Slightly Wicked (12 page)

Miss Effingham seemed absurdly young and alarmingly empty-headed. She talked about nothing but the parties she had attended in London and how this one and that one—mostly titled gentlemen—had complimented her and wished to dance with her when she had already promised all her dances to other gentlemen. She really thought dances should come in sets of two instead of three so that there could be more of them during an evening and more gentlemen could dance with the lady of their choice. What did Lord Rannulf think?

Lord Rannulf thought—or
said
he thought—that was a remarkably intelligent suggestion and should be brought to the attention of some of London’s more prominent hostesses, particularly those of Almack’s.

“How would
you
feel,” she asked him, gazing at him with wide blue eyes, her spoon suspended over her pudding, “if you wanted to dance with a lady, Lord Rannulf, and she was engaged for every set to other gentlemen even though she wanted
desperately
to dance with you?”

“Kidnap her,” he said and watched her eyes widen still further before she laughed with light, trilling merriment.

“Oh, you never would,” she said. “
Would
you? You would cause a shocking scandal. And then, you know, you would be forced to offer for her.”

“Not so,” he said. “I would have borne her off to Gretna Green, you see, and married her over the anvil.”

“How
romantic,
” she said with an excited little gasp. “Would you really do that, Lord Rannulf? For someone you admired?”

“Only if she had no dances left to offer me,” he said.

“Oh.” She laughed. “If she knew that ahead of time, she would make very sure that there were none. And then she would be whisked off . . . But you would not really do such an outrageous thing, would you?” There was a small cloud of doubt in her eyes.

Rannulf was weary of the silly game. “I always make sure,” he said, “that if there is a lady I particularly admire, I arrive at a ball early enough to engage her for at least one dance.”

Her mouth turned down at the corners. “Are there very many ladies you admire, Lord Rannulf?” she asked.

“At the moment,” he said, fixing his gaze on her, “I can see only one, Miss Effingham.”

“Oh.”

She must surely know that she looked her prettiest with her mouth pouted just so. She held the expression for a moment, then blushed and looked down at her dish. Rannulf took the opportunity to turn to Mrs. Hardinge, mother of Miss Beatrice Hardinge, at his other side and to address a remark to her. Soon after, Lady Effingham rose to signal the ladies that it was time to follow her to the drawing room while the gentlemen settled to their port.

The first person he saw when he entered the drawing room half an hour later was Judith Law, who was seated by the hearth close to her grandmother. She was wearing a pale gray silk dress which looked to be as shapeless as the striped cotton she had worn to Grandmaison earlier. She was also wearing a cap again. It was slightly prettier than this afternoon’s though it covered her hair just as completely. She was holding a cup and saucer for the old lady, he could see, while the latter held a plate and made short work of the cream cake on it.

He ignored the two ladies after nodding genially to Mrs. Law, who smiled and nodded back. It was intriguing to notice that for everyone else in the room Judith Law might as well have been invisible—as of course she had been to him just yesterday when he had first been introduced to her. All her vivid, voluptuous beauty was quite effectively masked.

Sir George Effingham offered him a place at a table of whist, but Lady Effingham took him firmly by the arm and bore him off in the direction of the pianoforte at which Lady Margaret Stebbins was favoring the company with a Bach fugue.

“It is your turn next, Julianne, dearest, is it not?” her mother said even before Lady Margaret had finished. “Here is Lord Rannulf come to turn the pages of your music.”

Rannulf resigned himself to an evening spent charming and flattering a gaggle of giggling young ladies and matching wits with a group of foolishly posturing young gentlemen. He felt a hundred years old.

Judith Law, he could not help noticing, was kept busy by her grandmother. She was constantly going back and forth between her seat and the tea tray. Twice she was sent from the room. The first time she came back with the old lady’s spectacles, which were set down and never used. The second time she returned with a cashmere shawl, which was then folded and set over the arm of the old lady’s chair and forgotten. Nevertheless, he noticed that the two of them were talking to each other and smiling and apparently enjoying each other’s company.

He smiled and complimented Miss Effingham, who had finished her second piece on the pianoforte and was clearly angling for a request for an encore. Meanwhile the Honorable Miss Lilian Warren and her sister awaited their turn at the instrument.

And then there was a commotion from the direction of the tea tray. Judith Law had apparently been pouring a cup of tea when someone—it was Horace Effingham, Rannulf could see—must have jogged her elbow. The tea had spilled all down her front, darkening the gray of her dress, making it half transparent, and molding it to her bosom. She had cried out, and Effingham had produced a handkerchief and was attempting to mop her down with it. She was pushing his hand away with one of hers while with the other she was attempting to pluck the wet fabric away from her bosom.

“Judith!” Lady Effingham cried in awful tones. “You awkward, clumsy girl! Remove yourself immediately.”

“No, no, it was all my fault, Stepmama,” Effingham called. “Allow me to wipe you dry, Cousin.”

There was laughter in his eyes, Rannulf saw—lascivious laughter.

“Oh dear,” Miss Effingham murmured, “Judith is making
such
a cake of herself.”

Rannulf found himself clenching his teeth and striding across the room to grab the shawl from under Mrs. Law’s elbow. He hurried toward the tea tray and tossed the garment about Judith Law’s shoulders from behind without actually touching her. She looked around, startled and grateful, even as her hands grasped the ends and drew it protectively about her.

“Oh,” she said. “Thank you.”

Rannulf bowed curtly. “Are you burned, ma’am?” he asked. Had no one considered the fact that it was
hot tea
she had spilled down herself?

“Only a little scalded,” she said. “No, really, nothing.” She turned to hurry from the room, but he could see that she was biting her lower lip hard.

Rannulf found himself eye to eye with Horace Effingham, whose leering expression came very close to a wink.

“How gallant,” he said, “to find a shawl to hide the lady’s, er,
embarrassment
.”

It had been deliberate, Rannulf realized suddenly, narrowing his gaze on the other man. By God, it had been deliberate.

“She might have been badly burned,” he said curtly. “It would be advisable to be more careful around tea trays in future.”

And then Effingham
did
wink as he murmured very low. “
I
am burned, even if she is not,” he said. “As are you too, Bedwyn, I’ll wager. Quick witted of you to find an excuse to hurry closer.”

But Lady Effingham had raised her voice again, though now she was laughing and pleasant. “Carry on as before, everyone,” she said. “I do apologize for that unfortunate and undignified interruption. My niece is unaccustomed to mingling in polite society and has become all thumbs, I am afraid.”

“Oh, I say, Aunt,” young Law said, “Jude has never been clumsy. It was just an accident.”

“Lord Rannulf.” Mrs. Law tweaked his sleeve, and he could see when he turned toward her that the incident had upset her. “Thank you so very much for being the only one with the presence of mind to help Judith and to save her some embarrassment. I must hurry upstairs to see how badly hurt she is.”

She set two plump hands on the arms of her chair to support herself.

“Allow me, ma’am,” he said, offering his hand.

“You are most kind.” She leaned heavily on him as she hoisted herself to her feet. “I believe it must be the summer heat that has caused my ankles to swell and that is making me so breathless all the time.”

He thought it was more likely to be all the cream cakes she seemed to consume and her generally indolent lifestyle.

“Allow me to escort you, ma’am,” he said.

“Well, I will if it is not too much trouble,” she said. “I did not even really want that cup of tea, you know, but I wanted Judith to move from my side and mingle with the guests. She is very shy and even insisted upon taking her dinner with me tonight since I was too weary to come down to the dining room. I thought perhaps someone would engage her in conversation and all would be well. I
am
vexed with Louisa for forgetting to introduce her to the guests after dinner. I daresay she has too much else on her mind.”

Rannulf did not intend to take her farther than the top of the stairs. But she leaned so heavily on him that he took her all the way to her room. At least, he assumed it was her room until she raised one heavily ringed hand and knocked.

The door opened almost immediately, and Rannulf was trapped by the burden on his arm. Judith had removed both her dress and her cap. Her hair, still pinned up, had nevertheless pulled loose in several places so that long locks of bright red hair hung over her shoulders and temples. She was wearing a loose dressing gown, which she was holding closed with one hand. Even so, a large V of bare flesh was visible from her shoulders to the top of her cleavage. For a few inches above the latter her skin was a fiery red.

“Oh.” Soon her cheeks matched the scald mark. “I—I thought it was someone bringing the salve I asked to be sent up.” She focused her gaze on Mrs. Law, but Rannulf knew she was very aware of him. Her hand clutched the robe closer.

“You
are
burned, Judith, my love,” Mrs. Law cried, relinquishing her hold on Rannulf’s arm and hurrying forward far faster than he had ever seen her move before. “Oh, my poor child.”

“It is nothing, Grandmama,” Judith said, biting her lip. But Rannulf saw tears spring to her eyes and knew she was in pain.

“Allow me,” he said, “to find the housekeeper and make sure the salve is sent up without further delay. In the meantime, Miss Law, a cold wet cloth held against the burn may take away some of the sting.”

“Thank you,” she said, her eyes meeting his. For a moment their glances locked, and then she turned away and the old lady set an arm about her shoulders.

Rannulf hurried away, entertaining himself with pleasing visions of bathing Horace Effingham in something a great deal hotter than tea.

CHAPTER IX

J
udith remained in her own room for two days, nursing a painfully sore chest. Her grandmother, who forgot her own maladies now that there were someone else’s to occupy her mind, visited her often, bringing her books and bonbons and news from the rest of the house and admonitions to lie down and sleep if she could. And Tillie, on Grandmama’s orders, brought food trays to Judith’s room and came every few hours to apply more of the soothing salve.

Horace Effingham sent up a bouquet of flowers with Tillie and a note explaining that he had picked the blooms with his own hands and wishing her a speedy recovery.

Branwell came in person to see her.

“Are you enjoying the house party?” she asked him when he had inquired after her health.

“Oh, I am having the greatest good time,” he said. “We went riding to Clynebourne Abbey this morning. There are just a few old ruins there, but it is very picturesque. We rode over to Grandmaison first to invite Bedwyn to join us. I think Julianne fancies him, but she is looking to have her heart broken, if you were to ask me. The Bedwyns are all enormously high in the instep. Bewcastle—the Duke of Bewcastle, that is, head of the family—is known as a thoroughly cold fish and would be very unlikely to approve of an alliance with the daughter of a mere baronet.”

“I am glad you enjoyed the ride.” Judith smiled. What would Branwell have to say, she wondered, if he knew that Lord Rannulf Bedwyn had offered to marry
her
just yesterday?

“I say, Jude.” He got up abruptly from the chair on which he had been seated and paced across to the window of her bedchamber to stand looking out, his back to her. “You would not be able to lend me a few pounds by any chance, would you? Maybe thirty?”

“No, I most certainly would not,” she said. “I doubt I could scrape together a shilling even if I were to turn my purse inside out and upside down and squeeze it. Why do you need thirty pounds?” It seemed like a vast sum to her.

He shrugged and turned to face her with a sheepish grin. “It is not important,” he said. “It is a trifling sum, and Effingham did tell me not to worry about it. But I hate to be in his debt. I hated to have him pay all the expenses of my journey, but Papa has turned remarkably tight-fisted lately. Is he sickening for something?”

“The journey here cost
thirty pounds
?” Judith asked, considerably shocked.

“You do not understand what it means to be a gentleman moving in the company of other gentlemen, Jude,” he said. “One has to keep up with them. One cannot look like a country bumpkin with ill-fitting coats and breeches and boots that look as if they were made by an apprentice to a country cobbler. And one needs fashionable digs and a decent horse to get about on. And unless one struts one’s stuff all alone, one must do what other gentlemen do and go where they go—the clubs, the races, Tattersall’s.”

“Bran,” she asked, not really sure she wanted to hear the answer, “do you owe other people money too?”

He waved a dismissive hand and grinned at her, though there was something sickly in the expression.

“Everyone owes money,” he said. “A gentleman would be thought queer in his attic if he did not owe half a fortune to his tailor and his bootmaker and his haberdasher.”

“And do you have gambling debts, too?” she asked before she could stop herself. She really did
not
want to know.

“Trifling ones.” Again he flashed her his sickly grin. “Nothing like some fellows, who owe thousands. Some men lose whole estates, Jude, on one turn of a card. I never wager what I cannot afford to lose.”

She was too cowardly to ask him the extent of his gaming debts.

“Bran,” she asked, “when are you going to decide upon some career?”

“Actually,” he said, laughing and looking his sunny-natured self again, “I have been thinking of marrying a rich girl. It’s a pity Julianne has her eye on Bedwyn—though she does not have a hope in a million of snaring him, I daresay. But the Warren sisters have a papa who is as rich as Croesus, or so I have heard, and they are both passably pretty girls. I do not suppose their papa would give me the time of day, though, would he?”

He spoke as if the whole idea were just a lighthearted joke, but Judith was not sure it was. He was obviously deep in debt—again. She did not know if their father could extricate him this time without completely ruining himself. And then what would happen to Mama and their sisters?

“Oh, come now, Jude,” Branwell said, getting to his feet and possessing himself of both her hands, “don’t look so grim. I’ll come about. You must not worry about me. Did you burn yourself
very
badly?”

“I will be better in a day or two,” she told him.

“Good.” He squeezed her hands. “If you
do
happen to come by a few pounds within the next week or two, perhaps when Papa sends you your allowance, could you see your way to lending me some of it? I am good for it, as you must know, and there cannot be much for you to spend money on here, can there?”

“I am not expecting any money,” she told him.

“I say.” He frowned. “You did come just for a visit, did you not, Jude? Papa did not send you here to live and depend upon Uncle George’s bounty, did he? That would be the outside of enough. What is
happening
to Papa lately?”

You have been happening to him, Bran,
she thought—
and to all of us.
But though she was suddenly angry and would surely have ripped into him and told him a few home truths of which he seemed remarkably ignorant, she was prevented from doing so by the arrival of Tillie with more salve and a dose of laudanum.

“You are going to have to excuse me now, Bran,” Judith said. “I must rest for a while.”

“Of course.” He raised one of her hands to his lips and smiled one of his sweetest smiles. “Look after yourself, Jude. You cannot know how pleasant it is to have one of my sisters here. I miss you all, you know.”

If only he had someone to take him in hand, she thought, he might yet turn out well. However, she was not at leisure to brood on the matter. She was in pain. Whoever would have thought that a mere cup of tea could be so lethal?

O
n the third day Judith ventured downstairs after luncheon. She hoped to avoid intruding upon the houseguests and find her grandmother. But as fortune would have it, the first person she saw as she descended the stairs was Horace Effingham, and he came hurrying to meet her, all smiles.

“Judith!” he exclaimed. “You are recovered at last. I apologize most profusely for my clumsiness the other evening. Do come to the drawing room. We are trying to decide what to do this afternoon now that last night’s drizzle and the morning clouds have cleared off. Come and have your say.”

He was offering her his arm.

“I would really rather not,” she said. “I do not know anyone in there. Do you know where Grandmama is, Horace?”

“You do not
know
anyone?” he said. “You astonish me. Has no one thought to introduce you to all the guests?”

“It really does not matter.” She shook her head.

“Ah, but it does,” he said. “I cannot have you running away again after waiting patiently for three days for you to reappear. Come.”

She took his arm reluctantly and found herself immediately drawn indecorously close against his side as he led her toward the drawing room. But it was, she conceded over the next few minutes, just as well that someone had thought to introduce her to all the guests. She was not quite a servant, after all, and it would be awkward over the next week and a half to be constantly running into people to whom she had not been formally presented. She
looked
almost like a servant, of course. Branwell grinned at her and asked her how she did, Mrs. Hardinge commiserated with her on her unfortunate accident, and Julianne told her she was glad to see her up again so that she could save the rest of them from Grandmama’s tedious conversation and constant demands. Most of the guests, however, though polite in their acknowledgment of the introductions, made no attempt to engage her in conversation.

Judith would have made her escape as soon as all the introductions had been made, but she was forestalled, at least for a few moments, by the arrival of Lady Beamish and Lord Rannulf Bedwyn.

“Ah, two more introductions to make, Cousin,” Horace said, leading her toward them.

“I have already had that pleasure,” she told him, but she was too late to prevent a face-to-face encounter.

“Miss Law,” Lord Rannulf said, bowing to her, “I hope I see you well again?”

She curtsied and tried not to remember the last time she had seen him—outside the door of her bedchamber with Grandmama, giving her advice on how to treat her burn and looking at her with genuine concern in his eyes before striding off to hasten the arrival of a servant with the salve she had asked for. After what had happened earlier in the day, she had wanted only to despise him and forget him.

“Rannulf told me about the unfortunate accident,” Lady Beamish said. “I trust you have taken no permanent harm from it, Miss Law?”

“No, indeed, thank you, ma’am,” Judith assured her. “I am quite well again.”

Julianne was clapping her hands for everyone’s attention. She was glowing and pretty in a dress of daffodil yellow muslin, her blond curls bouncing about her heart-shaped face as she moved.

“It has been decided,” she announced, “that we are to stroll in the wilderness walk for an hour and then have a picnic tea on the lawn. Now that Lord Rannulf Bedwyn has arrived, we need delay no longer.” She smiled radiantly at him, and Judith, glancing at him despite herself, saw him bow his acquiescence as he looked her cousin over with appreciative eyes.

It hurt. Stupidly, stupidly, it hurt.

“We must fetch our hats and bonnets and be on our way,” Julianne said.

Her plans appeared to meet with general approval. There was bright chatter as most of the room’s occupants hurried away to get ready for the outing.

“I must go and find Grandmama,” Judith murmured, sliding her hand free of Horace’s arm at last.

But her grandmother had appeared at the drawing room door with Aunt Effingham, and Grandmama had heard her.

“You must not bother yourself with me, my love,” she said, beaming fondly at Judith. “I will have Sarah for company. Now that you are up again, you must run along and enjoy yourself with the other young people.”

“The fresh air will do you good after a few days of confinement indoors, Miss Law,” Lady Beamish said kindly.

Aunt Effingham had other ideas, of course. “I can certainly make use of your help, Judith,” she said briskly. “It has been most unfortunate that your own carelessness resulted in such a lengthy spell of idleness.”

“But Stepmama,” Horace protested, smiling ingratiatingly at Aunt Effingham, “
I
have dire need of Judith’s help too—help in saving me from the fate of being a wallflower. Perhaps you had not noticed that the gentlemen outnumber the ladies at this house party.”

“It is because you did not inform me that you were definitely coming, Horace,” she said, looking somewhat chagrined. “Or that you were going to bring Branwell with you.”

“Judith.” Horace bowed to her. “Run along and fetch your bonnet.”

Life at Harewood was proving to be even more trying than she had expected. Although Mama had always kept her girls busy at home and Papa had strict expectations of their behavior, nevertheless she had never felt totally powerless there. Or without any freedom whatsoever. At least her preferences and opinions had often been solicited there. Here they were not. Everyone might have been surprised to learn that she would have far preferred to be put to work by her aunt than allowed the dubious pleasure of strolling along the wilderness walk feeling like an intruder and paired with Horace—and in full view most of the time of Julianne and Lord Rannulf Bedwyn, who walked arm in arm while she chattered brightly and he bent his head closer to hear her. A few times they laughed together and Judith was unwillingly reminded of the times when he had laughed with
her,
most notably outside the village shop when he had unwrapped his snuff box.

The wilderness walk wound its way through the trees to the west of the house and had been planned with some care for maximum beauty. Wildflowers grew within sight of the path, and there were occasional seats and small grottoes, most of them placed at the top of rises in the path and affording pleasing prospects of the house and the rest of the park. It was a path designed to shelter the walker from the heat of the summer sun and the chill of an autumn wind.

Judith was unable to appreciate its loveliness, though she thought that perhaps it would become another quiet retreat for her down the years, whenever she had an hour to spare.

She was not enjoying
this
hour. Horace was ignoring everyone else and concentrating all his attention on her. But far from being flattering, his attentions were distressing. He tried to take her arm through his, but she clasped both arms firmly behind her back. He tried to slow their steps so that they would fall behind the rest of the group, but she determinedly increased the pace every time a noticeable gap developed. His eyes were on her rather than the scenery most of the time, mostly on her bosom, which even her loose dress could not entirely hide. He commented upon how the wet tea had molded her dress to her and revealed a figure that should be dressed far more becomingly than it was.