The Random Gentleman (9 page)

That portly patriarch, strongly aware of his duty to the House, saw fit to comment upon the situation. As he was serving Belinda’s solitary dinner that evening in the great shadowy dining room, he said, wistfully, “We shall go on better when his lordship returns to us, shall we not, Miss Bel?”

Belinda, while considering that viewpoint more than a trifle optimistic, knew what was expected of her. She nodded, and smiled up at the elderly servant.

Encouraged by this charming agreement, Dittisham continued, with the outspoken privilege of an old retainer, “In the mean time, Miss Bel, you must not attempt to go near the Home Woods while those gypsies are encamped there.”

The girl peeped up at him through her long eyelashes. “Must I not, Dittisham?”

“
Miss Bel!
You know your grandfather has never permitted it! And especially not
now
, when the situation is . . . is delicate.”

All traces of the playful smile vanished from the girl’s face, and her brows drew together. “The situation—?”

Dittisham, unaware that her successful London Season had made changes in the child he had known all her life, rushed in where angels might have hesitated.

“I’ve had a note from his lordship, Miss Bel. He is not best pleased, I gathered, by what—er—occurred in London before you left. He has instructed me and Mrs. Mayo to keep a—that is, to watch carefully over you until he comes.”

Belinda set her teeth. Aside from the daunting fact that her grandfather had seen fit to communicate with Dittisham rather than herself, she was well aware that she was being rebuked for her want of conduct. Too proud to ask exactly what the Earl had told Dittisham, she was guiltily conscious that none of it could reflect credit upon herself.

“Keep a sharp eye upon the chit,” was probably the kindest thing the old stickler had said. For one of the few times in her much-indulged life, she had been sharply and publicly reprimanded, and the fact that the reproof was well merited did nothing to soften the blow.

A few months previously, before what she was now compelled to regard as the ending of her successful come-out, Belinda would have accepted the Earl’s strictures with chagrin, perhaps, but without resentment. Her honesty and habitual good humor would shortly have led her to make the necessary apology and restore the
status quo ante
. But now resentment dulled remorse, and the girl felt that she had been unjustly treated by those whose business it should have been to protect and defend her. So she summoned up a rather glittering little smile and said gently, “I’ll keep your advice in mind, Dittisham.”

Chapter 10

The Duke was finding his alfresco existence very much to his taste—now that it was nearly over. With the assurance of clean sheets, a good mattress, and abundant hot water at his disposal by the next day, he was free to enjoy the delights of living with Nature . . . briefly. When the gypsies made their encampment in the Earl of Sayre’s Home Woods, he lent a hand with the rest, unharnessing the majestic draft horses from the wagons and leading them to the line, then rubbing down and feeding them. Later he joined the youths who were pegging out the black tents in which the men slept who had neither wife nor caravan.

“Bachelor Officers’ Quarters,” he thought, pleased that he would not have to spend another night under the stars, wrapped only in his greatcoat. That fashionable accoutrement was becoming lamentably stained by the rough usage he was giving it and was at best an inadequate covering against the heavy night dews. The Duke shook his head ruefully. He had lived soft for ten years and had lost the knack of adjusting to the rigors of campaign.

At this moment the beautiful Lara came to him bearing a full plate of the savory stew the older women had prepared in the great iron kettles. As he inhaled the appetizing steam, he admitted that this had been no rigorous campaign but a superb holiday from responsibility. But now it was time to report back for duty. The first thing tomorrow morning, he would ride Ben to the inn with the odd name—The Climbing Man—and reserve their best room for a week. If he paid in advance, his guineas would weigh heavier than his raffish appearance. He would write to Freya, to the Ministry, and to Pliss, his valet, still waiting for him at Freya’s home in London. He would direct that his groom bring Pliss and suitable clothing to him at once in his curricle. He sighed. If the letter was put on the Mail coach tomorrow, his holiday would be over in a few days. Decently clothed, he could pay a visit to Sayre Court and discover whether the Earl’s granddaughter was in residence. If she were not, he had better get back to London without further delay and mend his fences. Already he was deeply regretting the petulance which had led him to place the girl in an equivocal position. Had it been petulance—or some deeply buried reluctance to give up his freedom? Freya was right, he admitted at last. He had behaved very badly indeed to the Sayres, and would probably have to eat a large serving of humble pie before the old martinet forgave him. The thought of having to placate a sullen—or worse, hysterical—eighteen-year-old bride filled him with dismay, but he would honor his father’s word and marry her. Freya had seemed to think the girl had character, though her action in running away had not demonstrated it. Still, something might be made of her with time and careful handling. After all, he had brought much weightier problems to a successful conclusion.

He was roused from these gloomy thoughts by an awareness that the gypsy girl Lara was lingering near him, staring at him as he ate. Warning bells rang their tocsins in his mind. Devil take the wench! She would force him into a confrontation with The Whip if she kept up this behavior! He gave her a warning frown.

Lara’s response was to sidle close to him and favor him with a provocative wiggle which set him grinning involuntarily. Little minx! Playful as a young tigress—and just as dangerous.
Careful!
he reminded himself, suddenly conscious of the attention this byplay was getting from the circle of gypsies eating around the fire. This was The Whip’s girl; Bracho had warned him. He said softly, “Do you enjoy playing with fire, Lara?”

The girl shrugged and tossed her long, dark hair.

“Lara plays where she wishes. Lara belongs to no man, Gorgio! Lara will choose who is to receive her favors.”

This speech was delivered in a tone loud enough to be heard—and easily misunderstood—by a jealous man.
Women!
thought the Duke
. A man’s damned if he does and damned if he doesn’t!

The Whip rose from his stool by the fire. Throwing down his plate, he strode toward Lara and the Duke. Oh, well, thought Dane, I intended to leave the tribe tomorrow morning anyway. The gypsying had been a pleasure, and he was reluctant to end it with a fight.

The Whip loomed over him. Ignoring Lara completely, he said harshly, “What is it that you are telling my
chai
, Gorgio?”

Lara turned a wide, pleased smile on the chief, then a smug little grin on the Gorgio, obviously waiting for him to defy Anton. Oh, yes! thought the Duke, you’d enjoy seeing us at each other’s throats, wouldn’t you? Placing his plate of food carefully on the ground, Dane got to his feet to face the bigger man. He met the flat black gaze steadily.

“I was telling her that my father had pledged with his best friend that their children would marry. It is so sometimes with your people, is it not?” Without waiting for a reply, Dane continued, “I am traveling to meet my future wife now, to arrange the details of our wedding. Your fiancée said that, for her part, she would prefer to choose her own husband.”

Not very chivalrous, the Duke decided, but serve the little troublemaker right! Fitted in with the speech she’d made about choosing who was to receive her favors—and every word of it true, he congratulated himself. Diplomacy!

Turning swiftly on the gaping Lara, the Whip caught her by the shoulder. “My patience is at an end! Speak now, or I shall choose another
chai
to be my queen,” he told her in a most unloverlike voice.

“You would not!” she glared at him. “It is me you want—me alone!”

The chief’s smile was as cold as his eyes. “Who are you to say what the Whip wants?” He released her shoulder, pushing her away from him, so that she staggered and almost fell. “I want a loving woman in my bed, not a peevish child!”

The Duke regarded Anton with admiration. He was tempted to cheer him on. But the girl was looking, wide-eyed, at the big gypsy.

“I am the prettiest woman in the tribe! You told me you would have none but the best!”

The Whip’s glance flicked her contemptuously. “There are other tribes. And when we reach Cornwall, there are many pretty
didakis
—even Cornish girls—who might please me as well as you, or better.”

The men, women, even the children around the fire were so still that Lara’s gasp was plainly audible. “Didakis? You would take a half-breed to wife? Or a Gorgio mort? You—the chief?”

“Pral Veshengro’s tribe is meeting us near Penzance,” The Whip informed her. “He has a lineage as pure as any of ours—and he has two beautiful daughters, so I am told.”

Lara stared up at him, the anger seeping from her face. A quick glance around the circle made her aware that every member of the tribe had heard what had been said. Her eyes returned to that swarthy implacable face. At last she bowed her dark head.

“Yes.”

Anton waited, motionless.

Lara flung herself at him, beating on his massive chest. “Yes, I will be your woman—you devil!” she cried.

The Whip grunted and caught her to him with one hard arm.

“I accept your offer,” he said with a triumphant laugh.

Everyone around the campfire joined in his laughter, the Duke very heartily indeed—and with considerable relief. He picked up his plate and walked around the fire, handing it with a word of thanks to the old woman who presided over the iron kettle. Then with a wave and a general “good-night,” he walked over to the place where he had left his saddle and coat and lay down. He failed to notice the venomous glare Lara directed after his retreating form. Sleep came to him almost at once.

He awoke very early and left the tent to walk over to the stream which served as a lavatory for the gypsies. Washing his hands and face, he donned, for the last time, the raw silk shirt he had bought from Quebracho. He had rinsed it out himself at various streams and muddy ponds along the way, but its grubby condition had suddenly become offensive to him, in view of the fresh linen he would soon be wearing. So much for the joys of the open road, the Duke shrugged wryly.

He was fastening the buttons when he became aware of a stealthy noise in the underbrush near him. Someone was creeping close and making an effort to disguise his approach. Sudden visions of an ambush by the affronted Whip or by an ambitious youngling eager to test the Gorgio flashed in his head. He was weaponless; his gun and stiletto were in their sheaths in his greatcoat. He finished buttoning the silk shirt, then casually bent to pick up the handkerchief he had used as a towel. With it, he palmed a large, jagged stone. Thus armed, he turned to face the inept attacker.

The sounds in the underbrush had ceased.

“You’d better show your front,” said the Duke coldly, “or I shall kill you.”

There was a sudden thrashing of the underbrush, and a small figure staggered out into the clearing beside the stream. Big brown eyes glared out of a face crowned with a tangle of golden hair which had been pulled about by the owner’s passage through the brush. The Duke was pleased to observe the little maiden who had perched on the wall yesterday. Her gray gown was the worse for wear, but her hair, even though adorned with twigs and leaves, made a charming frame for the exquisite face.

“Well met, Queen Titania,” offered the Duke with his most coaxing smile.

This flattering reference was not well received. Instead of blushing and stammering, the girl said sharply, “If we are to match names from Shakespeare, sir, allow me to tell you that you put me strongly in mind of Bottom the Weaver! Otherwise, after your aggressive behavior yesterday, I might have been tempted to call you Captain Hackum!”

The Duke took a more careful look at the furious girl in front of him. This time his expression was guarded.

“If I have offended you, little one, I am sorry for it,” he said softly.

Belinda, her wrath checked as it were in mid-gallop, stared at him with suspicion. It was
hard for her to read his handsome features; he stood very much at ease, watching her solemnly. The girl’s slender brows drew together.

“You are very discreet today, sir! What has happened to the impudent bravo who charged the wall?”

A sparkle appeared in his eyes, although his countenance remained sober. “I thought, then, that I was responding gallantly to an invitation,” he confessed.

Belinda gasped. “You presume, sir!” Then, finding it impossible to resist, she spoiled the effect of her haughty rebuke by asking, “What could have given you such an outrageous idea?”

The creature pretended an embarrassed reluctance to speak.

“I asked you a question, sir,” the girl reminded him icily.

“Well,” he began, his eyes bright with contained laughter, “perhaps it has slipped your mind that there was quite a—display of beautiful—uh—bare limbs—?”