Dedicated Villain (12 page)

“What fustian,” he said, greatly daring.

The infinitesimal personage stiffened; the small mouth became a tight line, the chin jutted ominously.

“No lady with eyes like yours could ever be lonely,” he went on, “else all the middle-aged gentlemen are betwattled! Am I to be favoured with the name of my companion in adversity?”

For an instant it appeared that he was not, for she continued to glare at him. But laughter danced in his velvety black eyes, he was young and good to look upon and showed besides promise of an ability to amuse. Further, although he was still pale, he gave no sign of discomfort. The infinitesimal personage admired
courage, and thus the twinkle was back when she said, “I am Lady Clorinda Ericson.” She extended a tiny hand but cried, “No! Do not bend, or you will hurt your head. Here.”

To his amusement, she pressed her fingers to his lips, and when he had dutifully planted a kiss upon them, she drew back regarding him with approval.

“Faith, but you flirt deliciously, Roland. Are you wed?”

Startled by such a home question on short acquaintance, he said, “No, my lady.”

“I suppose you think me a prying old woman, which I am. But as we grow older, gossip becomes so delicious. Now that I think on it, I always found it a delightful pastime, and so exquisitely wicked. Speaking of which, you must be Marbury's bastard.” She gave a cackle of mirth. “Lud—only look at the boy fire up! An I have shocked you 'tis because you young people today are so incredibly and unnaturally prim!”

Mathieson had been called many things, but “prim” was so divorced from any of those things that he forgot his vexation and gave a shout of laughter, whereof he winced, and had to bite back an oath.

“Say it,” invited Lady Clorinda. “Too much the gentleman, are you? Then I'll say it for you!” And she did, so explicitly that Mathieson could barely refrain from uttering another devastating laugh and at length had to plead that she refrain from so cruelly amusing him. “Tell me, rather,” he begged, “why you are lonely. Have you no family, ma'am?”

“Family! If ever anything should be poxed in perpetuity, 'tis ‘Family'! One bears children—well, you won't, of course, but your poor wife will!” She twinkled at him. “And I say ‘poor wife' for many reasons, Roland Mathieson! Where was I? Do not interrupt! Oh, yes. I bore children. Three. All by my first husband, unfortunately. One died. My daughter ran off with a charming rascal and has the poor taste to be happy with the creature! My son is eight and forty, and as rash, irresponsible and bothersome as the veriest child! My grandson—humph! And my granddaughters both are buxom, opinionated wenches
with more sauce than sense, who should have been wed long since save that one lost her love and will not accept the man who seeks to take his place, and the other wasted her sympathy on her brother, who is a reckless scamp, and now wastes her youth on her father—the idiot! I mean her father is the idiot—not my granddaughter. Oh, I am a wretch and have made you laugh again! My apologies. Why do you vex Marbury so?”

Mathieson's laughter died abruptly and his eyes became cool and veiled. “I have the greatest respect for my grandfather, ma'am.”

“Have you? I heard he is grown to be an impossible creature! You do not resemble poor Muffin, but you are very like him, for all that the relationship is so—
à huis clos
, as it were.”

“Yet 'twould seem you know of me, my lady, so his secret is not so well kept, after all.”

Her bright gaze flickered over his countenance, noting the faint look of polite boredom, the perfection of nose, mouth, and chin, the high, well-cut cheekbones, the dusky inscrutability of the long-lashed eyes, and the proud tilt to the dark head. She kept silent for a moment, thinking many things. Then, she murmured, “You really hate the poor man.”

A flash lit the cold eyes, and he started to his feet. “You will forgive madam, an I leave—”

“Hoity-toity!” Her frail little hands tugged heartily at the skirts of his coat. “I will do nothing of the sort! I am a lonely, abandoned old lady. Would you go away and leave me to the mercy of passing thieves and murderers? Sit down! Sit down! I have a good hold on you, unkind one, and do assure you I shall not relinquish it. You will have to drag me—screaming—all the way!”

Mathieson could visualize such a scene, and fought an appreciative chuckle. Still, it was true that they were not very far from where Rump had been stolen, and this sharp-tongued old lady wore some remarkably fine diamonds on her slightly gout-twisted fingers. Therefore, he tightened his lips, but sat down again.

“That's a good boy,” said Lady Clorinda, retaining her hold on his coat.

“Madam,” he corrected, “I am neither a boy, nor do I hate my grandfather.”

“Of course you don't,” she soothed solemnly. “'Deed but you love him so deeply that when he is mentioned all the animation dies out of your face, and you become so much like a marble statue that I wonder nobody has bought you and put you on display in London!”

Mathieson's lips twitched. “Might one ask why you should concern yourself, my lady?”

“Because Clifford Augustus Fairleigh Mathieson, Duke of Marbury, Earl of Nettering and Mathie, et cetera, et cetera, was the hero of my girlish dreams when I was very, very young and he was a dashing—oh, such a dashing—ensign.” My lady blushed like a girl and lowered her roguish eyes. “Well, enough of that! Suffice it to say that I knew your grandfather when he was simply young Lord Fairleigh, who allowed himself, when he was barely eighteen, to be tricked into marrying that horrid cat Mary Frobisher because she said he had got her with child! Which was nonsense, if ever I heard any, for Muffin was shy—in those days. However, never mind that. The thing is, she gave birth to Dudley—your father.” A frown pulled at her brows making her suddenly formidable. “And your father I knew well.”

Breathless, Mathieson almost stammered, “And—did you perchance … know my mama?”

“Oh, yes.” She asked shrewdly, “Is that what you hold against your grandfather, lad?”

He was silent, for it was a painful topic, and one he discussed only with Rump. But, perhaps because his head pounded so mercilessly, or because for all her teasing there was a kindliness in those bright eyes, he answered at length, his voice low-pitched, almost as if he spoke to himself alone. “She was the loveliest, sweetest natured, most unselfish, and truly good lady I shall ever know. My father—” He broke off, his jaw tightening,
then went on, “But Mama was always kind; always understanding and ready to listen … even when she was so very ill, at the end …”

My lady watched him and wisely held her tongue.

After a minute, he muttered broodingly, “And the duke rejected her—dared to condemn her and hold her vulgar and—” he spat out the word “grasping! My God! If he did but know …” His hand clenched tightly and he was very still, gazing into the bitter past.

“Even so,” she prompted carefully, “your papa must have been very proud and pleased with her, that she had given him such a fine son, if—”

Mathieson's harsh laugh shocked her, and she drew back eyeing him askance.

“Oh, my dear lady,” he said, the cynical sneer very apparent, “your gossip serves you indifferent well, I think. I would have supposed—”

Lady Clorinda did not like to be interrupted, and therefore interrupted in turn, “Never underestimate a gossipy old woman, my lad! I know much of you. For instance, that you distinguished yourself on the battlefield, but are no longer received anywhere. That you are a reckless gamester, a soldier of fortune, a regular Don Juan with the ladies—and a very generous one, 'tis said! That you hover constantly on the brink of being clapped up for debt, yet live extravagantly. That is the sum of it, no? And not so very dreadful, surely.”

“Because, ma'am, 'tis but the tip of the iceberg. I am a social outcast—by my own choosing. I live by my wits and by my sword and have few if any scruples. Indeed, my depravity has been finely honed and polished. I do assure you I am a thoroughly dedicated villain and enjoy my trade.”

“Why?” She looked into his cynical smile curiously. “Vengeance?”

It seemed to my lady that for an instant he did not breathe, but then he chuckled, and said with a careless shrug, “Indolence, ma'am. Pure and simple.” He turned to look at her fully,
one dark brow mockingly upraised. “My regrets do I disappoint, but you would have the truth.”

“What a pity,” she sighed, relinquishing her hold on his coat so as to pat his cheek very gently, “that I did not get it. Ah! Here is my lazy Cuthbert at last!”

Mathieson, who had regarded her with stark horror and jerked his head away when she touched his cheek, recovered his aplomb only to lose it again when he glanced to the coach which came lumbering along the muddy lane.

It was an enormous vehicle painted a rich dark red and lavishly adorned with gold shells and swirls and flourishes so that it bore more resemblance to a coach of state than to a private conveyance. This illusion was enhanced by the four white horses, and the red and gold livery of the two footmen who stood up behind. ‘Zounds!' he thought. Raising his fascinated stare from the equipage, he met a pair of amiable grey eyes in a broad, ruddy visage. This large individual, who was more conventionally attired in a black coat with big gold buttons, must be the mislaid Cuthbert.

“Lovely, isn't it?” murmured Lady Clorinda.

“There are—er, no words.”

“Evil creature,” she exclaimed with a giggle. “I like ostentation. Sometimes. And I can afford to indulge my whims. Come along now.”

She held out her hand imperiously. Mathieson offered his arm and led her toward the carriage which had come to a halt. A very young footman sprang down and ran to open the door.

My lady glanced critically at William Bond's hack. “Tie that poor creature on behind, Japhet. Truly Roland, I wonder that Muffin cannot at least mount you better than that!”

“Is not my horse, ma'am.” He handed her onto the first step. “I've the finest chestnut stallion in the world—an opinion shared, evidently, for he was stolen, whereby I collected this lump on my head.”

“Yes, of course. I had forgot you was robbed. How dreadful! Have you any hope of finding your animal?”

“Oh, I shall find him, ma'am,” he said grimly. “I'll catch the miserable varmints, I promise you.”

“What—on that?” My lady pointed to the old horse. “Never! We must find you a better mount, sir.” She peered at him uneasily. “Though you do not look at all well, and must not ride any more today. I forbid it! You shall drive with me, and tomorrow—”

Touched, because kindness was something he received even more seldom than he gave it, Mathieson smiled at her. “You are very good, and I thank you, ma'am. But I cannot delay. Rumpelstiltskin is
absolument irremplaçable.
I must get after him at once.”

She frowned and said grudgingly, “I suppose I must respect you for that. Do you mean to return to Tewkesbury to hire a mount?”

“From the look of the tracks the thieves headed north, and I daren't waste time going back to Tewkesbury. I'll hire another hack at the first livery stable I come to.”

The coachman coughed portentously.

My lady glanced up at him. “You've a stable in mind, Cuthbert?”

“One or two, ma'am. But I was wondering … Did I hear you say—a chestnut stallion was stole, sir? He wouldn't have two white stockings and a blaze on his nose, I don't s'pose?”

“He most certainly would!” Mathieson stepped back and looked eagerly into that square face framed by the blue of the sunlit sky. “Have you seen such an animal today?”

“Aye, sir! A big fellow, sixteen hands if a inch. I recollect thinkin' that 'cept fer his ugly Roman nose and them mule ears, he'd—”

“That's my horse, by God,” cried Mathieson, too elated to take offense at the aspersions cast on his beloved Rumpelstiltskin. “Where, man? When? Did you see who had him?”

The coachman rubbed the handle of his whip against his chin. “Lessee now … Musta bin about—sevenish, I'd say. A pair of country-lookin' coves was ridin' him, and—”

“Both of 'em? Damn their eyes! You sure they weren't gypsies?”

Cuthbert shrugged. “Mighta bin, at that. They was dark enough—dark as you, sir, now I think on it.”

Mathieson gave him a searching look, but the broad face was guileless. “And where were these two rogues heading? North?”

“'Lor' bless yer, no sir. South. I says ter meself, ‘Them two ain't got no business with that beauty, Cuthbert, me boy! Like as not they stole him. They're makin' fer a cozy hideaway in the Forest o' Dean, they is!'”

“Blast!” muttered Mathieson under his breath. If the thieves were gypsies and reached the fastness of the forest, they would disappear as if into thin air. Moreover, if he turned south now he might as well abandon all hope of catching up with MacTavish. He brushed the thought aside. The all-important task was to find Rump. Glancing up, he found my lady, coachman, and footmen watching him interestedly. “My apologies for wool-gathering,” he said. “'Twould seem I must decline your offer, ma'am, for my route lies in the opposite direction, alas.”

“Ah.” My lady nodded but her smile was wistful. “I should have enjoyed your company, but I wish you well in your search, Roland.”

Two minutes later, having rewarded the observant coachman and been so bold as to plant a kiss on my lady's cheek—much to her delight—he waved as the great chariot rumbled away with a tiny handkerchief fluttering from the window.