Candice Hern (13 page)

But she would rather not be alone with him tonight. Not after that kiss. It might lead down a path she was unwilling to trod.

“I would not dream of monopolizing such a luxury for myself alone,” she said. “I would be happy
to share the parlor and supper with all of you.”

“No, no, that would not do.”

“We could not possibly.”

“It would not be right.”

“Not at all the thing.”

“Do not concern yourself with us.”

“We’ll take our meal in the dining room.”

“Or the taproom.”

The three men continued to protest until Simon held up a hand for silence. “I, for one, have no desire to dine among those rowdies inside.” He nodded toward the taproom door, where the sounds of brawling had subsided, but the raucous noise of scores of drunken men continued. “If Mrs. Tennant will allow it, I would be pleased to have dinner in her parlor. But only if one or all of you join us.”

He darted a look in Eleanor’s direction that told her he intended to look out for her reputation, despite his desire to be alone with her. Thank heaven he was a gentleman.

“Malcolm?” he prompted.

Simon’s brother looked to Eleanor, who nodded encouragement. It might be interesting to learn from his brother a little more about the man who was the Busybody.

“All right,” Malcolm said. “I will join you. I confess I am anxious to hear more about this…this quest of yours. But these two are already half seas over. Don’t recommend allowing ’em to share your table, ma’am.”

“Quite right,” Sackville Gates said. “Not fit company for a lady.” Relief was written large on his youthful face, as he grabbed the ready excuse for not joining them. The young man was quite uncomfortably shy. “You will know where to find us, Westover. Come along, Arbuthnot.” He took his curly-haired friend by the arm and the two of them quickly disappeared inside the taproom.

“Well, that’s settled,” Simon said. “Now, Malcolm, I think we should allow Mrs. Tennant some privacy and time to freshen up. Give her the key to your room, and you and I will see about ordering dinner.”

Malcolm handed the key to his brother, who took Eleanor’s hand, placed the key in her palm, then curled her fingers around it. He did not let go of her hand. She recalled that more intimate embrace of a few moments before, and knew from the smoldering look in his eyes that he, too, was thinking of it.

“Thank you again, Simon, for coming to my rescue.”

“It was my pleasure, madam.”

She reached up with her free hand to touch the small cut above his eye. “Not so pleasurable, I think. I’m sorry you were hurt.”

“Any service I can render you is indeed a pleasure,” he said, his voice a little husky.

Eleanor remembered Malcolm’s presence, tugged her hand away, and dropped the key in her
pocket. “Yes, I daresay all you men find some sort of absurd pleasure in pummeling one another to pieces. It is not, however, so enjoyable for me. But at least now I have confidence, Simon, that when we meet up with him, I can ask you to pound Barkwith into mush. Now
that
would be a pleasure.”

“B
arkwith?” had gone. “Geoffrey Barkwith?”

“Yes,” Simon said.

His brother’s eyes grew round with astonishment. “Mrs. Tennant’s niece has run away with Geoffrey Barkwith?”

“Yes.”

“The devil you say!” Malcolm shook his head and gave a whistle of disbelief. “Lord, what a pickle.”

“Do you know the man?”

He shrugged. “Slightly. Buck of the ?rst head, that one. Bit of a roving eye, but devilish good-looking and very popular with the ladies. Been linked to a string of ’em over the past couple of years.”

“So I’ve heard.”

“A bit quieter this Season, though. Seems to have had his eye fixed on a new young diamond,” Malcolm said. “Beautiful dark-haired girl with the most incredible eyes.” He sucked in a sharp breath. “Good God. Is that the niece? Miss Chadwick?”

“The very one.”

Malcolm’s jaw dropped and his eyes looked ready to pop right out of his head. “Egad. Barkwith and Miss Chadwick have eloped? What a dustup!”

This did not bode well. His brother’s reaction was probably typical of what Eleanor might expect if the story got out. Simon recognized, with considerable chagrin, the spark of interest in Malcolm’s eye, relishing the notion that he had a prime piece of fresh gossip. “Now, Malcolm, you must keep this to yourself. Mrs. Tennant is upset enough. She is trying to keep the whole business quiet.”

“I should think so.” He continued to shake his head in disbelief.

“You are not to repeat what I’ve told you, Malcolm.”

“Yes, yes. My lips are sealed.”

But his brain was obviously still at work, cogitating on the news. It would be a supreme effort for Malcolm to keep such a juicy tidbit to himself. And Simon did not trust his restraint when he was in his cups. His brother always talked too much when he drank.

“I mean it, Malcolm. If you so much as breathe one word of this, you will have me to deal with. Do
I make myself clear?” He did not often use his big-brother tone with Malcolm, but this was important. If his brother caused him to lose Eleanor’s trust, there was more at stake than his own infatuation. He and Eleanor had a bargain, after all, and if he did anything to jeopardize it, she might feel free to publicize his role as the Busybody. Despite more personal considerations, he really must not forget the importance of keeping that bit of information a secret.

“Well, brother?” he said. “Do I make myself clear?”

“Yes, of course.” Malcolm dug at the ground with his boot heel and ran a hand through the chestnut hair that had fallen over his forehead. The promise to keep such news a secret would be a tremendous effort, and he was clearly unhappy about it. “No need to get on your high ropes over it,” he said in an almost comically petulant tone. “Said my lips were sealed.”

“Just make sure they stay that way.”

“Yes, yes, all right. But at least satisfy my curiosity. You’re off to try and stop the marriage, I gather?”

“To tell you the truth,” Simon said, “I think we will be too late. We’re too far behind them. Tell me about this Barkwith fellow. Eleanor—Mrs. Tennant, that is—seems to believe he is an adventurer with no honorable intentions. What is your opinion?”

“Well, as I said, I only know him casually. Fright
fully handsome devil. Women are always throwing themselves in his path. But I never heard anything really unsavory about him. A bit under the hatches now and then, but who ain’t? A younger son, you know.”

Simon smiled. “Is that a hint, Malcolm? Are you in dun territory again?”

“Not yet. Besides, I’ve laid a fat wager on Crawley, who is certain to win tomorrow’s bout, so I’ll be flush again in no time.”

“Or shirtless. You’ll come to me before you get yourself into trouble, won’t you?”

“Not to worry, old man. Crawley’s a sure thing,” he said, snapping his fingers.

“I hope you’re right,” Simon said. “I trust you know a thing or two about these matters.”

“I do indeed.” He grinned broadly. “Enough to know that you did the Westovers proud tonight with that punishing right of yours. Capital science, brother. Beautifully done.”

Simon was ridiculously proud of himself, to be praised for something in which he had never excelled and by a brother whose expertise was to be trusted. He wondered if Malcolm would feel as cocky if Simon praised a poem he’d written? He was unlikely to find out, for the day Malcolm penned a verse would be the day hell froze over.

“Let’s go see about dinner,” he said. “Then come with me to the carriage yard. I will need to send Mrs. Tennant’s portmanteau up to her.”

Malcolm nodded his agreement, and they walked together toward the inn entrance. “Now, you could use a little more work on your left,” Malcolm said, and proceeded to expound on the art and science of pugilism, stopping for an occasional demonstration.

They found the innkeeper, who agreed to send up hot water and soap to Eleanor, for a price, and to have the young gentlemen’s bags removed from the room, for a price. He was less pleased about serving a private dinner upstairs, but more accommodating after receiving an extra guinea for his trouble.

“That fellow will empty your purse for you,” Malcolm said. “Knows there ain’t another room to be had in the whole town. Sure to overcharge you. Probably dun you just for talkin’ to him.”

Simon agreed. This would no doubt be one of their more expensive stops on the journey north. But he’d come prepared. There was a hidden compartment in the carriage where he kept a strongbox. He would clear it out if necessary.

The two brothers walked to the crowded yard to find Simon’s chariot. The carriages were lined up shoulder to shoulder and three deep so that it was no easy task. The mill had brought a veritable mob to the small spa town.

“Odd sort of place for a mill,” Simon mused.

“Ain’t it, though? Dashed inconvenient. Can’t figure what brought it way up here.”

“Devonshire, I daresay. The waters aren’t drawing the numbers he had hoped, so perhaps he’s trying to attract a different crowd.”

“Well, it worked. Never saw such a full yard. Oh, I say. Here it is.”

Once they had retrieved Eleanor’s portmanteau and had it sent up to her, they took a seat on a bench outside the taproom. Simon refused to go inside, even though there were no more sounds of brawling. He would rather like to retrieve his hat, though.

“What’s the matter, old boy?” Malcolm said when Simon made clear his resolve to remain outside. “Afraid someone will recognize you as the instigator of the last fight and start another?”

“The notion did cross my mind, and I have no desire to take that chance. I’m exhausted as it is, Malcolm. I’m not used to this sort of thing, you know.”

Malcolm chuckled wickedly. “A little exercise never hurt you.”

“On the contrary, it hurt me a great deal. I’m black and blue all over. And I was already stiff and sore from lifting the damned carriage out of the mud yesterday.”

Malcolm regarded him thoughtfully. “Egad, Simon, you been as busy as the devil in a high wind, ain’t you? All this effort in the cause of the beautiful Miss Chadwick? Or is it on behalf of her equally beautiful aunt? Is there a Mr. Tennant, by the way?”

“No, she is a widow.”

“I’m glad to hear it, after witnessing that cozy little moment between the two of you. I never knew you to dally with married women.”

It had been more than a cozy little moment. Before Malcolm had inserted his large self into the picture, it had been damned near perfect. After the brawl in the taproom, Simon’s blood had been up and he could not have kept his hands off Eleanor for all the money in the world. He had wanted her with a passion that had made it difficult to remember he was a gentleman.

She must have felt the same primitive need, for she had not only permitted his kiss but had practically melted against him, and had kissed him back with equal fervor. It pleased Simon that she had allowed herself to give in to raw, emotional instinct for a moment, to relinquish a bit of that infernal control, however briefly. She would have allowed more if his interfering brother hadn’t chosen that precise moment to announce his unwanted presence.

“For the second time in a single night,” Malcolm said, “you practically knocked me off my pins. I never in all my life thought to see you paw a woman in public.”

“You can forget about that, too, if you please. It was private.”

“It certainly was.” He smiled and pounded his brother on the back. “Nice work, old man. She’s a real dazzler.”

“Take care, brother. Mrs. Tennant is a lady and, for the moment under my protection. I will not have you getting, or giving, the wrong impression. There is nothing between us.”

“It looked like something to me.”

“Malcolm, I swear—”

“But then again, my upper story’s never been well furnished. Must have got it wrong, eh? Often do. But I say, what was all that business about you being to blame for her niece’s elopement?”

“Oh, that.” Simon had hoped his brother had forgotten about that little slip. He ought to have known better. Malcolm took as much pleasure in a bit of scandal as a meddlesome old spinster. “It’s rather complicated. A bit of a misunderstanding. I…er…gave the girl the impression that I approved of her attachment to Barkwith, and she seemed to think that meant I advised her to elope with the fellow.”

“But I thought you didn’t know Barkwith?”

“I don’t. It was more in the nature of general advice.”

Malcolm’s brow furrowed up in confusion.

“I told you it was complicated,” Simon said. He needed to steer his brother in another direction, and fast, before he revealed more than he should. “Would you and your friends like to stay at Tandy Hill tonight?”

His brother’s eyes lit up. “Tandy Hill? Do you mean it?”

“Yes, of course. It’s only a few miles from here
and you could leave early enough in the morning to catch your mill. It would certainly be more comfortable for you than curling up on a bench in the taproom.”

“By Jove, it would. Ha! What a capital fellow you are, old boy. Wait till I tell Arbuthnot and Gates. I never even mentioned my brother had a house nearby. You always seem rather protective of your activities and friends up here in the Peak, so I hadn’t wanted to impose. But Simon, wouldn’t you prefer to use it yourself?”

“I will not leave Eleanor alone here, and I certainly will not take her unchaperoned to my home. Besides, the Runners will expect to find us here. No, you and your friends may take advantage of the house, so long as you promise not leave it in a shambles. I can send a message to the caretaker to expect you after dinner. What do you say?”

“I say you are a most excellent brother. A prince among men.” He was pounding Simon on the back again.

“That’s settled then. Now, let’s see if we can find someplace to clean up before supper. We both look a little the worse for wear.”

Malcolm poured himself another glass of wine and his brother discreetly moved the decanter out of his reach. The young man was slowly, and merrily, getting foxed. Eleanor passed the platter of roast beef and was pleased to see Malcolm carve several more slices to add to his plate. Perhaps if he
ate more it would counteract the effects of the wine, though all evidence indicated otherwise.

She had never seen anyone, even her brother Benjamin, put away quite so much food in one sitting. Besides the roast beef, there had been ham, trout, eel, roasted game birds, potatoes, asparagus, peas, and jellies. Of course, Malcolm was a very large young man and no doubt required more sustenance than most. Unfortunately, his capacity for wine did not appear to equal his capacity for food.

“But I tell you,” he said between bites, “it ain’t at all like old Simon to use his fists the way he did tonight, Mrs. Tennant. Not like him at all. Never saw him do such a thing in my life.” He leaned toward Eleanor and lowered his voice to a stage whisper. “To tell the truth, I never thought he had it in him. Bit on the scrawny side, don’t you know.” He hiccupped, covered his mouth, and laughed.

Eleanor was becoming rather embarrassed for Simon. His brother had done nothing but tease him since they had joined her for dinner. Malcolm found a great deal of amusement in the fact that his bookish brother had resorted to fisticuffs in public. He seemed to think the rare and unusual display a joke, at his brother’s expense.

For once, however, Eleanor was feeling quite in charity with Simon, and not only for rescuing her in the taproom in yet another surprising display of physical strength. Or for the comfort of his arms afterward. It was also his doing, she knew, that her
portmanteau had been sent up, along with soap and water and fresh towels.

She appreciated his thoughtfulness. And his unfailing generosity. She had no idea how much this was costing him, but he never complained and never failed to ensure her comfort.

It had been a relief to change out of clothes that reeked of ale from crawling along the taproom floor. She hoped a night’s airing would help rid them of the rank odor else she would be thought a drunkard next time she wore them. She had not the luxury of an extensive wardrobe in the best of times, and on this journey she had brought along very little.

Eleanor wondered how the two brothers had managed to make themselves presentable without a bedchamber of their own. But each had changed his linen—no bloodstains—and coat. The cut above Simon’s eye had been cleaned and did not look nearly as bad as the amount of blood had suggested. Just along the eyebrow, it was barely noticeable. The bruise on his jaw, however, could not be disguised.

“Father made us learn all the usual manly pursuits early on,” Malcolm continued while carving up a small game hen. “Hunting, fishing, boxing, swordsmanship, all that sort of thing. Father’s a tough old bird, but he was a game ’un in his time, they say. Wouldn’t allow namby-pambyism in his sons, to be sure. But the sporting life has always
suited me best. Sparring, racing, shooting—that’s me. But Simon never enjoyed it by half, did you, old boy?”

“Not particularly.” Simon eyed his brother warily while he addressed his own heaping plate of food. Eleanor could have fed herself and Belinda for a week on what these two packed away in a single meal.