Never Doubt I Love (17 page)

Again that irresistible sparkle was lighting her big green eyes, and he entered into her game saying with equal drama, “I promise. Name my rivals.”

“All right. There were quite a number actually, but I am dreadful at remembering names. They all were very—fashionable, and Lady Buttershaw promised me they were not paupers. Let me see now—there was a gentleman named ‘Purr,' though I did not quite hear his last name. Another called Reginald Smythe, and—er, oh yes, Sir Gilbert somebody … And your chin is hanging down, Lieutenant.”

Cranford gulped, and then succumbed to such gales of laughter that she drew back, regarding him with displeasure. “Those … simpering … dandies?” he gasped, between howls. “Purleigh Shale…? And … that idiot Smythe…? And—and—Gil
Fowles?
Oh, burn it! If ever I heard the like! Do you—do you say they all …
offered,
ma'am?”

“Not exactly,” she said, frowning at him. “They were—ah,
offered,
you might say.”

He was using his handkerchief to wipe tears from his eyes, but at this his head jerked up. “What's this…? Do you say—they—they didn't even …
know?
”

“No more than did you. And I am very sure my lady would never have considered you had she recollected that you made off with her wig!”

It took a second or two for this to be comprehended, but when Cranford grasped it he was hopelessly overcome once more, his mirth so unrestrained that it caused passers-by to look at the carriage curiously.

On the box, Florian grinned his appreciation. His employer had been downcast when they'd set out this morning, and the last thing he'd expected was that they would soon be escorting a lady about London Town. Not a lady to draw all eyes wherever she went, perhaps. But she seemed a nice little thing, with a sort of brightness about her, and she'd made Mr. Peregrine laugh. He hadn't laughed since Loretta Laxton had thrown him over … With luck, they'd be seeing more of Miss Grainger!

The object of his thoughts uttered a squeal as Cranford sobered abruptly and whipped a hand across her eyes. It was removed before she could pull it away, and she looked out of the window, straining her neck to see what she had missed. “Whatever is wrong? Was there someone you did not want me to see? Oh, what a great gate! What was it? I do wish I had seen—”

“Temple Bar,” he advised brusquely. “Most ladies do not care to look.”

At once chastened, she half-whispered, “Oh. Were there…?”

“Half a dozen. On pikes.”

“How ghastly! Why ever must such things be? But I suppose, having fought the Jacobites, you think it justified.”

Tio Glendenning's laughing face came to mind. He said, “I've a good friend who came precious near to being one of those poor devils.” And he thought, ‘Pray God he never comes any nearer!'

He looked very grim, and Zoe turned her attention to the window and was silent for a moment. Her excitement could not be dampened for long, however, and she remarked, “This is quite a different neighborhood, is it not! Oh! I saw a ship! Are we near to the Thames, then? Do but
look
at that lovely china cat in the shop window! Oh, sir,
pray
can we stop? 'Tis just what Lady Julia would like, I know, for she loves cats and it looks so much like Charlemagne!”

“But we are near the cathedral. You can see the dome up ahead.”

“Yes, but 'twould take only a minute, and if we wait till later the dear little cat might be gone. Oh,
please,
Mr. Cranford!”

Amused by her excitement, he rapped on the roof again, and in a few minutes was limping along the narrow flagway beside her, while Florian took the team down a side street with instructions to pick them up again in ten minutes.

The little shop was soon reached, and having warned Zoe to gather her skirts close as it looked none too clean inside, Cranford bent his head and followed her up the steps. He had to intervene when the shopkeeper demanded a price for the china cat that was exorbitant. The shopkeeper was indignant, Zoe was anxious, and Cranford was adamant. The bartering became heated. Vaguely, above it, Cranford heard some shouts outside, but not until they had left the shop and he was carrying the parcelled cat along Fleet Street did he realize that traffic had come to a standstill and there was a violent altercation nearby.

Zoe said, “What a commotion! Oh, there is Whipley!”

“Who is Whipley?” he asked, craning his neck to see what the uproar was about.

“He is Lady Julia's footman. I know he saw us, but he has gone slinking off. If that is not just like—”

She broke off with a gasp as a crowd burst from an alley behind them, and they were surrounded by pushing, shouting, angry men. Cranford whipped an arm about Zoe and dragged her into a doorway. A brick was thrown. Glass shattered. He pulled her close and rammed her face against his chest. Insults and epithets flew. So did fists. A big man wearing a baker's hat plunged into them and swore as Cranford warded him off. Zoe caught a glimpse of a very red face and reddened eyes full of hate. The bloated features contorted. He shouted, “'Ere's one of 'em, mates! A damned nob what's left 'is bloody castle ter mix wiv us commoners! Let's—”

Cranford jerked Zoe behind him and struck out hard.

The belligerent baker howled and reeled back, his nose spurting crimson.

Cranford seized Zoe's arm. “I must get you out of this!” He limped rapidly into the alley from which the mob had come, and thence onto a narrow street.

The sounds of combat faded.

“Phew!” he said, with a grin. “Are you all right, ma'am?”

“Yes,” she said breathlessly. “And I believe my brother would say you've a splendid left, Mr. Cranford! Does this sort of thing go on all the time in London? I should— Oh, do look! Those horrid men have knocked over a poor flower seller's barrow!”

“So they have. We must be thankful they didn't knock us over! If we— Great heavens, ma'am! What are you about?”

Busily restoring bunches of flowers to toppled pots, Zoe said, “There is still some water in—”

He seized her by the elbow and said urgently, “No, do get up! You must not do that! Your gown is getting dirty. Egad, ma'am, will you listen? These are not your flowers, and—”

She resisted his agitated tugs. “No, but everyone seems to have gone to watch the fight. We cannot leave them, they'll wilt, poor dears. Now
stop
pulling me, sir! An you will help, 'twill only take a minute or two.”

He groaned helplessly, and setting down his parcel, bent to restore a battered pot. “If the owner comes back, he'll likely think we're stealing the dratted things!” He thrust a bunch of chrysanthemums into the pot. “This is no neighbourhood for—”

“'Ere! Wotcher a'doing of? Making orf wiv me stock in trade! 'Elp! Thieves!”

A wiry woman with a dirty face and straggly grey hair advanced, brandishing a cane and howling.

Zoe said earnestly, “No, really, ma'am. We are only trying to—”

“My dear God!” moaned Cranford, dodging a swipe of the cane. He tossed a crown to the flower seller. She snatched it up, but she had taken his measure, and, having deposited the coin in her bosom, redoubled her howls.

Cranford knew when he was beaten. He seized Zoe's arm and made a spirited attempt to run.
“Kindness!”
he exclaimed bitterly.

“She just … misunderstood…,” she panted as she was rushed along the alley.

Cranford gave a cry of relief. “Here's Florian, bless his woolly stockings!” The carriage lurched to a halt beside them. He wrenched the door open, and all but threw Zoe inside.

Stepping up after her, he shouted. “Get on, Florian! Quick!” and slammed the door.

The carriage started to turn again.

Cranford pulled the window down and leaned out. “Where are you going?”

“We can't get through, sir,” shouted Florian. “'Tis a full-fledged riot. There's crowds fighting all the way down to the Fleet Ditch. I was lucky to get back to you!”

Cranford instructed him to go along to St. Clement's, then turn up Drury Lane. Closing the window, he said, “We'll drive past the theatre, and then you can see”—the coach rocked, and he was staggered—“Covent Garden,” he finished unevenly, sitting down. “Unless you are too shaken.”

He was pale suddenly, and she had noted the quick snatch of white teeth at his lower lip. She said, “No, but I think you are. Have you hurt your foot again?”

The straps had loosened and his full weight had come down on the edge of the artificial foot. His leg hurt so badly that he felt sick, but he managed to declare that he was “quite well. I thank you, madam.”

She eyed him anxiously. Clearly, he was trying to keep his countenance, but his eyes were veiled and there was a tell-tale twitch to his lips. She said, “What I simply cannot understand, is why you had to make it so horridly real?”

Battling nausea, he said, “I cannot think … what you mean.”

“Of course you can. Have you forgot I saw the—the
toenails?
All different colours! And the horrid—” She made a face.

In an attempt to hide his distress and shock her into silence, he said ghoulishly, “The gore, where it had been … hacked off?”

She was not so easily silenced. “I suppose 'tis commendable to accept your misfortune in so light-hearted a way, for I expect that to lose one's foot must be a great nuisance.”

“But you think that to make the replacement look authentic was … vulgar.”

“It seems so to me. But there is no telling what gentlemen will find amusing.”

She was very earnest, and, whatever else, she did not appear to be revolted by his handicap. The pain was easing now and he felt less limp. He said, “I have a friend who is clever with his paints and quite fails to be embarrassed by my—er, loss. He delights to play such tricks. Some fellows can be very silly, you know.”

A beaming smile dispelled Zoe's gravity. She clapped her hands and said merrily, “Was that the way of it, then? 'Tis just the sort of thing my brother would do! Have you been able to take your revenge upon the wretch?”

“I have to catch him first. And just now, unfortunately, he can outrun me.”

“I'm not surprised.” She peered at his foot. “It doesn't seem to fit very well.”

He was beginning to find her candour refreshing rather than offensive, and countered with a grin, “Did no one ever tell you, ma'am, that 'tis impolite to comment upon an infirmity?”

“What stuff! How silly 'twould be if everybody looked the other way and pretended not to notice. Oh, if you had a wart on the end of your nose I should say nothing, of course. But to lose a limb in battle is no cause for diffidence, is it?”

At this, he burst out laughing.

She was pleased to have won him to a smile again. Laughter brought a sparkle to the very blue eyes, and drove the hauteur from his mouth. Indeed, this was a quite different gentleman to the monstrous image she had created. He didn't look in the least murderous. And then she thought, ‘Oh, dear me!' Cranford said, “Now you are angry again. Do you think I mock you?”

“I have just remembered my china cat!”

“Oh, Jupiter! I must have left it with your flower seller. I
am
sorry! I'll find another for you.”

“Not only that,” she added with deep tragedy, “we have been talking so much I have missed
everything!
”

The carriage had halted outside the famed old theatre. Cranford reached for the door. “Well, I can show you around the Bard's stamping ground, at least.”

Her hand checked him. “No more stamping around for you, Mr. Cranford!”

Ignoring her, he started up, flinched, and sat back again.

She said sternly, “You see? Your foot may
look
the real thing, but it does not go the right way. 'Tis a silly vanity and you must be done with it. Find someone to carve you a peg-leg with a properly cushioned top. Yes, I know you would like to put a period to me for referring to it again, but 'tis the height of folly to allow pride to cause you so much discomfort.”

For a moment he could almost hear his beautiful Loretta's husky voice: “But I like to
dance,
Perry! And besides— Oh, I have
tried
to be patient, but that hideous peg-leg quite makes me ill…!”

He said broodingly, “I know very well how a lady would view a man who—stumped about Town on a peg-leg.”

“Had the lady a scrinch of common sense she'd want him to be comfortable, and not give a fig for a silly painted foot!”

“Easy said,” he jeered. “Would
you
go about with a cripple?”

“Of course I would! However much I might want to shake him for indulging in such blatant self-pity!”

Scarlet again, he gasped, “Why, you—you little wretch! It just so happens that I
have
a peg-leg. 'Twould serve you right, my girl, did I wear it tomorrow and come calling! Then what would you do?”

Her eyes alight, she answered, “Demand that you take me to St. Paul's
and
Covent Garden!”

*   *   *

Reclining on the chaise longue in her private parlour, Lady Julia sipped a dish of tea and listened to Zoe, who knelt on the rug brushing Charlemagne and recounting the afternoon's events. “Bless my soul!” exclaimed her ladyship in dismay. “What a monstrous shocking experience! Faith, but I marvel that you can be so calm after such a string of disasters! Most ladies would be laid down upon their beds in high hysterics. Your papa will think we have plunged you into Bedlam!”

Zoe looked up with an arrested expression. “Why, I never thought of it in that way, but you are right, ma'am. It
has
been rather far from tranquil. My journey to Town with Lady Buttershaw was not exactly uneventful, and then there was that hideous accident, and today—” She restrained Viking, who had pushed in jealously and tried to seize the brush. “Your turn next, sir,” she said firmly, “I am not yet done with your cat.”