Love Alters Not (2 page)

“…is the part of a wise man,” read Jane Guild, her thoughts on the chicken that must go in the oven within another half-hour, “to keep himself today for tomorrow, and not venture all his eggs in one basket.”

“Well, that settles it!” exclaimed Peregrine, indignant. “The fella's betwattled! Not a minute ago, Aunty, you was reading something about people getting scratched if they play with cats, and now the nincompoop's jibbering about eggs and baskets! What the deuce is he talking about?”

His aunt lowered the book and blinked at him. She loved all “her children,” as she called them, but if there was an especially soft spot in her heart, it was for this tall, intense boy, with his quicksilver changes of mood and fast-flaring temper, his ready laugh and warm heart, and the unruly curls and fine-boned features that made him as handsome—almost—as had been his dear father. “Why, I am not quite sure, Perry,” she confessed. “But I expect you should not refer to Mr. Cervantes as ‘betwattled' for he has quite a reputation, you know. And speaking of eggs, I really must go and put the bird on. 'Tis Cook's day off, and with this weather blowing up she'll likely decide to stay at her daughter's in Hungerford and not come back until morning. Shall you be all right?”

She stood, shook out her voluminous skirts, and bent over to straighten his pillows and pat his pale cheek anxiously.

Quite aware of her devotion, Peregrine seized her by both ears and pulled her down to bestow a smacking kiss on the end of her nose. “Yes, thank you. Now take yourself out of a gentleman's bedchamber before all the boys know what a shameless jade you are!”

“I cannot think they would believe that of me,” she said solemnly, resting the book on his middle while she carefully straightened her neat cap. “However, I will leave Mr. Cervantes here so that you may look up that bit about the cats. I must confess I don't even recall reading— Oh, here you are, Dimity. There now, your sister can find it for you, dearest.” She wandered out, beaming at her niece, her plump countenance a little flushed as it always was when she was kissed.

Dimity walked over to the bed. Peregrine made a wry face at her. She took up the book and he said in low-voiced warning, “Do not dare!”

She chuckled and, drawing the chair closer, sat down. “Ungrateful wretch! How do you go on?”

“Jolly good. Where's my blasted new foot?”

“Put away where you cannot reach it! No, do not rail at me, Perry. The doctor said ‘gently does it.' If you would give yourself time, 'twould not be so painful for—”

“Oh, fustian! Do I not get used to the stupid thing now, I'll never master it. Hand it over and let me try if I cannot—”

“I shall do no such thing! Yesterday you failed to adjust the straps properly, which is why you fell over and sprained your ankle!”

“'Tis not sprained,” he said defensively, but he was tired, and now to have his left ankle aching so miserably seemed confoundedly unjust.

Dimity saw the briefly defeated look and said swiftly, “I wish you will not make it difficult for me, dearest. Piers left strict instructions I was to take care of you.” She sighed. “And you are such an impatient patient.”

“Humdudgeon!” he snorted, at once firing up. “'Tis nigh a year since Prestonpans, yet here I lie, meek as any lamb, allowing you all to bully me about and—and maudle over me, when I should be up and, er—” A guilty look crept into the angelic blue eyes. He was fully cognizant of how they had feared for his life when pneumonia had struck a month after the amputation, and again in May, when he had fallen on a wet London flagway. Their love and devotion had meant more to him than he would ever be able to express, and he added gruffly, “Not that I ain't grateful. I know what a curst nuisance I've been.”

“Quite so. Monstrous selfish, too,” she agreed, twinkling at him as she set the book aside. “But I am the one shall be blamed are you not fully recovered by the time Piers comes home. He will likely expect you to race him to The Teacup, as you and Tio used to do.”

As she had hoped, he brightened. “Jove, but those were the days!” He sighed nostalgically and after a moment asked, “You, ah, have heard nought of Tio, I collect?”

It was a shade too nonchalant, and reinforced her own fears. “Not for a month and more,” she answered. “I was sure he would come on your birthday, especially since he had promised to be here.”

They exchanged sober glances.

Worried, Dimity asked, “Is it really true, Perry? He is Catholic, I know, but he always has been so fiercely patriotic, for all that he laughs at any show of it.”

“Not all Catholics were for Charles Stuart, any more than all who fought for him were of that faith. Some simply disliked German George and felt Britain would be better served with a Scot on the throne.”

Her unease deepened. “Good God! Do you say that Tio
was
out with Prince Charlie?”

Her brother, who knew very well that Horatio Clement Laindon, Viscount Glendenning, had borne arms against his sovereign, looked at her steadily through a brief silence.

She was appalled and said slowly, “Whatever would you have done had you faced him on the battlefield? Oh, how dreadful it all is! I am so very fond of Tio, but when I think of how cruelly you have suffered this past—”

“Oh, have done,” he intervened, flushing. “I came off easy compared to some. You'll recall Aynsworth? He was with us up there y'know, and still carries a musket ball in his shoulder that they've tried to dig out many times without success and that properly gives him fits, I hear. If I was mauled, 'twas only because I was too clumsy to get my silly foot clear in time.”

“True,” she agreed, “but I was about to say that—in view of your vastly overrated exploits—”

He grinned. “Vixen!”

“—are you,” she went on, “in favour of the Duke of Cumberland's methods for putting down the clans?”

The humour fled from his thin face, and his reply was so explicit that she clapped her hands over her ears. “Perry!”

He turned a smouldering gaze on her. “I'll say this, Mitten, if only half what I've heard is truth and I'd been up there to see it—been
ordered
to perpetrate such—” His fists clenched. “By God, but I would be damned first! And so would my brother!”

His voice had risen. She glanced to the door. “Have a care, love! I was sure you would feel so, but—if
you
do, certainly Tio must! Truly, I worry for him. He always has been so close to us, more another brother than a distant cousin. You do not suppose…” She hesitated, reluctant to put her thought into words.

He lifted himself to one elbow and looked at her narrowly. “
Have
you heard something of the maggot-wit?”

“No, but … the dragoons are beating the whole countryside, and I wondered—Perry, it is not—it could not be that—that
Tio
is the fugitive rebel they hunt down?”

“God forbid! And he is not, so never fret.”

She caught her breath and half-whispered, “How do
you
know?”

Peregrine lay back again. “Never you mind, my girl,” he said.

*   *   *

The storm, which had been drifting about all day, eased off during the evening, although it continued to rain with steady persistence. Dimity's slumbers were restless, and she awoke, heart pounding, from a nightmare in which she wore Scots plaid and Butcher Cumberland and a whole regiment of dragoons were chasing her, brandishing bayonetted muskets, their bloodthirsty howls drawing ever closer. She sighed with relief to find herself safely in the dear, familiar room, then jumped as a great gust of wind shook the house and sent rain lashing against the windows. Her mouth felt like parchment. She reached for the pitcher, but South, the rather irascible woman who served as abigail to both herself and Aunt Jane, had neglected to fill it. Grumbling, Dimity settled down again, reluctant to ring for South, who would undoubtedly clump down the stairs so loudly she'd wake Perry. It was no use, however; her throat was a desert, and at last she turned up the wick on her bedside lamp, slid her feet into cold slippers and, shivering, tied her dressing gown about her.

She lit a candle from the lamp, and went quietly into the hall. At once it became apparent that she need not have hesitated to ring for South. The wind was a gale, the rain hissed and rattled, and far off she heard the threatening growl of thunder. Even had the abigail complained all the way from the attic, she would scarce have been like to disturb Peregrine. But there was no point in calling her at this stage, and Dimity went downstairs, across the hall, and into the corridor beyond the dining room that led to the kitchen, and Cook's quarters.

Thunder rumbled as she opened the door. An unexpectedly cold gust of air blew out her candle, and she knew with terrifying certainty that she was not alone.

Her heart seemed to stop beating. She stood motionless in the pitchy darkness, longing to run, yet with her feet having seemingly taken root. Another gust blew the curtains over the pump and she could hear them flapping about. The window must stand wide! Gradually, she detected the sound of heavy breathing. Perhaps, if she fainted, he would not cut her throat. But she was too stiff with fear to faint. “Piers!” she screamed silently. But even had her vocal chords obeyed her will, Piers was now halfway to London.

By the glare of distant lightning, she saw the faint gleam of Cook's meat chopper. She made a grab for it as a muffled and incoherent mumbling apprised her of the fact that the intruder was definitely male, and probably intoxicated. She swung the chopper high, but almost dropped it with fright when a violent sneeze was roared from only a few paces distant. Somehow, the plebeian sound reassured her a little.

“Wh-Who's … th-there?” she quavered. There came a sound of shuffling movements and she added in a near shriek, “Stay back! I am armed!”

“M-Miss Dimity?”

The voice was vaguely familiar. At least he knew her. Still clutching the chopper, she said, “Yes. Who are you?”

“Samuels, miss. Lord Horatio's head groom.”

Inexpressibly relieved, she gulped, “Oh! If you but
knew
how you startled me!” She put down the chopper and groped her way to the window. Raindrops sprinkled her face as she closed the casement. She called, “There's a tinder box on the mantel by the stove.”

She heard him fumbling. He awoke a flame, and she crossed to re-light her candle and held it up, peering at him.

Samuels, a sturdy man in his late thirties, usually very neat of person, was barely recognizable. His hat was gone; his wig, a sodden mass, straggled untidily about his face; his clothing was soaked and muddy, and he shook violently, his teeth chattering as he eyed her in apparent anguish.

Fear knifed through her. “Dear, oh dear! Whatever is it? No—first, come and sit down, poor soul. I'll wake the servants and get you some dry clothing.”

“No!” He croaked the word, swayed, and groped drunkenly for the table.

Dimity ran to pull out a chair and guide his sagging form into it.

“Your brother. Mr. Peregrine … Please, miss—call him.”

“I cannot. He is ill.” She started for the door, only to again be checked by his feeble demand that she not summon help.

“I must get back,” he gasped, shivering. “'Tis … If I…” he broke into a racking spell of coughing, and sagged over the table, white and spent.

Dimity hurried to feel his forehead. It was hot and dry, although he shivered convulsively. Again, he mumbled a request for Peregrine, and she promised soothingly to call her brother if he did as she bade him. She managed to get him to his feet. He leaned on her heavily, and she guided him into Cook's room beyond the pantry. He unfastened his dripping cloak, then all but fell onto the bed. Dimity pulled off his boots, and at last had him under the covers.

Slightly winded, she knelt beside him. “Now,” she said urgently, “tell me quickly, Samuels. Is it Lord Horatio?”

The groom moaned and muttered distractedly, but at last seemed to acknowledge his own helplessness. “Your brothers, miss,” he said hoarsely. “They fought for the king…”

“They know Glendenning is in sympathy with the Jacobites,” she put in, trying to control her impatience. “What has happened to his lordship?”

He bit his lip in an agony of indecision. “He'll have my ears for involving you … but … Gawd! I don't know what to do for the best.”

Yearning to strangle him, she patted his hand kindly. “You have done your best. Have you been riding all night?”

“Waiting,” he groaned. “His lordship went out to help a poor Jacobite gentleman who'd been hounded as far as Silchester and was too weak to keep on.”

She felt chilled as her worst fears were realized. “When was this?”

“Two days since, Miss Dimity.” He clutched at her wrist frantically. “He should've been home within
hours!
The troopers are thick throughout the Downland, and— Miss, I'm that
scared!
”

“This Jacobite he was to help,” she said, holding his shaking hand tightly. “Is he of extreme importance? I think I never have heard of so determined an effort to take a rebel.”

“He is—” he coughed again, then gasped out, “of
great
importance. And if they've took his lordship, his head will be on Temple Bar before—”

Her heart quailing to that terrible apprehension, she cried, “Hush! Do not even think so terrible a thing! Now, tell me, did you go to Silchester?”

“Couldn't get nowhere near it! Troopers everywhere. Milord said if anything went wrong, he'd make for The Teacup. He thought your brother might help was he in dire straits. But—I've been waiting there since last night, with never a sight of him. I began to think perhaps he'd slipped past me and come here, and—and then I started to feel poorly, so…”