Had We Never Loved (41 page)

To see such devastation had wracked Glendenning and, wandering through the wreckage, coming upon bits and pieces of items that had been cherished by Amy, brought memories too painful to be prolonged, so that he'd ridden out very soon.

From the ruins he'd gone straight to Mimosa Lodge, but Kadenworthy was at his hunting box in Yorkshire. His gentle aunt, troubled by the viscount's distraught manner, had pressed him to stay for tea and, failing, had said apologetically that her nephew was not expected to return until the weekend.

Leaving the Lodge, he'd ridden to Epsom, and then Reigate, and he'd spent the rest of that day and the next scanning an endless succession of faces, searching narrow alleys and busy thoroughfares, prowling the crowded marketplace and the yards of inns and taverns, and enquiring of ostlers or pedlars or rag-and-bone men if they'd seen her. Some knew her, but none had encountered her for weeks. Hour succeeded hour, but until far into the evenings he persevered. The following day he rode to a fair. The next was devoted to a bazaar, and the next to a race meeting. Thus, the days slipped away as he wandered the Down country wherever people might congregate, sure each time that she would be here—she
had
to be somewhere in the throng,
this
would be the day he would find her. When night forced him to abandon his efforts, he refused to be discouraged, but after a few hours' sleep, was up at dawn and off to another village or town, or summertime festivity.

At the end of the first week, he thought he'd found her. In Godalming he learned there was to be a mill next afternoon in the fields outside Dorking, the combatants sufficiently well-known pugilists to attract a crowd. He'd set out before dawn, riding northeastward, and gradually becoming part of a great noisy company, all heading with eager expectancy for the scene of combat. It was the very kind of crowd where Amy might decide to do a little “prigging,” or perhaps try to sell some pretty thing she had made. Reaching the site, he'd left Flame at a makeshift livery while he prowled. His heart had leapt when he'd spotted a slender gypsy lass with a scarlet scarf around her thick dark hair, and a provocative way of walking that had convinced him his long search was ended at last. Shoving his way through the crowd he'd come up with her, seized her by the shoulders and whirled her around, shouting an exultant, “Sweetheart!” But the startled face turned to him had nothing of Amy's beauty. The features were coarse; the eyes, bold and calculating, had swiftly taken his measure, resulting in an inviting smile as she swayed to him. The brawny farmhand beside her, however, had viewed this infringement in a far different light. The viscount's polite apology had been refused with wrath and violence. The pleased crowd had enjoyed an extra mill. The altercation had been short but sharp, and Glendenning had gone his way with a split lip, his ears ringing with the admiration of the spectators, and the vituperations of the disappointed gypsy girl, who knelt beside her champion, clutching the guinea the viscount had offered, and shrieking a profane assessment of his character.

Since then, he had lost count of the miles he'd tramped. His days had deteriorated into a dreary procession of faces and figures, of hope that sprang only to prove vain, of a growing despair that must be fought lest it defeat him. Worst of all, fear had become his constant companion. His darling Amy was beautiful and brave, but she was all alone. What if some of the
chals
found her? What if she'd been kidnapped by the Squire's animals, as they had tried to do before? Haunted by such terrors, he found it hard to sleep at night, and often woke from such ghastly nightmares that he dreaded to sleep again.

As one week blended into the next, worry and lack of sleep began to undermine his spirits. If there had been just a crumb of encouragement, if only one person had seen her, or heard of her, he could have kept hope alive. But when, after all this time he'd discovered no trace, out of sheer desperation his thoughts turned towards home. It was, he told himself, quite possible that Michael had found her the very night of his own departure. Perhaps, while he wasted time searching the south country, August or Jamie had already brought her safely back to the Abbey.

So it was that on this afternoon of clouds and rain and the sullen grumbling of thunder, he came again to the Abbey and turned Flame towards the stable block.

“His lordship's come!” A rush of feet followed that youthful howl, and two stableboys were beaming up at him, and shyly welcoming him home.

Glendenning smiled, praying they would say “Miss Consett's back, sir!” But they did not, and because he so dreaded the answer, he dared not voice the all-important question, and asked only if his brother was at the Abbey.

At once their faces became solemn. Mr. Templeby had been here, they reported, but had gone off again.

Glendenning asked that his saddlebags be brought up to the house, and made his way through the downpour. The skies were even darker now, and lightning zigzagged against the low-hanging clouds. The following thunder was still distant, but they were probably in for a stormy night. An ill omen, he thought wretchedly, then pulled his head up. Be damned to omens! This was just his first try. Next time, he'd rope in Michael and, with luck, Jamie and Falcon as well, unless they'd fought their— He halted, with a guilty gasp. Once again he'd completely forgotten the duel, and his promise to Falcon! Lord, but the man would be more like to murder than to help him!

Starting for the door that led into the west wing, he felt a hand on his arm. The stableboy had followed with his saddlebags, and now touched his brow respectfully and said that there had been some trouble with the thresholds, and would his lordship please to use the main entrance. Sure enough, Glendenning saw that makeshift barriers had been erected to block the various outer doors. “Joy!” he muttered, and started the long haul across the courtyard. Lost in thought, he forgot the boy behind him until lightning flashed again, and he heard a startled exclamation. “Here, I'll take those,” he said, reaching for the saddlebags. “No need for both of us to drown.”

The boy protested staunchly, but Glendenning took his burden and sent him splashing off.

He had expected that one of the lackeys would come to his rescue with an umbrella, but the front doors remained closed until he was reaching for the handle, at which point they were swung open.

Darrow, ever imperturbable, bowed and welcomed him as if he'd left an hour since. A lackey hurried to take the saddlebags. A hovering footman relieved him of cloak, and whip; another took his gloves and tricorne. Making off with their burdens, they all looked so cool and efficient and noncommital.

“Is the earl at—” began Glendenning.

“Horatio!” Lady Nola came down the stairs and held out her hands to him. “Thank heaven you are come home, my dear!” she said, drawing him towards the west wing. “Did you learn anything of her?”

Such a simple question, but with such terrible implications. Amy wasn't safe, then; she wasn't here. He had braced himself for such news, but the reality was still crushing. He shook his head, and asked, “Has there been no word at all, Mama? I'd thought perhaps Michael—or Falcon might have—”

“Falcon!” she exclaimed, looking irked. “Do not even mention that wretched creature, Tio! He came here breathing fire and smoke, as usual. Something about a promise you'd made and—”

“Blast his stupid duels,” he exploded. “Oh—your pardon, ma'am.” He drew a hand across his brow distractedly. “I had hoped, you see … but—”

“Even so,” she said with a disapproving air, “there is no call for language, and— My heavens! Your father particularly wished me to join him at four o'clock, and I am late.” She started off.

“Mama—wait! Please. I must talk to—”

“Yes, dear. Later on,” she called over her shoulder. “Do you go on up, and I shall come to you directly.”

He stared after her. There had been no embrace, no real anxiety about Amy, no sympathy with his own grief. It was unlike Mama to be impervious to another person's suffering. Furthermore, neither his father nor Marguerite had come to hear whatever news he might have. He felt hurt and betrayed, and started towards the stairs, head down and his heart like lead. Probably, they still blamed him for their recent ordeal. That was understandable, after all. And none of them really approved of his lady, nor guessed how much this meant to him. Perhaps they had never loved as deeply as he loved, so that each hour of not knowing, of growing terror, was worse than the last. Perhaps they had never missed someone so much that it was an unceasing ache of the heart. Dear God, if only she was well, and not—

“Pray have a care, your lordship, else you will surely bump into me.”

The young voice was soft and cultured and musical. A friend of Margo's, thought Glendenning dully. Too weary to move fast, he murmured an apology and stepped to the side of the stair. The lady did not pass, and he lifted his head slowly.

He saw a jewelled slipper peeping from beneath the scalloped hem of a pink and white striped underdress. The paniers were of deeper pink satin, the tiny waist contained by a stomacher that spread gradually to reveal pearls glowing on a creamy expanse of bosom. He saw at last an exquisitely lovely face, with a patch trembling beside ruddy lips, and framed by powdered and upswept curls. She stood there, watching him and plying a fan in one small hand. And her great dark eyes held an indescribable tenderness.

Shock, added to fatigue and despair, proved too much. Glendenning's eyes blurred, and he groped blindly for the rail.

A flutter of draperies. Warm arms about his neck. Tears, blinding him. And he was sitting down, hugging her close, trying to talk sensibly, but able to do no more than to whisper her name, over and over again, and know that he was behaving like a fool, and not care.

*   *   *

The flames that flickered on the hearth provided the only light in the book room, and the earl, standing by the mantel gazing down at those flames, kicked a log absently, and muttered, “We had best go to them now.”

“'Twill take more than thirty seconds for Horatio to recover from the shock,” his wife argued. “How I kept from telling him when I saw the despair in his eyes, poor boy, I shall never know. Tell me what you mean to do, sir.”

He looked troubled. “I know what I
should
do. For both their sakes.”

Lady Nola said musingly. “One seldom sees a great love. I think I have now seen one.”

“Oh, do you!” he said, indignant.

“I meant,” she amended, hiding a smile, “a love as passionately offered—on both sides.”

“If you are saying, madam, that you have never offered such a—a depth of affection to your unfortunate spouse—”

She raised her head and looked at him squarely. “I do not say that at all. But—I
have
sometimes wondered, Gregory, if you offered because you really cared for me. Or because you liked me—”

“
Liked
you madam,” he roared.

“And you knew I loved Horatio,” she finished.

“Of all the cock and bull— Of all the— By
Gad,
madam wife, but I should wash out your mouth with strong soap!”

Lady Nola chuckled. “Now there is a declaration of love, if ever I heard one!”

“And here is another declaration, m'dear,” he said, his resonance much diminished. “You know dashed well how much I— Er, that is to say— Well—deuce take it, Nola! How I'd go on—without you…! Which has nothing to say to the case, because you
do
know it, and you merely mouth all this rubbish to turn my thoughts. The plain and unvarnished truth is, that he warned me he meant to marry the chit. And she's pretty, and sweetly natured, and a bright little thing—but I still hoped that, especially after this separation…” He sighed.

“But that is precisely why Amy insisted upon it. To give him time to change his mind. Do you now mean to withdraw your consent? I think you will lose him, Gregory. 'Twould take more than mortal man to part them.”

“I know it. Well, I never did understand him. Lord knows, I tried. But, of late I have come to realize … how much— Oh, dash it all! What I am trying to say—”

“You are trying to say that you cannot bear the thought of him walking out of your life. No more can I.”

He came to sit beside her and take her hand. “My lady, what will come of it? Consett! I never heard of such a family, and nor did anyone else. Tio will be a laughing-stock! We
all
will be laughing-stocks!”

“Instead of merely being corpses, shamefully put to death and with our heads on Temple Bar.”

He gave a gasp and pulled her into his arms. “Dear God! Do not remind me!”

“I think we must never forget it, Gregory.” She kissed his cheek and settled back with his arm still comfortably around her. “But this may not be the disaster you envision. Amy is a darling child. Certainly she has good blood in her, and though we may never discover her true name, I've a notion she may very well become the rage.”

“The rage? A nameless gypsy? When half of London's matchmaking mamas had it in mind
their
very eligible daughters were destined to become Viscountess Glendenning? They'll crucify the poor chit!”

The countess' eyes took on a martial look. “Not whilst I am by, they will not! Furthermore, I shall enlist the aid of all my friends. Phyllida Gurnard, especially. And if I can snare her grandmama—”

“Phyllida … hmm. Born a Dunster, wasn't she? Thaddeus Briley's sister? Then the grandmother is the dowager Lady Mount-Durward, eh? A proper dragon! You'll have some formidable allies, my dear!”

“I hope I may persuade them. Amy looks divinely when she is nicely dressed, and she exudes warmth and gaiety. 'Twill not be the first time a commoner has married into a great house, although we may have to conjure up some tale of her having been stolen from a branch of a very good family.”