Had We Never Loved

by Patricia Veryan

  Watching her limp away, Glendenning murmured, “What a darling she is.”

  “Sunny little thing,” agreed Morris. “Pity she’s—” He stopped, and his face reddened.

  “Crippled?” Falcon said derisively, “Why choke over the word? She don’t.”

  Irritated, Morris said, “Oh, brush your hound.”

  “I’ve no least intention of doing so.” Falcon heaved the brush at him. “You do it. You’re the one with the alleged heart of gold.”

  “Jove, Falcon!” exclaimed Morris. “That’s the first nice thing you ever said to me!”

  “I am feverish,” muttered Falcon, feeling his brow anxiously. “I’d best go and lie down upon my bed!”

  Morris grinned and threw the brush back to him. “Take this with you. You know damned well that brute would have my arm off did I dare touch him.”

  “Oh, yes.” Catching the brush, Falcon glanced at Glendenning, who had sat down on one of the benches and was watching them with faint amusement. “What’s to do, oh mighty peer? We have been bereft of your nobility and wisdom for several days.”

  “Had you need of either?”

  Resuming the business of grooming Apollo, who had begun to eye Morris and show his teeth, Falcon replied, “I have managed somehow to survive.”

  Morris said thoughtfully, “My great uncle managed to survive till he was nine and ninety. Most foolish old duck I ever knew.”

  “Glendenning,” said Falcon, “will you please tell us if the arrangements are made, and then take him away with you? He is lechering after Katrina again, and I’ll not have it! I—er, presume you did come to tell us that you and Rossiter have set the date?”

  “Well, I did, yes. But I told Miss Rossiter I had come to talk about my brother, so I’ll keep my word and get that over first, if you don’t mind. I do not seem able to come up with Templeby. Crenshore told me he’d seen him with Piers Cranford, so I went to Muse Manor. Michael had already left there, but Cranford dropped the same hint to me that you did, Falcon.”

  Falcon shot a quick and faintly guilty glance at Morris.

  Morris muttered glumly, “‘Wine sets a wise man singing.’”

  Gritting his teeth, Falcon flung his hands over his ears. “Tell me when he’s done!”

  The viscount asked, “So you knew also, did you Jamie?”

  “Heard he was making a cake of himself.” Morris shrugged. “He’s not a cloth-head y’know, and I would’ve blabbed to you, if I heard he’d gone in too deep. Though, mind you, I ain’t cut from the same cloth as Lord Haughty-Snort. Don’t like blabbing.”

  “Idiot,” said Falcon succinctly. “About the duel, Glendenning?”

  “Oh. Well, I’d a letter from Rossiter. Says he and his bride will be back in England on the twenty-fourth, and that we can schedule your meeting for Monday, the twenty-seventh, if agreeable. Have either of you objections?”

  “Perfectly agreeable with me,” said Morris.

  Falcon nodded. “What about Cranford?”

  “Piers is willing,” answered the viscount. “Said he’d come and overnight with me on Sunday. I’ll have to call on Kadenworthy, though.”

  Morris, whose thoughts had wandered, said, “I—er, suppose nothing more has been heard of our friend the Squire, and his merry reptiles?”

  Glendenning frowned. “The League of Jewelled Men? I’ve not heard aught. Nor do I expect to.”

  “Why not?” argued Falcon, brushing Apollo’s hair the wrong way. “We upset their applecart. I’d say they’re not likely to forgive and forget.”

  Hesitating, Glendenning said, “True. If they’re as devious as Rossiter suspects, they’ll be hatching some nasty scheme again. But not yet, I’d think.”

  “Unless we’ve shut the barn door after the horse has fled,” muttered Morris.

  They both looked at him. Falcon said irately, “Deuce take it, if you have something to say don’t go from Land’s End to John o’ Groats to say it!”

  “Well, whatever I say, you’ll make fun. But—that Albertson business did not seem just right to me.”

  Falcon said wearily, “Admiral William Albertson is in Newgate for defrauding the government by placing orders for supplies with companies he himself controlled. What in the name of all the gods and little fishes has that to do with a conspiracy to ruin Sir Mark Rossiter? Do not hesitate to dazzle us with your logic, mighty sage. We wait with bated breath.”

  Morris flushed, but persisted, “The admiral is one of Britain’s greatest heroes. To the last he denied the charges brought against him, but he lost everything. Same as Sir Mark damn near did.”

  Falcon turned to Glendenning. “Do you see how faulted is his intellect? One gathers we are now to be suspicious of every scoundrel who is hauled before the courts. We’d as well investigate the man who beats his wife, or cheats at cards!”

  “Yes, and there’s another of ’em,” said Morris triumphantly, ignoring Falcon’s groan. “Look at that wretched Merriam business. Shot himself after being accused of cheating in the Cocoa Tree. Home and estates confiscated and sold for debt. Fishy, was you to ask me.”

  “Which, praise the Lord, we’ve no intention of doing,” said Falcon. “No, for heaven’s sake do not dignify his nonsense by looking thoughtful, Tio!”

  “I don’t know much about Albertson,” said Glendenning. “But I’ll own that Lord Merriam was the last man I’d have judged dishonourable. It might not be so far-fetched as you think.” He stood. “After I find Michael, and drop in on Kadenworthy, it could bear looking into. Where is Kade, by the way? In Town?”

  Standing also, Falcon said, “My sister heard he was down at Epsom for these new spring races they’re holding. His country seat is nearby. Damned nice property.”

  Glendenning swore. “He would be in the country! Now I’ve to go all the way down there! Well, I’d best get started. Adieu, mes amis.”

  Morris said, “I’d go m’self, dear boy, but it wouldn’t be the thing. Do you want us to scour around a trifle? For Templeby, I mean.”

  “I’d be grateful,” called Glendenning over his shoulder. “If you find him before I do, keep an eye on him for me, would you?”

  Morris waved, and the viscount walked briskly to the stables.

  Deep in thought, Falcon and Morris started towards the house, Apollo escorting them, and growling sporadically at Morris’ heels.

  “The deuce!” said Morris.

  Falcon muttered, “I wish to heaven I knew who it was.”

  “Eh? Oh—’tis another name for the Devil. I’d’ve thought you would know that.”

  “Not him, you clod! I mean I wish I knew who this damnable Squire is.”

  “Why should you be concerned? You hate England. What do you care if a lunatic threatens her?”

  “I believe one may find a nation absurd, without hating it. And in case it has slipped your mind, Morris, I’ve already been dragged into this ugly business.”

  Morris frowned, and as they walked on together, stared at the ground in silence.

  This atypical behavior wore at Falcon. “I hear rusty wheels turning,” he murmured. “You must be thinking. Honour me by sharing your brilliant conclusions.”

  “All right,” said Morris, looking up. “I think we should endeavour to find out who are the members of this League of Jewelled Men. And what the devil they’re about.”

  Falcon paused to clap his hands. “Bravo! And—a simple question, forgive me it. Have you the least notion where we should commence this masterly scheme?”

  “But of course,” said Morris grandly. “In Windsor. You really must make a push to—just now and again—use that pumpkin on the end of your neck, poor fellow!”

  CHAPTER III

  Surrey was green and neat and lovely, as ever. The viscount reached Mimosa Lodge in late afternoon, and was received with courtesy by Lord Kadenworthy’s aunt. Her nephew, she said, was down at the races and would likely not reach home until dark—if at all. “Hector,” sighed the sweet-faced elderly lady,
“so often is caught up in all the talk of horses and jockeys and weight and stewards that it is sometimes the wee hours of the morning before they are done, and then he stays with whomever he chances to be. This new business of a race meeting here, has properly caught the public fancy. If you would care to go in search of him you will see for yourself.”

  Glendenning had a soft spot for gentle old ladies, and having gratefully accepted a substantial tea, at which his hostess seemed equally grateful for his company, he did go in search of Kadenworthy, and he did see for himself. For the second time in as many days, he walked Flame through a noisy crowd. A different crowd this, in which the elegant and distinguished rubbed shoulders with dashing young Bucks and Corinthians, and were in turn jostled by humbler folk. It was a crowd in which predators roved, their shrewd eyes searching out the easy marks, and many a man carried a small pistol in his belt or in his pocket. Another race was to be run before sunset, and the air rang with the shouts of wagers offered and taken. This was to be an Owners to Ride race, and excitement was high.

  Catching sight of Kadenworthy, astride a rangy-looking black, Glendenning’s attempts to win through to him were unavailing, and he was obliged to dismount. A sudden disturbance arose near at hand, and he became part of a surging, neck-craning crowd. A dark-haired youth was struggling in the grip of a man dressed in a simple but well-cut green habit. Glendenning had an impression of a blandly smiling pink and white face, of hooded grey eyes, full lips, and a soft yet oddly resonant voice.

  “You are a thieving gypsy, and will be dealt with as such. Now—put it down. At once.”

  The voice was not raised, the man showed no sign of ungovernable rage or violence, but the youth cried a desperate, “I did not prig it, sir! I swear—Ow! Do not … please! You’ll break my arm!”

  In his frantic efforts to escape, his head twisted, allowing Glendenning a full view of the convulsed features. He thought, ‘Good God!’ and called sharply, “What is the trouble here?”

  The onlookers fell back before the authority in his tone. As usual, Flame evoked an immediate chorus of admiring exclamations. Someone said knowingly, “He’ll be a rider, I reckons,” and another man remarked, “Ar. Well, my money’s on the mare, and the young gent looks as if he knows the difference ’twixt a tail and a hock!”

  The man detaining the gypsy glanced up. His smile did not waver, but in the deep eyes for just an instant came a flash of something—surprise almost—immediately veiled. “Nothing I cannot deal with, sir,” he said.

  A bystander offered helpfully, “The gypsy tried to buy some currant buns, and the gent says as it ain’t the lad’s purse.”

  “I wish I may see the day a gypsy owns a purse like that one,” smiled the man in green.

  Following his eyes, Glendenning saw a familiar purse of silver mesh with an amber clasp. Stifling his astonishment, he said honestly, “He does not own it. I do. And I sent him off to buy my lunch. Perhaps you will be so good as to release my servant, sir.”

  A murmur of amusement went up. The green man’s eyes shifted under Glendenning’s cool stare, but he did not release the boy. Still smiling, he murmured, “An he is your servant, sir, you will certainly know his name. I—persuaded him to tell me it, just before you came.”

  The look that was slanted at him was gloatingly sly. The fellow was enjoying bullying his helpless prey. A strong sense of revulsion swept Glendenning. There was about this man the aura of things that dwelt in rotten trees: pallid things, dank, and crawling. His lip curling with contempt, he said cuttingly, “Of course I know his name. It is Florian.” A ripple of laughter arose from the onlookers. There came a slight lessening of the green man’s perpetual smile. The viscount stepped closer. “You have his name, sir, but I shall neither require yours, which I have no wish to know, nor shall I gratify you with mine own. I will however, advise you that if you give his arm one more twist, I shall apply my fist to your slippery eye. Let—him—go!”

  For a moment he thought he was going to have to make good his threat. Then, the youth was released and his captor stepped back. “You are quick to take umbrage, sir,” he said, his voice as soft, his smile as gentle as ever. “But you will own it looked suspicious. Had the lad explained—”

  Florian was rubbing his right arm painfully. Glendenning said, “Now where is that baker? Come along, boy. I’m fairly starving!”

  They blended into the amused crowd. Glendenning could feel those hooded eyes following. He said quietly, “That was an ugly customer. You see what you get for filching my purse, you young ruffian. I thought when Mr. Peregrine Cranford took you into his service, you had mended your ways. A fine return for his trust!”

  “I didn’t steal your purse, my lord. It was—” Florian bit off the words.

  “You found it, perhaps?”

  “Yes, my lord.”

  “In that pretty little thief’s pocket, eh? Well, I mean to find her, and you shall take me to wherever she—”

  “Tio! By all that’s wonderful!” A slender young officer in military scarlet gripped the viscount by the shoulder. “Are you riding? I was prepared to put my money on Hector Kadenworthy till I saw your mare. What a beauty!”

  Shaking hands, Glendenning said with a smile, “Best keep your bet where ’tis, Major, sir. I do not ride today.”

  Hilary Broadbent laughed, and cuffed him. “As well you show me some respect. How do you go on, you madman? And how is that scapegrace brother of yours? I hear you are seeking him.”

  Fighting not to betray the sudden fear that tightened his nerves, Glendenning said easily, “Do you? Dogging my footsteps, Hilary?”

  “No, damn you!” Sobering abruptly, Broadbent added, “I hope I may never have to do so. Oddly enough I do not enjoy conveying my friends to the Tower, and I would purely dislike to see your ugly phiz on the end of a spike.”

  Meeting his eyes steadily, the viscount asked, “A warning, Major?”

  “It wouldn’t be the first time I’ve warned you, Tio. And if what I suspect is truth, you’ve paid me small heed.” He grinned suddenly. “But I’ll not stir old coals with the man who possesses so fair a sister. Tell me what has Templeby been up to? Women, cards, or the nags? He’s of an age to sow some wild oats, you know.”

  “You know, and I know. My honoured sire, alas…”

  Broadbent laughed. “What, did the earl send you after—” His gaze slipping past Glendenning, his pleasant face darkened, and he said in a changed tone, “Be damned! What’s he doing here, I wonder?”

  The viscount glanced around the sea of faces. “To judge by your expression you’ve not discovered a bosom bow.”

  “A cobra, more like. Though I’d not dare say so to his face, coward that I am!” Broadbent, a man not given to disparaging others, lowered his voice and said with bitter intensity, “Tis Burton Farrier. No—don’t look round, he’s turning this way.”

  “Who the deuce is Burton Farrier? Never heard of the fellow.”

  “Be thankful for large mercies. He’s military intelligence. Looks like a placid clergyman, and is the most dangerous man I know. He has an almost insane hatred for all Jacobites and I do believe would be delighted to personally cut the heart out of every living sympathiser.” Broadbent frowned and added grudgingly, “Justified, to an extent, I suppose. His brother fell on the field of Prestonpans.” He glanced to the side again. “He’s a merciless hunter, and once put on a case hangs on like a bulldog. They call him ‘Terrier Farrier.’”

  “Charming. Is his life’s work to destroy all Jacobites?”

  “Oh, no. That’s just a private hobby. He’s usually assigned to very special cases, and so far as I’m aware is held in extreme high regard, because he has yet to fail. There—you can look now. And mark him well. A good man to avoid, Tio.”

  Looking in the direction his friend indicated, the viscount saw a well-built individual, not above medium height, clad in a green habit, and smiling beneficently at no one in particular.

  Broadbent’s words ech
oed in his ears. “A good man to avoid…”

  * * *

  The woods were dense, and the sun was almost gone, making it difficult to see through the dimming light, but the viscount rode on, guiding Flame carefully but with determination. Florian had vanished during his conversation with Hilary Broadbent, but he’d caught a glimpse of the youth just as he’d disappeared into these trees. He had recovered his purse, with surprisingly little missing, but while Lord Kadenworthy was busied with the closing formalities, he meant to find that larcenous gypsy lass. And he meant to discover why Florian was with her, instead of with the Cranford twins, who had so kindly rescued him from starvation and given him honest work.

  Some distance ahead, the shrubs rustled. He shouted, “Florian? I want a word with you!”

  A slim figure was briefly silhouetted against a solitary beam of roseate light before plunging into a tunnel-like gap between the trees.

  Glendenning spurred in pursuit. Not until the last instant did he catch a glimpse of something thin and taut stretched above Flame’s ears.

  There came a mighty impact that tore the breath from his lungs and smashed him from the saddle. A violent shock; a fading sense of rage and pain.…

  * * *

  “Riding like the wind he were, I tell ye, and right on the lad’s tail!” The male voice was sharp and querulous. “Another minute and he’d have been took. What then? Ar, you don’t stop to think on that, does ye!”

  Some misguided stonecutter was chiselling a hole in Glendenning’s head, but he wanted to find out what was to do, and he tried to move. Another fool began to pound a white hot stake through his ankle. Fighting back a groan, he lost interest in the proceedings …

  He was tormented by a fierce heat, and he could hear a woman talking. ‘Mitten,’ he thought. And if it was the lovely Dimity Cranford, then he must still be laid low from the musket ball that damnable trooper had lobbed at him … He wondered if they’d told Bowers-Malden that he was dying … And he could picture his sire’s grief and shame when he discovered his heir had been carrying a vital Jacobite cypher when shot down …