The Random Gentleman (7 page)

Belinda chuckled. “But how the deuce is His Grace to know what my grandfather allows? He can hardly be aware that any of us are alive, except myself, and he’s never set eyes on me! He has spent ten years racketing about the Continent, where God knows what strange customs prevail! I’m sure you’ll be able to put the confounded fellow off,” she finished encouragingly, ignoring Mrs. Mayo’s scandalized face at her language, so close an echo of the Earl’s. To herself Belinda added,
Pray Heaven he doesn’t accompany Grandy down here!
But from all she knew of her grandfather, his ride and his temper, she could not visualize him offering to share a coach with the arrogant, insulting, contemptuous Duke of Romsdale.

Chapter 8

My Lord Duke was having an unexpectedly good time on the road. After the years of formal, restricted behavior in the diplomatic circles of the capitals of Europe, this casual journey through the springtime freshness of the English countryside was a delightful escape to the carefree youth he had never really known. He enjoyed the cheerful banter of the gypsies while not for a moment deluding himself that they had truly accepted him as one of themselves. He rode with them on sufferance, although Bracho seemed almost to have adopted him as an apprentice into the ways of the tribe. The old man taught him to read the patteran—the signs which one gypsy or a tribe leaves to show others of their kind where they have gone. Dane’s years as a soldier stood him in good stead during the ride, since he was nearly as skilled as the gypsies in snaring a rabbit, shooting birds on the wing, or requisitioning fruit and vegetables from a farm without the farmer’s knowledge or consent.

The Duke’s well-practiced charm made him persona grata to the women of the tribe as well, but he was scrupulously careful never to overstep the mark beneath the dark, enigmatic gaze of the gypsy men. His manner, friendly yet aloof, seemed to pique the gypsies, and they kept testing him in unexpected ways.

“You puzzle my people,” Bracho told the Duke one morning as they were standing side by side, saddling their horses for the day’s ride.

The Duke raised an eyebrow.

Bracho grinned. “Yes, they don’t know quite what to make of you. You pay our women the tribute of your admiration, yet you refrain from making advances which our men might resent.”

Dane strapped his bag behind Ben’s saddle. “I have had a little training in self-restraint,” he acknowledged.

Bracho shook an admiring head. “Perhaps I should warn you . . .” he began, when there was an interruption. A tall, slender woman, her dark hair caught under a brilliant red silk kerchief, her shapely body flaunting a gaily patterned full skirt and tight blouse, strolled over to the horse line. She was carrying a saddle and harness. With a careless nod and smile at the two men, she began to saddle a beautiful mare. Almost without conscious thought Dane moved over beside her.

“May I do that for you, Rauni?”

The beautiful face turned toward the Duke, and the huge dark eyes regarded him challengingly. Then the girl nodded once, and stood back.

The Duke saddled the mare, testing the girth before he led the animal to her. He held out his cupped hands to assist her to mount, but she sprang up into the stirrup lightly without assistance. As she rode off she favored the Duke with a provocative smile.

Bracho was shaking his head ruefully, “Never say I didn’t warn you,” he grinned.

The Duke stared at the brown, wrinkled face. “About that lady?”

“She is The Whip’s chosen,” Bracho informed him. “Only she is a stubborn piece, and very conscious of her worth. She will not give him the answer he wants. None of our young men dare to court her, knowing the chief has his eye on her. Like all women, Lara wants to trouble the waters.”

“Thank you for the warning,” Dane said seriously.

The old man merely shrugged and smiled.

The Duke was riding with the rear guard behind the caravans that afternoon when The Whip dropped back and took his place beside him. “Lara tells me you saddled her mare for her this morning,” the chief began.

“As I would do for any lady,” agreed Dane quietly.

Anton considered that, his dark, flat gaze holding the Duke’s eyes. At length he nodded once, sharply. “She is to be my woman,” he said arrogantly, “When I am ready.”

“You are to be congratulated,” said the Duke.

Nothing more was said, but the Duke had an uneasy sense that The Whip’s eyes were often on him, and that several of the other Romany chals kept him under unobtrusive surveillance. Instead of making him angry at The Whip, the situation only confirmed Dane’s bitter resentment against women. Troublemakers! They had only to enter the scene to create discomfort, embarrassment, hostility! As witness his own affairs—was not all going smoothly until the wretched business of the arranged marriage? It did not strike the Duke that that situation, at least, was none of Belinda Sayre’s making. He was more than ready to blame the girl for all the unpleasantness he had had to endure since he returned to London from Europe. And now the gypsy girl was out to make trouble.
Women!

Musing thus morosely, the Duke followed the caravans and eventually found them making camp rather earlier than usual.

“We are going out to collect some dinner,” Bracho advised him as they tethered their horses side by side.

“I’ll come with you,” offered the Duke, eager for a diversion. The carefree life of the open road was wearing a little thin: hard earth for a mattress, his saddle for a pillow, and his coat for a blanket; no hot water for shaving, and linen he had to clean by washing in whatever wretched creek or muddy pond might lie adjacent to the night’s camping place. The Duke was forced to accept the fact that he was no longer eighteen and careless of comfort. But if he might get a little sport, it would relieve the boredom of the simple life.

Quebracho was shaking his head. “Better not,” he advised. “The Whip is in a foul humor. You might get accidentally shot.” He grinned at Dane’s startled expression.

“Does he dare to leave me alone in camp with the beautiful Lara?” queried the Duke wryly.

“Oh, all the old women have been warned to keep an eye on you,” advised the old man.

“Of the two choices, I’d prefer the men’s guns,” said Dane more than half-serious.

“You begin to show wisdom,” chuckled Bracho, walking toward the forest.

While the women made the fires and set the great iron hooks deep into the ground beside them, ready for the cooking pots, the Duke sat by himself under a spreading tree at a little remove from the camp. The late afternoon sun was westering through the trees, filling the air with a golden haze. Suddenly a new quality about the low-voiced murmurings of the women struck the Duke’s ear, and he was alerted to a change in the situation. He became aware of two men, dressed in the gaiters of gamekeepers, coming cautiously along the lane the caravans had followed to get to this clearing. Each man had a shotgun unobtrusively ready over one arm. They were peering cautiously around the encampment, trying to discover its strength before they announced their presence.

One of the older women came forward to meet them, asking them civilly enough what they wished.

“Where’s all the Roms, Mother?” asked one of the keepers, while the other, gun at the ready, was busy scanning the environs.

“Gone to the village to buy food,” said the woman, smiling toothlessly.

“That’ll be the day,” answered the gamekeeper. “Come on, old woman, we know they’re poaching in milord’s woods! You’d better start packin’ yer gear. If yer not out o’ here in an hour, we’ve orders to set fire to yer wagons.”

“We have always had permission to stay one night in Lord Denison’s woods,” retorted the old woman.

“That was the old lord,” sneered the keeper. “He’s dead this six months, an’ his nevvie’s given orders we’re to roust you out. Seems he can’t abide dirty, stinkin’ gypsies!” the man laughed loudly.

His companion had discovered the Duke, seated under the drooping branches of the huge tree. He stepped closer to his fellow and said something under his breath. The first keeper swung quickly around and raised the shotgun.

The Duke, sprawled very much at his ease, raised an arrogant eyebrow.

“Wot’re
you
doin’ over there?” snarled the keeper.

“Waiting for my supper,” replied the Duke calmly.

“There ain’t gonna be no supper for the likes o’ you! Help the woman to break camp!”

Beyond the clearing, a hint of movement caught the Duke’s eye. He thought he recognized the brown velvet. He got lazily to his feet. “We are not going to break camp,” he announced. “I have decided I like it here.”

“’Tain’t what you likes as makes any differences,” the keeper advised him, his face turning brick red under the amused glances of the women. He made a threatening gesture with the shotgun. “Move, gallow’s-bait, or I’ll pepper yer hide wi’ this!”

The Duke’s head lifted contemptuously. In a sharp voice he said, “This nonsense has gone far enough! I see I shall have to inform you rustics of my name and style—although I had intended to wait until after dark to visit your master and make myself known. I am Major Romsdale of his Majesty’s Fifty-Second. I am on special assignment to this area.”

This statement made both gamekeepers laugh heartily, and their eyes flicked scornfully over the short green velvet coat and the stained buckskins. “That’s a large one, that is! You ain’t gonna gammon us yer with the
Preventives—”

There was a sudden, arrested quiet among the listening women at the name of that hated group. Ignoring this, the Duke drew himself up into the unmistakable stance of a seasoned officer. “No, I am not, clod-pole. I am representing His Majesty on a secret mission which has nothing to do with the petty smuggling which takes place in this area—supported, as I am well aware, by the local petty aristocracy!” He interrupted himself, sure at last of the identity of the lurker at the edge of the woods. “Sergeant Axebreak!” he snapped. “Front and center!”

“Sir!”
Quebracho snapped back, his military response secretly tickling the Duke’s risibilities.

The old gypsy, delighted to take part in any charade which purported to fool the Gorgios, marched into the clearing with a fine pseudomilitary bearing. He halted in front of the Duke, quite ignoring the gamekeepers, and saluted smartly.

“Sir?”

“Have the scouts reported back to you?” barked the Duke, very much the Major of Dragoons.

“No, sir.”

“Very well, then, resume your position.” As the old man marched back toward the wood, the Duke faced the frowning keepers. “Now I shall tell you this
once only
. There is a notorious traitor who is seeking to escape from England. He is reported in this area, and is thought to be negotiating with smugglers for his passage to France. I shall not call on you as loyal Englishmen for aid against this traitor, for I have no confidence whatever in your ability to be of any assistance to me!” This was said with such a glare that the keepers found themselves trying to make excuses for their own inadequacies. The terrible Major appearing to be a little appeased, the head keeper ventured to ask if his honor wished to send a message to Lord Denison.

“Can we trust his loyalty?” challenged the Major.

“Oh, yes sir, indeed his lordship is as loyal as any man hereabouts!” avowed one keeper, while the other hastened to agree that there wasn’t a loyaler man in these parts.

Their statements did not seem to impress the officer overmuch. “In that case, I will send no message. We shall do what we came for and be gone before daylight tomorrow. See to it that we are not disturbed!” he ended with such a fierce glare that the gamekeepers nearly fell over their own feet getting away from the spot.

There was a pregnant silence until the two intruders were well out of sight. Then the women drew closer to the Duke and stood in an admiring semicircle before him, smiling and talking softly. Quebracho loped silently into the glade, his grin a white slash in the dark face.

“No Rom could have done it better,” he said with admiration. “The Whip and the others are in the woods, awaiting the outcome of your
engaño
, your trick. We like it very well!” he added, chuckling.

The Duke sensed new acceptance from most of the tribe as they sat around the fire later, enjoying Lord Denison’s rabbits and birds. Only the Whip stayed aloof, his black gaze moving from the Duke’s face to that of Lara, who had seated herself beside the hero of the hour. Finally becoming uncomfortable at the proximity, the Duke arose and made his way to where the chief sat.

“I told them we would be out of here by daylight,” he began.

Anton shrugged. “That is well. Our business will be done by then.” He stared hard at Dane. “Preventives?” he asked softly.

“Nay, I’m on a romantic errand,” denied the Duke, and then cursed himself at the quick, hard set of the chief’s body. “I am grateful for your hospitality,” he hastened to say, “but I must leave you as soon as we get to Sayre, where my business is waiting.”

“That should be about noon, the day after tomorrow,” The Whip advised him. After a pause, he continued grudgingly, “Yours was a good ruse. We Roms enjoy a hoax well played. But I do not like you, Gorgio.”