The shouting and all movement ceased.
"Thank you," said Cranford politely. "That's better. Now if you will all be so very good as to go back down the stairs…"
"But my dear boy," said Eaglund in his gentle way, "you really must try to be sensible. You can see that Miss Grainger really is here, just as her ladyship said."
"And locked in," said Cranford.
Zoe cried, "You don't know what has happened, Lord Eaglund. My brother—"
"Back!" snapped Cranford, moving forward, his arm still about Zoe's shoulders. "You waste your breath, m'dear. They're all in it."
The viscount retreated a few steps.
Straightening up, but leaning against the wall, Fowles panted, "You have only one shot… dear old Perry."
Peregrine glanced at him. "Are you willing to take it, dear old Gil?"
"Good heavens, Cousin Peregrine! Whatever are you about?" Lady Julia had hurried up unnoticed, and now stepped directly in front of him. "Put that weapon down at once!"
With an exultant shout, Fowles reached around her to snatch for the pistol.
Terrified lest he crown his career by shooting a lady, Cranford managed to wrench the weapon aside. It went off deafeningly. The recoil was agonizing; the pistol fell from his grasp and he clutched his wrist painfully.
Lady Julia rounded on Fowles and her small white hand cracked across his face. In a voice Zoe had never heard before, she hissed, "You clumsy blockhead! You might have killed me!"
Fowles muttered something, and drove a powerful right jab at Cranford that sent him to his knees.
Sight and sound blurred. He knew he was moving, but an indeterminate time later was bemused to find himself sitting on a chair in the blue ante-chamber that he remembered as being adjacent to the downstairs withdrawing room. He blinked in an effort to clear his head. The viscount was no longer among them. Lady Buttershaw was shaking Zoe, who looked tearful and very frightened. There was a livid mark on her pale face, and at the sight, rage seared through him. Starting up, he snarled, "Which of you miserable traitors dared to strike her?"
Fowles, who had been standing behind his chair, slammed him down again and Zoe half-sobbed, "Don't hurt him! Oh, pray do not!"
"The devil with that," growled Cranford, turning on Fowles furiously. "Is this the carrion who hurt you?” He looked straight into the muzzle of a pistol and said with disgust, "It takes a brave man to abuse a lady and strike an unarmed man."
"But I have wanted to strike you for so long, my dear old schoolmate. You cannot think how galling it was to hear everyone rave of your athletic prowess. Of course," Fowles purred, "those days are over for you… eh?"
Lady Julia sat on a gold sofa and said quietly, "Clara, for heaven's sake bind up his hand. ''Tis gruesome."
None too gently, Lady Buttershaw unwound the handkerchief. Cranford gritted his teeth. Unmoved, she said, " 'Tis an ugly wound, and he has brought some of our wall with him."
"Glass?" Interested, Fowles said, "No—don't remove ü, dear Lady Clara. It might prove—useful…"
Zoe gave a smothered cry, and started towards Cranford. Bracksby stretched out his arm to keep her back. She pleaded, "I beg you—let me help him."
Bracksby frowned. "Do you know, Gilbert, sometimes you really are an unpleasant creature." He turned to Zoe. "But he has a point, my dear. If you have any fondness for Perry Cranford, you would be well advised to answer her ladyship's question—now."
Cranford suspected that by this time Owen would have charged to Travis Grainger's rescue, but it would be as well not to let them suspect that. He shouted, "Zoe! They won't—"
Fowles clamped a hand over his mouth and said lightly, "Our war hero is going to tell you with proper gallantry that we mean to put a period to your brother. But that's not certain, you know. On the other hand, if you refuse to help us…" He glanced over his shoulder, "Rudi, come and hold his arm."
Distracted, Zoe cried, "How can you be so cruel? Lady Julia, I cannot believe you would—"
"Fight for an ideal?" Lady Julia said, "Ah, but I would, child. The Yervilles have always been ready to lay down their lives when this beloved land was at risk. And she is at risk now. Given away to a German prince who cares not a button for her—or all the centuries of tradition that—"
Cranford tore free from Fowles' clasp and said, "That you are ready to sell to a French despot, eh?"
Fowles' grip bit into his shoulder.
Lady Buttershaw swung up a vase and advanced on him, her face red and contorted with fury.
Fowles flung up a hand, warding her off. "What's this?"
Bracksby said, "Pay him no mind. Come now, Miss Grainger. We believe we are doing what is best for England, but we none of us like this sort of ugly business. We'd intended to wait for your brother to—"
"If there has been any dealing with France," snapped Fowles, "I'll have no—"
"Do not be so shatter-brained as to listen to Cranford!" trumpeted Lady Buttershaw. "You know very well our only arrangement with France is for munitions. Tell him, Julia."
Lady Yerville looked at her for a moment. "Can you really be such a fool?"
The vase fell from her sister's hand. Her eyes goggling, Lady Buttershaw gasped, "What did you dare to call me?"
"I called you what you are."
Lady Julia stood. The gentle invalid had vanished, replaced by a hard-eyed implacable woman.
Staring at her, stunned, Cranford had the brief sensation that nobody in the room was breathing; that they all were in a state of shock.
Still in that cold and remorseless voice, Lady Julia said, "For most of my life you have bullied and browbeaten me, Clara. It was of small importance and in your way I knew you were fond of me, so for the most part I overlooked your nonsense. I even allowed you to believe you were chosen to join the League before me, though that was far from the case."
Fowles stood as though turned to stone.
Equally immovable, Lady Buttershaw stared at her sister in utter disbelief.
"I have surprised you, I see." Lady Julia's smile was faint and chilling. "I sought for years for a way to avenge myself on the shallow and cruel society that destroyed me and the man I worshipped. You liked to believe that Percy Gatesford jilted me because I was burned. Not so. His father, aided by our ignoble monarch, forced him to throw me over!" Her pale cheeks flushed, and the big blue eyes glittered with almost maniacal hatred. "His royal majesty dared—dared to tell Percy the continuance of his line was more important… more important than his love for me…!" She took a deep breath and in a hushed silence leaned back and said in a gentle voice that was more appalling than her hissing fury, "He must pay, do you see? And in this only, Clara, I go my own way—the Squire's way—and will brook no interference from you, or—anyone!"
Cranford thought, 'We're dead in her eyes. She won't let Zoe or me live after that damning confession!' And he said, "So you mean to give England to a power-mad lunatic like—" His words were choked off as Bracksby seized the wrist of his injured hand.
"We mean to have the Agreement that was stolen," said Lady Julia, smiling at Zoe. "I really cannot wait any longer, child. Where is your brother?"
Zoe saw Cranford's face twist with pain, and it was more than she could bear. In desperation, she pleaded, "Stop! Please stop! I sent him to Maria Benevento!"
"Barthélemy?" whispered Fowles, patently horrified.
Lady Julia laughed. "But how delightful. Do you see, Clara, how well our plans have served us? Now pray be so good as to call up my coach. Maria may need our aid."
Heartsick, Zoe sank onto the sofa.
As if in a daze, Lady Buttershaw nodded and walked to the door. Even as she reached for the latch, it lifted, and Hackham, looking bruised and dishevelled, appeared. He threw a venomous glance at Cranford, and announced, "Mr. Falcon has called, ma'am."
She slammed the door in his face, whipped around and looked back into the grim room, her eyes dilating. "Julia! I'll not have August harmed!"
&n
bsp; "Use some sense, Clara," said her sister, impatiently. "This is no time to indulge your infatuation for that worthless half-breed!"
Lady Buttershaw's jaw jutted. "Julia… I warn you…!"
Lady Julia stood. "Oh, very well. But you must get rid of him quickly." She glanced at Bracksby and he at once pulled Zoe to her feet.
Freed, Cranford leapt forward, but Lady Julia was close beside the girl. A small dagger glittered in her hand.
She said softly, "Make one sound, dear cousin, and this child will pay dearly."
Zoe whispered, "Perry—she would not!"
But in Lady Julia's pale eyes was the glow of fanaticism and, helpless, he knew that she would.
Chapter XVI
"But how delightful!" Falcon had followed Hackham part of the way along the corridor, and for Lady Buttershaw all other considerations faded into insignificance. She hastened to intercept him, hand outstretched, and eyes aglow. He bowed and pressed a kiss upon her fingers. Shivering visibly, she simpered, "Such a frightful night, and you so gallant as to brave the elements to call upon me. Dear August! Come. You cannot yet have dined. We shall have a cozy dinner, tête-à-tête, in my private parlour." She added with a provocative glance that appalled him, "Upstairs."
"Tête-à-tête?" His brows lifting, he halted and drawled lazily, "Have I mistaken the matter, then? I'd understood Cranford to say I was to meet him here and that Miss Grainger would join—"
"Silly boy!" Her laugh shrilled out, and she took his arm and leaned as close to him as her wide paniers would allow. "But they have gone, my dear. Mr. Cranford escorted Miss Grainger to dine at Lord Coombs' house."
Obstinately halted outside the withdrawing room, he bent his head perilously near to her cheek, and breathed, "You sly minx! I think you are a conspirator."
She was breathlessly still.
Over her shoulder his eyes darted around what he could see of the withdrawing room. Empty. But she had come along this way, and he was sure that the voices he'd heard had been in one of these rooms.
"A… conspirator…?" she echoed with considerably less than her customary resonance.
"With Cupid, wicked one." He allowed his lips to brush her cheek. "Own it, Clara. Your romantic soul has persuaded that you allow them a moment alone together…"
The unprecedented use of her given name, the touch of his lips sent her heart galloping. Her eyelids drooped and, ecstatic, she swayed to him.
"I'll wager," breathed Falcon very softly, "they are—" He halted, jerked back, his eyes widening, and roared an explosive sneeze.
Lady Buttershaw watched in alarm as another sneeze followed the first.
Moaning, Falcon groped for his handkerchief and moved away from her, dabbing at his eyes.
A small ginger and white cat wound between his ankles.
"Get it… away," he cried hysterically. "Why bust they always cub after be?"
Snarling with frustration, Lady Buttershaw made a grab for Charlemagne. As though sensing the violence of her intentions, the little cat sprang sideways.
No mean actor, Falcon's voice rose in a horrified howl, and he staggered back. "Get it away!"
In hot pursuit of the cat, Lady Buttershaw essayed another latch.
Falcon reeled against the ante-room door and wrenched it open.
White as death, a pretty girl he guessed to be Zoe Grainger stood by a sofa. Lady Julia was at her side, an arm about her and the other hand holding a dagger. Just as white, and obviously terrified, Cranford stood as if frozen.
Zoe thought numbly, ' 'Tis the gentleman in the portrait…'
Charlemagne, eluding Lady Buttershaw and scared by her bellowed demands that Falcon not go "in there," shot after him as he reeled inside, racked by uproarious sneezes.
Cranford seized the moment and hurled himself at Bracksby. The two men crashed into the sofa, which went over backwards, throwing Zoe to the floor and sending her ladyship into a violent collision with Sir Gilbert Fowles.
"Your damnable pets, Julia!" trumpeted Lady Buttershaw, plunging into the chaotic room.
Cranford rolled clear, got to his feet and helped Zoe stand.
The scared Charlemagne leapt into her arms.
Bracksby wrenched out his sword and turned on Falcon, who retreated, sneezing helplessly.
Cranford limped to Falcon's aid.
Fowles tore a small pistol from his coat pocket.
In that same split second, Zoe heard a sound she recognized. She thought fleetingly, 'I'm sorry, Charley,' and tossed the cat at Fowles even as he aimed the pistol at Crantord's back.
With a yowl, and the feline instinct for self-preservation, Charlemagne hooked his claws into Fowles' shoulder.
Fowles also yowled and made a strong effort to beat away the unwanted hanger-on.
There came a thudding rattle. A large black and white shape hurtled vengefully at the villainous human who appeared to have upset his cat. Quite impervious to anything that stood in his path Viking did not deviate from it and Rudolph Bracksby gave a startled shout as he was staggered and fell to his knees.
Fowles screamed, and disappeared under Viking's attack.
Cranford reached for the fallen pistol, but behind him, Bracksby, moving with smooth agility, was already regaining his feet, sword in his hand and murder in his eyes.
Zoe snatched up a small marble statue of St. George and brought it crashing down on his head. "I cannot like violence," she said. "But you are a very nasty man."
Cranford laughed breathlessly, and held out his arm. "And you, little one, are a true heroine! You have saved the day!"
Lady Julia was trying to pull Viking off Fowles.
Fingers crooked, Lady Buttershaw started towards Cranford.
"No, really, my dear Clara," gasped Falcon between sneezes. "Your nature is… too generous for such… vulgarity."
She halted and stared at him, rather pathetically irresolute.
Morris came in, supporting a drooping Elsie Gorton, and holding a pistol jammed against Hackham's spine.
"Rats," he complained. "I see I've missed a good brawl. I found this poor lady crawling down the stairs, so—"
"Oh, thank heaven!" cried Zoe, running to her.
Kneeling beside the moaning Fowles, holding her torn gown closed, Lady Julia turned such a malevolent glare on Cranford that he instinctively stepped back a pace.
"Fool!" she said balefully. "Do you fancy you've won? Run to the Horse Guards with your tales! I am very sure that Maria already has our copy of the Agreement. Without it, who will believe you?" Her gaze took in Falcon and Morris. She added with a smile that chilled Cranford's blood, " 'Tis past time, I think, for us to administer—châtiment quatre. And this time, with finality!"
There was an instant of taut silence.
Wiping his eyes, Falcon drawled, "Which confirms you as a traitor to your country, madam."
"Only losers are traitors," she riposted. "And, I promise you, we will not lose!"
Suddenly, unexpectedly, and with incredible volume, Lady Buttershaw lapsed into screaming hysterics.
It was the last straw for Morris. He sprinted for the door, the rest of them following hurriedly.
The entrance hall was empty except for a white-faced Arbour, who backed away from the victorious little group.
Cranford said urgently, "We must find Owen. With that damnable Agreement in our hands, we'll have our proof!"
Luigi, whose name was actually Louis, straightened from searching the garments of Mr. Travis Grainger and handed his mistress a large flat packet. He said in French, "It proclaims itself to be the Last Will and Testament of a Monsieur T. Grant. But it is, I think, that which you seek, mademoiselle."
The lady Zoe knew as Maria Benevento took the packet, still watching the unconscious man who lay on the sofa in her cosy parlour. Also speaking French, she said, "He looks very bad. I trust you did not hit him too hard, Louis?"
"It is that he has been ill, mademoiselle. He will live. But in case he regains consciousness, h
e is securely bound, I assure you."
She nodded, and tore open the packet. A glance was enough. "Yes. Then we are done here. Hurry to the stables and order up my coach." She quailed as a brilliant lightning flash was followed at once by a great peal of thunder. "Ah, but this horrid storm, it comes back. If you see Greta on the way, tell her to make haste. One might suppose I had sent her to Edinburgh instead of to collect my necklace from the jeweller!"
"Mayhap the repairs are not completed, mademoiselle."
"They were to have been completed yesterday!" she said, in one of her rare but fiery displays of anger. "If they have failed, they will hear from me, I promise you! And I shall have the repairs made in Paris. I would be gone from this city as quickly as it is possible."
He glanced at her obliquely as he left. She looked tired, and her eyes were haunted. This had been, he thought, not a happy time for his beautiful lady.
Left alone, Maria went in search of Petite's little coat. "This beast of an English climate," she murmured to her small pet as it trotted after her. "How glad I will be to escape it." She took up the coat, and then stood for some moments gazing down at it sadly, and seeing instead a proudly held head, a pair of smiling blue eyes.
Petite abandoned hope of a walk, curled up on the bed, and within a minute was fast asleep.
Sighing, Maria returned to the withdrawing room and went at once to the sofa. Despite the sunken cheeks and the pallor of illness, this young man's resemblance to Zoe was marked. He lay so still that for a panicked moment she thought he had died, and she was relieved to find that he was still breathing steadily. She took up the packet as thunder pealed again, and started to pull out the papers it contained.
A hand came over her shoulder and twitched the packet from her grasp.
With a shocked cry she whirled around.
Owen Furlong watched her gravely, raindrops scattering from his cloak as he flung it back and slipped the agreement into his coat pocket.
She whispered, "Owen…!" and thought that she never had seen such sadness in a man's eyes.
He bowed slightly, "Mademoiselle Maria Barthélemy, I believe."
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