The Princess & the Pea (4 page)

"... they arrived late last night for a nice, relaxing stay here in the country before the mad rush of London, and I expect you to be pleasant to them." Lady Millicent Templeton drummed her fingertips on the polished mahogany dining table and glared at her nephew, who appeared far too busy piling his plate with breakfast items from the sideboard to pay her proper attention. "And do sit down, Quentin. I simply detest it when you plow through your food without even the slightest concession to civilization."

"Sorry, Aunt Millicent." Quentin grinned and plopped down in the nearest chair. "And by the way, I might point out. I am unfailingly pleasant, and also well-mannered, kindhearted and thrifty."

"Thrifty?" She snorted with disbelief. "You, Quentin Alister Bainbridge, may well be thrifty when dealing with your own money, but you seem to go through mine as if it were as free and plentiful as the very air you breathe."

"Ouch." Quentin adopted an injured tone. "That stings, Aunt Millicent, it really does. You know I shall pay you back every penny someday."

"It's the someday that concerns me." Millicent sighed with exasperation. "I daresay your father would not approve of the vast and unending amounts of money your project seems to require on virtually a daily basis."

"Of course he wouldn't." Quentin said cheerfully, slathering marmalade on a bun still steaming from the oven. "But as long as he is stationed in India, or wherever the Crown sends him on Her Majesty's Service, we needn't fear his displeasure." He popped the bread into his mouth.

"It's not just the money. Lord knows, I have more than enough to spare. And with no children of my own I have always thought of you as something of a son." She tossed him a fond glance. He smiled in return and reached for another bun. "Still, I can't help but think this tinkering of yours will lead to no good. Imagine a member of the aristocracy ... Why, if society ever learned you were actually working with your hands ..." She shook her head in anticipation of the dire consequences. "Really, Quentin, it's so terribly ..."

"American?" he suggested.

"I was going to say democratic."

He shrugged. "I scarcely think there's much difference. And I like Americans. Especially the way they think about inventions and creativity and forging ahead into the next century."

Millicent huffed. "Well, it's simply not acceptable here."

"I'm half American, Aunt Millicent."

"I know that only too well." She shook her head mournfully. "I have tried my best through these years to overcome that flaw."

"You're American," he said gently.

She waved away his comment, her tone lofty. "That's entirely different, my boy. I have adapted. Today, I am as thoroughly British as anyone, even if my family does not date back to the Crusades. If your mother had lived past your infancy, she too would have adjusted." She narrowed her eyes and glared. "I have long suspected you use that claim of American blood merely to excuse unacceptable behavior."

"Aunt Millicent!" Again, he assumed a wounded look that belied the twinkle in his eye. "I'm shocked you would think such a thing of me."

She selected a scone from her plate and buttered it lightly. "No, Quentin, you would be shocked if I did not."

"Touché."
He saluted her with a crust of bread and an ail-too-contagious grin. "Now. tell me about these friends of yours."

"An admirable way to change the subject. Very well. Let's see." She paused to sort and sift through the memories of what seemed a lifetime ago or. perhaps, only yesterday. "Phoebe and I met during my first season in London. We were both young and American and. while we were accompanied by our families, without the kind of female companionship one tends to take for granted until it's absent. Of course, I had the company of your father, graciously presenting his American sister-in-law to society. I believe you were five that year."

"I was seven."

"Whatever." She waved away the interruption. "Where was I? Oh, yes, Phoebe and I became bosom chums. Even when she returned home we kept up our friendship. Scarcely a month goes by without my posting a letter to her or receiving one from her.

"Shortly after her return she met and married Henry White. He made a fortune in cows or beef or something along those lines: I forget what exactly. I was introduced to him on their arrival last night, and he is as charming in person as her letters had led me to believe." She grinned wickedly. "And still quite a handsome figure of a man."

"Aunt Millicent!" A note of shocked amusement rang in his voice.

She cast him a withering glance. "I am no longer a sweet, young innocent but I'm far from doddering on my last legs. One can, after all, appreciate a fine specimen of horseflesh without an urgent desire to ride the beast for oneself."

He laughed. "Now, who is shocking whom?"

"I suspect there are still lingering traces of America in my blood as well as yours," she said curtly. "At any rate, Phoebe has come to give her daughters the pleasure of a London season, just as we had. I suspect the ultimate goal is to find the older girl, and possibly the younger one as well, a husband."

"What are they like?" he said cautiously.

"Do not take that tone." she said reproachfully. "They are not cross-eyed and splay-legged. In fact. I am rather perplexed as to why at least the eldest has not wed before now. Both girls are lovely. Cecily, or rather they call her Cece, in a somewhat striking, vivid sort of way, and Emily in a more delicate, graceful fashion." She studied him thoughtfully. "They are heirs to a quite impressive fortune."

He stopped in midbite and stared. "I do not need an heiress."

"Stuff and nonsense," she said airily. "Everyone needs an heiress."

"Then let me rephrase my comment." He slanted her a serious gaze. "I do not need a wife."

"Wrong again." She smiled pleasantly. "A wife is exactly what you do need and have needed for a long time. You are, how old now? Twenty-six?"

"Twenty-eight."

"Whatever." She continued without pause. "It is high time for you to marry, time for you to accept the responsibilities of your position in society, and past time for you to give up this folly upon which you insist on squandering your life and my money."

"What kind of folly?" a lilting female voice asked. Cece and Emily stood framed in the doorway like a Renaissance portrait. For a moment, a long unfelt patriotic pride glowed in Millicent. American girls were indeed enchanting, the very picture of health and vitality. No wonder their British counterparts never seemed to warm up to these cousins from across the pond.

"Good morning." Quentin sprang to his feet, a look of appreciation in his eye. Excellent: there was hope for the boy yet.

"Good morning, girls. Please, join us." Millicent gestured to the food-laden sideboard.

"Wonderful, I'm famished." Cece headed toward the feast with a determined step. "I feel as if I haven't eaten in weeks."

"She has, you know." Emily smiled. "She tends to exaggerate, but—" she glanced at the sideboard—"it does look good."

The girls quickly filled their plates.

"Now then." Cece said as soon as they were seated. She fixed Quentin with a steady stare. "Who are you and what is this folly of yours?"

"Cece!" Emily gasped in obvious dismay at her sister's lack of restraint.

Quentin grinned, and hope surged through Millicent. It was a rare woman who could resist the boyish charm of that smile. Or the blond, blue-eyed good looks of the man it belonged to.

"I'm Quentin Bainbridge. Aunt Millicent's sister was my mother. And my folly ..." his eyes sparkled."... I could show you, if you wish."

"Even I haven't actually seen it." Millicent murmured.

"You've never asked." Quentin chided. "Well, ladies?"

Cece's eyes widened with interest, her tone teasing. "Ohm I do so love a good folly. What about you, Emily?"

Emily smiled halfheartedly. "A folly? How ... nice. Don't you think, Cece, we should perhaps find out exactly what kind of folly this is before we—"

"Don't be such a stick, Em." Excitement rang in her voice. "What better way to start our trip to England than with a folly? Any folly." She cast Quentin a suspicious look. "It is a good folly, isn't it? Well worth our time, I mean."

Quentin nodded somberly. "If I do say so myself, it is an excellent folly."

Cece jumped to her feet. "Well then, shall we go?"

Millicent groaned. "If you insist on going to see this creation of his, at least call for a carriage. He has arranged to use the abandoned stables of a neighbor for his project, just beyond the borders of my estate."

"Is it too far to walk?" Emily said hopefully.

Quentin stood and shrugged. "Not for me."

Cece nodded. "It's a glorious day out. A brisk walk will do us all a world of good."

Emily sighed and rose to her feet. "I hope you know what you're doing. The last time you wanted to see some kind of folly we ended up—"

"Emily!" Cece warned.

Emily smiled innocently.

Quentin quirked a puzzled brow. "You have seen follies before?"

"Oh, once or twice." Cece said lightly. "There's nothing like a good folly, I always say." She headed toward the door. Quentin and Emily trailing in her wake.

"And there do seem to be no shortage of follies these days." Emily said under her breath.

Quentin ushered her through the doorway. "Well, my dear, it
is
1895. We're on the dawn of a new century. Think of all the wonders that lie ahead. This is the most exciting period in the history of mankind. And what is a folly today may well be commonplace tomorrow. By the by, tell me about that other folly you referred to ..."

They strolled out of sight and their voices faded.

Millicent reached for her tea and smiled with satisfaction. Even if she had failed to make a match between Quentin's father and Cece's mother during that first season so long ago, perhaps, now, with the son and the daughter—either daughter—she had another chance.

The doors of the old stables were opened wide. Cece stood on the threshold, dividing the sunshine of the day behind her from the dark shadows within, and squinted in an effort to speed her eyes adjustment to the change of light.

"Gracious!" Emily gasped. "What on earth are those contraptions?"

"My dear lady." Quentin said, a teasing note in his voice, "they are not contraptions. They are what you so callously called my folly."

Before her stood three—or at least it appeared to be three—separate and distinct mechanical creations, all in various stages of repair or, possibly, disrepair. What on earth were they? All metal and wire and spokes ...

"Hell and damnation." Cece said under her breath.

"Cece!" Emily said sharply.

Cece barely heard her. She moved forward without thinking, a hand outstretched to touch—"Horseless carriages! How wonderful!" She circled the center vehicle eagerly, an odd crossbreed of a small two-seater buggy and a bicycle. With wheels out of all proportion to its size, it appeared a fanciful confection of levers and gears and ingenuity. Excitement quivered through her blood. "Does it work?"

"Of course it works." A deep, laughter-filled voice sounded behind her. She whirled at the words and stared at the figure framed in the doorway. Bright sunlight behind him blinded her to anything but his silhouette: tall and broad-shouldered, he seemed to fill the space in the now somehow smaller stable.

"Have you seen one before?"

"I've seen pictures, of course, but only once in person. It didn't look anything like this, though. The horseless carriage I saw was more like an old wagon with a motor." She narrowed her eyes and peered at the dark form. "It was at the Exposition."

"Really? What Exposition? Where? How did they—"

"Jared." Quentin said with a laugh, "don't quiz the girl unmercifully."

"Right, sorry." She could hear a grin in his words. The shadowed figure stepped aside and sunlight dappled his strong and handsome face. A dimple danced in one cheek and his eyes sparkled as dark and intense as the nearly black hair that curled softly around his ears. The man seemed to shimmer with barely bridled energy. "I tend to get carried away by all this." He waved toward the work.

She pulled her gaze from his and studied the vehicles. "I can certainly see why. What part do you play in—" she repeated his gesture—"all this?"

"This is my partner." Quentin nodded at the stranger. "Jared Grayson, the E—"

"The brains of the entire endeavor." Jared cut in with a flourish and a bow. "At your service." His words were for everyone but his eyes were on Cece.

"Brains, hah." Quentin said. "Don't forget it was my idea to substitute the petrol powered—"

"Quite." Jared picked a rag off a wheel and wiped his hands casually. "It was also your convoluted design for a cooling mechanism that very nearly cost us our lives."

"My goodness." Emily's eyes widened. "What happened?"

"Nothing of consequence. Little more than a minor inconvenience." Quentin shrugged. "One has to expect to pay a certain price for progress."

Jared leaned toward Cece, bringing the warm scents of sun and wind enticingly nearer. He lowered his voice confidentially. "We blew up three motors before we got it right." He glanced upward toward a nearby section of sloping roof with a less than modest patch of wood, scorched black and shiny. "Had a bit of a flame there one day. Petrol, you know; highly flammable." He nodded at a back portion of the wall, covered with a huge canvas cloth. "There's a lovely hole behind that, the result of a few difficulties with steering mechanisms."

Awed. Cece gazed from the canvas to the vehicle and back into the incredibly dark centers of his blue eyes. "You wouldn't think something that small could do that much damage."

Quentin grinned. "It was bloody well impressive."

"It's amazing just how much power we've managed to harness." Jared's eyes twinkled and a flutter of excitement settled in her middle. "Now if we can only learn to properly control it..."

"How does it work?" Cece ran her hand along the rim of the wheel and cast him a glance of genuine curiosity.