Ask Me No Questions (33 page)

Tummet met the lieutenant's eyes and winked brashly. "Got outta bed on the wrong side, 'e done." And he added under his breath "as usual!"

Morris grinned and replied that the only sea captain of his acquaintance was his sire. "Ain't been to sea for years now, of course," he added. "Curst glad of it, what with all this wrecking that's going on. Two more East Indiamen lost. Dreadful!"

Falcon opened his jewel case and selected a great emerald ring. "They're very ready to blame wreckers," he said indifferently. "More likely poor navigation is the culprit. People of low intelligence delight to add drama to commonplace events."

Morris was unconvinced. "D'ye call it commonplace when there have been at least a score of ships wrecked this past year or so? You'll recollect poor Johnny Armitage going down with most of his crew off the Cornish coast, and since then—"

"
Poor
Johnny Armitage? The rogue was drunk in his cabin when he should've been on—" Falcon checked, frowning. "Now—why, I wonder, does the name Armitage ring a bell with me… ?"

" 'Never send to know for whom the bell tolls,' " said Morris solemnly. He whooped, and made a run for the door, with Falcon in limping but rapid pursuit, and the rest of his quotation echoing after him, " '—it tolls… for thee!' "

Tummet went over to listen for the sounds of bloody murder and, hearing only laughter and fast disappearing footsteps, closed the door. "Good thing the lieutenant set 'im orf, Tummet," he told himself thoughtfully. "That were a close call!"

Falcon abandoned his bloodthirsty chase when the two men plunged into the stableyard and the wind sent dust and haystalks whirling into his face. His pained yowl brought Chandler hurrying to him. "Something in your eye, Falcon?"

"Never mind about him," panted Morris. "You look a proper candidate for the undertaker, Gordie. I thought you'd shot the cat last night, but I'd not realized you were that bosky. Paying the price, are you?"

Chandler's smile was rueful. " 'Fraid so. My father's brandy should be handled with caution." A sudden gust caused him to stagger, but he said, "I am at your disposal, gentlemen, if you'd care for a game of cards, or billiards. For some reason nobody seems to want to sail in this wind, but—"

"God forbid!" Falcon extracted a haystalk from one eye. "Actually, I was about to look for my sire. 'Twould be advisable, I think, were I to offer him my escort to Sussex."

Mr. Neville Falcon and his ladyfriend had been in excessively high spirits at the ball, and remembering some of their antics Chandler's lips quirked. "He said you might be of that opinion. Wherefore, he and his lady drove out an hour since."

Falcon swore.

Morris said, "I must get back to Town also. I thank you for a very nice party, Gordie." And he added experimentally, "Jove, but your—ah, lady can sing!"

"Thank you. She can, indeed."

Falcon's sly grin faded as he saw Chandler's enigmatic expression. Curious, he drawled, "Are we to expect an announcement of some kind, soon?"

"Do you mean, have we set the date?" Chandler said blandly, "Yes. Lady Nadia would like a summer wedding, so we've settled on the twenty-fifth of August."

"Have you, by Jove," said Morris, disappointed.

"Idiot," said Falcon.

"Your pardon?" Chandler's voice was cool, but his eyes spoke a warning.

"I was talking to Morris," drawled Falcon. "Oh, Gad! It's coming on to rain. We'd best collect our ladies and be on our way."

They started across the yard all together. Morris asked, "You've not found any trace of the missing crates and barrels, eh, Gordie?"

"I wish to God we had! I'd give a deal to know what that whistling maniac was about!"

As one man Falcon and Morris halted and turned to him.

Morris said, "
Whistling
… ?"

"What kind of whistling?" demanded Falcon. "Not an ancient marching song by any chance?"

Mystified, Chandler said, "Yes, as a matter of fact. 'Tis called 'Lillibulero,' and—"

"You unconscionable blockhead," snarled Falcon. "Why the deuce could you not have told us that before?" And not waiting for Chandler's astonished response, he went on, "Then they're after Lac Brillant! Ye gods! We've wasted a deal of time! Rossiter must know of this at once."

"Know of what?" asked Chandler. "
Who
is after—Jupiter! Do you mean your League of Golden Men—or whatever 'tis called?"

"Jewelled Men," corrected Morris. "If you're right, August, one of us should stay here—no?"

"No. Chandler has an adequate staff. We've to get the ladies safe home and find Gideon. If the League thinks we're here because we've rumbled their scheme—" Falcon hesitated. "I'll leave my man, Tummet. If aught should go amiss, Chandler, send him to us."

"But why do you think this League is after Lac Brillant?" persisted Chandler. "Only because some rascally Free Trader chanced to whistle an old song? That's not much to go on."

Morris said, "A man who was in the habit of whistling 'Lillibulero' was one of those who broke my head and came within a whisper of sending Tio Glendenning and his family to the block."

Chandler frowned. "He'd have a devilish task to send me to the executioner! My hare-brained brother is safe in France; I've had no dealings with Bonnie Charlie and his Cause; my father's past is
sans reproche;
and I'm perfectly sure that neither my betrothed nor Lord Vincent would knowingly come within a mile of a Jacobite sympathizer! There is nothing can be used 'gainst us!"

The rain was getting heavier. Falcon said, "I'd not count on that, were I in your shoes. There's no telling what webs they may have already spun round you."

Morris nodded and looked solemn. "Guard yourself, dear boy. These varmints have no mercy."

"Morris is a dimwit," advised Falcon tersely. "But once in a great while he stumbles over the truth. Guard yourself!"

Ruth glanced up as the wind sent leaves pattering against the chapel windows. She had awoken in the night to the sound of a gate slamming somewhere, and by morning it had become very clear that they were in for some bad weather. The guests still remaining at Lac Brillant were obviously anxious to get home. She had heard carriages rumbling down the drivepath several times since Katrina and Gwendolyn had come to say their good-byes at eleven o'clock. She had embraced them, warmed by the knowledge that she'd made two new friends. Gwendolyn had seemed to be troubled, but had renewed her invitation that they all visit her in Town, and had written down her direction, and insisted on a promise to send word when the fresco was nearing completion.

As sorry as she was to see them go, nothing could depress Ruth's spirits this morning. Even Grace's melancholy gloom (the result, she said, of a horrid nightmare), had failed to dim her happiness. Last evening her own dearest dream had come true, and the man she loved with all her heart had made it clear that he returned her affections. Actually, she had sensed for some time that he had a
tendre
for her. His eyes had told her that, even though as an honourable gentleman he had been powerless to speak. Last night, he had spoken. Well—as good as. And for him to have done so meant beyond doubting that he had found a way for them. Perhaps he had asked Lady Nadia to draw back from their betrothal. The woman was eaten up with pride, and would likely recoil from marriage to a man who loved somebody else. How heavenly, if eventually there could be a marriage planned between Mrs. Ruth Allington and Mr. Gordon Chandler…

She realized that she had stopped working and was smiling at the fresco, and at once resumed her task, humming happily, her mind full of joyous speculation. When Gordon came, as he would certainly do very soon now, she would tell him about the twins, and confess that she had been Miss Ruth Armitage, sister of the infamous Captain Jonathan Armitage. He would likely be shocked—at first. But he loved her, and she would be forgiven. Sir Brian would probably not approve of her as a prospective daughter-in-law, especially since he so greatly admired Lady de Brette. But surely he would come to understand? And he already loved Jacob, little knowing that his affection went to two boys rather than one.

She began to sing softly as she envisioned a golden future at this beautiful estate; a future with the man she loved beside her, and the boys happy and secure at last. And she thought of her father and dear Johnny, and of how delighted they would be to know she was to marry so fine a gentleman as Gordon Chandler.

Lost in such rapturous imaginings she had not paid much heed to her work, but the emergence of a most unexpected colour brought her full attention to the fresco. Red? What on earth was that shade doing at the foot of the lighthouse? Intrigued, she began to concentrate on the area and it was not until another hour had slipped away that the pangs of hunger caused her to pause once more. It must be past one o'clock, and that was odd, for she had expected Sir Brian to come and see how much progress she had made, and the Reverend Mr. Aymer invariably dropped in to chat with her before noon. With guests to be entertained Gordon must be busy. He would come as soon as he could slip away, if only for a moment, but— Troubled, she glanced to the door, and as always her pulses quickened at the sight of him.

He stood watching her, and her initial joy gave way to alarm. She ran quickly down the steps. "Oh, my dear! Whatever is it?"

He stared at the hand she extended, and backed away uneasily. The glance he slanted at her was guilt-ridden. He said with uncharacteristic diffidence, "I wish I knew. My father tells me that my—er, conduct last evening was little short of disgraceful. I've a vague recollection of visiting you at your cottage, though if I did indeed, it must have been very late."

Ruth felt cold suddenly. "Yes. Of course you came."

A tremblingly embarrassed smile, and he asked, "Do I owe you an apology, ma'am? I must own I was—very drunk."

'Very…
drunk
… ?' Fear was smothering her happiness. But she was mistaking his meaning—that was all. He
could
not be saying what he seemed to be saying. Surely, he had not been "very drunk" when he had crushed her to him and kissed her with such dear passion? Surely he had not been "very drunk" when he had stammered his way through his enquiry as to whether she might have "the least interest in a rather dull dog of a fellow." Clinging to hope, her voice trembled when she said, "It does not offend a lady to know she is loved."

He groaned and threw a hand over his eyes. "Oh—egad! Then my conduct was
indeed
disgraceful! I beg you will accept my most humble apology. Lady de Brette and I set the date for our wedding last evening, and—and I collect I was—ah, celebrating too unrestrainedly. 'Tis unforgivable, I own, but—I
do
ask your forgiveness for—whatever nonsense I may have uttered."

He had half-turned from her during this disgraceful admission, and stood with his head downbent. Gazing at his dejected figure, those awful words seemed to echo and reecho in Ruth's mind. "… Set the date for our wedding… Whatever nonsense… nonsense…" Her thoughts would not seem to move past the terrible fact of his duplicity. He had implied that he loved her. He had kissed her, and all but declared himself. She thought achingly, 'All but…' And it was true that with his white face and those dark smudges under his eyes, he looked quite ill. Johnny, the dearest and best of brothers, had sometimes looked like this after a riotous evening with his friends. Was that all last night had meant? Nothing more than that strong spirits had weakened his resolve and caused him to say the things he had for so long fought against saying? Despairing, she could see again the tender light in his eyes, hear the husky voice declaring that he often stood gazing up at her window "like any moonstruck halfling."

She said slowly, "No, Gordon. You do not have my forgiveness."

His head came up. He turned to her with a wary look.

She went on, "There is nothing to forgive. Why you would try to have me despise you, I cannot know. But you will not succeed. You were not, as my brother would have said, 'above par' when you came to me last night." He started to speak, but she went on, "Oh, you may well have taken too much wine later, but that does not change what you said then. And it will not change… my heart."

For a moment he stood very straight and still, his eyes fixed on her face. Then he said harshly, "Nor will it change the fact that I am to be married next month. I'll not deny I am attracted to you. I seldom drink to excess and when I do so, brandy has a way of making all my problems appear of small account." His smile mirthless, he added, "An unfortunate illusion because with the dawn comes the light of reason, and reason says that I cannot draw back from my betrothal without scandal and dishonour. Even were I willing to tread that path, my father would never approve my union with a lady who—forgive if I am blunt—who seems to find it difficult to refrain from telling falsehoods."

It was as if she had been struck and she could not at once respond.

He went on deliberately, "I must admit I was shocked by your callous disregard of the feelings of your major." His eyes narrowed. "Or is he another of your fabrications?"

Ruth found that her lips were trembling. She whispered, "Yes."

"I see. I rather suspected it. May I know why he was created?"

Shrinking from the contempt in his voice, she answered, "You thought I had set my cap for Sir Brian."

He nodded slowly. "Yes. Well, I must tell you that my father desires that you finish your work by the end of the month, if possible. If not, he will—he will find another artist."

So she was to be turned off, after all. And only last night when she had asked if she was to be sent packing, he had said "God forbid! I could not bear it!" She felt as if she was drowning in tears, but managed with an effort to say that she quite understood.

Chandler grunted and stalked away, remarking over his shoulder that it would be better for all concerned if they did not meet again. At the door he glanced back. "So I will say good-bye, Mrs. Ruth. And—wish you well."

He did not wait for her response, but walked outside, not seeing the bending treetops and flying clouds; not feeling the buffets of the wind or the occasional flurries of rain. He felt nothing but the crushing weight of his despair, and saw only a slight young lady with a white anguished face and great eyes that glittered with unshed tears.