Love Alters Not

by Patricia Veryan

  Vastly intrigued, Farrar interpolated, “But Green’s name is not Decimus, ma’am.”

  Beginning to be really terrified, she blurted, “Only because he does not choose to use it. Your aunt told me he prefers to be called Rafe. Oh—pray do not frighten me so!”

  “Frighten you!” sputtered Piers. “Do you realize—”

  Farrar lifted an autocratic hand. “Miss Cranford, Green’s given name is Oliver. Decimus Green is a nearby hamlet, not a man.”

  She gave a squeak of terror and clutched Peregrine’s arm.

  Appalled, Glendenning said threadily, “My fault, likely … I said ‘fair’—meaning the colouring of the man to whom you were to give it, and if I said ‘all,’ Mitten, I—I must have been trying to tell you his name.”

  “Charles Albritton?” murmured Farrar, surprised. “The clergyman?”

  “Mitten,” groaned the viscount. “You—you didn’t…?”

  Pressing clasped hands to her whitening lips, she whimpered, “Oh! My God, how can I have been such a widgeon? I tried. I really tried! But—I did, Tio! I gave the cypher to Mr. Rafe Green, and he is the most horrid man you could imagine!”

  “Holy … Christ!” groaned Glendenning, and fainted again.

  XIII

  Lady Helen was upstairs fussing over Horatio Glendenning, who had been put to bed; Peregrine was stretched out on the sofa in the bookroom, looking broodingly at his foot; and Piers stood by the fireplace, glass in hand. Dimity, who at last had felt able to beg a fichu from Lady Helen and was thus considerably more at ease, sat in the great elbow chair, sipping at a glass of cowslip wine. Despite her preoccupation with this disastrous turn of events, she was also pondering the complete inconsistency of the male animal for, although both her brothers and Glendenning had called out Farrar, at the moment they appeared to find it perfectly convenable to accept his hospitality, drink his wine, and converse upon treasonable matters in his presence.

  “What boggles me,” said Piers, fixing Dimity with a darkling look, “is how you could have seized upon those four words—Fair, All, and Decimus Green—and managed to concoct such a farradiddle!”

  “Could you not have taken one look at the varmint and seen he was no gentleman?” demanded Peregrine. “Any fellow who would train a dog to slaughter his enemy instead of coming slap up to him himself is merest scum, Mitten. Dashitall, have we taught you nothing?”

  She blushed and said miserably, “I am very, very sorry. I have made wretched work of it!”

  Farrar, who had been sitting on the reference table at the side of the pleasant room, stood, and said hotly, “No such thing! You did wonderfully well!”

  “Well?” cried Piers, rounding on him. “Lord only knows how many men have died for that damnable cypher, and what must my sister do but—”

  “Risk her life to lead the dragoons away from Tio? Come into the home of a man she has every right to—to despise, and run all manner of risks only so as to try to complete a mission so deadly few men would dare tackle it? She is a true heroine and one you should be proud of, instead of—”

  This defence won him a glowing look from Dimity, but Peregrine interpolated wrathfully, “We do not need you, Farrar, to be telling us of the value of our sister! Furthermore, you ain’t in this mess, and come to that— By the bye, are you acquainted with Glendenning?”

  Farrar said in a quieter voice, “Any time these ten years. He’s a splendid fellow.”

  “He don’t hold the same opinion of you, sir,” snapped Piers.

  Farrar reddened painfully. He drew back, and his eyes fell. “No. Well—that is only to be expected.”

  Dimity glared at her brother and with difficulty restrained an indignant comment.

  Peregrine shifted and pointed out uncomfortably, “Not very sporting, old boy. After all, we are under his roof, and we did agree to a truce, y’know.”

  His twin pursed up his lips. “So we did. Sorry, Farrar.”

  “An I may venture an observation,” said Farrar diffidently, “the most important thing now is to get the cypher back.”

  “Hah!” said Peregrine. “I wish I may see it! Your Green rascal is likely claiming the reward this very instant!”

  “If he knows he has it, in the first place,” Farrar qualified. “And if he knows what it is, in the second.” They stared at him and he went on, “I don’t mean to be interfering in your business, but—Green was at best half-conscious when Miss Cranford slipped the cypher into his pocket.”

  “But—I whispered to him what I’d done,” sighed Dimity mournfully.

  “Still, Farrar’s got a point,” argued Piers. “If Green was halfway out of time, he might not have heard you—or understood what you said.”

  Peregrine put in, “But surely his man would have found the curst thing by this time?”

  “He might,” acknowledged Farrar. “However, with all the excitement, it is not beyond the bounds of possibility that the coat was either hung up, or set aside to be cleaned, or that, even if his man went through the pockets, so small a piece of parchment as you’ve described, may have gone unnoticed.”

  “Jupiter! ’Tis a possibility!” His blue eyes brightening, Piers asked, “How can we get into the beastly place?”

  “You might be admitted,” Farrar said thoughtfully. “Green is often in his cups, and if you’re not known to him, you could claim a mutual friend. Unless—are you by chance acquainted with Roland Otton?”

  Piers scowled. “He was pointed out to me in Town once. And I’ve heard a few things. Bounty hunter, ain’t he? Well-born but a regular scoundrel, and no longer received anywhere.”

  “He is received at Rafe Green’s,” said Farrar dryly. “Seconding him tomorrow.”

  “Is he, by Jove,” said Peregrine. “Who’s seconding you?”

  Farrar hesitated. “Chandler, I hope. Does he return in time.”

  “Chandler?” echoed Piers. “Of Lac Brillant?” He exchanged an incredulous glance with his brother.

  Divining the cause of their surprise, Farrar flushed. “Yes. Well, I hope he will.”

  “Be damned!” muttered Peregrine.

  Shaking his head, Piers asked, “What if he don’t come back in time? Who else have you?”

  Farrar stared at his glass and said awkwardly, “I—er, can ask my butler, and—my doctor’s agreed to be the surgeon—he might be willing to do double duty.”

  “Good God! A fellow don’t have his butler second him in a duel,” exclaimed Peregrine, shocked.

  Piers said severely, “No, and surgeons make frightful seconds. Hate the business and don’t have a gnat’s notion of how to go on. Never met a doctor yet who knew one end of a sword from t’other. It won’t serve, Farrar!”

  Sighing, Peregrine said, “I suppose we’ll have to do it.”

  Farrar, reeling, expostulated faintly, “You cannot—second me! You’re both fighting me as soon as my affair with Green is settled.”

  “Not both at once,” Peregrine pointed out, with obscure logic.

  Piers grinned. “There you are! Not both at once!”

  Stunned, Farrar stared at them.

  “Anthony,” began Dimity, eagerly.

  “Hey!” flared Piers.

  “Oh. I mean—Sir Anthony. Piers is right! It might serve us very well!”

  His eyes caressed her. He asked gently, “In what way, ma’am?”

  “Well, Perry has been rather active in this duelling business, and I gather it is customary for seconds to meet before a duel and attempt to avert it. No?”

  A smile hovering about his mouth, he murmured, “How very clever of you, Miss Cranford.”

  Leonard came in. “Mr. Gordon Chandler.”

  Greatly relieved, Farrar went with hand outstretched to greet his friend. “Gordie, how timely is your arrival! Thank you for coming.”

  Staring in astonishment at the Cranford twins, Chandler, quietly elegant in green and gold, said, “My pleasure, old fellow. Mrs. Deene—your humble, obedient. How are you, Perry?�
��

  Peregrine reached up to shake his hand. “Splendid, thank you. Won’t get up though, Chandler. Have to put my stupid foot on again, if I do. And m’sister’s name is Miss Cranford—not Mrs. Deene.”

  Passing him, his brows lifting, Chandler bowed over Dimity’s fingers. “I’ll not pretend to understand, ma’am, but I am most pleased to find you still here.”

  “Glendenning’s here, too,” imparted Piers, in turn shaking hands, “so do not be getting overly pleased.”

  Farrar shot a quick glance at Dimity, who smiled at him demurely.

  “Your business with Treve happily concluded?” enquired Farrar, passing a glass of sherry to Chandler, and proceeding to refill the glasses of the Cranfords.

  “Concluded, but not happily,” replied Chandler, looking grim.

  “Not surprised,” said Peregrine. “Treve’s likely fretting for the same business that is giving us pepper at the moment.”

  Chandler assumed a commendably blank expression. “We shall have to chat about it.” He set his glass down. “First though, I’d best have a word with Tio. Is he about?”

  “About to expire by the look of him,” muttered Peregrine.

  “Perry!” exclaimed Dimity, distressed.

  “What, is old Tio ill then?” asked Chandler anxiously.

  “And upstairs,” nodded Farrar.

  “Tried to bounce a musket ball off his noggin,” explained Peregrine.

  “And is thus being pampered by Lady Helen,” said his brother.

  “Oh, Gad,” said Chandler, in dismay. “When was he shot?”

  “Last Saturday,” answered Piers. “You—ah, know about the cypher, I take it?”

  Chandler looked from one to the other and took the risk. “I do. Where is it?”

  “Dimity had it off Tio,” said Piers with a sigh.

  “And mislaid it,” said Peregrine.

  Chandler lost all his colour and dropped his wineglass.

  Tugging at the bell rope, Farrar said, “On a lighter note, Gordie, would you be so very good as to second me in a duel tomorrow morning?”

  Dazedly, Chandler sat down.

  * * *

  Farrar drew Poli to a halt at the top of the hill, looked out across the sultry night to the far glimmer of Fayre Hall’s windows, and reined around as the carriage lumbered up. The door was swung open, and Piers jumped out without letting down the steps and walked over to join him.

  Dismounting, Farrar said, “Cranford, this is ridiculous. Your brother won’t be able to move fast do we have to make a run for it.”

  “You tell him so,” said Piers. “If truth be told, Farrar, you’ve sufficient trouble on your hands without sticking your nose into our tangle.” He saw the immediate, almost shrinking withdrawal in the other man, so at odds with his remembered military demeanour, and appended hurriedly, “And if it comes to being fit, by what my sister tells me your arm ain’t in just perfect condition to wield a sword tomorrow.”

  “Is my left arm. And as for tonight, I wish you will persuade your twin to stay with you and Chandler.”

  “Green would not be like to believe an invalid is to second you, and you must have someone at your back. Use your brains, man! Do those hounds catch one whiff of Farrar, they’ll finish the job they started! Perry has some notion his mixture will put them off, if you insist on this chancy business.”

  Farrar said humbly, “I know the house, and Green’s room. I know which coat to seek. But—I’d not force you to accept my aid. If—if you are offended by my proximity, I will of course, stay clear.”

  There was an instant of silence. Then, Piers said gruffly, “Further, your slyness in keeping from Gordon the fact that Otton will be there, I heartily mislike. Is unfair to allow him to discover it at the last minute. Lord only knows how I shall keep him from the bastard’s throat! Zounds, but had Otton visited his atrocities upon Perry, I know how I’d react upon meeting him face to face!”

  “’Tis what I count on. There will be an uproar, to say the least of it, that will, I hope, draw attention to the front of the house while your brother and I creep in the back.”

  Piers grunted and started towards Poli. “What a murky stew this is! When I fought against Stuart, I little dreamed a year later I’d be risking my neck for his people!”

  Farrar smiled faintly. “Nor I.”

  Halting again, Piers said, “No. Well—I fancy— Ah, that is to say … Any silly fellow can let a gun carriage roll over his foot.” Farrar tensed and was silent. With a small embarrassed cough, Piers went on, “My twin and I were thinking before dinner of—of what m’sister might have—er, encountered. You’ve been pretty decent, considering the dance she led you.”

  “Thank you.”

  “Yes. And—ah, we wondered … I mean if there was any—Well, sometimes in battle, things can become— Mistakes happen. The—ah, wrong interpretations can be—er, placed on— If you thought … something of that nature…?”

  There was a brief pause, then Farrar said clearly, “Regrettably, there was no mistake. But thank you for the chance.”

  He walked to the carriage and swung up onto the box beside his coachman.

  * * *

  To lessen the risk of Farrar being recognized at the gatehouse, it had been decided he would take the guard’s place on the coach, and in order to provide him a fast escape if that became necessary, Piers rode Poli as escort. When they approached the gates Farrar pulled collar high and tricorne low, but the precautions proved unnecessary. If there was a gatekeeper he was either sleeping or elsewhere. Piers dismounted and opened the gates wide, and the carriage passed through unchallenged.

  They separated now. Piers rode into the trees and proceeded to the west side of Fayre Hall. The carriage rolled eastward at a very slow pace, stopping before it reached the front steps of the enormous mansion. Farrar swung down and assisted Peregrine to alight. The team was started up again, and the two men crept along on the off-side of the coach. Piers hissed at them from the bushes opposite the front steps, and they went to join him.

  “All clear,” he whispered breathlessly. “I tethered Poli under that acacia tree where the drive turns round to the rear of the west wing. No sign of man’s best friend.” He wrinkled his nose. “Egad, Perry, what the devil is in that jar you brought? Smells like rotten fish!”

  “Just what it is, my pippin. Had it from Farrar’s cook. Strongest smell I know, except bad eggs. Once we’re in the rear court I’ll simply sprinkle it about and, are the dogs on the prowl, they’ll never detect Farrar. You’d best make haste!”

  Piers made a dart for the carriage and scrambled inside just before the butler opened the great front door.

  Farrar led Peregrine in amongst the shrubs along the west side of the mansion and around the darkened rooms to the rear. “They seldom use this part,” he whispered. “Place is too large to keep heated, and it’s full of dry rot, besides.”

  Their plans had been based on Farrar’s knowledge that Green usually kept Town hours and that, with luck, he and his guests would now be in the dining room which faced east and was located towards the front of the ground floor. With a little more luck the rear court between the two wings would be darkened, enabling them to reach the court door unseen. When they arrived at the back of the mansion, however, they were dismayed to find that several of the east windows were lighted, throwing long bright rectangles across the court. “Damn!” muttered Farrar. “They must have dined early. That’s the book room. Keep your pistol cocked, Cranford.”

  Peregrine, who had been leaning on his arm, relinquished it, and drew a pistol from his pocket. “All ready!” he whispered. “Be off with you! And good luck!”

  Farrar trod soft-footed into the court. Below the book room windows it was quite dark. He edged nearer, dropped to his knees and started to crawl.

  Peregrine tucked the pistol under his arm and watched Farrar anxiously while unscrewing the top of his jar. He took a whiff and clapped the top on again, gasping. After a few restoring
gulps of air, he held his breath, opened the jar once more, and began to sprinkle the contents across the open end of the court.

  Farrar, meanwhile, still on hands and knees, had paused and was listening to a burst of drunken laughter followed by Phillip Ellsworth’s rich voice, blurred but understandable. “Who—Otton?” he cried, hilariously. “Lord, Rafe, that mercenary rascal’d be easy’s the deuce t’buy off. Only jingle a purse of gold, my tulip, an’ Rolan’ Otton’ll forget it if he sees you murder th’—th’ king himself!”

  “Ain’t talking ’bout murder,” argued Green, sounding offended. “Li’l slip in a duel ain’t m—murder, Phillip.”

  “Even so, ’f it don’t go quite as planned, y’might want to hire Otton to finish the job. Damned fine swordsman.”

  His grim face grimmer, Farrar yearned to stay and hear more of this fascinating conversation, but every minute counted so he crawled past the light area, then moved swiftly to the rear door. It was unlocked, but squeaked as he opened it. Holding his breath, he slipped into the long dark hall just as a wild uproar exploded at the front of the house.

  * * *

  Roland Otton was unimpressed with either Fayre Hall’s stables or its grooms. He therefore excused himself directly after dinner and slipped out to check on the well-being of his horse. Returning by way of the east hall a short while later, he heard a thunderous assault on the front door and, curious, turned his steps in that direction.

  The butler’s small procession wound its ponderous way across the gloom of the Great Hall, and the lackeys opened the doors. Two men stepped inside. The first was a tall young fellow with a lean, finely cut face and an air of breeding. Otton wandered nearer. The second man, who had been partially screened from view by the butler’s figure, was abruptly before him. The two locked glances and the result was electrifying. Two hands whipped to sword hilts, save that Otton had not carried arms this evening.

  “Otton…!” hissed Gordon Chandler, and sprang forward, his pleasant features dark with hatred, his sword leaping into his hand.

  Otton made a mad dash for the umbrella stand, tore a walking cane from it, and swung it to the guard position.