Anne Barbour (5 page)

Simon heaved a disgruntled sigh. “I suppose there’s no more to be said, then. As long as you stop nibbling on Winifred’s pretty fingers.”

Marcus grunted. “For Lord’s sake, Simon, why would I look at Winifred, when I have Lissa? Although,” he added, his brow darkening, “sometimes I’m not so sure I do. She says she loves me, but she seems stuck in London with Charlotte, her older sister, like a pig in mud. All I ever hear from her is all the balls she goes to and how many odes have been written to her fine eyes.” He flung himself into a chair. “All that aside, Winifred is a beautiful girl, but she can’t hold a candle to Lissa.”

“I’m pleased to hear you say that,” said Simon, keeping his skeptical reflections to himself. “Oddly, it seems to me there is a certain resemblance between the two.”

“Umm,” Marcus replied thoughtfully, “I don’t see that at all. They’re both slim and dark-haired, but Winifred is taller and more—substantial than Lissa, and doesn’t have her—her inner spirit. They both chatter rather a lot—”

“And they’re both autocratic and self-centered,” finished Simon. ‘To my mind, Lissa is basically a much nicer person—I see a lot of Wilfred in Winifred—but that might be my brotherly prejudice talking.”

Marcus laughed. “Perhaps, but I agree with you wholeheartedly. Lissa has her faults, but she’s loving and giving and—an altogether a darling.” He halted suddenly and blushed. He gestured abruptly toward the desk at which Simon was sitting. “What’s all that?”

“Ah,” said Simon, picking up the quill he had laid before him, and drawing to him paper and ink. “I am writing to an old friend, to invite him here for a visit.”

“An old friend? Here? Do I know him?”

“I doubt it. We served together briefly in the Peninsula. He sold out right after Toulouse. His wife had just passed away, leaving him with two small daughters. We have corresponded sporadically since he left Spain, and ...”

“And, if he hasn’t remarried, he must be in need of a wife?”

Simon smiled crookedly. “Very astute of you. Yes, I believe my friend, Charles, the Earl of Wye is looking for someone to take charge of his motherless children, and he is extraordinarily susceptible to a pretty face.”

“But, you heard what Winifred said about getting married.”

“Nonsense,” said Simon, attempting to infuse his tone with authority. “All she needs is to be presented with the right opportunity. What female in her right mind is going to turn down a title and ninety thousand pounds a year?”

Marc whistled softly. “Ninety thousand? How has he escaped being leg-shackled for so long?”

“Well, as I said, he has an eye for the ladies. I hear he’s been cutting quite a swath in his corner of Huntingdonshire, driving the mamas of eligible daughters distracted. He may be ready to make a commitment at last, but he’s highly selective.”

“And,” finished Marcus sardonically, “what man in his right mind could resist the fair Winifred?”

“Precisely.”

“You’d better keep her companion out of the way. That woman is enough to make a man run screaming for cover.”

Simon grunted. “If I thought I could confine the insufferable Miss Burch to her room until I get Winifred down the aisle, or better yet, send her packing to wherever she came from, I’d do it in a minute. Although,” he added musingly, “there’s something dashed odd about her, don’t you think?”

“Odd is scarcely the word.”

“No—I mean—did you notice the creaking?” In response to Marcus’s blank stare, Simon continued. “Almost every time she moved, I heard it plainly—as though she were encased in barrel staves. In addition, her expression sometimes—” He laughed shortly. “I must be all about in my head. Go back to the Bard, Marc, so I can get on with my letter.” Picking up quill and paper, he waved dismissively and turned to his task.

In another wing of the house, Winifred sat at her dressing table, her hand lifted in unconscious grace as she brushed her hair. She glanced at her cousin, who stood behind her, reflected in the mirror.

“Really, Jane.” Winifred’s laugh was a tinkling arpeggio. “Just because he’s attractive and bears a title doesn’t mean I wish to encourage him.”

Jane had shed her padding and tack and stood small and straight and slender in a demure cotton dressing gown. She gave Winifred’s hair a small tug in exasperation before turning to seat herself, her feet tucked beneath her, on a straw satin chair nearby.

“Be serious, Win. Marcus Crowne is a viscount, for heavens’ sake, and he’s very good looking. He’s apparently quite wealthy, and even though he doesn’t actually live in London, he’s bound to have a town house there.”

“Mmm, that’s true—and he is interested in the theater. I suppose he might do. I’ll think about it.”

Jane gazed at her cousin in irritation. “Winifred, you must give up this insane idea of becoming an actress.”

Winifred’s hyacinth eyes were limpid and wide. “Why?”

Jane threw up her hands “Well, because—because respectable women just don’t do that sort of thing. Actresses are considered almost on the same level as—as Cyprians, and you’d be putting yourself completely beyond the pale.”

“I’ve told you, I think you’re wrong about that, and even if you’re not, I simply don’t care.” She rose and flung her arms wide. “I want to take London by storm. I want my name on everyone’s lips as the most exciting performer that ever graced the boards. I want—

“Yes,” interposed Jane dryly. “I know what you want. But,” she asked earnestly, “what if you go to London and no one will hire you?”

Winifred blinked incredulously. “Not hire me? But I am beautiful!”

“My dear,” sighed Jane, “there are thousands of beautiful women in London. I would wager that ninety-nine percent of them cannot act. What makes you think you are among the blessed?”

Winifred stared at her. “Because I can fee! it—just here.”

Jane gazed at her cousin in consternation, considering the faint possibility that Winifred’s dream might come to pass. She shook herself. No—it simply was not to be contemplated. She could not let Winifred make a complete fool of herself. More to the point, her own scheme for her sisters would come wholly unraveled without the presence of a respectably married Winifred established in a town house—-with a large ball room—in the metropolis.

“Somehow,” Winifred continued, gazing thoughtfully at her reflection, “we must work on Lord Simon. We simply must persuade him to take me to London.”

At the sound of his lordship’s name, Jane’s heart gave an odd little lurch. “We? Please,” she said curtly, “don’t include me in your machinations, Winifred. I shall have my hands full maintaining my own little pretense with him.”

“Pooh!” Winifred’s perfect brows lifted incredulously. “Lord Simon has fallen completely for your middle-aged spinster faraddidle.” She giggled engagingly.

Jane smiled, but she remained troubled as she recalled those perceptive, chocolate-colored eyes. “I shouldn’t play any of your tricks off on him, just the same.”

“Pooh,” said Winifred again. Then, as though weary of the subject, she added, “Did I hear you say you received a letter from Gerard today?”

Jane brightened. “Yes, he says he has been studying for the Little Go—and it’s almost killing him. By next year at this time, he will be studying for the bar. If,” she amended, “he doesn’t get sent down first. He says he and Harry—his friend, Harry Bridgeworth, you know—he and Harry played such a trick on the dean last month. I don’t remember all the details, but it involved one of the fellow’s wive’s pet pug and a ventriloquist from the fair.”

Winifred smiled distantly. “Your brother is such an infant.”

“He sent you his love.”

“Mmm, yes. I suppose.”

Jane rose in some irritation and moved to the door. Bidding her cousin a rather stiff good night, she walked the short distance to her own chambers. Once in bed, her thoughts returned to the arrival of Lord Simon and what it might portend for her grand plans.

At any rate, she thought complacently, his friend, the viscount, is a godsend. He’ll be perfect for Winifred. Firmly banning the unsettling brown eyes from her thoughts, she fell asleep making hopeful plans for her sisters’ comeouts in the elegant London home of Lord and Lady Stedford.

Simon was awakened early the next morning by the sound of birdsong and the rays of sunlight slanting between heavy, crimson-velvet window hangings. He stretched, considering the day ahead of him. Before Miss Burch had retired at a blessedly early hour the evening before, she had informed him that Harold Minster, the estate manager, would be available to Lord Simon at his lordship’s convenience. Good. He was anxious to get down to business here.

He rose, and declining to ring for his valet, shucked his nightshirt and donned britches and a shirt. Shrugging into a serviceable coat, he made his way to the stables, where he found an elderly personage supervising the exercise of a prancing filly. When he observed Simon’s approach, the man hurried toward him.

“Ye must be Lord Simon,” he said, pulling respectfully at his forelock. “I’m Musgrove, the head groom. We didn’t expect ye out so early, me lord, but I’m pleased t’welcome ye.” An odd expression of unease crossed his wrinkled features. “Be ye wishin’ fer an early mornin’ ride?”

Simon glanced about with approval at the tidy yard. The stables themselves appeared neat and well-maintained as well. He smiled.

“Thank you, Musgrove. Yes, I was hoping for a good gallop before breakfast. Unfortunately, my own cattle will not arrive for a day or two, but I was hoping you would be able to mount me.”

To Simon’s puzzlement, the expression of unease on Musgrove’s face deepened, but the old man said heartily, “Why, of course, me lord. We have Argo, a well-ribbed gray or Tuppence. He’s a two-year-old. Not quite up to weight yet, but a sweet goer nonetheless.”

As the two walked toward the stable, a thought struck Simon. “I saw a young boy on a bay yesterday. Big fellow, he was. The bay, that is. Is he available?”

To Simon’s astonishment, the older man stopped stock-still. When he turned, Simon could perceive only blank puzzlement in his eyes, but he could have sworn that the man had been unpleasantly startled. “A boy on a horse, yer lordship? Dunno who that could be. We got no boys around here. Leastways not young’uns. There’s the stable lads, o’course, but—

“No, this one cannot be in his teens yet—slight, with pale blond hair.”

“Nope,” said Musgrove stolidly. “Nobody around here like that.”

They had by now reached the stable and as they entered its cool, dark interior, Musgrove propelled Simon toward one of the stalls. “Here ye go, me lord,” He said hastily. “Argo’ll do ye just fine. Jemmie!” he called, and in answer, a youth scurried from the rear of the stable. “Here, saddle up Argo fer ‘is lordship.” The older man swung again to Simon. “There now, we’ll have ye on yer way before the cat can lick her ear. In the meantime, ye’d like to be shown about a bit, I expect.”

Simon, every instinct aroused, opened his mouth to protest. The next moment, he resolved to let the mystery rest for the time being, and allowed himself to be led around the stable area, murmuring suitable expressions of admiration.

It was not long before he was mounted on the mettlesome gray, and waving a hand to Musgrove and his young helper, cantered out of the stable yard.

He breathed a sigh of satisfaction as he topped a small hillock a mile or so distant from the manor house. It was, he thought for the hundredth time since he had returned from the Continent, good to be back in England. He paused to gaze over the sweep of green, rolling land that was the manor’s home farm. All seemed in order. Ripening grain waved in silky profusion in the field nearest him, while farther away could be seen a burgeoning orchard. Altogether, he mused, this was not a bad place to spend some time—if only, he thought in sudden, sour recollection, the place did not include the troublesome Winifred, whose very existence was like a noose swaying above his head. And that was to say nothing of Winifred’s ghastly cousin.

For another hour he allowed Argo to wander in a heedless pattern before an insistent grumbling in his interior brought home to him that it was long past time for his breakfast. Wheeling about, he started at a placid pace for home. He had covered perhaps half the distance to the house when his attention was caught by the sight of another rider, flying across the fields on—yes, a huge bay gelding. By God, it was the same lad he’d seen yesterday. According to Musgrove, the boy did not belong on Selworth land, but damned if that wasn’t where he was.

He urged his mount to greater speed, following a path that would intercept that of the unknown rider. It was not until he was a hundred yards or so from his quarry that the boy glanced over his shoulder, apparently observing his pursuer. The bay was already galloping almost flat out, but the lad slapped his reins and crouched low over the saddle. Rider and horse became a blur against the landscape.

With a muttered oath, Simon attempted to draw more speed from Argo, but it soon became apparent that the bay was the stronger of the two animals. Lord, the boy must be part centaur. Slight though he was, he clung to the back of the huge animal like a small burr, moving as one with his mount.

Boy and horse vaulted over a hedge and Simon followed suit, only to observe an even greater obstacle ahead. Another hedge lay in the boy’s path, thick and tall and wild. Beneath it lay a wide, water-filled ditch. Ah, good—he had his trespasser now. Surely, he would not try— Good God, the little idiot was going for it! Simon’s heart caught in his throat as the huge bay soared in its attempt to clear the hedge.

The sound of the horse falling came clearly, followed by an anguished neigh. Within seconds, Simon had reached the hedge, and without thought spurred Argo on. He held his breath as the gray became airborne, coming to earth neatly on the other side. Simon brought the horse to a shuddering standstill. Leaping to the ground, he saw the boy sprawled awkwardly on his back, his eyes blinking in mute astonishment.

“My God!” Simon cried. Kneeling, he lifted the still form in his arms, cradling the boy against him. It was then he discovered that the boy was not a boy at all.