Ask Me No Questions (22 page)

Grace held the door wide and was peering into the night, a lamp in her hand. She uttered horrified little cries and fluttered about as between them they guided Chandler to a deep chair in the parlour.

He looked up at them blurrily. He supposed it was Miss Milford who brought a tray with water and bandages. Mrs. Allington, her gown lurid with his blood, was setting her shawl aside. The boy, Jacob, stared at him with huge frightened eyes, his face chalk white.

Chandler made an attempt to rally. "Must you always let me down, madam? Where's… my cup of tea?"

"You should be laid down, Mr. Chandler." Ruth had washed the blood from his face, but she leaned nearer to the chair so as to dab gently at a crimson trickle that seeped from under the bandage about his dark head. "That is a very nasty gash, and I know you must be feeling dreadful."

He did feel dreadful. His head pounded so brutally that even his eyelashes hurt, and by the feel of his side a rib had been cracked at the very least. "If I lie down," he whispered, "I'll sleep."

"As you should. Oh, I wish you had told Grace to send word to the Watch, instead of insisting she say nothing to anyone save Dutch Coachman. What if she cannot find him?"

He'd insisted upon Dutch because that old friend was big enough to carry him if his legs gave out, and could be counted on not to throw the household into a panic. "Then you'll have to put up with me until she does find him. First, I must have some answers. Most—most importantly, where is my hound?"

She was won to a shaken chuckle and marvelled at the faint answering quirk to his pale lips. "We shut him upstairs for fear he would jump up on you when we brought you back."

"The boy?"

Ruth hesitated. Surely, now that he might have some small cause to be grateful to them, this would be the perfect moment to tell the truth about the twins? She gathered her courage and began nervously, "There is something… I er, must—"

Fighting against betraying the effect of a sharp wave of pain, Chandler made a heavy-handed attempt at humour and gasped out, "Speak up, ma'am. You've no cause for apprehension unless… unless, of course, there are more of your relatives lurking about the estate. That, I'll own, would be going… beyond the line of what my father would tolerate.
Is
Jacob your nephew?"

It was
not
, Ruth realized, the time for more confessions. "He is," she said. That was truth, at least. "Some friends brought him down to visit me. I was hoping you might let him stay for just a little while."

His eyes, which had closed, now opened and he peered at her frowningly. "When did you first hear that whistling maniac?"

"Maniac? Is that what you believe? But surely, a madman would not bring three other rogues with him. And if they were thieves or poachers, I cannot think it likely they would risk the death penalty by daring to attack a member of the Quality. If they knew who you were, of course."

"They knew. The leader howled I was… was not to be killed."

"Then, if they knew you, why ever—" She checked with a shocked gasp. "Oh! My heavens! You think they may have some connection with your brother!"

In point of fact, Chandler was finding it difficult to think at all. But there were matters he must clarify before he faced a minion of the law. And quite apart from the possible involvement of some of Quentin's Jacobite friends, Gideon Rossiter's tale of the League of Jewelled Men lurked persistently at the back of his mind, however he tried to dismiss any possible connection as nonsense.

He evaded wearily, "What exactly did you hear?"

"As I told you. Just a man, whistling."

"When?"

"Er—I cannot recall. About a week after I came, I think."

"And you heard him more than once. How often? Every night?"

'Great heaven!' she thought, trying to remember what the boys had said.

"You do not know," he said, panting a little as he glared at her. "The truth is—you heard nothing! Own it!"

"Whatever do you mean? Why would I invent such a tale?"

"Because you've a—a very active imagination, Madam Widow, but I cannot feature you wandering alone in the woods at night."

"What are you concocting now? That I was in the woods at night—
with
someone? The whistling man, for instance?"

"Were you?"

"I think you are the one with the active imagination, Mr. Chandler! And a nasty one, besides!"

"There is nothing particularly nice about wallowing in— untruths," he pointed out acidly, then clutched at his side, wincing.

"You see!" Alarmed, she bent forward again to wipe his face with the damp rag. "Oh, if only you would lie quietly!"

"Speaking… speaking' of lying. Which of you is doing so? Or is it both?"

She stared at him.

He made a febrile gesture of irritation. " 'Fore God, 'tis like drawing blood from a stone!
You
say your nephew just arrived. Whereas
he
told me he'd first heard the man weeks ago! I fancy the truth is that… he's been here… all the time!"

Ruth had suffered a severe shock when she'd found him in the woods, for at first she had thought him slain. Her nerves were still quivering, and her wits seemed to have deserted her. She faltered, "You cannot seriously believe that I could have kept a little boy hidden for weeks?"

"Yes I can! That's why you always have the curtains closed. And why you said your cousin Grace was simple—" He paused, closed his eyes, frowning, then went on haltingly, "—simple minded. I… doubt she's any more your cousin than Jacob is your nephew."

"Only see how you are hurting yourself, trying to trap me with all this rubbish. If you will rest now, in the morning I'll—"

"Have thought up another set of tales, no doubt! Jacob has your fair hair and delicate features. You'd as well give up spinning your farrago of… fibs. He is your son, isn't he?"

Momentarily taken by surprise, it then occurred to her that this might be a very promising development. If they believed Jacob was her own child, they'd be much more likely to let her keep him here. But it would also mean she must teach the boys to tell untruths, which Johnny would have disliked very much. Therefore, "An you doubt whatever I say, Mr. Chandler," she said, staring down at her hands, " 'twould be wasting my time to try and convince you."

"Or
en effet
, 'Ask me no questions'! An extreme unsatisfactory—"

At this point, to her great relief Ruth heard hurrying footsteps, and she flew to open the front door.

Scattering raindrops, Grace came in, followed by Dutch Coachman, his rugged features strained and anxious.

"Oh, Mrs. A.," quavered Grace, closing her dripping umbrella. "Is he any better?"

"He might be, an I could but keep him quiet."

Horrified by Ruth's gruesomely stained garments and Chandler's battered appearance, the coachman dropped to one knee beside the victim. "Lor' but you're a proper sight, Mr. Gordon. How are ye, sir?"

Chandler summoned a tired smile. "A trifle knocked up, is all, Dutch. Nothing serious. Who knows about this?"

"Only me, sir, never fret. But Sir Brian will have to be told tonight. And we must have the Watch out. Miss Milford tells me there were four o' the murdering varmints."

"You can tell my father as soon as I'm a less gruesome sight."

"Aye. That'll be best, surely." The coachman stood. "If you'd let me fetch one of the grooms and a hurdle, we could carry you. It'd go easier on you, sir."

"No. With your help I shall do."

Ruth said, "Coachman, it will be so much better if he stays here tonight. We can make up a bed downstairs, and—"

"No," said Chandler mulishly. "I must—get home. Lend a hand, Dutch."

The coachman bent to slip an arm around him. "He's right, ma'am. We'd have Sir Brian in a proper taking!"

Irritated, she said, "Which might not be such a bad thing."

"I hear what ye're saying, Miss Allington." The big man gave her an approving nod. "But, 'twould never do. Ready if you are, sir."

Chandler struggled up gamely, and with the coachman's aid was soon on his feet, but wavering dizzily in the circle of his strong arm. He said in a fading voice, "My thanks, ma'am." His eyes narrowed. "Oh, Egad! I shall buy you a new gown…"

"Yes, but not
now
," she said, exasperated. "Go!"

He persisted stubbornly, "Dutch, I want a guard on this house tonight."

"We'll have one, sir. Never worrit. Now come ye along, and lean on me."

Grace held the door open and the two men made their erratic way into the rain.

Ruth sank down in the chair, her knees suddenly weak. Grace came and looked down at her with great, frightened eyes. "Poor Mrs. A. What a shock you've had! And whatever do it all mean? Why would anyone creep about the woods? Why would they hurt poor Mr. Gordon? And—oh, my Lor'! Now he knows about the twins!"

"Er, yes," said Ruth. And she thought, 'More—or less.'

Jacob and Thorpe were both fast asleep when Ruth looked in on them, but Hercules was so frantic to escape that Grace fashioned a lead from a piece of sheet and took the "Covent Garden Courser" back to Mr. Swinton's cottage. She returned with a wry face as Ruth was getting into bed and told her that Hercules had twisted out of his "lead" and disappeared.

It seemed to Ruth that no sooner had the curtains closed than Grace was pulling them back to admit full daylight. Much agitated, Grace said that it was eight o'clock, that there was a horrid wind blowing, and that Mrs. A. was wanted at the main house as soon as may be.

Ruth sat up in bed and gathered her thoughts. With slow reluctance she said, "Please tell Jacob to put on his blue habit and best shoes."

Grace gave a small scream.

Ruth nodded. "He must come with me."

"Oh, Lor'! But—but what about Thorpe?"

With a wry smile Ruth admitted, "Mr. Chandler does not know about Thorpe."

Wailing, Grace departed.

The morning was indeed windy, with clouds being hurried across the sky. Escorted by a footman and with Jacob's hand clasping her own tightly, Ruth asked, "How does Mr. Chandler go on?"

The footman shook his head and looked mournful. "Passed a bad night, after the village constable left, ma'am. Very bad. Still, he's a game 'un is the young master. Bound and determined to get up's'morning, he was, but Dr. Keasden says no, and Sir Brian, he put his foot down. Now that we got more constables come, and more expected, Mr. Gordon will likely be glad enough to stay abed and out of their path."

They were at the front door when two carriages pulled up and disgorged several eager gentlemen who tried to crowd past the butler. Mr. Starret hurried Ruth and Jacob into the house, but advised the journalists at his most regal that the Reverend Mr. Aymer had a statement for the newspapers and that he could be found in the chapel.

Closing the door upon their outcries, Starret looked at Jacob curiously. "The young gentleman would very likely prefer to wait for you in the kitchen, Miss Allington."

"This is my nephew, Jacob," said Ruth. "He has information for Sir Brian."

Starret's eyebrows went up, but he led the way to the study without further comment.

Sir Brian was not accompanied by constables, as Ruth had feared, but sat alone, writing a letter. He stood at once and came around the desk to take her hand and press it fervently. "My dear lady," he said, with a curious glance at the child half hidden behind her skirts. "My son has told me of your courage in going to his aid. I am most deeply indebted to you."

Ruth said, "I see that Mr. Chandler has not told you about Jacob, sir. He saw the fight and came to fetch me."

Clearly bewildered, but ever the courtly gentleman, Sir Brian settled her into a chair before asking for explanations. Jacob refused to sit down, but stood close beside Ruth. He was very pale, his blue eyes wide and scared, and the bright morning light touching both the fair heads brought the dawn of suspicion to Sir Brian. "I see," he said, leaning back against his desk, "that Gordon had cause to ask that I speak with you privately before we meet the constables. This young fellow is er, very like you, ma'am. Might there be, perchance, a—relationship?"

Ruth gripped her hands together and drew a deep breath. "I must tell you first, sir, that I have not been quite truthful with you. My name is not Miss Allington. It is
Mrs
. Allington." She saw his dark brows twitch together, and said quickly, "I am a widow, sir. Jacob is my orphaned nephew."

"Indeed?" Sir Brian's face was rigid and austere. "Perchance you will be good enough to explain the reason for such duplicity, madam."

"It is that—that some people, sir, appear to regard a widow lady as of—er, questionable moral integrity. I was desperate to find employment, and I feared that if you knew the truth—"

"I would not hire you? I hope I am not so prejudiced! Or did you perhaps also fear to be judged as fair game? In either case, you did me an injustice, Miss—Mrs. Allington. Am I to infer that you
smuggled
your nephew here? That he has been hiding in your cottage from the first?"

He was by now flushed with anger, and Ruth knew her own face was red. She said miserably, "Yes, sir. I very soon realized I should have told you the truth, but—"

"You should, indeed! I
despise
falsehoods, ma'am! Especially one that casts such an aspersion on my character and that of my son!"

"I am—very sorry," said Ruth, hanging her head. "But—"

"We jus' wanted to keep together," interjected Jacob fiercely. He put a supportive hand on Ruth's shoulder. "My Aunty hasn't done nothing bad an' she's worked awful hard. Papa wouldn't like it. An' he wouldn't like you to talk to her like that. Sir," he added, belatedly scared by his own daring.

"Well, well." Sir Brian's scowl eased. "Quite the young champion, aren't you?" He pulled up a chair and sat down, returning his gaze to Ruth. "And regardless of those circumstances, I must not forget that you have rendered us a great service. Now come here, boy, and tell me exactly what happened. How came you to be in my woods after dark? The truth, if you please. Man to man."