Had We Never Loved (37 page)

Bowers-Malden uttered a travesty of his bull-like roar, and shoved his son from him. “If you loved me you'd not have—You'd not ask—” But the boy was right. It was their only chance. One death. Or five. But God in heaven! He searched his son's eyes and found sorrow, but also unflinching resolution, and he croaked, “
Damn
you, Horatio! How
can
you expect…? How can I…?” He jerked away, tore out his handkerchief, and buried his face in it.

Glendenning drew his sleeve across his own eyes, thus leaving a streak of mud to betray him. Despite his efforts to keep his voice under control, it faltered as he said, “I am not by any stretch of the imagination a hero, sir. I'd most happily give every penny I own, every bit of my inheritance, not to—to have to pay the price of my … sins; not to have placed you in so terrible a quandary. But there is no other way. You must know, fa—er, sir, that if you do
not
denounce me, I will die as surely—only with the terrible grief of knowing I have dragged you all to the axe with me. I beg of you, spare me that shame, at least. I shall meet my Maker with enough on my conscience!”

The earl turned a stricken face, and shook his head wordlessly.

Desperate, Glendenning said, “If there was any other way, do you think I would resort to this? There
is
no other way. This is our one hope!
I
have brought this nightmare down upon us, and
I
must take the consequences. You
cannot
allow our innocent ladies to suffer. Sir—if you now hand me over—”

“Even were I—prepared to—to take such a step, that hound Farrier would claim he'd already accused you, and that I was only denouncing you now to try and save the rest of my family.”

“I expect he will say exactly that. But you are a powerful man with many influential friends, and he knows it. You can maintain that you'd never believed my guilt, but now you know the truth, and therefore disown me, and hand me over to—to the king's justice. I think they will be unable then to accuse you of shielding a traitor, nor—”

His words were cut off as the case clock chimed the half-hour.

It was like the knell of doom.

For an instant the two men stood mute and stricken, gazing at each other.

The misery in his father's eyes wrung Glendenning's heart. He said, “Sir, you will have to be very fierce and outraged. You doubtless already loathe and—and despise me, but if—by some miracle—you still have some vestige of affection for me, you must not allow Hilary to suspect it. One thing in our favour is that he knows I have always been so in awe of you.”

Bowers-Malden jerked his head away.

The time was racing, and they must do this before Farrier arrived, or they were lost! Glendenning urged, “Think, sir, of all the times I've disappointed you; told you what were half-truths, at best. Think of the time I've spent studying architecture, when you would so much have preferred that I take my seat in the House, and interest myself in politics; of how often I've stayed away for months, when Mama had—hoped—” His voice shredded. He thought, agonized, ‘Oh, God! If I could but have that time back! If only I'd come home more often, and—'

Through his despair and remorse, he heard running footsteps. The door burst open. Darrow, looking terrified, gasped, “My lord! M-Major Broadbent, and a troop!”

Bowers-Malden said hoarsely, “Show the major into the morning room, if you please.”

The door closed.

Glendenning's bones seemed to be melting. He crossed to the sideboard, but when he tried to pour the brandy it splashed until the earl's hand came to take the decanter from him. Bowers-Malden poured two glasses. Offering one to his son, he growled, “Drink it down. You need it.”

Glendenning obeyed. False courage, but it gave him strength. He returned the glass to the silver tray. ‘Don't let him see what a coward you are!' he told himself. ‘Give the poor old fellow a small vestige of pride in you!' He managed somehow to smile. God, but he was cold. So cold. Fear was an awful thing. He'd not been afraid on the battlefield, but now … “I'd best go and tidy up, sir. Can't have old Hilary thinking I've galloped here to—”

“To sacrifice yourself?”

Glendenning blinked, and bit his lip. He put out his hand tentatively. “Sir—would you please … could you, d'you think, bear to shake my hand, before…?”

“Fiend seize you!” Bowers-Malden's eyes glittered with tears. “I'd like to—murder you!” His arms went out, and crushed his son to him. He said a choking, “Horatio…! Oh, my dear boy … God bless you!”

Glendenning gulped, “Papa. I've always … I hope you know how much I—”

Another minute and he'd weep like a woman. He wrenched away, strode as rapidly as he was able to the back stairs, and climbed for the last time towards his suite.

In the room he had left, the Earl of Bowers-Malden turned a ravaged face from the open door and stared down at the glass in his hand. He lifted it to his lips—not to drink, but to kiss the glass. Then, with ineffable sadness, he hurled it to shatter in the hearth.

He felt very weary now; drained, and tired, and old.

And it would not do!

He wiped his handkerchief across his eyes, then drew a deep breath. Squaring his shoulders, he walked into the hall to find young Hilary Broadbent.

And to condemn his son and heir to the slow torment of a traitor's death.

*   *   *

The morning room was a pleasant and airy apartment, being blessed with many long windows that overlooked the ornamental water. On the light blue walls were hung fine paintings, all gently pastoral, and several pieces of Monsieur Pelletier's gilded Louis XIV furniture added grace to their charming setting. It was a room to lift the spirits and chase away gloom, yet when Bowers-Malden entered on this grey and stormy day, he had the distinct impression he had stepped into Bedlam.

Hilary Broadbent, dashing in military scarlet, was chattering gaily with a flushed and unusually vivacious Marguerite, and Michael—whom Horatio had evidently failed to keep away—was attempting to engage Corporal Willhays in conversation. Willhays, a shy young man for whom Broadbent entertained high hopes, looked uncomfortable and not a little bewildered; emotions the earl shared.

They were unaware of his arrival and, for one brief moment he stood in the doorway, watching them. Templeby looked wan, but not much the worse for whatever injury he had suffered. Likely the boy knew of the impending tragedy, though he was talking brightly enough. Incomprehensibly, Marguerite fairly sparkled. Small wonder Broadbent appeared entranced. The young major had been a frequent visitor of late. If Lady Nola was right in believing that he cherished a
tendre
for Marguerite, he would soon face a most difficult moment.

It was a moment he himself dare no longer delay.

Clenching his hands until the nails bit into his palms, the earl cleared his throat. Usually, that resonant sound silenced a room in a wink. On this nightmare afternoon, the effect was less dramatic. Broadbent's head turned at once, and he stood straighter, smiling at the earl over Marguerite's shoulder. Corporal Willhays came to attention and looked even more uncomfortable. To his lordship's astonishment, however, neither Templeby nor Marguerite appeared to have heard him, and both went on talking animatedly.

He walked into the room, and cut through the flow with a harsh, “Good afternoon, Broadbent.”

“At your service, my lord,” said the major, with a crisp military bow.

“Papa!” All smiles, Marguerite ran to slip her arm through his. “I have just been telling Major Broadbent that he must be sure to come to us for the boat races next month. If his military duties will permit, of course. 'Twould be so nice if he could persuade his mama to come also, do you not think, sir?” And without pausing to allow her astonished stepfather to comment, she rushed on with unprecedented loquacity, “You and my mother are well acquainted with Lady Broadbent, and I am sure Mama would like it of all things. Do you not agree, Michael?”

“No doubt,” the earl interposed, wondering how she could possibly chatter so foolishly under these terrible circumstances. “But I have urgent—”

“With what am I to agree?” Templeby turned from his conversation with the sergeant to direct a tolerant smile at his sister. “Some feminine nonsensicality, I'll wager, eh Margo? You have sisters, Broadbent. Are you also bedevilled with constant demands to take 'em to balls and routs and all manner of entertainments? I vow that last month alone…” And he went on in this vein, listing the numerous events to which he had been required to escort his sister, many of which his mystified stepfather knew very well Marguerite had not attended, and several of whose existence he had not even been aware.

“You are ill-used, I dare swear,” he said, breaking into this surfeit of verbiage. “But I must require you to—”

“No, no, dearest Papa,” trilled Marguerite, squeezing his arm and interrupting with a rudeness she had never before shown him, or anyone else. “I protest I cannot permit my brother to so unjustly defame—”

“Enough!” It had been borne in upon the earl that all this chit-chat was a deliberate attempt to circumvent his purpose. They must then be aware of his purpose, poor children, and Lord knows, he could not blame them for seeking to divert him. Indeed, nothing would give him more pleasure than to abandon his heartbreaking mission. But the clock was ticking remorselessly. At any instant that repellent spy Burton Farrier would arrive, in which case Horatio's dear life would be sacrificed to no purpose. Not dreaming how distraught he looked, he barked, “Leave us, if you please. I have something to say to Major Broadbent that—”

Marguerite's face crumpled. “Oh, now you are cross,” she wailed, and throwing herself into his arms, sobbing, hissed into his ear, “Do not! There is still hope! Do not!”

Still hope? The earl glanced at the clock on the mantelpiece. It wanted ten minutes to five o'clock. By Jupiter, but there was not still hope! Nor very much time left! His attempt to detach his stepdaughter became quite a struggle, and he had to use more strength than he would have liked to escape her clinging arms.

Templeby said sharply, “Papa, she meant no harm. I wish you will not—”

“Be still!” snapped the earl. “I know what you both are about, and you shall not stop me. Broadbent!”

The major's comely face had become increasingly troubled. For some time he had held a deep and secret admiration for the lovely Miss Templeby. He also had reason to be suspicious of her stepbrother's political allegiance, and had prayed that if the blow should fall, he might be far away at the time. When the message had reached him at the barracks, he'd entertained the deepest misgivings, which had been lulled by the apparent light-heartedness of the Templebys. Now, the earl's obvious distress, Miss Templeby's sudden deathly pallor, and her brother's strained expression, awoke his earlier unease. Above all else, however, he was a soldier, and he put his own feelings aside.

His face stern, he stepped forward. “Yes, my lord? I believe you sent word that you had something of gravest import to convey to me…”

*   *   *

With a strange sense of discovery, Glendenning looked about him as he came down the main staircase. He had always scorned this house, his love of architecture inevitably causing him to deplore the lack of graceful lines and the sheer immensity of the old pile; the expense necessary to maintain it properly; the inefficiency of its floor plan; the impossibility of keeping it adequately heated in winter; the miles of walking required of the servants to deliver food from the kitchens to the various dining rooms. Only now, when it was so soon to vanish from his ken, did he realize how much a part of his life it was. His hand on the rail was a caress; his eyes lingered wistfully on the bishop's chair at the foot of the stairs that never had stood quite straight since he'd hurtled into it, aged seven, having achieved a truly magnificent rate of speed while sliding down the banister.

He turned towards the withdrawing room, trying to walk steadily, though fear made his knees weak and shaky. So many dear memories rushed to meet him that he began to think he must be a very stupid man never to have properly appreciated them. There was the painting their ball had sent crashing down one rainy afternoon when—against all regulations—he'd been teaching Michael how to play cricket in the great hall. Here was the portrait of Ephraim Laindon who, at the tender age of fourteen, had sailed with Drake against the might of the Spanish Armada, and gone on to win fame and fortune for his naval exploits. Lady Nola had used to guide him along the various portraits of his forbears, and tell him glowing tales of their achievements. He shrank from the realization that his own portrait would never serve as an inspiration to youthful Laindons in years to—

Horses!
Many horses on the drivepath!

He rushed to the nearest window. A coach was drawing up at the foot of the steps, preceded by two dragoons, another riding on each side, and with two more bringing up the rear. The door was swung open, the steps let down, and Burton Farrier climbed out.

Glendenning leaned there, one hand against the wall. In a few minutes he would be marched out to that coach, his hands tied behind him with the traditional silken cord, en route to the Tower. He must not think beyond that. He must get to the withdrawing room before his courage failed him. By now, Papa would have denounced him to poor Hilary Broadbent, who would then become yet another victim. He took his hand down. The palm was wet, and he could feel the cold sweat of terror beading on his temples. Despising his cowardice, he walked on, his thoughts turning to his beloved. He would never see that darling, valiant soul again, for God send she would not come to see him publicly mutilated and decapitated.