Had We Never Loved (39 page)

“And so,” he said, “after Tio and Morris left, and I felt a—er, bit more the thing, we went off looking for some Owlers. Amy—I mean, Miss Consett, and Falcon, and I. By Jove, sir,” he interrupted himself, swinging around to smile at his stepfather, his face still aglow with the relief that marked them all, “that Falcon's a peculiar sort of fellow, do you not think?”

Bowers-Malden stood with his back to the hearth, still finding it hard to credit that they were all here, safe and unharmed in their own home, when by rights they should be on a journey to the executioner. He shrugged. “He's a splendid-looking man, but one can scarce expect a half-breed to behave as a proper British gentleman should.”

From the deep chair a little removed from the others, the viscount said quietly, “He grudged each moment spent in helping us, I grant you. But he helped just the same. I doubt we could have managed without him.”

There was a brief and rather awkward pause. After the departure of Burton Farrier and his military escort, their overwrought nerves had reacted in an emotional outpouring of joy and shared embraces. The countess, openly weeping, had demanded quiet while she offered up a fervent prayer of gratitude. Not one of them had been able to restrain tears. During the subsequent confusion Amy had slipped away, and Glendenning had retreated more and more into the background. He had not spoken for some time, and his words seemed to hang against the silence.

Templeby said hurriedly, “Oh, yes, indeed. I didn't mean to sound ungrateful. Lord knows, I bless you all for what you've done for me.”

Marguerite, her chair close beside the earl's, asked, “Where is Mr. Falcon? I wish he had come in so we could have properly thanked him.”

“I doubt he'd have allowed you to do so,” replied her brother. “He cannot abide the niceties of polite behaviour, and would likely cut you off, saying it was a dead bore and that he should never have allowed himself to become involved with such a set of silly gudgeons. At all events, he no sooner discovered that I was able to be up and about, than he went rushing off after Tio and Morris.”

Glendenning's head had been nodding, but at this he jerked awake and asked sharply, “Falcon went to Dover?”

“Yes. Said he had to see you didn't fall into a muddle, because you must second him in a duel. Do they really mean to fight?”

“They say they do.” Glendenning frowned. “Certainly Jamie Morris is in no case to fight anyone for a while. If Falcon does come up with him, he'll be fairly gnashing his teeth to find he must wait again.”

The earl said testily, “Never mind about Falcon. Go on, Michael. What's all this about Owlers?”

“Well, sir, it seems Miss Amy thought her uncle might have taken refuge with them when he got away from the varmints who were chasing him. So she persuaded us to go in search of them, and a dashed murky business it was, I can tell you! Creeping into forest hideaways, and caves and the like at dead of night. And when we did come up with them, be dashed if ever I saw such a set of rum customers.” He laughed. “In more ways than one!”

“Perhaps they were, Mr. Templeby. But we found Uncle Absalom, just the same, didn't we?”

The viscount shook off weariness and was on his feet at once, and the other gentlemen stood as Amy came into the room. She had discarded her borrowed finery, and brushed the powder from her hair, and the cherry dress emphasized her dark beauty. She seemed, thought the earl, as he had thought once before, to bring sunshine into the room with her. His eyes flashed to his son.

The adoration on Glendenning's face was very obvious and, returning his gaze, Amy blushed betrayingly. She turned away, beckoning to the man who hesitated in the hall. “Come on, Uncle Ab.”

Absalom sidled in. He looked fierce and belligerent, but his steps were halting, and there was about him the air of one who is poised for instant flight.

Glendenning limped forward. “So it
was
you, Ab!” Seizing the older man's hand, he wrung it heartily. “You saved my life—my family! How may I ever thank you?”

The countess and Marguerite hurried to add their own praise and thanks. Absalom tried in vain to retreat. Glendenning gripped his arm. “No. I will not let you run away. You must stay to be properly—”

“I done it for my Amy,” declared Absalom, trying to hide behind Glendenning as the earl also bore down on him. “Ain't no need fer ye all to go making a whale out of a minnow! I'll tell ye straight out, I got no love for you Quality lot! England would be a sight better off if ye was all—”

“You done it, Ab,” inserted Amy quickly. “That's what counts.”

“And 'twas a masterly piece of work,” said the earl, coming forward again, having halted momentarily in the face of Consett's odd behaviour. “Do me the honour of shaking my hand, sir!”

“We-ell,” muttered Absalom. “If that's the way of it…” He thrust out a hand, then gave a squawk as the countess suddenly swooped to press a kiss on his tanned cheek. “Don't ye
never
 … do that!” he gasped, looking ready to faint.

“You dear, wonderful man,” she said earnestly. “Without your great talent, my dear son would be under sentence of death at this very moment.”

“As would we all,” grunted the earl.

They closed in around Consett, full of questions and admiration, plying him with brandy and cakes until he was quite surrounded and beginning to find this not quite so unpleasant as he'd supposed.

The viscount led Amy to a far windowseat. “Beloved,” he murmured, pressing a kiss on her hand. “Oh, my dear! I thought I would never see your adorable face again.”

“And look as if you can scarcely see it now, darling lordship.” She touched his cheek, quick to have heard the break in his voice, and to see that his red-rimmed eyes were glittering suspiciously. “My poor love, you're proper knocked up. I 'spect ye've had no sleep, and you're limping again. Is it that ankle?”

“The late Major Trethaway—er, leaned on it a trifle. With his boot.”

“What?”
The earl had wandered to them. “That filthy swine kicked you? The devil you say! You gave as good as you got, I hope?”

A rueful smile crept into Glendenning's eyes. “I'd been clubbed, and was down, and tied to a tree at the time, sir.”

“By the lord Harry! What an unmitigated scoundrel he must have been! I wish to heaven I'd had the chance to take my horsewhip to him!”

Glendenning had so hoped for a quiet word with his love. Stifling a sigh, he murmured, “He won't be kicking anyone else, sir.”

The earl nodded. “Fellow drowned, you said? Now I want to hear about that, Horatio, among other things! And as for you, young lady, there's a deal I want to know about you and your—er, uncle. How in the world you smuggled him in here, for instance. And how he was able to copy that accursed pin in such a short space, and—”

“And that he is a masterly chess player, melord?” said Amy pertly.

The earl caught his breath, and his eyes lit up. “Begad! You don't mean it? Then we shall not let him escape! Hey! Consett…!” With an imperative gesture he returned to the chattering group by the fireplace.

Amy chuckled, and turned to her love. “There. Now we can—” The words died away. Fatigue had at last overmastered Glendenning. He sagged against the window, fast asleep. Watching him, Amy was seized by a deep tenderness. With one fingertip, she touched the haggard cheek, the black shadows under his closed eyes, the weary, drooping mouth. “Poor lordship. Ye've paid the price, my dearie.”

His eyes half opened, then closed again.

She bent and kissed his brow gently, and whispered, “And so have I…”

*   *   *

Leaning back against the pillows, Glendenning stirred sugar into his coffee. He had been so soundly asleep yesterday evening that they'd had to half carry him to his bed. He'd slept the clock around, awakening to find his bedchamber bright with late afternoon sunlight and to find also that he was ravenously hungry for breakfast. He had been finishing that breakfast, and lost in contemplation of the nightmare that had so nearly ended in tragedy, when August Falcon had strolled in, drawn up a chair, and demanded to be informed of developments. He had refused refreshments, but in the course of Glendenning's account had made several forays into the covered dishes the footman had left on the bedside table.

“Then you've no doubt it was all contrived by our nefarious League,” he said when Glendenning was giving a brief description of having come upon Trethaway atop the cliffs.

“No possible doubt.” The viscount paused, and said gravely, “Trethaway had printed
châtiment un
on that damned rock.”

“Had he, by Jupiter!” Falcon appropriated another slice of bacon, then leaned back and settled his booted feet on the bed once more. “Charming fellow, your friend Trethaway.”

“Mmm,” said Glendenning thoughtfully. “At least, I think 'twas Trethaway. Though it might, I suppose, have been the Lillibulero fellow.”

The bacon arrested in midair, Falcon looked up. “The—what?”

“No. The who. And why on earth you refuse to let me order you another tray, instead of—”

“You may order trays to your heart's content. I, however, not being hungry, shall not eat whatever they may hold.” Falcon popped the bacon into his mouth and wiped his fingers on the sheet. “Meanwhile, pray enlarge upon your fascinating ‘who.'”

The viscount took a swallow of his coffee, edged a plate of crumpets toward Falcon, and recounted what he and Morris had overheard.

“Truly a case of being in the wrong place at the right time,” said the “not hungry” Falcon around a crumpet. “How they must yearn to have our heads. And damn near got yours! But still, they failed.” A faint grin curved his mouth. “They won't like that. D'you think we should trot to the Metropolis and advise the great man at Whitehall?”

Glendenning said dryly, “Farrier works for Underhill.”

“Well, yes. But— Good God! You never think…?”

“I think that there can be little doubt but that the League of Jewelled Men is much larger and more powerful than we'd assumed. Which being the case, they could very well have members in high places. I do not mean to criticize, my dear fellow, but you are dripping butter all over the rug.”

Falcon, who deplored untidiness, was aghast, and hurriedly used Glendenning's napkin in an attempt to rectify matters. Standing then, he said impatiently, “What a block you are! There's a general officer in Whitehall who might be implicated in some damnable scheme 'gainst England, and you pinch at me because I spill a little butter! What the deuce are we to do?”

Glendenning sighed. “I have barely escaped the ghastly fate of being directly to blame for the shameful deaths of my entire family. I have been ambushed and beaten and come within a whisker of handing my own stupid head to that wart, Farrier. I have also, God be praised, found the lady I mean to make my wife, and I long to see her. For several days—at least—I refuse to even think of the League of Jewelled Men, damn their dirty hides!”

“Hum.” Falcon sat down again. “Whereby I am, I take it,
de trop.
”

“Decidedly
de trop.
However, I am so grateful for my reprieve that I cannot quarrel with anyone today. You may finish the crumpet to which you are apparently committed, although—” He stopped, frowning.

Glancing at him, Falcon said, “You have remembered something.”

“Yes. Something the Lillibulero Man said to Trethaway. He suspected that the masterminds of the League may actually be planning something even more dastardly than whatever was their original scheme. He called them fanatics, and I'd the impression he was disturbed by what might lie ahead. Trethaway asked him if they—the rank and file members—were being played false.”

“Ominous, to say the least of't, unless it leads to dissension in the ranks. And you were unable to identify this Lillibulero Man? Either of you?”

“Morris had been knocked out of time at that point. I really thought the poor fellow was dead. Did he not tell you?”

“Lieutenant Morris was too busy chortling in his infantile fashion that you and he had ‘done the thing' whilst I'd been lollygagging about with Miss Consett.” He scowled darkly. “I'd no sooner arrived at that confounded inn than the clod was tossing his repellent homilies at me. Gad, Tio! How you can endure him is past all understanding.”

Glendenning's lips quirked, but he asked gravely, “Then you are come to arrange your meeting, is that it?”

“Eh? Oh—yes. Of course. These crumpets would be the better for some of that jam. Thank you.” Concentrating on jam and crumpet, Falcon drawled, “I'll own I was also curious to see if you'd rushed here to offer yourself up for execution.” From under his lashes, the dark eyes watched Glendenning obliquely. “As you evidently intended.”

“In which case,” the viscount evaded, “you'd have been obliged to find another second. Is Jamie well enough to fight?”

“He is so well that I must lose no time in rushing back to Town. I've no doubt he is already annoying my unfortunate sister. Besides which, an I fail to keep an eye on the Rossiter female—”

Glendenning asked with a lift of the brows, “Do you refer to Gwendolyn?”

“Is there another? Oh, Lord! Never say so!” Upon being assured there was only one Miss Rossiter, Falcon mopped his brow. “You may smile, Tio, but the wretched creature delights to cut up my peace, and fairly haunts Falcon House. I mean to tell Katrina to find a less argumentative friend! Much more of Miss Rossiter's interference, and Apollo will be useless!”

“Gwendolyn argues with Apollo?” asked Glendenning innocently.

Falcon gave him an irked look. “Our meeting is set for next Monday, though the others will have to be approached, of course. Is that convenient for you? Be very sure, if you please. Damned if I propose to suffer through another put-off.”