"Maria Benevento Barthélemy," she corrected, her chin lifting proudly.
Keeping his eyes on her, Furlong walked quickly to the sofa and leaned down to feel Grainger's cheek.
"He's alive," she said. "A blow on the head; nothing serious. I could not let my Zoe's brother be harmed."
His smile was faint. He said as if very weary, "Do you know, I would not believe it. When Tummet came, I—I nigh strangled him for daring to…" He could not finish the sentence, but he regained control quickly, and managed to ask, "Was it for France, my dear? Or for your brother?"
"Both. Owen, Owen! My darling, do not let this come between us."
"Will it? Did you ever care a jot for me, lovely one? Or was I just a convenient source of information?"
"Ah, how can you say such things? From the moment we met—" She stretched out both hands imploringly. "I love you! Come with me!"
He stepped away from her touch. "And give up my country?"
"Your country is doomed. These people—Owen, there is such power at work here. Such ruthless power. Your government will fall, and—"
He said quietly, "I will fight with my last breath to prevent that, Maria."
She gave a muffled little cry and covered her face with her hands. And she was so lovely, so ineffably beloved. His eyes blurred with tears, and he seized her and crushed her against him. And with all his heart, all his future in the balance, cried brokenly, "My love, my precious love! Stay here and marry me. I'll see that you are not named in connection with this ugly business." He kissed the silken dark hair so rightly pressed under his cheek, and murmured with passionate intensity, "Only let me spend the rest of my life caring for you; cherishing you. 'Twould make me the proudest man in the world, Maria. ''Tis very soon, I know, but… I have never truly loved before. Surely, you know it. I have no need to tell you how I adore you." He tilted her chin upward, and saw tears gleaming on her cheeks. "Beloved, you are weeping too…"
"Yes." She groped blindly for her muff and pulled out a handkerchief. Dabbing it at her eyes, she said, "I weep because… I love you, my fine brave English gentleman. And I wish—with all my heart that I could accept your—most impetuous—offer, but—" The handkerchief fell, and she stood straight, a small pocket pistol pointed steadily at him. "But—I cannot," she said sadly. "All my life my brother has cared for and shielded me. I love him… too much to betray him. Dearest Owen, you hold his life in your hands. You must give me back the Agreement."
For a moment he stood in silence, gazing at her. Then he said with quiet but infinite despair, "No, my love. I will see to it that you have ample time to get away, but your brother's ambitions are a threat to all I am sworn to defend." He turned to the door. "I must get some help for Grainger, and—"
"Stop!" Her voice shrill, she cried. "Owen—for the love of God, do not make me—"
With his hand on the latch, he turned for one last yearning gaze at her. "I shall always remember," he said wistfully, "how very beautiful—"
The pistol shot cut off his words.
Half-blinded with tears, Maria watched in anguish his shocked look of disbelief as he was slammed back against the door. He took a stumbling step towards her, then crumpled and fell. She hurled the pistol away, and ran to kneel beside him and pull frenziedly at his cloak. A small crimson stain already marked the shoulder of his coat. He opened his eyes and whispered her name. Weeping, she tore out his handkerchief, formed it into a pad, and thrust it under his coat. "I aimed for… your arm," she sobbed.
He smiled wanly, and his white lips whispered, "I…love…" He sighed, his eyes closed, and he lay still.
Maria's tears splashed his quiet face as she bent to kiss him and smooth back the thick, powdered hair. She retrieved the Agreement from his coat then, and, standing, took up a cushion and knelt again to put it tenderly beneath his head.
It was thus that his friends found him, ten minutes after Maria had gone.
Two afternoons later, Lady Buttershaw said sternly, "I will tell you, Julia, that it does not befit your station in life to be such a watering pot!"
Lady Julia Yerville leant back on the sofa in the ground-floor withdrawing room, and raised a handkerchief to her eyes. Her frail hand trembled as she wiped away a tear. She said in her gentle voice, "I—I know, Clara. But I was so fond of—of the dear child. I cannot credit—" Her voice was suspended.
Lord Hayes exchanged a grim glance with Lieutenant Joel Skye, who sat beside him.
Standing before the blazing fire, Rudolph Bracksby put in sharply, "Is this really necessary, gentlemen? We have told you how Cranford attempted to elope with Miss Grainger, who was in Lady Buttershaw's care at the time. And of the violence he and his friends"—he threw a contemptuous look at Cranford, Falcon, and Morris, who stood near Hayes—"visited upon us when we attempted to restrain him."
Skye said, "These gentlemen have also told us their version of the affair, sir, which—"
"Which is a lot of poppycock," roared Lady Buttershaw at full volume. "I do not scruple to tell you, my lord, that the gel is a lying little baggage who was seen cavorting—in public—with that lecherous young rake"—she stabbed a finger at Cranford—"in the full light of day! As for this fanciful nonsense about some kind of treasonable secret society scheming to topple the government—I am appalled, my lord! APPALLED I say, that anyone would dare use the name Yerville in connection with such a plot! Down through the centuries the Yervilles have stood for, fought for, and died for all that was decent and fine and honourable about this nation! Our very name is a by-word for integrity! I did all in my power to remove that ungrateful gel from an unhappy home. In return she abused our hospitality, deceived my poor sister, who is all too willing to believe the best of everybody, and brought shame and degradation upon this house! How you could—"
Lady Julia held up her frail hand, silencing what promised to be a lengthy monologue. Looking with great sad eyes at Zoe, she pleaded, "Why, dear child? Why must you treat me so unkindly, after all we have—" She broke off.
Falcon, leaning back against a table, was clapping his hands. "Jolly well done, m'dear," he said mockingly. "You missed a great career in the theatre!"
For just an instant Lady Julia's martyred gentleness slipped.
Watching her keenly, Lord Hayes thought, 'Good Lord!' He said, "In view of the seriousness of the charges, and the fact that similar charges have been made before this, I fear we have no choice but to refer the matter to—"
"You may refer the matter to his gracious Majesty, for all we care," roared Lady Buttershaw, her face dangerously red. "But I will be damned, my lord, if I will allow you to upset my sister further. In case it has escaped you, sir, Lady Julia Yerville is an invalid! I will say without equivocation that any man who could look upon her pitiful frailty and suspect her capable of engaging in treason and violence has a seriously disordered intellect and should be put under strong restraint! Now—be so good as to take yourself and your unpleasant acquaintances from my house, sir! AT—ONCE!"
"You know," drawled Falcon as they all returned to the waiting coaches, "you have to admire the woman, if only for her colossal gall."
Mopping his brow, Morris said unsteadily, "You admire her because she admires you. For myself, being a mere mortal man, she scares me to death!"
Cranford handed Zoe into the coach. "She won that round, certainly. I wonder if we have made any headway at all."
As he sat beside her, Zoe said, "How could they doubt us? After all that my brother was able to tell them, besides what we said. And when I think of poor Sir Owen…" She shook her head regretfully.
Climbing in and taking the opposite seat, Falcon said, "Poor Sir Owen made mice feet of the business by allowing sentiment to blind him to reality."
Indignant, Zoe exclaimed, "How can you be so unkind? He loved her! And he lies there, breaking his poor heart and blaming himself—"
"As he should. No man with half a brain, m'dear lady, would allow himself to become so attached to someone that h
e could be reduced to such a pitiable condition."
Morris seated himself next to Falcon and said with a grin, "What he's really saying, Miss Zoe, is 'If you can't find the right button, sew up the buttonhole!'"
"Oh—Egad!" snarled Falcon.
Cranford smiled, and patted Zoe's hand as the coach began to move off. "Never fret, ma'am. Had the ball hit an inch to the right, 'twould have pierced the lung and we'd be burying him. But luckily, the lady is a poor shot."
Zoe sighed. "Or a very good one."
"Either way," said Morris, "Owen's pluck to the backbone. He'll make a recover."
"He may," said Falcon. "The question is—will we? Without that da—er, without that Agreement, I doubt the great East India Company director believed a word we said."
Morris snorted, "If you were to ask my opinion—"
"Extreme unlikely," said Falcon.
"—the mighty director," Morris persisted, "couldn't direct a starving flea to a fat dog!"
There was laughter at this, but Cranford said, "That may be so, but d'you know, Jamie, I think Skye believed us."
"Oh, splendid!" drawled Falcon. "Exactly what we need. The backing of a young naval subaltern. Mercy, but the Squire must be shaking in his shoes!"
Zoe said loyally, "You may mock, Mr. Falcon, but I agree with Peregrine. And it seemed to me that Lord Hayes did not regard us with disgust, either."
Cranford thanked her for her support, and asked with proper nonchalance if he was to be permitted to escort her back to Richmond.
She blushed and said shyly that he was very kind but it was not really necessary, since Gorton and Cecil Coachman awaited her at the Inn of the Silver Cat.
"As you wish," said Cranford, and concentrated on the passing scene.
Morris opened his mouth, met Falcon's ironic stare, and closed it again.
The following day Gideon Rossiter returned to Town. He was a tall, lean young man with thick, curling brown hair and a pair of intelligent grey eyes. He had been distracted with worry because of his enforced absence from Town, and was aghast when his friends apprised him of the latest developments in their battle against the League. He went at once to the Madrigal to visit Furlong. He had himself spent a year of misery in hospitals after being severely wounded in the War of the Austrian Succession, and he seated himself beside the sickbed and looked down at the drawn face on the pillows with understanding and compassion.
"How do you go on, my poor fellow?"
Still very weak, Furlong turned his head away. "I properly—let you down, Gideon. That—that damnable Agreement was in my hand! Did you know? With it, we could have broken the League! And I—I allowed it to be—"
"I'd scarce call getting a hole blown through you ‘allowing'—"
Sir Owen interrupted wretchedly, "I don't know what they've told you. I collect they tried to spare my feelings. The truth is—"
"Now, Owen, do have some sense," said Rossiter with a smile. "Can you picture Falcon trying to spare anyone's feelings?"
"I can guess that… he must hold me in—deepest contempt."
Rossiter said gently, "I think August has not yet known what love is. Or the power of it." Meeting Furlong's haggard eyes, he added, "I have, you see. So I've a fair notion of what you're going through. Did they tell you she had put a pillow under your head, and tried to apply a bandage?"
Not trusting himself to speak, Furlong managed a slight nod.
Rossiter said, "Perhaps you should consider that 'twas a very sad case of your simply being on opposite sides. Two people, neither of them evil, bound by ties that were impossible to break. From what I've heard, I rather suspect this has been almost as hard on the lady, as on you."
Furlong moved his hand feebly, and Rossiter took it in a firm, cool grip.
"Gideon," said Furlong, his voice shredding, "you're such a —a blasted good friend. I am—so sorry!"
"That will not do, sir!" Rossiter drew back, man-like, from all this soul-bearing. "Did you know that little Miss Grainger overheard a woman declare that the Squire is ready to strike? Or that the fragile Lady Julia Yerville has warned us of châtiment quatre? Hurry up and get well, dear old boy, we need you! I believe that our fourth chastisement may very well pull us into a fight to the finish!"
The room at the Horse Guards was cold and quiet. Waiting, Lord Hayes glanced over interlocked fingers at the men seated around the table. In addition to himself and his aide, some of the most powerful gentlemen in government had gathered here. An admiral, his usually agreeable features reflecting irritation; a thickset, craggy-faced general; a gravely dignified cabinet minister; a highly regarded diplomatist; a prominent member of the House of Lords; and a bushy-browed and quarrelsome-looking member of Parliament.
Hayes prodded, "Well, gentlemen? You've heard it all."
"Aye, and we've heard it all before," said Admiral Anson, frowning. "Or I have, at least. Six months ago young Gideon Rossiter was filling my ears with the same tale, more or less."
"And did you believe any of it, sir?" asked Hayes.
The admiral hesitated. "At the risk of sounding gullible, I must admit I was concerned. The trouble is, they've nothing to back their allegations. And one does not make unfounded charges 'gainst a belted earl, a fabulously wealthy baron, a highly regarded landed gentleman. Least of all, 'gainst a gentle, long-suffering invalid lady, who is admired and respected throughout the ton, and her sister, who—well, God help us all! Of course, had they anything more than conjecture and some odd coincidences…"
The Honourable Mr. Willis-Formby, a frown on his lofty brow, said thoughtfully, "They've the sworn testimony of some very-well-born young fellows."
"Almost every one of whom has something smoky in his background," argued General Early, glowering at the cabinet minister, whom he privately considered to be an intellectual do-nothing.
Sir Jones Holmesby's well-modulated voice was raised. "And one of whom, with nothing in the least smoky in his background, has an astonishing faculty of memory, and from all I can gather was damn near murdered for his efforts to bring a treasonable document all the way from Calcutta."
Lord Hayes leaned forward. "I agree. I also was sceptical at first, I'll own. But there cannot be all this smoke without a flicker of flame somewhere, gentlemen. Dare we ignore these warnings?"
"We certainly cannot deny that London's streets are becoming ever more violent," observed Lord Tiberville, whose nervous tic and high-pitched fretful voice belied a fine mind. "Street riots are practically a daily occurrence, and the public is unprecedentedly hostile to any figure of rank or authority."
"Being stirred up," barked Henry Church, Esquire, thumping a fat fist on the table. "Egged on! Blasted revolutionaries!"
"Which is exactly what Rossiter and his people claim." Hayes nodded to his nephew and the lieutenant stood.
"Gentlemen, at Lord Hayes' request, one of London's most venerable journalists is here." Skye saw storm clouds on several faces and went on hurriedly, "A man who has his pulse on the Metropolis, if anyone does." He went to the door and ushered in the "venerable journalist."
Sir Jonas Holmesby smiled faintly.
"Oh," grunted the Member of Parliament, mollified. "How do, Talbot?"
Ramsey Talbot bowed. "My lords… gentlemen."
A little flushed, Lord Tiberville said dryly, "Give you good day, Ramsey. Hayes says you've your finger on London's pulse. I thought I had. Be glad to hear your views."
Ramsey Talbot glanced around the group and laid his tricorne on the table. Not taking the seat Skye offered, he said sardonically, "D'ye know, I doubt that, my lord. But I'll give 'em to you, anyhow."
He spoke for fifteen minutes.
When the door closed behind him, there was a short silence.
"Zounds…" muttered Admiral Anson. "I'd not realized it had gone that far."
Sir Jonas mopped his pale brow and said solemnly, "Hayes is right, gentlemen. We must act!"
They were, at last, in agreement, and there ensued a deb
ate upon when, where, and how the action should take place. An hour later they were again agreed, if not quite unanimously.
November had arrived. The holiday season was fast approaching, and many members of the cabinet and the Horse Guards were already deep in festive plans. But action would be taken. After Christmas.
Having reached this decision they filed out well pleased with themselves, as evidenced by a burst of talk and cheerful laughter.
Admiral Anson, Lord Hayes, and Skye remained.
They looked at each other in silence.
The admiral shook his head.
The lieutenant, his dark eyes glittering wrath, swore under his breath.
Lord Hayes said softly, "My poor England… how does she ever survive?"
Chapter XVII
The wind was frigid, and occasional drops of sleet drove at Cranford's face as he rode towards London Bridge. It was stupid to be going down to Richmond again. Already the turnpike keepers at the toll gates were beginning to greet him like an old friend. It was a long ride, and were it not for the fact that he meant to be on hand in case Rossiter needed him, he'd take a room somewhere and stay down there. "And for what?" he thought gloomily. To hover about for hours on the lane leading to Lady Minerva Peckingham's estate, hoping to catch a glimpse of the sweet little face he missed so terribly? Stupid! But then, he seemed unusually adept at stupidity. He had, for example, imagined himself to be in love with Loretta Laxton, who had proven to be fickle and without kindness. And yet he could not look back on their brief affaire de coeur and fail to be grateful to the lady. She had, as his twin had tried to warn him, used him to advance herself socially, but whatever her reasons, for a little while she had made him happy. And, to be fair, his affection for her had been scarcely less shallow, to a large part built on pride that so admired a beauty would glance his way. Certainly, he had experienced not one iota of the deep hallowed devotion that is real love. A gentle, outrageous, unaffected, incredibly valiant country girl had brought him that wondrous joy, when she’d crept unbidden into his heart and made it her own.
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