Never Doubt I Love (22 page)

“Pish and posh, Elsie! They were not looking at me, but at Miss Benevento, the lady I met when we took Viking for his walk this morning. By a lucky chance she was at St. Paul's, and I vow looked lovelier than ever. She is so—oh, everything I would like to be. And she was not at all starched up, or critical of the silly things I say sometimes. Lieutenant Cranford could scarce take his eyes from her.”

“Huh! Then, if Ay were you, Miss, Ay would not meet her when he is with you. He seems to me a very nice gentleman, if you did not mind about—about his—er…”

“You mean because he has lost his foot? I think it should be a point of pride that he fought so gallantly for his country! But if you are paying heed to Lady Clara's notion that he would ever offer for me, disabuse your mind of such stuff. He was horrified when I told him of it.”

“Ow!”
yelped Gorton, equally horrified. “You didn't!”

“I did. And he was. And if you do not move your iron 'twill scorch! Though I must say he wanted for tact, not to at least pretend … But I think he is—comfortable with me, Elsie, and does not feel the need to be tactful. Which is good. I expect … You should only see how the ladies watch him. He thinks 'tis just because he limps. But it isn't. I saw them. And he is very good-looking, do not you think?”

“Ay do. And Ay fancy Miss Benevento does.”

“Yes. She was pleased with him, I am sure. She would be just right for him, as I told him.”

“You
never!
Oh—
Miss!
Whatever must he
think?
”

“Poor Elsie. Have I disgraced you again? I suppose I have no Town polish, as they say. And I rather fancy I never shall have. Better for you had Miss Hermione come as Lady Yerville's companion, instead of me.”

Gorton chuckled, and replaced her iron on the hob. “Ay think Miss Hermione would never suit her la'ship. She is very lazy, if Ay dare remark it.” She picked up the other iron and licked her finger before testing it, then set it on its heel to cool for a minute. “Lady Clara says 'tis because she has too much flesh.”

Intrigued, Zoe asked, “But she is very young, no?”

“And very
fat,
Miss! A kind young lady, but too fond of comfits for her own good. Lady Clara flies straight into the boughs when she comes here, and carries on alarming about the sin of gluttony. Miss Hermione, she just smiles and pays no heed. Proper drowsy she is. Nothing upsets her. Ay will bring the gown along in just a minute, and you wish to put on your wrapper, Miss. Lady Julia dines early, and you will not want to keep her waiting.”

“No, indeed!” said Zoe, standing at once. “'Tis kind in her to invite me. I expect she will like me to tell her all about the cathedral.”

“And the lieutenant,” murmured Gorton with a twinkle.

*   *   *

It was raining steadily when Florian guided the team on to Henrietta Street, but Cranford was more light-hearted than he had been for weeks, and as he left the carriage was mildly surprised to realize that he hadn't thought of his lost love for hours.

Florian waved, and drove off to the stables. Limping up the two shallow front steps, Cranford heard the postman's horn and waited at the door. How much more comfortable he felt having worn the peg-leg today. Little Zoe Grainger could be thanked for that, and for their merry luncheon at the Piazza. She was a good-hearted creature, and with not an ounce of affectation, which was as rare as it was refreshing. It was remarkable, he mused, that, in view of their unfortunate first encounter and the fact that he'd known her for such a short time, he now felt so completely at ease with her.

The postman came up, undaunted by the rain that dripped from his hat, and announced with his customary cheerful grin that there were two letters this afternoon. One was from Piers, for which Cranford paid gladly. The other, addressed in a poor hand he did not recognize, required a sixpenny fee, and he went, grumbling, into his apartments.

He tossed his wet cloak over a chair and broke the seal on the sixpenny letter, reading it as he wandered slowly to the hearth and the still-glowing remnants of the fire.

“What a damnable scrawl,” he muttered, peering at the signature. It looked like ‘Rohdean,' nobody he knew. He moved to the window, holding the much rumpled sheet to the gloomy light of this grey afternoon, and trying to decipher the ill-formed words.

“You will by this … heard from our mental fiend—(Gad! That can't be right!) Oh—
mutual friend,
and will be thinking me the … for passing my … to his shoulders. Pray believe … your … Father … save for this confounded illness, especially since he is in little better case. But … choice…” Cranford groaned with frustration as the following line was totally incomprehensible, and skipping to the next, struggled on with ever-increasing bafflement.

He heard a step behind him and muttered, “That was speedy, Florian!”

There was no response.

Glancing up, he had time to glimpse a tall cloaked figure and a low-drawn hood, before the downward flailing pistol butt brought a hideous shock and the end of awareness.

*   *   *

“I tell you, I could not see his face!” Cranford sprawled in the fireside chair as Furlong dabbed cautiously at the cut on his head. “He was— Ow! Those are my brains you're playing about with!”

“Is that what it is?” muttered Furlong. “Thought 'twas a nest of woodworms! No, do be still, you maniac! This is a beast of a lump, but the cut's nothing to speak of, and your hair will hide it. Now, an you are not feeling too wretched, tell me more of your unexpected caller.”

Cranford settled back again. He did feel wretched. Had Furlong said his head had been split open with an axe he would not have questioned it. He yearned to lie down upon his bed, but rage was the uppermost emotion, and he answered in short, furious bursts: “The swine was tall. A big fellow. No prigging cove. I think—”

Furlong interrupted sharply, “What d'ye mean—no prigging cove? He followed you in here, did he not, and broke your head!
Assurement,
he intended robbery.”

“Perhaps, but he was too well dressed to have been—” Cranford swore and raised a trembling hand to his head.

Watching him with narrowed eyes, Furlong said, “Gently, my poor chap. Gently.”

The door was flung open. His tricorne and cloak scattering raindrops Florian rushed to the sofa and dropped to one knee beside it, scanning Cranford with frantic anxiety. “Is he—?”

“I'm alive,” said Cranford wearily. “One gathers the bastard got away?”

“There was a coach at the end of the street, sir. It drove off as I ran up. But 'tis almost dark and with the rain so heavy, I was not able to make out if there was a crest on the panel, or if anyone was inside.”

“Can't be raining,” muttered Cranford, his eyes closing. “She said … no rain.” He chuckled to himself.

Sir Owen and Florian exchanged sober glances. Sir Owen said quietly, “Better go for an apothecary, lad.”

“No!” Cranford opened his eyes again. “D'ye take me for a milquetoast? Just a bump on the head, is all. You must have—have found me right away, Owen.”

“I was awake, luckily. I heard you go down. Florian came in while I was trying to lift you, and I sent him haring off after the varmint.”

Cranford said with a quivering grin, “A fine quiet place for you to recuperate. My apologies. What did—did that miserable hound make off with?”

Florian lit a taper at the fire and hurried around the room lighting candles. “I do not see that he took anything, sir.”

“Must have!” Cranford peered about painfully. “Even a prigging cove don't break into a man's house and—and beat his brains out for nothing. Hanging offence. Wouldn't be—Hey!” He flinched, but gasped out, “My … my letters! Where are my … letters?”

It was getting cold in the room. Furlong went over to throw a shovel-full of coal on the remnants of the fire, then sat on the chimney seat, watching frowningly as Florian searched about, to report at length, “No letters, sir.”

“That worthless weasel!” groaned Cranford. “Of what possible use were my letters to him? I hadn't even read the one from my twin!”

Furlong asked, “Was the other letter of any special import?”

“Import! 'Twas ‘a tale told by an idiot,' more like! And an idiot I've never met, if I deciphered the signature correctly. The writing was so bad I … could scarce read it. And when I did, be dashed if I could make sense of the silly thing.” Cranford leaned his head back cautiously and sighed, “He could've had that, and welcome. But I could strangle the hound for—for making off with my brother's letter.”

“Yes. But why would he? Perry, my dear fellow, I know you're properly wrung out, but—can you recall
none
of it?”

Cranford had a deep liking for Owen Furlong, who was not the man to lack sympathy or understanding. He knit his brows, therefore, and despite his throbbing head, made an effort to remember. “The handwriting was a disgrace,” he said slowly. “Not the work of an educated gentleman—unless he is aged, or very ill.”

“And the signature?”

“I think 'twas Rohdean. Nobody I ever heard of. Truly, 'twas just so much fustian, Owen. Something to do with … a mutual friend, and illness, and—and his shoulders, and … now what was it?… Oh, yes. My
father,
of all people!—who died, God rest him, fifteen years ago!” He gripped his head and sighed. “I'm—dashed sorry to be so stupid. There was more, I know. But I cannot seem to think—and to say truth, I'm inclining to the belief 'tis more of young Templeby's practical jokes.”

“Then when Tio returns we'll put a flea in his ear about his rascally half-brother! My apologies for pestering you. Help the lieutenant to his bed, Florian. You rest, Perry old lad, and Florian will brew us a pot of tea. You'll feel good as new in the morning.”

“And what of you?” asked Cranford, turning in the doorway as Florian guided his uncertain steps. “You're in little better case than am I.”

Furlong grinned and declared that tomorrow he would run Cranford a race to London Bridge and back, to prove how much his health had improved.

But after the door had closed behind his friend, his smile died. “Rohdean,” he muttered. “I wonder…” He carried a candle to the small desk beside the window, sat down and found some paper and a pen. “I wish to heaven you would come back to Town, Gideon,” he wrote. “I fear I have properly let you down and am unable to keep watch on my assigned schemer, as I promised. I've the strongest notion that Perry Cranford is being dragged into this desperate business, which I know you will not like!” He was obliged to pause as a paroxysm of shivering wracked him, and from the corner of his eye, saw the outer door open slowly.

With a lithe spring he was at the hearth and had snatched up the poker. The rapid movement made his head swim, but he steadied himself against the mantelpiece and stood ready for combat.

“Bless me crumpet,” exclaimed the huskily built man who entered. “It's only me, mate— I mean, Captin, sir!”

“Tummet!” cried Furlong, relieved.

“Shining-bright-but-I'm-a-sight,” said Enoch Tummet, advancing with a broad grin to relieve Sir Owen of the poker. “Me guv—Mr. August, I mean—says as you might be in need of me services, like. So, slam-bang-'ere-I-am!”

“And welcome, indeed,” said Furlong, gripping the muscular arm of August Falcon's unorthodox valet. “Your ‘guv' could scarce be more in the right of it!”

*   *   *

Lady Julia was not alone when Zoe was shown into the gold saloon in her apartments. Her visitor was a slim gentleman of middle age and average height, with a lean intelligent face, a soft voice, and a twinkle in his grey eyes. His wig was neatly ironed, his dark blue coat rich with silver frogging, the work of a master tailor. He rose and bowed over Zoe's hand gallantly, but she was surprised when Lady Julia introduced him as Lord Eaglund. The viscount's fame had spread even to quiet Burford. He was known to be a fiery orator in the House of Lords, a tireless advocate for the poor, his generosity in the cause of children legendary. She thought, ‘And he looks so mild and ordinary!'

As always, her face betrayed her, and Eaglund's mouth hovered on a smile. He murmured, “My son was in the right of it, I see. Miss Grainger is indeed out of the common way!”

Zoe blushed and thanked him, but cast an enquiring glance to Lady Julia, who reclined on a chaise longue, looking ethereal in a gown of white brocade threaded with gold. “His lordship refers to his eldest son,” she explained, stroking the tabby, Caesar, who sat neatly Sphinx-like on her lap. “You have met the Honourable Purleigh Shale, I understand.”

Mystified, Zoe murmured uncertainly, “Have I?” Then, comprehending, she added sunnily, “Oh! You mean the one they call Purr! I never did know what his last name was.”

“I am scarce surprised,” acknowledged the viscount, stepping over Caesar's dog, Cromwell, and ushering Zoe to a chair beside the fire. “My heir, alas, is not the most—ah, loquacious of men.”

Trying to find an appropriate response, Zoe said, “No, but he is so—tall!”

Lady Julia's musical laugh rippled out.

The viscount said apologetically, “Very true. But for all my own lack of inches, I—ah, I really am his father, you know.”

“Well, I cannot think you would claim him for your own, if you were not,” said Zoe disastrously.

At this, his lordship could not restrain a hearty laugh. “A wit! And so young! My dear, that innocent face of yours gives you an unfair advantage.”

“I warned you, Rupert,” said Lady Julia ruefully.

Zoe sighed. “I am very sorry if I said something I did not mean.”

“My dear,” replied the viscount, “in a Society where most females spend so much time choosing their words for effect that they often say nothing at all, 'tis my delight to meet a lady who is so honestly outspoken.”