Ask Me No Questions (3 page)

"Always supposing—(a) that she
is
a widow and, (b) that she cherished her defunct mate," qualified Falcon. "But so long as this is merest speculation, what if yon dainty relict loathed her lord and master and, as Tummet would say, 'done him in'?"

Miss Rossiter uttered an indignant exclamation and informed him that he was a horrid cynic.

"Yes, well we all know that," agreed the lieutenant. "Poor Falcon cannot help but judge everyone by himself. As always, he is 'the pot that calls the kettle black.' "

"I am neither a pot," retorted Falcon witheringly, "nor have I murdered anyone. Though"—he slanted a thoughtful glance at Morris—"with luck, any day now…"

Accustomed to this bickering, Gwendolyn's attention had returned to the widow. "At least," she murmured, "she has her little boy, and her woman looks kind."

"Her maid, if such she is, may be kind," allowed Falcon, "but the brat is ready to explode. Only see how he tries not to skip. What is he? Ten, perhaps?"

Falcon's parents had been blessed with only two children. Morris, who came from a large and boisterous family, jeered, "Ten! Good God! Much you know of children!"

"One must give thanks for small mercies. How old, then?"

"I would guess five. Six perhaps. What d'you say, ma'am?"

Gwendolyn's limp was becoming a little more noticeable, and she said apologetically, "That I would like to sit down, an you do not object. But to answer your question, I agree with you, August, that the child's energy cannot for much longer be suppressed; and with you, Jamie, that he is likely five, or thereabouts." Ushered to a vacant bench, she sat down gratefully and remarked that were she the little boy's mama, mourning or not, she would send him off to see the cows.

The object of their interest had also taken a seat. She said in a soft cultured voice, "Poor Thorpe. Were your brother here you could play, my love."

"Jacob was silly to catch a cold." The small boy gave a hop and, his blue eyes alight, added, "I never get colds might I go and see who that man is the one they're all bowing to might I please Aunty Ruth?"

"Mercy on us," exclaimed the woman who accompanied them. "Three sentences with not a single breath 'twixt 'em! And 'tis rude to point! For shame, Master Thorpe!"

The widow's gaze had turned to the wide grassy area the boy indicated, where stood a splendid gentleman surrounded by a small and fashionable group. His habit was rich, orders flashed on his breast, and, although they were a merry company, those about him treated him with deference, while passers-by bowed respectfully.

"Why, I believe 'tis Prince Frederick," said the widow.

"And see, Grace, over there, by the trees, is that not the King?"

Grace Milford had been five and twenty when she'd been hired to serve as abigail to fourteen-year-old Miss Ruth Armitage. Three years later, Miss Armitage had become Mrs. Thomas Allington, and Grace had accompanied her into her new life. Now thirty-five, she was a combination of governess, companion, confidante, maid, and housekeeper. She had never lost the rosy cheeks and buxom figure of the countrywoman, but the hazel eyes she turned upon the royal group were shrewd. "Aye, that's the Prince of Wales," she said. "And the King only yards distant, but pretending not to see him! A fine pair! Will I take the boy over, Mrs. A.?"

The widow hesitated.

"Please, let me go and see him!" Master Thorpe jumped up and down vigorously. "Please, Aunty! An' then the cows?"

Mrs. Allington smiled at him. "Very well. But—not too near the royal parties, Grace."

She watched fondly as they left her, the woman walking sedately, the child leaping and hopping along. They were soon lost amongst the crowd and the widow's gaze wandered. She loved the park, but this would be her last visit here, for the house on Mount Street was no longer her own, and she must go down to Lingways and see that things there were set to rights. After that— She forced away any thought of "after that" and concentrated on the beauties of dancing sunlit leaves and air spiced with the scents of blossoms and newly scythed grass. Soft talk and lilting laughter drifted to her and her gaze turned to the other occupants of the park. How gay they were; how happy and free from care. And how cut off she felt. Banished from them and the way of life she had always known and that had slipped away so gradually yet so inexorably, like a satin rope that had frayed even as she clung to it until the last fine threads were now sliding through her fingers. Within a few days it would vanish altogether and be as lost to her as were her dear father, her beloved brother, her gentle husband. And whatever was to become of—

At this point she was startled by the discovery that a young lady and two gentlemen seated nearby were watching her. The lady and the military gentleman looked away at once, but the second gentleman continued to stare at her, his brows haughtily arched, his dark eyes bold. Lud, but he was a handsome creature. And very aware of it to judge by that arrogant manner. But perhaps, even with the veil, they had recognized her. Perhaps they knew about her brother's shameful death; and about poor Papa's ruinous attempts to prove his son's innocence. She turned her head away in time to see Thorpe galloping towards her, laughing, and calling over his shoulder that Miss Grace must make haste to see the cows.

"Oh, do take care!" cried Mrs. Allington, coming to her feet hurriedly.

She was too late. The tall, gaunt, but extremely elegant matron who had just passed by was proceeding towards the Prince and her attention was no more on the boy than his was on her. Her footman, whose eyes had lingered upon a pretty nursemaid, gave a shout, but he also was too late.

A violent collision. A shriek. A small, frightened face turned to the widow. A torrent of infuriated accusation capped by a sharp box on the ear.

Mrs. Allington hastened to the debacle, and slipped an arm about the boy. Thorpe shrank against her skirts, one hand pressed to his reddened cheek.

"I apologize for the accident, ma'am," said the widow angrily. "But you had no right to—"

"
Right
?" screamed the victim, turning a rageful countenance. "So you are the little monster's mama, are you? I do not scruple to tell you that he should be—"

"He did not mean to run into you." The widow raised her voice a trifle. "And there was no—"

"Do not dare to interrupt, you impertinent creature! I will say again that this vicious young ruffian—"

"He is not a ruffian, but—"

"—all but knocked me down!" Inspecting the rich green silk of her wide-hooped skirts even as she spoke, she uttered another shriek. "Ah! He has muddied my gown!
Insufferable
little beast!"

"If you would but moderate your tone, madam, I—"

"
Moderate
my
tone
, is it! That you dare say such a thing to me is a fair indication of your lack of manners and breeding! And only
look
at my reticule! Hackham, fetch the Park Keeper! People like these should not be allowed…"

On and on she went, her harsh tones attracting attention so that every head was turned their way.

Her warm heart touched, Gwendolyn Rossiter said, "Oh, how awful for her! August, do go and see if you cannot calm that dreadful woman!"

With an incredulous stare, Falcon enquired, "Are you run mad? Even were I so inclined, which I am not, I've no least intent to come within range of
that
female!"

Lieutenant Morris asked curiously, "A formidable lady? Should I know her?"

"Not if you can help it," said Gwendolyn with her customary bluntness. " 'Tis Lady Clara Buttershaw. An odious woman. August, you know very well she fairly hangs on your lips. One word from you and she would cease persecuting that poor widow. Have you no compassion for your fellow man?"

"Precisely as much as my fellow man has for me. And as for allowing that skirted adder to flirt with me—I thank you, no! Let the widow fend for herself." He stood, and bowed with easy grace. "In point of fact, I refuse to share the same park with her noble ladyship. Adieu."

"Heartless coward!" hissed Gwendolyn as he strolled off.

Falcon laughed and waved airily, but continued on his way.

Turning to the apprehensive lieutenant, Gwendolyn pleaded, "Jamie—you are so kind. Only listen how she screeches, the wretch! And she has sent her footman to fetch the Keeper. You
cannot
allow that poor widow to be so publicly humiliated."

The lieutenant whimpered and quailed. And, of course, a minute later, was asking Lady Buttershaw in a scared voice if he could "be of some assistance?"

The widow, very pale, threw him a grateful glance.

Lady Buttershaw rounded on him, flushed and raging. "I think we have not been introduced, young man. Mind your business!"

'Jove, what a dragon!' thought Morris, and drew back, but there were tears on the boy's white face and his scared eyes pleaded. Wherefore, "By your leave, ma'am," he persevered bravely, "I am Lieutenant James Morris. I was presented to you at—"

"You have
not
my leave! And I will tell you, because I am honest in all things, that did I know a gentleman cursed with freckles and sandy hair, I would assuredly remember him, since I despise both. At all events, I number no junior officers among my acquaintance, so—" Her ladyship checked, and her hard dark eyes narrowed. "Morris? Of the Cornwall Morrises?"

"Lord Kenneth is my father's cousin, ma'am."

"Which lends
you
little consequence," she observed with a sniff. "Indeed, one can but wonder that you've the gall to boast of such a distant connection." She brought her guns to bear upon the widow once more. "I shall charge you and your brat with assault upon my person, and destruction of my—"

"Mr. Falcon asked me to—" began Morris in desperation.

He had come upon the secret formula. My lady's tirade ceased, and she whipped around, a sugary smile affixed to her sharp features, and her eyes scanning the park eagerly. "Do you refer to my dear friend
August
Falcon? Where is he?"

"He was obliged to leave, but desired that I do whatever I might to assist you and this lady. I—er, think his father is acquainted with hers."

"Such a
kind
creature," purred Lady Buttershaw, and with an arch giggle that appalled Morris, enquired, "And did August charge you with a message for me?"

"Only that I do what I might to mend matters between you and Mrs.— Oh, egad! My apologies, ma'am, but—I've forgot…" He looked hopefully at the widow.

"I am Mrs. Thomas Allington," said Ruth, her voice trembling a little. Lady Buttershaw's basilisk gaze darted to her and she added defiantly, "Of Lingways, in Essex."

My lady stared at her in silence, then said in a markedly less strident tone, "You may present Mrs. Allington, Lieutenant."

Breathing an inward sigh of relief, Morris said, "Lady Clara Buttershaw—Mrs. Thomas Allington."

Ruth also had detected a thaw. The encounter had left her already worn nerves even more strained, and the thought that this horrid woman might indeed bring charges against them was terrifying. She said, "I am indeed sorry if your gown was muddied, my lady, and—"

"I think you are not blind, and can see that it is. And my reticule is quite ruined," grumbled Lady Clara, flourishing that article.

There did indeed appear to be a tear beside the handle. "My companion is an excellent needlewoman, ma'am," said Ruth, spurred by a sight of the footman returning, with a burly man in uniform beside him. "An you permit that I have it repaired, 'twould be my pleasure to return it to you."

"Handsomely said," remarked Morris, beaming. "All's well that—"

Lady Clara's fan rapped upon his arm. "Be off with you, Lieutenant! And tell that rascal August Falcon that I expect him to call upon me within the week. Run along, now. We ladies can handle these little fusses very well without the aid of clumsy gentlemen, can we not, my dear?"

'My
dear
...?' thought Ruth, dazed.

'Alleluia!' thought Morris, and bowed himself away.

The green saloon was very like its mistress, Ruth decided. Large, intimidating, and rather too busy. She had come to the luxurious neighbourhood lying east of Hyde Park with considerable reluctance, but had not dared send Grace to return the repaired reticule, guessing that Lady Buttershaw would be offended. My lady moved in the very circles in which an impecunious widow might be obliged to seek employment, and it would be the height of folly to further antagonize so powerful a member of the
ton
. The size and magnificence of the mansion had deepened her unease, however, and she'd cherished the hope that her ladyship would be from home this morning, so that she might leave the reticule and a note of apology, and make her escape. Her heart had sunk when the butler, a majestic individual, had looked at her calling card and advised that she was expected. He had conducted her across a richly appointed entrance hall, up a staircase overshadowed by portraits of contemptuous and (presumably) ancestral Buttershaws, and into this ornate chamber.

It was very quiet, and a rather musty odour hung upon the air. Looking about curiously, Ruth thought that Lady Buttershaw and her husband must have a deep interest in things past, for everywhere were antique objects, many with framed informational texts beside them. A gloomy tapestry hung upon one wall. She was unable to determine what it represented and, as the minutes slid silently past, curiosity got the better of discretion, and she crept over to peer at it. The faded forms remained indeterminate, and she had decided it was some kind of coronation ceremony until she read the accompanying text and discovered it to be "The Execution of the Martyr King." She suppressed a giggle, whispered her apologies to the shadowy Charles Stuart, and moved to the next curiosity. This was a glass case containing objects ranging from a lock of hair purporting to have been taken from the severed head of Guy Fawkes, to a faded and tiny slipper worn by the mighty Queen Elizabeth. An impressively framed document caught her attention, and she found it to be a letter from King Charles I to a Colonel Montmorency Yerville. The spidery handwriting was difficult to decipher, but it was evidently a commendation for valour and there was no doubt of the signature, and the date, "This fifteenth daye of December, in the Year of Grace 1647."