Anne Barbour (3 page)

“There,” she said a little breathlessly. “Am I put together?”

“I suppose,” said the maid in a tone of vast disapproval, “you could say that. You are a complete dowd. Except, you forgot the cap.” With an exaggerated flourish, she plucked the article in question from a hook on the wardrobe door. It was much the same size and shape as a generously fashioned sofa cushion, and when Jane pulled it ruthlessly over her head, her feathery blond curls disappeared, as well as most of her face. In profile, all that could be seen was the tip of a small, sharp, red nose. From the front, it looked as though she were peering out from under a bed ruffle.

Hannah sniffed in exasperation. “Lord, Miss Jane, just look at you. With your eyebrows plucked to nothing and your lashes bleached out and a nose like a raspberry, you look like a skinned rabbit. I cannot believe you mean to greet his lordship in this fashion. Whatever will the man think?”

“He will think,” retorted Jane, tucking a pale tendril into the confines of the cap, “that Miss Winifred Timburton is thoroughly and properly chaperoned by her thoroughly proper spinster cousin, Miss Jane Burch.” She bobbed an impudent curtsy and put out a hand for the serviceable shoes proffered by Hannah.

“And why,” continued the maid, grumbling, “you found it necessary to drop everything and leave your papa’s house to travel all the way from Suffolk at Miss Winifred’s summons, I’ll never understand. It’s not as though the little minx—begging your pardon—could not have dredged up a real companion, and it’s not as though you’re beholden to her. If you ask me—”

“You’re making me feel guilty, Hannah. I’m not doing this out of the goodness of my heart, you know. After Millicent scarpered with her baronet, Winifred couldn’t stay here alone—although it took Reverend Mycombe and his wife weeks to persuade her otherwise. She didn’t want some prunes-and-prisms old maid living with her—even if she knows one, which she probably doesn’t. Anyway, when she told me of her scheme, it suited me right down to the ground.”

“That’s the part I don’t understand. You should be out and about in the world, finding yourself a husband, not doddering around in this backwater disguised as an elderly, maiden relative.”

“I’ve told you,” responded Jane patiently, “I need Winifred. At least, I need her patronage in London after she marries. For Patience and Jessica, you know.”

Hannah made no reply, merely fixing a long-suffering gaze at a point out the window.

“Oh, Hannah, please try to understand. Sometimes I think you are my only friend in the world and I need you on my side.” She glanced at the maid, noting with satisfaction the softening of her rigid features. “I had my opportunity, you know,” she continued in a low voice. “Both of my Seasons were disasters. I told Papa it would be no good, and I told Aunt Dimstowe the same thing, but she insisted on sponsoring me. At any rate, I have no desire for a husband. Patience and Jessica are different. They’re pretty and biddable and don’t say uncomfortable things. I know that given half a chance they will each make excellent partis. They’re my sisters, after all,” she added defiantly, “and I owe it to them. After that, I can get on with my own life. I’ve always wanted to travel, you know.”

Hannah grimaced. “That’s no kind of a life for a gently bred female. What you want is a husband,” she said again, but Jane merely waved her hand in negation.

“In fact,” she continued, completely ignoring Hannah’s strictures, “I’ve been wondering if this Lord Simon wouldn’t do for Winifred. Mister Soapes—the family agent in London—told me when he visited here that Lord Simon’s brother is a marquess. That is not as good as if he had a title himself, of course, but with any luck, he’s swimming in gravy. From what Soapes said, he’s certainly not too old. He might even be reasonably presentable.”

“Miss Jane!” gasped Hannah, her fingers busy with Jane’s cap, trying without noticeable success to turn it to a becoming angle. “You sound like a vulgar, grasping harpy. What would your sainted mama say?”

Jane’s luminous gray eyes clouded, but in a moment she said briskly, “Needs must when the devil drives, Hannah. I know I’m manipulating Winifred—putting her under an obligation to me— but it’s not as though I’m doing her any real harm, after all. Lord knows she needs a strong hand, which so far neither Mister Soapes nor the vicar has been able to supply.”

Hannah rolled her eyes ceilingward. “You have that right, Miss Jane, but what about this crazy idea of hers?”

Jane frowned. “Yes, that is a problem. Drat Millicent for putting such notions into her stepdaughter’s head. Her muse calls? To London, for heaven’s sake. I don’t know what—

She was interrupted by a diffident scratch on the door, which was opened to admit a housemaid with the information that Lord Simon Talent had arrived—with another gentleman—and they were waiting below to see Miss Winifred.

Jane paused, arrested. “Another gentleman? Soapes did not say anything about another gentleman. Well, his lordship will just have to settle for Miss Winifred Timburton’s companion.” She turned to the mirror once more and pulled the cap even farther over her face and drew a handkerchief from the sleeve of her gown, with which she rubbed her nose furiously, thus providing additional lustre to its already virulent hue. She drew her eyes into an unattractive squint and, with another wave to Hannah, swept from the room.

A few moments later, a small, vague form flitted into the drawing room, only to be brought up short by the sight of the gentleman standing before the fireplace. He was tall and lean and impeccably garbed in cream-colored pantaloons, a dark coat, and brilliantly polished Hessian boots. His arm was flung negligently against the mantel, but the lithe strength in his tautly muscled form was more than evident. Brown hair curled modishly over his collar, but it was his eyes that caused a peculiar flutter in Jane’s interior. They were brown, too, but of a deep, velvety chocolate, flecked with gold, and in their depths lurked something unsettling. A faint air of danger, she thought dazedly, certainly one of authority. Lord Simon Talent was most assuredly used to command—and probably used to being obeyed. He did not look the sort of man to be easily deceived.

With some trepidation, she moved forward into the room and put forth her hand.

“. . .I  do repent
The tedious moments I with her have spent.”
—A Midsummer Night’s Dream,
II, ii.

Simon turned to view the woman who had entered the room and his heart sank in resigned dismay. “Miss Timburton?” he asked grimly.

“Miss Tim . . . ?” she responded with a fluttery gesture. “Oh, my, no! Oh, no, indeed. I’m afraid you are under a sad misapprehension, sir. Yes, a sad misapprehension.” She fell silent then, gazing dreamily before her.

Good God, thought Simon, was the woman feebleminded? Catching his glance, she started.

“Oh! Yes. That is, no, I am not Winifred, for the dear girl is gone. That is, she is not here.” She uttered a dissonant tinkle of laughter and Simon felt an urge to clap his hands over his ears. “I”—She pressed a hand to her meager bosom—”am Jane Burch. I am dear Winifred’s cousin. Although,” she went on with another vague waggle of her fingers, “that is not strictly correct. Dear Winifred and I are actually second cousins.”

Simon gritted his teeth. “How nice for you. Might I ask, where is Miss Timburton?”

“Winifred?” Miss Burch glanced about abstractedly as though expecting to find the girl crouched behind a settee. “Oh, she’s— why, we have another gentleman present!” she cried in girlish delight, apparently noticing Marcus for the first time. She lifted brows so pale as to be almost invisible. Altogether, thought Simon, viewing her with distaste, with her pale eyes, her fringe of bristly, colorless lashes and her pink-tipped nose, she resembled nothing so much as a middle-aged, tame white rat.

“The Viscount Stedford,” he said brusquely, nodding in Marc’s direction and back. “Miss, er, Burch. Now then,” he continued in some haste as the lady opened her mouth again. “Where is Miss Timburton?”

“Why the dear girl went to the village with one of the neighbors and her daughter, that would be Mrs. Mycombe and Miss Mycombe. Miss Emily Mycombe, that is. She and Winifred are such good friends. Just the other day we were saying—”

“When,” interrupted Simon in a controlled voice, “might we expect Miss Timburton to return?”

“Oh.” Miss Burch glanced toward the young viscount. “Well, I’m not sure what time she left, or what she expected to accomplish in the village, but I do think,” she concluded with the air of one promising a special treat, “that she will return in time for luncheon.” She rose from the chair upon which she had been perching. “But where are my manners?” A faint neigh of laughter escaped her lips which, noted Simon in surprise, were full and well-shaped. She crossed to the bellpull. “We must have tea.”

Simon observed with interest the butler’s prompt response to the summons. Apparently there was someone in the place with some knowledge of running a polite house. The steward, no doubt, or perhaps the housekeeper.

“I trust you had a pleasant journey, my lord.” Miss Burch negotiated her way back to her chair with an exaggerated air of delicacy. “How fortunate that you chose such an agreeable time of year to travel. Though, of course the weather in June can become frightfully warm. When we went into Basingstoke last week, I positively thought we’d expire. But lately—

Simon lifted his hand in a desperate attempt to stem the flow. “The timing of my visit was not of my own choosing,” he said irritably. “I came because of Miss Timburton’s brother. His last request—”

He was interrupted by a sound like steam escaping from a ruptured pipe. He glanced up to see that Miss Burch had flung a large handkerchief over her face and had begun to gasp in small, sibilant sobs.

“Oh, poor, dear Wilfred,” she hiccupped, dabbing ostentatiously with the handkerchief. In the next moment, however, she appeared to make a remarkable recovery. The hissing sounds ceased abruptly, and she tucked her handkerchief into the hem of her long sleeve. She continued prosaically, “That is, I only met him once or twice, but Winifred was, of course, quite prostrate with grief.”

Since this statement differed markedly from the information he had received from Soapes, Simon said nothing, merely lifting a sardonic eyebrow.

“Yes,” continued Miss Burch hastily, turning to face Marcus.

“Tell me, Lord Stedford, how is it you chanced to accompany Lord Simon on his journey?”

For an instant, Simon thought he beheld a spark of intense, intelligent interest in the spinster’s eyes. It was so quickly replaced, however, by a placid stare that he felt he must have been mistaken. He and Marcus launched on a condensed explanation of the viscount’s decision to go a-traveling.

“Your estate marches with that of Lord Simon’s family?” Miss Burch asked interestedly. “A large estate, one assumes?”

Startled, Marcus nodded a brief assent.

“Splendid! I’m sure Wini—That is, everyone hereabouts will be anxious to make your acquaintance. How lovely that you have come!” Miss Burch clapped her hands in a singularly inappropriate gesture of girlish delight. “I know dear Winifred will be delighted to welcome you, as well. Perhaps a dinner party will be in order to introduce you—both of you, of course—to the neighborhood.”

She prattled on in this vein for some minutes until Simon was forced to conclude in some puzzlement that Miss Burch was inordinately pleased at Marc’s appearance at Selworth.

“Tell me about Miss Timburton,” Simon said determinedly. “You spoke of her friendship with Miss, er. Does she have any other particular friends in the neighborhood?”

“Oh, my, yes.” Miss Burch’s words were accompanied by a wide smile that, to Simon’s astonishment imparted a certain charm to her sharp features. “There’s Squire Bridge’s daughter, Susan, and Maria Dillon. Sweet girls, both of them. Winifred is also quite fond of Lady Ann Brace, although her family—her papa is the Earl of Granbrook—lives some distance away. When they are in the area, of course—-”

“What about male friends?” interjected Simon, immediately cursing his own bluntness. Oh, well, he thought, in for a penny ... “That is, I was wondering, frankly, if she has formed any attachments among the local sprigs.”

“Oh, that.” Miss Burch’s face fell and Simon’s heart sank as well. Was Winifred an antidote then, as he had feared?

“As to that . . .” Miss Burch fiddled with the fringe of her shawl. “Dear Winifred’s heart appears to be untouched—not that she is not greatly sought after,” she finished in a rush.

Suspicions confirmed, thought Simon grimly, fancying he could hear a clock ticking loudly in the background. The girl was obviously planted on the shelf like a begonia and it would take every bit of ingenuity at his command to uproot her. Surely, though, with her dowry ...

“What?” he asked, startled, in response to a sharp nudge.

“May I offer you a sandwich?” Miss Burch hovered above him, gesturing to a refreshment tray that had just been brought into the room by Fellowes. “We have cucumber and potted ham. Although, perhaps you should not indulge, since luncheon is only an hour away. Of course, we could put luncheon back—or rather”— she threw her head back in another unattractive bray of, laughter—”you could put it back—for you are master here now.”

God, was there no end to the woman’s tactless inanity? Swallowing a scathing retort, he selected a sandwich, which he placed with rigid fingers on his plate. Miss Burch moved to Marcus who, with his usual insouciant aplomb, accepted a cucumber sandwich and one of ham.

“Speaking of which,” said Miss Burch, sipping her tea primly, “I am sure you will wish to confer with the staff at the earliest possible—oh!” she squeaked, as the door opened suddenly. “Here is dear Winifred now!”

Simon swung about in his seat. His mouth, full of ham sandwich, fell open as he faced the most beautiful girl he had ever seen. It was as though a goddess had stepped from the heights of Mount Olympus. To state that Winifred Timburton was tall and well-formed scarcely did justice to her willowy, perfectly proportioned figure. A scented cloud of dark hair swung tantalizingly about her exquisite face, which featured a pair of huge eyes, the color of hyacinths in full bloom, thickly fringed with long, sweeping lashes. Her classically formed nose was perfection itself, and her mouth was a sweetly curved, eminently kissable, pink bow. With a surprised glance at those assembled, she moved forward with the lithe grace of a young queen.