Had We Never Loved (7 page)

Catching sight of Kadenworthy, astride a rangy-looking black, Glendenning's attempts to win through to him were unavailing, and he was obliged to dismount. A sudden disturbance arose near at hand, and he became part of a surging, neck-craning crowd. A dark-haired youth was struggling in the grip of a man dressed in a simple but well-cut green habit. Glendenning had an impression of a blandly smiling pink and white face, of hooded grey eyes, full lips, and a soft yet oddly resonant voice.

“You are a thieving gypsy, and will be dealt with as such. Now—put it down. At once.”

The voice was not raised, the man showed no sign of ungovernable rage or violence, but the youth cried a desperate, “I did
not
prig it, sir! I swear—Ow! Do not … please! You'll break my arm!”

In his frantic efforts to escape, his head twisted, allowing Glendenning a full view of the convulsed features. He thought, ‘Good God!' and called sharply, “What is the trouble here?”

The onlookers fell back before the authority in his tone. As usual, Flame evoked an immediate chorus of admiring exclamations. Someone said knowingly, “He'll be a rider, I reckons,” and another man remarked, “Ar. Well, my money's on the mare, and the young gent looks as if he knows the difference 'twixt a tail and a hock!”

The man detaining the gypsy glanced up. His smile did not waver, but in the deep eyes for just an instant came a flash of something—surprise almost—immediately veiled. “Nothing I cannot deal with, sir,” he said.

A bystander offered helpfully, “The gypsy tried to buy some currant buns, and the gent says as it ain't the lad's purse.”

“I wish I may see the day a gypsy owns a purse like that one,” smiled the man in green.

Following his eyes, Glendenning saw a familiar purse of silver mesh with an amber clasp. Stifling his astonishment, he said honestly, “He does not own it. I do. And I sent him off to buy my lunch. Perhaps you will be so good as to release my servant, sir.”

A murmur of amusement went up. The green man's eyes shifted under Glendenning's cool stare, but he did not release the boy. Still smiling, he murmured, “An he is your servant, sir, you will certainly know his name. I—persuaded him to tell me it, just before you came.”

The look that was slanted at him was gloatingly sly. The fellow was enjoying bullying his helpless prey. A strong sense of revulsion swept Glendenning. There was about this man the aura of things that dwelt in rotten trees: pallid things, dank, and crawling. His lip curling with contempt, he said cuttingly, “Of course I know his name. It is Florian.” A ripple of laughter arose from the onlookers. There came a slight lessening of the green man's perpetual smile. The viscount stepped closer. “You have his name, sir, but I shall neither require yours, which I have no wish to know, nor shall I gratify you with mine own. I will however, advise you that if you give his arm one more twist, I shall apply my fist to your slippery eye. Let—him—go!”

For a moment he thought he was going to have to make good his threat. Then, the youth was released and his captor stepped back. “You are quick to take umbrage, sir,” he said, his voice as soft, his smile as gentle as ever. “But you will own it looked suspicious. Had the lad explained—”

Florian was rubbing his right arm painfully. Glendenning said, “Now where is that baker? Come along, boy. I'm fairly starving!”

They blended into the amused crowd. Glendenning could feel those hooded eyes following. He said quietly, “That was an ugly customer. You see what you get for filching my purse, you young ruffian. I thought when Mr. Peregrine Cranford took you into his service, you had mended your ways. A fine return for his trust!”

“I didn't steal your purse, my lord. It was—” Florian bit off the words.

“You found it, perhaps?”

“Yes, my lord.”

“In that pretty little thief's pocket, eh? Well, I mean to find
her,
and you shall take me to wherever she—”

“Tio! By all that's wonderful!” A slender young officer in military scarlet gripped the viscount by the shoulder. “Are you riding? I was prepared to put my money on Hector Kadenworthy till I saw your mare. What a beauty!”

Shaking hands, Glendenning said with a smile, “Best keep your bet where 'tis, Major, sir. I do not ride today.”

Hilary Broadbent laughed, and cuffed him. “As well you show me some respect. How do you go on, you madman? And how is that scapegrace brother of yours? I hear you are seeking him.”

Fighting not to betray the sudden fear that tightened his nerves, Glendenning said easily, “Do you? Dogging my footsteps, Hilary?”

“No, damn you!” Sobering abruptly, Broadbent added, “I hope I may never have to do so. Oddly enough I do not enjoy conveying my friends to the Tower, and I would purely dislike to see your ugly phiz on the end of a spike.”

Meeting his eyes steadily, the viscount asked, “A warning, Major?”

“It wouldn't be the first time I've warned you, Tio. And if what I suspect is truth, you've paid me small heed.” He grinned suddenly. “But I'll not stir old coals with the man who possesses so fair a sister. Tell me what has Templeby been up to? Women, cards, or the nags? He's of an age to sow some wild oats, you know.”

“You know, and I know. My honoured sire, alas…”

Broadbent laughed. “What, did the earl send you after—” His gaze slipping past Glendenning, his pleasant face darkened, and he said in a changed tone, “Be damned! What's he doing here, I wonder?”

The viscount glanced around the sea of faces. “To judge by your expression you've not discovered a bosom bow.”

“A cobra, more like. Though I'd not dare say so to his face, coward that I am!” Broadbent, a man not given to disparaging others, lowered his voice and said with bitter intensity, “Tis Burton Farrier. No—don't look round, he's turning this way.”

“Who the deuce is Burton Farrier? Never heard of the fellow.”

“Be thankful for large mercies. He's military intelligence. Looks like a placid clergyman, and is the most dangerous man I know. He has an almost insane hatred for all Jacobites and I do believe would be delighted to personally cut the heart out of every living sympathiser.” Broadbent frowned and added grudgingly, “Justified, to an extent, I suppose. His brother fell on the field of Prestonpans.” He glanced to the side again. “He's a merciless hunter, and once put on a case hangs on like a bulldog. They call him ‘Terrier Farrier.'”

“Charming. Is his life's work to destroy all Jacobites?”

“Oh, no. That's just a private hobby. He's usually assigned to very special cases, and so far as I'm aware is held in extreme high regard, because he has yet to fail. There—you can look now. And mark him well. A good man to avoid, Tio.”

Looking in the direction his friend indicated, the viscount saw a well-built individual, not above medium height, clad in a green habit, and smiling beneficently at no one in particular.

Broadbent's words echoed in his ears. “A good man to avoid…”

*   *   *

The woods were dense, and the sun was almost gone, making it difficult to see through the dimming light, but the viscount rode on, guiding Flame carefully but with determination. Florian had vanished during his conversation with Hilary Broadbent, but he'd caught a glimpse of the youth just as he'd disappeared into these trees. He had recovered his purse, with surprisingly little missing, but while Lord Kadenworthy was busied with the closing formalities, he meant to find that larcenous gypsy lass. And he meant to discover why Florian was with her, instead of with the Cranford twins, who had so kindly rescued him from starvation and given him honest work.

Some distance ahead, the shrubs rustled. He shouted, “Florian? I want a word with you!”

A slim figure was briefly silhouetted against a solitary beam of roseate light before plunging into a tunnel-like gap between the trees.

Glendenning spurred in pursuit. Not until the last instant did he catch a glimpse of something thin and taut stretched above Flame's ears.

There came a mighty impact that tore the breath from his lungs and smashed him from the saddle. A violent shock; a fading sense of rage and pain.…

*   *   *

“Riding like the wind he were, I tell ye, and right on the lad's tail!” The male voice was sharp and querulous. “Another minute and he'd have been took. What then? Ar, you don't stop to think on that, does ye!”

Some misguided stonecutter was chiselling a hole in Glendenning's head, but he wanted to find out what was to do, and he tried to move. Another fool began to pound a white hot stake through his ankle. Fighting back a groan, he lost interest in the proceedings …

He was tormented by a fierce heat, and he could hear a woman talking. ‘Mitten,' he thought. And if it was the lovely Dimity Cranford, then he must still be laid low from the musket ball that damnable trooper had lobbed at him … He wondered if they'd told Bowers-Malden that he was dying … And he could picture his sire's grief and shame when he discovered his heir had been carrying a vital Jacobite cypher when shot down …

An icy and refreshing coldness touched his face, and the voices became clearer. The man was talking again. He sounded very quarrelsome. “… should've been scragged, like I said. A nob, ain't he? Perishers. They should all be scragged. Or topped!”

“You're talking foolish, Uncle Ab. Fair yearning to swing on Tyburn Tree, is ye?” The voice was lilting but neither cultured nor coarse. So it wasn't Mitten, after all. Puzzled, Glendenning listened as she said, “He can't help if he's Quality, poor cove. Now, what about his mare?”

“Flame!” exclaimed Glendenning, and sat up into a world that shivered to fragments and was gone …

A long time afterwards he was listening to bells. Not church bells, or a ship's bell; more like the little handbell that Mama kept on the chairside table in her private parlour. A tiny bell this, whose erratic chime was accompanied by a hissing sound. He wondered idly if it was a pet snake with a bell tied round its neck.

“Why do you frown?” asked the woman softly, and a cool hand stroked his temple.

If he dared open his eyes, the hammer in his head would probably break right through his skull. Not risking it, he lay still. The skin of her hand was rather rough, but her touch was gentle and comforting. “I was wondering…,” he began, and frowned again, because his voice sounded so far away.

“Yes? What was you wondering, poor cove?”

“Were,” he corrected foolishly.

“Fiddle-de-dee! What
were,
then?”

“I was wondering … if snakes have … necks…,” he managed.

“Gawd,” said the man's voice, querulous as ever. “Proper gone off his tibby, he has! Didn't I say it? Be kinder to put him out of his misery!”

The viscount was weak as a cat, and his head was pure hell, but be damned if he was going to lie here and let this rogue do away with him. With a great effort he took the risk, and forced his eyes open. Amid a scarlet mist he saw an extremely untidy scratch wig, under which there gradually materialised a fierce tanned face, all bushy eyebrows, glaring eyes, and out-thrusting chin.

“You slippery curst … horse thief,” panted Glendenning. “What have … what have you done with … my mare?”

The screech that rang out reverberated shatteringly inside his head, and he fell back. Distantly, he heard the murderously inclined thief howling, “Didn't I tell ye? One foot in the grave, and he's ready to have me topped! Let me scrag him! Oh, you gotta let me scrag the perisher, Amy!”

Amy? Glendenning blinked, and another face appeared. A face that, even dimmed by the mists, was so delicately lovely that he was dazzled. He said weakly, “So your name … really isn't Alice…”

The soft lips parted. “I said it wasn't. I'm Amy Consett, and this is me Uncle Absalom Consett. And what's your name, mate?”

“You know … who I am.”

“I forget. Remind me.”

“I will if you … won't let him … kill me.”

“All right. Then tell me.”

He thought about it, but he was so weary that he fell asleep.

When he awoke, the mists were gone. The little bell was no longer chiming, but he heard another sound, a sort of faint and sporadic rattling. He began, gradually, to take stock of things. He lay on a rough but fairly comfortable bed. The mattress appeared to consist of straw and bracken piled on a wooden frame and contained by a sheet. Two coarsely woven blankets covered him, and, incongruously, his head was supported by a satin pillow. At first, he'd supposed he was in a cave, but he saw now that the room was built of stone blocks, and that sunlight was slanting through an opening high up in one wall.

He looked about curiously. Rough wooden packing cases were piled under the window, and beside them a large upended crate held a chipped water pitcher and bowl, a cracked mirror, and a hairbrush and comb. His wandering gaze was held by a picture that hung nearby. It depicted a goosegirl driving her flock across a field at sunset, with dark clouds building on the horizon, and it was another incongruity, because the artistry was superb, and the frame richly carven. ‘Stolen, past doubting,' he thought.

He moved his head carefully, and was not punished by the immediate and savage stab of pain that had plagued him in earlier awakenings. He discovered a crude table, where the gypsy girl, Amy, sat on a three-legged stool. Her head was bent low over a curved strip of polished wood at which she worked with intense concentration. As he watched, she turned to a small open box on the table and began to poke about at the contents, this causing the rattling sounds he'd heard. She evidently found what she was seeking, because she selected a very small object, then bent to her work once more.

She had a charming way of tossing her hair back when it fell forward. Glendenning noticed how obediently most of the dark mass hung behind her, but one silken strand, as though unable to bear being pushed away, would slip stealthily across her snowy shoulder until it swung triumphant before her, only to be shaken back once more. He was waiting for it to start sliding again when she glanced at him.