Had We Never Loved (5 page)

“Don't forget,” he called, as Glendenning opened the door. “I look forward to meeting a lady who'll make a worthy countess when your mama and I are gone. And keep away from firebrands like August Falcon! He'll come to a bad end, mark my words!”

It was as well, thought the viscount, as he stamped angrily towards his own apartments, that the earl was “not one to give advice”!

Whittlesey, the quiet and somewhat dour wizard who valetted Michael Templeby, was today assigned to Lord Glendenning. Having put off his riding coat, leathers, and top boots, Glendenning washed and was dressed in a coat of dark green velvet richly embroidered with silver thread; a waistcoat of green and silver brocade; and pale green satin unmentionables. A fine emerald pin was set amid the snowy Brussels lace of his cravat. His neat pigeon wing wig was replaced with one of the more elaborate French design he knew his stepsister admired, and his shoes with their high red heels made him seem taller. Despite this bow to fashion, Whittlesey knew better than to suggest paint or patches, and beyond murmuring that he hoped he saw his lordship well, he had little to say.

Glendenning had never quite fathomed why Michael had taken on this tall, middle-aged, and rather saturnine individual for his personal servant, but Whittlesey knew his trade, certainly. Surveying his reflection in the cheval-glass with justifiable satisfaction, he caught the valet watching him. He held those enigmatic pale blue eyes, and demanded, “Is my brother well?”

“To the best of my knowledge, your lordship.”

“Why are you not in Town with him?”

“Because he did not desire it, sir.”

“Have you displeased him, perchance?”

Very briefly, the suggestion of a smile lightened the grave mouth. “I trust not, my lord.”

“What, then? No one knows a man like his valet, 'tis said.”

“A wise valet does not betray his employer, sir.”

Glendenning turned to face him. “Then you feel that to voice what you do know would constitute a betrayal?”

For a moment Whittlesey's eyes met his own. Then, they fell away. “It has been my experience, my lord, that when a gentleman goes off without his man, 'tis usually because he does not want his—er, activities to—er, become common knowledge.”

“Profound,” said Glendenning dryly. He started towards the door, and as Whittlesey swept it open, caught the bony wrist and held it firmly. “If anything should occur that you think would disturb the countess, and you are reluctant to speak of it to my father, you will come to me at once. Do you understand?”

The modestly but impeccably bewigged head was bowed. “I understand, milord.”

Glendenning went into the corridor and made his way towards the front of the east wing and his stepmother's apartment. It was clear that there was more than mockery behind Falcon's remarks, and that Piers Cranford's careful words had indeed constituted a warning. Michael was in some kind of tangle. He frowned a little. God send the crazy boy had not really followed his example and become involved with Jacobites.

He reached Lady Nola's charming apartments and was greeted with warmth and affection. Emerging from that embrace he held her at arms' length and smiled at her fondly.

The countess was a large lady whose kind heart was hidden behind a regal and forbidding aspect. Born Nola Comyn, her stern Scottish parents had sent her to be educated at a Young Ladies Seminary in Harrogate, then married her, when she was barely seventeen, to John Templeby, a wealthy but reclusive Englishman thirty-five years her senior. She had given him a son, Michael, whom he had despised, since the little boy was sickly; and a daughter, Marguerite, in whom he had no interest whatsoever. Mr. Templeby had suffered a fatal slip on the ice when Michael was five and Marguerite three. Nola, who had the reputation of being outspoken, was not sufficient of a hypocrite to put on a great show of mourning, and had found it uncomfortable to be surrounded by people who expected such a display. An invitation to visit her dearest friend, Adelaide, by then Countess of Bowers-Malden, offered a welcome change, and the visit had opened a new world to the young widow. When she arrived, the youthful heir, Viscount Glendenning, was away at Eton, but both Lady Adelaide and the earl doted upon the timid Templeby children their father had scorned, and the widow was feted as an honoured guest. She had bloomed under such treatment, as had her children, and when thirteen-year-old Lord Horatio came home for the long vacation, he was delighted by the tall lady, and more delighted to play the worldly wise and sophisticated “college man” to the admiring junior Templebys. Some months later, Lady Adelaide fell victim to the inflammation of the lungs that swiftly claimed her life. Mrs. Templeby was a pillar of support to the stricken family, and by the end of the following year she had become the second Countess of Bowers-Malden.

Conscious always of the fact that he did not please his autocratic sire, Glendenning had soon fallen into the habit of taking his youthful troubles to his stepmother, and never failed to find kindness and understanding. Despite their differences, he respected his father and would have liked very much to win his love and approval, but although Lady Nola tried very hard to bring them together, the earl's impatience and Horatio's pride combined to make her task a difficult one.

Now, scanning her features, he rested one finger lightly upon the dark shadows under her rather protuberant blue eyes and said, “What's this, Mama? Have you been indisposed and not told me of it?”

“No such thing, my love. Am I really hagged? I am scarce surprised. We have had such a merry party here, Tio. Colonel and Mrs. Lathrop, Rudolph Bracksby, your Uncle Herbert and Aunt Hortense—”

“And cousin Ormond and his charming Monica,” interposed Glendenning with a grimace. “Gad, what a gathering! If the Honourable Herbert was here I fancy Papa was up all night. Small wonder he was so testy. High stakes, love?”

“Not too bad, for Rudi is such a good soul, you know, and managed to keep your uncle to loo. But Bowers-Malden lost, of course. And Cousin Monica was— But I must not be uncharitable, for she doubtless cannot help being so— Oh dear,” she sighed as Glendenning burst into a laugh. “I must not speak of the matter at all, or I shall be quite sunk. How handsome you look in that French wig, dearest. Marguerite will find you irresistible! Now come and sit down and tell me what you have been about, and does London still ring with the Rossiter scandal, and is it truth that poor Lennox Albritton has fallen into the clutches of That Porchester Woman?”

Chuckling, Glendenning followed her to the loveseat beside the fire that burned in her hearth during every month of the year except August and September. He told her about his visit with Piers and Peregrine Cranford, and confirmed that her old enemy, Estelle Porchester, had wed Colonel Lennox Albritton. “As for the Rossiters, Gideon and his bride are now honeymooning, and Sir Mark is busy as a dog with two tails. The shipyards are being rebuilt already, and with the funds they recovered from the embezzeler, Sir Mark has repaid most of his investors.”

Lady Nola shook her head regretfully. “Poor Rossiter. He lost so much in that trading company swindle, and then the dreadful shipyard fire, and the collapse of his banks. I am so glad he is getting back onto his feet again, but is there any hope he will ever be able to buy back his beautiful estate? Promontory Point has been in their family for centuries.”

“Yes, and the loss of it grieves him—all of them—I am very sure. Perhaps they will recover it someday. Bracksby bought it, you know, and has told Sir Mark he may have it back whenever his finances permit.”

“Then Rudi only bought it to preserve it for them? How very kind in him.” The countess smiled, and said with a twinkle, “You will think me a proper gabblemonger, Tio, but I always suspected that Bracksby had a
tendre
for Collington's gel.”

Glendenning looked at her incredulously. “Naomi Lutonville? No—really? I never heard of it. At all events, Rudi is too late. Naomi is no longer Lady Lutonville, but Mrs. Gideon Rossiter.”

“True. I thought it odd that the earl did not appear at his daughter's nuptials. A strange man, for all his good looks.”

Tightening his lips, Glendenning wondered what his stepmother would say if she knew that the Earl of Collington had been—perhaps still was—a member of the infamous group he and his friends referred to as the League of Jewelled Men. He returned a noncommital answer, however, and turned the conversation by asking her about Michael.

Invariably, to speak of the son she doted upon brought a glowing look to the countess. Today, however, she made a vague reference to the fact that Templeby was “in Town,” and then asked for Court gossip.

He obliged her with as much as he knew, which was meagre and mundane. Still, she appeared fascinated, and had so many questions that at length, he patted her hand, and asked, “Mama, is there something you would like to discuss with me?”

She looked at him questioningly, then said with a short laugh, “Why, Tio! Has some gossip been filling your ear with fustian? What ill-considered flirtation must I vehemently deny?”

He tightened his hold on her hand. “I hope it is fustian. Perhaps you feel you cannot betray a confidence, but if Michael—”

“Tio!” With a squeal of joy, a slender girl with fair unpowdered curls and gentle hazel eyes ran into the room. The viscount jumped up to catch his stepsister and swing her around. Marguerite worshipped her “big brother,” and said firmly that Mama's turn was done now, and Tio must give her his full attention.

He loved her dearly, but wished she had not come in at just that particular moment. Glancing at the countess, however, he saw that she was watching her daughter, her eyes fond. Her nature was straightforward. If something was really wrong, she would not have been able to conceal it from him. Relieved, he gave his stepsister the “full attention” she desired, and made up his mind to return to Town tomorrow.

*   *   *

The air was warm on this hazy afternoon, and the graceful summer-house in the gardens behind Falcon House offered a pleasant oasis of cool shade. There were several long wooden benches in the little open-sided house, designed to encourage the whiling away of an idle hour or so in comfort. However, the present occupant of the summer-house neither availed herself of a bench, nor was she idle. She was, in fact, sitting on the floor, a walking cane beside her, and her voluminous skirts spread in pale pink billows. She was small and fine boned, with light brown curls, blue eyes, and a rather wide mouth, and she hummed merrily to herself as she brushed a large and unlovely black hound. Admittedly, Gwendolyn Rossiter could not be classified as a beauty, but she was certainly not so unprepossessing as to warrant the scowl that darkened the face of the man who watched her.

When it became apparent that between her humming and her efforts she had not heard his approach, August Falcon propped one shoulder against a support post and said in his bored drawl, “Poor Miss Gwendolyn. You must find your visits with us very dull if that is the only source of entertainment my sister can provide you.”

Gwendolyn Rossiter glanced around, the smile that lit her face earning only a continuance of Falcon's sardonic stare. “Don't be silly,” she said blithely. “Katrina is writing to my new sister-in-law. And I do not find it in the least dull to brush poor Apollo. Still, I will gladly relinquish the task to you.” She held out the brush, which Falcon ignored.

He wore a superbly cut grey riding coat and moleskin breeches tucked into topboots that shone like glass. His black hair was unpowdered, and the riband with which it was tied back had failed to subdue entirely its tendency to curl. She thought, ‘The wretched creature does not even try to be elegant, but is the most elegant man I know. And so revoltingly handsome. What a pity he is such an appalling failure as a human being.' Waving the brush at him, she urged, “Is your duty, you know, for he is your dog.”

“He
was
my dog,” corrected Falcon, paying no heed to the brush. “And he was also a jolly fine watchdog before you ruined him.”

Gwendolyn chuckled. Returning to hound and brush, she said, “He was a menace to anything on four legs or two, until I taught him how to play.”

“Whereby he now welcomes any cut-throat, thief, or vandal, so long as they come equipped with stick in hand, and the word ‘Fetch' on their lips! I hope you will be content when my father and sister are found murdered in their beds!”

At this, she burst into laughter. “Such a grump you are! I vow 'tis astonishing you are descended from Mrs. Natasha Falcon. I was looking at her portrait this morning, and—”

“I know. I saw you.”

Rarely annoyed, Gwendolyn paused at this, and gave Falcon a steady look.

He had the grace to blush a little, and said with a shrug, “No, I was not spying to be sure you did not set light to the house.”

Indignant, she exclaimed, “I would certainly do nothing that might harm Katrina or your aunt.”

“Or my papa,” he suggested dulcetly.

She opened her eyes at him. “Of course not. I am very fond of Mr. Falcon.”

A quirk tugged at the side of his mouth. “Yes. Well now that I have been consigned to the flames, pray impart your invaluable assessment of my grandmama.”

Apollo, stretched out blissfully, was jolted as the brush bit with unexpected violence into his throat, but Gwendolyn's voice was calm as she replied, “I thought her extreme beautiful.”

“She was exquisite; the loveliest lady I ever have, or ever will, see.”

“Loving her so deeply, I fancy you know a great deal about her background, which must be fascinating.”

Falcon said coldly, “I was nine years old when she died, ma'am.”

“But surely your mama—”

“My mama,” he said, his eyes becoming increasingly grim, “was not proud of her heritage from Grandmama Natasha, and had little to say in the matter. Have you any more questions regarding my family, Miss Rossiter? I am sure you must be burning to know how grandmama died, or how it came about that a year later my mother's carriage overturned. You must not fail to make enquiries of my father. I am sure he could supply you more—gossip.”