Had We Never Loved (24 page)

“You keep telling everyone you have no friends. Bad business, August. Day may dawn when you need one. You give a shout for help and there's not a friend in the foundry. Then what—”

“Rubbish!” Falcon reached for the door handle. “The day I call on
any
man for help will be a scorching day in December! And don't call me August, blast your hide!”

The door of the Black Galleon tavern was flung open, and a noisy group of gentlemen came out, to pause, groaning, and turn up the capes of their cloaks as they encountered the pouring rain. Holding the door for Falcon, one offered a kindly warning. “Devilish slow inside, old boy. Long wait for a table.”

“Is all I needed,” grunted Falcon.

The parlour was crowded, the air in the shabby but good-sized dining room wreathed with smoke, fragrant with the smells of ale and cooking, and ringing with talk and laughter.

Morris had to raise his voice to be heard. “Shouldn't stop. We made a late start as it was.”

Falcon took off his tricorne and emptied the water from the brim into a dirty tankard. “If we started late, 'twas because, thanks to your blasted persistence, I was unable to get to my bed until three. Furthermore—” He paused as an harassed barmaid was sufficiently diverted by his good looks as to come and take their wet garments.

“There's a party leaving in the corner, sir,” she advised, fluttering her lashes at Falcon. “If you gents look sharp, you'll get it.”

He slipped a shilling into her hand, and asked with a smile, “Which corner, bright eyes?”

“Alongside the painting.” She nodded her head to a table near the fire.

Someone shouted an irate “Millie! What became of our pork pies?”

“Coming!” she howled, and, with a promise to bring them ale as quick as she could, she was gone.

Falcon shouldered his way through the good-natured crowd and commandeered the table, nimbly sidestepping a boozy-looking man who had been reeling about, getting in everyone's way, and who at once whined that he and his friend had “b'n here firs'!”

“Then you should have sat down first,” said Falcon carelessly.

The boozy man fussed and fumed and went reeling off, obliging the gathering with his assessment of ‘ins'lent puppies.'

Unmoved, Falcon glanced around and saw that Morris had halted and was staring up at the nearby picture. This portrayed a slim young army officer who stood with arms folded and one booted foot nonchalantly crossed over the other. The uniform was magnificent, the sword very much in evidence, and the white horse against which the officer leaned was very fiery of eye, and flowing of mane, its nostrils flaring so that one might almost hear the snort.

“If that ain't just like Morris.” The mocking observation came in an undervoice from a large overdressed individual seated with a group of friends at an adjacent table. Falcon turned his head idly. The speaker was about five and thirty, with a belligerent air and a bitter mouth. He had laughed loudly when Falcon commandeered the table, and had met the boozy man's resentful glance with a contemptuous stare and a suggestive easing of his sword in the scabbard. Falcon had judged him a bullying crudity, and a second look gave him no reason to change his initial opinion.

In response to a murmured question from one of his cronies, the large man laughed. “Saw service with him in the Low Countries. Not worth a damn on the field, but the veriest blockhead off it! Had I not been there to put the sabre in his hand and tell him which way was the enemy, he'd likely have forgot what he was there for. And so shy around the females one might have fancied him straight from the nursery.” He laughed again. “I recollect once—” He gave a start as the thong of a whip dropped into his tankard. “What the devil, sir?” he demanded, twisting around in his chair, his face one great scowl.

“I do not understand your question,” drawled Falcon. “Pray be more explicit.”

“Your damned whip is in my damned ale! Is that explicit enough for you?”

“My apologies. I certainly did not intend to disturb your ale. I'd fancied I aimed at a braying jackass. A mistake, no doubt. The host would certainly not allow such a creature to sit with gentlemen.”

There was a concerted gasp.

The bully was a good head taller and two stone heavier than Falcon, and he knew an easy mark when he saw one. His chair scraped back as he sprang to his feet. His hand dropped to the hilt of his sword, and he towered over the slighter man with undisguised menace. “By God, sir!” he said with a ferocious grin, “I'll let some of your blood for that impudence!” Becoming aware of the alien shape of Falcon's eyes, he added, “Whatever you are!”

Falcon drew back his whip, and flicked it fastidiously, causing ale to splash his victim's red velvet coat. “Are you a competent swordsman?” he enquired, making no attempt to rise. “I do not care to waste my time with amateurs.”

Accustomed to inspiring terror in those he threatened, the bully was rendered momentarily speechless. “Of all the…,” he spluttered, then, “the confounded
gall!
I've sliced up better than you, you dandified curst foreigner! Get on—”

“Ryan!” One of the men at his table had been staring at Falcon, and now jumped up and caught his friend's arm. He spoke rapidly behind his hand. The large man's eyes grew round, and his flush receded, leaving him very pale. He looked at Falcon intently, gave a gulp, and stammered in a far different tone, “I—er— Your pardon, sir, an I offended. I was only funning. Lieutenant Morris is—”

“A splendid fighting man, and a fine gentleman,” said Falcon coldly.

“Oh—yes!” With a ghastly grin the bully mumbled, “Yes, indeed! I had not known you was togeth— That is, I wasn't aware he was a friend of yours, sir.”

“'Tis said we may learn something each day we live. Provided we go on living, of course. To which end, I expect you will wish to take your departure? Yes?”

Ten seconds later, another table became vacant.

Falcon watched the retreat thoughtfully, then called above the din, “Hey! Morris!”

Morris started, and came to join him. “Dashed silly thing to do,” he remarked, sitting down as two groups scrambled to claim the available table.

Falcon looked at him from the corners of his eyes. “I expect you know what you mean,” he said carefully.

“Fellow in the picture,” explained Morris. “Shouldn't go about leaning on horses in that fashion. From the look of the brute 'twas ready to rear up. Then where would he have been? I ask you?”

Falcon told him. Succinctly.

“Hum. Well, go on.”

“Go on—where?”

“You said ‘furthermore.'”

“I did? When? Last year?”

“Just now. Gad, but if that ain't typical of you, Lord Haughty-Snort! 'Tis a rare peacock can remember the egg!'”

Falcon put a hand over his eyes and moaned.

“You said,” prompted Morris, “you'd been kept from your bed 'til three, and—”

“Ah, yes. And furthermore, I am at a loss to know why we go to Owen Furlong's country house. Lacking my own keen discernment, Glendenning's life is fairly littered with addle-pates he fancies to be his friends. Why trudge all the way to Kent?”

“No, is it?” said Morris, surprised.

Falcon regarded him steadily.

The corner of Morris' mouth twitched. “Thought it was Sussex,” he said demurely. “I chose Furlong because he and Tio have been friends forever, and I heard he stood by poor Kit Aynsworth when Kit ran afoul of Colonel Fotheringay. And any fellow who would stick by a friend through Fotheringay is a Trojan!”

“Do you say,” said Falcon, sorting the wheat from the chaff, “that we travel through this repellent storm and endure untold hardship for no more substantial reason than that you admire Furlong? Ye Gods!”

Morris pursed up his lips and at length entered a reinforcing, “Sort of man I'd turn to was I in a fix. Thought young Templeby might do the same if he ain't been able to come up with his brother. Wouldn't be surprised if Tio would look for him there. If I'm wrong, I suppose we could try that Minnie fellow. Do you know who he is?”

“Minnie … fellow…?”

“Odd sort of name for a gentleman, eh? My thought exactly. But then for the life of me I only understood half of what the lady said.”

“Stupéfiant,”
muttered Falcon to the ceiling. “Who is this baffling female, pray tell?”

“You know perfectly well. Lady Bowers-Malden. You heard her say it same as I did. Something to do with mice.”

Falcon put back his head and closed his eyes. Opening them after a moment's cogitation, he said, “I think I have it. Truly, I am astounded. Lady Nola said, an I recall, that to ask my father for assistance would be like setting a mouse after the Minotaur.”

“That's the fellow!” said Morris triumphantly. “D'you know him?”

Tapping the end of his riding crop against his chin, Falcon answered with his rare and sweet smile, “He just left. But I assure you he'd have been a proper bull in a china shop.”

“Rats,” said James Morris, disappointed.

*   *   *

The Earl of Bowers-Malden had been blessed by two happy marriages. There were times, however, when even so contented a husband suffered moments of exasperation, and on these occasions he had been heard to mutter that when the Good Lord made woman He had lost the recipe half-way through. If his countess was within hearing distance she would invariably riposte with a twinkle that the Good Lord had thereupon
improved
upon the recipe. At this moment, however, feeling big and clumsy and ill at ease in the tiny village shop, Lord Horatio was much inclined to agree with his sire. He scowled at the curtain from beyond which came the murmur of female voices. The dragon of a matron who ran the place had fixed him with such a look when he'd brought Amy into her establishment! He'd felt his face burn, and had scarce known where to look.

Amy had warned him. “She'll suppose ye're trying to make yer new peculiar more respectable,” she'd jeered. “What you going to say then?”

In the event, he'd fought to sound like a viscount instead of a shivering schoolboy, and had surprised himself by saying firmly that he wanted Miss Consett garbed as befitted a young lady. Mrs. Wilks, her arms crossed upon a vast bosom that swelled wrathfully, had rested a pitying glance upon Amy, then fixed the Wicked Lecher with a baleful glare and said she was “Just closing.”

Quelled, Glendenning had prepared to evacuate, but Amy had saved the day by dropping a curtsy, and saying in her most refined voice that she would be ever so grateful if marm would keep her shop open just for a little while. “I do want my family to be proud of me,” she'd said wistfully.

Startled, but at once taking advantage of the indecision that had appeared in Mrs. Wilks' stern eyes, his lordship had put in a remark that there was to be no quibbling over expense. After a moment's hesitation, curiosity and greed had overpowered the upright proprietor. Mrs. Wilks had conducted Amy to a rear alcove, drawing the curtain closed while regarding the viscount with a glare that clearly bespoke her willingness to deal with him did he dare attempt an entrance.

There had then ensued a flurry of whispers interspersed with occasional Well I never's, Bless my soul's, and Fancy that's. He had shrunk when the curtain was opened just sufficiently for Mrs. Wilks to squeeze past, but instead of recriminations, she had beamed upon him, and begged that he sit and have a cup of tea while he waited. A young girl with a head cold, a thousand freckles, and a painful shyness had been summoned to make tea “for his lordship.” Mrs. Wilks had bustled about, gathering up gowns and petticoats, stockings and shoes, ribands, and dainty articles that were hurriedly whisked from sight. These were all conveyed to the sacrosanct precincts behind the curtain, from whence came sounds of stress, giggles, and more whisperings.

At this point the freckled lass sniffed herself into view, carrying a laden tray. She poured his lordship a cup of tea, most of which went into the saucer. His attempt to set her at ease by smiling his friendliest smile and pointing out that he had freckles too, resulted in the lifting of two red-rimmed blue eyes to his face, and an adoring expression that appalled him.

Mrs. Wilks did battle with the curtain again, and rushed past. “Imagine!” she said, returning with her arms full of caps and shawls. “
Poor
little dear! You're a fine Christian man, sir! That you are!” Still beaming, she disappeared around the billowing curtain, leaving Glendenning to indeed imagine—with considerable apprehension—the drama Amy might have concocted for her.

He was finishing his fourth cup of tea when the curtain opened.

“Close your eyes, my lord,” commanded Mrs. Wilks.

Since he was fairly sure by now that she did not intend to inflict bodily harm upon him, he obeyed.

A rustling. Then, “You can look, sir,” said Amy.

He opened his eyes and almost dropped the cup.

A vision stood before him. A petite, shyly mischievous, delectably feminine creature, all glowing youth and loveliness from the dainty ruffles of her cap to the hem of her pale pink travelling gown. Her glossy hair had been brushed into fat ringlets that flirted with her shoulders. From under many petticoats a tiny high-heeled shoe was revealed as she held out her skirts and promenaded for him, her velvety dark eyes watching him with something between nervousness and laughter.

The proud proprietor slipped a maroon cloak around Amy's shoulders, and said something, but Glendenning couldn't have told what it was. He was vaguely aware of paying his reckoning, thanking Mrs. Wilks, and ushering Amy to the waiting carriage. The wheels were rolling again, the hooves were pounding, and still he was benumbed. She was exquisite! A rare beauty from the top of her head to the tip of her toes. He'd noticed at the start that she was a lovely creature. He'd not begun to realize just how lovely. Properly dressed, she would take London by storm. She could be groomed, educated—though she had a fair start on her education already, and—