Scandalous (13 page)

The doctor beamed. “Told you I could guess it. Of course, I'm much better with British dialects. I can pinpoint a British speaker to within ten miles of where he was born.”

“Remarkable,” John responded lamely. “If you will excuse me, I must change.”

“Of course, of course.” The vicar smiled at him benignly. “We don't mean to interfere with you young people.”

John left quickly for his room off the kitchen, and Priscilla seized the opportunity to start for the stairs. However, the vicar's fond voice caught her before she could get out of the room. “A finely setup young man, Priscilla,” he commented cheerfully.

Priscilla turned back to him, pressing her lips together in irritation. Her father's friends were both kind and intelligent men, always trying to help people. But they had for some reason taken it upon themselves to be Priscilla's private cupids, and over the years they had tried to matchmake for her with a number of young men. They were not picky; any man of approximately the right age and with a decent family and sufficient intelligence was quickly maneuvered into meeting Priscilla. Priscilla had tried scores of times to get them to stop their well-meaning but misguided efforts, but she had finally given up and simply saw the young men that they proffered, then kindly, but firmly, sent them on their way.

“Yes, Reverend, he is. He is also related to me.”

“Distantly, my dear, distantly. It means his family is good, which is something one can never be sure of with Americans, you know.”

Priscilla sighed. “I suspect it was probably a more scandalous branch of the family that emigrated to the United States. Besides, I think it is a poor decision to marry within one's family, even when it's legal. I mean, look at the Hapsburgs.”

“My dear, I wasn't suggesting that you marry the young man,” the vicar protested. “I was merely saying that he is probably an agreeable companion for you. Of course, if something more were to develop…I wouldn't think you would need to worry about weak minds and Hapsburg chins. After all, that royal family intermarried far more often and more closely.”

“True,” the doctor agreed. “How many generations ago did his family emigrate?” When Priscilla merely gazed at him blankly, he turned toward her father. “Florian?”

“What? Heavens, it must have been a hundred years ago or so. I am not really sure of the relation. I think my grandfather was cousin to his great-grandfather, or something of that sort.”

“You mean you haven't discussed his genealogy?” the general asked, looking disapproving. “How do you know he is really your relative? He could be taking advantage of your hospitality, you know. There's a sort of rascally look about his eyes, if you ask me.”

“Well, no one did,” Florian responded, looking disgruntled. “I didn't outline his family tree with him. Americans are not in the habit of that sort of thing. Not a bad way to be. A man's brains and abilities are more important than his family, don't you think?”

The general snorted and asked if he was a damned egalitarian, and the vicar jumped in to soothe the suddenly troubled waters of the conversation. Priscilla
seized the opportunity to slip out of the room unnoticed and run up the stairs. Quickly she scrubbed the dirt off her hands and changed into a clean dress, then brushed out her hair and pinned it back into its usual tidy roll. She paused for a moment, looking at herself in the mirror. She had never been a woman who spent much time in front of mirrors, having always felt that there were more interesting things to do. She knew that she was not bad-looking, was even considered pretty by many men. Her figure was good, and her complexion was a creamy white. Her features were regular, and her gray eyes were large and dark-lashed. But her attractiveness, or lack of it, had never been her major concern. She had known that she was too smart and outspoken for most men, too poor for many others, and not breathtakingly beautiful enough to overcome such disadvantages. Suitors, she had found, were usually more trouble than they were worth in the long run.

But today she found herself lingering in front of the mirror, examining her reflection. Was her dress too plain? There was no decoration on it at all, not even a ribbon or ruffle. Was her coiffure too severe? It would flatter her more if her chestnut hair were fuller around her face. She wore it this way only because it took more time to do anything else to it.

Her hands went to her hair, starting to pull out the pins and start all over again, but she stopped herself. This was ridiculous. So what if she did not look as attractive as she might in front of John Wolfe? After all, there was no reason she should. She was not trying to get him to fall in love with her. It did not matter that he had kissed her passionately; he had no serious intentions toward her, no real feeling. He was obviously a very
passionate man. She closed her eyes for a moment, remembering the feel of his lips on hers, his arms around her. Anyway, she reminded herself, he had kissed her that way with her looking no better than she did now. She couldn't keep a little smile from curving her lips.

Then she shook herself sternly and started toward her door. She wanted to see if John had found anything after a further search of the traveling bag. She was not going to waste time primping.

Downstairs, she found him sitting at the kitchen table with a hot cup of tea in front of him, as well as a plate of tea cakes. He was talking with Mrs. Smithson while she bustled about, washing dishes and stirring various things in pots on the stove.

He stood up when Priscilla came quietly into the kitchen. She had managed to slip down the stairs and along the hall without being noticed by any of the people in the drawing room. Thank God the general had a loud voice.

She stopped, staring at John in his new clothes. If he had looked good before in Lord Chalcomb's old-fashioned, ill-fitting garments, he looked doubly handsome now. The soft white shirt and brown trousers were perfectly fitted to his tall, wide-shouldered frame; there was none of the comical aspect that her brother's too-small garments or Lord Chalcomb's hopelessly out-of-date ones had given to him. He looked powerful and imposing.

For a moment Priscilla was tongue-tied, struck by his handsomeness. Then she cleared her throat and said, “I can see that the case was yours. Those clothes were obviously tailored just for you.”

He nodded. “Yes. Not that it does us much good. I
practically took that bag apart, and I could find nothing that even hinted at who I am. The only thing the thieves left behind were a pair of cuff links, but they were plain, not even an initial on them. I may be dressed more comfortably, but I still know nothing about myself.”

“That's not true,” Priscilla said stoutly, crossing the kitchen to sit down at the table with him. “We know one thing—you must be a man of some substance. Those clothes are personally tailored and made of expensive materials. You must be well-to-do to dress like that.”

“A well-off American,” he said, encapsulating his knowledge about himself. “I could be thousands of people.”

“A well-off American traveling through this part of England,” Priscilla reminded him. “There must be some reason for your being here. Someone who is expecting you farther down the road. They will begin to search, surely, when you do not show up.”

“That is provided that I really am expected by someone.” He frowned. “I think my best chance is to find those men.”

“The ones who kidnapped you?” Priscilla's voice vaulted upward. “But why? We've spent all this time trying to avoid them.”

“I had no desire to be bushwhacked by them,” he corrected her. “I want to meet them again, but on my terms. I want to be the one on the offensive. I shall have the element of surprise, not they.”

“But there are two of them! Even if you do surprise them, you are still likely to get hurt.”

“I will separate them if I can. Besides, I am almost back to full strength now. If I am prepared for them, they will not be able to take me down again.”

“Just what do you suggest doing?”

“Going to town. I shall walk around and ask questions. See if I can catch sight of one of them. Or if anyone else has seen them.”

“What good will it do you if you do find them?”

He smiled thinly. “I will persuade them to tell me who hired them. Once we find that out, I shall have a much better idea of who I am.”

Priscilla scowled. His words made sense, but she did not like the idea of his exposing himself to danger that way. He might think, with his masculine pride, that he could take care of any number of men, but Priscilla was not so sanguine. These were wicked men, and they might have other cronies.

“You're right,” she said finally. “That is our best option. We shall go to town.”

“We?”
he repeated. “I think not.
I
am going alone.”

Priscilla sighed. He was the most stubborn man. “And how are you going to know where to go or who to ask in a strange town? Why, you don't even know how to get there.”

He grimaced, crossing his arms across his chest and looking stubborn. “I am hunting for two rogues, Priscilla. I can hardly take a lady along with me.”

“You need help, and I should think it would not matter if it came from a woman or a man.”

“I refuse to expose you to danger. Why is that so hard for you to understand?”

“It isn't difficult to understand. I simply refuse to accept your decision. I intend to help you.”

“Why are you so stubborn?” He glared at her.

She glared back. “Why are you?”

He ground his teeth noisily, and Priscilla thought for a moment that he might explode into shouting. But he contented himself with bringing his fist down with a loud thud on the table and saying, “Damn! It's a wonder no one has ever strangled you before now. All right; come with me.”

If the truth be known, he really wasn't as furious with her as he made out to be, as he knew he
should
be. He enjoyed her company; he liked to hear her laugh, to hear her quick, intelligent comments, to look over at her as they walked along. It had been fun having her with him today, and even though he knew he was probably a scoundrel to let her endanger herself this way, he actually looked forward to having her accompany him.

“I don't suppose that it would stop you, even if I said you could not come,” he said wryly.

Priscilla smiled. “That's true.”

She could see Mrs. Smithson, over at the stove, shaking her head despairingly as she stirred one of the pots. Priscilla knew quite well what she was thinking—and would say, given the first opportunity:

“Why are you so terrible independent-acting? You'll never get yourself a husband that way, Miss Priscilla.”

Her retort, always, was that she neither needed nor wanted a husband. But she found herself looking now at the man sitting at the table with her and wondering if that was still true. What if the husband was a man like John Wolfe? What if there was an aura of mystery and danger that clung to him? What if there was a wonderful zest to arguing with him—and the man didn't hold a grudge forever because you'd won? What if his kisses stirred her as John's did, and his merest touch made her tremble?

She was shocked at the course her thoughts were taking. She was
not
interested in marrying John Wolfe. There was no reason to change her vow not to marry just because this man had a charm and looks that other men had not. It was ridiculous even to be thinking about the subject. She was certain that he would not have any interest in marrying her, either. What
he
was interested in was an altogether different thing. Of course, she realized, if she was to be honest with herself, she was interested in that other thing, also. It was desire that drew her to John, not love or a yearning for marriage. Why, she barely knew the man. All it
could
be was pure animalistic passion. She was a freethinking woman, and she was willing to admit that women felt desire, too, without necessarily feeling any love or willingness to marry. It was a position she had argued many times. However, she had never really thought about such a thing happening to her.

She gave him a quick sideways glance, her heart speeding up inside her chest. His eyes met hers, and something changed subtly in his face. Priscilla looked away. She had the awful feeling that he knew what she was thinking. She sneaked another peek at him. He was still watching her, his eyes warm and searching. It was difficult this time to look away. She was certain now that his mind was on the same track as hers.

It was a relief to hear the visitors' voices in the hall as they left the drawing room. Priscilla jumped to her feet. “I—I should say goodbye to the vicar.”

John rose more slowly, following her as she walked out of the kitchen and down the hallway to the front door. The older men turned to Priscilla with a smile, taking her hand as they said their farewells. The vicar
patted her shoulder in an avuncular way. They nodded at John and said polite things about meeting him. Then they were gone, and Miss Pennybaker, giving them a final wave and smile, closed the door.

“Well!” Florian said, releasing a big sigh of relief. “Thank God that's over.”

Priscilla and Miss Pennybaker looked at him in surprise. “I thought you liked the vicar's visits,” Priscilla said mildly.

“I do. Nothing wrong with Whiting, except a liking for dreadfully sentimental poetry. But why did Hightower have to bring that army fellow?”

“General Hazelton?” Miss Pennybaker stared at him. “Why, he seemed like a fine man to me.”

“What was wrong with the general, Father?” Priscilla asked, linking her arm through his and starting back with him toward the drawing room.

“Don't like military men, never have.”

“But you approved of Gid getting a commission in the army.”

He waved that idea aside. “Couldn't stop him. Nothing else to do there. The boy was dead set on it. I hope he will come to his senses one of these days. But that man chose to be military all his life.”