Had We Never Loved

by Patricia Veryan

  “No. In point of fact, my brother gave her to me.”

  Falcon’s flaring brows lifted. “Did he now? I saw Templeby last week.” He added idly, “At the Cocoa Tree.”

  His lordship shrugged. “Michael’s two and twenty. Old enough to be on the Town.”

  “True. And such a generous fellow. This fine mare to you; a diamond necklace for his sister, a tiara for Lady Bowers-Malden. Fowles tells me he’s been on a winning streak.”

  Recalling Piers Cranford’s veiled warning, Glendenning suffered another pang of unease, but he said with his pleasant smile, “I cannot allow my baby brother to outshine me. Come. I must find an ostler to take charge of Flame, and then I shall stand the huff for a magnificent luncheon at the Spotted Cat.”

  “How lovely,” said Katrina, ever the optimist.

  “Provided,” murmured her brother, “Glendenning can reclaim his purse.”

  “Oh, Jupiter,” groaned Lord Horatio, mortified.

  Katrina laughed. “Poor Tio. Never mind, we shall take you to luncheon instead. ’Twill be our pleasure, won’t it, dear?”

  “Joy unsurpassed,” grunted August Falcon.

  CHAPTER II

  Glendenning Abbey was an enormous house. The original pile, dating to the fifteenth century, had consisted of one long structure, now the rear wing. Subsequent owners had thrown up additional wings on each side, so that the modern abbey was in the form of a square with the south side left open, creating a huge entrance courtyard. Built of creamy-grey stone blocks, and a uniform two storeys in height, the abbey stood with dignity, if not warmth, amid gently rolling hills and lush meadows. It had a colourful history, and was widely admired. It was not, however, a comfortable house. To travel from the east wing, where were the bedchambers, to the west wing, which housed kitchens, sculleries, pantries, and the various breakfast parlours and dining rooms, took quite some time, unless one went outside and crossed the courtyard. Michael Templeby, the son of the earl’s second wife, claimed that this rather irreverent procedure trimmed seven minutes from the journey, but the shortcut was impractical for much of the year, England’s weather being what it is.

  It had sometimes seemed to Horatio Glendenning that the very size of the vast pile had contributed to the fact that he had so little acquaintance with his sire. “The fact is, ma’am,” he had once told his stepmother, whom he adored, “that I seldom can find the old—er, Papa. And when I do, ’tis an eagle to a ladybird I won’t recognize him!”

  The countess, a tall and statuesque matron, had uttered her booming laugh and advised the heir that he was being facetious. “This is a splendid heritage, Horatio, and one you should be proud of.”

  Glendenning had not voiced his deep regret that some ancestor had lacked the wisdom to add a fourth wing and seal off both the square and the mansion so that no one could get in, and had said rather hollowly that he was proud, of course. If he was proud, his pride was in his name and his lineage, but from childhood he had found the abbey ponderous, draughty, and dull, and he had escaped it whenever he could do so without distressing his stepmother.

  Riding into the courtyard on this warm afternoon, he was met by racing stableboys and the head groom. He greeted his father’s servants as warmly as they greeted him, and entered the main block with the intent of seeking out the countess and his sister. The butler, a small and wiry gentleman with bright birdlike eyes and an unfailing smile, frustrated this plan by informing the viscount that Miss Marguerite was out driving with her mama. “Mr. Michael,” he added, “is in London, as your lordship is doubtless aware.”

  “Yes.” Starting off in the direction of his suite, Glendenning paused, and turned back. “By the way, Darrow, has my brother been here recently?”

  The butler moved closer and said in a cautious voice, “Last week, my lord.”

  “Out with it,” said Glendenning, not standing on ceremony with this lifelong friend. “Trouble?”

  “I—wouldn’t say trouble exactly, sir. But Master— I mean Mr. Michael seemed … not quite himself. As if he was worrying at something.”

  ‘Likely he’s been plunging too deep at the tables, the young fool,’ thought Lord Horatio. “I’ll have a word with my mother,” he said. “Let me know when the countess comes home, if you please.”

  “Yes, my lord. But—er, the earl is expecting you.”

  “Egad! Now?”

  “He knows you have arrived, sir. He wishes to talk with you, er—before you go up to change your dress.”

  “Blast! I’m in for it, am I Darrow?”

  The butler made a wry face.

  Sighing resignedly, the viscount turned about and commenced the long walk to his father’s study.

  Everything about Gregory Clement Laindon, the Earl of Bowers-Malden, was massive. He had a great frame that had not run to flesh and was all muscular strength; his head was leonine, his personality aggressive, and his voice a growl that could rise to a bellow that shook the windows and terrified the servants. He was of the same colouring as his son, and his strong face was not unhandsome and could at times take on a whimsical and surprisingly endearing grin.

  Glendenning had seldom seen that grin, and, standing before his father’s desk, enduring the long and detailed exposition of his faults, would have been hard put to it to remember that one existed. He remained respectfully silent while the earl dealt with his school years, but his nerves tightened when this sorry inventory was followed by a grim reference to the late tragic Uprising.

  “And I know damned well,” thundered Bowers-Malden, “that you fought with those bare-kneed Scots savages, so do not trouble to deny it.”

  The bushy eyebrows bristled; the green eyes shot sparks; and realizing he was to be allowed to answer, Glendenning said, “Mama is a Scot, sir, and—”

  “By God!” roared the earl, rising from his chair as if a shell had exploded under it. “Do you say that because my wife was born a Comyn she has influenced you into treasonable activities?”

  “No, sir! I merely point out that all Scots are not—”

  The earl sat down again. “When I want your opinion of the inhabitants to the north of us, I shall request it, Glendenning. Not that it would be worth a damn, as you show by the example you set your brother! Oh, I’m aware of the rumours that you have been up to your ears in aiding Jacobite fugitives. Likely still are, dammitall! Your reasons, if you have any, are beyond me!”

  With daring intrepidity, Horatio took up the gauntlet. “I find it exceeding difficult, sir, to condemn my fellow Britons for fighting to keep a Briton on the throne, rather than bending the knee to a Hanoverian prince who has no more desire to rule England than we have to be inflicted with—”

  “And because you are so ill-informed, my lord,” snarled the earl at his most menacing, “it pleases you to suppose that all the rest of us indulge the same bacon-brained notions as you do, eh?”

  He was on his feet again, face flushed, eyes flashing, massive jaw outthrusting. Like many a man before him, it was all Horatio could do not to shrink back a pace before that formidable wrath, and although he managed to overcome the impulse he was momentarily struck dumb and stood in white-faced silence.

  Incensed, the earl swept on. “Well, I thank God that most English gentlemen have the wits to prefer a German prince with a justifiable, however distant, claim to the throne. King George ain’t the type of man I’d have chose, I grant you, but he follows our policies of parliamentary procedure, which is a sight more than we’d get from a hare-brained young Scot dedicated to the philosophy of Rule by Divine Right. Divine right, indeed! Much the Stuarts have brought us of divine anything! For nigh a century and a half they’ve been a plague véritable, a blasted great millstone round the neck of this nation! I wonder, my lord, nay, I am astounded, that it has not penetrated your alleged brain that your admired Scots who so repeatedly fell under the Stuart spell failed to learn from their mistakes! They were deceived, used, exploited, and still followed that forlorn cause. And what did their gall
ant but ill-advised loyalty earn for them? Tragedy, starvation, death, and persecution that continues to this day!” The earl sat down again, his great voice still grumbling, “Stuarts? Pah, I say, sir! Humbug!”

  Battered but unbroken, Horatio found his voice and entered the lists again. “’Tis precisely because of that brutal persecution and tragedy, Father, that many gentlemen do what they may to help Scots fugitives! There is no—”

  “There is nothing to be gained from such mad recklessness save more death; more suffering! A man fights for what he believes, Glendenning, be he worthy to be called a man. But an he is defeated he must stand up bravely and take his punishment, not expect others to shoulder his burdens and share his risks. Certainly you know full well that to aid and abet a fugitive is punishable by death! One might think that what happened to your bosom bow, de Villars, would have cooled your ardour for the game. I’m told that reckless madman escaped these shores half a leap ahead of a troop of dragoons, and with a musket ball in his back!” Bowers-Malden interrupted himself to enquire interestedly, “Did he survive, by the bye?”

  “Yes, sir. And married the Widow Parrish. I understand she is about to present him un petit pacquet.” Taking advantage of this small thaw, Glendenning said quickly, “And I really do not think Michael is in the slightest sympathetic to the Jacobite cause, Papa.”

  “Well, if he ain’t it’s no thanks to you,” boomed the earl, scowling as fiercely as ever. “The young fool idolizes you, and copies every blithering start you embark on! As if it was not bad enough that you must plunge into the Stuart fiasco, I’m told you made a confounded ass of yourself in the Rossiter business. What a’plague possessed you to fall into such a morass?”

  Glendenning frowned. “Gideon Rossiter is my very good friend, sir. He came home from Flanders barely recovered of his wounds, and was abused beyond bearing.”

  “Unfortunate. But his father brought that about, ruining half the men in London with his financial caperings.”

  “Your pardon, sir, but Sir Mark Rossiter was the victim of a vicious conspiracy.” Yearning to be able to tell the earl some details of that conspiracy, and of the fact that several of his friends considered it to have been only part of a far more complex plot, Glendenning was sworn not to speak of the matter. He therefore finished somewhat lamely, “It was my honour to help his son, insofar as I was able.”

  “Humph! And is it also your honour to frequent every gaming house and half the fancy houses in Town?” Overriding his son’s indignant repudiation of this exaggeration, the earl swept on, “You are the eldest, Glendenning. I realize that Templeby is only your stepbrother, but I would expect you to set him a better example than to present him graphic lessons in—in treason, gambling, womanizing, and general irresponsibility.”

  Angry now, Glendenning said hotly, “My political beliefs do not march with yours, I am aware, sir. But I think my personal life is not yet sunk beneath reproach. Besides, my brother attained his majority more than a year since, and—”

  “And you attained yours more than a decade since! I have no wish to see Templeby wind up ten years from today in your condition! ’Twould break his mother’s heart.” Bowers-Malden waved a large and impatient hand, again cutting off his son’s indignant attempt to speak. “A man is known by the company he keeps! And only look at the men with whom you cry friends! You’ve run the gamut, Glendenning! From de Villars, who is a traitorous fugitive, to the Rossiters, to”—he sought his memory for the worst example, and bellowed in triumph—“to August Falcon! Faugh! The fellow is ostracized because he’s a half-caste, which I don’t hold with, mind you. His father—God help the poor fella!—says August has more in his head than hair, and from what the ladies tell me, he can be excessive charming. So does he use his brain to be conciliating? Or employ this alleged charm to win some friends? No, he does not! He has the tongue of an asp; he’s forever fighting someone in an illicit dawn encounter; and as for his temper—! The man’s an active volcano!”

  Actually, August Falcon was not one of the viscount’s closest friends, but they had recently engaged in a desperate adventure together, and he felt called upon to defend him. He pointed out that Falcon’s disposition was not helped when most of London’s gentlemen mocked him behind his back, and referred to him as the Mandarin. “Even his lovely sister—”

  “Ah, now there’s the horse of another colour,” interrupted the earl, who thought Katrina Falcon a rare beauty. “And ’tis as well we’ve come to the subject of the ladies. You should have married any time these ten years, instead of risking your head in one stupid imbroglio after another. If only half of what I’ve heard about you is truth, you’re damned lucky to be alive. But, soon or late, luck runs out for every man, and”—he had succeeded in frightening himself, and his voice wavered a little—“and I’d not see you dead because of your wildness, Horatio.”

  He had been addressed by his Christian name! Glendenning stared at his father in astonishment.

  The earl coughed and went on irritably, “Well, fond as I am of young Michael, he ain’t related by blood, after all, and cannot inherit.”

  “Oh.”

  “’Tis past time,” went on the earl, recovering his volume, “that you stopped frippering about Town, and wasting your life on useless studies and easels and drawing boards.”

  Glendenning’s jaw tightened. “Sir, architecture is a fascinating art and not to be learned in a year or two, even—”

  “A year or two! Zounds! You’ve been at it since you was at Eton, and what has it got you? Because a few of your bacon-brained friends with more money than sense have hired you to design houses for ’em, I fancy you’ll be wanting to hang out a shingle, and go into business! Egad!”

  Architecture had been the viscount’s passion for as long as he could remember, and he was proud of the commissions that had come his way, and of the acclaim that had greeted his efforts. Stung, he said hotly, “You are unfair, Papa! I never met Mr. Patrington till he sought me out! Nor did I know Sir Giles Alkborough! And Lady Nola said that the cottage I designed for Mr. Dunsby was—”

  “Yes, yes, well I’ll own that was a nice little place, but the fact remains that you’re a peer of the realm and have more important things to occupy you.”

  “Such as taking my seat in the House of Lords?”

  “Well? You’re a lord, aren’t you? And a lord of your age should have a lady and have set up his nursery! There’s plenty of ’em to choose among, Horatio. Shouldn’t take you above a day or so if you put your mind to it. She don’t have to be a woman of great fortune, though a young fellow with your breeding, background, and expectations would be a fool not to aim high. Still, family and a proper upbringing are all-important. I wasn’t enraptured when you showed an interest in the Cranford gel, but she’s a nice chit and pretty behaved, and had you not let her slip through your fingers, I fancy she’d have been a credit to you.”

  Glendenning, who had loved Dimity Cranford since she was a schoolroom miss, and had been shattered when she married Sir Anthony Farrar, clenched his hands, and said in a strained voice, “Perhaps you would wish to choose a wife for me, sir.”

  “Devil a bit of it! Although I’ve every right to have done so long since! I’m not one to give advice. If you can’t find a suitable bride, Lady Nola will select one for you. You’re not too bad looking a young fellow, and with your expectations I’ll wager half the gels in London would jump if you dropped a hint. Just keep in mind that beauty don’t last, any more than does love at first sight—which is a lot of poppycock. A sense of humour in a lady, however, is past price, for ’twill help you get over the rough ground of life, and sustain you when you’re ninety.” He cleared his throat, waited for some remark and, none being forthcoming, said, “Very well. That’s all I have to say, so be off with you and change your dress. Your mama will be waiting to see you, I fancy.”

  He nodded in response to his heir’s polite bow, and watched him march to the door, his head held as high as though he led
a troop of dragoons down Whitehall. A faint grin curved the earl’s mouth. Glendenning was properly seething with rage. Whatever else, he was a fine-looking rascal. And Lord knows, he’d sown some wild oats himself in his youth. A fellow wouldn’t want a son who was a prissy miss. Still, there was a time to call a halt. By Jove, but there was!

  “Don’t forget,” he called, as Glendenning opened the door. “I look forward to meeting a lady who’ll make a worthy countess when your mama and I are gone. And keep away from firebrands like August Falcon! He’ll come to a bad end, mark my words!”

  It was as well, thought the viscount, as he stamped angrily towards his own apartments, that the earl was “not one to give advice”!

  Whittlesey, the quiet and somewhat dour wizard who valetted Michael Templeby, was today assigned to Lord Glendenning. Having put off his riding coat, leathers, and top boots, Glendenning washed and was dressed in a coat of dark green velvet richly embroidered with silver thread; a waistcoat of green and silver brocade; and pale green satin unmentionables. A fine emerald pin was set amid the snowy Brussels lace of his cravat. His neat pigeon wing wig was replaced with one of the more elaborate French design he knew his stepsister admired, and his shoes with their high red heels made him seem taller. Despite this bow to fashion, Whittlesey knew better than to suggest paint or patches, and beyond murmuring that he hoped he saw his lordship well, he had little to say.

  Glendenning had never quite fathomed why Michael had taken on this tall, middle-aged, and rather saturnine individual for his personal servant, but Whittlesey knew his trade, certainly. Surveying his reflection in the cheval-glass with justifiable satisfaction, he caught the valet watching him. He held those enigmatic pale blue eyes, and demanded, “Is my brother well?”