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Authors: Patricia Veryan

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BOOK: Love Alters Not
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She heard hoofbeats, and turned to find that another horseman was riding toward her. He reined in the black mare, lifted the tricorne from his powdered head and watched her with concern in his fine grey eyes. He had a pleasant rather serious face and a kindly mouth, and she liked him at once.

“Ma'am?” he said tentatively. “Are you all right? I—Jupiter, but you're not!” The dark brows twitched into an anxious frown as he sprang from the saddle to take the hand she held out. “Whatever has happened? You are all mud!”

“An accident,” she mumbled. “Captain Farrar went on ahead. The horses—er, ran away.”

A look of awe came into his eyes. “
Tony
lost his team? Well, I'll be—” He broke off abruptly. “An I lift you, ma'am, can you ride?”

Dimity was feeling a little odd. “I think,” she sighed, “it might be better was I to ride with you, sir.”

He at once lifted her to the saddle, mounted up behind, and slipped a strong arm around her. They started off at a walk.

“You are very kind,” said Dimity. “Thank you, Mr.…”

“Chandler. Gordon Chandler. And 'tis my very great pleasure, ma'am.”

“My name is Mrs. Deene. Could you please go a little faster? My nephew was driving, you see, and he is only six.”

Chandler whispered a startled expletive and brought the mare to an easy lope. In very short order they reached the curve in the drivepath beyond which chariot, coachman, and Captain had disappeared. Dimity blinked at the distant scene and uttered a moan. A small knot of people stood on a picturesque old wooden bridge; nearby, the wreck of the chariot hung crazily against what was left of the railing. As they drew nearer, she could see no sign of the child. Farrar and the coachman were inspecting the knees of a trembling horse, and the footman and three more men were gathered around another.

“Carlton…” whispered Dimity, appalled.

“Easy, ma'am,” said Mr. Chandler. “Hey! Tony!”

Farrar turned his dirty, bloodied face and Chandler muttered, “Good God!”

“Where is my nephew?” called Dimity.

The response was so impolite that it was as well she had brothers.

Shocked, Chandler said brusquely, “You forget yourself, Farrar! The lady has—”

“Hah!”

“Is … is he—dead?” quavered Dimity.

One of the grooms offered, “I see a little boy run like a rabbit into the house, sir.”

“Oh … thank God!” said Dimity.

“But
not
with a loud voice,” snarled Farrar.

Chandler gave him a stern look and guided his mare around the carnage. They crossed the bridge in silence. Dimity felt drained and very weary, her headache seeming to worsen with every step the mare took. She did not realize she was drooping until Mr. Chandler's arm tightened around her. She leaned her head gratefully against his shoulder and was drowsing when a shout roused her.

The Palfreys was set in the lee of a gentle slope. It was a very large two-storey house built entirely of cream-coloured stone, with many big square-headed windows and a steeply gabled roof. There was an air of French Gothic about it, with its Norman tower, tall elaborate clusters of chimneys, and the gargoyles that were placed at intervals all along the north front above the ground floor. The west face had several smaller individually gabled windows under the eaves, indicating at least a partial third floor. Dimity, hazy but impressed, thought the house quite beautiful.

A stable boy came running as Chandler rode up, and simultaneously the front doors were swung wide. A tall, elegant butler, two footmen flanking him, walked onto the short terrace.

Chandler called, “Give a hand here, Leonard.”

The butler gestured and the footmen hurried to oblige. “The lady has had a nasty accident,” Chandler went on. “Easy now.” He guided her down, then dismounted to slip an arm about her waist and support her up the three steps.

Carven into the lintel above the front doors the name of the house appeared above the likeness of two spirited horses, each brave with saddle, bridle, and tasselled trappings. Dimity peered up at the carving and when she lowered her eyes found herself in a wide, cool hall fragrant with the perfume of the great bowl of flowers on a side table.

“What have you done to my aunty?” Carlton's indignant tones shrilled through the vastness as he appeared at the top of four broad steps at the rear of the hall.

Farrar's deep voice growled, “Nothing to what I'm going to do to
you
—you despicable little varmint!”

Carlton squealed, and fled back the way he had come.

“Do not dare to strike him,” cried Dimity, whirling on the enraged man as he made to step past her.


Strike
him? Strangle him, more like! Do you realize what he—”

Chandler interposed, “Mrs. Deene has suffered sufficient of a shock, Tony. There is no need—”

“Oho! Easy said when you're not one of the little bastard's victims!”

“Moderate your language!” gritted Chandler angrily. “There's a lady present!”

“I wish I may see one!”

“Then I invite your attention, Farrar!”

The female voice was deeply musical, but held a rim of ice. Dimity saw Farrar stiffen. Following his gaze, she saw the woman who had come to the top of the steps with Carlton peeping from behind her skirts. Auburn hair touched with silver and high-piled on her head made her seem very tall. She was generously formed and statuesque, and she wore a graceful negligee of striped blue and white silk with a long blue cape. Like some feudal queen, she stood there, surveying them all with proud hauteur.

“I cannot think it necessary,” she continued, “that we terrify children in this house; whatever else we may have come to.”

Farrar walked forward. “I think you do not comprehend, Lady Helen. The brat came damn near kil—”

One white hand lifted. “Pray make an effort to remember that you are no longer in the barracks room.”

His jaw set, but he said in a milder tone, “My apologies, but—” one finger stabbed at Carlton, “a man don't hide behind a lady's skirts. Give it me!”

The boy took a half step and paused. “You wouldn't
really
 … s-strangle me, sir?”

“Give … it … me!”

Lady Helen said coolly, “My nephew will not harm you, child.”

Carlton trod awkwardly down the steps. Farrar advanced to meet him and, fearing for the boy's safety, Dimity advanced also.

Farrar held out his hand.

Carlton crept up and, shaking in every limb, deposited a slingshot in that large palm.

“Good heavens!” gasped Dimity. “Is
that
what caused the Captain's horse to bolt? He might have been killed!”

“And what a stroke of luck for you both,” sneered Farrar.

Flushing, she said, “We came here to establish my nephew's claim, Captain. Not with intent to do murder.”

He gave her a contemptuous glare, then jerked his head around to the boy, who had not retreated but stood as one awaiting imminent execution. “What in the
deuce
made you think you could drive my team? Do you realize you near killed two fine horses, wrecked an extreme costly coach, and smashed my bridge?”

“I d-din't mean to dr-drive it, sir,” gulped Carlton. “I just w-wanted to see if I could crack the whip. Like the coachman d-did.”

Farrar took another pace toward him. “You miserable little whelp,” he said through his teeth, “I'll teach you—”

His hair wildly disarrayed, his vivid eyes narrowed and glittering with wrath, his face looking for all the world like the mask of a savage with its streaks of dirt and blood, he towered over the boy. Terrified, Carlton thought his end had come and, with a faint sob, fell in a swoon.

“Oh!” cried Dimity, kneeling by the small, pathetic figure. She glared up at the startled Farrar. “Evil, wicked brute! How
could
you frighten him so?”

“For Lord's sake, Tony,” Chandler protested, hurrying to Dimity, “have done! The poor child is—”

“Is a vicious little monster who has wreaked more chaos in one hour than any—”

“There's no need to shout. Mrs. Deene has had enough to bear.”

“If my tone of voice displeases, you are quite at liberty to leave, Chandler!”

“That will do,” Lady Helen put in, frowning at her nephew. “Whether Mrs. Deene's claim is valid or not, and whatever accidental harm the boy may have done, we are not quite savages, I trust! Leonard—be so good as to carry the child to my quarters.”

Farrar reddened. “Oh, I'll do it, ma'am,” he muttered, and dropped to one knee.

“Thank you, but that will not be necessary. Leonard…?”

His lips compressed, Farrar stood and stepped back, and the butler hurried to lift the child.

“You will please to accompany us, Mrs. Deene,” said my lady in a gentle voice quite at odds with her former tone. “You have had a dreadful ordeal and are looking very tired. Gordie, would you be so kind as to help? We do not want two people collapsing due to our—brutality.”

With a troubled look at Farrar's enigmatic countenance, Chandler helped Dimity to her feet.

It was absolutely ridiculous. The man was a murderer many times over; a foul-mouthed, foul-tempered brute of a man. But … Bound by her sense of fair play, she turned to face him. “Sir, everything you said was true. We are to blame for your injuries, your broken carriage, and the wreck of your bridge. I—I do not quite know how, but—I accept the responsibility. And—and Carlton will be punished.”

Apparently not in the slightest appeased, he scanned her with eyes which seemed if anything more wrathful than ever. “Be assured of it, madam,” he growled.

*   *   *

“You should not be up, Perry,” exclaimed Jane Guild laying her book aside and looking distressed and rather pathetic in her rumpled nightcap, with two scrawny, mouse-coloured braids hanging down her shoulders.

Clad in a lurid purple dressing gown and leaning on a cane, Peregrine hobbled painfully into her bedchamber. “Where—is my sister, ma'am?” he panted.

She stared at him. “If not in her room, then out riding, I fancy. It certainly is a glorious morning. Why? If you need something, dear—”

“She is not in her room,” he interrupted again. “And what's more, it looks as if she'd left in a proper rush. Garments tossed all over the place. Lamp still burning, and nigh red hot! Not like Mitten.”

A faint frown disturbed the serenity of Jane Guild's brow. “Good gracious, it most certainly is not!”

“Furthermore, I'd like to know why she was tearing up sheets.”

Incredulous, Miss Guild echoed, “Tearing up
sheets…
?”

“Exactly so,” he confirmed, trying not to wince as he shifted his weight from the artificial foot to the still painful left one. “Come and see. I don't like it. Don't like it at all!”

Miss Guild hurried out of bed and into her wrapper, then accompanied her tall nephew along the hall. Peregrine opened the door to Dimity's bedchamber and following his aunt inside, propped himself against the wall.

The bed had obviously been occupied. A dainty nightdress lay in a heap on the floor and a mutilated sheet was flung across the eiderdown, a pair of scissors had been left, open, on a nearby chair. Meeting Peregrine's grim stare, Miss Guild thought, ‘Bandages?' and her heart began to flutter with fear. It fluttered even more as a series of piercing shrieks rent the silence.

“Jupiter!” gasped Peregrine, and hobbled into the hall.

More shrieks rang out.

Miss Guild ran to the stairs, Peregrine making his awkward way after her. Halfway down, they both halted.

A small parade burst from the dining room. Mrs. Burrows, their cook-housekeeper, tall, fat, and unfailingly cheerful, led the way, still wearing cloak and bonnet, waving her arms and screeching at the top of her lungs. Behind her came South, the irascible abigail, and after her the buxom young housemaid, Tilly Thornton, both in full cry.

Peddars, the footman, who had been polishing the brass knocker on the front door, shot inside, his slightly protruding eyes huge in his pudgy face.

Johns, the sturdy individual who valeted the twins, rushed out of Piers' bedchamber with a pile of cravats in his hand, his square features pale with alarm.

“What a'God's name…?” shouted Peregrine, hanging over the rail.

Three distressed faces were raised to him.

“A strange man, sir!” wailed South.

“Fast asleep, Mr. Perry-green!” sobbed Thornton, wringing her hands.

“In
my bed!
” the cook howled shatteringly.

Peregrine looked grimly to his man. “My pistol. Quickly!”

“Sir … it's only … me.” The faint voice came from the man who walked unsteadily from the kitchen, unshaven and unkempt, wearing only a rumpled shirt and breeches.

“Samuels!” breathed Peregrine, his mind leaping to possible conclusions.

“Oh, poor soul,” said kind-hearted Miss Guild.

“Sir—a word … private. Most—” Samuels began to cough, the seizure leaving him sagging exhaustedly against the wall. “Most … terrible urgent,” he wheezed.

*   *   *

Sudbury, who had expressed deep disappointment that Miss Dimity should have hesitated one instant before asking his help, guided the small coach to the trees at the brink of The Teacup and reined to a halt. “Will I go and have a look, sir?” he asked in a hoarse whisper.

“Yes, if you please. But for Lord's sake try not to look so guilty about it!”

Sudbury jumped down and sauntered to the edge of the depression with such exaggerated nonchalance that Peregrine groaned his frustration. Beside him, Miss Guild said, “I do not know whether to pray they are here, or not. Perry—if Mitten took Odin as Sudbury says, might she not have given him to Tio?”

BOOK: Love Alters Not
6.94Mb size Format: txt, pdf, ePub
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