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  Had we never loved sae kindly

  Had we never loved sae blindly

  Never met—or never parted—

  We had ne’er been brokenhearted.

  —ROBERT BURNS

  PROLOGUE

  England

  May 1748

  The only light came from the steady flame of a candle on the solitary table in the centre of the room. The circle of light was feeble and left the corners of the room shrouded in blackness so intense that it was as if the candlelight shrank in upon itself and abandoned the uneven struggle to pierce the gloom. Although it was springtime, the room was chill and clammy, and the smell of mould permeated the air.

  Six men were seated at the table. They were as so many graven images, each wearing a dark cloak, hood, and mask, so that only the gleams from the eye slits testified to the existence of life.

  The man at the head of the table moved in his chair, and the candle flickered. Faint as it was, it drew sparkles from the miniature figures that were placed on the table, one before each man. Fashioned from jade or quartz, and about three inches tall, they were somewhat reminiscent of tiny gravestones with rounded tops. On each piece was carven the crude outline of a human face, this taking up most of the figure, with a suggestion of squat legs beneath. Scattered about the face were brilliant gems. Although identical in size, each figure was unique. One was of pink jade set with large rubies; another was of lapis lazuli and sapphires. The pale green figure was jade also, enriched by the blue-green glow of emeralds; and there was a golden crystal inlaid with three topazes, and a glittering quartz studded with two fire opals. The figure at the head of the table was amethyst, lit by the cold fire of four superb diamonds, and it was the man seated there who now spoke, his voice thin and colourless.

  “What is it that you judge to be foolish, Sapphire?”

  The occupant of the lapis and sapphire position shrugged and said irritably, “All this drama and ritual. Damned nonsensical, was you to ask me. We know who we are well enough, Squire. Why the frippery masks and the elaborate secrecy? Like so many children playing poppycock!”

  At the right hand of the man at the head of the table, a large individual toyed with the jade and emerald miniature before him. “You may think you could name us all, Sapphire,” he said. “Though I fancy you’d be wrong in one or two cases.”

  “And even were you right,” interposed the man with the ruby symbol, “how could you prove it, were you ever required to do so? Have you ever actually seen the face of any one of us while seated at this table? Could you swear in a court of law as to the true identity of any member our League?”

  “Perhaps,” said the man called the Squire, his voice very soft now, “Sapphire would prefer to come unmasked, so that the rest of us may be sure of his identity, at least.”

  There were some chuckles, and Sapphire drew back, disclaiming hurriedly, and saying he’d not looked at it in “just that particular way.”

  The Squire sprang to his feet and leaned across the table. “Then do so!” he snapped. “Far from being children at play, we are patriots, each one of us! Sworn, at great personal risk, to better this dear England and ensure her future well-being. Charles Stuart sought to seize the throne, and had he not been ill-advised and inexperienced, might well have succeeded. We shall succeed, because we aim not merely to rid ourselves of this German upstart who calls himself our king, but to do away with kings altogether and create a true republic.”

  “The people will be behind us, once we’re ready,” put in the harsh voice of the Opal member. “They don’t like German George above half! Who wants a king who cannot speak English? Who cares not a button for our land and would rather be back in Hanover, and who has made German the only language spoken at Court!”

  The slight member with the Topaz symbol said, “We’ve done well. The Merriam and Albertson estates are safely in our hands and already being prepared.”

  Sapphire grunted. “We bungled the Rossiter business.”

  “Very true,” said the Squire, sitting down again. “’Tis well we have you among us, Sapphire, if only to keep us from becoming complacent. The member who—er, failed in that instance has paid the price. Else you, my dear friend, would not be here.”

  There was another burst of laughter, and Sapphire joined in, though rather uneasily.

  Ruby said, “Sapphire reminds us, Squire, that young Rossiter and his unpleasant friends interfered with our plan, brought about the death of a valued member, and caused another to leave the country.”

  “We must expect casualties, apparently,” said the Squire. “Even so, we achieved our objective, and Sir Mark Rossiter, one of England’s great men, was disgraced and discredited.”

  “He has now been judged blameless,” demurred Opal.

  “By some, perhaps.” The Squire gave a gesture of impatience. “But most people remember the bad and forget the good. Sir Mark’s veracity has been tainted. When the time is right he will be judged just another thieving aristocrat.”

  “We all, I believe, are aristocrats,” interjected Topaz in his soft voice.

  “And will be the only aristocrats when we succeed,” said the Squire. “Save that we shall be called Rulers, and our combined knowledge and expertise will prevail to guide this island and ensure that every common man has the opportunity to rise as far as his neighbour.”

  “And no further,” murmured Ruby.

  Over the burst of laughter, Emerald said, “Nonetheless, we have a debt to pay, and time passes. Our enemies should be shown the error of their ways, Squire.”

  All heads turned to the man at the head of the table. Leaning back in his chair, he said thoughtfully, “Exactly so. The ringleader is now honeymooning in Europe.”

  “True, but Rossiter has, to an extent, already been punished,” said Ruby.

  “To … an extent,” murmured the Squire. “Of his friends and allies, Lord Horatio Glendenning’s loyalty to the throne is, to say the least, questionable, which could work very nicely to our advantage.”

  Sapphire said curiously, “Did the young fool really fight for Stuart’s cause?”

  “Very likely,” said Topaz. “And is an obnoxious creature. What of this fellow Morris, Squire?”

  “Lieutenant James Morris is of an old landed family, but there is no longer a title, and the estate is of no interest to us. He can be dealt with simply enough, but ’twill do little to advance our Cause. As to August Falcon—”

  There were several scornful exclamations, and the Squire chuckled. “Half-breed he may be, but do not forget, gentlemen, he is as dangerous as he is wealthy, and Ashleigh is high on our list.”

  Sapphire’s hand on the table clenched. “I’ve a long overdue score to settle with the Chandlers. When do we attend to them, Squire?”

  “In due time, my friend.” The Squire nodded to Emerald, who took a large folded document from a case on the floor beside him and spread it on
the table. They all stood and gathered round. The rough map included a directional arrow pointing north, but in other respects it left much to be desired, for it lacked topographical detail and appeared to contain only large areas outlined in red, each having a neatly printed name and connected by lines to adjacent blue circles marked with initials.

  “Do you know, gentlemen,” murmured the Squire, tapping one well-manicured fingernail on the diamond emblem he held, “were we to proceed in the order of rank, and were we to handle the matter rather”—he laughed softly—“shall we say—deviously? We could chastise an irritating, but obligingly reckless young fellow, and in the process a most delectable plum might just chance to drop into our hands.”

  Below the mask his thin lips curved in response to the enthusiasm of his friends, and he leaned forward. The comments became a shout of endorsement as he set the diamond figure on one of the outlined areas on their abbreviated map. An area wherein two words were neatly printed: Glendenning Abbey.

  CHAPTER I

  Short Shrift was bustling, its single street crowded, most people afoot, but a few horsemen venturing cautiously among the boisterous throng. No less boisterous was the breeze that ruffled the chestnut trees, sent the ladies’ skirts billowing, made mischievous snatches at wigs and bonnets, and flapped the many tents and awnings that had transformed the three-acre patch of turf known as the Village Green into a maelstrom of activity.

  To designate Short Shrift a village was a matter of pride with the inhabitants and a topic sure to inspire scornful derision among the inhabitants of surrounding villages. Located in the beautiful rolling country west of Basingstoke, Short Shrift could boast only a baker’s dozen thatched and whitewashed cottages. In response to sneers that it didn’t even have a proper street, the inhabitants would point out that the lane curved “right pretty like” and, before their discreditors could add more insults, would unfailingly declare that Short Shrift was destined to grow. Rapidly. How could it fail? Already it had an “inn,” which was (occasionally) a stop for the Oxford to Southampton Portsmouth Machine, or, as silly foreigners from London now called it, a “stagecoach.”

  It was in the stableyard of the Spotted Cat on this sunny May afternoon that a horseman dismounted and glanced about for an ostler. On a normal day ostlers would have come running to take the splendid chestnut mare of this dashing young gentleman of Quality, but this was a far from normal day. The shabby old inn was crowded, and the host and his wife could scarcely run fast enough to accommodate the patrons who thronged the tap, pushed their way into the coffee room, and overflowed into the dusty corridor and dustier vestibule.

  Therefore, the rider was neglected, and might with some justification have been annoyed. Horatio Clement Laindon, Viscount Glendenning, was an amiable young man, however, as the laugh lines at the corners of his green eyes attested. Of no more than average height, his lean figure and broad shoulders spoke of athletic pursuits, and although he fell short of being named handsome, his features were sufficiently good as to cause most female eyes to appraise him with interest.

  There were female eyes upon him now. Brilliant eyes of dark brown set under slim brows. A purple scarf was tied about the night black hair of the young gypsy. The snowy low-cut blouse was amply filled and tucked into a long dark blue skirt. Sandals were tied about a pair of shapely ankles, and the little feet they protected were arched and slender.

  Unaware of either the stare or the girl’s attributes, Lord Horatio peered into the crowded stable. “Hey!” he called, without appreciable result.

  “Look at him, Florian,” murmured the gypsy girl, her red lips curling with scorn. “All beside of hisself ’cause six grooms and a ostler ain’t come running to kneel at his feet. Proper helpless. Fair pathetic, ain’t it?”

  The gypsy lad beside her said softly, “The gentleman, perhaps. But the gry! Do you mark her? A rare prize, Amy.”

  His lordship was leading the mare into the stable. Watching the animal’s silken movements, the girl whispered, “Aye. Oooh—aye!” She glanced up at her companion’s finely boned young face and saw the glowing look in the beautiful eyes that were as dark as her own. “You think we could?” she hissed, tugging at his arm.

  Suddenly appalled, he exclaimed, “Oh lor’! Never even dream of it!”

  “But in a mob like this, ’twould be easy.”

  “Easy as death! You’ve maggots in your loft, girl!”

  “I may be a girl, but I’d help, ye know that. Still…” She frowned thoughtfully. “Likely you’re right and we’d swing on Tyburn Tree, the pair of us. Oh, well. We can think about the gry later. Now, you’d best go and help the poor Quality cove. He’ll likely pay handsome. A nice mouth he’s got. He’ll be generous, I’ll wager, and maybe toss you the price of one strand of that there wig he’s got stuck on his noble nob.”

  Florian glanced at her in surprise. The tone was full of cynicism, but the words were unusually complimentary. “Here he comes,” she added impatiently. “Go on, lump! Give a hand to Milord Rosy-and-Rare!”

  He grinned. “You and your rhyming cant. He doesn’t look like a nose-in-the-air to me. In fact—” He paused, his eyes widening. “Aiee! It’s Lord Glendenning!”

  “Know him, does ye? He’s a pigeon for plucking if ever I see one. Go on!”

  “Not me,” he said, backing away. “He’s no pigeon, Amy. Besides, he’s a friend of Mr. Cranford. I’ll not lighten his pockets, and no more should you.”

  His lordship turned in their direction. Florian melted into the crowd, and Amy Consett slipped into the shadow of the open stable door.

  It had occurred to Glendenning that there were some decidedly odd goings-on in Short Shrift. On the few occasions he’d stopped here before, to glimpse more than a dozen people would have been remarkable. This afternoon the place was fairly mobbed. And mobbed by a most unusual crowd. The countryman he’d addressed, very politely, had rounded on him before he could say more than “Will you please tell me—?” Flourishing a handful of what looked like sheep’s wool, the man had interrupted eagerly, “’Ar—well ’ow long, master?” His astonished, “How the deuce do I know how long the stuff is?” had met with an indignant snort, and the obviously deranged individual had hurried off to wave his wool under the nostrils of a sturdy fellow in gaiters. Glendenning’s second attempt had been even more peculiar. He’d readied his most beguiling smile to dazzle a pert young miss into chatting with him, and before he could say one word, she’d shaken a feather duster under his nose and asked in a shrill and alarmingly excitable manner what he would give for it. He had effected a hasty retreat, and now advised Flame, between sneezes, that if there was one article for which he had no use whatsoever it was a feather duster.

  “Especially one that is blasted full of … dust!” he gasped, wiping tearful eyes after yet another sneeze.

  As if endorsing his remarks, Flame whinnied and danced to the side. A shriek caused Glendenning to lower the handkerchief. He was aghast to see a gypsy girl sprawled on the ground practically under Flame’s hooves. “Oh, Egad!” He fell to one knee and propped the girl, who appeared to be in a fainting condition. “I do beg pardon … miss…” His horrified utterance ceased. Her head had rolled back against his shoulder. The purple scarf had come loose, releasing a cloud of raven hair that rippled to her waist. He looked into an oval face blessed by high cheekbones, a delicately chiselled nose with the slightest uptilt at the end, a vivid, full-lipped mouth, and a firm little chin. Thick curling black lashes fluttered, and the bewildered eyes that blinked up at him were long and very dark. The swooping neck of her blouse had slid a little way over one white shoulder, leaving no doubt but that she possessed a remarkably handsome bosom. Somewhat dazed, his lordship had the fleeting thought that even Katrina Falcon would not outshine this beauty.

  “You … hurt me…,” said she, in a husky, faltering voice.

  Some sympathetic and indignant comments arose. Glendenning tore his gaze from the vision in his arms. A small crowd had gathe
red, and he was being regarded disapprovingly. “No, but— I—er— That is to say—was it my horse, mistress?” he stammered.

  The dusky head nodded. The lustrous eyes closed. She sighed, and lay back again.

  “Most improper!” remarked a stern-faced housewife, clad in a plain grey gown and gripping a white parasol as though it were a bayonetted musket.

  “It’s these ’ere Quality coves, ma’am,” whined a threadbare and cadaverous individual. “Much they care if their nags trample simple folk.”

  “You should be more careful, young fella,” roared a large gentleman from beneath an awesome French wig. “Cannot go about trampling young females, y’know.”

  Red to the roots of his hair, Glendenning groaned and enquired if the “young female” could get up, or should he summon an apothecary.

  Those great eyes were looking at him piteously again. “I’ll … try,” she said in a faint voice.

  He practically had to lift her, and she clung to him weakly. There was a fragrance about her. A sweet, clean, natural fragrance.

  A jeering shout broke through Glendenning’s pleasant musing. “’Ware the gypsies, me fine cove! Keep yer peepers on yer valleybles!”

  His lordship snapped back to reality, and his eyes darted instinctively in search of Flame. Unperturbed by the several admiring children who were stroking her, the mare waited patiently, in the act of accepting the bullseye a small girl offered.

  A loud and officious voice rang out. “Move aside, there! In the name of the law!” The crowd eddied and split. A man wearing a dark habit, a black tricorne set on his scratch wig, and with a sombre expression on his narrow face, pushed his way through.

  Glendenning felt the yielding figure he held become tense. With a lithe twist the gypsy girl was out of his arms.

  Springing forward, the constable seized her wrist. “Ho, no you don’t!”

  “Let me go, you nasty old cove!” Amy appealed to his lordship. “I ain’t done nothing, has I, sir? Tell him I ain’t done nothing, yer highness!”