Anne Barbour (12 page)

“Oh, Marc!” Winifred was saying, and Jane grimaced at her highly improper use of his nickname. “What a wonderful idea!” She swung about as Simon and Jane approached. “Come listen,” she cried, her cheeks pink with excitement. “I was just commenting on the beauty of the scenery and likening it to the setting of A Midsummer Night’s Dream, when Marc came up with the most marvelous suggestion. Do tell them, Marc.”

Marcus grinned amiably. “I just thought it might enhance the mood of the piece if we did the play outdoors.”

“Outdoors?” echoed Jane dubiously.

“Wouldn’t it be wonderful?” Winifred smiled beatifically. “Just think—Shakespeare under the stars! We’d have all the greenery we’d ever want right at hand without having to haul trees in tubs and ferns in buckets.”

Gerard, who had also approached with Harry, stared about him uncertainly. “It seems a long way to come for an after-dinner entertainment,” he began. “I don’t see—

“Oh no, silly,” caroled Winifred. “Not here. We would do it on the south lawn—just off the terrace. We could set up chairs on the lawn and string lanterns in the shrubbery. Why, it would be quite magical!” Winifred’s violet eyes sparkled with their own witchery, and Gerard sighed audibly.

Jane’s sigh was one of irritation. “Have you considered, Winifred, that one cannot depend on the weather? A late evening shower would ruin your whole production.”

Winifred pouted prettily. “Oh. pooh. We get very little rain in July, and if it did come on to sprinkle, we could still hold it in the Crimson Saloon.” Having thus dismissed the possibility of interference in her plans by the Almighty, she turned again to Marcus.

“You promised me you’d show me some of your acrobatic turns this afternoon.” She placed the tips of her fingers on his sleeve. “Won’t you do some now? There—over by that large room, or courtyard or whatever it used to be—outlined by stones.”

“Oh,” said Marcus, obviously a little startled. “I have kept up a little with my routines, but I’ve not done anything for some years now. I’m afraid I’m no longer very limber. Perhaps if I practice for a few days—

“But, I want to see something now!” Winifred’s lower lip showed itself again in an enticing pout. “Just a somersault. For me?”

“For God’s sake, Winifred,” interposed Simon with a glare, “do you want to see the young idiot break his neck? And since when do you call a gentleman with whom you are barely acquainted by his first name?”

“But we are already good friends,” said his ward in pretty bewilderment. Her eyes were round as she gazed from Simon to Marcus, who flushed hotly.

“It’s all perfectly innocent,” he said stiffly, and his eyes sparked at Simon before he turned to Winifred. “Perhaps,” he added, removing his coat, “the young idiot can do a little something without breaking his neck.”

So saying, he jumped lightly into the air and before the assembled group had time to gasp their surprise, flew end over end several times before coming to a halt fifty yards or so away from them. Waving carelessly, he then repeated the process in reverse, landing with a flourish on the spot from which he had started.

The spectators burst into involuntary applause, and even Simon uttered a shout of congratulation.

“Oh, Marc!” breathed Winifred. “That is,” she amended after noting Simon’s minatory stare, “Lord Stedford—that was perfectly awe inspiring.” She clapped her hands together. “I know! You must do that in Act Five, the reconciliation scene between Oberon and Titania.” She curtsied coquettishly and moved to him.

“ ‘Hand in hand with fairy grace, Will we sing, and bless this place?’  she whispered softly, her violet eyes alight with what Jane could have sworn was love regained.

Marcus responded by sweeping her into the curve of his arm.

“‘To the best bride-bed will we, which by us shall blessed be . . .’ ” He sighed, and pressed a tender kiss on her alabaster brow.

“Marcus Crowne!” A high feminine voice pierced the silence that surrounded the pair. “Whatever are you doing?”

Marcus paled and leaped back so suddenly that Winifred was nearly knocked off balance.

“Lissa!” he cried, expelling the sound as though he had just received a blow to his midsection.

‘You thief of love.’ What! have you come by night And stol’n my love’s heart from him?”
—A Midsummer Night’s Dream,
III, ii.

The group whirled to face the speaker, who proved to be a young girl hurtling down on them from the gig that had just deposited her at the edge of the ruins.

“Lissa!” echoed Simon, and Jane looked at the newcomer with some interest. Lord Simon had mentioned a sister; could this enchanting creature be she?

For the girl was fairylike in her grace and beauty. She was small and dainty, seeming to float over the grass toward them. Raven curls danced about her delicate features, and her eyes were a deep, pure black. At the moment, they were jet striking on flint, shooting sparks that seemed plainly visible to the small group that stood paralyzed before her.

Behind the girl, an older woman clambered down from the gig, assisted by the groom who had driven them. She, too, was small, and comfortably plump. She wore a great many necklaces and brooches, which persisted in catching in her shawl, making her descent difficult.

“Lissa,” repeated Simon, hurrying to envelop his sister in a bear hug. “What in the world are you doing here?” Without waiting for an answer, he set her aside and moved to the older woman. “Aunt Amabelle! I am so glad you are here. Did you have a good journey?”

By now, Marcus had been galvanized into action and he, too, hastened to Lissa’s side. When he attempted to embrace her, however, she stamped her foot and pushed him away. “Don’t you ‘Lissa’ me!” she cried indignantly. “I traveled all the way up here with Aunt Amabelle because I thought you would be lonely. I see, however”—her dark gaze became positively incandescent—”that you are quite well supplied with company.”

“Oh,” said a harassed Marcus. “Ah.” He turned in relief as the older woman approached. “Good afternoon, Lady Teague,” he replied in answer to her enthusiastic greeting. “Very nice to see you.” He turned again to the still simmering Lissa and undertook an incoherent monologue that did nothing to soothe that young lady’s sensibilities.

“Yes,” said Lady Teague rather breathlessly to Simon. She was a pretty woman in her fifties, whose light brown hair showed but a few strands of gray. “We had an excellent journey. It is only two days here from Kent, you know. We might have arrived last night—that was Lissa’s wish—but I thought it would be better to put up in Bramling and arrive fresh and rested today.” As she spoke, she attempted, somewhat ineffectually, to disentangle her necklaces from the fringe of her shawl, the laces on her bodice, and the many bracelets that encircled her wrists. “Indeed,” she continued after a moment, “I cannot think what possessed Lissa to behave in such a manner. We were told on our arrival, of course, that you and the, er, others were some distance from the house, and the butler said he would dispatch a footman to notify you that we were here. We were shown into a quite lovely morning room to wait with tea and biscuits, but nothing would do but that we commandeer a vehicle and hare off after you.”

Simon grinned and said in a low voice, “I suspect it might have something to do with the fact that I wrote Jared and Diana of my ward’s great beauty.”

Lady Teague flashed her nephew a speaking look, then turned at his direction to face the group assembled about them.

“Aunt,” he began, “Lissa, allow me to introduce you to my ward, Winifred Timburton.”

Winifred made a polished curtsy to the older woman and, smiling, extended her hand to Lissa. Lissa swelled visibly, but good manners forced her to put forth a mittened hand in greeting.

Winifred took it in her own, and her smile widened. “But, you are quite lovely,” she said unaffectedly.

Not unnaturally, the militant sparkle in Lissa’s eyes dimmed for a moment. “I beg your pardon?” she said uncertainly.

“You are absolutely exquisite,” said Winifred, gazing at the girl in frank admiration. She whirled to Simon. “My goodness, who would think you would have such an attractive sister?” she added disingenuously.

Simon, grinning, made no response, but introduced the rest of the party to Lissa and Lady Teague. By unspoken agreement, all turned to make their way back to the house, amid a flurry of greetings and mutual expressions of good will. Charles, raising his quizzing glass for an examination of the lovely newcomer, encountered a look of such undisguised hostility from Marcus that, with a muttered oath, he fell back to his original position near Jane. Gerard and Harry fell silent, uttering meaningful sighs during the course of the short journey home.

Once at the house, the two recently arrived guests were seen no more until dinner, by which time they had been settled in their chambers, and given the opportunity to freshen themselves, and become acquainted with the manor,

“What a perfectly beautiful home, Simon,” said Lady Teague as she sat with her nephew in the Gold Saloon, waiting for the others to gather for dinner. It was an elegantly appointed chamber, furnished in the style of Louis Quatorze, with white walls trimmed with gold scrollwork, and gold hangings at the windows.

“How can you bear to think of selling it? To my mind, it’s much prettier than Ashwood.”

“You may be right, Aunt, but I’ve always known that Ashwood would be my home eventually, and I’ve grown fond of it. When this business is done with—Winifred and Selworth—I plan to settle down there to a life of rural solitude.”

Lady Teague made no reply, but shot her nephew a skeptical glance. “Well, the young lady is certainly a diamond of the first water. And you say her inheritance from her father and her brother is more than respectable, so you should have no difficulty in firing her off.”

Simon, unwilling to discuss at the moment just how difficult his task was liable to be, contented himself with a noncommittal grunt. Once again, his aunt lifted her brows, but said only, “Tell me more about the young woman whom I’m replacing as duenna. I had no chance to speak with her-—Miss Burch, I think you called her—but she is quite charming, as well. In fact, I fail to see how she managed to convince the neighbors that she is in any way qualified to act as companion for a young woman surely no more than a few years her junior.”

Simon was aware of a spurt of warmth burgeoning in him at the sound of her name, and was surprised at the tenderness he could hear in his voice as he chuckled. “You should have seen her as she was when I arrived, Aunt. She looked a perfect quiz. You would think—”

“Simon! There you are!” A small whirlwind erupted into the room, rushing to perch herself on an armchair of straw-colored satin near him. Gowned in pomona green sarcenet, her hair caught into an airy Clytie knot, Lissa looked as though she had just stepped from a shady, forest glade. Her demeanor, however, was anything but cool as, after greeting her aunt, she sent a fiery glance toward her brother.

“Simon, how could you allow Marc to fall into the clutches of that—that brazen female?”

“Brazen? Clutches? Don’t you think you’re coming it a bit too strong, Lissa? Marc and Winifred are merely friends.”

“Friends! I know what I saw, Simon. He had his arm around her, and he was k-kissing her!” Tears welled in her sparkling, black eyes and she dashed them away furiously.

“On the forehead, for God’s sake—and they were surrounded by people. At any rate, they were only rehearsing a play.”

“A play!” She sent him a look of injured astonishment. “What do you take me for, Simon?”

Simon grimaced. “At the moment, anyone would take you for a flea-brained widgeon. Winifred is putting on a play here at Selworth to which she plans to invite everyone for miles, and she and Marc were rehearsing a scene from it. Now see here, Lissa, you’ve been playing fast and loose with Marc’s affection for three years now, and the moment he contrives some innocent entertainment for himself, you come flying down like a banshee, all green-eyed and spitting fire.”

Lissa spluttered for some moments, apparently mulling over which of these entirely unreasonable statements to refute first. “Innocent entertainment, is it?” she said at last in a voice pregnant with righteous indignation. “More like something from a bawdy house, I’d say. How could you permit that—that lightskirt to—

“Her name is Winifred, Lissa,” said Simon in a voice she’d never heard him use, “and the play she’s producing is A Midsummer Night’s Dream.”

“Oh.”

“Marc is playing Oberon to Winifred’s Titania. She chose him to play the part mainly because of his athletic ability, I believe.”

“Oh.”

“Really, my dear,” interposed Lady Teague. “I think Simon is right. You know how Marcus feels about you, and it seems to me that Miss Timburton showed no real affection for him. On the other hand, she seemed quite pleased to meet you.”

“Well,” said Lissa unhappily, “it just seems to me that Marc was putting a lot of unnecessary feeling into that scene. How could he?” Tears threatened again, and Lissa rose to gaze unseeingly out the long window that gave out onto the south lawn.

“I think you will have to take that up with Marcus,” said her aunt tactfully, after a quick glance at Simon. “In the meantime, I hope you will not treat Marcus to a scene. Nothing so puts up a gentleman’s back as being accused of something when he perceives himself to be innocent.”

Lissa made no reply, but remained standing with her back to the room, one shoulder hunched defensively. However, when Marcus entered the room a few minutes later with an apprehensive expression on his face, she turned to greet him pleasantly.

“Lissa!” His face wreathed in a smile of relief, he hurried to embrace her. “I’m frightfully glad to see you. You know,” he began hesitantly, “back there—by the ruins—I hope you must realize that—

Lissa grew a trifle rigid, but she kissed him on the cheek and tapped his arm playfully. “Simon has already explained what you were doing. I suppose I must forgive you, but I trust your Miss Timburton will be able to find another Oberon.” Her lips curved in a confident smile.