Had We Never Loved (11 page)

“For all of us, child. Only look at me. You are perfectly right. I may know how to read, and—”

“And how to talk proper. And ye can talk other languages, I wouldn't wonder. Like—like French, and Latin?”

“Very little Latin, I'm afraid. And had I been obliged to face life's hard knocks as you have, much good would French and Latin have done me!”

“You're just being kind. You knows I'm iggerant.”

Fascinated by her swift changes of mood, and by the vitality that seemed to radiate from her, he argued, “Nothing of the sort! You have a quick mind, that is very evident, and would learn quickly if—”

“Aye, if ye'd help me. Oh, sir! Would ye? Please? If I could speak nicer, I'd be able to sell me wares to better places. P'raps get a stall somewhere.”

Curious, he asked, “What d'you mean, Mistress Amy? Do you sew, perhaps? I noticed that pretty night—” Too late, he cut off the words.

“Oh!” She stared at him in horror. “Ye
was
awake! And spying on me in me nightrail!” A wave of crimson swept up the white column of her throat, and pressing a tanned hand to her blazing cheek, she scolded, “Oh, but ye're a wicked young man, I think!”

Absalom came back in, saying stridently, “Ain't I told ye, lass? All the Quality coves be the same. Grinding folks like you and me under their boots, and thinking as they've the right to bed any woman, be she decent or no, so long as she ain't one o' their own.”

“Stuff,” said Glendenning, whose head was beginning to pound once more. “In the first place, I doubt you've ever been ground under anyone's heel—or God help him, you'd have properly stung him! In the second place, I never in my life knew of any well-bred gentleman—er, bedding a woman who was unwilling. And in the third place, you should not use such terms in front of your niece!”

“I'll use a few terms in a minute, I will,” snorted Absalom. “Terms like—hop off, quick like!” He advanced on the viscount belligerently. “You think I ain't seen ye making sheep's eyes at my Amy? Go back to yer castles and yer hundreds o' servants what's waiting to grovel when ye snaps yer fingers! Yer perishing lordship ain't wanted here!”

“Now, Uncle Absalom,” began Amy.

Glendenning clung to the edge of the table and dragged himself up. “If you imply that I would take advantage of Miss Consett—”

“I don't imply it, mate,” snarled Absalom. “I
says
it. Straight out. Go back where—”

“He cannot go anywhere yet,” interposed Amy. “See how ill he looks! Come, milord.” She handed Glendenning his cane, and taking his other arm began to help him back toward the bed. “'Tis no use grumbling, dear old Ab. He ain't really better yet, and if you keep quarreling with him, we'll likely have him in a fever again and he'll be here longer than ever.”

Glendenning protested that he did not want to lie down again, but he was overruled, and he settled with inward relief onto the bed. He lay listening drowsily while Absalom argued that they should have left yesterday and that he wouldn't hear of leaving his little girl alone with the evil aristocrat. Fleetingly, it occurred to the evil aristocrat that he had neither contacted Hector Kadenworthy about the duel, nor run his elusive brother to earth. Thinking on those matters, he fell asleep.

*   *   *

Lord Hector Kadenworthy, having inherited great wealth at an early age, had been toad-eaten for most of his three and thirty years, and with few exceptions found his fellow man a dead bore. To those he loved he showed a lively sense of humour, kindness, and unfailing generosity, but those he loved were few, and he was more universally held to be a man of chilly demeanour and sharp tongue.

The latter qualities were in full force on this rainy afternoon as he sat at the desk in his study inspecting a pair of superb cannon-barrelled turn-off pistols, and ignoring the man who watched and waited and smiled.

As though suddenly recalling the presence of this patient individual, Kadenworthy raised his hard brown eyes and drawled, “Your pardon, Mr.—er, Farrier, but I fail to see why the theft of my mother's emeralds should be of concern to the Horse Guards.”

Burton Farrier leaned back in his chair and rested the tips of the fingers of both hands together. “The Kadenworthy emeralds are famous, my lord,” he said in his soft, purring voice. “That any of our noble families should be victimized by so daring a—er, robbery is, naturally enough, of interest to my superiors.”

Replacing one pistol in its case, Kadenworthy took up the other and, admiring it, appeared again to forget his visitor.

Farrier watched him, eyes expressionless, smile unwavering.

After a long pause, Kadenworthy said idly, “You cannot know how relieved I am to learn that my government employs its best operatives to track down malefactors. In view of the number of rank riders upon the highways, your life must be a busy one. How many of the ruffians have you brought to book?”

“Alas, sir. I have given you a false impression. My work ceases when the missing jewels are—er, shall we say—found?”

Kadenworthy sighted along the silver-mounted barrel, turning the pistol until it pointed steadily between Mr. Farrier's eyes. “Shall we say you are aware that our gems were recovered?”

Undismayed by the aim of that deadly muzzle, Farrier separated his ‘steeple,' then tapped it back together again. “We are aware that
some
gems were recovered, my lord.”

Kadenworthy lowered the pistol. “I do not know what devious ploy brings you here, Farrier, but that you spend your time being of assistance to your countrymen I find as suspect as that damned grin of yours. Do you imply that the jewels we recovered are not the Kadenworthy emeralds?”

Mr. Farrier sighed, and looked sad. “Unhappily, my lord, it is believed the jewels your agents took from the fence may be very clever copies of your property.” The smile reasserted itself. “Since I am expert in such matters, I have been assigned the task of confirming their authenticity.”

His lordship replaced the pistol in its velvet-lined case, closed the lid, and rose. For a moment he stood there, looking at Farrier, who had sprung to his feet.

“Unless, of course,” purred Farrier, “you would for some reason, object, sir?”

“I would have a perfect right to object, I believe.”

“Oh, absolutely. People are usually quite anxious to be sure of the value of their belongings, however. The last estate I visited, Ward Marching— I believe you are acquainted with Sir Peter Ward?”

Not by a flicker did his lordship's expression change. He said coolly, “Sir Peter Ward is a friend of mine. Am I to infer he also has been robbed?”

“A thwarted attempt, fortunately. We had reason to suspect it might have been linked to the fact that an escaped Jacobite was known to be in the vicinity of Ward Marching a year or two since…”

Standing very still, Kadenworthy said nothing, but one eyebrow lifted in faintly bored enquiry.

“For a while, in fact,” went on Farrier, “the traitor was thought to have broken into the house. Ah, but how forgetful I am! I tell you what you already know, for you were among the guests that night, no? You and … Trevelyan de Villars.”

How benign the smile. How soft the voice. But his lordship's nerves tightened, and his neatly powdered head lifted a trace higher. He raised his quizzing glass and through it directed a level stare at his visitor. “And a couple of hundred other guests. Damme, Farrier, but one might almost suppose you to have been sticking your nose into my appointment book. If you knew of my presence at the Ward Marching Midsummer Ball, you must also be aware that Mr. Trevelyan de Villars and I went out the previous year, and that he came curst near to killing me.”

“I'd heard he is a deadly man with a sword. Thank heaven you survived the encounter, my lord. And may I remark that one can only admire you for later treating him with such magnanimity. A most admirable example of, ah—restraint.”

“If you imply that my ‘restraint' stretched to assisting de Villars to escape to France, you—”

With patent horror, Farrier raised both hands. “Good gracious me! As if I could think such a thing! De Villars is known to have helped countless Jacobites elude justice. He is a foul traitor to his king and country! I would be a fool indeed to suspect that a loyal gentleman such as yourself, a peer of the realm, would willingly breathe the same air with such—vermin! Much less be of aid to him.”

Smiling faintly, Kadenworthy murmured, “I have heard of you, Farrier. It appears that rumour did not exaggerate.”

Farrier bowed. “You are too kind, sir.”

“Oh, no,” said his lordship blightingly. He walked past and flung open the door. “This way,” he called over his shoulder.

For just an instant, Mr. Farrier's grin slipped, but when he followed Hector Kadenworthy along the hall, it was as bland as ever.

*   *   *

“You're damned crusty today,” observed August Falcon, occupying a deep chair in Kadenworthy's spacious withdrawing room.

“The rain does not appear to deter unwelcome callers,” grunted his lordship, strolling over to the credenza and unstoppering a decanter. “I no sooner get rid of one noxious pest than you arrive. I presume you're here about your confounded duel. I do not scruple to tell you, Falcon, that 'twill be a great day for England when you cease whittling down the population.”

A derisive smile lit August Falcon's lean face. “Much you care about the population.”

“I care about it when I am constantly bamboozled into seconding you. Madeira or sherry?”

“Madeira, if you please. Prepare yourself; I may call out Glendenning next. I assumed you'd not object, but he should've had the common courtesy to let me know.”

Kadenworthy carried a glass of Madeira to his guest, then sat down on a black and gold brocade sofa. “Not object to what?”

Jerking the glass back from his lips, Falcon splashed some of the wine on his blue velvet coat, and swore lustily. He dabbed at the stain with his handkerchief and asked, “Has Glendenning not yet reached here?”

“He came last week and took tea with my aunt. Said he wanted to see me, but I was racing that day. We had quite a large turn-out. I presume Tio decided to return at a more convenient time.”

“More convenient time?”
Falcon spluttered, “Good God, man! The duel is for Monday morning!”

“The hell it is! The twenty-seventh, d'ye mean? Well, of all the shabby set outs! Is everyone else agreed?”

“Yes. And if you tell me you must cancel, I'll likely shoot Morris out of hand and be done with it! This is the second time we've arranged this damned meeting, and each time we postpone, the clod has an excuse to come mooning around Katrina again!”

Watching the handsome features darken with rage, Kadenworthy grinned, and added fuel to the fire by remarking that he rather liked Morris. “Be curst if I can remember why you're fighting.”

“Well, I'm not likely to forget, I promise you! 'Twas when our coach was held up and I pursued the filthy rank riders.”

“Ah, yes. And when you returned, poor Morris mistook you for a highwayman.”

“
Poor Morris?
The devil! You'd not think him so poor had he shot
you
down by mistake! Stupid blockhead! When I think—”

“Pray do not! I've no least desire that you should explode in here! My house has been sufficiently contaminated today. Oh, never breathe fire and smoke, I'll second you, dammit. I gave my word. I'll come up on Saturday and stay at my club.”

Falcon thanked him gruffly, took another swallow from his glass, then asked, “Who was your other contaminant? Or do I presume too much?”

Kadenworthy scowled and said a clipped, “Burton Farrier.”

“Zounds! What treachery have you been about to bring that wart down upon you? I'd not thought you were for our royal Scots dimwit.”

“Charles Stuart was ill advised, but he's no dimwit. Nor is Farrier, blast him! He was full of sly innuendoes about my acquaintanceship with Treve de Villars.”

Falcon rubbed his wineglass thoughtfully against the end of his nose. “You are a hard-hearted man, Kade, and I have no love for you, but if you need safe passage to France…”

“
Merci beaucoup, mon cher ami,
but my only brush with the Jacobites was a brief one. It was chancy, though. And that idiot de Villars was very much involved.”

“So the Horse Guards have set the Terrier to sniff you out, eh? Did he accuse you, or let you sweat?”

“He pretended to doubt the authenticity of my mother's emeralds. I allowed him to inspect 'em, and he oozed away. I sent him off with a flea in his ear, I can tell you.”

“Don't flatter yourself he noticed it. I fancy the dolt's ears are fairly crowded with fleas. An he really had some proof, Kade, you'd be en route to the Tower at this very minute. He's sent a score of fine gentlemen to their deaths.”

They looked at each other.

Repressing a shudder, Kadenworthy muttered, “I fairly panted to plant my fist in his smile. The fellow makes my skin creep!”

“Yes. I sympathize. Still…” Falcon frowned. “I wonder what he was really after.”

*   *   *

The Countess of Bowers-Malden stood at the window of her private parlour, watching a raindrop dodge and wriggle down the glass. “I should have guessed,” she said, a very faint tremor to her usually resonant voice, “when you gave us all such splendid gifts. That beautiful tiara for me, the dressing case for your father—”

The young man sprawled in the chair by the fireplace put a slim hand over his eyes, and interrupted wearily, “The fault is entirely my own, Mama. I was a blind fool not to see that they were letting me win only so as to—to lure me into larger wagers. But they were all fine gentlemen, and I did not dream…” The words faltered, and ceased.