Had We Never Loved (35 page)

Glendenning sent him off with an order for coffee and toast. His coat and cloak had, to an extent, been dried by the fire, but his wig would have benefitted from comb and tongs and his tricorne looked sadly wilted. Untroubled by such minor concerns, he hurried downstairs. The enticing smells of coffee and burning logs hung on the air. Lamps were glowing in the parlour, and a fire was already licking up the chimney. He went to the low latticed casements and peered into a blustery darkness with just a finger of lighter grey outlining the eastern horizon. Leaning on the sill, he wondered if it was possible that their disastrous journey had actually been a godsend: if they had all unknowingly come to the very spot at which Trethaway might be forced to embark. Such luck seemed unlikely but, by Jupiter, he'd make damned sure of it before he rode one mile toward Dover!

The rattle of china brought him around from the window. “Blast!” he exclaimed.

Morris sat by the fire, mug in one hand, and a thick slice of toast in the other. He turned to the viscount with a pale face but a bright smile, and waved the toast. “Help yourself, old sportsman.”

Glendenning said quietly, “I'm a sorry dolt, Morris. I'd selfishly forgot you're still recuperating. If you had but spoken up last night—”

“Spoken up about what? We're here, are we not?” Morris sneezed, and coffee splashed. Setting the mug aside, he reached for his handkerchief and blew his nose. “Plenty of time, too,” he wheezed, taking up his mug again. “Doubt there'll be any sailings 'til the wind drops.”

“Not from Dover, at all events.” Glendenning gulped some coffee and bit into the savoury buttered toast. “But the host tells me that some vessels have put into a cove near here, so as to be able to sail with the morning tide.”

Morris stared at him. “Have they, by Jove! Then—perhaps…?”

“Exactly so.” Another swallow of coffee and he started to the door, toast in hand. “I'll come back as soon as I learn—”

Morris jumped up. “Be damned if I don't think you're trying to turn me off,” he said indignantly. “Well, you won't do it, and so I tell you!”

Glendenning's arguments were well taken, and quite wasted. When he rode out, James Morris was beside him.

The wind was stronger, sending their cloaks flying, bending treetops, and filling the air with leaves and debris that caused the horses to dance nervously. The clean tang of the sea was strong in the damp air, and soon the two men could hear the boom of waves breaking against the offshore rocks. Following the tavern keeper's directions, they rode along a narrow track that wound downwards until, by the slowly increasing light, they could distinguish the gleam of the waters of Dover Strait. It was still too dark to see the beach, but bobbing lanterns could be distinguished to the east where great ships rode uneasily at anchor. They went on, eyes and ears straining, until a voice hailed, and a seaman stepped out in front of them. “Ahoy, there! You be the gents for Calais?”

Morris roared a sneeze, which the sailor evidently interpreted as a denial.

Glendenning said, “We were to meet the rest of our party hereabouts, but mayhap we're early—or they've postponed sailing.”

“There is some gents farther up the beach, sir. Where ye bound?”

“Italy, eventually,” said Glendenning.

“Ar, and going to Paris first, I hear. That'll be them, then. Waiting to board the frigate for Le Havre. She's a fine ship and if I knows her captain there won't be no postponing for this blow! A good voyage to you, sirs.”

They threw him a coin, and moved on. When they were out of earshot, Glendenning murmured, “Sounds promising, Jamie, but I think we'll play least-in-sight, just in case.”

They rode in amongst some shrubs and low trees where they dismounted and tethered the horses. Moving on, they circled inland for a short way. The sky was dark grey now, visibility improving to the point that they could see the darker loom of Folkestone's hills. Below them a break in the cliffs led down to the cove. Glendenning halted, listening intently, his eyes trying to pierce the gloom, but he could see no one. They went down slowly and with great caution, until Morris tugged at Glendenning's sleeve and hissed, “Listen!” They both paused, ears straining. At first the viscount heard only the many voices of the wind, but then came the sound of a man whistling. And the melody set his pulses racing with excitement, for it was that ancient marching song called Lillibulero.

Morris whispered urgently, “Did you not tell me that Miss Amy's uncle heard a gentleman humming that tune?”

“Aye! One of the men who brought the jewelled ruby figure into Mr. Shumaker's shop to be repaired!” Elated, he said, “We've found 'em, Jamie! By heaven—we've found 'em! And the bastards are part of the League—never doubt it! Come on! And keep your pistol handy!”

They crept on and, rounding a great upthrusting rock, were suddenly within yards of their quarry: three men standing close together, facing the stormy seas, their cloaks billowing, and one breaking off that repeated whistling to exclaim, “There she is! There's the longboat!”

A very large individual with a coarse, guttural voice sounded less enthused. “I don't like the sea, Major, sir. Least of all on a morning like this here. Can't I stay—”

“No, imbecile. We've had our orders.”

The whistler, more stockily built, said dryly, “Those orders did not include your taking the pin out of England, Harris.”

Glendenning's hand clamped tightly onto Morris' arm.

The first man, who must be Harris Trethaway, laughed. “I was told to get it from that young fool Templeby, and to lure his brother far from Windsor, both of which I've done very neatly. As to destroying the pin—why should I be so wasteful? The Squire may have no further need of it, but there's a rascal in Paris will give me a small fortune for it. I shall open an elegant gaming house in Italy. You'll hold equal shares, dear coz, and Camber and I will live a life of luxury in the sunshine, out of sight and out of mind.”

The whistler grumbled, “You take a desperate chance. And dammitall, so do I! You were ordered to destroy the curst pin! If you weren't my cousin—God help us if the Squire ever finds out! You know how merciless he can be.”

“How shall he find out? The only ones who know I didn't destroy it are you two. We'll all be rich, and whatever his schemes may be— Speaking of which, do you know what they are?”

Glendenning, who had been inching forward, pistol in hand, halted abruptly, breath held in check as he awaited the response to that question. When it came, it was emphatic.

“If I did, 'twould be more than my life is worth to divulge it! Only the holders of the jewelled men know the full details.” A pause, then he added in a guarded voice, “Or think they do.”

Trethaway asked curiously, “What d'ye mean by that? Are they being played false?”

Another pause. Then, “We deal with powerful men, Harris. Men of great wealth and vaunting ambition. In my experience, the schemes expounded by such fanatics often prove in the end to bear little resemblance to what was initially proposed, and those who follow are apt to find themselves committed to plots they would have backed away from had they known— But, there—pay me no heed. 'Tis likely no more than my own gloomy imagining.”

“Even so, I'm not sorry I am on the outer fringes of your mighty League. And you may be pleased to know that if their schemes should fail—”

In that instant some pebbles rolled past Glendenning's boot. Lightning fast, he jerked around, but before he could even warn Morris, a cord was about his throat, strangling him. Dark shapes rushed to batter him down. He fought back even as he struggled in vain for breath. He heard grunts and curses and more blows smashed at him. The blood roared in his ears. His eyes were dimming. His last anguished thought was that he had failed his family …

*   *   *

“… in the devil he could have found us…”

“… she didn't know! and … another soul!”

“If I hadn't hired these bullies, just in case…”

“… almost to shore! … no time to…”

The voices seemed to drift near and then fade away again. It was hard to breathe, and Lord, but he hurt; he must be bruised all over. He tried to think where he was. Not in the woods with Amy, for the smell of the sea was in his nostrils … Amy! He managed to force his eyes open. Strangely, although he thought he must have lost consciousness, he didn't seem to be lying down. A gaunt, wolfish face with a thin trap of a mouth and hard grey eyes materialised before him.

“The—pseudo major … I presume,” he said faintly.

“But not a pseudo victor.” Trethaway's smile was unpleasant. “I must own you have astounded me. How in the name of all creation you could have come up with me here, is past belief. Who betrayed us?”

Glendenning managed a grin. “Nobody with whom you are … in the least acquainted.” He glanced about and discovered that he sat leaning against a tree, his arms pulled back and his wrists tied behind the trunk.

“Observe, my lord hero,” said Trethaway, pointing to the side.

Two words were chalked in bold letters on the surface of the rock that loomed ahead.
CHÂTIMENT UN
!

Glendenning said contemptuously, “A message from your master?”

“Only part of it.” Trethaway grinned. “The rest is over there.”

Turning his aching head, Glendenning smothered a gasp.

Morris lay face down nearby. He was not tied and, horrifyingly, there was no sign of life. After a stunned minute, the viscount looked up again.

Trethaway chuckled. “So that is what is meant by ‘a speaking glance.'”

“Damn you! Have you killed him?”

“Lord knows, and it don't matter either way. He is of no importance. Do you know, Glendenning, I cannot say I'm sorry you came. I shall delight in knowing you will watch my departure. I've had a score to settle with your family for years! You don't know why, I see. Your top-lofty sire was one of the men who blackballed me at the Cocoa Tree.” He scowled darkly. “Made it impossible for me to get into any of the best clubs. I'd never served him a bad turn. He did it purely out of his damned arrogance!”

“Not at all. He likely thought you a blackguard. As usual, his judgment was impeccable.”

Trethaway's lips twisted into a snarl. He drew back his fist, then paused, a cunning look coming into his face. He took a small leather case from his waistcoat pocket, opened the lid, and held the Comyn Pin tantalizingly in front of the viscount's eyes. “Look, your lordship,” he jeered. “We up anchor within the hour. From here you will have a clear view as I sail into a bright future, taking with me the only hope you had of saving your wretched family. Ah, that makes you sweat, does it? Think on it, dear old boy. Think of the questioning they will inflict upon your mother … your innocent sister … your stupid brother … Think of the rope you have put about their necks. Think of their screams when the axe—”

Glendenning swore, and struggled against the ropes until he could feel blood slipping down his hands. “You accursed … bastard…,” he panted. “If your Squire is as—as highly placed as I believe … you may think of
his
face when I tell my questioners … where you've gone, and that you've taken the pin with—”

A shout from the beach cut off his words. “Major! They're coming in!”

An instant longer Trethaway stood in frowning thought. Then he replaced the case in his pocket. “They will not listen to you,” he said with a shrug. “And at all events, the Squire likely won't care so long as you come by your just deserts. Still, I shall leave you a token of my esteem.” He kicked out hard, and chuckled as Glendenning's face twisted with pain. Striding down the path, he called blithely, “Adieu, traitor! Your friends will think twice before they ever again interfere with the business of the League of Jewelled Men.”

Glendenning's wrists were raw, but he struggled desperately to escape. Perhaps there was still a chance. If he could free himself and hire a fast boat, he might catch that murderous rogue. It felt as though he'd been tied with leathers, rather than rope. Likely, they'd cut the reins from one of the horses. Certainly, however he fought, the knots weren't weakening, and his arms had been forced back so tightly against the tree that his efforts were very restricted. Breathless, he leaned his head back, thinking. Perhaps there was another way. He was tied near the base of the tree, but the trunk narrowed as it soared higher. Gritting his teeth, he tried to push himself upward. At first his efforts seemed fruitless, but he persisted doggedly, refusing to let the pain beat him, cursing aloud in anguish, the sweat trickling into his eyes. After a while, the constant effort and the unnatural position made his arms ache so that he could hardly bear to continue. He paused for a minute, to catch his breath and nerve himself to start again. And this time, with his first try his arms seemed to move a little. “Excelsior!” he gasped and, shoving with his feet, he strove until his arms moved again, and then again, inch by jerking inch. Gradually, the strain on his arms lessened, and at length he was able to battle his way to his feet.

Panting but triumphant, he muttered, “Now, thank God, I'll have more leverage!” A moment later, he groaned an anguished “Blast!” as a splintered piece of bark gouged his arm. The jagged edges, protruding beside him, reminded him of the broken branch he'd landed on when he was thrown in the woods. That had been sharp enough to pierce his boot. If this was as lethal, he might at least be able to jam it into the knots that held him. He strained and tugged, and at last his wrists were over the outthrusting bark. Groping, testing, pulling, he felt the knot catch at last. The leather was coming free! Another minute or two …

He glanced seaward. A longboat was lurching across the tumbling grey water. He stood as if frozen, watching helplessly.