Had We Never Loved

by Patricia Veryan

  “Oh, yes. But—how, Tio?”

  “Find my brother. Somehow.” He forced away the dread that this might not be possible and said, “I’ve until five o’clock tomorrow. Please God it will be time enough.”

  “Amen,” she said fervently. “Where does this here major live? D’you know?”

  “I don’t.” He added with a decidedly grim smile, “But I know a woman who does, so we’ll go first to Town.”

  “Oh. Well, maybe I’ll stay in the carriage while you go in.” He looked at her, one eyebrow lifting enquiringly. Blushing, she said, “I—er, ain’t used to these high-heeled slippers yet, darling Tio.”

  What she meant, of course, was that she feared lest she disgrace him. He kissed her lingeringly, feeling her mouth responsive under his own, feeling her slight body press eagerly against him. And knowing how unworthy he was of her faith and trust, he said huskily, “How do I deserve you, my brave little love? An you were wise, you’d run fast and far away from me, lest I blight your beautiful life as well.”

  For answer, she took his drawn face between her hands and said, “In that case, I’m perishing glad I ain’t wise. And that’ll be quite enough tripe out of you, lordship!”

  CHAPTER XII

  It was past four o’clock when the coachman, for the fifth time, walked the team around the corner of the quiet street in Bloomsbury. This time, the viscount was waiting on the steps of a neat villa, his cloak drawn close against the rain. The footman scrambled down to open the carriage door. Glendenning called instructions to the coachman, then climbed inside. His cloak and tricorne were wet, and he took them off and threw them on the opposite seat.

  Amy said eagerly, “She saw you, then? Did she tell you?”

  He put his arm around her and kissed the end of her nose. “Mrs. Alvelley received me. And she told me. Reluctantly, and very little.”

  Amy’s wide eyes were on the kerchief wrapped around his left hand.

  He glanced down at it. “I was obliged to give her the choice of telling me what I asked, or of having me go to the authorities and report her for using loaded dice. Thus, her reluctant compliance.”

  “Clawed you, did she? A proper cat!” She peered out of the window as the carriage clattered around a corner and mud splashed up. “London ain’t so big and noisy as what I’d heard.”

  “This is Bloomsbury, my darling. Far on the outskirts of Town.”

  She asked hopefully, “Shall we go through May Fair, then?”

  “I’m sorry, no. I instructed the coachman to skirt the more travelled roads and avoid traffic. We are going to the east now, to London Bridge, and thence across the River to Southwark, and—”

  “London Bridge!” She gave a squeal of delight and clapped her hands. “Oh, how I wish it weren’t raining, but—!” Guilt overspread her animated face, and she put a hand over her lips. “What a silly I be! As if this weren’t a matter of life and death, and here I act like a foolish child! Only, all my life I’ve heard about London Town, and I’ve never seen it, Tio. But I ai—is not forgetting the fix we’re in, honest I ain’t, so don’t be vexed, please, dear lordship?”

  He kissed her fondly. “How could I be vexed when you shine like a ray of sunlight through this ugly business?”

  Breathless, she pulled away at last, and again turned her fascinated gaze to the window. “Only look at all the carriages and waggons! Why do the folks live so close together, I wonder? It is not so pretty here, is it? What they do with all the trees? Where does we go after we cross the bridge?”

  “Into Kent. A long and tiresome drive for you, I’m afraid. All I could pry out of the wretched woman was that Trethaway owns a house somewhere near the Wells. ’Tis going to be a rainy night, and will likely be dusk before we arrive, but I cannot stop, love. I’ll settle you into a comfortable hostelry until I’ve run down Trethaway, and call for you when—”

  “Oh, yus you won’t!” said Amy indignantly, her careful accent coming to grief. “You ain’t going after no viper like that all alone, young man!”

  He laughed into her militant eyes. “I take it you envision a pitched battle. But having neither blunderbuss nor cooking pot, most beloved and daintiest of warriors, what shall you fight with?”

  A flash of petticoats, a glimpse of a shapely limb and a red satin garter, and her knife was glittering under his nose. Her dark eyes sparkled. She said, “And won’t they be surprised when they find I is not a gentle and perlite lady o’ quality, but a gypsy lass which knows to help her man in a shining-bright!”

  Deeply moved, he marvelled at her courage. Faced with danger, there was no shivering dread for Amy Consett; no whimpering. She set her dauntless, dimpled chin, and took her dagger into her resolute hand. And she would back him, all right. To the last, she’d stand beside him. It must not come to that, of course, but to know how faithful and steadfast was her love was balm to his grief. Bowing his head, he kissed her hand, so that she cried out for fear he would cut himself.

  He looked up at her, and said, “If we come through this safely, my Amy, how very proud I shall be to make you my wife.” And he thought ‘But if we cannot come through safely, my little love, I shall make very sure that you are not dragged down with me!’

  They travelled at breakneck speed now and, despite the rain, made excellent time. Even so, it was dusk when the carriage approached Tunbridge Wells. Glendenning gazed at the passing countryside with eyes that saw little of winding lanes edged by dripping hedgerows, or cottages and scattered farms where the warm glow of lamplight spoke of families gathered cosily together. All his thoughts turned on his own family. He could not get the echo of his father’s bitter words out of his mind. He could see with wrenching clarity Lady Nola’s tears, and could picture her present state of mind. Poor mama. Torn between her love for her husband and her love for his errant heir.

  Amy stirred in his arms and yawned sleepily, and her hand came up to caress his cheek. “You look so tired, darling lordship. Wasn’t you able to snatch a little kip? Ye’d oughta—”

  The carriage lurched. Shouts. The door was torn open, and a familiar voice cried, “Good Gad, Tio! What we’ve been through in your behalf, and here you lounge, frippering about with a—”

  “Falcon!” gasped the viscount, staring disbelievingly at the very damp young Corinthian who clambered into the coach.

  “And me,” said Morris, climbing in after him with a flurry of raindrops. “How de do, ma’am? I must—” His honest eyes widened appreciatively. “By Jove!”

  Bewildered, Glendenning demanded, “What d’ye mean? What have you been through in my behalf?”

  The coachman opened the trap and peered in at them. “We’ve tied the gents’ hacks on behind, melord. Shall I keep on?”

  “Yes. Er—yes.” The trap shut, and he said, “Jamie, will you please explain what this is all about?”

  Morris hesitated, then nodded to Amy, his face solemn.

  “Oh, Lord,” exclaimed Glendenning. “Your pardon, ma’am. May I present Mr. August Falcon and Lieutenant James Morris? Gentlemen—Miss Consett. My betrothed.”

  Amy saw astonishment come into one rather guileless face, and a faint amusement dawn on the other, which was so handsome as to make a girl’s knees weaken.

  “My congratulations, Glendenning,” drawled Falcon.

  “Oh. Yes. Er—jolly good, what?” mumbled Morris, turning very red.

  “It’s all a fudge,” said Amy, with a shy smile. “I is not betrothed to no one.”

  Morris’ eyes became even rounder at this artless speech.

  Falcon looked at Glendenning thoughtfully. “Where in the devil have you been all this time?”

  Morris observed, “You look awful, dear boy. Sorry, but there ’tis.”

  The viscount said, “It’s a long tale that we can sort out later. Now, will you please tell me why you are here?”

  Despite some interruptions from Morris, Falcon contrived to explain. When he finished, Glendenning said, “Then you’ve discovered wher
e Trethaway lives! ’Pon my soul, I do not know how to thank you! To have gone to so much trouble for me!”

  “Do not be deluding yourself,” said Falcon. “I am here only because”—he slanted an oblique glance at Amy’s wondering face—“I need you to act for me. Even so, I think we are entitled to hear why you saw fit to disappear these two weeks.”

  “Yes, of course. But first—how on earth did you find us?”

  “Luck, dear boy,” said Morris, scarcely able to tear his eyes from Amy. “We was heading back up to Windsor, to see if you’d gone home, and—”

  “And if you do not wish to be recognised,” drawled Falcon, “you should not jaunter about in a carriage with your crest on the panel. Do I mistake it, or are you also here to see Trethaway?”

  “You don’t mistake it. ’Tis vital I see both that bas—er, rogue, and my brother.”

  “Won’t do it,” said Morris. “We called at Trethaway’s house not an hour since. He’s gone. Hopped the twig, I shouldn’t wonder. Likely one leap ahead of the constable, for he’s a bounder from what I hear.”

  Watching Glendenning’s worn face anxiously, Amy slipped her hand through his arm, and smiled encouragement.

  “Did you learn where he is gone?” he asked in a controlled voice.

  Morris looked severe. “His people said he was off to Portsmouth to take ship for Italy. ’Twill be no great loss to Eng—”

  “My God!” exclaimed Glendenning, frantic. “Then we must stop him! When does he sail?”

  “With the morning tide, I believe,” said Falcon. “But I promise you, your brother ain’t with him. Trethaway’s man said there had been no visitors for several days.”

  “But Michael must have gone there! He took funds to buy back— Oh, Lord, you don’t know!” The viscount ran a hand across his brow distractedly, then said, “That nail, Farrier, claims that the Comyn Pin was donated to the Jacobite Cause! And—”

  “Hmm,” said Falcon. “I recall my father mentioning once that your stepmama was a Comyn.”

  “Jupiter!” Morris shook his head. “Shouldn’t have donated the lady’s pin, Tio! Very bad business!”

  “He didn’t donate it,” said Amy defensively. “His brother sold it.”

  “To cover some—debts,” said Glendenning. “He didn’t know it was on the Jacobite list—if it is, which I doubt! The thing is that I must prove ’tis still in our possession. I’ve to show it to Farrier by tomorrow afternoon, or—” He shrugged, wordlessly.

  Morris and Falcon looked at each other.

  Morris said, “Best tell him the rest.”

  Again, Falcon glanced at Amy, then said, “Owen Furlong says Trethaway cried friends—”

  “With Sir Louis Derrydene!” finished Morris.

  Glendenning stared, thunderstruck. “Derrydene!” he whispered. “Then, ’tis very probable that this Major Trethaway is in fact…”

  “One of the League of Jewelled Men,” said Morris.

  * * *

  The fire leapt and crackled up the chimney of the private parlour, the clock on the mantelpiece ticked away the seconds, and the rising wind drove rain in occasional busy chatterings against the casements of the small inn. The three young men gathered about the fire were silent, however. Glendenning had taken a bedchamber for Amy, partly because he wanted her to have a few minutes to rest and refresh herself before they resumed their quest. She suspected that the men desired to hold a small council of war and would be able to talk freely without her presence. What she did not suspect was that there were things to be discussed which they were forbidden to speak of to anyone outside their own very select group. Several minutes had passed since Glendenning finished his terse account of what had befallen him during these two weeks. He had not spared himself; his voice becoming not altogether steady as he spoke of the nightmarish confrontation with his father.

  Morris was first to break the silence. Not looking at Glendenning, he muttered sympathetically, “What a devilish fix to have landed in.”

  “In more ways than one,” murmured Falcon.

  Glendenning’s eyes flashed. He snapped, “If you refer to my betrothal—”

  Falcon waved a languid hand. “Miss Consett is one of the fairest Fairs these eyes ever beheld.” He turned his head to meet the blaze of Glendenning’s anger. “To that extent, certainly, I congratulate you.”

  “If you dare—if you dare suppose her to be beneath—”

  Morris leaned forward and interrupted placatingly, “Do not gratify him, my dear fellow. You know that he delights to be a thorn in the flesh of anybody he encounters. ’Tis for no one—save perhaps your own family—to comment on such a personal matter as the lady you choose for your wife.”

  Perhaps because he was under such a great strain, Glendenning said wildly, “Comment and be damned! She’s an angel! I’ve told you that she saved my life—how bravely she fought, God bless her! How can you think anything save that I am the one who is unworthy?”

  “Never doubted it for an instant,” said Falcon.

  Morris laughed, and Glendenning’s ferccity eased a little.

  “Anyone must be blind not to see that the lady is a veritable diamond.” Falcon finished wickedly, “In the rough.”

  Glendenning was on his feet in a swift pounce. “Stand up, damn you!”

  “So that you may knock me down? Certainly not. Why invite me to comment? Did you assume I would say only that which would please you?”

  Glendenning glared at him, but his innate honesty could not deny the truth of those sardonic words, and he sat down again.

  “A baby starling can stretch its mouth very wide,” sighed Morris, “but rarely says anything sensible.”

  “’Twould afford me enormous pleasure to confound the ton by doing just as you propose to do,” said Falcon. “But…”

  “That—is—enough!” said Glendenning through clenched teeth.

  “True,” Falcon acknowledged. “The ‘buts’ are obvious.”

  Morris suggested helpfully, “You can always call him out, you know, Tio. After me, of course.”

  “To expedite which eagerly anticipated event,” said Falcon, “might we perhaps devote some thought to what we’re going to do next?”

  Glendenning drew a hand across his eyes. “Yes, of course. What a fool I am!”

  “No, no,” said Morris kindly. “Nerves tied up in knots, is all. Understandable—damned if it ain’t. You’re in a proper vise, dear boy, and we must get you out of it—somehow. Don’t know how. Wish I did. But you may be sure I’ll stick by you.”

  “If you say you will march to the block with a man who has only himself to blame for his present peril—you’re a blithering fool,” sneered Falcon. “Which should surprise none, of course.”

  Glendenning’s jaw set, and his fists clenched, but he said in a voice of ice, “I mean to make damned certain that no one accompanies me to the axe, Falcon. But I thank you for your loyalty, Jamie.”

  Morris suppressed a shudder at the thought that so splendid a fellow as Glendenning should meet such a ghastly fate. To hide his consternation, he stood and, walking to the door, held it open invitingly. “Adieu, Lord Haughty-Snort. Scamper back to Town, and forget you ever knew us. Tio won’t name you as having shielded a Jacobite, so do not be shivering in your boots.”

  “Your generosity is equalled only by the dimness of your wits,” jeered Falcon. “Do you not yet realize there’s a deal more to this than the fact of Glendenning’s misplaced loyalty to the Stuarts?”

  Morris closed the door, and said with a grin, “I think what he tries not to say, Tio, is that he’s with you.”

  “We are all with him,” said Falcon. “If only in the interests of self-preservation.”

  Glendenning said sombrely, “You really think the League of Jewelled Men wove this beastly web?”

  “Assurément! Can you doubt it?”

  “Well, I can, if Tio cannot,” declared Morris, returning to his chair.

  “You would!” The slim han
d holding Falcon’s wineglass gestured impatiently. “Make an attempt to use your heads, gentlemen. We know that Sir Louis Derrydene helped engineer the tragedy that damn near ruined the house of Rossiter. We know that Gideon Rossiter found the lapis figure of a jewelled man in Derrydene’s home, and we have other clues that established Derrydene as having been a member of the League. We believe that because he failed to completely destroy Sir Mark Rossiter, Derrydene was executed by the League and his death passed off as suicide. Now, we find that this same villain was bosom bow to a murky individual calling himself Major Harris Trethaway. And that Trethaway has manipulated Glendenning’s brother into giving him a piece of antique jewellery now purported to have been donated to the Jacobite Cause. Glendenning cannot prove his innocence without the Comyn Pin, and Trethaway has conveniently left the country. Good God! Is it not plain? This entire ugly business is a scheme of the League!”

  Glendenning said, “But—why? To take personal vengeance on me because I was one of those opposing them in the Rossiter fiasco? ’Twould have to be a murderous group indeed deliberately to plot the execution of my entire family when they could simply have me killed.”

  “Besides,” put in Morris, “I’d think that whatever they’re up to would keep them sufficiently busy. To go to all the trouble to stage such an elaborate revenge don’t seem very likely.”

  “Not if ’tis only a matter of revenge,” murmured Falcon thoughtfully. “The question becomes—do they scheme to kill two birds with one stone?”

  Glendenning said, “Gideon Rossiter believes they plot ’gainst England. Do you say they’ve a grudge ’gainst my father as well?”

  Falcon shrugged and with his rare grin said, “Bowers-Malden is not the most amiable of men.”

  Fighting against betraying the pang that transfixed him each time he thought of his sire, Glendenning said, “To my knowledge he doesn’t even know of the existence of the League of Jewelled Men.”

  “In company with most of England,” said Morris glumly. “I wonder what the deuce they are about.”