The Luck of the Devil (11 page)
Emonda had had enough. She threw her napkin, rather the worse for wear, on the table and shouted, "You know that is not the way it was! How dare you say one bad thing about Lord Clyme! He was the most wonderful, kind, and generous man there ever was in this whole world and I was proud to marry him. Suzannah can tell you how pretty the wedding was, even if we had to scramble through it so you could go back to your horrid war!"
Carey sat up straight, all traces of insobriety vanished. He nodded apologetically toward Rowanne, smiled
gently at Emonda, and asked, "Then why is it that my host keeps looking at me like I sold you to white slavers and Lady Silber treats me like a leper?" He turned toward Gabriel. "Your uncle was a true gentleman, and I was honored to know him."
Gabe was red-faced when he turned to Emonda. "Is it true, my dear, that no one forced you to marry against your will, and my uncle treated you with respect?"
"He saved my good name," she whispered, "he and Carey. And then Lord Clyme treated me like a princess, like a best-loved daughter he never had." She looked at Rowanne, then back to Gabriel. "And you must never think he was a bitter old man who hated all of his relatives. He cared about you very much and made me reread all of your letters."
"But he never—" Rowanne started at the same time Gabe asked, "Then why… ?"
Emonda turned to Carey, who answered, "He loved your mother, but she chose your father over him. He was afraid that if he saw you, Miss Wimberly, looking so much like her, then his heart would break all over again."
"Oh, the poor man!" Then Suzannah and Woody had to tell how Lord Clyme was the most respected man in the county and loved by everyone, and Aunt Cora related what she knew about the old love story. Carey told about the portrait in the desk and about his father's friendship with the late earl Soon it was a cheerful group at the table. The dinner was never going to be one of Rowanne's most brilliant, but it was a success. She wasn't tempted more than twice to throw the chocolate mousse in Carey's lap.
S
o he was not an ogre. He was still a rake, and what a swath he would cut through the ton with his elegant new dignity and his romantic limp to remind the feather-headed chits of his heroism. They would be throwing themselves at his feet, Rowanne knew, positively smothering him with embarrassing adoration. To save the poor man that discomfort—he was Suzannah's stepbrother, after all—Rowanne made sure to invite him back to Wimberly House for tea and potluck supper, lest he be thrown to the wolves on an empty stomach. The man was too thin, she told herself.
She herself was not one of those impressionable misses, susceptible to a philanderer who coldbloodedly shopped for a wife while his mistresses popped up at inconvenient moments. Heavens, most gentlemen left their inamoratas with a parting gift, not a family. As used as she was to London morals, or lack thereof, Rowanne could not countenance such behavior, not in any man she would marry, should he ask her.
None of which stopped her from replying in the affirmative, however, when Carey asked if she would visit Delverson House in Park Lane with Emonda and Suzannah. The place had been let go so long, he complained, that he did not know where to start to make improvements and would appreciate their advice. He was staying on at the hotel until the place could be sanded, painted, and refurbished, but he begged the women's assistance in selecting colors, fabrics, and styles. Rowanne could not refuse, for Suzannah's sake.
Carey decided to make an occasion of the outing, repaying the Wimberlys' hospitality by hosting luncheon at his hotel, before they all went on to view the devastation. Aunt Cora cried off, having seen her fill of dirty old houses, but Gabriel accepted, just to make sure they were not mistaken about St. Dillon again, the fellow being as changeable as a chameleon. Woody went where Suzannah went, especially for meals.
The duke regretted that he could not even invite them for tea at the house, since the stove did not draw properly and the chimney man was not coming until the morrow. He did suggest Gunther's afterward, if they were not too tired. Luckily no one noticed that Rowanne's cheeks turned rosy, remembering the last time she and Carey Delverson had shared an ice.
Suzannah rattled on all through the meal about which style of home furnishings was more in favor in the ladies' magazines, the Egyptian or the Chinese.
"I think I prefer the Egyptian, with those cunning crocodile armchairs. They say Lady Poindexter has a real sarcophagus in her parlor! Doesn't that just make your scalp shiver, Woody? Can we get one, Carey?"
Woody looked up from his second helping of green goose and pigeon pie. He'd already had one unnerving experience that day, when he helped Suzannah out of the carriage. Lord St. Dillon was standing at the curb, frowning at Woody's new coat with its saucer-sized gold buttons. Perhaps Woody's hand had strayed a bit, but some dead pharaoh wrapped in sheets couldn't touch the duke for dampening a lad's ardor. Nearly put him off his appetite, it did.
Suzannah was off on another tangent. "The Chinese is very pretty too, with the silk hangings and lacquered cabinets and inlaid vases. We could have lots of colorful pillows on the floor for guests to sit on, and a huge brass gong, like Baroness Smythe's in the magazine's picture, with dragons all over it."
"On second thought, puss," Carey teased, "maybe you should stay back here instead of coming along to the house. When I asked for your advice, I meant color schemes, not settings for gothic romances. I don't fancy taking tea with a mummy or sitting on the floor or wondering if my chair is going to snap my arm off. I am sure Emonda will have better ideas for what's suitable for a gentleman's residence."
Suzannah stuck her tongue out at him, but Emonda blushed at his praise. They were never to know Lady Clyme's ideas, however, for when they arrived at the large house, set back on its property across from the park, a huge moth-eaten dog tore down the steps to greet them. Emonda refused to get out of the carriage.
"It's only Old Scratch, Emmy," Carey told her. "He won't bother you."
It was true, the scraggly mammoth canine had eyes only for St. Dillon, tearing around in an excess of joy until Carey was firmly on the ground, then jumping up to put his paws on the man's shoulders and give him a wet welcoming salute.
"Down, sir," Carey ordered before his leg gave out. He would have fallen to the dusty carriageway if Woody hadn't grabbed for his arm and steadied him. Woody blanched at his audacity—Jupiter, he'd actually touched the duke—then blushed furiously when Carey thanked him. "That was quick thinking, lad. Perhaps there's hope for you yet, if those starched shirtpoints don't rattle your brains."
Carey handed Rowanne out of the carriage and introduced her to the dog, who was now sitting decorously, wagging his tail and drooling happily. "He was my cousin's and he seems to have adopted me. I couldn't leave him in the country for he would simply pine away, according to the grooms, the housekeeper, and the gardener, all of whom were incidentally petrified of him. Did you know hotels won't accept dogs of his size?"
"Really? I wonder why." Rowanne was making friends with the shaggy beast, promising him Toodles for breakfast if he behaved. Not even seeing Rowanne shake hands with the creature could encourage Emonda out of the carriage, so Gabe nobly forbore viewing the house in order to keep her company in the coach.
"He never liked dogs much either," Rowanne confided to the others as they filed through carved oak doors under the St. Dillon crest, Scratch bounding in circles around them.
The huge entry hall was clean, at least. The staff had taken off the holland covers and started polishing. But the wooden banisters were splintered or wobbly, and the chandelier was missing many of its crystals. The portrait of some long-dead ancestor that hung in a niche between the double staircases had a gunshot hole through the forehead, and many of the black-and-white marble tiles had nicks and scratches. One appeared to have a hoofmark gouged in it. What furniture there was seemed to have survived from the Middle Ages, oversized dark trestle tables and massive carved chairs that looked as comfortable as a stocks. Rowanne wondered that Carey had disdained Suzannah's mummy, for two rusty, dented knights stood guard at the foot of the stairs.
Carey was correct: Beeswax and lemon oil were not going to set this place to rights.
Suzannah was thrilled with the double stairs, planning the engagement ball where she would come floating down the spiral to face the admiring throng below. "It's perfect, Carey! Can we have a grand fete when it's done? Is there a ballroom? How many places can we set at the table?" She and Woody rushed off to explore for themselves.
"So much for my sister's advice. She'd leave the place as it is, most likely, only asking the staff to return the spider webs for better effect. Do you mind continuing? I really would appreciate your opinions. The repairs have to come first, naturally, but I should like to start ordering new hangings and such."
Rowanne was barely listening. They were alone. No, the dog was there, shedding brownish hair on her burgundy carriage dress. Her brother was just outside, the youngsters were dashing up the stairs, but she and the elegant duke were alone, and he wanted her… opinions. "Frog-bonnets!"
Carey was smiling at her. "Excuse me, is that another new fashion? I thought I might prefer maroon velvet. But come see the upstairs, if you will. I don't trust those two in the state bedrooms."
The rest of the house was in just as poor condition, and Suzannah and Woody quickly tired of dull inspection. They went outside to check the potentials of the grounds for al fresco entertaining.
By the time they had gone through most of the building and were back in one
of the double-square drawing rooms, Rowanne's opinion of the departed cousins had slipped a notch. "How could anyone have treated a fine old home this way?"
"The stables are in excellent condition," Carey said in defense of what was indefensible. He was annoyed himself. "At least Harry had enough sense to roll up the Aubusson carpets and the Turkey runners and some of the tapestries before he turned the place into a kennel. Maybe he simply did not like them. Either way, there were a bunch stored in the attic. I've had them taken out for cleaning."
"Wonderful, that's your starting point. You decide which goes where, then select furnishings and colors to complement. I am familiar with a great many furniture manufacturers, from my days of haunting them for miniatures, and I am always poking around the fabric warehouses for new ideas. I would be glad to give you the names and whatever assistance I can. I have hundreds of suggestions as is, and I'm itching to hurry off and make lists for you."
"How kind of you. Do you really not mind?"
"Mind? Why, the place is one glorious dollhouse that I'd love to get my hands on to turn it into a showpiece. I'm a very managing female, you know. Of course I would never presume to make decisions for you, not knowing your tastes or habits."
He smiled and said, "I am sure I can trust your judgment," which pleased her far more than the flowery compliments she was so used to receiving from her beaux. She checked the condition of the curtains, chiding herself for being such a goosecap. He was not a beau.
St. Dillon casually inspected the carved acorn design on the drawing-room mantel. "It would take a great deal of your time, especially having to consult with me," he continued, as if that was not the purpose of the whole thing. Hell, he could have had his secretary hire a decorator and been done.
"That's no problem," she answered airily, picking up a chipped vase to see if it was worth repairing, as if she would not offer to refurbish a pigsty if it gave her the opportunity to spend more time in his company.
Carey touched the loving cup on the mantel, a trophy from some race or other. "I, ah, would not want your name to be bandied about Town, the gossips, you know."
He would not want their names linked, more like, she interpreted. He was carefully telling her not to get her hopes stirred; his intentions were honorable, just platonic. Rowanne set the vase down with a thud. Too ugly to bother. She waved aside his concern with as much nonchalance as she could muster. "I am beyond the age where such things are of paramount concern."
"Oh, yes, you are quite in your dotage." He laughed. It was a very nice laugh.
"It is not as if I would be calling on a bachelor," she went on quickly. "You are not even in residence, and a great deal of the decisions will be made at the warehouses or from lists at my home. I shall make sure to have Emonda or Suzannah along in any case, because they will need to consult about their choices too."
"I doubt you'll get much cooperation from Emonda, and Suzannah has already expressed her preference for the corner suite. Blue skies and golden cherubs." He shuddered. "Please do not consult too much with that minx."
Rowanne thought Emonda would like nothing better than to visit linen drapers and furniture showrooms, even if she could not be brought to put one foot inside the house if the dog remained. St. Dillon did not seem in the least surprised nor disappointed that Emonda showed no interest in her future home. Of course it had never been openly discussed, to Rowanne's knowledge, whether Emonda would actually move out of Wimberly House when Suzannah took up residence with her stepbrother. It was all very curious, and Rowanne had a great deal to think about, upholsterers being the least of it.
They did not particularly enjoy their ices at Gunther's. A baby kept crying. There were a great many children in the place, as it was a lovely day for an outing, and Rowanne thought nothing of the bawling toddler, sitting across the room with his nanny and a stunning woman with red-gold hair. Suzannah and Woody never noticed anything above the usual din, too busy planning their grand ball and enjoying their confections. Emonda developed a sick headache from the noise, though, and Gabriel hastened to escort her home. Carey simply let his ice melt in its dish. His leg must be bothering him from all the walking through the house, Rowanne thought, and now the crying was grating on his nerves, poor man. He must not even like children, she conjectured from the way he was scowling, and then tried to ignore her own keen disappointment in that fact. She hurried through her treat so they could leave shortly.
That evening a certain loose-tongued luncheon waiter at Grillon's was dismissed. "She said as 'ow she was 'is friend, she did," he whined to his mates at the Crown and Thistle. "If Oi 'ad a friend like that Prime Article, Oi'd not mind 'er askin' after me, not by 'alf. Thought Oi was doin' the nob a favor, Oi did." He spit on the floor. "Damned gentry. The Frenchies 'ad a point, they did."
"I
do not like it, Rowanne."
"Don't you, Gabe?" She was studying page seventeen of Ackermann's Repository, making note of a curio shelf that might hold the duke's growing collection of snuffboxes. "But you don't need a curio shelf. You don't have any collections beyond your books, thank goodness, or this house would be overrun, what with all of my accumulations."
"I am not speaking of furniture, Rowanne, and you well know it."
Rowanne looked up at her brother's unusually harsh tones. They were alone in the sitting room, the others having retired to their beds, and she thought he was content with his book by the fire. Her own eyes narrowed. "Do I? What exactly is it that you do not like, dear?"
"I don't like you living in that man's pocket, that's what. It's not seemly, your acting the errand boy for such a frippery fellow."
Rowanne turned another page, without looking at it. "But I am enjoying myself immensely." And she was, not just because she was getting to express her talents and tastes on a grand scale, but due to that very proximity to St. Dillon. The duke had excellent judgment, was decisive in his opinions, and vastly appreciative of her time and assistance. He seemed less tense and drawn, now that he was building a home for his family. She had even seen his dimples peeping out once or twice, to her delight, but she did not think Gabe would want to hear about that part of her enjoyment. "Surely my pleasure in helping St. Dillon counts for something, doesn't it?" she asked her brother. "And I thought you and he were getting along better now. You seemed to spend a great deal of time over your port after dinner, at any rate."
"I'm not denying he's interesting and intelligent. I was quite impressed, actually, when we talked about his taking his seat in the Lords. About time a St. Dillon did. He's got insight to the mess of the war supplies and munitions, and wants to make sure we do more for the returning veterans. Then he turns slippery as an eel and kites off with that young cawker Jeffers, to some auction at Tattersall's or a brutal exhibition of fisticuffs or a foolish curricle race where fortunes—and lives—are won or lost. No one should know better than he the cost of such frivolous pastimes."
"But he was used to being so active, so in the thick of things. Can you not understand his restlessness? Besides, I think he goes to some of the events just to watch out for Woody. You know what pitfalls a young man can find, alone in London without a steadying influence."
"But is he a steadying influence? You know his reputation, Rowanne. That's why I am concerned. The old tabbies will be lapping this up, you and the last Devil."
"And that devil take all gossip. I am not worried." She turned another page of her magazine to prove her point to Gabe, if not to herself. She was, in fact, midway between anxiety and panic. She could not give a tinker's damn for the gabblemongers linking their names, but what had her in the boughs was the thought of the gossip to come when Carey started looking over the crops of debutantes. Worse, and she believed it even more inevitable, would be the talk when he started squiring barques of frailty around Town. She did not know how she would live through his loving another woman, and she did not have the least idea of what to do about it. Maybe her scholarly brother would have an answer. "Do you think he will offer for Emonda again?"
Gabe swallowed wrong and started choking. Rowanne leapt up and pounded his back, sending his glasses flying across the room. That answered one of her questions.
''Emonda would make Delverson a fine wife," Gabe pronounced when he could see and speak again. Then he blushed, spoiling the solemn effect. "And I mean to see she don't."
"Then what are you waiting for? Why haven't you put it to the test?" Rowanne asked herself if she could possibly be so base as to promote a match between Gabe and Emonda just to have the pretty little widow out of Carey's way. No, she answered quite firmly, she merely thought that Emonda's retiring ways suited Gabriel much better. Gabe was still flustered by his own declaration, so she went on. "I think you would appreciate Lord St. Dillon's finer points a great deal better if you were not jealous."
"Jealous? Me? That's absurd."
As absurd as Rowanne being jealous of Emonda and every other woman in London, Somerset, and Spain. "Then why don't you offer?"
"It's too soon. We've known each other such a short time and we're in mourning. Furthermore she's living under my roof. That's not good ton."
"Would you rather she lived under St. Dillon's?"
"Heaven forbid. I mean, his sister is one thing, but he and Emmy aren't even closely related. Here at least Aunt Cora is in residence.
"So?"
Gabe grinned sheepishly. "I've been trying to decide if I have to ask St. Dillon's permission to pay my addresses. He'll either darken my daylights or laugh at me."
"He'll laugh," she said, her fingers crossed. "And rightly so, you looby. You may as well ask yourself, for you are head of the family. Then you can give yourself your blessing."
There was pleading in Gabe's brown eyes behind the thick lenses. "Then you think there is hope?"
"For you to become an impetuous, passion-maddened lover? None. But I wish you would try."
They set out for the park the next afternoon in high spirits, four women in their new spring gowns. Aunt Cora sat in the forward-facing seat with Emonda beside her, for Lady Clyme tended to queasiness if her back was to the horses. Aunt Cora's poodle sat between them, a silly bow in his topknot matching the lavender ruching of Aunt Cora's bonnet. Rowanne and Suzannah sat across, the latter twirling her fringed parasol in excited disregard for Rowanne's well-being, exclaiming over the notables on the fashionable promenade, the stylish ensembles, the high-bred horses. Rowanne smiled and moved farther along her seat.
Woody Jeffers rode alongside, showing off his new bay hack, the yellow turned-down cuffs of his high boots, and a boutonniere of yellow primroses as large as the nosegay Rowanne carried to her first ball. She could not decide which looked more absurd, the ginger-haired sprig of fashion or Toodles. At least Woody's mount appeared to be more substance than show, which Rowanne noted to Suzannah.
"Isn't he beautiful? The gelding, I mean, not Woody," Suzannah said with a giggle. "But Woody cannot take the credit. He was all set to buy a roan from Lord Arkwright, but Carey steered him off it because Arkwright crammed his horses, and its mouth was likely ruined. Woody says he's a real downy cove, my brother. Of course he dresses too soberly, but Woody says all of the fellows think he is top of the trees."
"Woody says" being Miss Delverson's favorite phrase, Rowanne all but ignored the animated description of Woody's horse that followed, until she heard Suzannah's next words: "Woody says it's a secret, but Carey bought himself a horse. He's going to try to ride again."
"Oh, dear," Emonda exclaimed. "That cannot be wise. He could be permanently crippled. He should not take such chances."
"Oh, pooh, you'd have him in a Bath chair next," Suzannah told her aunt, and Rowanne had to agree, although she also felt a stab of apprehension. Suzannah continued. "He must hate not being up and doing all the time, and Carey can do anything once he sets his mind to it."
"And there never was a Delverson yet with a ha'penny's worth of good sense," Aunt Cora put in, glaring at Suzannah. She had come down early for the carriage ride to find Suzannah and Woody seated at the pianoforte playing a duet, with the instrument closed up tight.
"But horses are so… large and unpredictable, Suzannah." Emonda drew her shawl tighter around her slim shoulders.
"Woody says that's why Carey bought a new mount. Everything in Harry's stables is too high-spirited by half, to start." Suzannah noted Rowanne's heightened interest in the riders on the bridle paths, to Rowanne's chagrin, and smiled knowingly. "Oh, he won't practice out in the park where you—ah, the crowds—could see him. Woody says Carey and his man Rudd will likely hire an indoor ring at one of the stables, with lots of sawdust on the ground, just in case."
The drives were more crowded and Woody had a difficult time staying abreast of their carriage. Ladies in coaches and gentlemen on horseback stopped to greet Rowanne and be introduced to her guests. The carriage was barely moving along in the press of traffic, so they decided to get down and stroll a bit, except for Aunt Cora, who had their driver pull alongside Lady Brierly's chaise in the shade for a comfortable coze. Woody tied his horse behind the carriage and proudly escorted his three pretty ladies down the less-traveled paths.
Woody and Suzannah were walking a bit ahead of Rowanne, Emonda, and Toodles, who had to stop at every bush, so Rowanne nearly bumped into them when the young couple paused suddenly and turned back along the path.
"Mustn't leave Lady Silber alone too long," Woody explained, while Suzannah claimed a twisted ankle, hopping artfully.
Rowanne could not see ahead beyond Woody, but Emonda could. "Oh, heavens," she cried, throwing her hands up to her cheeks and dropping the dog's leash as she too turned to hurry back to the carriage.
It was too late. Toodles was off, growling and grabbing a biscuit from the hands of a small dark-haired tot on leading strings. At the other end of the strings, Rowanne could see now, was the ravishing strawberry-blonde from Gunther's, and she was waving merrily.
"Why, if it isn't Lady Clyme," she called gaily, "and Miss Delverson too. And Mr. Jeffers, I would recognize you even in all your finery. Isn't it lovely to meet old friends from Dorset?"
Rowanne was bending down trying to sooth the screaming child, so she did not notice her companions' distress. Emonda was rooted to the spot and Woody's face was bright red. Suzannah knew they should turn and cut the woman dead, but there was Miss Wimberly, wiping the brat's eyes.
Clear blue eyes with a dark rim around them and black eyelashes and—Rowanne straightened to take a better look at the woman. She wore a burgundy muslin gown that concealed few of her lush charms, and the vivid color of her cheeks and lips could never be found in nature. Carey's mistress, for it could be no other, was just now effusively greeting her, without an introduction. "You must be Miss Wimberly. I have been hearing delightful things about you, my dear. So kind to put up Carey's relations, don't you know. You have already met my dearest boy Gareth. Gary, precious, make your little bow to the nice lady as Mama taught you."
Gareth bent on his stocky little legs, encased in burgundy velvet shorts to match his mother's outfit, and picked up a handful of pebbles, which he tossed at the dog.
"Vicious little beast," Suzannah muttered, grabbing the dog's leash as Toodles ran past.
Now Emonda might be too much of a mouse, and Suzannah and Woody simply not up to snuff, but Miss Wimberly had been on the Town for years and was every inch an earl's granddaughter. She well knew how to depress pretensions from vulgar, encroaching mushrooms. She nodded curtly, turned on her heel, gathered Suzannah and Emonda on either arm, and said, "I do not believe I have had the… pleasure, ma'am. Good day."
"Good show," Suzannah congratulated when they were out of earshot. "I swear I thought I would sink into the ground." Emonda was clutching her handkerchief to her mouth and Woody was still tongue-tied. Rowanne was simply too angry to speak, so when Aunt Cora wanted to know what they were doing back in the carriage so soon—she and Lady Brierly had hardly begun to discuss their ailments—Rowanne mumbled something under her breath.
"What's that," the old lady shouted, "a rabid wild boar? Here in the park?" which started a panicked exodus toward the gates.
"No, Aunt," Rowanne ground out, giving the driver the office to start. "A bastard child and a whore."
In the ancient parable of the three blind men and the elephant, each of the men had different bits of knowledge, different interpretations, and different conclusions. So too the members of Rowanne's party.
Emonda thought the child must belong to one of the Delverson cousins and did not care which. All she knew was that the scandal would horrify a fine upstanding gentleman like Gabriel Wimberly. With his hopes for a Cabinet position, Lord Clyme could not afford to let such filth touch his name. Emonda wept softly into her handkerchief.
Woody, who knew about as much of infants as he knew of mathematics, assumed the child was the elder Lord Delverson's, Carey and Suzannah's father. Everyone in the village knew who was keeping the high flyer when Mrs. Reardon moved to that little cottage. Woody's major concern was whether or not Carey St. Dillon would murder him for allowing the encounter. He wondered if Suzannah was still interested in an elopement.
Suzannah thought the child could well be her handsome brother's. No woman could resist him, naturally, and the boy did have the Delverson coloring, even if he seemed to be a bad-mannered crybaby, which Carey would never countenance. The meeting was unfortunate, but her invincible stepbrother would guarantee that it never happened again. The only difficulty Suzannah saw was the anger flashing from Miss Wimberly's brown eyes. Suzannah knew all about such things, of course—they were a part of her growing up—but Miss Wimberly must be more straitlaced than she'd thought to be so furious. Which was too bad, for Suzannah'd had such great hopes.
Aunt Cora hadn't seen the woman, hadn't seen the child. She only knew she wasn't going to get back to her comfortable life in Bath any time soon. "Devil take all men," she muttered.
Last but by no means least, Rowanne added, "Amen to that." How could she ever have hoped to compete with a stunning woman like Mrs. Reardon, who already had his child and his affection, if he brought her to London? How could she have been so stupid and naive and blind?
Like those other blind men and their elephant, the party returning to Wimberly House were agreed on one conclusion: Whatever else it was, the situation stank.
"D
ragons?"
"Yes, dragons. Your stepbrother can have fire-breathing dragons all over his bedroom, with blood in their eyes and gore dripping from their talons so he has nightmares every night. I do not care."
"Then you won't come down to tea and discuss the master suite with him?"
"He's here for tea? I hope the milk curdles and the tea is so hot it burns his tongue. I hope he chokes on Cook's macaroons. And what's to discuss? I am never likely to see the inside of his bedroom," Rowanne raged. "What should I care what colors he chooses? Purple and orange, magenta and puce, bilious yellow and mildew green, it's all the same to me. I would not put one foot in that libertine's house, and you can tell him for me, Suzannah. Why doesn't he stop being a cad and marry that woman? Then she
can decorate his blasted house. Naked nymphs and satyrs should look lovely in the master bedroom, with red satin sheets."
"Miss Wimberly has the headache," reported Suzannah, ever the optimist. "She told us to go ahead without her."
Only Woody and Lord St. Dillon were in the sitting room when the butler brought the tea tray. Gabriel often missed tea if a session ran late. "But what about Emonda?" Carey wanted to know.
"Oh, she definitely has the headache."
Woody snorted.
"And Lady Silber?" Carey asked, curious that his sister would not look him in the eye and Woody kept edging his chair farther away. "Another headache? I don't even see the dog. Don't tell me Toodles has succumbed."
"Well, you know how Lady Silber is about her dog and proper company…"
"No, I don't," he answered silkily. "Perhaps you might inform me."
Suzannah looked to Woody desperately. He came to her rescue by passing the macaroons. "Devilish good, Your Grace. Why don't you have some?"
Carey stood. "I would not feel right stopping in a house of illness, nor sitting in the parlor with neither host, hostess, nor member of the family present. Very bad ton. Come, Woody."
"Me too?" Woody squealed, his voice cracking in dismay.
"Of course. You don't wish to be guilty of bad manners, I am sure. Furthermore, without my presence you and Suzannah have no chaperone. Shall we?"
Suzannah hurriedly bundled some macaroons into a napkin for Woody, trying to hide a sniffle. "You will remember about tomorrow night, won't you, Carey? You promised to come to the opera with us for my very first visit there." Sniff. "I wanted everything to be perfect."
"I'll try, puss," Carey told her, picking up his cane, "if I do not develop a headache after my conversation with young Lochinvar here."
It was worse than a headache, a lot worse. "I'm really in the suds, aren't I, Woody?"
"Up to the eyeballs and sinking." Woody's tongue moved freer than usual when in the duke's presence, partly due to the French brandy St. Dillon ordered, partly due to Woody's excitement at finally being invited inside the portals of White's, even if the porter sneered at his spotted Belcher neckcloth. Besides, Woody could afford to condescend: The hero might have fists of iron, but he had feet of clay just like every other mortal man.
"I don't suppose you could have done anything to avoid the whole mess, could you?"
Woody came back to earth with a thud. "Me, sir? We were walking, like I said, and I tried to turn away, but the dog and Miss Wimberly and the screaming brat…"
"I didn't think so," Carey mused as if Woody had not spoken. "And after? There must have been something you could have done to ease the situation."
"I caught Lady Clyme when she started to swoon on the walk back to the carriage."
Carey poured them each another drink. "So I am back to being the barbarian at the gates of Wimberly House, just when things were going so well. Double damnation! I suppose courtesy dictates I should cry off tomorrow night's engagement so the ladies don't have migraines again, but deuce if I will."
Woody had had one brandy too many. "That's the ticket, Your Grace. You show those women they can't dictate morals to us men. I mean, a chap steps off the straight and narrow, you'd think it was a hanging offense."
The duke moved Woody's glass out of reach and eyed him coldly. "Jeffers, if I ever hear of your tomcatting, there won't be enough left of you to hang, is that understood?"
Woody understood the tone of voice and the intent. His Adam's apple bobbing, he swore eternal fidelity to his Suky. "True blue and honor bright."
"Good, then shall we order dinner?" Carey shook his head.
Another foolish question.
Things could have been worse, Carey assumed, but he could not imagine how unless La Reardon had twins. Neither he nor his paid men had been able to locate the woman, and until he got rid of her, he knew, there would be no getting near Miss Wimberly. Rowanne would not even greet him the following evening when he called as arranged to escort the party to the opera. She floated down the stairs looking even more beautiful than ever in a gown of peach silk that clung to her graceful curves, with a garland of matching roses in her hair making her appear a woodland fairy princess. He burned with the heat of a Jamaican summer, and she was as cold as the Russian steppes.
Carey could not tell that she seethed inside, nor that she had spent all afternoon with potions and lotions and cucumber slices on her reddened eyes so she would look her best tonight, just to spite him. He only knew that his heart ached when she turned her back on him in the foyer of Wimberly House, pretending to give instructions to the butler as if Pitkin did not know to lock up after them or to leave a footman on duty.
The duke had also taken great pains with his appearance this evening, donning a shoulder-hugging midnight-blue swallowtail coat and skin-tight white satin knee breeches, with a tapestried waistcoat of blue and black stripes. He might have been invisible, for all the attention he received from the other opera-goers. Emonda shrank away from his touch and Gabriel frowned at him. Lady Silber was busy telling Toodles to be a good doggie, mumsy would be home soon.
Only Suzannah welcomed Carey with any enthusiasm, showing off her new gown and the pearls he had given. Even she was more interested in the nosegay Woody handed her, a dainty little bouquet of white rosebuds and blue forget-me-nots that Carey'd had to remind the clunch to purchase.
This was absurd. Carey feared he would start prattling babytalk to Toodles if Rowanne continued to ignore him. When all the cloaks and wraps were fetched, therefore, and he spotted a maid with a peach satin cape matching Miss Wimberly's gown, he intercepted the girl. He carried the garment to Rowanne and softly said, "I am sorry."
She turned her back so he could place the cape around her shoulders. Speaking low enough that no one else could hear, in the confusion of putting on shawls and buttoning gloves, she hissed, "Sorry for what, Your Grace? Sorry your mistress accosted me in the park in view of half the ton, or sorry you shall have to select your dining-room chairs for yourself?"
He lifted the brown curls that trailed down her back so they would lie outside the cape, feeling their silkiness run through his fingers. "I am sorry," he told her, "that my friends cannot have more faith in me." Then he leaned forward and gently kissed the back of her neck.
Rowanne spun around, her mouth open in an astonished O, her eyes wide. No one else saw how tenderly he adjusted the bow of the cape under her chin; no one else heard how sincerely he vowed, "I'll make things right."
Carey swore to do just that, track the woman down and get rid of her once and for all, even if he had to kidnap the jade and ship her to the colonies. By Jupiter, it was time and enough he got to enjoy being a civilian.
His luck held. Instead of spending another three or four days sending men to every haunt of the belle monde and the demimonde, or impatiently waiting for her next dunning letter, Carey found his quarry that very night. There she was, right in the box opposite theirs, waving at him so vigorously that the indecent neckline of her emerald-green gown was in grave danger of becoming her waistline. After the episode in the park, all eyes in the horseshoe theater were upon them, lorgnettes flashing in the glow from the crystal chandelier, the bucks in the pit calling rude encouragement. All eyes, that is, except Miss Wimberly's, which were staring determinedly at the stage. Rowanne had a faint smile on her mouth in enjoyment of the evening's entertainment, and her head nodded with the music. Unfortunately, the curtains were still down. The only performance was her own.
At the first intermission, with Suzannah nearly bouncing in her seat with excitement ("Did you see Giovanelli's sword-play? Who is that lady in the diamond tiara? Why must I not wave to Robin Westlake just because he is sitting in the pit?"), Lord St. Dillon quietly excused himself. He walked out of their box and all across the back of the theater to the other side of the horseshoe, past knowing eyes and smirking lips, raised quizzing glasses, and raised eyebrows. It was a damnably long walk, for a man with a limp.
The door to Mrs. Reardon's box was ajar and he could hear laughter, both masculine and a high feminine trill. He cleared his throat and entered. Two Tulips scurried away instantly, lisping and bowing. One buck left a trifle more slowly, for his own pride's sake, but he left quickly enough after noting St. Dillon's set jaw and determined stance, arms crossed in front of his chest.
Mrs. Reardon laughed again, a high tinkling sound that grated on Carey's ears, and patted the seat next to her. "La, Your Grace, I have been expecting you."
Carey remained standing, somewhat in the shadows toward the rear of the box. He did not bow, nod, or salute her hand, a deliberate insult noted by the scores of watchers. Mrs. Reardon flushed slightly but laughed again. "You are looking very well, Your Grace. Are you enjoying the opera?"
"I am not here to flirt, ma'am. Why did you not tell me you were increasing?"
"Ah, a man who fences with the button off his foil."
"It would be wise to remember that I am a soldier, not a park saunterer who plays at deadly games. When I draw my sword, I have one purpose only." He leaned against the wall of the box, taking weight off his leg. This was not going to be a short interview. "I would have been even more generous, you know, if you had told me about the child."
Mrs. Reardon smiled for the spectators, then waved an ostrich feather fan coyly in front of her face. "Yes, I believe you would have been, but I had other plans at the time. Unfortunately…"
"You thought you'd get Harry to marry you?" Carey forgot where he was for a moment and threw his head back and laughed, adding to the speculation from the nearby boxes. "My cousin was a loose screw, Mrs. Reardon, but he would never have brought home a harlot's son."
Her mouth puckered in ill humor behind the fan. "Did you come here to insult me?"
"Would that get rid of you? We both know different. What do you want?"
"You carry bluntness too far, sirrah. But very well, I shall place my cards on the table also. I want my son Gareth named as your legal heir."
Carey raised his hand to the scar along his jawbone, considering. "Why? So you can take out post-obit loans on me?" He took note of the increased tempo of the fan's waving. "Somehow I doubt I would live long enough to sire a legitimate successor."
"Gareth could be," she protested. "I have proof—"
"No, if you had proof of marriage lines or even promises of Harry's intent, you would have laid them at my door long ago. You are no threat, ma'am, you are just a nuisance." He looked across the theater. "Admittedly an inconvenient and awkward one."
He came out of the shadows then and a few steps closer, so he could speak even more softly. "Whoever is behind your plan, Mrs. Reardon—and I have my suspicions—has been giving you bad advice. I can declare the boy my heir, and my ward. I can legally adopt the child, after I have you declared an unfit mother. I cannot think your fond heart will be broken, for I'd wager it's not mother's milk flowing through your greedy veins, but I could make it so you never saw the boy again. Or a dime of the St. Dillon fortune."
"You cannot do that!" she snapped.
"Oh, no? There are certain privileges to being a duke, but of course you knew that, didn't you? I would naturally insure the future of the estate by tying it up so tightly that you could never see a groat whether I lived or died. Especially if I died. Every banker and barrister I know would be trustee, and I would see that reliable men like the Earl of Clyme stood as guardian to the boy. You know how starched up he is; I cannot think you'd have greater luck with him. Now what say you, madam?"
"I say you are a cold-hearted bastard and a—"
"Ah yes, the nuisance value." Carey brushed off his coat sleeve. "Shall we say a hundred pounds quarterly, for the boy's education and upkeep? Of course, that is provided neither you nor the brat are ever in my vicinity again, or that of my family and friends. The moment I hear of you or from you, the payments stop. Is that clear? You may send your address to my secretary for the first check."
He turned to go but the woman's screeching words stopped him in his tracks: "May you rot in hell, you arrogant bastard. You are offering us hundreds when the Delversons have thousands upon thousands!"
He bowed. "Ah, madam, but there's the point. The boy is not a Delverson."
I
t felt good to be riding again. No, Carey admitted to himself, that was a lie. It hurt like hell to be in the saddle. But as it also hurt to walk, to sit, to clamber in and out of carriages, he might as well hurt while doing something he enjoyed. There were few respectable pastimes he could think of that would be more enjoyable than this: an hour or two on a beautiful crisp spring day, with the air smelling clean and the skies a clear blue, sitting a horse that was perhaps more well mannered than well favored but dependable for all that, and a lovely, gracious, trusting woman riding by his side.
He had come back to their box after the intermission just as the lights were dimmed and the curtains rose. He took his seat next to Rowanne and, in the cover of darkness, squeezed her hand.
Silent communication could say so much: the tingle of the touch, spreading from her gloved hand to the depths of her very being, the confident strength she felt in his grasp, gentled for her comfort and protection. And it could say so little.
That woman was gone from her box at the next intermission.
When Carey drew Rowanne aside after the return to Wimberly House, therefore, and quietly asked if they might ride in the morning, she said yes. She had to know what that touch meant, if it meant anything to him at all.
Emonda never rode and Aunt Cora never stirred before noon in Town. Suzannah would sleep in this morning too, after her dazzling evening, with supper after the opera at a private room in the Clarendon. It was Woody's treat, with St. Dillon's backing, and Jeffers made a great show of presenting Suzannah with the diamond engagement ring she'd spent days selecting. Champagne toasts and
flambé desserts capped the occasion, with even Emonda smiling at the young couple's joy. Aunt Cora fell asleep after the second course and the third toast, and had to be woken for the ride home. "What's that about a dying king? Old Mad George gone at last?" which sent the hotel manager rushing to order black crepe for the windows.
So brother and sister breakfasted alone. Seeing no reason to brangle over the kippers, Rowanne never mentioned her morning's escort when Gabe looked up from his newspapers and noted her riding habit. It was her new one, fawn-colored velvet with gold buttons and a single gold feather in the matching hat. Gabe went back to his papers, idly reminding her to take her groom and enjoy herself. She thought she just might.
John Groom was small and wiry, an ex-jockey. He followed closely behind on the way to the park, where delivery drays and business traffic could have upset the high-bred horses. Once in the park he dropped discreetly back. Just as discreetly Rowanne observed the duke, to make sure he was managing the ride. He looked so at ease on his horse, in his tight buckskins and with the most carefree expression she had seen on his face since his return, that for a moment Rowanne let her own reins go slack. She then had to regain control of her cavorting mare like a rank amateur. Carey suggested a run to shake the fidgets out of the horses while the park was still thin of riders, and they set off at a gallop down one of the paths leading to the water.
Breathless, with her cheeks flushed and her hair coming undone, Rowanne was happy to agree to dismounting by the low stone benches along the water's edge, where a family of ducks was quickly lining up in case they'd brought crumbs. Carey lifted her off the mare, his hands firm at her waist, and John led the horses over to a nearby stand of trees.
"Shall we sit?" Carey asked.
Somehow Rowanne's tongue was stuck to her teeth so she just nodded. Then her legs went pudding-kneed and she would have stumbled except for his hand still on her waist, which was causing the problems in the first place. She did manage to sit on the backless bench without tripping over her skirts or blurting out some inanity like "I wish you would take your hand away because I like it too much." She fussed with a wayward curl and a hairpin, trying to regain her composure.
Carey seemed to be having his own difficulties. He knew what he wanted to say, had rehearsed it since dawn. With her there next to him, though, he forgot everything, his speech, his manners, his name. He just stared at her. He knew in his heart that Rowanne was not the prettiest female he'd ever seen, but guineas to goose feathers, she was beautiful to him! He longed to run his fingers through that silky hair she was repinning, to say nothing of how his hands ached when her raised arms stretched the fabric of her habit across her breasts. Her eyes were pansy-bright today, with gold flickers reflecting the sunlight off the water, and her smooth creamy cheeks were brushed by a fresh glow and that one silly golden feather. Damn, he thought, he just had to get hold of himself.
And Drat, Rowanne thought, more silent communication.
They both started talking at once: "About last night…" and "Did the carpenters… ?" when Boom, a pistol was fired and a ball whistled past Carey's head.
Before Rowanne recognized the noise for a gunshot, she found herself off the bench, on her back, in the dusty ground, with Carey half on top of her. "Shh," he whispered, when she would have squawked. She heard a horse being ridden hard—away, not to their rescue—and could make out John shouting to their own frightened, plunging mounts.
Rowanne would have struggled to her feet but for Carey's weight. "Stay," he ordered. "There may be others." He was listening carefully and peering around the bench.
"Someone tried to kill you!" she whispered hoarsely, shock giving way to reason.
"No, I think not. We were sitting pigeons; he could have done the job easily. I think this was just meant as a reminder of my mortality. I thought I had taken care of that business last night, unless…" He did not finish, all too aware of his position—and Miss Wimberly's. He looked down at Rowanne, just inches away, and grinned.
She was outraged. "You're enjoying this! Someone tries to murder you in broad daylight and you can laugh! I shall never understand you, Carey Delverson."
He was still smiling, an impish gleam in his eyes. "I don't like being used for target practice any more than the next fellow, sweetheart. I'm laughing because I've still got the devil's own luck. I live through the Peninsula only to get shot at in Hyde Park. Then I end up not only alive and unwounded, but right where I have wanted to be for two lifetimes. Maybe three."
In the park? In the dirt? On top of—Rowanne gasped, which Carey felt through the layers of clothing between them. Before she could protest he bent his head and pressed his lips to hers in a moment so sweet, so tender, yet so stirring that the earth moved. No, that was the pounding of the horses' hooves as John ran them over to the bench.
"Miss Wimberly?" he called. "Your Grace? Be ye all right? Should I get the Watch?"
Carey helped her up, helped brush off her habit. "No, John, I doubt there is anything the Watch could do. The marksman is long gone. Did you see anyone?"
"No, milord, that sorry I am, but the horses was carrying on so, I couldn't do more'n see what direction he took."
"That's all right, John," Rowanne told the small man, who was looking as if he blamed himself for the whole thing. "There was no harm done and the horses did not run away."
St. Dillon glanced back at the trees. "Perhaps it was just some squire up from the country, coming home at dawn and mistaking our ducks for partridges."
Rowanne snorted and John scratched his head. "I don't know about that, Your Grace. I think the authorities had ought to be informed. A body should be safe here in the park."
"I doubt there will be any more such incidents, John, so I see no reason to cause a ruckus, do you?"
The look Carey gave the little groom had quailed whole regiments. John shook his head. "No, Your Grace."
"Good. I think we will give out that I had trouble with my horse, the blasted leg, don't you know. Not to fault your riding, my dear Miss Wimberly, but in your effort to come to my aid you dismounted a trifle precipitously. That should explain your, ah, dusty look and take care of any conjecture."
Rowanne had to agree. "Heavens, if Emonda heard about the gunshot she'd have the vapors for a week." And if Gabe heard about the kiss, he'd be issuing a challenge.
Carey looked from the groom to the lady, recombed now and remounted. "John, I am trusting you to keep a watch on your mistress. Rowanne, would you make sure Suzannah does not go off by herself? I do not think there could be a threat to either of you, but just be extra careful."
"And what about you?" Rowanne demanded. "If you won't go to the authorities, what will you do?"
He smiled, showing those roguish dimples. "Are you worried, Miss Wimberly? Don't be. I'll just have a talk with whomever is behind this, and then you and I can continue our own conversation." He winked. "Right where we left off."
Rowanne had to be content with that because St. Dillon would not reveal his suspicions. On the ride home John stayed so close she had no chance to quiz Carey about his intentions, or which conversation he meant to take up again. At the door, when John led Rowanne's horse away and a boy came to hold St. Dillon's, he only told her, "We'll talk more when this hobble is done. I am just an old-fashioned warrior who cannot wage two campaigns at once." He took her arm, removed her dirt-soiled glove, and kissed the palm of her hand. Smiling broadly, he declared, "And I intend to win both."
Before going upstairs to change, Rowanne went through the house to the kitchen door and out to the mews, where John was rubbing down the horses. The ex-jockey scratched his head when he heard what she wanted, then nodded and called one of the stable boys to finish with the mare.
John nodded again when she left. So that's the way of it, he chuckled to himself, hurrying to the kitchen to up his wager with that stick Pitkin, who never could pick a winner.
On her way back Rowanne passed Emonda in the hall. There was Rowanne in all her dirt, her hair straggling down her back, the feather on her hat sadly broken, and Emonda cordially inquired, "Did you have a pleasant ride? That's nice," before drifting off down the hall in a blissful haze. Rowanne's suspicions were confirmed when Pitkin disclosed that Lord Clyme had left for Whitehall much later than usual, after partaking of a second breakfast with Lady Clyme.
Nodcocks and ninnyhammers, both of them, Rowanne decided as she finally reclined in her bath. Gabe and Emonda were obviously besotted with each other, and must have come to some kind of private understanding at last. Of course neither would mention it until the proper moment, as if propriety had anything to do with love or affection or that delicious feeling that made one's bones turn into blanc mange and one's mind into butter. She must be hungry.
Rowanne stepped out of the bath and sat by the fire to dry her hair, sipping cocoa and nibbling on a sweet roll. She felt warm and glowing, and neither the fire nor the bath was responsible. At least one thing was clear now: All those practice kisses were for naught. All the experiments with young men, old men, practiced flirts, and green boys, all had been doomed from the start. She was never going to find a kiss to match Carey Delverson's, not that stolen moment of tenderness at Hillary Worthington's ball, not the sudden rush of passion this morning in the dirt. It was the man, not the kiss, who stirred her. Only Carey Delverson could make her wonder whether she walked on water or drowned. Of course. She knew that.
Rowanne smiled, a chocolate mustache on her lips, dreamily thinking of the wonder of it all, the magic that St. Dillon wrought.
If he lived.
John's report the next day was distressing. John's condition was dismal. The small man had a split lip and a blackened eye and a broken rib.
"John, are you all right? No, I can see you are not. Shall I call for the doctor? John, what about His Grace… ?"
"Don't fatch yourself, Miss Wimberly, the duke never got into the rowdy-dow. A fine set-to it was too, I can tell you. Why, I whopped that vermin something fierce. He'll never hang around outside Lord St. Dillon's house again, I swan."
"You mean there really was someone following his lordship and you caught him? Good man!"
John scratched his head. "Well, it was more like he caught me. Wanted to know what I was doing thereabouts. So one thing led to another, and here I be, but the gallows-bait is in no better shape, my lady. Why, I clobbered that one-legged son of a—"
"One-legged?"
" Yes'm. Broke my rib with his wooden limb, he did, when I was down. But I got up again, Miss Wimberly, you'd be that proud, and made kindling out of the blasted stump. Old Cyclops picked up a tree branch but I tipped him a leveler, I did."
"Cyclops?"
"And uglier nor an alley cat from Hell with that patch over one eye. Don't worry, he won't be bothering His Grace none for many a day."
Nor shaving him, nor laying out his clothes nor looking after him like a mother hen. Poor Rudd.
Poor John. His life was likely worth less than a brass farthing. "I think you deserve a vacation, John, so you can recuperate, a paid vacation of course. I know you have not seen your mother in the country since last Christmas. Are you well enough to leave soon? Tonight?"
John nodded. "That's right generous of you, Miss Wimberly. But what about the duke?"
Poor Rowanne.
T
o flee was the act of a coward. To remain, to explain to Lord St. Dillon that yes, she was a managing female and yes, she had been meddling where she had no business, that no, she did not trust him to have proper concern for his well-being—and why his well-being should possibly matter to her—would have been the act of a hero. Or a fool. She fled.
"I thought we were to meet Carey at the house to look over wallpaper patterns this afternoon," Suzannah reminded.
"We were, but I forgot I had promised Lady Quinton that I would stop in at her literary salon today. She used to be my governess, then my companion, and I would hate to disappoint her. I believe she is having a Herr Doktor Wurthemburger come to discuss his paper on the new science of phrenology. That's where a person's character is determined from the lumps on his head. I was sorry to have missed last week's lecture by a Cambridge professor who spoke on the music of the spheres in Shakespeare's dramas. Should you like to accompany me, Emonda? I know you do not like to visit Delverson House."
Suzannah hid a chuckle behind her hand while Emonda fluttered. "Oh, dear me, no, ah, that is, I have another engagement. I, ah, promised Gabe, oh my, Lord Clyme, to listen to the first draft of his speech."
The silly widgeon was scarlet to the roots of her hair so Rowanne took pity on her and turned to invite her aunt. Lady Silber had discovered Suzannah's gothic romances from Hatchard's and was ensconced in a comfortable chair by the fire, Toodles on her lap, a box of bonbons on the table by her side. "Germs on tits? I should think not! What is this world coming—Oh, a German scientist, why didn't you say so?" She went back to her book.
Rowanne straightened her bonnet, a very fetching affair with silk buttercups sewn to the brim and a yellow bow tied at her cheek. It really was a shame to waste such a confection on a bunch of bluestockings, but safer in the long run. Perhaps Lady Quinton would invite her to stay for dinner.
"You really do not need me to pick the wallpaper, Suzannah, dear," she said on her way out, "just take your maid and avoid cabbage roses."
Emonda wandered off in her rosy haze to plan the perfect ensemble for hearing a speech, and Lady Silber was drowsing over the book, so Suzannah was thoroughly bored when the letter came.
Pitkin brought her the note on his salver, his wrinkled nose expressing disapproval of Very Young Ladies receiving private communication. Suzannah twirled her engagement ring as she removed the folded sheet. If the tiny diamond did not blind him, her
blasé yawn should prove her worldliness.
The message on the white sheet read: Dearest, we must meet. Green Park, south gate, in an hour. Please don't fail me. Yr. devoted servant, Heywood.
Suzannah clapped her hands in excitement. The letter was certainly not from Woody; he couldn't spell that well. He would never call her dearest, never sign his name Heywood, and he would never, ever tempt Carey's wrath by meeting her privately. He knew she would never go either, not after giving her word. Therefore the message had to be a ruse to involve her in whatever it was Carey and Miss Wimberly and that strange battered little groom weren't revealing. Good, then she could go.
She'd do it for Carey's sake. He really was bang up to the mark and deserved better than another scandal to give Miss Wimberly a disgust of him.
Complimenting herself on her foresight and good sense, Suzannah collected all of her pin money in case she needed to pay off some extortionist, a hooded cloak so she would not be recognized, and a heavy paperweight to stuff in her reticule as a weapon. She did not even think of having such a glorious adventure without her best friend, so she took the time to send a footman round to Woody's rooms with a note telling him where to meet her. Of course, in typical Delverson fashion, she did not wait to see if Woody got the message. She just made sure that no one could accuse her of impetuous or clandestine behavior by nudging Lady Silber awake enough to tell the old lady she and Woody would be going to Green Park.
"Wed in Gretna Green on a lark? And you just let her go, Emmy? I don't believe it!" Carey was furious. Aside from his valet being battered and his agents still failing to locate a certain address, he had been waiting half the day for Rowanne to show up at the house, and now this! He had to believe it, though, when Suzannah's maid returned with Woody's note. "I'll shred him to pulp. I'll grind him to sawdust. I'll—"
The trembling maid also delivered the information that Miss Delverson had taken all of her money, a heavy cloak, and, peculiarly, a glass paperweight, the one with the winter scene that you could turn upside down and make snow.
"Damn, my father gave her that. She's not coming back." He struck his cane against a chair and the maid fled without being dismissed. "She gave her word," he thundered, "and I believed her."
Lord St. Dillon had sticking plaster on his chin where he had cut himself shaving, dog footprints on his coat, and new gray hairs for him to run his hands through in outrage and anxiety. "Fiend take all women. How could you have let this happen, Emmy?"
Emonda squeaked that it had been Lady Silber who took the message. That lady was passed out in her chair from the Madeira she had consumed, for her nerves. The dog was eating the bonbons. Emonda had been resting, she told him, and Miss Wimberly was at a literary salon, to which he muttered "Pudding heart." Emonda took this last to mean herself and started weeping all the more.
"Will you cease that infernal whimpering, Emmy? I have to think." He stomped around the sitting room, downing the remains of Aunt Cora's glass and idly taking one of the sweets. Even Toodles knew better than to growl at the irate nobleman.
"They cannot have been gone long," he finally declared. "We'll have to go after
them."
"We will?"
"We cannot let our family bring any more disgrace to Miss Wimberly. She was sponsoring Suzannah; the scandal will be laid at her door. Get your cloak, Emmy. You have to come along to say you were with Suzannah and Woody the whole time. There cannot be that many posting houses on the North Road and no one could forget Woody's hair, so we ought to be able to track them down before dark. I'll need you to hold the horses since I don't even have Rudd. I don't want to take any other servants to add to the gossip."
Now Emonda would rather have gone to Hell in a handcart. Delverson on one of his good days—and this was assuredly not one of them—but whatever scandal fell on Miss Wimberly would also shadow her brother. Lord Clyme's speech, his whole political career could be in jeopardy. For Gabriel she would even—if she did not faint—hold the horses.
Rowanne decided not to stay at Lady Quinton's for dinner after all, not when the sausage-fingered savant expressed particular interest in examining Fraulein Wimberly's hollows and extrusions. She arrived back in Grosvenor Square in time to find Woody arguing on the doorstep with Pitkin.
"High-britches over here wouldn't let me in, Miss Wimberly. Says no one is receiving. I say, Suzannah ain't with you, is she?"
"Why, no, I thought she was going to look at wallpaper with you." Rowanne untied her bonnet strings.
"I was a bit late getting to the house. Carey—he said I may call him Carey," the boy put in with pride, "had sent me to his own tailor. Devilish long time it took, fittings and all. When I got to the house, Suzannah wasn't there. St. Dillon's man Rudd said she'd never been, and Carey had gone off in a pet.
'Pon rep, you don't think the duke would maul his own valet, do you? Rudd wouldn't say."
Rowanne said a silent prayer and handed her bonnet and gloves to the butler, who was desperately trying to get her attention about something. "What is it, Pitkin? Woody is practically family, you can say whatever you think I should know."
"It's Lady Silber, Miss Wimberly, she's carrying on something fierce. She claims the Duke of St. Dillon has run off to Gretna Green with Lady Clyme."
On second thought, Rowanne wished Pitkin had kept his information to himself. She felt all the blood suddenly drain from her head and wondered if she was going to swoon for the first time in her life. But Woody was accusing the prickly butler of checking the wine cellars once too often, and Pitkin was adding that Lady Silber suspected the duke of poisoning the dog too, so Rowanne decided to get the facts straight, then have the vapors.
Aunt Cora was moaning and Toodles was writhing on the floor at her feet. Rowanne took one look at the empty box of sweets and ordered Pitkin to take the dog outside, quickly, for the sake of the carpets.
"Now, Aunt, what is this about Lord St. Dillon and Emonda?"
"What I'd like to know," Woody put in, "is where's Suzannah?"
"You!" Aunt Cora looked with loathing at Woody and immediately threw her book at him. "You are the cause of this whole hubbub, you hot-blooded young jackanapes. If you'd been thinking with what the good Lord put in your head instead of what He put in your pants, we wouldn't be in this coil!"
"But where's Suzannah?" repeated Woody, easily catching the book, although a letter fell out of it to the floor at his feet. "What!" he exclaimed when he picked up the page and glanced at it. "I never—"
Rowanne snatched it from him and read it quickly. The letter may or may not have had anything to do with Emonda and Carey's flight to Scotland, but it obviously took priority, especially after the gunshot in the park yesterday. Rowanne decided against giving Woody that news; he was pale enough as is, freckles standing out like raisins in gruel. "Buck up, Woody, we'll find her. She can't have gone very far, even if there has been an abduction, and we know where to start."
Rowanne ordered up Gabe's curricle because it was faster than her chaise and needed less attendants. The fewer servants who could carry tales the better. If only she hadn't sent John on that fool's errand, but no use crying over spilled milk, or blood. Rowanne took the reins after another look at Woody's pale face and shaking hands.
They were fortunate. A group of nursery maids and off-duty footmen were still gathered near the park entrance, discussing the kidnapping. The Watch had just left to make his report, scanty though it could be, since no one recognized either the young lady or her captor.
"Hired coach, it looked to be," one of the footmen volunteered when Rowanne asked about her missing "sister" and Woody jingled some coins in his pocket. "With job horses."
A fat nursemaid pushed her pram closer to Rowanne's carriage. "The driver was a good-looking nob, dark like the little gal. We thought it could have been her brother at first, so didn't say nothing when they started having a real argle-bargle."
"Then 'e snatched 'er up an' tossed 'er in the coach," a chestnut vendor took up, "but your little miss, she put up a good fight. A real game 'un, she looked. Got the snabbler a smart 'un with 'er ridicule, she did, popped 'is cork."
"We tried to give chase, miss, honest we did," the footman said, "but we was on foot and lost them. But they was headed out of town, all right, on the Richmond road. Should be easy to trace, with the driver dripping claret down his shirt front."
Rowanne and Woody set out on the chase as soon as they had distributed largesse and sent the footman back to Grosvenor Square with a message for Gabe. They stopped at posting houses every once in a while to make sure they were on the right road, following a hired coach whose driver had a bloody nose.
Carey was not as lucky. None of the ostlers he interviewed recalled a red-headed sprig or a dark-haired wench. It was growing late, his leg was aching from getting up and down from the curricle so often, and Emonda had wept herself into such a limp rag that he did not see how she could hold on to the seat much longer. Defeated, he turned back.
When Pitkin announced that Lord Clyme was home, Emonda gasped, "Oh, no, I couldn't," and ran up the stairs. Carey limped on down the hall.
Now Gabriel had come home from a long day of political harangues, expecting a serene household dedicated to his comfort and an admiring little audience of his own. He did not expect his house to be in an uproar, his aunt raving that his own intended had been abducted.
Not even St. Dillon would go so far, Gabe mourned, sinking into a chair. She must have gone willingly. He did not understand what Rowanne hoped to accomplish by chasing after them, for if Emonda preferred the dashing duke with his vast fortune and practiced charm, there was nothing anyone could do. Gabe poured himself a brandy and tried to drink to Emonda's happiness. He couldn't quite do it, so he tried again.
Thus when Carey Delverson staggered through the door, Gabe's first intent was to slap him across the cheek in the accepted manner of issuing a challenge. "Vile seducer," he shouted. "I'll meet you on the field of honor, if you have any."
But more than his judgment was clouded. Gabe's aim was off, and bitter resentment lent strength to his arm. He struck Carey a heavy blow to the chin. The suddenness of the attack combined with the weakness in his leg sent Carey to the floor. Before he could say "I haven't even seen your sister today," Aunt Cora started beating him about the head with her book. Now that Carey was down, Toodles bravely waded into the fray, snarling and savaging the duke's leather boot.
That's when Rudd lurched in, looking like the remains of a carriage wreck.
"B
loody war was safer'n civilian life, I reckon, Major." Rudd was brandishing a makeshift crutch and a large pistol.
"And made a damn sight more sense," Carey noted, accepting Gabe's hand to get to his feet Rudd moved the barrel of his weapon until it was trained on Toodles, still gnawing at St. Dillon's boot. Lady Silber quickly snatched her pet out of Rudd's vicinity, though the valet was tempted, seeing the gold tassel swinging from the mutt's mouth.
"I didn't intend to knock you down, you know," Gabe apologized. "Can't be good form, but I've never done this before. Sorry." Then he realized whom he was addressing. "Oh, Lud, what have you done with the woman I love?"
Carey brushed himself off. "Blister me if I even know who—Is that why Emmy's upstairs crying her eyes out about dragging your name through the mud?"
"She's upstairs? Oh, my precious darling, to think of me at a time like this. I must go to her at once."
He started to dash from the room, but Carey cried "Halt!"
Gabe was not a soldier, had never been a soldier, and even if his befogged mind recognized that tone of authority, it was not listening. If Gabe was disguised enough to throw caution to the wind and challenge one of Delverson's Devils, he was surely enough above himself to ignore a direct order in his own house. So Rudd extended his crutch as the gentleman tore past, and Gabe went flying.
"Civilians," the ex-batman muttered in disgust.
It was Carey's turn to offer the other man a hand. "A word before you leave, my lord, if you would be so kind. I believe it is possible that my sister has been abducted from this house. Do you have any knowledge of her whereabouts?"
"It was your sister?" Gabe cast a dark look at his aunt. "That must be why Rowanne and Jeffers took my curricle."
"The deuce you say, now she's gone missing too?" Carey took the snuffbox out of his pocket, just to have something in his hand.
"No, thanks, I don't indulge. Messy habit." Gabe was pouring two glasses of wine. "Rowanne sent back a note that they're setting out on the Richmond road. I couldn't make head nor tails of it, for Gretna Green is in quite the opposite direction."
"I know, I've already been halfway there. Damn, I wish I knew what sent Rowanne south."
Rudd cleared his throat. "Pardon, Major, but you know the man you had looking for the female and her brat or that other cove? He reported back while you were out and the address he gave was in Richmond. I got it here. That's why I come, and brought the pistols. The dog too, in case we need to be tracking."
Carey didn't have the heart to tell poor battered Rudd the dog was a sight hound and couldn't follow a scent any better than Toodles. He smiled and said, "Good man! Damn if I don't recommend you for a medal, but I suppose you'd rather have a raise." Carey was happier now that he wasn't merely chasing shadows. In fact he was almost lighthearted, eagerly looking forward to the coming confrontation. As in any battle, the waiting was the hardest part. Now he simply had to set fresh horses in the traces, drive like hell, and commit a little mayhem. Of course he wasn't thrilled that Rowanne was involved—and neither, it turned out, was Gabe.
"Do you mean you knew someone was going to attack you? And now my sister is going there, where you need pistols? You are all Bedlamites, and I am coming with you."
"Have you ever shot a man? I thought not. Rudd and I can handle it; you'll stay here." It was simple and direct, and an insult to Gabe's honor. He started to bluster but Carey tempered the order: "I think there will be a ransom note by morning. If I am not back, I need you here to answer it. I'll leave you a blank draft for my bank."
Gabe nodded, satisfied. He really would rather comfort Emonda, as long as his sister was not in danger. "That won't be necessary. I can lay out the blunt until you get back with Rowanne."
"It could be considerable. The swine knows how much I am worth." They shook hands and Carey solemnly told the other man, "I'll bring her back." Then he smiled and added on his way through the door, "Of course, you might offer the kidnapper double if he'll keep Suzannah. The chit's always been more trouble than she's worth."
Rowanne and Woody did not drive quite as fast as Carey was wont to. Only a handful of madmen did. Nor did they have any definite destination. They knew they were on the right road because various farmers and tradesmen had seen a carriage fitting their description, the driver holding a bloodied cloth to his nose, but they were running out of funds, daylight, and well-trafficked road.
"They could have turned off anywhere without our knowing it," Woody fretted. "These lanes could go on for miles, with Jupiter knows how many abandoned farms or crumbled manor houses."
"You've been reading Suzannah's gothic romances again, haven't you? We'll just have to stop at every likely place we see and hope someone recognizes the man's description. If he is staying around here, the locals will know him, although without the bloody nose he is just a dark-haired, well set-up man. There's an inn up ahead so we'll start there. I for one could use some food too. We drove through teatime, and heaven knows when we'll get dinner."
Woody brightened, as she knew he would, and the innkeep was more friendly than the others they had consulted along the road. He turned positively talkative once he found out they were a respectable brother and sister, trying to return a purse the gentleman had left at a posting house where they had sat together. "You must mean Mr. Fieldstone. It's my carriage he's hired at that. Gone to London to fetch back his cousin, he is. Not that I should be gossiping about the customers, but the chit was set on marrying a fortune hunter."
Woody jumped up and would have given the game away, except for a sharp kick under the table. "I, ah, have a cramp in my leg. Sitting too long in the carriage, don't you know. I hope this Fielding person lives nearby so we can deliver the purse and head home."
Rowanne smiled at him. There was hope for the boy yet. She passed the boiled potatoes.
"That's Mr. Fieldstone, and he's renting the Turner place, him and his missus and the boy. You can't miss the house, it's up the hill from Endicott's farm and the third drive on your left, or is it right? Anyways, it's got a big oak out front. Maybe an elm."
They found the house eventually, then drove on past to hide the curricle and
horses in the woods and make plans. Woody was all for knocking on the front door
and demanding Suzannah's release. Rowanne suspected that someone who had gone to the trouble of abducting a female in broad daylight was not going to be quite so easily convinced to give up his prize. She had no better plan, however, since neither she nor Woody had thought to bring a weapon or reinforcements.
"Perhaps we should creep up to the house and peek in the windows to see how many accomplices he has," she offered. "Or we could set fire to the barn and grab up Suzannah when they run out to check. Or maybe we should go back to the inn and get help."
The discussion was ended before it began when a scream pierced the air. Woody charged the door, yelling "I'm coming, Suky!"
Rowanne had no choice but to follow him, and burst through the entry on his heels, just in time to look down the barrel of a pistol in Mr. Lawrence Fieldstone's left hand. His right held a second weapon trained on Woody.
The Reardon woman was across the room, holding still another gun to Suzannah's head. "I told you we should have gagged the chit," she snarled at Fieldstone, "but no, that was too rough for your little cousin. Now look what we've got."
"What we've got is more hostages and no one skulking around outside. Come in, come in," he invited Woody and Rowanne, his gesture with the guns making it clear they could not refuse.
Woody rushed to Suzannah's side. "Are you all right, Suky? They haven't hurt you? Why were you screaming?"
"I'm fine, just hungry. I thought I heard a carriage go by and hoped it would stop, and it was you! Oh, Woody!"
"How sweet." Fieldstone was cut from the Delverson mold, just as Woody had explained, but his eyes were hard and cold, and his mouth wore a sneer instead of Carey's ready smile. His nose, of course, was red and swollen. "The gallant knight coming to rescue his lady in distress. Unfortunately, Sir Galahad, you forgot your lance," he taunted, before turning to Rowanne. "But here is a treasure indeed. Here, if I am not mistaken, is my dear cousin's light-o'-love. My, how the luck seems to fall, Regina."
Mrs. Reardon was not as pleased. "There's too many, Larry. We can't keep them all here without the neighbors seeing something. Their coach must be somewhere nearby, and what if they stopped at the inn for directions?"
"Astute as always, my dear. No, we shall have to make other arrangements. We cannot just release them, not this veritable plethora of hostages begging to be ransomed, although I doubt the country turnip can fetch much. I should think the lady"—he leered in Rowanne's direction—"would fetch a pretty penny from her brother. At least her disappearance should cost dear Carrisbrooke untold anguish. I'll enjoy that."
Rowanne did not think she would, not the way Fieldstone was running his eyes over her and licking his bottom lip. Suzannah was wide-eyed, while Woody's gaze was darting to the fireplace poker. She herself had noted a heavy pewter pitcher on the table nearby and was calculating odds. Three against two was good, but the two had three pistols, and that was very bad. In addition, Suzannah was tied and had to be counted a handicap. Maybe she and Woody should have done a tad more planning. Rowanne was not really frightened, for the two abductors were obviously interested in the money. Not even Gabe would be nodcock enough to pay ransom for a dead sister. Still, Fieldstone was looking at her as if she were naked before him. She could not like it
Neither could Mrs. Reardon. "We have to get them out of here, Larry, soon."
He brushed her away. "I wonder what we can get for the lot?"
Then a deep voice from behind him answered: "A one-way trip to Botany Bay, if you are lucky."
Carey!
Then the dogs of Hell were loosed, or Old Scratch at any rate. The big animal rushed past Fieldstone, setting him off balance. Mrs. Reardon screamed. Fieldstone recovered and turned. Rowanne grabbed for the pitcher, Woody dived for the poker, Suzannah screamed. The dog barked, shots were fired, a baby screamed. More shots, more screams, more smoke than a body could see through to discover who stood, who lay fallen. Then came almost silence, except for a child's whimpers, somewhere upstairs.
And Rudd, coming through a back door, disgusted. "Dash it, Major, you didn't leave me nothing to do."
Fieldstone was on the floor, a ball in his shoulder, a hundred-pound dog on his chest drooling in his face. Carey had a streak of blood across one cheek, and an armful of Rowanne dabbing at the scratch with her handkerchief. Hearing Rudd's voice and recalling the others present, she leapt away. Carey grinned and reloaded. Mrs. Reardon was rubbing her arm, and an exultant Woody was holding her pistol while Suzannah cheered.
Rudd nodded at the youth approvingly. "Guess he's smarter than he looks."
To which Carey mumbled for Rowanne's ears only, "Toodles is smarter than Woody looks." Aloud he congratulated the young man on his quick thinking. "Although I think we shall discuss later precisely what you intended by bringing Miss Wimberly into danger, without even a proper weapon."
Woody looked abashed, but Rowanne claimed it was all her own fault, for she would insist on rushing off without a groom, in hopes of protecting Suzannah's name. Unfortunately that reminded Carey of his sister, being happily untied by Woody, now that Rudd guarded the Reardon woman, "You and I, miss, shall certainly have a conversation about traipsing off on your own." Carey spoke slowly, fixing the girl with a cold stare that promised he would make up for whatever lapses in her education an indulgent papa had allowed. "Hell and tarnation, Suky, don't you ever think of your reputation?"
She just grinned at him, that same Delverson smile, dimples and twinkling eyes. "But the wife of a country squire does not have to guard her name so closely, Carey. Who's going to care, back in Dorset, that the soon-to-be Mrs. Jeffers went to visit her noble relations and took a walk without her maid? It wasn't as if I were going to be a duchess or anything, you know," she added slyly, bringing roses to Rowanne's cheeks.
Carey grinned back. "Minx. By the by, how come neither you nor Emonda told me that Fieldstone had visited Delmere with our cousins after the governor passed away? That would have saved a lot of pother, Suky."
"Because you'd ordered us never to mention his name again, remember? And I always try to obey orders, Major," she answered with a giggle.
Carey looked at Woody, pityingly. "Are you sure you want the brat?" Woody just smiled, ear to silly ear. Carey shrugged. "Suzannah, why don't you and the hero go upstairs and see about the child, while I take care of some loose threads here."
"He's hungry," Mrs. Reardon wearily told Suzannah. "We sent the nursemaid off for the day."
"Good. Come on, Woody, let's go practice. And see what else is in the kitchen." The two skipped out as if there had never been any shots fired, never been any danger. Rowanne sank into a chair.
"Poor puss," Carey sympathized, coming behind her to quickly grasp her shoulder. Then he kissed the top of her head—and put a pistol in her hand.
Carey whistled Scratch away and bent to heave Fieldstone onto another chair. He tore away the man's coat and shirt, wadding the latter to press against the wound. "You'll live, unfortunately."
"No thanks to you, you miserable—"
Carey pressed a little harder. Fieldstone bit his lip and subsided. Carey removed his own neckcloth, none too fresh after the day's events, but better than Fieldstone deserved. As he wrapped the makeshift bandage, he asked, "Why, Larry? I offered Mrs., ah, Fieldstone, I assume?" The woman nodded. "A fair deal, and you had ample funds from Harry. Why did you have to be so blasted greedy?"
"It wasn't just the money, damn you. It was you, the way you always treated me like dirt because I was base-born."
