my home like—like—”
“A hurricane?” she asked, with the soft little chuckle he so loved.
“God send I am never again becalmed,” he murmured, and reached down to touch her hair.
She nestled her cheek against his hand. “Anthony … I have often wondered…”
He put the protesting kitten down and drew Dimity to sit beside him on the sofa. “Yes, Mrs. Deene?”
“All those long terrible months, when your aunt thought—I mean when she suspected—”
“That I had killed Harding?” He kissed her temple lingeringly.
“Yes,” she said with a happy shiver. “Did you not ever … that is—how could you have gone on—loving her?”
He ran the tip of his finger around her cheekbone. “I told you how very kind she was when I was a child. You don’t stop loving someone because they are not always as you would wish—and besides, Helen stayed here when her every instinct must have been to go far away from me. She loved Harding very deeply, you know.” He glanced up when she did not answer, and flushed a little. “Now, why do you look at me like that?”
Her heart very full, Dimity murmured one of her favourite quotations,
“‘Love alters not with his brief hours and weeks,
But bears it out even to the edge of doom.’
“And—my very dear, you truly were—at the very edge of doom … Oh, Tony—how splendid you are … And how very much I—”
It was really remarkable, she thought in a remote way, that a man who had been so very ill could yet be so strong …
“Good … gracious…!” she gasped, when he at last released her lips and she lay weakly in his arms. “Have you spoken to my brothers, sir?”
“About—what?” he asked innocently.
“Anthony … Farrar…”
“Oh. Do you mean that you expect me to ask for your hand in marriage? Well, I would you know, but—I will confess—my heart was given some time ago. Beyond recall…”
Dimity eyed him narrowly. He looked so bland, but the side of his mouth was quivering suspiciously. She reached up and slipped her hand around the back of his neck.
“To a fascinating creature,” he continued, as his head was slowly pulled down, “who was fond of ashes and…”
After a long, ecstatic pause, with wanton if rather breathless provocation he went on, “And who had a most delicious collection of gowns. They were a trifle short, and somewhat lacking in the way of bodices, but…”
Another pause, then Dimity whispered, “Are you quite finished, evil one?”
“But it has been my hope,” gasped Farrar, “to ask her to wear the blue one again, on…”
Some minutes later, Dimity opened her eyes. “On—what…?” she asked faintly.
“What…?” echoed Farrar, dazed, delighted, and quite distracted with love. “Oh…” He smiled down into her flushed and beautiful face. “On,” he murmured, bending until their lips were just a breath apart, “our … wedding day … my most adored … Mistress Mitten…”
It was very difficult, Swimmer discovered, to find a suitable lap. She jumped about without much success and at length clawed her way up the master’s sleeve to his shoulder. En route, she thought to hear a muffled protest, but settled herself contentedly. She thought she heard another, equally muffled, protest when she began the necessary business of kneading his coat, but he was evidently too occupied to put a stop to her activities, so she continued until, purring loudly, she went to sleep.
About the Author
Patricia Veryan was born in England and moved to the United States following World War II. The author of several critically acclaimed Georgian and Regency series, including the Sanguinet Saga, she now lives in Kirkland, Washington. You can sign up for email updates here.
Previous novels by Patricia Veryan
GIVE ALL TO LOVE
THE TYRANT
JOURNEY TO ENCHANTMENT
PRACTICE TO DECEIVE
SANGUINET’S CROWN
THE WAGERED WIDOW
THE NOBLEST FRAILTY
MARRIED PAST REDEMPTION
FEATHER CASTLES
SOME BRIEF FOLLY
NANETTE
MISTRESS OF WILLOWVALE
LOVE’S DUET
THE LORD AND THE GYPSY
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Contents
Title Page
Copyright Notice
Dedication
Epigraph
Chapter I
Chapter II
Chapter III
Chapter IV
Chapter V
Chapter VI
Chapter VII
Chapter VIII
Chapter IX
Chapter X
Chapter XI
/>
Chapter XII
Chapter XIII
Chapter XIV
Chapter XV
Chapter XVI
Chapter XVII
Chapter XVIII
Chapter XIX
Chapter XX
About the Author
Previous novels by Patricia Veryan
Copyright
LOVE ALTERS NOT. Copyright © 1987 by Patricia Veryan. All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews. For information, address St. Martin’s Press, 175 Fifth Avenue, New York, N.Y. 10010.
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ISBN 0–312–01062–1
First Edition
eISBN 9781250101327
First eBook edition: September 2015
Love Alters Not Page 39
