Had We Never Loved

by Patricia Veryan

  His face stern, he stepped forward. “Yes, my lord? I believe you sent word that you had something of gravest import to convey to me…”

  * * *

  With a strange sense of discovery, Glendenning looked about him as he came down the main staircase. He had always scorned this house, his love of architecture inevitably causing him to deplore the lack of graceful lines and the sheer immensity of the old pile; the expense necessary to maintain it properly; the inefficiency of its floor plan; the impossibility of keeping it adequately heated in winter; the miles of walking required of the servants to deliver food from the kitchens to the various dining rooms. Only now, when it was so soon to vanish from his ken, did he realize how much a part of his life it was. His hand on the rail was a caress; his eyes lingered wistfully on the bishop’s chair at the foot of the stairs that never had stood quite straight since he’d hurtled into it, aged seven, having achieved a truly magnificent rate of speed while sliding down the banister.

  He turned towards the withdrawing room, trying to walk steadily, though fear made his knees weak and shaky. So many dear memories rushed to meet him that he began to think he must be a very stupid man never to have properly appreciated them. There was the painting their ball had sent crashing down one rainy afternoon when—against all regulations—he’d been teaching Michael how to play cricket in the great hall. Here was the portrait of Ephraim Laindon who, at the tender age of fourteen, had sailed with Drake against the might of the Spanish Armada, and gone on to win fame and fortune for his naval exploits. Lady Nola had used to guide him along the various portraits of his forbears, and tell him glowing tales of their achievements. He shrank from the realization that his own portrait would never serve as an inspiration to youthful Laindons in years to—

  Horses! Many horses on the drivepath!

  He rushed to the nearest window. A coach was drawing up at the foot of the steps, preceded by two dragoons, another riding on each side, and with two more bringing up the rear. The door was swung open, the steps let down, and Burton Farrier climbed out.

  Glendenning leaned there, one hand against the wall. In a few minutes he would be marched out to that coach, his hands tied behind him with the traditional silken cord, en route to the Tower. He must not think beyond that. He must get to the withdrawing room before his courage failed him. By now, Papa would have denounced him to poor Hilary Broadbent, who would then become yet another victim. He took his hand down. The palm was wet, and he could feel the cold sweat of terror beading on his temples. Despising his cowardice, he walked on, his thoughts turning to his beloved. He would never see that darling, valiant soul again, for God send she would not come to see him publicly mutilated and decapitated.

  He could hear Darrow at the front doors, and the distant purring voice of Burton Farrier. A wave of dizziness swept him. If he could only run! If he could only escape this death that would be so beyond words hideous! But he could not run. He was the only one who could save his family.

  He reached the withdrawing room. The door stood partially open. For just a second he stood utterly still. Then, with his shoulders well back and his head high and proud, he went in. His vision seemed a little blurred, but he saw the earl and Hilary facing each other. Hilary looked so stern, and Papa—poor dear man, how ghastly white he was. A muffled sob drew his gaze to the side. Margo was clasped in Michael’s arms. Damnation! He hadn’t wanted Michael here! There was no telling what the young hothead would do. Lady Nola was not present. He wondered anxiously if the strain had caused her to become ill, but then thought his father had probably contrived to spare her the spectacle of accusation and arrest.

  “There!” cried the earl hoarsely, pointing at his son. “It is my painful duty, Major, to—”

  Burton Farrier demanded harshly, “Why are you here, Broadbent?”

  Stunned, Glendenning was shoved to one side.

  “He is here,” said Bowers-Malden in a croak of a voice, “because I sent for him so as to—”

  Paralysed with shock, Glendenning thought, ‘My God in heaven! He hasn’t done it! What the hell has he been about all this time?’ They were doomed, then! They all were doomed!

  “Why you sent for him is of no importance now, sir.” This was a very different man from the purringly obsequious individual Glendenning had met at the Mop Fair. Burton Farrier’s face was a mask of triumph. In response to his authoritative gesture, two troopers marched up to range themselves one on each side of Glendenning.

  “A moment,” snapped Broadbent, “Lord Bowers-Malden, I must demand that you tell me why—”

  “The matter is out of his lordship’s hands,” said Farrier. “I am here in my capacity of special investigator for General Samuel Underhill of the Horse Guards, and my authority takes precedence over yours, Major.” He walked closer to smile gleefully at the viscount. “Horatio Clement Laindon, Lord Glendenning, since you have failed to produce the Comyn Pin, I now arrest you in the king’s name, on a charge of High Treason!”

  Glendenning flashed a glance at the earl. His father’s anguished eyes were fixed upon him, and the powerful hands spread in a gesture that was a silent acknowledgment of failure.

  His worst fears realised, Broadbent stared in horror at the accused. Glendenning was paper white, but when he spoke his voice was quite steady.

  “My father sent for Major Broadbent so as to—”

  “I’m not surprised.” Thrusting his chin under Glendenning’s nose, Farrier almost crowed with satisfaction. “But the time for calling in the military so as to save his own skin is long past!”

  This vindictive speech brought the full ramifications home to Broadbent. This festering little bounty hunter would now be able to accuse them all! Bowers-Malden, Marguerite, the countess, Templeby, they all would die for having given sanctuary to a traitor! His mind reeling, he said haughtily, “What the deuce you’re about, Farrier, I cannot pretend to know. But you’ll arrest nobody without I see some evidence of treason!”

  An instant, Farrier stared at him, his eyes narrowed and angry. Then he glanced at Marguerite, still clasping her brother’s arm. He purred, “Perhaps your presence here has a logic I’d not previously perceived, Major. That can be looked into later. Meanwhile, I am only too pleased to accommodate your—er, interest in the unhappy details. Lady Nola Bowers-Malden was born a Comyn. A Scottish clan. She inherited the Comyn Pin, a plaid pin of great antiquity. By some strange chance, that same pin is contained in a list of valuables that were donated to the cause of the Pretender, Charles Stuart. In spite of the widespread belief that Lord Horatio Glendenning was in sympathy with the Jacobite Cause, and may even have fought for Prince Charles, my superiors hesitated to accuse a peer of so heinous a crime. He was given ample time therefore in which to produce the Comyn Pin, and thus prove his innocence.” He folded his hands benignly. “That time, sir, has now run out.”

  Glendenning said, “The pin was mislaid, Major. Years since. We have tried to find it, but—”

  Farrier laughed derisively.

  Broadbent’s heart sank. They had him, then. Poor old Tio. In the face of such a charge, there was not a thing he could do to help.

  “Mislaid,” smirked Farrier. “Such a convenient happenstance. And would you not suppose that so valuable an object would have been sought, and a great hue and cry raised at the time?” His tone hardened. “Come now, Lord Glendenning. You are fairly caught, and have also ensured the arrest of your family, since—”

  “No!” Glendenning said ringingly, “Not one single member of my family had the least knowledge of—”

  “So here you are, lordship! I been looking and looking all over this great big place fer ye!”

  Shock hit the viscount with the power of a physical blow. Whirling about, he whispered “Amy!”

  She came tripping into the room, looking lovely but rather vulgar in a gown of cherry satin, two necklaces about her white throat, and her powdered hair swept into a very high and elaborate style and interlaced with a wide cherry
satin riband liberally sprinkled with gems.

  “What ye all standing about fer?” she asked, in what the viscount called her coster-monger voice, her bright gaze scanning the occupants who watched her with admiration, curiosity, or amusement.

  “Young woman,” began Farrier officiously, “You will be best advised to have nothing to do with—”

  Amy let out a shriek. “Ow! It’s that horrid gent what frightened me at the Mop Fair! Tio!” she ran towards him, arms outstretched. “Don’t let him—Whoops!”

  The unfamiliar high heels conspired against her, and she fell headlong. Springing to catch her up, Horatio felt her warm arms close around his neck and cling tight. Loudly imploring his protection from “that horrid old gent,” she whispered against his ear, “Make a fuss ’cause I’ve prigged yer ma’s jewels.”

  “No!” he muttered, ostensibly comforting her. “Stay clear of this!”

  Echoing his sentiments, Farrier snapped, “Keep away from him, girl! Broadbent—arrest—”

  “Cor!” exclaimed Amy, pulling away from the viscount. “You got no call to arrest me, you ain’t! I never did no such thing!”

  Her eyes, a little narrowed, glinted at him. He realised that whatever her scheme, she would carry it through alone if he refused to help, and so he entered her drama, saying with pseudo-anger, “I did not say you stole them. I only said—”

  “Ye said I shouldn’t of prigged ’em. And if you’d like to know about it, me lord, I didn’t.”

  A trooper started toward Glendenning. Amy lifted a hand that sparkled with diamonds. “Just one minute, me good man,” she said loftily. “I borrered a couple of sparklers from yer ma, lordship, only to show yer how nice they look on me. Never meaning to keep ’em, mind. And I’d have asked her ’cept she wasn’t there to ask. The rest, I sorta … found.” On the word, her eyes sparkled with mischief. She giggled, and spun around, spreading her skirts, only to again trip, and sit on the floor with a bump and a generous revelation of dainty ankles. Undismayed, she said laughingly, “And if I say so me own self, they looks proper lovely! Don’t you agree, mate?”

  Despite the fact that the excess of jewellry was very vulgar indeed, she was a bewitching sight, and the troopers grinned their appreciation.

  Farrier, not in the least appreciative, snarled, “You men—get that woman out of here! Broadbent, I demand that you do your duty and place these people under—”

  Lady Nola came into the room, and said in her resonant voice, “Miss Consett, you forget yourself! Stand up at once!”

  Glendenning’s eyes flashed to his stepmother. She was a little pale, but her head was high, her manner regal and reflecting no more than shocked disapproval.

  Struggling with the trooper who was trying to help her to her feet, Amy trilled audibly that he was “a naughty boy!” then gave a squeal as the riband in her hair was dislodged. It fell to the floor scattering adornments. “Now see what you been and gone and done,” she wailed. “If any of ’em broke, it ain’t my fault, melady!”

  Marguerite screamed, “Mama! Look!” Her trembling hand pointed to a large brooch that flashed and sparkled on the rug.

  “Good heavens!” gasped her ladyship, starting forward. “It is my pin! Gregory! See! ’Tis the Comyn Pin!”

  Dazed, the earl moved to take up the jewel.

  Another hand was before his own. Farrier snatched up the pin and glared down at it. “Nonsense! This is not your pin! It cannot possibly—”

  “Why can’t it possibly be my mother’s pin?” demanded Glendenning, baffled, but striving. “I’d be most interested to hear the reasons for your so positive denial, sir.”

  “Would you!” Farrier was tearing at the pocket of his coat. “I leave nothing to chance, my lord! ’Tis the secret of my success. For instance, I fancy you never dreamed that I might bring with me a detailed drawing of the Comyn Pin!”

  Glendenning’s heart sank, for wherever his adored gypsy had found the brooch, it most definitely could not be theirs, whereby her own precious life was now at risk.

  Farrier spread a folded paper on the nearest table, and sent a triumphant grin at Glendenning. “Now you will all see the folly of trying to deceive an expert!”

  Curious, although he knew there was no hope, the earl strode to peer over his shoulder.

  “Miss Consett,” said Lady Nola, annoyed, “where did you get that brooch?”

  “I never done nothing wrong,” wailed Amy. “I found it on an old doll, ma’am. ’Twas all dirty, but I liked it, so I give it a bit of a polish and it come up nice. But I never prigged it, so there was no call fer ye to bring all these nice soldiers to take a poor girl to prison!”

  Straightening, the earl growled, “Well, Farrier? Well? It is identical, of course. I demand you apologize for your dastardly behaviour!”

  Glendenning swayed slightly, and was obliged to steady himself against a chair.

  “Not so!” Baffled, his face pale and twitching, Farrier shrilled furiously, “It is a fake! A fraud! I don’t know how you—”

  A bull-like roar interrupted him. “Do you say, sir,” boomed the earl, the epitome of outraged majesty, “that this is not my wife’s family pin? I invite you to look, sir, at the archaic symbols! Exactly as described on your drawing. Note, if you are capable of judging, the excellence of the stones! Do you suppose, sir, that we found ourselves a—a magician, who conjured up a copy? Hogwash, sir! Poppycock! I wish I might meet such a wizard!”

  Glendenning thought numbly, ‘He is a little bit of a wizard…’

  “It is a fake, I say,” shouted Farrier, rage overcoming discretion. “I know for a fact that the Comyn Pin—” He stopped abruptly.

  Glendenning murmured, “Hoist by your own petard, Terrier?”

  A glare of frustrated fury was levelled at him.

  Broadbent, very sure there was more to this than met the eye, marched over to commandeer the pin and make his own comparison with the sketch.

  “You may. You may th-think…,” spluttered Farrier all but incoherent.

  “I shall tell my friend General Underhill exactly what I think, sir,” roared the earl. “You come here during my absence, threaten my wife, frighten my daughter, impute all manner of evil to my son, and all because of some damnfool list—which, incidentally, I have never seen and I begin to doubt anyone else has! Now, when we show you proof positive of Lord Glendenning’s innocence, instead of admitting your error like a gentleman, you gobble threats and more accusations. I think, sir, that this entire ugly business has been nothing more nor less than a diabolical scheme to discredit Glendenning, or to take vengeance upon me for some perverse reason. Or did you hope perhaps to win yourself more fame and notoriety? I do not scruple to say, sir, that if I had a reputation like yours, I’d be more wishful to bury it under the rug than to draw attention to it!”

  Farrier looked like a wolf at bay, but before he could speak, Broadbent handed the pin to the earl.

  “I remember seeing this years ago, sir. It looks the same to me, but we can assuredly have it authenticated.”

  “We will do so,” said the earl. “And I’d also like to have a copy of this alleged Jacobite list authenticated, to which end, Farrier, you may tell General Underhill I shall instruct my solicitors to call upon him.”

  Thwarted, Farrier managed to pull himself together. He snarled, “You will waste your time, sir, for the list is a State secret!” His hand shot for the pin. “I’ll take this for evidence ’gainst—”

  The earl did not bother to deflect that darting hand. He simply lifted its owner aside. “You will take nothing, sir, but your odious self, sir, and your foul repute, sir—from my house. NOW!”

  The final word vibrated the windows.

  There was a faint scurrying sound in the hall, as the small crowd of servants gathered there, scattered.

  His lips twitching, Major Broadbent said, “We will escort you, Mr. Farrier.”

  To have suffered the unspeakable indignity of being swept off his feet and repla
ced as though he were a naughty child caused Burton Farrier to become nigh purple with humiliation. Speechless, he jerked his head from one to the other of those present, as though marking each for some future and fearful retribution. Then, horribly aware that several troopers were barely able to suppress their mirth, he gulped and stamped his way from the scene of his first major defeat.

  CHAPTER XV

  The withdrawing room was relatively quiet now and, the earl having demanded a full accounting, Michael Templeby, seated on a sofa beside his mother, was finishing his part of the tale. He had held nothing back, and was grateful that there had, as yet, been no major explosions.

  “And so,” he said, “after Tio and Morris left, and I felt a—er, bit more the thing, we went off looking for some Owlers. Amy—I mean, Miss Consett, and Falcon, and I. By Jove, sir,” he interrupted himself, swinging around to smile at his stepfather, his face still aglow with the relief that marked them all, “that Falcon’s a peculiar sort of fellow, do you not think?”

  Bowers-Malden stood with his back to the hearth, still finding it hard to credit that they were all here, safe and unharmed in their own home, when by rights they should be on a journey to the executioner. He shrugged. “He’s a splendid-looking man, but one can scarce expect a half-breed to behave as a proper British gentleman should.”

  From the deep chair a little removed from the others, the viscount said quietly, “He grudged each moment spent in helping us, I grant you. But he helped just the same. I doubt we could have managed without him.”

  There was a brief and rather awkward pause. After the departure of Burton Farrier and his military escort, their overwrought nerves had reacted in an emotional outpouring of joy and shared embraces. The countess, openly weeping, had demanded quiet while she offered up a fervent prayer of gratitude. Not one of them had been able to restrain tears. During the subsequent confusion Amy had slipped away, and Glendenning had retreated more and more into the background. He had not spoken for some time, and his words seemed to hang against the silence.