Had We Never Loved (22 page)

“Lot,” whispered Amy. “Can we take him?”

“I wish we could, but they'd hear—”

Without warning the donkey uttered an ear-splitting bray.

Glendenning knew that bray now, and at once he flung Amy to the side. A shout, and a dark shape hurled at him from the roof. He was smashed down, but in a quicksilver reaction he rolled, avoided the kick that would have crippled him, and used the blunderbuss as a cudgel. His attacker sprawled motionless. The struggle had alerted the others, however, and they came on the run.

Glendenning sprang up, but stumbled as his ankle buckled, and the shot aimed at his heart burned instead across Lot's flank. The donkey gave a scream of pain and shock, and bolted. The rogues were advancing, tightly bunched until the panicked donkey joined them, the cart sending their mounts into a frenzy as Lot plunged about in wild confusion.

Watching the rout, Glendenning grinned, but knew the respite would be brief. “Call him, or they'll shoot him!”

Amy whistled, and prayed that for once Lot would obey.

Perhaps from a sense of a job well done, or perhaps because he was tired, Lot came trotting to them, leaving chaos in his wake.

Glendenning handed Amy into the cart and sprang in behind her. She snatched up the reins and slapped them on Lot's back. “Giddap!” she cried urgently.

Lot sat down.

“Oh,
Gad!
” groaned Glendenning. “Keep low, Amy!” He crouched, aiming the blunderbuss over the tail of the cart.

The tangle of men and horses was straightening out. A bullet zinged over Glendenning's head.

The sound evidently reminded Lot of another bee that had recently stung his flank. He stood up very fast, and went off at top speed.

The four rogues charged in pursuit, but the path only allowed room for them to ride two abreast, and since none was willing to yield, they suffered an embarrassment that gave Glendenning and Amy a brief lead. Lot knew these woods, and the cart rocked and rattled as he plunged unerringly through the trees. If they could just reach a main road, thought Glendenning, they might have a chance. The ruffians were coming up again, but it was dim under the trees; exposed roots and the thick carpet of twigs and shrubs made the ground treacherous, and the rising wind whipped the branches about, so that their progress was less rapid than it might have been.

Keeping himself between Amy and their pursuers, Glendenning held the blunderbuss levelled. Amy called a warning of low branches. He ducked, and a minute later shouted with delight as one of the men was torn from the saddle. Only three now.

He grabbed for the side as they rocked around a great oak and, jerking himself up again, saw the lead rider aiming a pistol. “Stay back!” he roared, and levelled the blunderbuss, his finger tightening around the trigger. The sight of that yawning brassbound barrel inspired the ruffian to rein aside and fire from cover, but his shot went wide.

It began to rain as they came out onto a lane. The surface was narrow but comparatively level, and there were no trees now to protect them and hamper their pursuers. Had there only been some other riders or vehicles about, the ruffians might have been obliged to give up the chase, but there was no sign of travellers. Glendenning's heart sank as he darted a glance at Amy, so bravely urging Lot onward. God help her, if he was knocked down!

Even as he had the thought, another shot rang out, and the ball whanged into the cart inches from his hand. The lane was widening. If their pursuers spread out, his chances of disabling them with one blast from the blunderbuss would be gone. It was now or never. He took aim, and fired. The roar was deafening. The recoil sent him reeling. Howls of rage and pain, and the shrill neighing of horses rang out, but when he looked back, all the hacks were standing, and only one man lay motionless. Although his two comrades were bloodied, they were mounting up again, and the fellow who had earlier been unhorsed by the tree limb, was galloping to join them. The viscount thought bleakly that a high price must have been set on their lives.

Over the outpouring of rage and profanity, someone shouted, “The bastard's done! He only had that one Betsy! He's good as dead!”

“Not the gal,” came another howl. “We don't want
her
dead!”

The cart lurched wildly, and Glendenning was sent tumbling. The wheels sang a smoother song as he scrambled upright again. They had turned onto a proper roadway. Their pursuers were almost upon them. The sight of their bestial exultant faces sent his eyes flashing to Amy's gracefully swaying figure as she urged Lot onward. Her head turned to him. A smile trembled on her lips, but as her gaze slipped past, he saw fear in her eyes. Rage sustained him. He seized the heavy blunderbuss by the muzzle and began to whirl it over his head. The group of ruffians reined back a little. The leader urged them on, glancing back to scream, “He can't knock us all down, boys! Come—”

The blunderbuss caught him squarely across the neck, and he flew out of the saddle.

Glendenning smiled grimly, and whipped out his sword. With luck, he'd hold off the other two until—

Amy shrieked, “Tio! Look!”

He risked a quick glance around. Praise God, they were coming into some traffic. At last!

A carriage shot past, and then a stagecoach, the passengers staring in astonishment at the plunging donkey cart and its occupants. Some following riders slowed, and one shouted, “Hi! Ain't that Glendenning?” Another man brandished his tricorne. “'Tis, by Jove! Hold up, Tio!”

Instead, he waved them on, and they reined around and followed.

“I say, Glendenning!” called a good-natured young dandy named Sir John Dark. “What's to do? Is't a race?”

“Yes. Only they ain't playing fair! Lend us your escort, Johnny!”

It was all these sporting-mad young bucks needed. With whoops of excitement they closed in around the cart, and became an enthusiastic part of the odd procession galloping along the country road.

Gradually, the thwarted would-be murderers fell back and were at length lost from sight.

*   *   *

“I believe my command of the English language is fair enough,” said the viscount angrily. “But I will repeat my wishes since your hearing is evidently impaired. I require two rooms. One for me and one for the lady. And—”

Stifled giggles arose from the maids peeping around an inner door. The tavern keeper, a large individual with a round red face that seemed to rise neckless from a foaming cravat, interrupted with a contemptuous, “You will do better to try elsewhere, my good man. The Black Gander caters to the gentry, not to the likes of you, and your”—he darted a stern look at Amy—“young woman.”

Glendenning's hand shot out to close in the host's cravat and jerk hard. The host, propelled forward across his rickety old desk, uttered a strangled roar.

“I think you meant to say ‘young lady,'” said Glendenning through clenched teeth.

Both maids were screeching; a stout matron approaching the desk turned to fling her arms about her diminutive husband and implored him to protect her; and two brawny young men ran up and wrenched the viscount back.

Amy had begged Glendenning not to seek shelter at this wayside tavern after his friends had left them, for she had anticipated just such a reception. She belaboured the viscount's attackers with fists and feet, while demanding at the top of her lungs that his lordship be freed.

Displeased when one of his men was launched at speed across the desk, the host raged, “‘His lordship,' is it?” He snatched up a hefty cudgel. “I'll lordship him!”

“You will unhand Viscount Glendenning at once, fellow!” The command, uttered in a stern cultured voice, was reinforced by a sharp crack as a malacca cane slammed down on the desk.

The uproar quieted. Mine host, turning infuriated eyes on the brilliance of Mr. Neville Falcon, was given pause, and looked at Glendenning uncertainly.

The first brawny young man, who was picking himself up from the floor, muttered with grudging admiration, “He don't look like no viscount what I ever see, but he's got a left, surely!”

Glendenning had already freed himself, and was shaking hands with Falcon.

Convinced, the host mumbled a reluctant apology.

A small crowd had gathered to gawk from the windblown gypsy girl to her coatless, dishevelled, and bloodstained young champion. Their stares passed quickly to Mr. Falcon, and lingered on his magnificence. A vision in red and yellow, he demanded a suite, and settled for a bedchamber with small private parlour. Once upstairs, he ordered wine, tea, and cakes, winked at the rosy-cheeked maid and accompanied her to the door. A faint squeal sounded. He closed the door and turned a bland smile on his companions.

Somewhat apprehensively, the viscount performed the introductions. To his relief, the seldom predictable Neville Falcon bowed politely. Amy curtsied with a grace and dignity that surprised both men, then hurried to pour water into the washstand bowl, while commanding that the viscount roll up his sleeve. This was easier said than done, and Glendenning sat at the parlour table and attempted to detach his shirtsleeve from the cut.

“This is a grand coincidence, sir,” he said gratefully. “You'll never know how glad I am to see you!”

Amy hurried to his side. “Don't pull at it! Ye'll start it to bleeding again. Now—just let me.” She went to work gently and with an expertise that spoke of much practice.

“There is nothing in it of coincidence, Horatio.” Falcon pulled up a straight-backed chair and laid hat and cane aside. “In company with half London, it seems, I've been searching for you. In heaven's name, boy—what have you been about? Your mama is worried to death. My son is out with Lieutenant Morris even now, trying to find you.”

Glendenning stared. If Jamie Morris and August Falcon, who barely tolerated each other, had joined forces, there must be a very large roach in the rum. “Ow!” he exclaimed as Amy at last coaxed the sleeve free. Her eyes flew to his face in quick anxiety, and he grinned reassuringly at her.

Watching them, Mr. Falcon complained, “There's the devil to pay and no pitch hot, and here you are cavorting about with this pretty creature, carefree as a colt in buttercup pasture.” He scanned Amy through his glass, and admitted with a chuckle, “Not that I can fault you for that. Jove! Where a'plague did you find her?”

“Say rather that to my great good fortune Miss Consett found me. After I'd—parted company with my horse.”

“Thrown, were you?” Mr. Falcon, who was notorious for his ability to fall from the saddle even when his mount was standing perfectly still, said grandly, “Well, it happens to the best of us. I remember when I'd wagered Seldon I'd race him to Oxford. Don't know if you've his acquaintance. Zachary Troy's sire. Splendid fellow. I hear he's getting leg shackled, by the bye. To Octavia Aynsworth. What a Toast
she
was in her salad days! Not but what your little beauty here couldn't have given her a run for her money. Now where was I? Oh, yes. At all events, there was Seldon and I tearing down the pike road, when I spotted a dairymaid with a crate of eggs fallen off the tail of her cart. Most shapely little filly you ever laid eyes on! I pulled up so sharp I went tail over head. Landed in the curst eggs. Jove, how we laughed the pair of us! And later on—”

“Your pardon, sir,” Glendenning intervened hurriedly, “but you were going to tell me about my mama and some kind of trouble.”

“Burn it, so I was! What a fellow I am! And the devil's in it that I can't give you many facts. Thought it was you at first, Horatio. But now I'm inclined to think it's Templeby he's after.”

Startled, Glendenning raised his eyes from the long gash Amy was bathing with gentle hands. “My brother? What's he been about? And who is after him?”

“Been plunging devilish deep, I can tell you. Surprised you ain't heard.”

“I knew he'd been playing at the Cocoa Tree, but—”

“And at the alluring Alvelley's.”

“The deuce he has! I'm damned sure they load the dice at her house. Has she got her hooks into him, then?”

“Very likely. Don't know to what extent, mind. But it must be serious to bring your mama to Falcon House in tears.”

“
What?
Lady Nola turned to you? Why on earth—?”

“No call to shout, dear boy. She turned to August, not me. And she didn't really
turn
to him, exactly. Came to Town hoping to find you.”

“Damnation!” Glendenning's clenched fist pounded at the table, causing the water to slop over the side of the bowl.

Amy said, “Tio, how can I bandage this nasty cut if you keeps jumping about?”

He subsided, but declared fiercely, “My mama never weeps! She is one of the bravest women I know. What did she tell you, sir?”

“Not a word, I promise you. Her la'ship frightens me to death when she's
slightly
put out. In
tears?
God bless my soul! I ran like a rabbit!”

“Fiend seize it! Of all times to have dropped out of sight, just when she needed me!”

“I agree. But you really should curb your language in front of your pretty piece, Tio. And—”

“Miss Consett is
not
my ‘pretty piece,'” said the viscount, bristling.

“Whatever you say, dear lad.” Mr. Falcon laid one chubby finger alongside his nose and winked conspiratorially. “But
I
think she's very pretty indeed, and if you don't want her, I'll—”

Glendenning stood, causing Amy, who had been stifling a smile, to moan with frustration. “Sir,” he said, with crushing courtesy, “I am beholden to you for helping us, and for the warning you have brought. You will forgive, an I leave you.”

“Well, I won't.” Mr. Falcon waved a dismissing hand, and said airily, “'Tis not a speck of use your getting all starched up with me, Tio. Used to it. August does it all the time. Besides, ain't told you everything yet. Ah, here is our pretty little maid.” He rose to usher the blushing parlourmaid into the room. “Put it here, my pretty. Move that bowl, if you will, Miss Consent. There, now we may be comfortable.”