Never Doubt I Love

by Patricia Veryan

  Huddled against the door, tears of guilt and rage streaked down her cheeks.

  There was no one to help her undo the terrible thing she had done.

  Poor Gorton was in a drugged sleep.

  She was locked in and quite helpless.

  And she had sent the brother she adored… to almost certain… death…

  A thunderclap woke her. For a moment she was bewildered and could not think where she was. Then everything rushed back, and she realized that she must have swallowed enough of the lemonade to cause her to doze off. It had likely been a brief doze, because the room was not much darker than it had been before. Lightning flashed blindingly, and rain was beating furiously against the windows.

  The windows! What a dunce she was! Kneeling here, snivelling, when she might be knotting sheets together so as to climb down. They'd likely not felt it necessary to keep watch, believing her to be sound asleep.

  Clambering to her feet, she flew across the room and threw the casement open.

  From outside there came an explosive, "Deuce take it!"

  And she was staring down into the drenched but indignant features of Peregrine Cranford.

  The upper half of the window was designed purely for the admission of daylight and was immovable, and only the lower section could be opened. The casement was small, but Zoe leaned out, and as he stepped closer threw her arms about his neck and hugged him, laughing and crying and babbling of her joy and relief.

  Grinning broadly, Cranford gasped, "Let go, you wild woman, else you'll have me off the ladder!"

  The ladder! Dashing away tears, and sniffing, she peered downward. "Oh! My heavens! Perry—how ever could you climb up a ladder?"

  "By wearing that stupid artificial foot, and 'tis blasted uncomfortable, I can tell you! 'Twas only by the greatest luck that I saw Gorton moving about in your room, else I'd have had the deuce of a time finding you. And then what must you do but dashed near guillotine me when you flung the casement open!" Despite the scold, his eyes were tender, and he asked then, "Am I to take it that you are pleased to see me? I was half-inclined to force my way in the front door, but they said you were not at home, so I thought I'd best make sure before—"

  "Oh, if you knew! But—You don't know!" She put a hand to her head distractedly. "Perry! I am locked in, and poor Gorton has been drugged, and there is so much to tell you, and—Oh, how I prayed you would come for me!"

  The tenderness in his eyes was replaced with a very different expression. "Why, that wicked old beldam! I thought 'twas something of the sort! Come along then, my brave tree climber. Out with you! Oh, gad! The casement's not very wide. I'm going to disgrace you again. Take off those paniers."

  "Yes. No! Perry, I had thought the same, but I see now 'tis hopeless. Even without my skirts I could not climb through. Besides—" She flinched and waited out a crashing peal of thunder. "Besides, there is no time. Someone downstairs may see the ladder at any second. I must tell you this very quickly. I heard some of them talking last night. About some kind of change of plans, and—and strange bedfellows, and that 'she' would be very angry, and—oh yes, that the Squire was ready!"

  "By Gad, but you've done wonderfully! You can tell me the rest after I get you out. What—"

  "No! You must go now! Travis is—"

  "I go nowhere without you, my girl! We'll get to your brother in—"

  "Oh, stop! Do stop! You must listen! He managed to get a letter to me. Lady Buttershaw kept it, but I was able to find it. Travis writ that he would call here. Here, Perry! They would not let me go out, so—"

  Cranford swore grittily.

  Zoe went on, "—so my poor Gorton smuggled a note to him, and I told him to go to Maria! I didn't know where you lived, you see, and—"

  "Well, then, all's right and tight. Miss Benevento will send for Owen, and—"

  Her hand across his lips cut the words off. She said, "Maria Benevento has another name, Perry. She is Maria Barthélemy. And my brother writ that Marshal Jean-Jacques Barthélemy has allied himself with the League!"

  For a stunned moment he perched on the ladder staring at her blankly while the rain soaked his hair and sent little rivulets winding down his face. "So 'tis truth," he whispered. "Barthélemy! Lord help us!"

  "I pray He will! But Travis may have gone to Maria already. They may be—be questioning him at this very moment!"

  "He has the Agreement, then?"

  "Yes. And he will trust Maria, you see, because I said… like a perfect fool, I said she was a faithful friend! You must go to him! At once! Perry, I beg you. Go!"

  His jaw set. "And leave you here? Be damned if I will! That stewed prune of a butler will open the front door quick enough with my pistol under his fat paunch!" He started an awkward descent of the ladder. "I'll have you out of there in jig time, and—"

  Zoe reached out and grabbed his hair. He gave an indignant yelp, and she said fiercely, "And if anything happens to you, my brother is as good as doomed, and I shall never forgive you, Peregrine Cranford! Never! If you go quickly, you can come back for me. They think I am fast asleep, and will likely do nothing to me for a—a long while yet. Don't let them win, Perry! Don't let that—that wicked Maria laugh and gloat because I am silly and gullible and she so easily deceived me! Once you are away you can send your man to me, or summon the Watch, or somebody! Only—please—oh, please do go!"

  For a wrenching few seconds he gazed into her pale, tear-streaked face. She was right, of course. Her brother and the Agreement must be protected at all costs. But what a terrible cost! To abandon the dear brave girl here, alone and helpless…! To leave this gentle creature who held his only hope for happiness. Her hand released his hair, and caressed his cold cheek. He reached up and seized it and pressed a kiss into the palm. Then, without a word, he began the slow and painful descent to the shadowy garden.

  The most dangerous moment came when he took down the ladder he had hauled here from the side of the house. He dared not leave it propped under Zoe's window to warn the occupants that someone might have spoken with their prisoner, nor dared he let it bang against the wall but had to guide it cautiously. Candles and lamps had been lit inside the mansion now, sending bright beams shining into the dusk. Even as he lowered the ladder to the ground he saw a lackey lighting a branch of candles in the withdrawing room, only a few feet from him.

  The wind got under the ladder and it was torn from his hand to fall with a crash across the terrace and send a large potted plant toppling. Cursing bitterly, Cranford ducked as the lackey jerked around. The casement above his head flew open and he held his breath.

  The lackey called, "One of the terrace urns has blowed over!"

  A woman's voice shouted indignantly, "Well, close the window, you fool, and go and see to it!"

  The casement was slammed shut.

  Between a limp and a run Cranford made for the alley wall at the east side of the house. The ladder would have been a great help here. The wall was high and topped with broken glass. The rope ladder Tummet had left for him was still behind the bush where he'd hidden it, but this was the hard part. Much as he'd longed to be the one to climb up to Zoe's rescue, he was aware of his limitations, and had fully intended to keep watch while Tummet did all the climbing. Only there had been no sign of the man, so he'd had no choice. It had been dashed tricky climbing over, but he'd managed somehow, without getting thoroughly sliced by the glass. With luck, the return journey would go as well. He crouched low as lightning flashed garishly, then twirled the ladder over his head, tossed it up, and heard the hooks ring home on the top. Above the clamour of the storm he heard a man's voice. So the lackey had come out. He must be quick. Three years back, he would have been over this wall in a trice. Only it was not three years back. It was now, and just to move from rung to rung was a desperate struggle. He was the only man who could send help to Travis Grainger—the only man who could get his beloved lady out of that loathsome house! Whatever happened, he must not fail!

  He was almost t
o the top when he heard voices close by. A man grumbled, "… say she's been took sick, so I got to take the dratted beasts out in the dratted rain, and I'll have to wipe orf their dratted feet when—"

  A deep bark and a shout.

  Abandoning caution, Cranford grabbed for the top of the wall. He swore as glass drove into his palm, then scrunched under his boot. Egged on by a cacophany of barks, he jumped down into the alley. He told himself dizzily that his landing could have been worse, but for several seconds he sprawled there, trying to catch his breath, and hearing the clamouring of the dogs and the shouts of the men. A cat yowled as he struggled to his knees, and one of the men voiced a very unkind assessment of both dogs and cats.

  A woman shouted, "What's to do out there?"

  In a very different tone, the man answered, "Just the dogs chasing a cat, ma'am. Only playing, belike."

  A door slammed, and thunder bellowed again.

  The dogs were still barking frenziedly.

  It was no time, Cranford decided, to lounge about. He dragged himself up and limped along the alley, praying that Tummet had by now returned to his post. It was unlike the man to have let him down. Only something really important would have lured him away.

  He peered cautiously around the corner of the house. The square was deserted. Flambeaux were already lit outside several mansions and flickered as the wind moaned along the street, driving the rain under porches and pediments and almost extinguishing the flames. It was very cold, and Cranford shivered as he walked farther up the square, then crossed the road to the central gardens. His hand throbbed, and in the glare of lightning he saw that his palm was bloody. He wrapped his handkerchief around the cut absently. With every second his fear for Zoe intensified. If Tummet didn't come, he might have to leave her, at least until he could get word to Furlong, or Morris, or someone! To judge from this square one might think him the only man left in London Town! Where in the devil—

  "That you, Lieutenant C?"

  He gave a gasp of relief. "Yes, it's me! Damn your eyes, Tummet! Where have you been?"

  "Got took up, sir. Fer loitering, they said. Lucky fer me, we run into a little war dahn near Spring Gardens, and I was set free. Rescued from the clutches of law'n order by the common man, I was. Cor! From the look of the common men wot come to me rescue, they just broke outta the Fleet Prison! But—" Tummet stopped abruptly, and peered at Cranford in the wavering light from a nearby flambeau. "Crumbs, but you're a mess, guv'nor! You never tried to climb over that there wall yerself? Might'a knowed you'd fall! But I gotta admit as you're a plucked 'un, if—"

  "I did climb over! I'll admit I made mice feet of the return, but I saw and spoke with Miss Grainger."

  Tummet was all admiration as he listened to a brief sketch of what had happened in his absence, but when he was ordered to rush a warning to Furlong, he protested vigorously. "I'll get inside Yerville 'all, Lieutenant, mate. You go and find Sir Owen! That 'and o' yourn looks nasty, and—no disrespeck, but if there's more climbing to be done, I can—"

  "Manage better than me? Very true. But there won't be a chair or a hackney to be had in this storm. Whichever of us goes after Furlong may very well have to run all the way to the Madrigal, or wherever he has got to. And nowadays I'm not a fast runner."

  "No, and if you goes in there orl by yerself, mate, you'll 'ave abaht as much chance as you'd 'ave of plucking a flea's eyebrows! Unless—You got a good plan to get the lady out?"

  "I'll contrive something. Whatever happens, I'll not leave her."

  "But—"

  "Oh, have done with your 'buts'! Find Sir Owen! Fast! He knows where Miss Benevento lives. Then send me some reinforcements, if you can. On the double, man! Go!"

  Tummet groaned, but responding to the note of command in Cranford's voice, he went sprinting off into the dark.

  Left alone, Cranford drew his cloak tighter around him and glanced about. If he were to go and beat on the doors of some of these mansions, would he be given help? He tried to picture the reaction of Lady Buttershaw's neighbours when told that the grande dame of Society was part of a treasonable plot; that a maidservant lay drugged in her house; and that a young lady was held prisoner. He gave a cynical snort. They'd have him put under strong restraint, is what they would do! But to try and break into Yerville Hall alone would be a chancy undertaking. The mansion, he knew, fairly swarmed with servants, and although it was doubtful that one of them had a single kindly thought for her ladyship, they feared her, and in any kind of uproar would obey her.

  He fought the raging need to go and pound on that confounded door and then force his way inside at gunpoint. He must exercise self-control for once, he told himself sternly; be more like Piers and use his head instead of letting passion rule him. It would not help the girl he loved if he was knocked down. His best hope was to get inside somehow and carry her off by subterfuge. He was racking his brain for a workable scheme when he became aware that something other than rain was being carried on the wind. The thunderclaps were farther apart now, but he could hear shouts, and a grumbling roar, as of many distant voices upraised in anger. Tummet had said a mob had freed him from the constable near Spring Gardens. From the sound of things, there was another disturbance closer at hand.

  He brightened. Here, then, was his subterfuge!

  He limped across the road and up the front steps of Yerville Hall. Pounding on the door, he heard a carriage clatter up the street, and he began to shout wildly for help.

  The horses slowed. From the corner of his eye he saw carriage lamps. "Help!" he howled. "Murder!"

  There came a startled exclamation behind him, then the front door swung open and against the sudden flood of light stood Arbour, staring at him in astonishment.

  "Help!" raved Cranford at the top of his lungs. "They've taken her! Call the Watch!" He hurled himself at the butler, who retreated hastily.

  "Be dashed if it ain't poor Cranford," drawled a faintly amused and very much disliked voice from the carriage.

  'Fowles!' he thought grimly. 'The last swine I'd have wished to see!'

  Arbour stammered, "Sir, you're hurt! Wh-what on earth—"

  "I demand to know the meaning for all this uproar!" Lady Buttershaw marched across the entrance hall, her eyes glittering with anger.

  "They've taken her!" Cranford gabbled, staggering towards her. "You must… get help!"

  Recoiling, she gasped, "Good heavens! You're all blood!"

  "So he is." Gilbert Fowles sauntered in and scanned Cranford's artistically swaying form through his quizzing glass. "Who has been taken, my poor block? Or are you drunk?"

  "Miss—Miss Grainger," gasped Cranford, restraining an impassioned urge to strangle him. "The mob… dragged us from my coach and we were separated. Arbour! Never stand there like a… confounded statue! Run for a Constable! Quick!"

  Lady Buttershaw barked, "Arbour, you will at once see to it that all the servants go down to the kitchens. And remain there!"

  Only too glad to escape, the butler hurried off, calling to footmen and lackeys.

  "What's all this?"

  To Cranford's enormous relief, Lord Eaglund came inside, but before he could respond, Lady Buttershaw bellowed, "Poor Cranford has been hurt by those miserable rioters. I fear his brain has become disordered. He thinks Miss Grainger was in his carriage, whereas she is upstairs, asleep in her bed."

  The viscount looked in bewilderment from her ladyship to Cranford's soaked, muddy and bloodied self.

  About to declare himself, Cranford checked as Mr. Rudolph Bracksby arrived on the scene. For all his hearty manner and good looks, the powerfully built gentleman had always impressed Cranford as exerting himself to please only those who could be of use to him. It was not hard to believe that he was, as Furlong had said, a member of the League. And if Lord Eaglund cried friends with him…

  "She was with me," he howled shrilly. "She slipped out to join me." They all stared at him, and he improvised in desperation, "We were eloping!"

  "N
ONSENSE!" roared Lady Buttershaw.

  "'Faith, but I wonder the poor girl would want you," sneered Fowles. "She must be desperate, indeed."

  "Why do you stand here?" Cranford dodged around her ladyship and made for the stair hall. "I'll prove she is not in her room!"

  "I say! No—my poor fellow—" Aghast, the viscount started forward.

  Arbour and Fowles both ran towards Cranford at the same instant, and the three men collided.

  "Idiot!" snarled Fowles, pushing the butler aside.

  "Do not dare go up there, Cousin!" Accustomed to instant obedience Lady Buttershaw elbowed her way between the men and marched to the foot of the stairs, her great skirts hindering Lord Eaglund as he attempted to pass her. When it dawned on her that she was being defied, she screeched an outraged, "Hackham! Stop Mr. Cranford! He has gone mad!"

  Hackham appeared on the upper landing. He started down, eyeing the "madman" warily. Cranford reached out to him and appeared to collapse. Instinctively, Hackham grabbed him. Not for nothing had Cranford excelled in sports. Hackham found himself holding what he later described as a steel spring. Cranford straightened and his left fist came up from his knees and landed solidly on the footman's jaw. Lady Buttershaw shrieked and sprang aside with remarkable agility and ;i glimpse of frilly scarlet drawers as Hackham descended the stairs involuntarily and rapidly. Hard on her heels, Brackshy did not fare so well, and was flattened by the flying footman.

  Cranford had a fair idea of the location of Zoe's room and he limped to it with all possible speed. The key was in the lock. Logical enough, he thought, as he turned it and swung the door open.

  A strong grip closed on his shoulder, and he was jerked around. Fowles' vindictive face was behind the fist that flew at him. He ducked. Zoe gave a startled cry, and Fowles swore as he missed and his knuckles made a crashing assault on the door. Cranford landed a solid right to the mid-section and, as Fowles doubled up, had the satisfaction of seeing him acquire the look of an expiring trout. Eaglund and Bracksby were almost upon him. Everyone seemed to be shouting at once. With one arm around Zoe's shoulders, he wrenched the pistol from his pocket and held it steady.