Never Doubt I Love (29 page)

“Did they, though! Are you sure?”

“Yes. Quite sure! What can it mean? Is it important, do you think?”

He said thoughtfully, “I'm not sure. It may be very important indeed!”

Gorton coughed and looked a warning. Cranford rose at once. “I'd best go. Now try not to worry. But I think you are very clever, little Miss Zoe!”

C
HAPTER
XII

It was close to one o'clock when Cranford paid off the chairmen and walked slowly across the flagway and up the steps of his house. Not finding Furlong at his club, he'd left a note for him, then embarked on a search that had occupied several hours, and left him seething with frustration. Sir Owen had not been at Falcon House that day, or at Rossiter Court, or his house on Bond Street, nor had he called in at Laindon House, the great family mansion of Horatio Glendenning's formidable sire, the Earl of Bowers-Malden. Cranford had taken a hasty meal at Clifton's Chop House, then made the rounds of the clubs and the more popular coffee houses, but without success. Disgruntled, he'd turned for home, deciding that Furlong had very likely taken Miss Benevento to the opera or some such place.

Florian opened the door to his knock. Light streamed from the parlour, the air was warm and smelled of woodsmoke and brandy, and several cloaks hung on the clothes rack.

Relieving him of his cloak and cane, Florian murmured, “Company, sir.”

Cranford limped into the parlour. At once, a low-voiced conversation ceased, and three gentlemen turned to regard him unsmilingly.

Owen Furlong stood at the mantel, a glass in one hand and a frown in his eyes. James Morris sat in the chimney seat nursing a wineglass; and August Falcon sprawled in an armchair, long legs stretched out before him, and a tankard balanced on a pile of books at his side.

Exasperated, Cranford began, “Here you are! If that isn't the—”

“What the devil have you been doing?” interrupted Furlong.

Cranford stiffened, the peremptory tone not improving his temper. He poured himself a glass of wine before responding coolly, “I've been to Leadenhall Street, not that 'tis any of your affair. Falcon knows that. He saw—”

“You didn't tell me that the pretty little lady you've been squiring about Town resides at Yerville Hall!”

“Your pardon, sir.” Cranford threw an exaggerated salute. “I'd not realized you required a report on my activities.”

“You told me,” said Sir Owen, “that you'd come to Town because you were obliged to call on some distant relation.”

“Which is precisely what I've been—” The haughty words died away. They were all staring at him as though petrified with astonishment, even Falcon rousing himself sufficiently to sit up straight.

“Do you say—” gasped Sir Owen, incredulously, “that you are related to Miss Grainger?”

“Certainly not.” Cranford sat down on the sofa, his chin jutting a warning. “If you must know, Lady Clara Buttershaw's spouse appears to have been second cousin to my late Aunt Eudora.”

“The mind boggles at such tangled family threads,” drawled Falcon, “But one strives. Would this late Aunt Eudora possibly have been the wife of General Lord Nugent Cranford?”

“My great-uncle. Yes.”

Morris exclaimed with undisguised horror, “My poor fellow! You are actually related to that— To Lady Buttershaw?”

“Distantly, and by marriage only, and— Dash it all, Jamie! Now see what you've made me say!”

“Bad form, Cranford.” Falcon shook his head reprovingly. “A gentleman does not speak ill of a lady. Especially when she is a relative.”

Morris offered sagely, “‘The problems in families are usually relative.'”

Falcon put both hands over his eyes and appeared to be praying.

Fully aware of Falcon's loathing of maxims, Cranford smothered a grin and maintained his air of chill hauteur. “I fancy you will tell me why you've invaded my house, and what gives you the right to question my family background, and my activities. When you can spare the time.”

Sir Owen, who had been deep in thought, looked up and countered, “Why were you at Lloyd's Coffee House today?”

There was a set to his jaw and a steeliness in his blue eyes. This was
Captain
Sir Owen Furlong speaking; a far cry from the entranced man who had only last evening been so lost in love. With a quickening pulse, Cranford thought, ‘Why? What is it all about?' The unease that had been gnawing at him all day grew stronger, so that he abandoned resentment, and answered, “Miss Grainger has just learned that her brother, who was in the Diplomatic Corps in India, has been very ill and has been sent home. She desired me to try and discover whether he has arrived.”

“Why enlist your aid?” demanded Falcon curiously. “I would think her father should have been the one to enquire for his son.”

“He did, but could learn nothing. No more could I. But I learned something else, which may be of some interest to you, Owen.”

At once eager, Furlong asked, “Is it about Derek? Has he reached port at last?”

“Not that, I'm afraid. And my news may be of little significance. But it seemed to me a rather curious coincidence. I should explain that Miss Grainger is a sort of companion to Lady Julia Yerville. One of her tasks is to see that none of Lady Julia's pets invade the quarters of Lady Buttershaw, who dislikes creatures. A few nights ago, one of the dogs awoke Miss Grainger in the night but went tearing off before she could catch it. She knew Lady Buttershaw would be enraged if the dog was found in that part of the house, so she ran after the animal and had caught it in the lower hall when she heard some guests leaving. Naturally enough, she did not want to be seen in her nightrail. She ducked into a side room and inadvertently overheard a very guarded conversation. It had to do with someone who had evidently violated a trust, or some such thing. And with a lady, whose arrival they were eagerly awaiting so that they could take action. Miss Grainger said it all sounded very grim, and we thought it must have to do with high finance. I'd quite forgot about it until this afternoon, when I chanced to mention the name of your brother's ship to the lady.”

Sir Owen said intensely, “The
Lady Aranmore?
I don't see—” His eyes widened. “Oh, egad! Are you saying
she
is the lady those men are waiting for?”

Cranford nodded.

“Be damned!” muttered Furlong.

There was a taut silence. Cranford looked from one stern face to the next. He said, “This is all part of what you're about, is it not? And I am somehow involved. Is Miss Grainger, also?”

Falcon drawled, “Up to her eyebrows, I would guess.”

“In which case, gentlemen, I'll have the truth, if you please. Now!”

“I wish we could come at it,” muttered Furlong.

“Owen,” said Cranford through his teeth, “you put me off once before, because I chance to have a crippled leg. You'll not put me off this time!”

Morris, who had been staring at his boots, asked suddenly, “Why could you not learn anything about Miss Grainger's brother? At Lloyd's, I mean. Surely they could give you some idea of when his ship is due?”

Falcon said irritably, “And what, for mercy's sake, has that to say to the matter at hand?”

“No.” Sir Owen lifted a delaying hand. “I wondered the same thing. Why, Perry? They're usually accommodating enough.”

“Unhappily, Grainger neglected to notify his family that he was on his way home. They'd not have known a thing about it, save that Mr. Grainger chanced to hear it from a friend, who knew for a fact that Travis had embarked at Calcutta, and should have landed by now. Lacking the name of the vessel, we searched the passenger lists, but he might have vanished into thin air, for all we—”

For the third time he was interrupted as Falcon, his eyes flashing with sudden excitement, demanded, “What was his illness? Not cholera?”

“Why, yes—but how—”

“Oh, damme!” gasped Morris. “You never think…?”

“It
fits!
” Springing from his chair, Falcon said, “A diplomatist, unwell and terrified for his life. Very likely travelling under an assumed name. Just as young Grainger has done!”

Sir Owen said, “Ramsey Talbot said our man is still in Mozambique.”

“And how many months did it take that news to reach his ears? Owen, how can you back and fill like a confounded block? Don't you see? We have the answer at last! This Grainger lad must be your brother's mystery passenger! And his sister is either hand in glove with the Buttershaw dragon, or—”

Cranford leapt up also, and caught Falcon's arm. His face flushed, his eyes deadly, he hissed, “I'll know what you mean by that remark, if you please!”

“They tried to tell you once, you lamebrain,” snapped Falcon, tearing free.

Morris contradicted, “Not so. Must be fair, August. We tried
not
to tell him.”

Cranford demanded, “Tell me what? And never try to fob me off with your silly fustian about some kind of League and…” He caught his breath, and said uneasily, “It
was
so much fustian, was it not?”

Furlong glanced at the others, gave a slight fatalistic shrug, and answered quietly, “Everything we told you before is true, Perry. What we did not tell you is that we
have
learned the identities of some members of the League of Jewelled Men. The Earl of Collington, for instance, and—”

“Gideon Rossiter's
father-in-law?
Owen—you're not serious?”

“Unhappily so. Besides Collington, we've proven Rudolph Bracksby, Lord Hibbard Green, and we suspect General Samuel Underhill, and—”

“And Lady Clara Buttershaw,” said Falcon. “There are others; prominent men we know to be members, but who may not be on the ruling committee.”

Stunned, Cranford sank back onto the sofa. He made an effort to recollect what they'd told him before; the tale that had so enraged him, and that he'd dismissed as a silly hoax. “But—you said they know who you are,” he muttered haltingly. “And Zoe mentioned once that Lady Buttershaw is infatuated with August, and expects him to visit her. Why would she allow him to go there if she knows him for an enemy?”

“‘A little knowledge is a dangerous thing,'” said Morris. “In this instance, the ‘little knowledge' is hers.”

Falcon nodded. “She knows who
we
are, but I need not tell you the lady is of an arrogance. She does not credit us with suspecting
her
involvement.”

“A lady of Quality, involved in high treason…?” Trying to collect his scattered wits, Cranford said, “No. You
must
be mistaken! The woman, unpleasant as she may be, is almost fanatical in her patriotism! Her house is like a museum. She glories in the fact that her family has figured largely in England's history.”

Furlong said, “She may have decided that gives her the right to change it.”

“And not balk at murder? Or the prospect of another civil war? Surely no lady would willingly involve herself in such madness?”

“Consider Delilah,” suggested Morris. “Or Lady Macbeth. Or Queen—”

“If someone doesn't stop him,” warned Falcon, “he'll list every scheming female for the last two thousand years!”

Sir Owen smiled. “He's right, though. The ladies are not exempt from the lust for power. No need for us to debate that point. What we must do now is put our information together and see if it gives us a clearer picture. Perry, you can begin by telling us exactly how Miss Grainger comes to be in that house.” And unknowingly paraphrasing the words his adored lady had spoken earlier that day, he said, “Begin at the beginning.”

Cranford obliged.

Five minutes later, Florian brought in a pot of coffee and, through a brief silence, crept about distributing mugs.

“Phew!” said Morris.

Falcon raised his mug in salute. “I endorse your sentiments for once, my clod. ‘Phew,' indeed!”

“Are we all of the same mind, then?” asked Sir Owen.

Cranford said, “I've a question or two, if you please. Among their other nasty habits, you mentioned that your murderous League has schemed to acquire great houses and properties. I take it the choices were not haphazard?”

“By no means,” answered Falcon. “They all are strategically situated in the southern counties. Close to a military barracks, an armoury, a harbour, fortress, or some such thing.”

“All of which will be attacked or perhaps sabotaged when the League is ready to strike,” said Sir Owen. “If you weigh the element of surprise 'gainst inefficiency and complacency, the result is likely to be disastrous.”

Cranford nodded thoughtfully. “Next—you spoke of tokens, I think. Jewelled figures that the six leaders use for identification. Why is that necessary? Surely they know their fellow conspirators?”

“Doubtful,” said Morris. “'Tis high treason, dear boy. Their lives depend on absolute secrecy. Were only one of them discovered and put to the question”—he drew a finger across his throat—“an ugly end for the lot!”

“So they wear masks at their meetings,” Falcon put in, “and identify each other by the little jewelled figures. Though their leader, of course, knows who they all are.”

“We believe each man also answers to a number,” added Morris. “And the head of their nasty club, whom they call the Squire, sometimes signs notes with the letter
S.
Which could stand for ‘Squire.'”

“Or for half a hundred other names,” said Falcon blightingly.

Cranford said, “So for all their grandiose plans, they cannot even have trust in each other. If such a desperate group should feel threatened…”

“They'd stop at nothing to protect their dirty skins,” said Sir Owen. “Understandably. But if Ramsey Talbot is right, they have entered into a treasonable agreement with certain gentlemen of France, one of whom just may be Marshal Jean-Jacques Barthélemy.”