Never Doubt I Love

by Patricia Veryan

  A central garden for the use of the residents was enclosed by ornate iron railings, and the houses were scattered around it. Each was large enough to be counted a mansion, but her ladyship had not exaggerated; Yerville Hall was enormous. It was also, thought Zoe, extremely ugly. Two storeys in height, its wide stone front was broken by rows of small square windows. At the centre a recessed entrance portico was dignified by four tall stone columns supporting a large pediment. This structure partially blocked several of the windows, so that they appeared to Zoe to be hostile eyes peering suspiciously from under a frowning brow.

  The carriage had evidently been anxiously awaited, for the front doors were flung open and a large and agitated butler came out onto the steps followed by three equally agitated liveried footmen. Lady Buttershaw was handed down and surrounded by a small crowd of solicitous and elegant ladies and gentlemen who swept out of the house and swept her inside again, all talking at the top of their lungs.

  Zoe was assisted by a tall footman with a pair of pale and protuberant blue eyes which scrutinized her curiously. He conducted her up the steps and into a large entrance hall, then with a terse nod took himself off. Awed, Zoe gazed at Gothic stone rib-vaulting that soared to the roof, and at the arched openings to the first-floor gallery that ran around the hall on three sides. The noisy crowd had vanished, but Zoe was too interested to feel abandoned. She wandered through more Gothic arches into another hall containing a magnificent wood-panelled staircase with the statue of a Grecian lady on the first landing, and a life-size portrait of a proud gentleman in a flowing periwig who sneered down at the stone lady from the facing wall. Beyond the stairs was a spacious wainscoted chamber wherein small tables were set among groups of chairs. Zoe peeped in.

  "The morning room," said a soft voice at her ear, and she jumped guiltily, and jerked around.

  The lady who stood there appeared to be somewhere between thirty-five and forty. Her features were delicate, and her eyes large and a very light blue. She wore a gown of white taffeta over modified hoops, the high neck buttoned to the throat and the full sleeves worn longer than the present style and gathered in at the wrists to falls of snowy lace that drooped over her hands. The unrelieved white of her attire, the powdered hair, the white cap, and the pallor of her face added to an impression of extreme fragility, and there was a wistful quality to her smile as she fondled the large black cat she held.

  "Oh, I do beg your pardon," stammered Zoe, dropping a curtsy. "I am—"

  "Miss Zoe Grainger, I think," said that gentle voice. "And ''Tis I should apologize, my dear, that you were so rudely abandoned. I am sure you know who I am, for my sister will have told you of me. But I will introduce my friend." She held the black cat higher and its big green eyes scanned Zoe dispassionately. "This is Attila."

  "He is very handsome. May I stroke him, Lady Yerville, or does he live up to his name?"

  "You must call me Lady Julia; everyone does. And—no, he is very well-behaved. Until he goes berserk. But—"

  "But since he frequently does so, he is not allowed in this part of the house!" Lady Buttershaw had come up unnoticed and her loud voice caused both ladies to jump. "Furthermore," she went on, frowning at Zoe, " 'twas impolite in you to go off on your own without waiting for proper introductions. One wonders if your mama ever taught you anything of etiquette!"

  Lady Julia protested bravely, "But Clara, Miss Grainger had been abandoned and—"

  "Nonsense! 'Twould not have harmed her to wait a minute or two whilst my friends greeted me. She has much to learn. I shall say no more on that head for the present, however." Lady Buttershaw's basilisk gaze was on Attila. "One might think that I could return to my home without being obliged to scold within the first five minutes, but as usual my wishes are ignored. You know very well, Julia, that my friends are distressed by creatures. Dare I hope that no more members of your menagerie are lurking about?"

  Lady Julia sighed. "I know of only one of your friends who is distressed by my pets, Clara, and he is not here today."

  "Were he able to be more comfortable in this house, I might more often have the pleasure of his company. Oh, I know what you are thinking, and I will admit that August is not good ton. But while I would not endanger our reputation by inviting him to a formal occasion, I hope I am not so proud as to deny him when out of the public eye."

  "But of course you would not, Clara."

  It seemed to Zoe that there was a touch of irony in Lady Julia's quiet words, but her sister inclined her head in the manner of one accepting her just due, then said, "One of your tasks, Miss Grainger, will be to keep Lady Julia's beasts confined to her quarters. Meanwhile," she gestured to a hovering footman, "you shall be shown to your own chamber so that you may prepare yourself for dinner. A word with you, Julia…"

  Lady Julia went off with her, saying meekly, "How nice your hair looks, Clara. I am so glad you have discarded that silly wig…"

  Grateful to have escaped, Zoe followed the footman upstairs.

  "My apologies." Sir Owen Furlong restored the valet's feet to the floor and kicked the front door shut behind him. "The fact is," he explained with a gleam of his disarming smile, "I've spent long enough in the rain this afternoon without being kept standing in it on my own doorstep."

  The valet, a small fussy individual, was not appeased. Ignoring his spluttering incoherencies, Sir Owen upended his tricorne and poured a stream of rainwater from the brim into the large milk can that served as an umbrella stand. "My name is Furlong," he went on, thrusting his wet cloak and tricorne into the valet's unwilling hands. "I suppose you will be Captain Rossiter's new man." He started to the stairs, adding over his shoulder, "No need to announce me, but be a good fellow and send someone round to the stables with my mare, will you?"

  Quivering with outrage, Ephraim Lewis glared after him. So this was the owner of the residence. His lip curled. In the short time he had served Captain Gideon Rossiter he'd formed some firm and inflammatory opinions regarding the gentlemen who frequented this house. They were, he'd informed his sister, as wild and radical a group of aristocratic young lunatics as he'd ever had the misfortune to encounter. The house itself, tall and narrow, was cursed with three flights of stairs and had been intended as a bachelor establishment. It was entirely unsuitable for a young married couple whose circle of friends was as wide as it was unconventional. Especially since those friends had the habit of dropping in at all hours and both expecting and being expected to make themselves completely at home. Poor Cook never knew whether to prepare dinner for two or twelve, and one was no longer surprised to come down in the morning and find some left-over guest asleep on the sofa or under the table.

  Mr. Lewis had known when he applied for the position that, despite its agreeable location on Bond Street, this house would not suit him. He'd stayed only because Captain Gideon Rossiter and his bride had borrowed the house intending their occupation to be temporary. Very soon now they would be dividing their time between the large property in the Weald known as Emerald Farm, and the apartment now being readied for them in Rossiter Court, the splendid family mansion on Curzon Street. Neither residence could fail to add to the consequence of a London valet. The prospect of spending part of the year in the country did not appeal, however, and he was not displeased that such a threat may now have been removed.

  He watched Sir Owen Furlong's athletic sprint up the stairs, then announced with smug malice, "Captain and Mrs. Rossiter are from home, sir."

  "The deuce!" Furlong checked and turned back, one hand on the stair-railing and dismay in his eyes. "When do you expect them?"

  "I really could not say, sir."

  Furlong's rare frown dawned. Gideon had most assuredly been waiting for his report. He said, "You certainly know if they have left town. What is their destination?"

  The good-natural drawl had vanished. There was command in the voice and it seemed to Lewis that the tall man stood even taller. He was aware that the Furlongs were among the most ancient and respecte
d of England's great families, and remembered hearing that Captain Sir Owen Furlong had served with distinction in India. With the instinctive hostility of the small-souled toward any figure of authority, he thought, 'Much good his rank will do him here!' He knew very well where his employer had gone, and why, but, enjoying his moment of power, he repeated blandly, "I could not say, sir."

  Furlong contemplated him, wondering whether to shake the information from the idiot. His gaze shifted to the coat rack and the second cloak that hung there. A wet garment. He turned with a grin and went on to the landing.

  Irritated, Lewis called, "Sir, I told you—"

  "I'll wait," said Furlong brusquely, and threw open the door to the withdrawing room.

  A fire blazed merrily on the tiled hearth. A broad-shouldered young man with powdered hair, a whimsical mouth and strong nose reclined in a deep chair, a wineglass in one hand, and his feet propped on the brass fender. He turned a pair of irked green eyes to the new arrival, then sprang up to wring his hand and say with enthusiasm, "Furlong! I thought you were Morris! He was to meet me here an hour since."

  "Likely run off by that stewed prune of a new man Gideon has found." Furlong clapped Viscount Horatio Glendenning on the back. "Where the devil has Gideon taken himself? I made sure he'd be here."

  "They just left. He and Naomi have gone down to Emerald Farm." Glendenning hesitated for a split second, then asked, "Are you come to take your house back?"

  "I hope I'm not such a villain." Furlong went over to the mahogany credenza that stood against one wall and took up a decanter. Pouring himself a glass of Madeira, he said, "I told Gideon he might borrow the house till his own is ready." Lost in thought, he stared down at the decanter and murmured absently, "I'll rack up at my club."

  Curious, Glendenning asked, "Nothing amiss at your brother's place, I trust? We expected you back last week."

  "All's well at Keynsham." Furlong snapped back to the present and settled himself into a chair across the hearth. "My apologies, Tio. I fear I was wool gathering." He waved his glass in a silent toast and sampled the wine. "Since I was in the west country anyway I made a small detour to Admiral Albertson's estate. I go up and look things over from time to time. He likes me to tell him of it when I'm able to visit him, poor fellow."

  "I fancy he does." Glendenning said soberly, "Who'd ever have thought that a man with his record of service and all those awards for heroism would be disgraced and ruined and end up in 'The Gatehouse'? Faith, I wonder they let him keep even that little piece of property."

  "You may be sure 'twould have been seized with the rest, save that Albertson had put it into his son's name." Furlong gazed into the fire broodingly, thinking of gentle Hetty Albertson, to whom he had been betrothed, and who had been lost at sea two years ago. It had been an arranged marriage between two people who had seen each other seldom, but he had been fond of his prospective bride, and he muttered, "I'm more than ever convinced that Gideon's right, and that damnable League of Jewelled Men was directly responsible for the Admiral's disgrace and for Hetty's death. She'd not have been on that ship save that worry had undermined her health and her brother thought a stay in Italy would be good for her."

  "Not much doubt of that," said Glendenning. "They were victims of the League."

  "As are we all, one way or another. Lord, but I wonder those merciless demons can sleep o'nights!"

  "I rather doubt that fanatics of that type are ever plagued by conscience. They've likely convinced themselves that in toppling the government and seizing power they're the saviours of Britain."

  "Hmm. And if that bunch of pompous do-nothings in Whitehall don't soon wake up and heed our warnings, the League will win, Tio! We can't hope to prevail against 'em all alone."

  "Sad, but true. Is that what you want to discuss with Ross?"

  "No, as a matter of fact. I've had a letter from Derek."

  The Furlong brothers were deeply attached, and Derek's letters home were as lengthy as they were regular. The commander of an East Indiaman, he always had something of interest to relate, and his descriptive powers were such that his brother's friends looked forward to the letters almost as much as did Sir Owen. The arrival of these communiqués had become Occasions warranting a dinner party at the home of one or other of the small group, during which Sir Owen read from Derek's long letter. It was always the high point of the evening, the ladies being especially fascinated by the glimpses offered of life aboard ship and of mystical and romantic India.

  Glendenning said with a grin, "Small wonder you're late, then. How many pages did you have to pay for?"

  "Five, confound the fellow! And each page crossed! Well you may laugh, but I'm the one shall have to wade through it all over again for your benefit, and you know his hand is atrocious!

  "I can't deny that. But he writes a dashed fine letter just i he same. Are you come to arrange one of our dinners?"

  "Not entirely, though I suppose you'll all badger me to do so. The fact is…" Furlong shrugged and said deprecatingly, "Likely there's nothing to it, but something he writ struck me is rather odd."

  "You'll be able to ask him about it soon. Don't you expect him home before winter?"

  "I expected him home last month. Certainly, he'll have sailed with the north-east monsoon, so he must have left by February—March, at the latest."

  "But you allow eight months for the voyage, no?"

  "With luck, and Derek in command, less. Gad, but I'll be glad to see the rascal! We last met when I was selling out of the regiment in forty-five, and his ship put in to Bombay."

  "What does he carry this time?"

  "He says he's got a hold full of muslin and that Coromandel chintz the ladies like so well; and tons of pepper and spices, besides. He was delayed at Madras, waiting for some influential passengers, so he sent my letter ahead with a fleet ready to sail." Furlong looked troubled, and muttered, "Which probably means he'll be making a solitary voyage. I only hope he don't run up against one of those damned great Portuguese pirate frigates."

  "Armed, ain't he?"

  "Well, of course he's armed! Much chance he'd have of getting home without his cannon. He carries twenty-two nine-pounders, and four four-pounders."

  "There you are, then. No need to be a gloom merchant, Owen. And if he's taking on passengers, they'll stand with the crew 'gainst pirates. Though I've heard that some of the merchants hide in the hold if there's an action."

  Furlong smiled, but said thoughtfully, "It was Derek's account of one of his passengers that intrigued me."

  "Aha! A young and lovely female, coming home, eh?"

  "No, you lecher! A young diplomatist named Grant who had the misfortune to fall victim to the cholera, and has been ordered home. He goes in fear of his life."

  "Oh, bad luck. It's not always fatal though, is it?"

  "That's the odd part, Tio. Evidently, his fears are not because of his weakened health, but have to do with his conviction that somebody wants him dead. He was feverish one night, and told Derek that from the moment he sets foot in England his life won't be worth a button."

  "Poor fellow. It sounds like delirium. What does your brother think?"

  "Derek tried to calm him and thought he'd succeeded, but the following night Grant told him he'd writ out his Last Will and Testament, and asked that if he should expire, it be delivered to a friend in… Leadenhall Street."

  "East India Company?" The viscount searched his friend's lace and muttered frowningly, "Well, I suppose he could very well have a friend who works there."

  "Just so. Failing that, he wants it sent to a man he admired at school and trusts implicitly."

  "That's odd. Has the fellow no family?"

  "Apparently he has, but he won't tell them he's coming home, for fear they should be distracted with worry for him. He is even sailing under an assumed name. It all sounds extreme melodramatic and peculiar, eh?"

  "Extreme. But on the other hand, the same has been said of our own battles. Does Derek say anything
more?"

  "Only that he looked in on Grant one night, and the man leapt up in bed and started screaming that Derek was a murderous traitor!"

  "The devil he did!"

  Furlong nodded. "As you said, 'twas likely delirium. Still, I 'll be interested to know the outcome. Thought Gideon would be interested also. How long will he be away, do you know?"

  "I do not. No more does Gideon. I'd have told you at once, but I didn't want to greet you with such news. The farmhouse was set afire two nights since."

  "Oh, what foul luck! Gideon loves that old place! No one harmed, I trust?"

  "The caretaker was burned, but not badly. Ross is in a fury. They were almost ready to move in, you know."

  They looked at each other.

  Furlong said, "Arson, of course."

  "The words châtiment trois were painted on the wall of the barn," said Glendenning soberly.

  "Fiend seize those bastards! The League is punishing us again!"

  There came a thumping of feet coming hurriedly up the stairs. The door was flung open and Lieutenant James Morris burst in bringing with him a breath of cold air and the smell of rain.

  "Hey!" protested the viscount. "Shut the door, Jamie!"

  Instead of complying, Morris looked from one to the other in a distracted fashion.

  Furlong stood. "What's wrong?"

  Morris panted, "August has taken Katrina down to Sussex. Their father was thrown yesterday."

  Coming to his feet also, the viscount exclaimed, "Oh, Egad! Is it bad?"

  Morris shook his head.

  "Well, I'm glad of that." Furlong went over to pour a glass of brandy for the new arrival. "Can't say I'm surprised. August really should stop his sire from riding. Neville Falcon's a nice gentleman, but he must have the worst seat in the three kingdoms! D'you know any more of it, Jamie?"

  Sinking into a chair, Morris took a pull at his brandy before answering. "He's lucky to be alive, by what I can gather. His head groom thinks the saddle girth was cut. I'd go down there myself, but I met my man outside. Been searching for me. M'sister's coach was crowded off the road and overturned. Niece and nephew inside. Nothing worse than cuts and bruises, thank the Lord, but I'm going into Surrey as soon as my fellow brings the coach around. What a beast of a week! Emerald Farm; Mr. Falcon; now, m'sister! It's a damned disaster epidemic!"