Springtime Pleasures (2 page)

Griff grimaced at his image in the mirror.

Not that anything he did ever pleased the old earl.

“My lord.” Bing held out the last item on the list of making Griff into a respectable gentleman.

Griff eyed the thing with distaste, but with a sigh he picked it up. His father would expect him to wear his grandfather’s pocket watch. Never mind that his grandfather had been a cruel bastard who had ordered young Griff’s pup to be drowned after it had peed on the Persian carpet in the drawing room.

“I hope he’s roasting in hell!” Griff muttered as he slipped the watch into his waistcoat pocket.

“As you say, my lord,” Bing said. “I’ve taken the liberty of sending for a hackney. We wouldn’t want you to ruin the shine of your shoes.”

“Certainly not,” Griff agreed. “At least not until the pater has had his pound of flesh.”

And so he was on his way to the town house of the Earl of Lymfort in the heart of Mayfair in Grosvenor Square.

The family was sitting at breakfast when he arrived—unfashionably early for Town tastes, but certainly not too early for the Earl and Countess of Lymfort, who never went to late-night balls or parties.

“Viscount Chanderley,” the footman announced Griffin.

His mother looked up, her face pinched against the stark black of her high-collared dress. Griff saw her mouth tighten.

“Well, well.” The earl drew out his pocket watch and checked the time. “Surprisingly punctual you are today.” He raised bushy dark brows.

Griff felt his stomach tighten. Keeping his face carefully blank, he sketched the earl a small bow. “My lord.” Then his gaze travelled to the right, where his sister sat. As always when he saw her, his throat constricted with remembered guilt and shame. “Isabella…”

A smile flickered across her face, yet before she could even utter a word, the earl’s head had whipped around, his eyes dark with displeasure. “Accompany my daughter to the blue salon, Miss Smith.”

The mousy woman who acted as Isabella’s companion jumped out and pulled the wheelchair from the table.

“Will you not let me finish breakfast, father?” Izzie asked, her voice even, though she clasped her hands tightly together in her lap.

Irritation coloured the earl’s tone. “Miss Smith can ring for tea.”

Izzie bit her lip. “Very well,” she said, her head held high, her knuckles white with tension.

Griff’s stomach churned. With her dark dress and her pale face, his sister looked like a mere shadow of her former self. What a funny, spirited little thing she had been! How he wished… how he wished…

As she was wheeled past him, Izzie reached out and touched his hand in an old, familiar gesture. But before his fingers could close around hers, Miss Smith had hurried on and whisked her out of the room, away from his unwelcome influence.

The door closed behind them with a final-sounding click.

“So,” the earl said, and eyed Griffin from top to toe. So far he had not offered his son to take a seat, and it became increasingly clear that neither would he do so now.

“I have summoned you here today, Chanderley, to discuss your future.” The earl paused as if waiting for a comment.

Taking the cue, Griff echoed with forced politeness, “My future?”

“Indeed. It is well past time that you do your duty to your family and produce an heir. So this Season you will find a suitable wife. A respectable girl from a good family and with an unblemished reputation.”

Griff felt the trap close around him.

“After the wedding,” his father went on, “you will naturally remove yourself from London and settle down in the country. I will be generous and leave one of the estates at your disposal. Shall we say Rinton Park?”

Which was nicely situated among the Yorkshire moors. Griff gritted his teeth.

“As you bore your family so much pain in the past—”

At that the countess took out a lacy handkerchief to dab at her eyes.

Griff felt the blood leave his face.

“—I expect that you will not disappoint us in the future,” the earl ended his speech.

He had wielded his words with deadly precision. Had he used a rapier, Griff’s chest would now gape wide open. No, they would never let forget him what he had cost them and that he was merely an unsavoury second best.

“I trust that we understand each other,” the Earl of Lymfort said.

“Yes, my lord,” his son answered. “Perfectly. This Season I will find myself a respectable wife.”

~*~

Two days later, a few miles south of the Tweed

The stagecoach rumbled along the turnpike road. Outside, the brownish-green landscape flew by, while inside Carlotta and Emma-Louise sat squeezed between a shopkeeper from Berwick, a woman with a basket filled with cabbage heads, and a gentleman who was involved in demolishing a rather strong-smelling sausage. Unperturbed by the stench of the sausage, Emma-Lee was knitting. Click-clack, her needles flew as she created block after block of the blanket for her new baby niece. Charlie almost envied her best friend—at least Emma-Lee had something to keep her hands busy! She, by contrast… Knitting had never been her forte, and she had no wish to attempt some embroidery in the coach. She would probably end up with the needle stuck in her eye. Or, at the very least, with her fingers all pricked and sore.

Stifling a sigh, she lifted her carpet bag to her lap and rummaged around in it. “Good Dr Johnson,” she murmured as her gaze fell on Miss Pinkerton’s goodbye present.

“Oh yes, good Dr Johnson, who even included some lines from our school song in his immortal poem.” Emma-Lee peered into Charlie’s bag. “Do you think we will ever actually
use
his dictionary, Charlie?” Click-clack, her needles went.

“We-hell…” Charlie tried to imagine some useful employment for Dr Johnson’s dictionary. “If your husband has very large feet, you can use it as a darning egg for his socks.”

The corners of Emma-Lee’s mouth quirked. “I hadn’t planned to wed a giant, you know. All Dr Johnson’s mighty tome has done, so far, is squish my knitting flat.”

“And mighty fine knitting it is,” the lady with the cabbage heads cut in.

“Why, thank you.” Emma-Lee flashed her dimples.

Indeed, Emma-Lee had rather fine dimples. If she weren’t her bosom friend, Charlie would probably hate her for her dimples alone. For in contrast to sweet Emma-Lee, Charlie was tall, scrawny and almost as flat as a board.

She adjusted her spectacles.

Not to forget as blind as a bat.

“Such fine stitches,” the woman with the cabbages cooed, leaning forward to admire Emma-Lee’s needlework. “Not many a gal who can work such fine stitches nowadays.”

Charlie’s friend smiled and flashed her dimples some more. “Most of the girls at Miss Pinkerton’s academy can.”

“That’s where we are coming from,” Charlie explained. “A finishing school.”

“A finishin’ school?” the shopkeeper from Berwick cut in. “This far up north? And you’ve been in the coach before me, haven’t you?”

“Yes, we took the coach from Edinburgh—”

“Edinburgh!” The other three passengers gaped at the girls.

“Why, but that’s in Scotland!” the shopkeeper exclaimed.

The woman with the cabbage sadly shook her head. “Poor duckies, poor, poor duckies.”

“Indecent, that is.” The man with the sausage snarled between bites. “Sending two young gals to the wild heathens!”

Charlie and Emma-Lee exchanged a look. “But they’re not heathens,” Emma-Lee said tentatively. “Just—”

The coach slowed down.

“—people.”

“Damn Scots!” the man with the sausage spat.

There was some yelling outside, then a shot.

The coach rumbled to a halt.

Charlie opened her mouth. “Wha—”

The door was flung open and a swarthy male specimen with greasy hair and what looked like a cravat obscuring his lower face held a gun into the coach. “Out!” he snarled.

The shopkeeper from Berwick paled, the woman with the cabbages squealed, and the man with the sausage swallowed the wrong way and started to cough.

“Oh dear,” said Emma-Lee, and frowned at her knitting. “And I had just reached such a critical point.”

The highwayman waved his gun about. “Out!” he snarled again. “And be quick about it—or else…”

The other three passengers scrambled out of the coach, leaving Emma-Lee and Charlie behind. With a sigh, Emma-Lee put her knitting things into her bag. “…dropped stitches and all…” Charlie heard her mutter under her breath.

“Well, well, well. What have we got here?” Mr Highwayman looked the girls up and down and an appreciative gleam entered his eyes. “Two sweet chicks.” The carriage swayed a little as he stepped inside. “Sweet little chickies.”

Emma-Lee stood. “Oh dear,” she said again, clutching the handles of her bag. “You are not going to hurt us, are you, sir?”

He gave a raucous laugh and sat down next to Emma-Lee, trapping her against one side of the carriage. “Such a polite chickie you are. Don’t you worry, my sweet.” His arm sneaked around Emma-Lee so he could pinch her in an impolite place. “I’ll just prick you a little, and if you’re nice to Long John, he’ll have you squealing in no time at all.” He cackled.

Charlie wondered whether that was an allusion to Delicate Things Not Suitable For The Ears Of Young Ladies, decided that it was, and promptly dropped her bag, letting the contents spill over the floor of the carriage. “Oh dear,” she said. “I’m so clumsy.”

Momentarily distracted, Mr Highwayman frowned at her. “Get your things together, chit,” he growled. “And don’t forget any of your valuables.”

Charlie dropped to her knees onto the floor and searched among her things. Apple… Dr Johnson… handkerchief…

“Oh sir!” she heard Emma-Lee exclaim breathlessly. “What a… what a strong male voice you have!”

Charlie rolled her eyes.

…bag full of sticky sweets…

“Oh, if you growl like that it makes me all aflutter inside!” Emma-Lee sighed.

“John!” somebody shouted from outside.

…box with tooth powder…

“I’m busy!” Long John shouted over his shoulder, then turned his attention on Emma-Lee again. “I’ll have to take care of my sweet chickie, don’t I?”

“Oh!” breathed Emma-Lee.

…embroidery hoop with half-finished pillowcase…

“All aflutter I make you inside, do I? If you’ll just lift your pretty skirt, my sweet, I’ll make you more than just aflutter.” From the corner of her eye, Charlie could see his gloved hand sneak towards the hem of Emma-Lee’s dress. Oh dear, oh dear, oh…

…huswife!

Charlie dived under the bench of the carriage to retrieve her needle case.

“Oh sir!” Emma-Lee gave Charlie’s leg a kick. “How… how…”

Fumbling with the ties, Charlie finally managed to unroll the dratted huswife and took out her embroidery scissors. They were beautiful scissors, formed like a stork. Beautiful, and very, very sharp. “Got it!”

“Oh sir!” Emma-Lee simpered with renewed effort, trying to wriggle away from the man, who had managed to pull her skirt up to her knee. “But will you be gentle?” The bones of her hand played under her skin as she tightened her grip on her bag.

Mr Highwayman cackled.

Charlie eyed his boots.

“Just a little prick…”

She raised her scissors.

“…a little prick is all it—”

And thrust them into his boot.

He yelled as the sharp scissors pierced his foot. Yet the next moment his screams were abruptly cut off when Emma-Lee swung her bag up and against his head.

The highwayman dropped over the seats of the carriage.

His weapon dropped into Charlie’s lap. “Blimey,” she said. “That’s a blunderbuss.”

~*~

Ten minutes later the travelling company was assembled in the carriage again and the stagecoach bumbled over the turnpike road, leaving two bleeding, groaning highwaymen behind. The three travellers inside stared at the girls in petrified awe.

“Well then,” Charlie said brightly. “Now at least we know what Miss Pinkerton meant when she talked about The Importance Of Carrying Your Needlework With You At All Times.”

“Indeed.” Emma-Lee shuddered. “What a detestable man that was! And to think that you accused the Scots of being heathens!” She threw an accusatory look at their fellow travellers. “Why, we have never encountered any such ruffians in Scotland! Gah! The things he said…” She shuddered again.

Charlie patted her hand. “At least you socked him quite hard against his head. No doubt in the future he will think twice before addressing a young lady in such an indolent manner again.”

“Yes, that is a relief indeed. Though perhaps I should have squashed his manly parts as well.” Emma-Lee opened her bag and took out her knitting, which she eyed mournfully. “Just as I expected: dropped stitches.
Legions
of dropped stitches.”

Leaning towards her friend, Charlie inspected the offending piece of needlework. “Not quite legions, surely.”

Emma-Lee sighed. “Almost legions in any case.” Shaking her head, she looked into her bag once more and pulled out her paper-wrapped copy of Dr Johnson’s dictionary. Thoughtfully, she weighed it in her hand. “I suppose that the highwaymen were sent as a punishment for me not appreciating Miss Pinkerton’s gift.”

Charlie snorted. “God does not send robbers, he sends locusts and fire and water and such things.”

“Then I suppose it was a test of fortitude.”

“If it was—” A smile curved Charlie’s mouth. “—then I daresay we’ve passed it with flying colours.” She patted the bulge of the highwayman’s gun in her bag, and her smile broadened.

Chapter 2

in which an offer of marriage is made

& our heroine is baffled

London, a week or two later

The pretty little landau ambled along the pathways of Hyde Park at a leisurely pace. The two sides of the roof had been folded down so its two passengers could enjoy the few rays of spring sunshine. The driver on the box seat cut such a dashing figure and handled the horses with such expertise that nobody would have guessed he was only the under-groom.

“It was good of you to come driving with me,” Izzie said.

“Not at all.” Griffin’s voice was smooth and gave no indication how much the apprehension in her eyes bothered him. “You know you only have to ask.”