Never Doubt I Love (34 page)

“Confound it,” snarled Lady Buttershaw. “That fool of a butler has left the casement unlocked! Small wonder the drapery was rattling. There is an icy blast coming in here! Damme,
why
is it so curst difficult to find reliable servants nowadays? We might all have been murdered in our beds!”

The casement was pulled shut and the lock slammed down.

Lady Julia said, “I scarce think that likely, Clara, since this window is upstairs and so close to the flambeaux. Still, you are right. Arbour must be taken to task.”

“He
shall
be! I'll ring for the bird brain this very instant! He deserves to be rousted out of his bed!”

“No doubt, but not at this present, if you please. I want to have a word with you about Jean…”

The sisters walked away, their voices and the lamplight fading.

It seemed an eternity before a door closed.

Zoe tottered back to her room, fell onto the bed and wept. This spy business was intended for stronger spirits than hers! She had never been so frightened in her life! At least, when she had been almost caught before, she'd been holding Boadicea, and had a perfectly logical reason for being downstairs. If she had been found this time, whatever reason could she have given for lurking about under the drapery? What would Lady Buttershaw have done to her? Her only hope must have been that Lady Julia would not allow her throat to have been cut on the spot!

She blew her nose and thought disgustedly, ‘Oh,
why
do I have to be such a coward?' But coward or no, she had learned
something,
so perhaps even a cowardly spy was better than no spy at all!

C
HAPTER
XIV

While not as fashionable as White's, or Brookse's, or the Cocoa Tree, the Madrigal suited Sir Owen Furlong. It was conveniently near to his little house in Bond Street, the rooms were very clean, the play not too steep, and the food excellent. If the cream of the Top Ten Thousand disdained it, some of London's leading writers, wits, and artists did not, and it was beginning to acquire a reputation for fine dining and stimulating conversation.

Furlong had spent the morning at East India House in a fruitless attempt to see Lord Hayes or Lieutenant Skye. He returned to the Madrigal at noon, to find Cranford waiting for him in a quiet ante room, his expression such that Furlong chose his words with care.

Ignoring an enquiry as to whether he'd seen Morris today, Cranford growled that it was not necessary to “tittup about” and that if Sir Owen thought the bruise on his temple was colourful, he should blasted well see the one on his hip. “More to the point,” he went on before his friend could respond, “have you seen
her?
”

Without evasion Furlong answered, “Today? No. Miss Benevento intended to walk with her this morning, I believe. Though in this beast of a wind, I doubt—”

“Oh, that won't stop Miss Zoe,” snorted Cranford bitterly. “The silly chit has not the sense to keep out of the rain, yet thinks herself capable of playing Heroic Spy for us and outwitting the Buttershaw! Damme, but I
could
not make her understand she must leave that accursed house!”

Furlong said gently, “I am very sure she did not mean—”

“Have done! I let a slip of a girl best me. No need to wrap it in clean linen. Half London witnessed the fiasco, I dare swear, for which I've no one to blame but myself.” Cranford glared at the window until Furlong wondered the glass did not crack, then declared with a sort of rough desperation, “I wanted no part of her from the start! You'll recollect that.”

“Oh, yes, indeed. You said she was a—er, repulsive screecher, as I—”

“The devil I did! As if I—” He checked. It seemed to Furlong that he winced, and his voice broke. “Well, and I was a fool,” he continued huskily. “But … Oh, dash it all, Owen! Why must females be so … so…”

“So—female?” Touched by the despair in his friend's face, Furlong said, “Heaven knows, Perry. I do not. Never have been able to understand the pretty creatures.”

Cranford sighed, and Furlong said, “I think you have become—”

Morris flung the door open, exclaiming, “Run you to earth at last, Owen! You'll not believe what—” Catching sight of Cranford, he halted, and gasped, “Perry! My poor fellow!” He grinned broadly. “Are you much hurt?”

“Why should I be hurt?” said Cranford, glaring at him.

“Heard a lady tried to push you into the Thames and that you took a proper header.” Morris chuckled. “Bertie Crisp said—”

Cranford, who cried friends with the popular young marquis, growled, “I might have known 'twould be that cork-brained thimble-wit! I collect Bertie was rowing with the Thames watermen again, and could not wait to spread his gossip all over Town!”

“Well, of course.” Unaware of Furlong's frantic gestures, Morris blundered on merrily, “Whatever would you expect? You old rascal! If anyone had told me you were the kind to cavort with some pretty wench in the clear light of day, I'd—”

He recoiled with a gasp as Cranford sprang up to seize him by the cravat and snarl into his shocked face, “She is not a
wench,
damn your eyes!”

Morris tried to free himself, and stammered, “I'm—ah, very sorry. But—but I thought—”

“You haven't thought in years!” Cranford released him with a jerk, picked up his cane, and limped to the door. “Make mock of me if it entertains you. But, I warn you, leave the lady out of it!”

“No—Perry, wait! I don't even know who—”

Cranford wrenched the door open and said savagely, “I begin to think August Falcon is right about you, Morris! Be damned if I don't!” The door slammed behind him.

“Jove!” said Morris glumly. “I properly put m'foot in m'mouth, didn't I?”

“Both feet,” confirmed Furlong.

“Then, I take it the lady in question was Miss Grainger. Has Perry lost his wits? He's no rake! And even a rake would know better than to kiss a lady in public.”

“True,” said Furlong. “I rather suspect he became exasperated. He's not the most placid fellow I ever met, and—well, he was trying to persuade her to go away from Yerville Hall, only she has it in her mind that she can be of help to us by staying there. Which,” he added thoughtfully, “she can indeed.”

“Dashed plucky of her,” said Morris. “But 'twould be a chancy business. Small wonder Perry don't want her to—”

The door opened. Cranford put his head around it and said shamefacedly, “My apologies, Jamie. My curst stupid temper. The truth is, I'm furious with myself—not with you. May I please be forgiven?”

Morris was the last man to hold a grudge; hands were wrung, backs pounded, apologies accepted, and wine ordered. They gathered comfortably around the hearth, and Cranford told these two good friends exactly what had transpired on the riverbank. He did not spare himself, and when he finished, Morris said kindly, “Poor fellow. I am so sorry. Gad, but we have troubles with our
affaires de coeur!
Even if she should decide she wanted to, Falcon won't let his sister marry
me;
he don't have the sense to know where
his
heart lies; and your lady has refused
you!
Furlong's the only one whose romance prospers, dashed if he ain't!”

Sir Owen grinned. “Ah, but perhaps 'tis just that I've not yet flown my colours. You may be very sure I don't mean to rush the lady.”

“I didn't rush Miss Zoe,” said Cranford indignantly. “I've known her for two weeks! I doubt my parents met more than once, and that well chaperoned, before they stood at the altar together!”

“Different nowadays, dear boy,” Morris pointed out. “Ladies like to be pursued. I fancy Miss Grainger thought you didn't mean it.”

“Didn't
mean
it?” spluttered Cranford. “Why the deuce would I—”

“She's likely heard the talk,” explained Morris reasonably. “Everyone knows you were mad for the Laxton. And then to kiss Miss Grainger out of doors and in a public place!” He pursed his lips. “Not respectful, Perry. I'll wager she thought it wasn't marriage you had in mind.”

Cranford rose out of his chair with a roar of wrath.

Furlong, who had fought laughter through this exchange, intervened hurriedly. “No, no! Come down out of the boughs, Perry! Jamie's as tactful as any crocodile, but he may have a point, you know. And we've other matters to consider.”

Cranford glowered at him, then drove a hand through his hair and sat down again, muttering, “Lord! What a fool I am! You're right, of course. The important thing is that the lady be protected from her sweet self. I did not call on her yesterday. Want her to have time to forgive me. But I daren't leave it much longer!” A hunted look came into his eyes. “When I think of the little soul in that great grim house, with that awful woman…!”

Furlong said, “We can check on her through Miss Benevento, praise heaven. And Tummet is watching the house. If we—”

A knock at the door interrupted him, and Florian came in to give Cranford a letter. “It was brought round from Sir Owen's house on Bond Street, sir,” he said in his mellow voice. “I thought it might be important.”

Cranford thanked him, and as he bowed and left them, handed the letter to Furlong. “Looks like your brother's awful scrawl.”

Furlong broke the seal, read eagerly for a few seconds, then exclaimed, “Damn that fool! Derek sent this to Town by special messenger, and Gideon's new man has let it sit for two days! The
Lady Aranmore
is safe anchored in Bristol Harbour, I thank God!”

“Hooray!” cried Morris leaping up in his excitement.

Cranford stood also and asked anxiously, “Does he mention young Grainger—or whatever he's calling himself?”

Furlong read on, and answered, “Yes, by George! Here it is! ‘
Mr. Grant,
the mystery passenger I told you of, has—' (Oh, Gad!) ‘has disappeared!'” Morris gave a groan, Cranford swore, and Furlong read on, “‘I saw him rolling on…' (somebody's) ‘neck?' (Confound Derek! That can't be right! Why did he never learn how to form his letters properly?) ‘I saw him…' (Ah!)
‘strolling
on the
quarter-deck
the night before we expected to make port. We were delayed for thirty-six hours by a heavy fog that obliged us to ride at anchor outside the harbour. During that time, Mr. Grant disappeared. As you know he had offered…' (no!) ‘
suffered
a severe illness and was not fully recovered. I fear he must have become faint and fallen overboard. Now I am further delayed by a great many' (something) ‘idiots demanding to know what happened to the poor fellow.'” Sir Owen paused and glanced at Cranford's stern face. “He may have decided to swim for it, you know, fearing what might await him when they docked.”

“True.” Cranford threw on his cloak. “But it would be a taxing swim for a sick man. Does Derek say anything more?”

Furlong ran his eyes swiftly down the page. “Not about Grainger—or Grant.”

Morris said gloomily, “Likely he was knifed and tossed overboard.”

Watching Cranford limp to the door, Furlong called, “Do you go to warn Miss Grainger?”

“Of course.”

“Then carry a pistol with you. And keep in mind that Tummet will be in the Square garden. He's a good man in a brawl.”

Cranford scarcely heard him. All he could think of was that he must get to Zoe. He prayed she would not refuse to see him.

*   *   *

It rained steadily throughout the night, but although Zoe was awake, she scarcely heard it. Her mind was so full of conjectures and anxieties that sleep was out of the question, and not until the early morning did she doze off at last. Gorton brought in her breakfast at eight o'clock and drew back the window curtains on a blustery grey morning. The rain had stopped, but the sky was leaden, and a stiff wind snatched leaves from the trees and chased them into a colourful Autumn scamper across the sodden lawn.

Gorton looked surprised when Zoe told her that she meant to take Cromwell to the park today, but she said nothing. Zoe found covert glances coming her way, and realized she must look as heavy-eyed as she felt. She exerted herself to be cheerful, and evidently succeeded, as Gorton was soon chatting easily.

There was, she said, a great to-do. Lady Buttershaw had left a note for her maid commanding that Mr. Arbour wait upon her at ten o'clock, precisely. “The time,” said Gorton, lowering her voice and looking solemn, “was
underlined
and followed by two exclamation points. A sure sign that my lady was vexed. And poor Mr. Arbour like to suffer a nervous spasm, wondering whatever he's done to offend.”

Zoe felt a twinge of guilt. If the butler lost his situation, it would be her fault, but how to remedy the matter she could not think. For the moment her most urgent need was to find Maria and relay to Sir Owen (or Peregrine) the conversation she'd heard last night.

Coachman Cecil suggested politely that Miss Zoe might consider taking the dog for his walk along the Thames today. After the heavy rains, the park, he said, would likely be “a mucky set-out.” He adored Zoe, and when she proved adamant he voiced no more objections. Once they reached the park, however, it was very clear that his warning had been justified. Most of the pathways had become long puddles, and the grassy areas more closely resembled a bog. There were no strollers to be seen, and no sign of Maria's neat coach. Zoe alighted at the corner of Great George Street, and she and Gorton walked as far as Horse Guards Parade, but the wind was biting. Cromwell investigated railings and areaway steps with his usual verve, but Zoe saw that Gorton was shivering and clutching her thin cloak tightly about her. Seething with frustration, she realized there was nothing for it but to turn back. She kept a hopeful eye on the traffic, but to no avail. At the corner, a frigid blast met them, and she was almost as pleased as Gorton when Coachman Cecil came up and guided the team into the kennel beside them.