Had We Never Loved (15 page)

“What the devil are you doing here, Morris?” demanded Falcon. “I would think I've made it plain that you are not welcome in my house.”

“Oh, now, August,” said Katrina, smiling at him. “How can you scold, when Lieutenant Morris has brought me such lovely flowers?”

“We've a garden full of flowers, and I fancy our gardener is not become too aged and decrepit to pick you some!”

His eyes dreamy, Morris said, “Miss Katrina looks like a bride, don't she?”

“Which she will become when a worthy gentleman asks for her hand!”

Morris sighed. “Dished again,” he said mournfully.

“Always supposing I care for the worthy gentleman.” Katrina spoke quietly, but she seldom voiced any opposition to her autocratic brother, and Morris brightened.

Falcon was both irritated and disturbed by this glimpse of insubordination. He scolded, “You should know better, ma'am, than to receive Morris alone, and—”

“Besides,” put in Morris, picking up an earlier thought, “it ain't your house. Belongs to y'father.”

“Who is here in all his glory.” Mr. Neville Falcon's elegantly bewigged head appeared from around a deep chair, and his whimsical grin was levelled at his son. “Wherefore, Katrina and Lieutenant Morris are properly chaperoned, dear boy, so do not be flying into the boughs.”

August crossed at once to shake his father's hand and utter a polite greeting. “I had thought you was in Sussex, Papa. What brings you back to Town?”

“Boredom, of course.” With a little difficulty, Mr. Falcon extricated himself from the chair. “I know you thought I was safely tucked away for a month or so, but I can stand just so much of sylvan solitude and then must again inflict myself upon you. However naughty I may have been.”

August looked irritated. Katrina gave a trill of laughter. Morris was considerably shocked. This plump little gentleman, with his merry good humour and mischievously twinkling eyes, was the last type he would have expected to have sired such a volatile individual as August, or such a ravishing beauty as Katrina. One could only assume that his children had taken after their mama's family. Certainly, Mr. Falcon had neither his heir's looks nor his fiery temperament. In fact, that last speech might give one the impression that Neville Falcon was the son, and August the stern parent. As for Mr. Falcon's attire, Morris could scarcely keep from staring.

Neville Falcon wore a pigeon wing tie wig, but the solitaire attached to the bow at the back was not the customary thin black riband, being instead a bright scarlet, continuing around the throat above the white stock. The lacy jabot was exceptionally full, foaming out from his chest, and causing the gentleman, in Morris' opinion, to resemble a pouter pigeon. His coat was impeccably tailored, but the deep purple velvet made a poor blend with the lavish scarlet embroidery on the great cuffs of the sleeves and down the front panels. No less garish was his puce waistcoat adorned with silver flowers; and although his unmentionables were an inoffensive pale blue satin, they did nothing to improve matters.

When Morris first arrived he had been somewhat stunned by this sartorial extravaganza, but his full attention, as usual, had been upon Katrina, exquisite in a dainty green muslin gown. Receiving again the full effect of the father's glory, Morris blinked and glanced at the son, the epitome of good taste, in a blue coat whose very simplicity emphasized his dark good looks.

“Sir,” said August, frowning, “I fear your remark will give our—guest—a wrong impression.”

“Oh, no,” argued Morris. “Not in the slightest, sir. Assure you. ‘Nature never put the heart of a hen into a tiger!'”

Mr. Falcon stared at him blankly. August closed his eyes for a second. Suppressing a giggle, Katrina said she must put her flowers in water, and with a smile that devastated her admirer, left the gentlemen alone.

August turned at once to Morris. “Well?” he demanded curtly.

Morris tore his eyes from Katrina's graceful walk. “Ross is in Town.”

“Never put the heart … of a hen…,” murmured Mr. Falcon in an abstracted way.

“Then we are able to proceed,” said August.

“We—ell…,” demurred Morris.

“What the hell d'you mean? And for God's sake do not be prating any nonsensical rural aphorisms. Just say it. Plain and simple.”

“Can't say anything while you keep tossing jawbreakers about.”

“Into a … tiger…,” murmured Mr. Falcon, striving.

August took a menacing step toward the lieutenant.

Morris grinned. “Found one of my seconds. Lost one of yours. Tio's hopped off.”

Roused by his son's blast of profanity, Mr. Falcon blinked at Morris, then laughed and clapped him on the back. “So you think I'm a tiger, do you my boy? Honesty compels me to admit I ain't. But—I've had my moments.” He slanted a sly glance at August and said
sotto voce,
“Tell you a few jolly tales, one of these days.”

“God forbid,” snapped August.

Mr. Falcon chuckled, wandered to the credenza, and poured three glasses of Madeira.

August demanded, “Do you say we have to postpone again? Dammitall! He gave me his word! Where did the block hop to?”

“Which block?” asked Mr. Falcon, carrying a glass to Morris.

“Tio Glendenning.” Morris accepted the glass with a murmur of thanks. “A good enough fellow, y'know. Must be, or he'd never agree to second— Oh—er, your pardon. But he tends to do it, y'know. Vanish I mean. Did the same thing about this time two years since. Everyone thought he'd been—” He cut the words off hurriedly.

Mr. Falcon settled himself into a gold velvet chair that inevitably clashed with his garments. “I must have a word with that young rascal. One of the reasons I come to Town.”

Retrieving the third glass, and still fuming, August looked at his father narrowly, then said, “Nothing to do with his brother, I hope, sir?”

“Do you?” said Morris, surprised. “Didn't think you liked Templeby.”

“Very perceptive, for I think him a proper knock-in-the-cradle,” responded Falcon acidly.

Morris grinned. “We all was at two and twenty. Except you, of course. You probably never was two and twenty. Went straight from short coats into middle-age. Mr. Falcon, was he ever—”

“I do not consider the light side of thirty to be middle-aged,” said August, his eyes flashing. “Now be so good as to either leave, which would be preferable, or refrain from jabbering nonsense. Papa—about Templeby?”

Mr. Falcon, who had enjoyed this by-play, sobered, and said thoughtfully, “Don't know nothing about Michael Templeby. It's Burton Farrier.”

The two younger men exchanged taut glances. Morris asked, “Friend of yours, sir?”

“Be damned if I don't resent that,” said Mr. Falcon, showing an unexpectedly quelling hauteur.

“My apologies, but you said—”

“I neither have the acquaintance of Mr. Farrier, nor have I the least desire to cultivate it! I merely wanted to warn Glendenning.”

“Warn him?” said August. “Is the Terrier sniffing around Tio's reputation, sir?”

Mr. Falcon twirled the wine in his glass and watched it reflectively. “He's sniffing around a good many of our finer families. Looking for something, I think.”

“Do you say, Papa, that Farrier is after
any
fine family? Or only those families having Jacobite connections?”

“Egad!” exclaimed Morris. “D'ye think he knows that Tio—”

“Careful!” hissed Falcon, with a glance at the open door.

Mr. Falcon said in a lowered voice, “Nobody
knows,
Lieutenant Morris. Not with certainty. But—there are rumours abroad, no doubt of that.”

August nodded. “Farrier was at Hector Kadenworthy's place in Surrey. Slimy as hell. Kade trod carefully, I can tell you.”

“Very wise,” said Mr. Falcon. “Ain't healthy to step on snakes.”

“Is that it, sir?” asked Morris, troubled. “D'you think that miserable hound is after Tio?”

Mr. Falcon said slowly, “I hope not, my boy. I like young Glendenning.”

CHAPTER VI

It was ridiculous, thought Glendenning, that he should feel so happy this morning; almost as if he had come home. He glanced up from the small cracked mirror, lowering the razor as he looked around at the stone walls and crude furnishings. This was poverty. Certainly, there was nothing here to make him so light-hearted. It was, he told himself, relief; plain and simple gratitude that he was alive. A trifle stiff, perhaps, and his ankle bothersome, but, considering the hectic events of the previous day, feeling remarkably well. The diagnosis, however, did not quite satisfy his remorseless introspection, and he stared soberly at his own reflection, seeing it not at all. His mind's eye saw instead a dark woodland glade and the flickering flames of a fire that played on four cruel faces. If Amy had not come …

“Breakfast! Hurry up, slugabed!”

He smiled faintly as that lilting call rang out. “I'm coming. And I shall expect some answers, my girl, so prepare yourself.”

She made no reply, but he heard her low chuckle, and smiled again as he resumed the business of shaving. Last night she had refused his weary attempts to question her, and he'd been asleep almost before his head touched the satin pillow so incongruously placed on the crude straw bed. Today, he promised himself, would be the day of reckoning!

He finished shaving and reached for his wig. The teapot was gone, and the wig was propped irreverently on a head of cabbage. “Of all the…!” he muttered, snatching it up and inspecting the inside for unwanted residents. Still holding it, he seized the cane and limped into the kitchen. “Where is my teapot?” he demanded.

Amy, busied at the hearth, spun around. The door was wide open, allowing sunlight to splash into the room and revealing the lush green of grass and trees outside. Birds were carolling industriously, and the air smelled deliciously of frying bacon and coffee. Yet the heart of my lord Horatio quickened not to these delightful things, but to the sparkle in a pair of mischievous dark eyes, the curve of two vivid lips, the dimple that came and went in a petal soft cheek. Today, her snowy blouse was tucked into a full dark skirt on which pink rosebuds were embroidered here and there. Her thick dark hair was bound into two fat plaits tied with pink ribands, and she looked very young and enchantingly pretty.

Meeting his stare, Amy was thinking that his auburn hair curled charmingly, and that the laugh lines at the corners of his green eyes found an echo in the set of the humorous mouth. “
Your
teapot?” she teased.

He had quite forgotten the teapot, and murmured, “Amy, do you know how very lovely you are?”

Her cheeks became as pink as the ribands, and she turned away quickly.

He thought, ‘I'm being a lecher again!' “You know very well what I mean,” he said. “My wig is not accustomed to being supported by a head of cabbage!”

“Oh, I don't know…,” she said provocatively, then squealed, and danced to the far side of the table, as he laughed and made a lunge for her. “Behave,” she warned, “or your breakfast will go to Lot. He's waiting, as ye see.”

Sure enough, the little donkey stood at the door, looking in with great hopeful eyes.

“He deserves a reward, certainly,” acknowledged Glendenning, hobbling over to the shelves and appropriating a carrot. “May I?”

She nodded. “And then sit down, and leave off that silly wig. I like what there is of your curls.”

“Why do you call him Lot?” he asked, feeding the carrot to the donkey.

“'Cause Lot's wife was turned into a pillar of salt, and that's what he does, sometimes.”

“You mean he becomes recalcitrant?”

“Cor,” she said, staring at him in awe. “What a jawbreaker. What's it mean?”

“It means to be obstinate and refuse to move.”

“That's Lot, all right.” She clapped her hands and said exuberantly, “Oh, wait'll I throws that at Uncle Ab. Recassy— how does it go?”

“I'll teach you how to say it properly. After you've told me what happened to my teapot.”

She added fried eggs to the bacon and toast on a large plate, and carried it to him. “Ye saw what they done—did to it. Now eat.”

With belated comprehension he exclaimed in horror, “No! Was my teapot your extra head, then? And they shot it from under your arm? My dear God! You might have been killed!”

He had turned quite pale. Touched, she shrugged. “'Twas a lucky shot, is all. Nothing to get in a garden-gate about.”

“I'd say it was something to get into a
proper
gar— er, state about,” he contradicted. “You were holding it under your arm! An inch or so either way…!”

The thought that her gallant rescue might so easily have resulted in her own death brought a cold sweat starting on his skin. He seized her hand and pressed it to his lips. “How shall I ever thank you? To think you would take such a risk for my sake! Amy, were you not terrified?”

She jerked away from his clasp and for a long moment stood quite motionless, gazing down at her hand. Then, “Nah!” she said with a curl of the lip. “I ain't no airy-fairy fine lady swooning in the parlour when she's sure there's a gent ready to catch her!”

“You certainly are not!” For some obscure reason the glance he received upon thus agreeing with her was decidedly unfriendly, and he regrouped hurriedly. “What I mean is, you're incredibly brave. I wonder you were not cut!”

“I was, just a little.” Her eyes softened. “Now don't be getting all aside o' yerself. 'Twere just a small cut.”

He sprang up. “Oh, Lord! Why didn't you tell me? Is it your arm?”

“No, it ain't.” She poured ale into his mug, and went on roughly, “And ye'd as well sit yerself down again, 'cause it ain't where you can tend it, so don't waste yer breath argle-bargling! Why don't ye eat? If what I cooked ain't good enough, I'll give it to Lot.”