Had We Never Loved

by Patricia Veryan

  Now, having once again sought his refuge, he sprawled in the comfortable wing chair, deep in thought. There could be no doubt but that Farrier was after him. The business about the Comyn Pin was a trumped-up mockery but, when combined with his suspected Jacobite involvements, it could be used most effectively. If they had a list, and if the pin really did appear on it, they would claim it was the final piece of evidence needed to condemn him.

  Only the devil was in it that it wasn’t just him. The charge would be High Treason, beyond any doubt, and it would be claimed that he—a traitor to England—had been given sanctuary here. The estates could be confiscated. In addition to himself, his father and Lady Nola would very probably be executed. Perhaps even Michael and Marguerite. His hand tightened on the chair arm, a muffled exclamation escaping him at the thought of such a ghastly development. Even if Farrier’s list was forged purely to entrap suspects, who would bother to prove its lack of authenticity at a time when all England seemed obsessed by this frenzy to seek out and destroy Jacobites and Jacobite supporters? No, it was a very real and deadly threat; a threat brought down upon those he loved by his own actions.

  There was no point in regretting his decision to fight for the Scottish prince. He had followed his convictions, and it was done and ineradicable. But—why now? Why, after all these months of having believed himself safe, had someone put Terrier Farrier on his trail? Many had suspected him, of course. It was well known that he cried friends with Trevelyan de Villars, who had escaped England half a leap ahead of a troop of dragoons. A particularly unpleasant lieutenant of dragoon guards had damn near caught him with that Jacobite cypher. All those things would be brought out and must add weight to the charges against him. Lord, what a bog!

  He drew a hand across his eyes. A little while ago his greatest worry had been how to tell his sire that he loved a rankly ineligible lady. Now, he must face the fact that he had brought the shadow of ruin and death over his entire family.

  He jerked out of the chair and paced to the window. The familiar greens of the wilderness area stretched out, serene and beautiful. Two of the spaniels were chasing a ball one of the stableboys threw for them. The skies were pale blue, hung with clouds that moved rapidly, sending shadows racing across the land. In the woods, the trees tossed about, reminding him of other woods, and a valiant lady …

  To immediately ride out in search of Michael was out of the question. He had no intention of leaving his stepmother to face Burton Farrier alone. Besides, Michael might be on his way home with the Comyn Pin at this very minute. God send he came in time! But if he did not, if he had been unable to get the pin back …

  Glendenning bowed his head and faced the obvious solution. The ramifications made him horribly aware that he was not a brave man.

  CHAPTER XI

  Sir Owen Furlong was a tall ex-army officer, whipcord lean, sufficiently good looking to be sighed over by London’s damsels, and much admired by her Bucks and Corinthians. After having been stationed for some years in India, he had sold his commission and at the ripe old age of two and thirty was now thoroughly enjoying what he described as “the quiet life.” Quite the man about Town, he was happiest when at his large farm a few miles west of Tunbridge Wells, and delighted to welcome visitors to the spacious and rambling old house.

  He was not acquainted with Lieutenant Morris but, moving in the same social circles as Falcon, had encountered him often enough to be aware he could not like him. This had nothing to do with Falcon’s mixed birth, or the fact that Sir Owen’s lineage was impeccable. Born into one of the most ancient if not one of the richest families in the land, he conducted himself with the quiet assurance of the true aristocrat, a combination that inevitably aroused Falcon’s contempt. Aware of this, Sir Owen was puzzled by the late-morning visit. He hid his feelings admirably. Any friend of Tio Glendenning, he declared, was a friend of his. He ushered his guests into a charming withdrawing room with latticed casements, a low, beamed ceiling, comfortable chairs, some splendid marine paintings, and a fire that blazed and crackled merrily on a massive stone hearth.

  An old hound heaved itself up from before the fire and padded over to greet the new arrivals. Falcon showed his first sign of enthusiasm, and was diverted from his initial and obvious intention of coming straight to the point.

  Morris, having shaken Chaucer’s paw when offered, was too polite to at once state their reasons for having come. He accepted the Madeira that was offered, sat beside his host, and complimented him on his home. Sir Owen was only too pleased to respond to such genuine interest. When Falcon concluded his conversation with Chaucer, he was nonplussed to discover the two men chattering like old friends, not about some military campaign which he had been prepared to endure for a second or two, but regarding some feature of the front door.

  Looking from one to the other, he said, “Your pardon an I was wool gathering.”

  “Flea gathering, more like,” said Morris sotto voce.

  Ignoring him, Falcon enquired, “Have you some difficulty with your door, Furlong?”

  Amused by the impatience in the handsome features, Furlong said gravely, “I’d not thought so. But Morris is concerned lest it should fall off.”

  “Fall off?” Falcon stared at Morris incredulously. “Why in the name of all that’s wonderful should it fall off? Looks solid as the Rock of Gibraltar to me.”

  “An you’d had the good manners to join the conversation instead of gossiping with the hound,” scolded Morris, “you might have heard. ‘When seagulls fly—’”

  Falcon jabbed a cautionary finger at him. “Do not. I warn you! Do—not!” He turned to find Furlong’s blue eyes alight with laughter, and said, “Sir, the reason we are come—”

  “It’s those iron bands,” interjected Morris thoughtfully. “Must weigh a ton.”

  “And were put there,” Falcon said with emphasis, “to strengthen the blasted door, so it—don’t—fall—down! Now that vital matter is clarified, perhaps we can—”

  “’Twould seem to me,” Morris persisted, “that the very weight of ’em might cause the door to keel over. Don’t mean to be a mustard pot, but I was warning Sir Owen that he’d best take care when he pulls it open. One of these days—”

  “My sainted Aunt Clara!” exploded Falcon. “Will you cease your idiotic babblings? Furlong, we must ask—”

  Furlong saw Morris’ mouth opening and, having no desire that bloody murder be perpetrated under his roof, he interposed placatingly, “No, but I am grateful for Morris’ interest. I might point out, however, that Tio has gone all through this house, and I feel sure was there any cause for alarm, he’d have warned me of’t.”

  For once mutually baffled, they both stared at him.

  Furlong said, “He’s a splendid architect. Studied it for years. Were you not aware?”

  “Jove,” said Morris, impressed. “Is that a fact? Old Tio, eh? D’you hear that, Falcon?”

  “Since I am about six feet removed from Sir Owen, I was able to strain my ears sufficiently to catch the gist of his remarks. Does the name Burton Farrier mean anything to you, Furlong?”

  Sir Owen’s manner became chill. “It means I shall not be at home the next time he calls, I promise you! If you are here in his behalf—”

  Falcon uttered an incensed exclamation.

  Morris said with rare sharpness, “Do you say the Terrier has been here? Recently?”

  “Yesterday. Dashed rum customer, I thought. What is he? Some kind of tax collector?”

  “He’s a very ugly customer with a sort of roving commission from the Horse Guards to track down Jacobite sympathisers,” said Falcon.

  “Zounds!” exclaimed Sir Owen, dismayed.

  Morris asked anxiously, “Ask you about Glendenning, did he?”

  “No! He told me he was trying to run young Templeby to earth. Good God! You never think he may—” He stopped abruptly.

  “We think he’s after old Tio,” said Morris.

  Sir Owen swore. “I’d ho
ped that trail was cold at last. What does Tio say of it?”

  “If we knew, ’twould help,” said Falcon. “Glendenning’s fallen off the edge of the world, it seems. Lady Bowers-Malden has asked that we try to find him, or find his brother, who appears to have gone haring off after a fellow named Trethaway.”

  “Harris Trethaway? Claims to be a major?”

  “That’s the one,” said Morris. “Ain’t he a major?”

  “I don’t give a fig whether he’s a major or a midshipman,” snapped Falcon. “Where can we find the confounded fellow? Do you know?”

  “I do, as a matter of fact. Not that I’ve ever been there, but he’s fairly popular in some circles, and I understand he owns a tidy little place in Kent. Not far from Lamberhurst, I think.” Sir Owen added apologetically, “I’m afraid I cannot give you a more precise direction, but you’ll likely discover it easily enough.”

  “Then, my apologies, but we must lose no more time.” Falcon bent to pat Chaucer, then shook hands with their host. “My thanks, Furlong. You’ve been most helpful.”

  Sir Owen gripped Morris’ outthrust hand. “I shall expect you to let me know if there’s anything I can do. Anything! Tio is my very good friend.”

  He walked with them onto the front steps, and remarked that the wind was coming up. “Looks as if we might have some more rain.”

  Morris said, “Matter of fact—”

  “If it’s about the damned door,” said Falcon irritably, “have done!”

  “Ain’t. I was going to ask—you said this major-maybe fellow was quite popular, Sir Owen. Do you say he’s—ah, socially acceptable?”

  “Oh, yes.” Furlong hesitated. “I don’t like to speak against a man, but in this case it might— Well, to be blunt, there are those of us who believe Trethaway is a regular Captain Sharp; not above leading green youngsters into play till they’re hopelessly in his debt. I personally think he sometimes uses loaded dice. Told him so to his face—but only got a laugh out of him. On the other hand—” He shrugged. “Many hold him to be a good enough fellow. Certainly, he’s a bruising rider, and a pretty fair all-around sportsman. Poor old Derrydene, for instance, wouldn’t hear a word against…” He paused.

  Falcon, who had been starting down the steps, fairly whipped around, obviously shocked, and Morris looked stunned.

  Furlong said uneasily, “I say! If I’ve spoken out of turn, I do beg your pardon.”

  Staring at Falcon, Morris half-whispered, “Derrydene!”

  “Well, if that don’t beat the Dutch,” muttered August Falcon.

  * * *

  There were two stone benches at the centre of the abbey maze, but the two people seated there on this bright windy morning occupied only a small part of one of them.

  “Are you quite sure you knows your way out of here?” asked Amy.

  “No.” Glendenning tightened his arms about her. “I mean to keep you a prisoner forever. Those who come after us will refer to you as the Maiden in the Maze. We’ll live out our lives here together, and be happy, and nobody will be able to part us. What do you say to that, Mistress Consett?”

  She gave a little peal of laughter and leaned her head back against his shoulder, looking up at his smiling face. “And how will I cook your vittles on a old stone bench, lordship?”

  He kissed the curl at her temple to which he was particularly attached. “We won’t need food. We’ll live on love.” He added ruefully, “We may have to, sweetheart, if my papa throws me out on my noble ear.”

  Beginning to tremble, she asked, “For why would he do such a unkind thing?”

  “He probably won’t. For all his storms and thunderings, he’s the best of men. So you had best resign yourself to becoming Amy, Viscountess Glendenning. Good Lord! Whatever will Absalom say? He’ll likely disown you for deserting to the Quality.”

  She did not return his tender smile, but pulled away, and gazed at the tall and neatly trimmed hedges that ringed them in. “Don’t say things like that, Tio,” she said in a small, shaken voice. “Ye knows it can’t never be.”

  He thought grimly that she might very well be right, but he turned her chin gently, so that she faced him again. “If my father should refuse his consent. And if Fate sends no other—er, stumbling blocks to part us, would you, my darling, be willing to give your precious self into the keeping of a fellow who could offer you, with luck, only a humble cottage? But who loves you … to distraction.”

  She was quite still for a moment, her eyes unreadable. Then, she stood. “No,” she said saucily. “But I thanks yer lordship kindly.”

  He said with quiet dignity, “Pray do not tease, Amy. I am very serious.”

  “And very dear, my own Quality cove.” She leaned to caress his cheek, and he bowed his head to kiss her slender fingers. For those brief few seconds her face reflected a hopeless yearning, but when he looked up, she was watching him solemnly. “It wouldn’t do,” she said. “Ye knows it. And I knows it.”

  He sprang to his feet. “Nonsense! We love each other!”

  “Yes,” she admitted, sighing. “And we shouldn’t have let ourselves. I knowed that from the very start and was too weak to—” She saw his frown, and said quickly, “I couldn’t live here, Tio. Not in this great palace of a house. I’d fit in like a belly dancer at the vicarage tea! There ain’t one of your servants don’t talk better’n I do. There ain’t one o’ yer friends, or their hoity-toity ladies, what wouldn’t snigger up their Quality sleeves at Lord Horatio Glendenning, and the gypsy mort he—”

  He clapped a hand over her mouth, and pulled her close. “Do not dare speak in that vulgar way, when you can do so much better! You only say these things because you are foolish enough to think you are beneath—”

  “Well, I is! Oh, Tio—I loves ye, but—I is! I s’pose it ain’t really a matter o’ being not good enough ’cause of me birth. God made me, same as He made you. It’s more ’cause of your ways. Your life’s like—like another world, compared with mine. Don’t ye see?” Again, her fingers caressed his cheek, and she pleaded, “Me darling lordship, I’ll always remember, and be proud that someone as good, as brave, as wonderful as what you is, stooped to love a gypsy girl. But—”

  “Stooped, is it?” He swept her up, returned her to the stone bench, and knelt beside her, hugging her tight, his face buried against the billowing pink gown. “Oh, Amy. You’re the one who doesn’t see!” He looked up at her then, adoration very clear in his eyes. “When I think of the life you’ve had to lead, and of how bravely you’ve faced life, conquered its hardships and terrors. When I see your beautiful self, your goodness, your faith, your never-failing courage. And then I look at the sorry mess I’ve made of my own life … Most beloved of women—I am the one who is unworthy. Not fit to—”

  Amy wiped hurriedly at her eyes as there came the sound of hurried footsteps.

  “Get up, darling lordship,” she whispered urgently, tugging at him.

  He did not get up, looking steadily and unashamedly at his half-sister as she came to join them.

  Marguerite paused, her heart touched by the picture they presented: the lovely girl, who so obviously had been weeping; the pride, but the shadow of sadness in the face of her brother as he knelt with arms about his beloved. Recovering her aplomb, she said, “Oh, I am so very sorry to have to disturb you. But you must come quickly, Tio. That horrid man is here! And Michael has not yet returned. Poor Mama is so frightened.”

  When he found her, Lady Nola was indeed frightened. He had sent Amy off with his sister, having asked that they do whatever they might to keep the earl away from this interview. He strolled into the blue saloon prepared for battle, and convinced he had his temper well in hand, but the sight of his step-mother, cool and regal, but with a pale face and hunted eyes, so wrought upon him that it was all he could do not to throw Farrier through the nearest window.

  He was at his iciest when the countess performed polite introductions. Inclining his head slightly, but apparently failing to see Mr
. Farrier’s eagerly outstretched hand, he enquired how he might be of service.

  “No, no, my lord,” purred Mr. Farrier. “’Tis I who am come to be of service to you in a certain … most delicate matter.”

  Glendenning scanned the oily smile and murmured a bored, “Faith, but you overwhelm me. Whatever have I done to inspire such—devotion in a man of your kind?”

  The smile broadened. “Why, I am a patriotic citizen, and you, sir, are a peer of the realm.”

  “Redundant, but true.” Standing beside the countess’ chair, Glendenning drawled, “’Tis not required that commoners remain standing in the presence of a—ah ‘peer of the realm,’ so you must not be afraid to be seated.”

  He saw his stepmother’s lacy cap quiver slightly at this outrageous condescension, and dropped one hand onto her shoulder.

  Farrier’s smile was a little fixed, and his hooded eyes glittered, but he gave a soft laugh and remarked that his lordship was “too kind.” Perching on the edge of a striped satin chair, he folded his hands meekly in his lap, and said, “I am assured that Lady Bowers-Malden has explained matters pertaining to the present whereabouts of the Comyn Pin, and the—shall we say, suspicions harboured in some quarters ’gainst you.”