The Wagered Widow (19 page)

“Good God! Prudence is not properly trained? Why, she must be four or five years—”

“No, no, Grandmama,” Ward began, then turned suddenly frantic eyes to Rebecca. “You did not truly bring your cat here?”

“Of course I—”

“She said distinctly that her cat is responsible for that noxious odour!” Her ladyship's observation was rather muffled as she clapped a tiny, lace-edged square of cambric to her thin nostrils.

His voice almost suspended with laughter, de Villars pleaded, “Peace, my children.” He took Rebecca and Sir Peter by the elbows and ushered them to the door, murmuring, “I cannot think when I have been more diverted. Now begone, and I will attempt to clarify matters.”

Sir Peter said a grateful, “Good of you, Treve. You always know how to handle her.”

“I know how to handle all the ladies.” With a quirk of the lip and an audacious wink at Rebecca, de Villars returned to the dowager.

As Ward closed the door, Rebecca heard his grandmother say tartly, “You did not see fit to tell me, Trevelyan, that the widow was such a pretty piece. What a pity she is a tippler.…”

*   *   *

Lady Ward proved to be as tyrannical as she was diminutive. That her tall young grandson was under her sway was obvious. He all but trembled when she scolded him, hastened to do her bidding, and strove always to win her approval. The servants were terrified of her, as was Mrs. Boothe, who paled whenever my lady addressed her.

It soon became apparent that the grande dame had no intention of contributing towards the care and nurture of Miss Patience Ashton. She demanded to see the child on the morning after her arrival, and when Patience was conducted into her presence, surveyed her through her lorgnette, pronounced her “a foolish little gel” when Patience began to cry, and summarily dismissed her, not to mention her name again for the duration of her stay in Bedfordshire.

Mrs. Boothe was seldom singled out for attention, a fact that did not in the slightest offend that timid individual. Rebecca, however, was judged to stand in need of instruction on almost everything, and my lady, always willing to share of her vast store of knowledge, gladly undertook the task. On the few occasions when Rebecca was allowed the opportunity to venture an opinion, she managed to be meekly diplomatic, but the effort required to keep her tongue between her teeth, as the saying went, was considerable, partly because she could not like so autocratic a personality, and partly by reason of the faint sneer with which her subdued responses were observed by a certain Wicked Lecher.

De Villars' attitude to Lady Ward was one of amused tolerance. Her tantrums he viewed with indifference and, although he was never less than respectful, it was clear to everyone, including my lady, that he had no intention of allowing her to bully him. Neither did he make any more attempts to continue his unorthodox pursuit of The Little Parrish. He was pleasant to all the ladies, but no more to one than another. He never called at the cottage without Sir Peter's company, and the occasional remarks he addressed to his avowed quarry were models of propriety. Mrs. Boothe was convinced that he had abandoned his evil schemes. Rebecca indulged a guarded optimism. He might very well, she reasoned, be unwilling to harass her for fear that she call upon the formidable Lady Ward for protection. Almost certainly such a step would result in her immediate return to London, a development that would further the plans of neither of the plotters.

Her own Plan progressed satisfactorily. She was most pleased when Sir Peter took to accompanying her while she led Patience and Anthony on their morning walks. Much of the time was spent in listening to learned ornithological discourses, but often she contrived to change the subject and with a very little effort she was able to set him to laughing merrily, either because of her recounting of some humorous episode involving her brothers or Anthony, or by reason of her rather unconventional views of politics. There was no doubt but that he was becoming much more relaxed and at ease in her company, and Rebecca's hopes rose accordingly.

Despite her acceptance of the current situation, she had seldom been more relieved than when Sir Peter called at the cottage on the fourth morning after his grandmother's arrival and announced that Lady Ward was removing to London.

“She cannot abide Town, you know,” he said earnestly. “But in her eyes Bedfordshire is infinitely worse. Her maids are packing now, and she will be leaving within the hour.”

“Oh, dear,” said Rebecca, jubilant. “Shall you miss her dreadfully, dear sir?”

“No,” he answered with a wry smile, “for I am to escort her.”

In the act of pouring her guest a cup of tea, Rebecca almost dropped the cup, and had to struggle to keep her voice calm as she asked if he would be long away.

“I cannot say with any degree of assurance. I—there are matters requiring my attention in London, but I shall return at once if you and Mrs. Boothe find it expedient to go back to Town yourselves. I had hoped, however, that you might be able to remain until our Midsummer Ball, at least, by which time I must certainly have found a suitable governess for my cousin.”

Rebecca replied that she would have to be guided by her brother's wishes. She waved goodbye with her usual bright smile. Alone, however, she sank onto the sofa in utter dejection. Her Plan had collapsed again, like a house of cards. Not only had she failed to win an offer from Sir Peter, but now he was blithely riding off to the metropolis and all the ladies lying in wait to entrap him, leaving her marooned miles from anywhere, with not a single beau in sight, and nothing more exciting to anticipate than a dashing game of croquet!

“It was Lady Ward's doing,” she told her aunt as they sat in the parlour after dinner that evening. “She likely warned Sir Peter it was not at all the thing for two single gentlemen to be here, despite the fact that I am a widow and well chaperoned. So off he has gone leaving us high and dry in this wilderness!”

“But—my love,” said Mrs. Boothe, blinking her bewilderment. “If that is how you feel, we can return to Town at once.”

Rebecca abandoned the fringe she had been making and walked over to the secretary desk and the letter she had earlier started to write to Snowden. “How can we? Ward advanced us a perfectly ridiculous amount for you to spend a month here, and—”

“A …
month?
” gasped Mrs. Boothe, beginning to fan herself feebly. “You said nothing about a month!”

“Well, I—I did not think it would really be that long, and if he had found himself a governess for Patience before the time was up, I knew he would not ask for a refund, so I sent the cheque to Mrs. Falk and instructed her to pay the servants at least a little something.” Rebecca put a quivering hand over her eyes and said unsteadily, “You know, dearest, I … have felt so dreadful about not paying them in all these weeks.”

“Of course you have, my love, and much credit it does you. But—why so gloomy? Perhaps Sir Peter will find a governess tomorrow! I should think there must be hundreds of ladies would jump at the chance to come to so beautiful a home, with a generous employer, and a…”—her voice became slightly uneven—“a … precious child.…”

Rebecca glanced around to catch her aunt in the act of wiping tearful eyes. “Oh, dear! Another complication! I am scarce surprised. I fancied you were becoming attached to her.”

Mrs. Boothe blew her nose delicately. “Is a little darling of a girl, and so exceeding tragic that no one wants her, for she has the sweetest, most giving nature imaginable.”

“Yes.” Rebecca sighed. “She adores de Villars. One might think he would at least have come down to bid her farewell.… But what fustian I talk! Who could expect a charitable impulse from such a one?”

“Good God! Is
he
gone, too?”

“Oh, yes. And not so much as a word. To Patience, I mean. Well”—her nose tilted defiantly—“much we shall miss them. And as for that dreadful old lady, Lud! We will be far happier here alone.”

For the next three days she strove to convince herself that the lazy peace of the country was all she could wish for. But on the following morning the sound of hooves on the drivepath sent her running eagerly to the parlour window. Expecting to see Sir Peter's graceful figure, she was surprised when Mr. Melton came into view and dismounted in his deliberate fashion, handing the reins to the stableboy who had run out to him. Even Mr. Melton was welcome in this desert, she decided, as she opened the door without waiting for Evans to perform that service.

He bowed to her, his colour a little heightened, and, entering the parlour, said that he had “chanced to be visiting friends in the neighbourhood” and had dropped by to see how she and her aunt went on. Stifling a smile, Rebecca made him welcome, offered refreshments, which he declined, and in a moment or two reprieved him by suggesting he might like to walk towards the north because her aunt had taken the children to the pond so that Anthony might sail his boat. “I had a letter to finish that has been several days delayed,” she explained, indicating the epistle to Snowden, “so I did not accompany them.”

Mr. Melton proving not unwilling to go for a walk, Rebecca closed the door behind him and wandered back to the desk.

She had scarcely sat down again than there came another knock on the door. Millie was busied upstairs, and Evans was apparently snoozing somewhere, so once again, Rebecca got up, thinking this the busiest day since the gentlemen had left.

When she opened the door, however, it was to reveal only the broad expanse of the park, with not a human being in sight. Puzzled, she stepped onto the porch and glanced about. To her right, a short distance from the cottage, a basket containing a colourful bouquet of flowers had been left on one of the wooden garden chairs. Her heart lifting, Rebecca ran to take up the card, but there was none. She searched about vainly, then carried the basket into the cottage.

She closed the door, and her heart gave a terrified leap, for two hands came from behind to cover her eyes. “De Villars!” she thought. “And I am all alone!” With a squeak of fear, she dropped the flowers, tore free, and spun around.

CHAPTER
8

With one hand upflung to strike, Rebecca checked and cried in surprised relief, “Snow!”

Boothe had drawn back and, his blue eyes alight with laughter, said, “Oho! What a termagant! A fine welcome for your weary traveller!”

She threw herself into his arms and kissed him heartily. “Wretched boy! How you frightened me! I had not expected you for another week and more.”

“So I gather!”

Her heart thudded, but the smile was still in his eyes; at least he did not appear enraged. He picked up the basket of flowers and set it on a table and Rebecca went to the sideboard to pour him a glass of the wine that was kept on the silver tray for Sir Peter and de Villars, did they chance to call.

“Are you angered, love?” she asked meekly, and lied, “I'd not thought you would mind. My aunt and I stay here, quite apart from the main house. She was loath to come alone, so I thought—just for a few days it would be all right.”

Boothe settled himself on the sofa, stretched out his long legs and, taking the wine she handed him, sampled it, then gave a beatific sigh. He looked tired, she thought; still, she was inwardly amazed when he shrugged and said he saw nothing improper in her having accompanied her aunt to Ward Marching. “Ward's thoroughly decent, after all, and you are no schoolroom miss.”

“True,” she agreed quickly. “Besides which, Lady Ward has been here.”

“Never say so! That harridan?” He toasted her with a grin that had an element of strain about it. “You've my sympathy, Becky. Is she gone? You must be enjoying the peace, no?”

“Yes. But I cannot like you to be alone in Town.”

He laughed. “Falk mothers me. I am occupying your house for a week or two. Hope you've no objection?”

“Of course not.” She went over to sit beside him. “Rascal! What are you about? Does some angry papa seek you with blunderbuss in one hand and whip in the other?”

“Never that!” He tugged a ringlet in retaliation. “Give me credit for more finesse, I implore you. 'Tis simply that my flat is being painted, and I'd planned a dinner party, so I made the move.”

She pointed out with a dimple that “a dinner party” did not last “a week or two.” Snowden laughed loudly, and said she was a rogue and would not be told everything. “Not just yet, at all events,” he finished.

He was concealing something. She wondered if he had met his fate at last, and attributed her sinking heart to the fact that she was fairly well aware of his lady friends, and only Letitia Boudreaux, who was not among them, had impressed her as being a suitable wife for the volatile young man.

The important thing, of course, was that he had not only countenanced her stay here, but was actually encouraging her to prolong it. For a fleeting instant she wondered if anything was wrong, but a brisk rapping at the door dispelled that odd little qualm.

She went to answer that peremptory summons, and her earlier fear became justified.

Trevelyan de Villars, a picture of elegance in pale blue velvet, bowed low. “Hail, fairest of the— Oh, dear!” His gaze had slipped past her to encounter Boothe's uptilted chin and stern glare. He stepped over the threshold, nonetheless, and closed the door.

“He will ruin it!” thought Rebecca, but her frantic search for something politic to remark was useless. Her tongue seemed to cleave to the roof of her mouth, and she followed helplessly, glancing with trepidation at her brother's scowl as he came to his feet.

“You came, I presume, sir,” drawled Boothe at his coldest, “in search of Ward?”

“Do you really?” With his usual cool effrontery, de Villars sauntered across the parlour. “I suppose I should claim something as asinine, but the fact of the matter is that I came”—he turned to Rebecca with a smile that banished the boredom from his eyes—“to leave this for young Anthony.”