Lessons in French (10 page)

"You kept on Jock, sir," Barton said, his head bent. "You found work for him."

"As a valet! And I suppose you'd like to be my gardener?"

Barton looked up. "I'll do anything, sir! Only don't cast me off. Charlie washed his

hands of me, and now me an' old Tobe ain't got nobody."

"Barton—" Trev leaned his shoulders on the wall, crossing his arms.

"Please, sir! Don't say no. After all the years I've been with you." He swallowed.

"Please."

Trev gave a heavy sigh. He rested his head back and closed his eyes.

"Has I ever failed you, sir?" Barton asked. "Has I ever botched what you asked of me?"

"A hundred times," Trev muttered. He would have felt kinder kicking the dog away.

"I'll do better! There must be something I can do for ye," Barton said, his voice

cracking. "Please."

"All right!" Trev stood upright. "All right, then. Don't snivel, for God's sake. I have a

commission for you."

Barton's wide-mouthed grin spread across his face. "Sir? You mean it?"

"A single commission. One."

"Thank you, sir!" The man held himself up to his best height. "Whatever you wish!"

"I want you to purchase a bull for me," Trev said, "from a Colonel Davenport."

Barton nodded eagerly. "I'm a dab at a haggle, sir, and you know it. What's your limit?"

"No limit. The animal goes by the name of Hubert. The cost is no object."

"No object, sir?" Barton said, looking doubtful. "For a bull?"

"Shelford's prize bull. Davenport's to come and take him off tomorrow. Wait until that's

done before you make your approach. Keep it quiet."

"Oh, aye, sir. Mum as a post. Don't want to drive the price up, eh?"

Trev could hear his mother begin to cough upstairs. He turned. "The price be damned,"

he said over his shoulder as he headed for the door. "Just make certain you get the bloody

beast for me, will you?"

Five

WITH PAINFUL EFFORT, CALLIE KEPT HER COMPOSURE as Hubert ambled

down the lane. She could have no complaint about the provisions made for his comfort:

the drover offered water and tied him behind a cart full of hay. An exultant Colonel

Davenport leaned down to shake hands with Cousin Jasper and turned his horse, trotting

ahead of the cart as the little procession moved off. Hubert walked away, swishing his tail

happily each time he snatched at a mouthful of hay.

Callie disengaged herself from her sister's sympathetic hug and gave Cousin Jasper a

bright smile as he tried again to stammer his regrets and apologies. The new earl wrung

his gloves in his hands and looked miserable, blinking his wide brown eyes with a soft

plea that she forgive him.

She had shed all her tears before dawn, brushing Hubert from his nose to his handsome

rump, teasing out his tail pompom, buffing and polishing his hooves as if he were already

going to a fair. It had given her something to do. Now, facing Cousin Jasper's

wretchedness, she needed some further activity quite desperately.

"There, he's on his way. No more to be said." She interrupted the earl with ruthless

cheerfulness. "Now I must walk to the village. Pray excuse me, Cousin!"

Hermey made no attempt to accompany her, for which Callie was grateful. She kept up

such a brisk pace that by the time she reached Dove Lane, she was not quite so close to

breaking down in tears, though she had to maintain a stern frown to prevent it. She had

not intended to stop at Dove House, meaning to call first on Mr. Rankin at the inn and

discover the news. But Trevelyan was just coming out, making his way through the

overgrown garden.

He plucked at a long rose cane that attempted to grab his sleeve as he passed through

the gate. "Good morning, my lady. May I give you my arm up the street? I'm engaged to

escort this rosebush to the shops, but I'll fob it off."

Callie drew a deep breath. She felt her facade of forced cheerfulness slipping. "Good

morning."

He tilted his head, smiling a little, looking at her with such unspoken understanding that

she had a very strong urge to walk straight up to him, lay her head upon his elegantly tied

neck cloth, and weep her heart out.

"You forget your mother, my lord," she said, taking refuge in a frosty tone. "Surely you

don't intend to leave her alone? I can't think it wise."

He nodded in agreement. "Yes, it's always useful to pick a quarrel when one is feeling

low. Come with me into the high street, and I'll undertake to start a brawl for your further

diversion."

She felt a small smile welling up, overcoming the immediate threat of tears in her

throat. "How civil of you."

"I know. Particularly as I'll be bound to wrinkle my only coat." He let the gate fall

closed and took her arm. "My mother is much improved this morning, with some

excellent nourishment and a good night's rest. Mrs. Adam has arrived with Lilly to

undertake nursing duties, and I am expelled as a dangerous man."

She glanced at the house. "Mrs. Adam is here? I should go in and lend her help."

"No, you should not. She's certain that I intend to lure Lilly into the debauched harem

that I maintain in the opium dens of Paris." He turned her toward the lane. "Be so good as

to thwart me from this evil scheme. You can begin by distracting me with a walk to the

post office."

She smiled, though it was slightly watery. "I see that it's my Christian duty, when you

put it so. I only hope I may not succumb to your wicked plot myself."

"Oh, I have far more sinister plans for you. I mean to entice you to a dish of tea in the

public parlor at the Antlers. I will certainly set a chair for you, and possibly I may even

speak French."

Merely walking at his side, with her gloved hand resting on his arm, was rather

alarming. She remembered that he had brought roses, though she had not told anyone

they were meant for her. "Thank you for your call yesterday," she said shyly. "And for

the beautiful posy."

"Hardly enough to convey my gratitude," he said.

She had not, of course, supposed the f lowers were meant as anything more than an

expression of thanks. "We'll inquire about the Bromyard woman at the Antlers," she said,

grasping at a practical topic. "I have high hopes of her."

"The dahlias reminded me of your hair," he said pensively. "That deep copper color.

Only a little darker."

"Oh," Callie said. She lifted her skirt and stepped over a tuft of grass. "I do hope she

knows how to cook. Truly cook, you know. Something that your mother would like."

"And the roses—pretty and pale, with a f lush of pink. Very like your cheeks when you

blush."

"A blancmange, perhaps," Callie said brightly. "Or a custard."

"Your cheeks are nothing like a blancmange, I assure you, my lady. And certainly not a

custard."

"A blancmange would be the true test of her skill," Callie said with difficulty. "I think

we should ask her to make a blancmange."

"They're the classic strawberries and cream. Very English."

"Any sort of fruit trifle would make a good test, I agree," she said hastily. "But

strawberries are out of season."

"Indeed, but they aren't," he said. He slanted one of those looks down at her that left her

covered in confusion. It was very vexing. She ought to tell him to stop. But she didn't

precisely wish him to stop. She rather wished to fall right back in love with him, like a

veritable ninnyhammer, and believe against all fact and reason that he meant what he

said.

"So you have met my sister and Lady Shelford?" she asked, her voice rather too loud.

She could see some pedestrians in the sun-dappled lane, far down where it widened into

something that could reasonably be called a street.

"Lady Shelford," Trev said. "I met her, yes. An awe-inspiring woman, to be sure. I'm

afraid I didn't remain long enough to have the honor of an introduction to Lady

Hermione. She was engulfed in well wishers. Has a date been set?"

"Next month," Callie said.

"They're impatient lovers," he commented.

"But poor Hermey has had to postpone so much because of—" She hesitated, then said,

"She's hardly been away from Shelford at all, or met any eligible gentlemen, until we

went to Leamington to the spa. Our father was ill for a long time, you see, and then he

passed away last year, so we have been in mourning."

"My condolences."

Callie did not look up at him. "Thank you," she replied in a small voice.

Trev guided her round the bowing white heads of Queen Anne's lace that encroached

on the lane. He was aware that he should make a better show of sympathy. Callie had

adored her father. He knew it well. But he would never forget that whip across his face.

He remembered it every time he shaved himself, each time he saw the faded scar in the

mirror. For months afterward he had dreamed of revenge with a hopeless violence that

only fed on knowing his fantasies were absurd. He'd shot more than one unfortunate

British infantryman with the Earl of Shelford in his sights.

She walked with her face hidden from him. He looked down at the tendrils of reddish

copper hair that had escaped her braids and bonnet, tiny curls that lay against the nape of

her neck. Callous bastard that he was, the glimpse of white skin, tender and soft, made his

throat fill with some unnamed clash of emotion, with resentment and protectiveness and a

potent spike of simple lust. She smelled faintly of fresh hay and mown grass, as she

always had.

They could be friends. He truly wished for that. A friend would enter into her obvious

distress with real sympathy, the way she had instantly come to his aid with his mother.

He tried to summon words of kindness for her father's death, but they were not there. The

only sort of words that came to him were sarcastic comments on just how pleased the old

man would doubtless be to see her walking with him now.

Finally he said, "I'm sure you miss your father." It came out more stiffly than he

wished, but he had said it.

"Yes," she said. "Very much."

"He cared a great deal about your welfare."

"Oh yes," she said.

Trev hoped that was sufficient. He bewildered himself with the fresh rage that

overcame him. He had no right to it, as he had no real right to tease and f lirt with Callie

when he could go no further. Her father had rejected him as a penniless nobody of

unsteady character, and that was in Trev's respect able days. Now he was one step ahead

of the hang man's noose.

"He was very disappointed when I didn't marry," she said, so softly that he could barely

hear. "He wished very much for that."

"Ah," Trev said. His rage found a new object: these three silly sods who had jilted her.

He walked along for a few moments, all tame in his gentleman guise, gazing at wildf

lowers and trying to think of a kindly and understanding response. With sudden ferocity,

he uttered, "I'd like to kill them all for you."

She gave him a startled glance. Then she laughed, causing the trace of a tear to tumble

down her cheek. The sound made his heart rise amazingly.

"Thank you!" she exclaimed. "I've been so vexed that I can't do it myself!"

He took deep pleasure in the happy crinkle that appeared at the corner of her eyes.

"Only tell me who they are," he said, giving her a little bow. "I'm wholly at your service."

She sniffed and smiled. "Perhaps it wouldn't be quite the thing," she said. "It would

cause a vast increase in the number of widows and orphans in the country."

"Reproducing themselves rapidly, are they? Just what the world needs, more bloody

fools. I'd best set about eliminating them without delay."

She giggled, with a little hiccup of a sob. "Trev," she said, holding his arm with her

gloved hand.

No more than that. Just his name. She looked up sideways at him under her hat, that

shy, half-laughing look that had always made him want to pull her down in a rick of new

hay and tumble her under him and do lustful and luxurious things amid that sweep of

loosened coppery hair.

"We'll start with Number One," he said. "He should be skewered first, for setting a bad

example to the rest."

"Major Sturgeon," she said readily.

"Sturgeon," he repeated. "Sturgeon, as in the fish?"

She nodded.

"So you might have been—dear God—the Lady Callista Sturgeon?"

"Well," she admitted, "I did consider that."

"A mortifying thought. I'm not sure that we shouldn't let him live, for sparing you from

this fate."

"No, he should be skewered," she said firmly.

"As you wish, ma'am. Will it be swords or a knife in the back? Or I could shoot him at

dawn, if you like."

She considered this, pulling at the dried blossoms of a wildflower as they passed. She

shook her head and scattered the seeds, dusting her glove on her skirt. "No—no duels, if

you please. I wouldn't wish to see you put yourself in danger on my behalf."

"It would be an honor to put myself in danger on your behalf," he said gallantly. "But

I'm a fair shot, I promise you. In the—" He paused. He'd been about to say that he'd been

promoted to
tirailleur
and assigned to a battalion of sharpshooters in the Grande Armée

because of his accuracy. "In the vineyards at Monceaux," he revised, "I can shoot a

cluster of grapes from their stem at a hundred paces."