Elizabeth Mansfield (24 page)

“Thank you,” he said in a voice so cold she didn’t recognize it. “Finding a new housekeeper was
exactly
my concern.”
 

“What other concern... ?”

One corner of his mouth turned up in a sneer. “None. None at all. Why should I be concerned? You know what you’re doing. You’re always so confident, so certain of the rightness of your decisions, that it would be foolish of me to feel any concern at all.”

“You needn’t take that tone, my lord. It
is
a right decision.”

“You and
Lutton?
Oh, yes, of course. A perfect match.”

She hadn’t expected this icy sarcasm. It threw her off balance. “It is!” she cried, feeling a need to defend herself but not knowing how. “We’ve been, Henry and I ... for a long time ... before I knew you ... he asked me ...”

“You needn’t go on with that wonderfully coherent explanation, ma’am. You don’t owe me one. And even if you did, I don’t want to hear it.” He whipped the horses to a gallop, and before she recovered her breath, they were at the door. He leaped down, waved back the footmen who’d come running out to take the reins, and came round to help Caro down. He put his hands on her waist and lifted her from the carriage step. But he didn’t set her down. He held her against his chest, her head just above his. She could feel his hands trembling. “I suppose you think I should wish you happy,” he muttered, glaring up at her.

“It would be the gentlemanly thing to do,” she said, trying to ignore the pounding of her heart.

“I’ll be damned if I will,” he spat out, lowering her until they were face-to-face. Then he kissed her, a kiss that was hard and angry and meant to hurt.

When he let her go, she stood there trembling, unable to say a word. He glared at her in silent antagonism before turning on his heel and striding to the door. Suddenly he whirled around.

“You will take Gil away,” he declared thickly, “over my dead body.”

“I never
intended—
”

He didn’t pay any heed to her. “Go ahead and ruin your own life if you must,” he snarled as he threw open the door, “but hell will freeze before I let you ruin his.”

THIRTY-THREE

Late in the afternoon of a lovely, somnolent June day, the pounding hoofbeats of a wildly racing horse rent the quiet air. Mickley was riding him. He’d galloped up from town waving the
London Times
aloft. At the door of the Grange, he leaped from the horse’s back, threw the reins to a footman, raced into the house, and dashed up the stairs two at a time. He burst into Kit’s study, chest heaving with excitement. “‘E ... did it!” he shouted, gasping for breath. ‘The ... Iron Duke ...
did it!
”

Kit, whose desk chair had been turned to face the window, looked round with no real interest. “What?” he asked, still as deep in the doldrums as he’d been these past two days.

“The
battle!
” the ex-batman shouted, wanting to shake his captain out of his lethargy. “Nappy’s been trounced! For
good
this time. Old Wellington finally
finished
‘im!” He tossed the newspaper on the desk in front of Kit.

Kit, his interest piqued at last, read the news with an ex-soldier’s eagerness. On June 18, a battle had been held at the Belgian town of Waterloo, and Napoleon had been defeated again. Roundly defeated. This time it was unmistakably the end of him. Kit, deeply depressed as he was, nevertheless could not fail to be elated at this news of his old commander’s triumph. “Good for you, Sir Arthur,” he muttered to the drawing of the triumphant commander in the paper. “Good for you!”

“Wellington ain’t been Sir Arthur since Talavera,” Mickley reminded him. “You were with ‘im the night ‘e learned they made ‘im a duke, remember?”

“I remember,” Kit said ruefully. “I wish I’d been with him this time.”

Mickley fixed him with an accusing eye. “Is this all you’re goin’ to do to celebrate, just sit ‘ere dreamin’? For shame, Cap’n. It says there in the paper that they’re dancin’ in the streets in London.”

“I hope you don’t expect me to get up and dance,” Kit retorted, “but we can do something.” He rose and started for the door. “I’ve a bottle of twenty-year-old cognac waiting for just such an occasion. Come with me, man. Let’s get ourselves flummoxed.”

They settled themselves in the library with two large glasses and the brandy bottle. By the time they’d drunk toasts to the Duke of Wellington, his staff, his line officers and troops collectively, and every man they could remember in their regiment individually, they were indeed flummoxed. “Le’s drink t’ women,” Mickley suggested when no other male names came to mind.

“Not all women,” Kit growled, refilling his glass. “Some of ‘em don’t deserve t’ be toasted.”

“Right. Won’t drink to the underservin’ ones. Like Miss Betty Rhys, blast ‘er ‘ide.”

“Why not Betty Rhys? Very pretty creature, ‘s I recall.”

“No. Too plump. An’ ‘er tongue’s too saucy. An’ she’s set ‘er silly mind on weddin’ a fat ol’ innkeeper, the silly chit.”

“Then we won’t drink to her. Silly chit. Doesn’t have the leas’ idea of what she’s doing.” He leaned forward and refilled Mickley’s glass with an unsteady hand. “Le’s drink to the females who don’t marry, like my aunt Letty.”

“Right. To Aunt Letty,” Mickley declared, downing a stiff gulp.

“And t’ those who marry f’r love, like m’ aunt Martha,” Kit said, his tongue feeling strange in his mouth.

‘To Aunt Martha,” Mickley agreed. After taking another drink, he stared into his glass glumly. “Wish Betty wuz like ol’ Aunt Martha.”

Kit focused his eyes and his thoughts on Mickley with difficulty. “Why? Doesn’t she ... don’t you think she loves her innkeeper?”

Mickley grimaced. “If she did, why would she ‘low me t’ kiss ‘er in the linen closet?”

“You dog!” Kit chortled drunkenly. “Did y’ really do that?”

“More ‘n once. An’ she liked it, too. A fellow c’n tell.”

“I don’ know ‘bout that,” Kit said slowly. “I thought I could tell ‘bout Caro, but then she ... she ...” His voice faded out, his head dropped, and his glass slipped from his fingers to the carpet, spilling what little was left of his brandy.

Mickley peered at him curiously. “She ... ?”

“Nev’ mind,” Kit muttered. “Silly chit.”

“I think ... we’re lushy,” Mickley stated with surprise.

“Cupshotten,” Kit agreed.

There was a long silence while Mickley drained his glass, lifted the bottle to refill it, and discovered it was empty. He stared at it in bewildered disbelief. “Can’t be!” he cried.

Kit lifted his head, shook it, and glared at Mickley sternly. “Ask her!” he ordered.

Mickley blinked. “Whut’d ye say?”

“Ask her. If she’s so enamored of her innkeeper, why’d she kiss you like that? Ask ‘er, boint-plank.”

“Boint-plank?”

Kit guffawed. “I mean point-blank. I think m’ tongue’s thick.”

“I think yer brain’s thick. You want me t’ ask ‘er why she kissed me?”
 

“Why not?”

Mickley considered the question. “Aye, Cap’n, why not?” He got clumsily to his feet. “I’ll do it. Right now.”
 

Kit nodded. “Good man.”

Mickley staggered to the door. “Whew!” he exhaled, leaning on the doorframe. “I’m really webottled ... bewottled.”

“Tha’s wha’s made y’ strong.” Kit smiled at him woozily, waving him on in drunken encouragement. “Cup-valiant. Brav’ry in brandy. Onward, man!”

“Right. Onward I go!” And he stumbled out the door.

Mickley weaved unsteadily up and down the corridors until he came upon his quarry in the dining room. She and another maid were setting the table for dinner. He stood at the door for a moment, watching her move with supple grace round the table. Her neat striped dress and large, enveloping apron couldn’t hide the voluptuousness of her full bosom and slim waist. Her beautiful blond braids were tied up round her head and hidden under her starched white mobcap, but he remembered—with amazing clarity, considering the fuddled state of his mind—how lovely her hair had looked in the linen closet when he’d taken it down and loosed it from its bonds. God, how I love that saucy chit, he thought as he staggered up behind her, grasped her arm, and pulled her round to face him. “Why’d ye kiss me?” he demanded bluntly, completely ignoring the fact that they were not alone.

The pretty housemaid gaped at him. “Mr.
Mickley!
” she gasped, throwing an embarrassed glance at the girl on the opposite side of the table.

“Mr. Mickley, am I?”
The drunken batman sneered. “I was jus’ plain Mick in the linen closet.”

“Hush, for goodness’ sake!” Betty hissed, coloring and making a gesture toward the other girl.

“Don’t mind me,” the other maid laughed.

“See? She don’t mind,” Mickley said. “So wha’ my answer?”

“Yer answer, ye lout, is that I want ye t’ let go o’ me,” Betty said under her breath. “Ye’re crocked.”

He snorted. “Drunk’s a lord. But tha’s neither ‘ere nor there. I mus’ know, girl. If ye care so much fer yer innkeeper, why’d ye kiss me like that?”

“Hush, drat ye!” Betty threw another embarrassed look at her colleague before pulling Mick to the far corner of the room. “Why do ye
think
I kissed ye, ye looby?” she whispered. “Because I ‘ad nothin’ better t’ do? There was a half-dozen beds t’ change that day!”

“What’re ye sayin’, Miss Saucy-tongue?” he asked, not certain of her meaning, but his eyes lighting up with hope nevertheless.

“I’m sayin’ I never kissed no man that way but you. So there!”

He peered at her, trying through the cloud of drunkenness to understand. “Damnation, I wish I wuz sober! Do ye mean ye
care
fer me?
Truly?
”

“Yes, truly! So now take yerself out and put yer head under the pump! And when y’r sober, I’ll tell ye again.” With another quick glance at the other maid—who was watching the scene with grinning delight—she cupped Mickley’s face in her hands and kissed his mouth. “There, ye whoozy chubb! Now go, quick, before Mr. Melton sees me malingerin’!”

Meanwhile, in the library, Kit remained sunk in his easy chair, his brain spinning dizzily on too-quickly-imbibed brandy. It was good advice he’d given to Mickley, he was thinking. A man ought to know, when a girl kisses him, exactly where he stands. He himself had been fooled in that regard, not once but three times. He’d kissed Caro on three separate occasions—he was not so drunk that he didn’t know how to count to three—and each time he’d been sure that she’d responded with as much feeling as he. But afterward, her behavior had completely upset his expectations. If he was any kind of man—even half the man Mickley was—he would do what he’d urged Mickley to do—ask her.

Yes, why not? he asked himself, heaving himself up from the chair. He wobbled unsteadily to the door and down the hall to the backstairs. He’d find her in that damned little office she’d made for herself near the servants’ hall, he supposed, and that was where he was headed. He had to hold tightly to the banister to make it down the stairs. He hoped the effort of walking would clear his head, but by the time he got down—having stumbled dangerously down the last three stairs—his brain seemed more muddled than ever.

What was the question he was going to ask her? he wondered. He couldn’t seem to remember it. Oh, yes, he thought, forcing his mind to concentrate, the kissing business. He’d rehearsed it with Mickley; he’d remember it well enough.

There was a short corridor at the bottom of the stairs. At the end of it was a sharp right turn into the servants’ hall. To Kit’s bleary eyes the corridor looked endless. The floor lurched crazily beneath his feet, and he had to cling to the wall to keep from falling. He was almost at the end of it when Caro herself came hurrying round the corner, carrying a tray of silver flatware for the dining table. He stumbled into her, causing the tray and all its contents to go clattering noisily to the floor. “Kit!” she gasped, caught unprepared.
 

He winced. “Sorry,” he muttered.

She blinked at him. He didn’t seem quite himself. “My lord, are you quite well?” she asked.

“Fine,” he said with exaggerated clarity.

Unconvinced, she nevertheless knelt down to gather up the silverware.

“Came t’ find you. Have t’ know.” He grasped her arms, pulled her up, and peered with woozy intensity into her eyes. “If you care s’ much fer the blasted innkeeper, why’d ye kiss me in the linen closet?”

“What?” She stared at him in complete incomprehension for a moment. Then she gave a hiccuping laugh. “Good God! I do believe you’re foxed!”

“Completely cast away,” he said with a foolishly proud grin. “Makes one cup-valiant, y’ know.”

“Does it indeed?” She stared at him with amusement.

“So tell me, ma’am ... why’d ye kiss me…?”

“In the linen closet? I don’t believe I ever did. Are you perhaps remembering a tete-a-tete with some other maid?”

He drew himself up in wobbly offense. “I take brum-mage ... er ... ummage ... umbrage ... at that remark, ma’am. I find it off ... off .. . quite offensive.” He put a hand to his forehead and shut his eyes. His other dropped from her arm, and he swayed on his feet. “I think ... I must ... sit down,” he managed as his knees gave way.