Had We Never Loved (27 page)

“Poor old duck,” said Amy, peering up at him anxiously. “Ye looks proper gut-foundered.”

Reeling, the earl nonetheless managed to declare in tones calculated to freeze Salome in the middle of her dance, that he was neither old nor a duck.

“No, but you better eat, 'cause you do look poorly. It's always the way with big co—men,” she imparted, pulling him along with her. “They got to keep their strength up. Don't you worry, mate. I'll see you get fed.”

With a muffled snort, the earl pulled free so violently that he cracked his elbow on an armoire chest and had to grip his lips together to keep from swearing.

Amy's arm went around him. “Here, just lean on me. You'll feel better once you got—pop something in yer—your belly.”

The earl started a furious rejoinder, but she smiled up at him with such radiance that he experienced the odd sensation that the sun had broken through the clouds and lit this rather gloomy hall. Jove, but she was a pretty little chit. The ridiculous aspects of the situation began to intrigue him. He chuckled and entered the farce. “The breakfast room is over here, miss,” he whispered, and opened the door, hoping it was still too early for many servants to be about.

They weren't, but because he had sent a courier on before him, and was expected by eight o'clock, the sideboard had been prepared, and the covered tureens were ready. He ushered Amy inside.

“Here,” she said, pausing uncertainly. “You won't get turned off, will you? I mean, is—are you let eat in here?”

“Occasionally, yes,” he said. “But thank you for your kind concern. Perhaps you'll allow me to serve you?”

“With what, mate? There ain't nowt to serve.”

He grinned, pulled out a chair for her, then crossed to the sideboard and began to dish out eggs and bacon and kidneys and buttered muffins. Placing a full plate before her, he excused himself, went swiftly into the large breakfast parlour and gave an imperative tug on the bell rope. Rejoining Amy a few minutes later, he carried a fragrant pot of coffee which he set beside her. “Now,” he said, “we may be comfortable.”

“I don't know about comfortable,” she said dubiously. “I can't help but feel sorry for 'em, you know, Mr.—What's your name? Me good man,” she added, since she was Tio's guest, and must act the part of a nob.

“Gregory,” he said, enjoying himself more by the minute. “And yours, ma'am?”

“Miss Consett. You gotta eat more than that! Big cove like you. Better grab some of them—those there pork slices. Don't no one take care of you?”

“Alas, no,” he lied, callously disposing of his beloved wife and family, countless relatives and friends, and an army of loyal retainers. He selected a slice of cold pork and conveyed his laden plate to the table. “But—do tell me, why are you sorry for the—er, folks that lives here?”

She threw a glance at the doors and, forgetting her status, leaned closer. “Well, I don't think Horatio likes living here much,” she said confidingly. “And I reckon I wouldn't, neither.”

Frowning a little, he asked, “Did Lord Glendenning tell you he doesn't like the abbey?”

“No, but it's plain as the nose on yer phiz,” she answered, daintily licking jam from her thumb. “His old man's got a proper bad case of the dafts.”

Fascinated, he murmured, “Indeed?”

“Must have, poor old gaffer.” She waved a piece of bacon at him. “What gent in his right mind would stick pictures up on the ceiling where anyone's going to get a crick in their neck looking at 'em? Unless he didn't like 'em, maybe, only I thought they was quite nice.”

At this point the earl, who had choked over his coffee, was obliged to resort to wiping his eyes with his napkin. Amy left her chair to pound him on the back, urge him to drink some water, and enquire with warm solicitude if he was better.

He said gratefully that she was a “kind-hearted creature,” and after she had returned to her chair, he asked breathlessly, “What do you suppose caused Bowers-Malden to be short of a sheet? I've heard his son and heir is something of a serpent's tooth. Perhaps he drove the earl to—”

Indignant, she interrupted. “What, Lord Horatio? Stuff! They don't come no finer than Tio.” A dreaming look came into her eyes. She sighed wistfully, then realized her companion was staring at her with a rather odd expression. She added hastily, “No, mate. I 'spect it's this house what done it. Give the earl the miseries, I mean. After all, it ain't a proper house, is it? So awful big and lonely.” Being a fair-minded girl, she sought about for some redeeming feature, then amended, “Well, I 'spect you could play a good game of bowls in lots of the rooms. But they got the funniest table in their big dining room, with the cloth stuck down and all green and furry, so how they'd ever wash it I don't know. I suppose it's all of a piece, 'cause if they live in places like this it's small wonder most of the Quality's clear off their tibbys!”

Lord Gregory Bowers-Malden threw back his leonine head and roared with laughter.

“You young dog,” he growled at his son half an hour later, “how dared you slip your bit o' muslin into the house whilst we was all away? I can well imagine what the servants thought!”

The viscount had been so exhausted when he went to bed that he'd expected to sleep soundly. Thunder had awoken him at two o'clock, however, and between the following storm, his aching ankle, and his many anxieties, he had not slept again. He was still somewhat bemused by the shock of seeing his formidable sire stamp into his bedchamber, but he had never been able to follow the earl's example and act as if the servants were invisible. Turning from his dressing table, he dismissed Whittlesey and took up his wig. When the door had closed behind the valet, he said quietly, “Miss Consett is not a bit o' muslin, sir. Once you meet her—”

“Been chatting with her this thirty minutes and more,” boomed the earl, marching over to fling open another casement in the already cool room.

Glendenning held his breath, waiting for the storm.

“She's an entertaining chit,” said Bowers-Malden. “The common folk have an innate honesty 'twould behoove us all to emulate. Even so, Glendenning, I—Good God!” Staring at his son's reflected face, he moved closer. “What the deuce has happened t'ye, boy? Never say you went out with that devil Falcon?” One muscular hand touched the viscount's hair very gently. “Caught you in the head, did he? That worthless rogue! I trust you gave as good as you got?”

The smile that accompanied the last words was not quite steady, and to his astonishment Glendenning saw that the freckles, so like his own, which dusted the bridge of his sire's nose, stood out in sharp relief against a sudden pallor. Lady Nola had tried often to convince him that the earl loved him, but he had been very sure his father not only did not give a button for him, but held him in contempt. The fear now so evident in the pale green eyes quite unmanned him, and for an instant he was unable to reply.

Bowers-Malden's hand dropped to his shoulder. “My dear boy,” he said in a tone Horatio had not heard for years, “you
are
all right?”

Perhaps because he was so bewildered, Glendenning's slim fingers flew with involuntary and betraying speed to cover his father's hand. Amazement was succeeded by an emotion so deep that even when he could command his voice it was very gruff. “I am quite all right, sir … I thank you.”

Embarrassment at such a display of affection then seized these two very British gentlemen. Bowers-Malden grunted and took himself to the door and back. Glendenning picked up his wig again, and made an effort to speak lightly. “If you have been chatting with Miss Consett, I'd have thought she would have told you the truth of the matter, sir.”

Having recovered his composure, the earl chuckled, and tossed his massive frame into a chair. “She was much too busy giving me her evaluation of this horrid old house, and her assessment of the mental deficiency of most members of the Quality.”

Glendenning groaned. “I can well believe it! Sir, pray do not take umbrage. She means not a bit of harm.”

“I doubt I have laughed so much in years, nor seen a lovelier little armful. For how long has she been under your protection? You'd have done well to get her instruction in proper behaviour, Horatio, if only for her own sake.”

Having adjusted the wig carefully over his scarred head, Glendenning drew a chair closer to his father. If he was very adroit, this might be a perfect opportunity to try and win the old fellow over. “Miss Consett is not under my protection, sir,” he began. “At least, not in the way you infer. The fact is that I was set upon in the woods, and she very bravely intervened, and saved my life.”

“What?”
The earl jerked forward, his face flushing darkly. “Have you called in Bow Street? Have you sent hunters after the swine? Hell and the devil confound 'em! That a British peer should be attacked by such vermin!” He sprang up, then sat down again. Breathing hard, his eyes sparking, he demanded, “Tell me the whole.”

Glendenning told him considerably less than the whole, fabricating a tale wherein he had chased a pickpocket into the woods and been attacked by more ruffians. Amy's intrepid rescue he did detail, however, sending Bowers-Malden into shattering whoops of laughter.

“By Jupiter, but she's a Trojan,” declared the earl, driving his fist onto the arm of the chair with such force his son wondered it did not splinter to fragments. “Lived nearby, did she?”

“Er, yes, sir. With her uncle, who is a most talented artist, and—”

“Is that so? And he let you carry her off, eh? Knew which side his bread was buttered on, and I do not blame the fellow one whit! You owe the gel, Horatio, be damned if y'don't. With some schooling and the right gowns, you'll be able to take her out in public without having to hide your head in a basket. Likely, you'll have to pension her off when you take a bride, though, and that's always a devilish business.”

Nerving himself, Glendenning stood. “Sir,” he said, “Mistress Amy Consett is the loveliest, the most brave and warmhearted lady I have ever—”

“She's warm-hearted, all right,” interposed the earl with enthusiasm. “D'you know, the chit worried because she fixed it in her pretty head that I don't eat enough. Asked if no one took care of me!” His laugh rumbled out again. “I'm glad to see your ability to select diamonds of the first water ain't deserted you, after all, my boy.”

“Thank you, sir. And since you are so anxious that I marry soon—”

“Aha!” Standing also, the earl asked, “Found a suitable lady, have you?”

He looked so eager, his eyes bright with affection. Glendenning's heart sank. He had only just realized that the dear old fellow cared for him. To have to hurt him so soon after that revelation was cruelly hard. He hesitated, trying desperately to find the proper words.

Bowers-Malden noted that hesitancy. His heir was properly tongue-tied. Likely hadn't worked up the courage to fix his interest with his chosen lady. Damme, if his hands weren't trembling, and he looked deuced ill. This was no time to pinch at him. “Never mind, lad,” he said kindly. “I've no longer any doubt but that you'll bring home a viscountess who will prove a worthy companion to your mama and Marguerite, and do honour to us all.” His son still looked troubled, and he added a reinforcing, “For a while there, you had me worrying lest you might plump for some cit's daughter, or someone even more rankly ineligible, like a—a gel from a flower shop, or even—ha! ha!—a pretty gypsy!” Much amused by this good joke, his clap on the back sent Glendenning staggering.

And it was no use. He just couldn't bring himself to speak the words that would devastate his father. Especially since the unknown menace that the Terrier constituted might very well add to the earl's woes soon enough. With an answering smile, Glendenning decided that he would first resolve Michael's dilemma, whatever it was, and then strive to win Lady Nola's support in the matter of his own romantic difficulties.

The earl declared his intention to call in his man of affairs and set about tracking down the murderous rogues who had attacked his heir. With difficulty Glendenning managed to extricate himself from an immediate involvement in this plan, and at length was able to escape. Bowers-Malden stamped off briskly in the direction of study and secretary, and Glendenning hurried in search of his love.

Lady Nola's personal footman intercepted him as he reached the head of the stairs. “The countess has returned, my lord,” he said in a near whisper. “And wishes to see you at once.”

Glendenning frowned. Dearly as he loved his stepmother, he was consumed with impatience to see Amy. “Be so good as to tell her ladyship that I will come to her in ten minutes' time.”

His attempt to move on was frustrated when the footman sprang to the next step, and faced him with an even more urgent whisper. “My lady is
most
anxious to speak to you, sir.
Before
the earl learns of her arrival.”

“Dammit,” said Glendenning. “I told you I will come—”

“And Miss Consett is in the gardens with Miss Marguerite,” interrupted the footman, the light of desperation in his eyes.

Enraged by such impertinence, Glendenning's frown darkened to the point that the footman shook in his shoes. But that the man should have dared to presume to such a remark argued a real anxiety, and loyalty must not be rewarded with a rebuke. His expression eased, therefore, and with a request that breakfast be brought to Lady Nola's apartments, he changed direction.

Lady Nola looked pale and distraught, but welcomed him formally into her comfortable parlour, then sent her abigail away. No sooner had the door closed behind that devoted retainer than my lady cast herself on Glendenning's chest. “Thank God you have come, Horatio,” she gulped tearfully. “I have been at my wits' end, not knowing what to do or—” Drawing back, she exclaimed, “But, my dear, you have been ill, I think?”