Never Doubt I Love

  Never Doubt I Love

  Patricia Veryan

  Contents

  Prologue

  Chapter I

  Chapter II

  Chapter III

  Chapter IV

  Chapter V

  Chapter VI

  Chapter VII

  Chapter VIII

  Chapter IX

  Chapter X

  Chapter XI

  Chapter XII

  Chapter XIII

  Chapter XIV

  Chapter XV

  Chapter XVI

  Chapter XVII

  Doubt thou the stars are fire;

  Doubt that the sun doth move;

  Doubt truth to be a liar;

  But never doubt I love.

  —William Shakespeare Hamlet .

  Prologue

  LONDON, AUTUMN, 1748

  The late afternoon sky was crowded with parading clouds, some wearing grey petticoats that promised rain before nightfall. A chill wind pranced along Pall Mall, tossing trees whose gowns were now more golden and russet than green. Ladies were obliged to restrain flying skirts, gentlemen to clutch at displaced tricornes, and chairmen swore as they threaded their way amongst carriages, waggons, horsemen, darting messenger boys and footmen, street vendors, and a scattering of scarlet-clad dragoons.

  The Cocoa Tree coffee house was not crowded at this hour. If the company was thin, it was congenial, and talk and laughter hung pleasantly on the spiced air. Although daylight came but dimly through the mullioned windows, and as yet no candles had been lit, logs blazed and crackled on the deep hearth sending out a mellow glow that flickered on pewter mugs and immaculate china, and illumined the playbills, sketches, and caricatures that hung on the walls. The outer fringes of the large room were shadowed, and against that dimness some occupants, touched by the firelight, stood out in sharp relief; the earnest faces of three gentlemen locked in a political debate; the merriment of a group of young exquisites gleefully exchanging choice items of scandal; the tense expressions of a silent group seated about a gaming table.

  The wall hangings fluttered wildly as a tall middle-aged man entered. He shut the door quickly and glanced about, then made his way to a quiet inglenook, where a somewhat portly gentleman a decade his senior was seated alone.

  "Hello, Talbot," said the newcomer, a smile on his distinguished features. "You look to be pondering weighty matters. Should you prefer that I take myself off?"

  Ramsey Talbot was a former Member of Parliament who had of late turned to the pen and was creating a small stir with his newspaper articles. He gave an inviting gesture and said heartily, "Not at all, Jonas. Pray join me. I'll be glad of your company. Heard you'd been reprieved from sailing off to Canton."

  "Complications. Always complications. The Chinese do not want us, you know." Sir Jonas Holmesby handed his cloak to the serving maid who hurried to them, and ordered a tankard of ale for himself, and another glass of Madeira for Mr. Talbot.

  Sharing the settle, he stretched his long legs to the fire and said with a grateful sigh, " ''Tis good to be out of the wind." After a closer scan of the company, he qualified his remark, saying regretfully that he might have to withdraw his patronage. "The house fairly swarms with Jacobite sympathizers."

  Talbot nodded. "And gossip. ''Tis one of the best places I know to pick up snippets of information I'd never hear at White's or Brookse's."

  "Aha! Nose to the grindstone once more, are you? And have your snippets been satisfactory?"

  "After a fashion, perhaps." Talbot paused as the serving maid returned with their drinks, then went on, "There's some odd rumours going about, Jonas. You've likely heard them yourself. These street disturbances, for instance, and the growing public unrest."

  Sir Jonas sampled his ale and shrugged. "There are always malcontents. I fancy 'twill all die down now the hot weather is past."

  "Ah, but will it?" Bending a little closer, Talbot lowered his voice. "I heard a fantastical tale last week, holding that the riots are part of a seditious plot that involves shipping also. You find that amusing, I see. Then cast your mind back to all the fine ships that have been lost this past year alone. There's never been such a string of disasters."

  Holmesby's smile faded, and he pointed out with a touch of acerbity, "Nor such heavy loss of life. There have been literally hundreds of innocent victims! ''Tis monstrous to suggest that civilized men would concoct so barbarous a plot! And for what possible purpose?"

  Briefly, Talbot was silent. At length, as if reaching a decision, he responded, "The purpose, perhaps, of a malignant secret society; aristocrats all, intent on the eventual overthrow of our so much disliked Hanoverian monarch." He glanced up from under his brows, and said, "Now what d'ye think of that snippet?"

  Sitting straighter, Sir Jonas answered with some force, "I think I would be extreme careful of accusing any well-born gentleman of treason!"

  "Guy Fawkes was well born! Oliver Cromwell was well born! Derwentwater, and the Stuarts, and—"

  "The Stuarts? Zounds! Have we not had enough of bloodshed and misery thanks to their vaunting ambitions? Must irresponsible gabblemongers stir up more tragedy?"

  Mr. Talbot stiffened. "If you name me an irresponsible—"

  "No, no! You know I do not, Ramsey! I know you for a fine patriot. But it distresses me that you listen to nonsense which contains, I'll wager, not a vestige of truth!"

  "Mayhap. I don't yet have all the details. I do know there's a blasted lot of smoke. And where there's smoke…"

  Dismayed, Sir Jonas half-whispered, "Details? You really believe it?"

  "I think I did not say that. The thing is, there's a deal of it makes sense. The very fact that Whitehall pooh-poohs it causes my ears to perk up."

  "But—surely you never mean to publish such stuff? 'Twould be purest folly! I beg you will not even consider it till you have proof."

  "By which time it might be too late! No, listen another moment, Jonas. The tale goes that a group of blue-bloods is at work collecting great estates. If the estate is entailed and cannot be bought, they set about to disgrace and ruin the owner to the extent that the property is confiscated by the Crown and sold for debt. Whereupon, they acquire it."

  "What stuff! 'Twould take a long-planned and elaborate scheme to achieve such a result! If for some reason a group of investors wants to buy large properties, there are plenty to be had without resorting to such lengths. And as for the shipping disasters, what would the loss of many great ships and their cargoes avail any sane man? Unless, of course, the passengers were all carefully selected enemies, which is even more fantastical!" Exasperated, Sir Jonas demanded, "Who has been filling your ears with such rubbish?"

  "I'll not tell you my source. But I understand there are some fine young fellows fighting this secret group, which is known, by the way, as the League of Jewelled Men."

  Holmesby's lip curled. "Very melodramatic! Who are they?"

  Frowning, Talbot said, "I've not such proof as enables me to toss names about. Suffice it to say they're rich and powerful. And deadly."

  Suppressing a snort of derision with difficulty, Sir Jonas asked, "Then dare you name the 'fine young fellows' who oppose this—ah, deadly League?"

  "In confidence, Jonas? I'll have your word."

  Sir Jonas gestured impatiently. "Oh, as you wish. Lord knows, I'm not desirous of spreading such twaddle."

  "Very well." Talbot glanced around, and leaned even closer. "Firstly, Gideon Rossiter. You'll mind he was sent home wounded from the Low Countries early this year?"

  "Aye! And found his sire had brought financial ruin on half London by reason of his gross incompetence, and was for a time suspected of downright embezzlement!"

  "Of which he was subsequentl
y cleared! Pray keep your voice down, man! 'Twas young Rossiter first suspected the existence of the League. When the Horse Guards turned a deaf ear to his warnings, he gathered a small band of friends around him, and from all I hear they've engaged in some mighty desperate ploys to oppose the League."

  "Have they! Rossiter, and…?"

  "Lieutenant James Morris, for one. He's related to Lord Kenneth Morris, of the Cornwall house. And there's Mr. Neville Falcon's son, August—"

  "Zounds, what a combination to strike terror into the hearts of wrongdoers! The first, a cloth-headed ex-cavalryman who'd be easy to inveigle into any scheme, however ridiculous! The second, an acid-tongued half-breed who has publicly stated his loathing for the haut ton, well knowing that everyone in Town despises him! 'Fore God, Ramsey, you shall have to do better than that sorry trio!"

  Flushed with irritation, Talbot snapped, "I make no doubt you will judge Viscount Horatio Glendenning, Captain Jonathan Armitage, and Gordon Chandler an equally worthless trio?"

  Sir Jonas stared, then uttered a bark of laughter. "No doubt whatsoever! At worst Lord Glendenning offered his sword to Bonnie Prince Charlie in the late Rebellion, and at best is believed to have aided and abetted several fugitive Jacobite gentlemen to escape England! As for Captain Jonathan Armitage—why, the fellow is a damned scoundrel who was drunk in his cabin when his fine East Indiaman was wrecked with heavy loss of life, and—"

  "Which he denies, and declares he was instead attacked and left for dead in a dastardly plot to scuttle his ship!"

  "Yet he saw fit to disappear for two years, during which time he was involved in all kinds of skullduggery in Cornwall. His case has already been considered by two Boards of Enquiry, and may yet go to the High Court of the Admiralty. Certainly, ''Tis far from settled, and though he walks free, many in Town favour a public hanging for the rogue! Who else was it? Ah, yes. Gordon Chandler. No, really, Talbot! The fellow's brother is a known Jacobite, and got out of England half a step ahead of a troop of dragoons! And was not Gordon Chandler himself recently suspected of involvement with a wrecking gang? Faugh! A pretty scoundrel!"

  "If such were the case, yes. But the version I have is very different, and—Ah, never mind! I see ''Tis hopeless, so we'll not argue further. Stay, though! What of Owen Furlong? As fine a fellow as ever I met, and with a splendid military record. D'you name him worthless, also?"

  Sir Jonas' brows went up. "Is Furlong with 'em, then? I'll own, he's a good man. Although… Wasn't there something a few months after Culloden? Had to do with the escape of—cannot remember who, but some rebel or other. Another tarnished reputation, Ramsey."

  Mr. Talbot shook his head ruefully. "The Lord protect me from government servants! I see why the efforts of Rossiter and his friends are ignored! You're a diplomat beyond question, Holmesby! Your mind is quite closed."

  Affronted, Sir Jonas came to his feet. "I think I can see as far through a brick wall as the next man!" He turned to leave, hesitated, then turned back. "Ramsey, we've been friends too long to part in anger! Think, man! Your vaunted conspiracy is too far-fetched to be truth. No more than a vicious hoax, like as not; one of the dares silly young bucks get up to when they've nothing better to do with their time. They'll end by laughing at your gullibility, and you'll end in court on charges of slander that will ruin you! I beg you—have done with it!"

  Talbot smiled and stood to take his friend's hand and grip it firmly. "You're a good fellow, Jonas, and I know you mean well. I'm sorry I couldn't convince you, but I thank you for your concern."

  Holmesby sighed, and walked away.

  Talbot called softly, "You'll not forget? You gave me your oath."

  Without turning, Sir Jonas said, "I'll not forget."

  A moment later a slight young man wearing the uniform of a Naval sub-lieutenant rose from a shadowed nearby table and strolled over to the inglenook.

  Bowing, he said, "Have I the honour to address Mr. Ramsey Talbot? My name is Joel Skye, sir. I am presently an aide to Lord Hayes of the East India Company. I wonder if I might beg a moment of your time…?"

  Chapter I

  "Mrs. Garter is adventuring again." Zoe Grainger narrowed her clear green eyes and peered down the emerald sweep of hillside to where one sheep had drifted from the flock and was trotting purposefully down the slope and towards the River Windrush.

  Aaron Bleckert glanced at the girl who sat on the stone wall beside him on this warm October afternoon, and his lined and leathery countenance twitched into what was almost a smile. "Now then, Miss Zoe," he said in his soft west country voice, "she be a fur piece off from we. How can ye be so assured ''Tis Mrs. Garter? Ye'll never be saying as ye can see the band on her leg, or I'll know surely as ye're at yer fancyings again."

  Zoe's gaze sparkled at him briefly, then returned to the sheep. "You would be surprised by how far I can see, Aaron. But I do not have to see her garter to know ''Tis her. She's the only one will go off alone like that. And how strange it is. Sheep always stay together. I wonder why she does it—and where she thinks she is going."

  "Sheep doan't think, Miss. They got nothing in their heads but wool." Aaron knocked the tobacco from his clay pipe, then stuck it between his teeth again. "Most stupid creatures the Almighty ever made. Begging His pardon."

  Miss Grainger's smooth brow puckered. "Then you had best send Hops after her else she'll run right into the river."

  The sheepdog lying beside them wagged his tail at the sound of his name, but did not turn his head.

  "He's watching," said the old shepherd. "He'll go when he sees fit. Mayhap he knows how she likes to have her little escapes, and lets her go as fur as he allows."

  The dog sprang up then, and, running with the swift but bouncing gait that had given him his name, was down the slope after the wanderer.

  Zoe watched as the sheep was encircled and herded, protesting loudly, back to the safety of the flock.

  "Poor thing," she said. "Thwarted again. I wonder if she longs to see far-away places, as my brother did."

  "Aye." Aaron chuckled. "She be determined to get to The George in Burford, and take coach fer Lunon Town!"

  "Silly creature! They'd never let her inside, and she'd fall off the roof, certainly." They laughed together at the picture this conjured up, then the girl went on, "But only think how narrow her world is, Aaron. There are so many lovely things to be seen. She knows nought of the rest of our countryside—Wychwood, for instance, and its great trees. Or the King's Men and the Whispering Knights—"

  "She'd think them no more than old hunks of rock. As they do be," he put in prosaically.

  "No, she wouldn't! I've told her all about the king who left his knights for a minute, and how they at once plotted treason and were turned to stone for their wickedness."

  "And a waste of breath it were, Miss Zoe. Mrs. Garter bean't one for imaginings, like you do be, and she doan't listen. And if she did would know not a mite more at the end than at the start of it."

  "Marplot," said Zoe merrily.

  The old shepherd watched the sunlight awaken a shine on her tilted little nose, and strike coppery glints from her luxuriant auburn hair, and a sadness came into his rheumy eyes. "Ye love this west country," he observed.

  "Of course I do." She threw her arms out, as if to embrace it. "I was born here. I hope 'twill never change. Do you think it will, Aaron?"

  "Nay. Never. Alius were like this. Alius will be, I rackon. Ye'll be the one as changes, Miss Zoe. Ye'll be marrying soon, and going off wi' yer man, and having yer babes, and—"

  "Pish! Who would marry me? Men want either a beautiful lady, or a rich one, and I have no fortune and a very ordinary face. And do not be telling raspers and saying I'm a beauty."

  "I'll not." He said slowly, "But ye've beauty inside, Miss Zoe. A man with eyes can see it. Nor ye bean't plain, neither. Yer pa should've give ye a Season in Lunon Town so ye could—"

  "And so he would have," she said, at once defensive of her father. "If—if Mama had lived." S
he pushed away the image of her new "Mama," with the tight little mouth, and the lovely eyes that darted malice, and said hurriedly, "The men are reaping the corn today. Do you smell it?" She put back her head and closed her eyes. "Delicious. I only wish…"

  "What d'ye wish, Miss Zoe? To see Lunon Town, as ye should oughta?"

  "No. I wish I were… a little more like one of the knights of old. Brave, and unfearing, even when facing mortal combat with great roaring dragons." She sighed. "I'm afraid I—"

  "So this is where you vanished to! I might've known I'd find you here, instead of working at your 'broidery as you were told!"

  Zoe jumped from the wall and turned a guilty face to the gentleman who came towards them.

  Of no more than average height, Mr. Harvey Grainger was impressive in a superbly tailored blue velvet coat and a quilted blue and white waistcoat. There had been a time when he would have come across the meadows wearing a frieze riding coat, leathers, and top boots, instead of the satin knee breeches and high-heeled shoes that were so out of place in the country. And his thick hair would have been simply tied back, instead of having been cropped to accommodate the wig she knew he loathed. He was only one and fifty, and a handsome man still, but she thought, 'Poor darling. He looks so worn.'

  "Oh, I could not stay indoors, Papa," she said, dancing over to seize his arm and beam up at him. " 'Tis such a perfect afternoon. And we'll not get many more, I doubt, now that autumn is busied at painting the trees, so I simply had to bring out my sketchbook! See there by the river—the poplars are gold already. And only mark how bronzed the beeches are, and that dear little maple looks so shy I vow ''Tis blushing amid—"

  "Yes, yes," said Mr. Grainger, whose patience was already strained. "Then you will have some sketches to show your mama, I trust?"

  Zoe's lower lip jutted a trifle. She said in a very different voice, "My Mama is—" But she stopped short of saying "dead." The shepherd's wise eyes were on her and of what use to wound her father, who had sufficient reason to repent his folly?