Ask Me No Questions

by Patricia Veryan

  Sir Brian ruffled his curls and winked at Ruth. "Most decidedly out at the farm."

  He went over and shook hands with Falcon and Morris. "I am all too aware of how much I owe you, gentlemen. We have had a very narrow escape, and your part in it will never be forgotten. I hope you will make Lac Brillant your home whenever you feel inclined for a change of air."

  Morris turned brick red and mumbled incoherently.

  Falcon bowed, but said nothing.

  Hercules followed the twins, then darted to the bed and sprang to lie at the god's feet.

  Sir Brian turned back. "I'm damned proud of you, Gordie. But you've twice put the fear of God into me! Please do not become overtired. I doubt I could stand another fright."

  A faint tinge of colour brightened Chandler's wan face. He smiled speechlessly. Sir Brian nodded and closed the door.

  "Phew!" gasped Morris, then recoiled as Ruth ran to hug him.

  "Thank you! Thank you! You have been so good." Amused by his shy blush, she stepped back. "There. I have done embarrassing you. But when you see Miss Rossiter, will you please tell her we shall visit her just as soon as we return to London?"

  Chandler said, "Oh, we'll see Miss Rossiter before that, I fancy."

  Ruth turned and looked at him wonderingly.

  Falcon said, "Do not interrupt, Chandler. 'Tis my turn."

  With a little gurgle of laughter Ruth gave him his hug, but he pressed a kiss upon her cheek. "I'm quite safe," he declared airily. "He's too levelled to attack me."

  "Do not be too sanguine on that point," argued Chandler. "Keasden says my collarbone is cracked, not broken, and I'll be able to deal with you in jig time."

  "Do not get his hopes too high," warned Morris. "The silly fellow will be arranging a meeting!"

  "Speaking of which," said Falcon, "we've a meeting to arrange in Town. I hope!" He nodded meaningfully to Chandler, and followed Morris.

  Ruth went back to the side of the bed. Chandler reached out, and she put her cool hand into his warm one. "I thought as much," she said. "You have done entirely too much chattering, sir, and—"

  He tugged imperiously, and she sat down. "No, Gordon— really you must rest."

  "What I must do is know about that ship. Is she safe?"

  "Oh, yes. Entirely thanks to you, my dear. And now, go to sleep!"

  "No," he said drowsily. And slept.

  The afternoon was mild, but the windows were closed, and it was very quiet in Chandler's private parlour, each of those assembled there seemingly lost in contemplation.

  Sir Owen Furlong, a tall man in the early thirties, light of hair and complexion, turned his pleasant blue eyes to Chandler who, clad in shirt and breeches, shared the sofa with him. "Are you sure you're well enough to be out of bed, Gordie? Three days is awfully soon, I'd think, and that shoulder must be a deuced nuisance."

  "Thank you, but I'm quite comfortable," lied Chandler.

  Morris, wearing civilian dress, looked up from The Spectator and said with a grin, "He likely wouldn't feel it if it did trouble him, Owen. He is conscious only of a certain lovely widow."

  "Here they come!" Falcon sprang from his chair and turned to the door.

  Chandler said, "I hope they've been successful."

  Standing also, Morris remarked, " 'Hope is a good breakfast, but a bad supper.' "

  "Why in the name of sanity I put myself within earshot of your gibberish—" Falcon broke off as the door opened.

  Unannounced, Gideon Rossiter and Horatio Glendenning came in. Lord Horatio, heir to the Earl of Bowers-Malden, was a well-built, pleasant-featured young man with a smile seldom far from his green eyes. It was far from them today, and Chandler took one look at his set expression, and his heart sank. He asked, "Would you be so kind, Owen?"

  Furlong went to the side table and poured two glasses of cognac, which he carried to the new arrivals.

  Rossiter and Glendenning pulled chairs closer and sat down wearily.

  Chandler said, "I take it you were unable to see the King."

  Lord Horatio Glendenning nodded his auburn head. "Our audience was cancelled," he said. "No explanation given. My sire's influence will carry us only so far, I'm afraid."

  Rossiter stretched out his long legs, and sighed. "We were blocked at every turn. Couldn't get near Horace Walpole, either. The best we could manage was to see Lord Anson, which—"

  "Admiral Lord Anson?' Furlong said hopefully, "He's a jolly good man and with his naval background must have been impressed by our conclusions, eh, Tio?"

  Glendenning gave a derogatory grunt, and took another mouthful of cognac.

  "He'd been given a dossier on all of us," said Rossiter. "My father's questionable business dealings; Tio's suspected Jacobite associations; a charge of wrecking that was not entirely disproved by the Chandlers, plus their unfortunate association with Johnny Armitage's sister! Egad! We're a disreputable crew! I wonder we were not clapped up on the spot!"

  "Not—entirely—disproved?" sputtered Chandler. "Had it not been for the efforts of this 'disreputable crew' that ship would be on the bottom today!"

  Glendenning shrugged. "So we tried to tell him. Much good it did."

  "I am not permitted Anson's acquaintance, but I think he is no fool," said Falcon. "Were you able to at least tell him of our suspicions?"

  "We tried." Rossiter looked glum. "Between us, we jawed the old boy's ear off for half an hour."

  "He just stared at us," said Glendenning. "Then, he asked if we realized how little proof we had of our allegations, and how reprehensible it is to suppose that fine gentlemen such as the Earl of Collington, Rudolph Bracksby, or General Underbill would be involved in some kind of treasonable plotting."

  Falcon murmured, "I am striving not to say 'I told you so.' Did you see fit to mention dear Terrier Farrier's part in all this?"

  "We mentioned it." Rossiter said with disgust, "Farrier is still held in high regard. Which is more than we are!"

  "They've nothing 'gainst me. Or Furlong," said Morris. "Perhaps we should—"

  "Oh, have they not!" Glendenning said, "Furlong is believed to have aided and abetted Kit Aynsworth when he helped his Jacobite brother-in-law get clear of the dragoons. And as for you, Jamie, you associate with the rest of us unsavoury individuals. Tarred with the same brush, old fellow."

  "In which case I am the only one of unimpeachable reputation amongst you all," said Falcon, amused. "How droll. There is something to be said for neither aiding, abetting, nor crying friends with any man."

  Morris said, "You don't have time. Too busy shooting people."

  Rossiter interposed angrily, "Have done, for God's sake! This is no time for petty squabbles."

  "What is it time for?" demanded Falcon, at once bristling. "We do little more than defend our own. We should carry the fight to the Squire and his merry band of bastards!

  At least," he added hastily, " 'tis what I would do, had I any real interest in the business."

  Morris opened his mouth, caught Rossiter's eye, and shut it again.

  Chandler said curtly, "Fish, or cut line, Falcon!"

  Falcon's lips drooped disdainfully. "By all means, since you require my superior understanding."

  Rossiter clapped a hand over Morris' mouth.

  Affecting not to notice, Falcon went on, "We know that the League of Jewelled Men has six members, of whom the leader is called the Squire. We know that the Earl of Collington was—perhaps still is—a member; that Rudolph Bracksby is very probably a member; and this fellow Poinier is either a member of the League or one of their agents. We can say with a fair degree of certainty that both General Underhill and his man Farrier are in the plot. And—I think we may have come across another member."

  They all sat straighter.

  Glendenning said eagerly, "Jove! Have I missed something?"

  "It has always seemed odd to me," drawled Falcon, "that. I should have been inveigled into foisting Jonathan Armitage's sister onto the Chandlers."

 
"What the devil do you mean by that?" demanded Chandler, flushing angrily.

  Morris argued, "You did nothing, August. I writ the letter. Not you."

  "You writ it in my name." Falcon ignored Chandler, who had come to his feet and was glaring down at him. "At the instigation of a lady who has never been known to lift a finger for anyone, much less for a scandalous widow she scarce knows. Ross, will you control this maniac? I can't hit him with his arm in a sling!"

  "Hold up, Gordie," said Rossiter, his voice sharp. "Falcon has a point. Mrs. Allington is a delight, but you must own her brother's supposed connection with wreckers."

  Chandler scowled, but lowered himself cautiously to the sofa again. "Do you say it was a deliberate scheme to bring more suspicion down upon us?"

  "Damme, if I hadn't forgot it!" interrupted Morris excitedly. "When Falcon spotted that block Poinier in Town, he was at Lady Buttershaw's house!"

  Furlong's jaw dropped, then he put back his handsome head and gave a shout of laughter. "Clara Buttershaw? Oh, you jest! She's one of the most odious females I ever met, but— Come, you're not serious?"

  Equally astonished, Glendenning said, "A woman? A member of that murderous league?"

  Falcon said, "A woman may be just as murderous as any man. Consider Lucretia Borgia, or Delilah, or Lady Macbeth—"

  " 'Off with his head!' " quoted Morris ghoulishly.

  "That's Richard III, not Macbeth, you dolt," sneered Falcon. "Do you never get anything right?"

  "I think you may have got something right," said Chandler. "Ruth told me that Lady Buttershaw raged at her when first they met in the park, but that she became quite pleasant when she discovered Ruth's identity."

  "Do you know," said Morris with a thoughtful frown, "it struck me at the time that Lady Buttershaw made no least attempt to avoid Jacob—or Thorpe, whichever one it was— when the child ran into her. Might it have been a plot from the beginning, and the collision a means to scrape up an acquaintance?"

  "If so, they weave their webs far in advance," muttered Chandler.

  "Farther back than that incident, I think," said Rossiter. "Did you not say, Gordie, that your brother's dragon ring is what drew you to the lighthouse that night?"

  "I thought it was his, yes. But as it turns out, it was too small. More the size for a lady's hand. In all the uproar of the storm, I failed to notice that fact, unfortunately."

  "Dragon ring…" Falcon rubbed his quizzing glass on the bridge of his nose. "Wasn't there some business in the newspapers a month or so ago about a dragon ring?"

  Rossiter said, "Exactly so. A ring of just such description was among the objects stolen during a robbery at Boudreaux House. A servant girl was murdered."

  They all stared at him.

  "Good Lord," exclaimed Chandler. "They don't draw the line at much, do they?"

  "Nothing, I'd say," muttered Furlong. "And we still don't know what the curst varmints are about."

  Rossiter said, "When you saw them over the wall at Larchwoods, Gordie, you said they seemed to be playing charades. Was it a military-type game?"

  Chandler started to shake his head and thought better of it. "More as if they were reciting, and being instructed on how to stand and gesture; as if they rehearsed a play perhaps."

  After a silent moment, Glendenning said, "Could that be it? Might they plan a large entertainment to which many prominent gentlemen are invited, and then—another Guy Fawkes gunpowder plot?"

  "If that is so," said Morris, "how does the shipping business come into it? And why do they gather up all these fine estates?"

  Falcon stood and began to wander about. "Perhaps they wreck the ships to gain funds to finance their schemes. And the estates are used to store their stolen cargoes."

  "But the estates aren't all near the coast," Rossiter pointed out. "Damme! I wish we might have questioned the Terrier! He knows the answers, I'll warrant!"

  "He'd be a hard man to break," said Furlong. "And has not sufficient love for us to volunteer the information."

  "Love for us?" Chandler gave a derisive snort. "His object appears to be punishment. Did I tell you he'd chalked up a message on the wall of the tower? Châtiment deux!"

  The others exchanged grim looks.

  Morris said, "Your personal billet doux from the Squire. Tio got the first chastisement. Well, if nothing else, we've frustrated their schemes for revenge."

  "Thus far we have," qualified Rossiter. "Certainly,

  Gordie's message confirms the fact that the League was at work here. And that they wanted Lac Brillant."

  "An arrogant lot," muttered Falcon. "One cannot but wonder who they've selected for Châtiment trois."

  Rossiter said bracingly, "Perchance we can administer the next châtiment. We learn a little more with each encounter. Now we can add Lady Buttershaw to our list. With luck, next time we shall carry the fight to their borders."

  Morris sprang up and raised his glass. 'To Lady Luck!"

  They all stood and drank the toast with enthusiasm. Even the "disinterested" August Falcon.

  Ruth entered the room very quietly. Gordon had put his head back against the sofa and appeared to be sleeping. She crept closer, scanning his face anxiously. Without opening his eyes, he reached out suddenly and caught her hand.

  She said gently, "You are very naughty to have got up. You look properly worn out and must go back to bed before Doctor Keasden conies."

  He smiled up at her, then an awed expression came into his eyes.

  She wore the gown he had bought for her. The great skirts were a swirl of blue silk, the stomacher laced over the snowy bodice of the chemise and the full white sleeves frilled and embroidered with blue. Her hair was swept up and dressed in ringlets that shone pale gold. He thought her angelically lovely and thought also that he was glad August Falcon had never seen her like this. For a moment he could not command his voice, but his eyes were eloquent and Ruth blushed.

  Recovering his wits, he tugged at her hand until she relented and sat beside him.

  "So at last I am to be humoured, eh?"

  She said demurely, "I cannot think what you mean, Mr. Gordon."

  "You can, indeed. That is how you should wear your hair!"

  The dimple peeped bewitchingly beside her mouth. " 'Tis quite out of the present style and must be cut, sir."

  "The devil with the present style! I'll strangle any barber who dares take a pair of scissors to it!"

  She put her hand over his lips. "Hush. You are supposed to be quiet and if you leap about so, you will wrench your shoulder."

  He reclaimed her hand and with a great effort refrained from kissing it. "I think," he said airily, "I've not seen that gown before. Have I?"

  "You know very well you've not. 'Tis the one you gave me."

  "Oh? Well, it looks—er, very nice. But will not help my concentration, I fear."

  "Is that what you were doing? I thought you were asleep."

  "No. Just trying to put it all together."

  "Did you?"

  "Not all. 'Tis the most foolish thing, I know, but I cannot quite seem to recall what happened when my father came to the tower. I think Nathaniel was with him—no?"

  "Yes. And, oh Gordie, Mr. Aymer was wonderful! He became quite another person. Very brisk and authoritative, and worked like a Trojan, though he must certainly have realized he would have been arrested had the troopers come."

  "I must thank him. Has he remained so assertive?"

  "No. The next morning he was as quietly pious as ever. Still, I think he thoroughly enjoyed his moment of peril. And I admire him for it."

  "Well do not be admiring him too much!"

  She gave him an arch look. "Why?"

  "You are in no state to be coy, madam. You have still to account for another fib. Twin nephews!"

  Her smile rueful, she said, "And almost I lost one. Jacob told us how you threw yourself in front of him! My dear…"—she stroked the hair back from his forehead— "you saved his life."

  "A
fine reward I got!" He again recaptured her hand.

  "When I saw Thorpe hop up behind that pile of logs—gad! I wonder I did not suffer a seizure!"

  "I can only thank God you were not killed!"

  Through a silent moment two pairs of eyes met and said a great deal. Chandler pressed her hand to his lips, then asked, "What of your faithful Grace? Will she wed Tummet, do you suppose?"

  Ruth hesitated. "Not in the immediate future, I think. She is the most dreadful flirt, Gordie. But—bless her heart, is such a dear soul, and so joyful now that I've forgiven her for—for trying to save me from being thrown into Newgate."

  "Hmn. For the moment I will not comment upon your marked tendency to—er, illegal pursuits, although I'm sure you know you must pay the price." Briefly, his eyes twinkled at her, then he went on blandly, "How has my father reacted to the fact that you've insinuated two brats into his household?"

  She said gratefully, "Oh, 'tis beyond words wonderful to see him! He looks younger, and so happy, and told me only this morning that 'twas as if the years had rolled back and he had his two sons about him again!"

  "Just as I thought," he said indignantly. "Now they'll steal all his affection away, and he will likely disown Quentin and me in favour of those two rapscallions! How do you propose to rectify the matter, madam?"

  Moving carefully, so as not to jog the injured shoulder, she kissed him. It was not the gentle caress she intended, for his good arm whipped about her, and she was breathless when he allowed her to draw back. "What—what would you think I should do?" she asked hopefully.

  "Another of those would do. Just to be going along with."

  She gave him a prim look. "You were not, sir, referring to kisses."

  "Indeed? Then to what did I refer, most saucy widow?"

  She lowered her eyes, but pressed his hand to her suddenly hot cheek. "You know very well."

  "Do I?" He tried to pull her to him, only to gasp and lie back.

  "There! Your wicked advances have made you hurt yourself!" She leaned to him anxiously, whereupon of course, she was seized and kissed again.

  "I suppose," he sighed, drowsily content and with his arm still around her, "you thought my plans had to do with winning my sire's esteem by providing him with a grandchild."