The Battling Bluestocking (2 page)

“It is, indeed,” the highwayman informed him on a rueful note, then added more nastily as the guard began reluctantly to approach him, “I say, my lord, I’ll go along with your man willingly enough, but I beg you’ll allow me to retain the use of my hands. It’d cause me a devilish amount of unnecessary pain to have them tied behind me, I assure you. And,” he added, again with that odd mixture of amusement and wariness in his eyes, “no doubt you’ll think it odd, but you may believe me when I say it will be easier for your man there to see to the business if he allows me to retain my mask as well.”

“Poppycock,” snapped Lord Gordon. “Why, I never heard of such a preposterous thing. Retain that damn-fool mask? Rubbish. Rubbish, I say. Have it off him at once, Peters. And tie his hands as well, else he’s like to overpower you along the road.”

The hapless Peters glanced uncertainly at his master, then back at the tall youth on the big bay horse. The guard didn’t say a word, but it was clear enough to Jessica that the poor man was wondering just how his master expected him to snatch a mask from a face several feet above his reach if the wearer of the mask refused to cooperate. Her ready sense of humor was tickled, and she glanced at her sister, half-expecting to encounter a similar reaction. Instead, Lady Gordon’s eyes were narrowed, though her fear seemed to have dissipated. As if sensing Jessica’s steady gaze, she turned. There was curiosity in the gray-green eyes beneath the thick dark lashes so much like Jessica’s own, but Lady Gordon said nothing.

Lord Gordon harrumphed again and parted his full pink lips as if to speak, but Jessica forestalled him before he could bark at the poor bewildered guard again.

“Really, Cyril, what do you expect Peters to do? He can hardly drag the man from his horse. Or perhaps you will order me to shoot him again if he refuses to take off that mask.”

“I’d as lief you did no such thing, ma’am.” The highwayman’s accent had improved steadily, and he spoke now as he had a moment before in what Jessica suspected to be his normal voice. It revealed the youthfulness she had begun to suspect earlier, but also a breeding above what one might expect in a normal highwayman. Her curiosity increased accordingly.

Lord Gordon, having demanded to know where his guard’s shotgun had got to and having been told that since there had never been a lick of trouble before when they visited St. Ives, he had not thought it worth the trouble to bring it, was sputtering about the evils of the servant population and the rights of persons traveling the king’s highroads. When he went on to declaim about the absurdity of a highwayman’s having the audacity to make demands of his captors, Jessica, regarding the highwayman in a measuring way, interrupted the spate calmly.

“Will you give me your solemn word that you will not attempt to escape us if we leave your hands free?” she asked.

“Word of a…that is, of course I do,” he responded, checking himself.

Jessica was certain he had been about to reveal himself. His prompt reply put her forcibly in mind of her father whenever he said “word of a gentleman” or, more precisely, “word of a Sutton-Drew.” It was not the sort of response one expected from a man of common breeding. Indeed, it was a gentleman’s response.

She turned complacently to her brother-in-law. “There, Cyril, you see how easily the matter is arranged. He has agreed to accompany us without further ado.”

“Us!” Lord Gordon was astounded. “Upon my word, Jessica, what are you talking about? Peters will see this villain into the magistrate’s hands whilst I escort you and my lady safely back to Gordon Hall. Presently, after I have completely refreshed myself, I shall go along to Shaldon Park to see that proper charges are lodged against this…this person.”

“Nonsense, Cyril. Peters has no horse, so unless you mean for him to ride pillion behind the highwayman, he will have to walk, for the highwayman is wounded and cannot do so. Besides,” she added, noting the now undisguised amusement lighting the highwayman’s eyes, “I captured him with no help whatsoever from you and yours, and I mean to see him safely disposed. I’ve not the slightest intention of leaving such an important matter as this is your man Peters’ hands. So, do order your coachman to drive on, if you please,” she added as Cyril stared at her, his mouth unbecomingly agape. “And you,” she said firmly to the horseman, “since you seem to know the way, perhaps you will ride just ahead of the coach. I am counting upon you to do nothing rash, but I fear I shall have to trust your good word in the matter, for I do not choose to give my pistol into Peters’ keeping. His judgment, I believe, is not very acute.”

“No need, miss,” the guard volunteered. “I’ve got his pistol.” He held it out to show her, having picked it up from where it lay upon the ground.

“Yes, well, that’s very good, Peters,” she replied kindly. “I’m sure you will be careful not to let it discharge again.”

“No, miss…that is…” He regarded the pistol ruefully. “I doubt it had but the one shot.”

“Too true,” agreed the highwayman, abandoning further pretense with a sigh. “I was a gudgeon not to bring a second pistol, but I never thought I should need to shoot it at all, you see. Do you suppose we could go now, ma’am? I promise I shall do nothing to alarm anyone, but I’d as lief arrive at Shaldon Park with at least a shred of my dignity intact, and I’m already as weak as a cat.”

Jessica agreed, and a moment later Lord Gordon signaled his coachman to drive on, but as the coach lurched forward, he turned his pent-up fury on his sister-in-law.

“Upon my word, Jessica, I never heard of such a thing. What your esteemed father would say to all this, I’m sure I have no idea. A young woman concealing a loaded pistol about her person! Whatever is the world coming to, I wonder.”

Lady Gordon chuckled, her equanimity completely restored. “Since dearest Papa himself gave Jessica that pistol because of all her traveling about from one relative to another, I doubt he would say much more than that she has been stirring the stewpot again,” she said, grinning at her sister. “I’d forgotten it is your habit to carry it in your muff, however.”

“Well,” said Lord Gordon indignantly, rounding upon her before Jessica could reply, “your papa may use such a vulgar expression, though I’ve certainly never heard him do so, but it ill becomes you to let such words fall from your lips, Georgeanne.” His brows were heavily furrowed. “I don’t know how it is that you so often forget yourself when your sister makes her annual visit to us, but I cannot help but think her influence upon you is a deleterious one. Unless you take care to resist that influence, I shall find myself forced in future to consider refusing to allow you the pleasure of her company.”

“Oh, no, Cyril!” her ladyship exclaimed, turning beseeching eyes up toward his stern ones. “I’m sure I beg your pardon if I said anything to offend you. I shall take good care not to do so again.”

Lord Gordon patted her hand comfortingly but stiffened when Jessica’s musical laughter rippled through the coach.

“Don’t be a peagoose, Georgie,” she said. “Cyril is merely ruffling his feathers because he is put out with me at the moment. And it is patently unfair of you, sir,” she added, shaking her head at him, “to threaten poor Georgie like that when what you really wish to do is to come to cuffs with me. Not that you ever win such confrontations, of course. Nonetheless, you know perfectly well that, despite our differences, you look forward to my annual visits simply because your servants are never so efficient or your household so well run as when I am present to see to those things for you. Confess now that you were put out this year when I delayed my arrival in order to devote the time necessary to reorganize Madeleine’s household to accommodate the new heir.”

It was Jessica’s habit each year to leave her fond parents to care for each other at the family home in Gloucestershire, in order to engage in a tour of certain other relatives’ homes. She was happiest when she felt needed, and her talents for organization and basic housekeeping were generally much admired by those who exploited them. Lord Gordon, however, had a preference for more submissive females, and much as he might enjoy the fruits of her efficiency, he could not approve of Jessica’s forthright manner of speech.

“Nonsense,” he retorted now as color suffused his jowly cheeks. “I am persuaded that your younger sister appreciated your assistance after suffering through the dreadful ordeal of childbirth, but it is surely coming it a bit strong to suggest that you reorganized the Earl of Porth’s entire household. You overrate your abilities. Furthermore, you’ve not the slightest sense of delicacy, and if you encourage Madeleine to flout Porth’s authority the way you continually encourage Georgeanne to flout mine, I am certain the man was glad to see the back of you.” After that promising start, and pointedly ignoring a weak murmur of protest from his wife, he plunged with renewed vigor into a full-scale diatribe, describing in detail his sister-in-law’s shortcomings and how he’d have dealt with them if he’d been so unfortunate as to have had the raising of her.

Jessica heard him out meekly, merely donning her pink gloves before inserting her hands once again into the huge chinchilla muff, and regarding Lord Gordon with wide, solemn eyes. When he had finished, she gave that characteristic little shake of her head and favored him with an admiring look.

“It is the most amazing thing, Cyril,” she said earnestly, “but you never seem to lose yourself in verbiage, no matter how furious you get. When I lose my temper, I always seem to get my tongue tangled just when I want to make my most telling point. Papa does, too. You deliver a far better scold than he does, doesn’t he, Georgie?” She turned to her sister for confirmation of that interesting fact, but poor Lady Gordon, appalled to find herself included in such a discussion, merely shrank back into her corner. Jessica smiled encouragingly, but her gray eyes glittered with suppressed anger.

“It is quite all right, my dear,” she said. “I understand perfectly why you go in such awe of him. So much sound and fury. You never did react well to blustering. No doubt it is only when you see his little rages directed at me that you can recognize them for the simple expulsions of overheated air that they really are.” An indignant gasp from her brother-in-law drew her attention, and she bit her lower lip ruefully. “I should not have said that, Cyril. It was not at all becoming of me. One day this wretched temper of mine will be my undoing, but you really have no right to scold me in such a fashion. I am of age, you know, and you have no authority over me. However, we shall not quarrel anymore today, so you may be calm. I am persuaded that it cannot be at all good for your health…all that blood rushing to your face like that. Oh, look,” she added as the coach passed between a pair of tall stone-mounted wrought-iron gates, flanked by enormous yew hedges, and past a staring, ruddy-cheeked lodge keeper, “I do believe we must have arrived at Shaldon Park.”

Though he was quite puffed up with offended indignation, Lord Gordon was momentarily diverted by Jessica’s words and cast a glance out the window. The respite was a brief one, however, and he soon renewed his tirade, assuring her that as master of the house in which she was presently residing, he did indeed have every right to scold, and adding a catalog of Jessica’s misbehavior over the past five or six years’ worth of visits to Gordon Hall. Though she did not interrupt, she paid not the slightest heed to him now, fixing her interest instead upon the lovely hedge-protected park through which they were passing and upon the distant occasionally glimpsed view, beyond the tall, thick hedges and a wide variety of flowering and deciduous trees, of the gray Atlantic, which had become visible again as a result of their having been traveling steadily uphill. A few moments later, she enjoyed a brief view of gray water from either window, for Shaldon Park was located just at the point where Cornwall narrows before flaring into the rounded hook known as Land’s End or, more properly, the Penwith Peninsula. The neck of the peninsula being a mere four miles wide at that point, visitors to Shaldon Park were thus rewarded on clear days and from specific vantage points with a spectacular view of the Atlantic to the north and west and the English Channel to the south.

“Tell me about Sir Brian Gregory,” Jessica said, suddenly curious to know more about the man who owned Shaldon Park.

Since she had cut into his lecture mid-sentence, Lord Gordon looked more offended than ever, but because he could not resist puffing off his knowledge of the local gentry, he responded more temperately than might otherwise have been the case.

“Undoubtedly the wealthiest landowner in this part of Cornwall,” he said grandly. “Owns a dozen mines here, in Devon, and in Somerset, plus a plantation—sugar, I believe—in the Indies.”

“Goodness,” Jessica said, properly impressed. “Have I ever had the privilege of meeting this King Midas?”

Lord Gordon frowned in disapproval of her levity, but his lady shook her head. “I cannot think that you have,” she replied, “for he was abroad when you visited us last year, and I think he was nearly always gone to London for the Season just prior to your annual visit to us. I know he generally departs several weeks before we do. He does occasionally favor us with a call, and twice he has accepted invitations to dine, but we rarely meet him in London, and being a bachelor, he does not entertain here. He’s very handsome,” she added with a sidelong glance at her husband. “At least, I think he is.”

“Rubbish,” pronounced her spouse. “Man’s a fine rider to the hounds…A Melton man, you know…keeps a snug little box in Leicestershire. Excellent seat. But he pays scant heed to the proper mode of fashion. Dresses all by guess. Not the sort of fellow to attract the ladies at all.” Lord Gordon smoothed his coat with a finicking finger as if to punctuate his statement.

“My goodness, Cyril,” Jessica murmured dulcetly, “how well you understand our sex.”

“Bound to,” he replied, puffing out his cheeks. “Been on the town since I don’t know when. A goodly number of years—must be twenty by now, I expect. Fancy I ought to know a point more than the devil.”

“Indeed.” She smiled at him sweetly, winked at her startled sister, then leaned forward to peer out the window, hoping to catch a view of the house that went with the beautiful park. Dusky pink wild roses were budding along the roadside, and daisies waved their cheerful heads in a nearby grassy meadow. Then, just ahead and above them on the hillside, loomed the house. It was built in the Palladian style of mellow South Somerset sandstone from the Hamdon Hall quarries, its broad central facade domed in white Luxulyanite, an attractive porphyritic granite quarried from the Cornish village which gave it its name. The two flanking wings boasted white colonnades of the same sun-glinting granite.