The Frog Earl (2 page)

“I wouldn't say it's quite as bad as that.”

“I shall find it impossible to trust anyone's protestations of friendship. I'd best just go home and start learning estate management as I originally intended.”

“Your father isn't going to like that.”

Simon looked down gloomily at his smart, constricting clothes. “If I haven't yet acquired enough town bronze to suit him, I might as well give up and be comfortable again.”

“God forbid. That is not the only difficulty, however. Cedric was never allowed to take an interest in the estates, you know, although your father is not an active landowner, as I believe you would wish to be.”

“What do you mean? Wait a bit,” he said as the carriage stopped. “Why don't you come in for a brandy and explain yourself?”

A few minutes later they were ensconced in deep leather chairs by a roaring fire in the library of Stokesbury House, with glasses of mellow amber liquid warming between their palms. Gerald sniffed appreciatively and took a sip.

“The marquis knows his cognac better than he does his lands,” he remarked. “He leaves the management entirely to his bailiffs. As long as the expected revenues are produced, he asks no questions.”

“He doesn't oversee his agents?” Simon asked, shocked. “If the captain of a ship failed to supervise his officers, there would soon be a mutiny—or she would sink. He is responsible for the welfare of both crew and vessel, as a landowner surely is of tenants and land. Is that how you run your estates?”

“Lord, no. It's not uncommon, though. I'll tell you what, if you are determined upon leaving town you had best go and stay with Aunt Georgina. Her bailiff, Wickham, is the best there is.”

“Then why do you not have him at Crossfields?”

Ignoring this irrelevant query, Gerald continued, “He can teach you all you need to know. And Aunt Georgina will be pleased to see you. She always asks after you.”

“As Uncle Josiah's heir, you must see a good deal of her, I daresay. I haven't visited Mere House in a decade. My mother was never as close to the old gentleman as yours was—only natural since she was so much younger than her brother and sister.” Simon loyally kept to himself the thought that his revered mama had not liked the reminder provided by Sir Josiah Thompson that she was the sister of a humble country baronet. “Wait a bit!” he went on, refilling his glass and topping up Gerald's. “No one knows me there. I can go incognito.”

“Why the devil would you do that?”

“Perhaps I shall meet a girl who loves me for myself, not for my rank and fortune.” He sighed. “At least I shall know who my real friends are. But would Aunt Georgina keep my secret?”

“Undoubtedly. She would revel in being part of a conspiracy. You really mean to do it?”

“I shall ride up to Cheshire tomorrow,” said Simon decisively.

“Ride! Good gad, old fellow, you'll be two days on the road. Hire a carriage, or buy one, or borrow mine.”

“Frogs don't travel in carriages.”

“They don't ride on horseback, either, to my knowledge.”

“Oh, go to the devil, Gerald,” said Simon with an unwilling laugh. “I don't wish to make a splash by arriving in style. And I'll have my old, comfortable clothes sent after me. Make my excuses to any offended hostesses, will you?”

Gerald merely shook his head, his expression foreboding, and finished his brandy.

The next morning, leaving a tearful Henry behind, Simon set out for Cheshire. The continuing rain had no power to add to his dejection. After all, it was fine weather for frogs.

Chapter 2

The midday sun was warm on Mimi's back. The linden trees, their still-leafless twigs tipped with pale-green blossom clusters, sheltered her from the breeze where she lay full length on the old wooden jetty. After several days of rain, gray, chilly days not at all like the sultry thunder of the Indian monsoons, at last she was putting her plan into action.

Sir Josiah's butterfly net was perfect for catching tadpoles. Already five jars of the wriggling black creatures were safely stowed in Deva Lal's saddlebags. The sixth jar, half full of water, stood beside her on the gray, weathered wood. Before her stretched the calm surface of the small lake—the mere they called it locally—reflecting blue sky and white puffs of cloud. With a flash of silver scales a fish jumped, then splashed back, sending ripples to lap gently a few inches below Mimi's nose. The tall rushes rustled.

Here by the long-unused jetty, the water was so clear she could see every pebble on the gravel bottom, though it was too deep to reach with the butterfly net. A school of sticklebacks darted past. Mimi briefly considered adding a few to her catch, but their spines looked dangerous. She didn't want her tadpoles stickled to death.

Extending the net on the end of its bamboo pole, she brought it up beneath a cluster of tadpoles. Compared to the sticklebacks they were clumsy swimmers, easy to catch, and she had quickly learned the knack of not letting them squirm out before she had them in position over her jar. Carefully she swung the net toward her through the water. It was heavier than it should have been, and she saw that she had caught a piece of driftwood.

She stretched out her left hand to remove it—and her bracelet fell into the mere. Sinking like a stone, it came to rest on the gravel, the glinting gold clearly visible and quite beyond her reach.

“Oh no!”

“What's the matter?” asked a voice behind her. A male voice.

Turning her head, Mimi saw a young man astride a bay gelding, gazing at her from the landward end of the jetty. She lifted the net up onto the planks, then scrambled to her knees and regarded the intruder hopefully. Males generally did what she wanted, and this particular male was not so well dressed as to object to a wetting for a suitable payment. He raised his hat politely, revealing short, sandy hair.

“My bracelet fell into the water. I cannot reach it. If you fetch it out for me, I shall reward you.”

“May I ask why you wore a precious bracelet to go fishing?” he inquired in a skeptical tone, looking her up and down.

“I always wear it.” She brushed at a damp, brownish patch on her pale green morning gown—the train of a riding habit would have been horridly in the way. “It was my mother's,” she added defensively. “Please get it, I shall pay you well.”

“I'm not sure I'm ready for a wetting for a shilling or two.”

“I do not mean a shilling or two.” Mimi was growing annoyed. “A really valuable reward. I can afford it—I'm a princess.”

“And I'm a prince,” he said with a disbelieving laugh.

“You don't look like one.”

“I was enchanted by a wicked sorceress. I'll tell you what, if you will promise to break the spell by taking me home to dinner, dancing with me, and giving me a kiss, I'll go in after your bracelet.”

Mimi scowled at him. Of all the impertinent rogues! Then she glanced down at her bracelet, gleaming on the bottom. A fish was nudging at it. Perhaps she might reach it herself if she waded in, but then she'd have to ride home with wet, cold skirts clinging to her legs. Besides, an extorted promise was no promise.

“Very well,” she said, tipping the tadpoles from the net into the jar as an excuse to avoid meeting his gaze.

He swung down from his horse and tied it to one of the linden trees. She hurriedly stood up as he approached. Though not tall he was strongly built, with a determined chin and eyes somewhere between blue and green and gray, like the sea in an uncertain mood. His riding boots thudded on the jetty. Afraid he might decide to take the promised kiss before he earned it, Mimi stooped to pick up the jar of tadpoles and held it before her as a shield.

“Simon Hurst at your service, Princess,” he said, his courteous bow contradicted by his impudent grin. “Where is this valuable bauble?”

“Down there.” She pointed, clutching the jar to her bosom.

“What do you have there?” He set his hat on the planks and took off his coat, a well-worn brown garment with plain horn buttons, and his neckcloth. “Did you catch some minnows?”

“They are tadpoles.”

He raised his eyebrows and she felt herself flushing. Her annoyance increased. When she planned this unconventional outing she hadn't reckoned on the arrival of a mocking stranger.

“How deep is it? Can I reach it with my hand if I lie down?”

“I don't think so. The net will not reach the bottom.”

Sitting down, he pulled off boots and stockings. Mimi quickly looked away, beginning to wish she had brought her groom after all. Simon Hurst close by, and clad only in buckskin riding breeches, a shirt, and a carelessly tied cravat, was a different kettle of fish from Simon Hurst safely at a distance on his horse.

He stuck one foot in the water and yelped. “It's bloody freezing!”

“You should not swear in front of a lady.”

“I never swear in front of ladies. You are a princess, which is quite another matter.”

Before she could think of a suitably cutting response, he lowered himself into the mere, grumbling as the cold water rose up his legs. “I'm not sure I asked for sufficient reward,” he observed as it reached his waist. “Ouch! The gravel is deuced sharp-edged, and the ripples are distorting my view of the quarry.”

Mimi decided that discretion was the better part of valor. “I'm going to put this jar in my saddlebag,” she told him, and hurried to where she had tied Deva Lal by a wooden bench under a tree. Quickly she stowed the jar and checked that the gray mare was close enough to the bench to enable her to mount.

She sped back to the jetty just as Mr. Hurst triumphantly waved the bracelet.

“I have it, Princess.” He laid it on the edge and started to haul himself out.

Mimi seized it and slipped it onto her wrist. “Thank you,” she said, backing away as he rose dripping from the depths, his shirt plastered to his muscular body. “Thank you very much.” She turned and ran.

Safe in the saddle, she paused to look back. He was standing with hands on hips, watching her. Suddenly she was very conscious that her gown left her legs exposed nearly to the knee. Setting Deva Lal in motion between the linden trees, she called once more, “Thank you,” and rode on, her gaze fixed straight ahead.

She did not dare trot because of the glass jars in her saddlebags, but he could not follow her until he had at least put on his boots. And then, she hoped, he would be more inclined to head straight for home and dry clothes.

How unpardonably presumptuous he had been to demand such an improper reward of a well-bred young lady! Mimi had no regrets about breaking her promise.

* * * *

Simon grinned as he took off his sodden shirt, dried his upper half as best he could with his neckcloth, and put on his coat. He hadn't really expected the little minx to honor her commitment. The dainty gray mare and the heavy gold bangle, delicately chased in an elaborate pattern, alike announced the probable truth of her claim to wealth. Her voice was educated, despite a tantalizing hint of foreignness, more intonation than accent. And her small, gloveless hands were smooth and soft, unused to menial labor.

His thoughts wandered from her station in life. She had been hatless, too, her hair glossy as a raven's wing—a striking beauty with her cinnamon complexion and liquid black eyes. He had spent enough time in Indian ports to guess at her provenance.

Aunt Georgina would know who she was. He'd have that kiss from her yet.

Shivering, he pulled on his boots, mounted, and turned Intrepid's head back toward Mere House. The water soaking his buckskins started trickling down into his boots. He felt clammy, and more froglike than ever.

Fortunately he had not far to go, cantering across green pastures where contented cows scarcely raised their heads from the lush grass to watch him pass. The long, low house, built of pinkish sandstone, hugged the Cheshire plain, with the dairy block at one end and the stables at the other. When Simon dismounted in the stable yard he squelched at every step. The groom who took the gelding's reins from him snickered but did not venture to comment.

Baird was less reticent. Popping out of the butler's pantry as Simon strode squishily past, he said in a voice of deep reproach, “If you had warned me that you meant to go swimming, sir, I'd have sent Thomas after you with a towel.”

“I'll inform you in advance next time I decide to take a dip.” Simon was aware that the old man knew precisely who he was, remembering him from childhood visits. Aunt Georgina had assured him that her butler, as devoted as he was eccentric, would not give him away to the other servants, all of whom were new since his time. “At present,” he continued, his teeth chattering, “Thomas would be better employed bringing hot water to my chamber.” He handed over the soggy bundle of his shirt.

“At once, sir.”

Baird's peculiarities did not interfere with his efficiency, so Simon was soon luxuriating in a hot bath. At moments like this he ceased to regret his life at sea, where a quick wash in a bucket of seawater was usually the best even the captain could expect. “Water, water, everywhere...” Coleridge's phrase floated through his mind, and that reminded him: What the devil did the Indian beauty want with a jar full of tadpoles?

He was unable to broach the subject at once when he went down to the drawing room half an hour later to join his aunt, a plump, gray-haired lady in her sixties who favored violet satin.

“Hot lemon and honey,” she greeted him, leaving a letter half written on her little marquetry desk and joining him by the fire. “Baird tells me you have been for a swim. Is it not a little early in the year for swimming?”

“Much too early,” he agreed, grinning at her affectionately.

“I hope you will not take cold.”

“I doubt it, aunt. We sailors are hardy folk.”

“Of course. You must be quite accustomed to being wet. Simon, dear, I have been thinking.”

Her loving nephew's response to this announcement was wary. Though he had arrived only the day before, he had already recognized that Lady Thompson's thought processes were not quite like anyone else's. “Have you, indeed?” he asked noncommittally.