Had We Never Loved

by Patricia Veryan

  She was an annoyance in his life. A prickly pest whose constant presence here irked him. But there could be no doubt that Katrina missed her dearest friend, Naomi Lutonville—now Mrs. Gideon Rossiter—and that Rossiter’s crippled sister had done much to fill the void. Falcon loved only two people in the world, one of whom was Katrina, and he could not thoroughly dislike anyone who made her happy. Gwendolyn Rossiter, with her quick wit, her merry sense of humour, her outspoken candour, delighted, and was delighted by, Katrina.

  Regrettably, Miss Rossiter had also embarked upon a crusade to reform one August Nikolai K. Falcon, and lost no opportunity to pinch at him, so that, however he strove to control it, he invariably lost his temper with her. He had no least desire to be reformed. He was a confirmed cynic, a loner, an arrogant, autocratic, bad-tempered care-for-nobody. And he was also selfish and rude. All of which she had informed him, and with which he, for the most part, had no quarrel. But not content with pointing out his faults, she wanted to make the sinner into a saint, which was irritating and a bore. The simplest way to deal with the vixen was to avoid her like the plague, yet somehow the very sight of her was a challenge, drawing him inexorably into their next battle of wits.

  Just at the moment she presented a rather charming picture, with the sunlight gleaming on her unpowdered light brown ringlets, and the great blue skirts billowing about her. The ankle that the wind obligingly revealed was neat and trim. Should a gentleman of limited intellect chance to come upon her seated thus, he might judge her to be quite pretty.

  Falcon’s musings were interrupted as a heartier gust made off with the wide-brimmed hat that had been loosely tied to hang behind Gwendolyn’s shoulders, and she dropped the book so as to catch the hat.

  “Maledictions, and confound you, wind,” she exclaimed. “Now you’ve made me lose my place!”

  Amused, Falcon retrieved the book, and riffled idly through the first few pages.

  “I might have guessed,” she moaned. “You would come just in time to hear me swear!”

  Looking at her, his face darkened. “And I might have guessed you would bring such rubbishing stuff here so as to taunt me again.”

  “Au contraire, kind sir. If it is rubbishing stuff, ’tis your own, for I borrowed it from your book room. As for taunting you—I’ll admit that, initially perhaps, I had hoped to awaken your interest in—”

  “The other side of my—heritage?”

  “Just so. Did you know that when you sneer like that, your lip curls up?”

  “But how fascinating.”

  “Oh, no. And there it goes again. However, what I started to say was that I am myself becoming most interested in—you will forgive if I say the word?—China. ’Tis surprising that I knew so little about such a very big country. This gentleman”—she reached out to reclaim the thin volume—“was a missionary in Peking, and he writes that one of their first emperors discovered how to awaken a flame when he watched a bird make sparks as it pecked at—”

  “At his foolish head? ’Tis scarce to be wondered at. But an you are not come to tease me, ma’am, nor to admire my curling lip, why are you here? Faith, but one might think you mean to move in with us.”

  “Scarce surprising, Mr. Falcon,” said she, refusing to be flustered by such rudeness, “when your papa and your dear sister are so very kind to me.”

  “Whereas I am unkind.” He strolled to sit on the steps and stretch out his long legs with the fluid grace that characterized all his movements. “Is that what I am to deduce from your saintly rejoinder?”

  She considered, then said thoughtfully, “You are kind to your sister. And—sometimes—to your papa.” He gave a smothered and contemptuous grunt. “Out of all the world,” she appended.

  “’Tis a sad and sorry world, Miss Rossiter.”

  “To the contrary, the world is beautiful, sir. Mankind brings the sadness and sorrow.”

  He glanced at the cane lying beside her. “And what of womankind? You have not been gently dealt with. Do you really find the world beautiful?”

  “Exceeding beautiful. Only look around you.”

  “Thank you—no. You would rave of the glories of Nature. I would point out its cruelty, and in striving to open your eyes to plain truth, would merely waste my breath. I shall deny you the opportunity to counter common sense with puerile platitudes. Sad to say, you’ve spent so much time with Jamie Morris you have memorized some of his idiocies.”

  “Since the poor young man has so little time left, ’tis as well that somebody should benefit from his wisdom.”

  “Wisdom! ’Fore heaven, ma’am, he must be a skilled necromancer to have so thoroughly gulled you. The man is a veritable blockhead! And what do you mean by saying he has little time left? Are we to be blessed by his departure at last? Is he called back to active service?”

  “Not to my knowledge. But I had understood ’tis your mission in life to fight him.”

  “Oh. Yes. Well, as you know, we have had a—er, quarrel. For too long!”

  “And for a silly quarrel you mean to kill him.” She clicked her tongue condemningly.

  His shoulders lifted in a bored shrug. “You should be grateful that I am willing to remove such a blot from your beautiful world.”

  That angered her, and she said sharply, “I think my beautiful world would miss him very much. I know I would.”

  “Such admirable loyalty.” He slanted one of his mocking glances at her. “And only because he is your brother’s friend. Or—can it be that you nourish a tendre for the bumpkin?”

  Gwendolyn took up her hat, and with no little difficulty restrained the impulse to fling it in his face. “Alas, but I am unmasked,” she said lightly. “Before I die of unrequited love, I shall go and cheer up my rival.”

  He scowled. “An you refer to my sister, your mission of mercy is unwarranted. She is not despondent.”

  “No. But she is often lonely.”

  “Nonsense. She has her family, and is widely admired.”

  “And isolated.”

  He began to inspect Apollo’s paw for fleas. “Say protected, rather.”

  “Certainly not. You do not protect. You suffocate. And ’tis a misplaced persecution because—”

  “Persecution? Now, damme if—”

  “—because your papa is the head of— There’s one! There’s one!” She gave a squeal of excitement as Falcon caught the parasite and despatched it.

  He stifled a grin. “’Tis past time that you should appreciate my accomplishments. The next honours to you, ma’am. And as for my papa—he has other interests to command his time.”

  “I know,” she agreed outrageously, peering without great enthusiasm at Apollo’s neck. “I’ve—Ugh! It hopped! I’ve seen some of his—er, interests.”

  Shocked, he exclaimed, “If ever I heard a lady make such a vulgar remark! And you cannot kill the brutes by looking them to death, Miss Rossiter. The way to do it is—” Irritated by this lapse, he said austerely, “I think my sire’s behaviour is none of your affair.”

  “’Tis my affair because Katrina is my friend. And were you not entirely too high-in-the-instep”—his angry gasp caused her to rush on before he could voice his indignation,—“you would stop making it your life’s work to offend everyone, besides bullying Katrina. But for you, she would be happily wed by now.”

  “Yes, to some stupid clod like—” He frowned to a sudden suspicion. “Speaking of which, an you came to see my sister, why are you not with her?”

  She had been anticipating this question, and said demurely, “Because she went into the house. For a moment.”

  “Oh.” He looked mildly embarrassed, but he had learned not to underestimate this frail-seeming girl, and asked, “Did Ross—I mean, did your brother drive you here?”

  She said mischievously, “You have my permission to call him Ross, sir. Many of his friends do so. No—do not fly into the boughs. Jamie brought me.”

  At once inflamed, he sprang to his feet.

  �
��Wait!” Starting up also, she moved too fast and, lacking the support of her cane, she stumbled and fell.

  Perforce, he had to help her, but said, seething, “You did that deliberately!”

  She fastened a death grip on his arm. “Now, August, for mercy’s sake! Give Jamie a moment with her. She has a kindness for him, I do believe. And he adores her, and is such a good man. What harm—”

  “A good man is it? He is an idiot, madam! He has not two brains to rub together, his family is of mediocre background, and his prospects are insignificant! When I find a man worthy of Katrina—”

  “You never will,” she gasped, clinging like a limpet as he tried to break free. “In your bitterness and pride, you will demand a prince of the blood. And—and even did you ever find one, he’d likely prove to be the very man to make her unhappy!”

  “If any man—ever—makes Katrina unhappy—” he began through gritted teeth, then paused as her eyes slipped past him.

  Mr. Neville Falcon, glorious in green and mauve, was hurrying towards them. “’Pon my soul, August,” he panted, mopping his heated brow. “How you peck at me because I love the pretties, and here you are, fondling Miss Gwendolyn where all the servants can goggle. How de do, m’dear?”

  His son’s finely chiseled jaw sagged. Releasing Miss Rossiter as though she were white hot, he uttered faintly, “Fondling…?”

  It was too much for Gwendolyn. She went into such whoops of laughter that Apollo became alarmed and, rushing to her side, began to growl at the most likely culprit.

  Neville retreated at speed, calling over his shoulder, “I cannot deal with it, m’boy. Weeping women! Ghastly! I’m a coward, I know, but … there you are.” And he vanished through the gate and into the alley.

  Two words broke through August’s stupefaction. Weeping women. “Katrina!” he whispered, and sprinted to the house.

  He entered through the large dining room, and at once heard Morris’ voice, an odd note to it, coming from the red saloon. “Damn the swine,” growled August, and racing on with murder in his heart, plunged into the room and stopped abruptly.

  The Countess of Bowers-Malden was seated on the gold velvet chaise-longue, handkerchief in hand, and head bowed. A pallid Lieutenant James Morris hovered over her, holding a wineglass and looking petrified.

  “But he was not at the Cranfords,” the countess was explaining in a quavering voice. “So I went up that dreadful Snow Hill to Sir Mark Rossiter’s house, but … they had not seen him. I could not speak to—to Newby, you know.” She looked up at Morris pathetically.

  “No, no,” he gulped, shoving the wine at her. “All straw and no grain, what?”

  Grinning, Falcon backed away.

  Gwendolyn hurried up to peep around him, and gave him a little shove. “Well, go on! Go on!”

  “Devil I will,” he whispered, ducking into the hall and easing the door to. “It’s that awful Bowers-Malden dowager.”

  Indignant, she argued, “But the poor lady sounds distressed.”

  “So would I be an I went in there!”

  “Lieutenant Morris is likely terrified, but at least he’s trying to help.” The Crusading Look came into her blue eyes and her lips pursed up.

  Unmoved, he hissed, “’Tis what comes of being a fatuous and noble block. But you, of course, will be eager to offer him your equally fatuous support. En avant, mes enfant!”

  Pleased with that snide little speech, he started off.

  Gwendolyn grabbed the skirts of his coat. “So here you are, Mr. Falcon,” she shrilled at the top of her lungs. “Lady Bowers-Malden has come to see you!”

  At once Morris could be heard galloping across the room. Falcon turned a bared-teeth snarl on Gwendolyn, who put one finger under her chin and curtsied.

  Morris flung open the door. “Thank G-God!” he stammered, seizing Falcon by the arm with the desperation of a drowning man. “Here he is, my lady!”

  “Damn you,” hissed Falcon, tearing free. “An that treacherous Glendenning ever appears for our duel, you’ll pay for this!”

  Her ladyship had risen, and she reached out appealingly. Falcon had no recourse but to himself ‘en avant,’ and bow over her hand.

  “I would not have come to you,” she said, her face haggard with strain, “for I know you are not a—a close friend of Horatio’s but—”

  Gwendolyn ran to put an arm about her. “Poor dear lady,” she said, all tender sympathy. “Of course you should have come. My brother will be so sorry he was not in London when you needed him, but he has taken Naomi down to Devonshire for a few days. How fortunate that the lieutenant and Mr. Falcon are here, for you know they are only too glad to assist any lady in distress.”

  Yearning to wring her neck, Falcon said nothing.

  Of a far more gallant nature, Morris took up the wineglass once more, and muttered staunchly that he would “be honoured.”

  Falcon led Lady Nola back to the chaise-longue. “Perhaps you will tell us the nature of your difficulty, ma’am,” he said, very obviously bored. “I have obligations, alas, which may forbid I be of service, but I feel sure that my father—”

  “Pray do not be foolish, August,” said her ladyship, too distraught to temper her notorious tendency towards outspokenness. “Neville is a dear soul, but ’twould be as well to pit a mouse ’gainst the Minotaur.”

  Morris stared at her uncertainly.

  Falcon’s chin went up and his eyelids drooped. “You must tell us which Cretan has offended,” he drawled, watching the swing of his quizzing glass.

  Gwendolyn gave him a sizzling glare, relieved Morris of the wine, and carried it to Lady Nola.

  My lady took a sip, the glass trembling in her hand. “A man—came to see me,” she said. “He is—is called … Burton Farrier.”

  “Oh! Great jumping Jupiter!” exclaimed Lieutenant Morris.

  CHAPTER VIII

  Sitting at the kitchen table beside Glendenning, Amy said worriedly, “But he says they wasn’t chals, Ab!”

  Absalom glowered down at the sketch in his hands, and gave a scornful grunt. “’Course they was. Been after us since I got you outta the tribe, ain’t they? ’Sides, they likely want to get their hands on young Florian and that donkey and cart they say he stole, and they’d think as he might be along of us. Don’t be listening to what any Quality cove tells ye, my lass.” He shot Glendenning a look of burning resentment. “Tricky as a barrel o’ monkeys, every last one. Oughta be done away with, says I, or put where they can’t—”

  “Have done!” Glendenning’s voice fairly cracked across that bitter flow. Amy jumped, and Absalom’s mouth hung open with surprise. “An I am right,” Glendenning went on grimly, “you and Amy are in real peril. And not from chals. I have heard more than enough of your rantings, Consett, and I’ve held my tongue because you’ve been kind to Amy. And also because I respect genius, and ’tis very clear that you are a brilliant artist whom the world has ignored for too long.”

  Amy gave a squeal of excitement and hugged her uncle impulsively.

  Absalom flushed brick red. Dumbfounded, he tore off his scruffy wig and wiped a purple kerchief over his shaven head. “Be jiggered,” he muttered.

  “We may all be jiggered unless you answer my questions,” said Glendenning.

  “Ask then. But be danged if I can see what—”

  “When you took Amy away from the tribe, did the chals follow you here?”

  “What, d’ye take me for a flat? They follered, but I give ’em the slip, proper.”

  “Then nobody in the tribe knew you had moved in here?”

  “Not nohow. For why? ’Cause we hadn’t found it. Not for half a year, about, eh lass?”

  Amy nodded, her gaze anxious again, and fixed on Glendenning’s stern face. “And they didn’t find us fer a long time after that, Tio,” she explained. “They must’ve seen us at one of the fairs, or when we was on the roads, and follered us. But when we set the ghost after ’em, I thought we’d frightened ’em off for good.”r />
  “I rather suspect you had.” Glendenning lifted a hand as they both began to talk at once. “Consett, I want you to be very sure about this. You say that you had made some small repairs for a jeweller in Canterbury, and that you were in his shop one day when two gentlemen brought in a little figure”—he took the sketch from Absalom’s hand—“like this.”

  “Aye. ’Twas very old, and valuable, they said. But some fool had dropped it and a piece broke off, and two of the stones had fallen out.”

  “Did you speak to these gentlemen?”

  “Lor’—no! More’n I’d dare do! Mr. Shumaker—he was the jeweller, dead now, poor cove—he didn’t want none of his customers to know he didn’t do all the work hisself. No, mate. I was hid away in the back.”

  “And when they’d gone, the jeweller asked you to repair the figure?”

  “Right ye are. Poor old Shumaker was afraid of ’em, and didn’t dare offend, but he says he couldn’t get the work done so soon as they wanted. It was a tricky business, mind yer, and took time, and he had some other gents already complaining ’cause they was having to wait. Rich folk,” said Absalom, fixing Glendenning with a hard stare, “allus think their work should be done first.”

  “Were you able to complete it in time?”

  “By the skin o’ me teeth.” Reminded, Absalom shook his head glumly. “Me poor teeth, what hates me! Still, I got it done at last, and a funny little thing it was, eh, Amy?”

  “Yes, in fact—Now what’s the matter?”

  Glendenning steadied himself. “You saw this figure, Amy?”

  “’Course she did. I done the work right here, mate.”

  “Yes … You said that the jade was broken.”

  “So ’twas, but—Hey! It don’t say nothing here ’bout it being jade. How’d you know that?”

  “I held it in my hands, sometime after you repaired it, I believe.” They both stared at him, and the viscount added, “It didn’t look to have been broken.”

  Amy said proudly, “When Uncle Ab does a job, it’s done right.”