Had We Never Loved

by Patricia Veryan

  Falcon murmured, “Perchance we can come at it. Let’s see now, exactly what have we thus far?”

  Glendenning said slowly, “A burned-out shipyard. A fraudulent trading company. A great estate seized for debt.” His head jerked up. “Good God! Are they after the Abbey, then?” He answered himself impatiently, “No, what fustian! ’Tis entailed.”

  “Unless,” said Falcon, “it should become property of the Crown—due to treason on the part of its owner.”

  Glendenning exclaimed, “Yes, by Jove! In which case ’twould likely be sold!”

  Morris said eagerly, “As the Rossiter’s Promontory Point estate was sold!”

  His eyes brilliant, Falcon said, “Neither of which could ever have been purchased had not their rightful owners first been disgraced and ruined! Jupiter!”

  “But why in the name of creation would they go to such lengths?” said Glendenning. “There are other estates that could be purchased. Why all the chicanery?”

  Pondering this, they were silent until Falcon muttered, “Should we perhaps consider those involved? Two highly respected, powerful men, much in the public eye. Sir Mark Rossiter. The Earl of Bowers-Malden.”

  “And coming on top of that ghastly scandal involving Lord Merriam,” began Morris.

  Glendenning shook his head. “A quite different matter, Jamie. Merriam was caught cheating at cards, and shot himself. How should that…” He paused, frowning.

  “Just so,” Falcon murmured. “I’ve no love for England’s bluebloods—my own being so vastly inferior—but I’ll own to having judged Harlow Merriam to be the last man to cheat—at anything.”

  “M’father would agree with you, August,” said Morris, apparently forgetting Falcon’s objection to the use of his Christian name. “Served with Merriam in the East India fleet. That was before he became a peer, of course. Merriam, I mean.”

  Glendenning said, “I believe Merriam was—”

  Amy opened the door, and they all stood. She had tidied her hair and looked neat and fresh and enchantingly pretty as she smiled at them, her gaze lingering on the tenderness in Glendenning’s eyes. “I’m sorry to interrupt, gents,” she said.

  The viscount crossed to take her hand, and murmur that he was far from sorry.

  “The thing is,” she said, “that your coachman says the horses are ready now, Tio. We can go on.”

  Morris said, “To Portsmouth? An we ride hard we can reach there by dawn. But your lady…”

  “Goes with me,” said Glendenning, to Amy’s obvious delight. “Only—first, I must stop at Trethaway’s house.”

  Falcon sighed. “We told you—”

  “I know.” Glendenning’s jaw set stubbornly. “Even so—I will stop there.”

  “Then ’tis as well I telled the cook to pack us a picnic hamper,” said Amy, twinkling at them.

  “Jove! What a treasure you’ve found, Glendenning,” said Morris fervently.

  Falcon took up Amy’s hand and kissed it with easy grace. “Ma’am, your slave.”

  She laughed. “What a rasper!” and then, as she saw Morris’ jaw drop, she added hurriedly, “Ye can both hop— I mean ride in the coach with us. Is that all right, lordship? We can tie their horses on behind.”

  Not giving a button what they thought, Glendenning said, “Anything you want is all right, my dearest.”

  “Did you ask ’em to put in some cold chicken, ma’am?” asked Morris holding the door open for her.

  Amy had indeed requested that cold chicken be added to the hamper, and, trying to ignore the dark shadow that hung over them, they enjoyed their supper as the carriage once again rolled down the darkening country lanes.

  “Glendenning has been telling us of your exploits, Miss Consett,” said Falcon, reaching for a crusty roll and a slice of cheese.

  Amy hesitated.

  Glancing at her, he asked, “Do I offend?”

  “Oh, no,” she said brightly. “I just dunno what that jawbreaker— I mean, I think you’re very nice.”

  He stared at her. “Nice…?”

  “You don’t know him, Miss Consett,” warned Morris around a chicken leg.

  “Well, I don’t, a’course,” she admitted. “But he’s a fine handsome co— gent. I never see such glims— I—er, I mean eyes,” she added, with a guilty glance at the viscount.

  Falcon wiped his fingers fastidiously, and drawled, “Perhaps you find their shape displeasing?”

  “What? Oh, no. I did notice, a’course. But I’m too well breeded to say anything.” Unaware of the bomb she had tossed into the suddenly quiet coach, she laughed her lilting laugh and leant forward to pat Falcon’s knee. “I ain’t really, mate. No use pretending, lordship love. I ain’t well breeded at all. What I meant was I never see eyes that colour before. I thought they was black at first. I ’spect they really set the ladies a’swooning, eh?”

  His breath held in check, Glendenning thought, ‘Let him dare give her one of his damned sardonic set-downs!’

  August Falcon put back his handsome head and laughed as he had not laughed for many a day. “Do you know, Glendenning,” he said breathlessly, “you don’t deserve her! Be dashed if you do! Have you any sisters, dear ma’am?”

  She sighed, and said in a suddenly wistful voice, “I don’t know. Have you?”

  “Yes, I’m proud to say.”

  “One of the most beautiful ladies in England,” said Morris, also wistfully.

  “I ain’t surprised,” she said, and peeping up at Glendenning, very conscious of how drawn he looked, she said with a dimple, “I wonder you didn’t fall in love with her, Tio.”

  “He didn’t,” sighed Morris. “I did.”

  “Ooh,” she exclaimed, before Falcon could utter the crushing remark he had ready. “I think as we’re in Owler country.”

  Glendenning peered through the dusk at dimly seen wooded slopes, and echoed curiously, “Owler country?”

  “Smugglers,” she nodded. “Folks what work at the dark o’ the moon, like the owl. Ab’s brother’s one of ’em, and a fine living he’s made of it. Though a bit chancy, y’know.” She frowned thoughtfully. “I wonder if…”

  Falcon pulled on the check string, and shouted, “Stop here, coachman!”

  The carriage jerked to a stop, the footman swung open the door and let down the steps. Glendenning jumped out, scanning the good-sized house set back from the lane in a grove of trees. Amy reached for his hand, but he said quietly, “Wait here, my love. I’ll just—”

  “I’m coming,” she announced determinedly.

  “No! It might be risky. Stay with her, please Morris.”

  Morris murmured an uneasy acquiescence, and Amy sighed, and sat down again.

  Their cloaks blowing in the wind, Glendenning and Falcon walked quickly across the muddy lane.

  The cottage was in complete darkness; not a gleam of light to be seen, nor a wisp of smoke from any chimney. The only other sign of human habitation came from a glowing window atop a rise at least half a mile distant.

  Falcon said, “Deserted. Come. We must ride hard are we to reach Portsmouth in time.”

  “I know.” Glendenning pounded on the knocker. “But I mean to get inside.”

  His second thunderous assault on the door produced no more result than had the first. Not a sound came from within the house.

  Falcon said irritably, “We waste time!”

  “Ride then,” said Glendenning. “I tell you I’m going inside.”

  “If you mean to break in—”

  “Since they refuse to answer the door, I see no other way.”

  “And how if they’re waiting to blow your head off? They’d be perfectly justified, you looby.”

  “Then I must hope their aim is poor.” Proceeding around the darkened house, testing windows, Glendenning said, “If I’m right, the League wants me alive—to be duly arrested and tried for High Treason.” He reached up, and shoved. “Aha! This one is not locked!”

  “For the simple reason,” po
inted out Falcon, eyeing the small round window high in the front wall, “that no one, save a small child perhaps, could climb through the stupid thing!”

  “I could,” said Amy.

  Glendenning swore, and whipped around. Amy stood there, Morris beside her. “I couldn’t stop her, Tio,” he said shamefacedly. “She threatened to scream if I tried to hold her.”

  “Wretched girl,” said the viscount, harassed. “Now I must carry you back! Falcon—break the damn door down!”

  “And have the village constable after us? No. I thank you!”

  Amy danced away from Glendenning’s reaching hand. “He’s right. There’s likely riding officers out. There always is on dark nights. For the Owlers.”

  “Yes, by Jove,” said Morris, with an uneasy glance around. “And m’father would have my ears was I taken in charge for breaking and entering! Lose my commission too, I shouldn’t wonder. Best give it up, Tio. House locked up tighter’n any drum.”

  “Dammit! No! I tell you I’ll— My God! Amy! What are you doing?”

  “Taking off me pretty gown, and me petticoats,” she said blithely. “Cannot wriggle through no windows wearing ten ells of muslin!”

  “If ever I heard of—”

  “I know. No lady worth the name would do such a wicked thing. Well, I ain’t a lady, dear lordship. Now if you gents will turn yer naughty eyes away…”

  Laughing softly, Falcon at once turned his back, Morris having already averted his horrified eyes. Glendenning groaned, but followed suit.

  After a moment and some hard breathing, Amy said, “There! Now—I’ll have to be boosted up, Tio.”

  “I’ll find a ladder,” offered Falcon.

  “No need, Mr. August,” she said airily. “My lordship will give me a leg-up.”

  Glendenning argued, “I cannot boost you up, with my back turned.”

  “Right. So it must be you alone, Tio. Come now, ye’ve seen a lady in her chemise before, I ’spect. ’Sides, it’s nice and dark.”

  He took her in his arms, and could not refrain from kissing her swiftly. Very conscious of the supple and scantily clad young body pressed so close against him, he murmured in feverish anxiety, “You have your knife, dearest?”

  “Yes. Up!”

  “You’ll be very careful?”

  “’Course. Come on!”

  And so, torn by fear for her, spurred by need, he lifted her until she was able to grasp the sill. “A bit more, love,” she hissed.

  How inestimably more fragile she looked in just her dainty chemise. And, Lord, but how he loved her! Praying for her safety, he seized her ankles and lifted.

  A wriggle, a squeak, a last glimpse of an enticingly rounded little bottom, and she was gone.

  “Oh—God!” he moaned.

  “Shouldn’t have let her do such a thing,” said Morris. “Shocking!”

  “To say the least of it,” agreed Falcon with a chuckle. “Zounds, but how my dear grandmama would have admired your Miss Amy! Are we permitted to turn around, my lord?”

  “She’s inside.” Glendenning gathered up gown and petticoats. “If either of you ever breathe a word of this!”

  Falcon sighed. “Alas, I collect we cannot, in honour. But I shall tell my grandchildren, I warn you! And if—”

  A crash from inside.

  Glendenning’s heart jumped into his mouth, and he was up the steps in a flash. Before he could batter down the door, there came the sound of bolts being drawn, a key turning in the lock, and the door was opened a crack. An imperious hand appeared. “Me dress, please Lordship,” said Amy.

  With a sigh of relief, he passed the garments to her. “What happened? Are you all right?”

  “I knocked over a table full of gimcracks,” she said, retreating behind the opening door. “Now I’m going to pop into this little room here, and make meself decent, while you gents look round. I don’t see nothing, Lordship, but there’s someone here.”

  Hurrying into a small dim hall, Glendenning checked, and whispered sharply, “What d’you mean? Did you hear talk?”

  “No,” she answered from behind the door. “But I heard something. Take care, dearest.”

  “Probably a cat,” suggested Morris. “Fond of cats.”

  Falcon drawled, “How fascinating.”

  Moving swift and silently, Glendenning prowled about. The house was deathly still. He strained his ears, but although the stairs creaked slightly when he trod up them, he heard no other sound. And yet, like Amy, he sensed that they were not alone in the house. Passing from a narrow hall into a bedchamber, he could distinguish very little. He found a candelabrum, luckily with a tinder box beside it. “As well be hung for a sheep as a lamb,” he muttered, and lit a single candle. The objects in the room sprang into view. A large canopied bed, strewn with garments; drawers still standing open; boots and shoes scattered about. He crossed to a closed door and entered a well-appointed dressing room, as untidy as the bedchamber. Somebody had left in a tearing hurry, that was clear, but—

  A scuffling sound caused him to tilt his head. Moving farther into the small room, he listened intently. Again, it came—a strange, stealthy sound, seeming to originate under the floor.

  He hurried into the hall, almost colliding with Morris, and wasn’t surprised when the Lieutenant whispered that he’d heard “something odd.”

  They went downstairs. Falcon stood in a large and over-furnished dining room. He held one finger to his lips as they joined him. The scuffling sound was followed by a muffled bump.

  Emerging from a cupboard, Amy hissed, “D’ye hear it, Tio?”

  He nodded. “It was clearer in the upstairs bedchamber. This way.”

  The room directly below the bedchamber proved to have a locked door. There was no sign of a key. Glendenning handed the candle to Amy, motioned the others back, then kicked hard. After two more kicks, the door splintered and flew open.

  Amy held the candle high, revealing a small book room. “Oh, my Lor’!” she cried. “Tio!”

  Glendenning was already running to the man who lay with ankles securely bound and hands tied around the leg of a sturdy reference table. Despite his bonds, the captive was struggling feebly. Glendenning dropped to his knees and wrestled with the neckcloth that had served as a gag, and Amy came swiftly to hold the candle high, and offer her little knife.

  The light shone on a young face, deathly white where it was not streaked with dried blood. Glendenning raised him tenderly, and the powdered, dreadfully splattered head rolled back against his shoulder.

  “Hello, halfling,” said the viscount, his eyes glinting with wrath as he took in the bruises and torn lips, the pain in the hazel eyes.

  “Tio…?” Michael Templeby’s voice was a croak. He tried to reach up as Amy released his wrists, but the rope had bitten so deeply that his hands were useless. “Thank God … you came! That—bastard took … the Comyn—”

  “I know. Easy, now. We’ll get you up and—”

  “No! Must—must tell you!” The words faded.

  Falcon passed a glass of brandy to Glendenning. “Courtesy of departed swine.”

  Morris came up with a dripping towel, and Amy took it and began to bathe Templeby’s battered face. “Poor boy,” she said kindly. “Oh, but they have hurt him, Tio. Look how he’s been beaten!”

  The viscount held the glass to his brother’s lips. His voice harsh, he said, “I only thank God he is alive.”

  Falcon muttered, “I wonder why.”

  “This will sting a trifle,” said Glendenning. “But try to get some down, Michael.”

  Templeby swallowed, and choked gaspingly, but seemed to rally a little. Again he tried to lift his hand, and Glendenning took it and held it firmly. Clinging to him, his brother groaned, “I am so sorry … so very sorry! I fought … them, but … too many. I’ll tell Papa! I’ll—”

  Tears sparkled in his eyes, and Glendenning smiled and said with a gentleness he was far from feeling, “Hush, lad. We’ll make it right, never fear.�
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  “My fault!” moaned Templeby in an agony of remorse. “Absolute … gullible fool … but I swear, Tio … I never meant to—”

  “Of course you didn’t. Don’t scourge yourself so. We all make mistakes—Lord knows I’ve got you beat in that pasture! Just tell us, if you can. It was Trethaway, of course? His servants told my friends he’s off to Portsmouth and will take ship for Italy—yes?”

  Templeby’s eyes were losing focus. He half-whispered, “No. I heard them … talking when they thought I was … senseless. Told—told servants…” His head sagged.

  Glendenning took up the wet towel and bathed his brother’s face again. “I’m sorry, but you must tell us, Michael. Wake up, lad! What did he say?”

  The dazed eyes blinked up at him, the brows knit in a painful concentration. “Something about … Squire somebody.”

  Glendenning heard Morris’ muffled exclamation, then he bent lower to catch his brother’s faint words. “Not Portsmouth, Tio. Dover. Sails … dawn tide … I’ll confess … I’ll tell Papa … all my fault … So…” And with a weary sigh he lay very still.

  Amy gripped Glendenning’s shoulder. “Poor boy! Tio—he’s not…?”

  “No. Lend me a hand here, Morris. We’ll put him on the sofa in the withdrawing room. Do you pull the curtains, Amy, and Falcon, light some more candles, please.”

  They carried the unconscious man along the hall and deposited him carefully on the sofa.

  Glendenning straightened and stood for a moment looking down at that motionless figure. He touched the tumbled hair gently, then turned a bleak face to the three who watched him.

  Falcon said, “Not much doubt now. But I doubt Trethaway is the Squire.”

  “He may not be their leader, but he’s in that murderous League up to his neck. I’m going after him.”

  Morris nodded. “The carriage?”

  “No.” The viscount turned to Amy and put his hands on her shoulders.

  Her smile tremulous, she said, “Ye wants me to stay with yer poor brother.”

  “He is in sore need of your skills just now, my love.”

  “Nonsense,” said Falcon. “Mistress Amy cannot be left here with only a wounded man to her protection! Some of Trethaway’s people might come back!”