Had We Never Loved (28 page)

He had never seen her in such an agitated state, but he concealed his alarm and leading her to the sofa said calmly, “Nothing of any consequence, and my news will keep. Now tell me what's amiss, m'dear. It is my graceless brother, I presume.”

The countess' smile was wan. She told him swiftly of Michael's disastrous fling at the tables, and had just revealed the staggering amount of his indebtedness when her footman returned, followed by maids with two laden trays. The viscount was inwardly relieved because the trouble appeared to be nothing worse than that his brother had run up a disgracefully large gambling debt. While the servants proceeded to lay the table in the window bay, he seized the interval to remark that he had brought a guest with him.

“A Miss Consett, Mama, who chances to be a friend of Katrina Falcon. I came upon her at the scene of an accident last evening. Her maid had been injured, and a physician carried her to his home for treatment. There was no suitable inn at which I could properly leave Miss Consett, so I brought her here for you and Margo to care for.” He grinned wryly. “A fine fix I found myself in…”

The servants reluctantly finished their task and the footman stood by, prepared to learn more as he waited at table, but Glendenning murmured his thanks and sent them all off.

Staring at him in considerable astonishment, the countess asked as the door closed, “Horatio, was that—”

“A pack of lies,” he admitted, smiling as he pulled out a chair for her. “Invented purely for the benefit of the servants. Oh, but I've a deal to tell you! But first, love, you shall enjoy a good breakfast. Or have you already eaten?”

She had not, she admitted. “But I couldn't touch a morsel. Do you eat, Horatio, whilst I finish telling you of this wretched business.”

Glendenning slanted a worried glance at her. Lady Nola thoroughly enjoyed her table, and for her to refuse such a tempting display of food when she had not yet breakfasted spoke volumes. He poured her a cup of coffee, then turned his attention to his own meal while her ladyship related the details concerning the Comyn Pin.

“We were so happy,” she said, tearing nervously at her handkerchief. “Michael went to offer the pin to Major Trethaway, and—and I thought we were out of it all. Only … only then,” her voice faltered, “this wretched little serpent of a man came.”

The familiar chill was seeping between Glendenning's shoulder blades. He put down his knife. “Burton Farrier,” he said softly.

“Yes!” Her worried eyes shot to his face. “Oh, Tio! I am so very frightened!” He reached out to her, and she seized his hand and clung to it, her fingers like ice.

“I fancy you dealt with him beautifully, even so,” he said comfortingly. “He teased you about my political persuasions, did he?”

“No. But—but I think he must suspect, because he prosed on about some list of donations made to the Jacobite Cause. Evidently, the list has come to light—not with names, but with the details of items contributed.” She heard her stepson's swift intake of breath, and felt his fingers tighten on her own. Scanning his face, which suddenly looked more grim than she could ever remember, her heart fluttered painfully. “Horatio,” she whispered. “Do you know if there is—was—such a list?”

By God, but there was! It had been compiled in a well-meant attempt eventually to reward and reimburse the donors, but had it fallen into military hands after the collapse of the Uprising it would have meant sure death for all those named. When he recalled the price that had been paid by the gallant Jacobite couriers who had struggled to deliver that list into safe hands, the viscount's blood ran cold. He had understood that one copy had been destroyed, and that a second list had, at great cost to the couriers, been safely delivered. It was not beyond the realm of possibility, however, that the first list had not been destroyed after all; or that another copy had somehow found its way into the Terrier's hands.

He said, “Even if there were such a list, we did not contribute the Comyn Pin.”

“I know. I know. But that revolting creature insists the pin appears on the list, and he implied that if we cannot produce it, he—he will…”

“He will have to assume that the rumours about your stepson are perfectly true, and that I donated it to Bonnie Charles? Fudge! The villain is trying to frighten you, m'dear. The pin
cannot
be on the list if we did not donate it.”

My lady closed her eyes for an instant. Her voice was thready when she said, “There were—two Comyn Pins, Tio. In the old days, one was worn by the current holder of the title, and the other by the heir. The title died with my father. He bequeathed one pin to me, and the other to my sister Caroline who still, I believe, lives in Edinburgh. It is quite possible that—that Caroline did donate her pin. But I cannot betray her to Farrier, dearest.”

“Certainly not.”

“So you see,” she said miserably, “if we cannot show him ours…”

Glendenning drew back. ‘That properly drives me to the ropes,' he thought. And he asked, “How did you get rid of him?”

“I told him Michael had taken the pin to a gentleman who might be interested in buying it. My only thought, of course, was to get it back. Farrier went away, saying he would expect Michael to call on him. When Michael came home, he was so happy, poor darling, because this Major Trethaway
had
accepted the pin as payment in full.”

Glendenning said slowly, “I see. Then we must buy it back, Mama.”

“Yes, dear. I swallowed my pride and borrowed the rest of the money Michael owed, and he left at once to see Major Trethaway. The next day, Farrier was here again.”

“Damn the pest for hounding you so, knowing that my father and I were from home! I fancy he demanded to see my brother?”

“He did, of course. And he—kept at me until at last, I became so confused…” She drew a hand across her eyes distractedly.

Raging, Glendenning said fondly, “Do not be in a pucker, Mama. I know you did very well. Lord, but I wish I had been here! I make you my apologies that I was not. I expect you had to tell the pest about Templeby's predicament, eh?”

“I had no choice, Horatio. I could see Farrier didn't believe me, so I had to break my promise to Michael.” She looked at her stepson imploringly. “It was a dreadful thing to do, but I—I was sure, under the circumstances, he would understand.”

“Most assuredly he would. Did Farrier accept the fact that Michael had traded the pin in lieu of gaming debts?”

“He was angry, but said he would wait, and asked that I send him word immediately Michael returned with the pin.”

“Then we've nothing to fear. I shall make good your expense. Michael will have learned a valuable lesson, and— Ah, I see there is something more. Tell me.”

“'Tis just that Michael should have come back long before now. I thought he might have met you somewhere, but I was so worried that I tried to find you. I went to Town, and your friends promised to look for you both. I was sure Michael would be here when I returned. But—” Her hands clenched. “Well, you see, he is not. And we have not much time.”

“What? D'you say that wart is holding you to a schedule? I thought you said he promised to wait?”

The countess wet her lips. “He sent a note by messenger, saying he has waited long enough and that he will call here … this afternoon!”

*   *   *

Glendenning did not go at once to find Amy. Instead, he made his way from Lady Nola's apartments in the east wing, along the upper hall, around the corner to the north wing, and thence to a sumptuous guest suite.

The suite had been occupied only once in his memory, the guest being a most distinguished eastern gentleman who had offered his own hospitality some years before, while the earl was visiting India. Bowers-Malden was not given to lavish displays, but he had felt deeply beholden to this particular friend, and a suite had been prepared that had been the wonder of the household. Thick rugs had been laid down, fine paintings of exotic Indian landscapes were hung throughout the suite, and the walls and floor of the small parlour had been covered with mosaic tiles. From the servants' chatter Horatio, then eight years old, had gleaned the fascinating information that the guest, who wore very odd clothing, was a Maharajah, and that when he was irked—as often seemed the case—he would retire to the parlour and swear, all by himself, sometimes for thirty minutes at a stretch, and in five different languages.

For a lonely small boy, such talent held enormous fascination. Long after the Maharajah had dispensed splendid gifts to each member of the household, taken his large retinue and gone back into the mystery from whence he had come, Horatio had crept, at least once a week, to the Indian Suite, and especially into the small parlour. With a delicious sense of wickedness, he had practised his own oaths, lowering his boyish voice to what he fancied was an approximation of the Maharajah's tones. The parlour faced north and, with its abundance of tile, was a cold chamber, but it had delighted him on several counts. A faint aroma of incense still hung on the air; the windows overlooked the wilderness area, which extended to the woods, beyond which again, was the River Thames; and, most importantly, nobody ever thought of looking for him there. When the initial fascinations faded, and before Lady Nola came into his life, he had fallen into the habit of retreating to the Indian parlour when hurt or troubled. In later years, he kept his drawing table and his many books on architecture in the quiet rooms, where he could study in a peace quite undisturbed by well-meaning but sometimes suffocating family and servants.

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.