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.”
He proffered an instrument resembling a small flute.
Taking it, her hand slightly trembling, Rebecca said in a faraway voice, “How kind in you, sir. He will be pleased.”
“One can but hope you also will be pleased.” He grinned faintly in response to her startled look. “It makes bird calls. I thought ’twould be a pity if he failed to benefit from all the—ah, instruction he has received.”
“I most appreciate your kindness to my family,” Snowden imparted with frigid formality. “Although my sister is far from home, she is far from being unprotected, though I am sure I need not point that out, de Villars.”
Rebecca’s heart skipped a beat. Snowden’s partiality for this man had obviously undergone an abrupt change when he caught him on the doorstep. De Villars’ eyes were gleaming with mockery, and Snow’s temper was so quick.… She could have wept with relief when Anthony erupted into the room, closely followed by a rosy-cheeked Patience. The little girl went at once to fasten her chubby fingers on de Villars’ spotless coat, and with a joyous whoop, Anthony flung himself at his uncle. For a moment all was happy confusion, then Mrs. Boothe came in with George Melton behind her, and more greetings were exchanged.
Almost, Rebecca forgot the menace constituted by Trevelyan de Villars. Glancing to him, she was surprised. His expression was sombre as he watched them; for a moment she almost fancied to see sadness there. Then, he winked, blew her a kiss, and having removed Patience’s clasp from the skirts of his coat, slipped quietly outside.
Rebecca drew a breath of relief. The danger was averted. At least, for this time.
* * *
“Not kept my eye on her?” His face flushed with indignation, Lord Graham Fortescue faced Boothe across the dining table in his cosy flat and flung his fork ringingly onto the plate of roast beef recently set before him. “If that ain’t the outside of enough!” he protested. “You come bursting in here in the middle of m’dinner, snorting, and smoking at the ears, with not a thought for what your mischievous sister has
put me through these past two weeks!”
“Dashitall, Forty,” Boothe intervened, his face dark with anger. “You know blasted well I’d no choice in having to leave in such a flurry! I asked you, as a friend, to guard her during my absence, and I come back, purely to see if Johnny— Well, never mind that. I come back and find Becky cavorting on Ward’s preserves, with—”
“Cavorting on his—what?” Fortescue interrupted, leaning forward curiously.
“His preserves, damn you!”
“Oh. No need to be so starchy. I thought you meant she was—”
“Well, I didn’t. No thanks to you!”
The butler came in, and conversation languished as Boothe was provided with a plate and various comestibles. His guest satisfied, my lord motioned the butler from the room. “I’ll tell you what it is, Snow,” he said soberly. “That girl is a veritable will-o’-the-wisp! There ain’t no keeping a check-rein on her, for she’s gone before you know she’s even thinking on it! And if you cared to ask, you would learn I’ve spent the past week galloping the length and breadth of the south country, trying to find her! She told her housekeeper she was gone to visit a friend. When she didn’t come back after a day or so, I tried to get more out of the woman, and she threw her apron over her head and went into a blubbering that was enough to make any man of sensitivity run for his life!” Fortescue raised a forkful of beef, eyed his friend aggrievedly over it, reiterated his belief that Snowden should have taken Mrs. Rebecca with him, and conveyed meat to mouth.
“Taken her with me?” echoed Boothe, his own fork suspended. “Forty, you’re wits to let! How the deuce could I have taken her with me? She don’t have the wisp of a suspicion why I went trotting up there.” A grim look came into his tired eyes. “And what’s more, she ain’t going to have, can I help it!”
The indignation faded from his friend’s mild features. Boothe, his lordship recollected, was in the devil of a dilemma. Not envying him it, he said a soothing, “Well, now she’s safe back in Town again. No damage done.”
“Oh, no. None. Only—she ain’t.”
Lord Fortescue goggled at him. “You never left her there?”
“Why not?” Boothe evaded his eyes. “Anthony is in alt in the wilderness, and Becky and my aunt reside in a jolly nice little house some distance from the main pile.” He sank his teeth into a roast potato and said rather indistinctly, “’Sides, old Ward’s a good fellow, as you said. No problem there.”
Fortescue mulled over the several warnings that came to mind and, with rare shrewdness, decided there was nothing to be gained by providing fuel for a potentially disastrous fire. Therefore, he replied with only a trace of uncertainty, “No. Well, I’m for Brooks’ and some cards. You’re more than welcome to stay here tonight, dear old boy.”
Snowden thanked him, but declined, saying with a somewhat heightened colour that he had an assignation for the evening and that he was staying in John Street while Rebecca was away. “Never can tell who might break in whilst the knocker’s off the door.”
They exchanged sober glances. His lordship broke the short silence, exclaiming, “The devil’s in it if you’re after that titian-haired witchery again! Jove, but I understood she’d set her cap for—”
“Why, that’s just it,” Boothe interposed with a knowing wink. “So long as her cap ain’t set for me, there’s no danger, eh? And she’s a toothsome morsel, Forty. A very toothsome morsel indeed.”
His lordship waved his fork and intoned broodingly, “Is a morsel I’d not dare crave. Have a care, Snow!”
Boothe laughed merrily, finished a most excellent supper, and, feeling much restored, parted from his friend in high good humour.
An hour later, seated on a secluded bench in Vauxhall Gardens, the “toothsome morsel” fast clasped in his arms, he claimed a kiss, and chuckled when his lady reached up to straighten the glittering mask she wore, and glanced uneasily along the moonlit path. “Snow,” said Mrs. Monahan, pushing him away, “anyone might come down here! But no! Behave, you naughty boy!”
“I am behaving,” he said, pulling her closer. “I’ll wager you do not treat de Villars so!”
She stiffened. “Do not mention that creature and his silly wagers! I vow—” She broke off. Behind the mask, her lovely green eyes widened. In some confusion, she urged that they return to the masquerade before they were missed. Boothe, however, was predictably intrigued by both words and attitude. “What wagers?” he asked. “Come on, Rosemary! You cannot dangle the carrot and then back away! What mischief is de Villars about? Something smoky, I warrant. Concerns a lady, eh?”
Affecting agitation, Mrs. Monahan pulled free of his embrace and got to her feet. “I am a total ninny,” she confessed, busily straightening her pink domino. “But that I should have let anything slip to you, of all—” And, again, with an irked little exclamation, she broke off and started along the path.
Coming up with her, Boothe caught her arm and drew her to a halt. The laughter was gone from his fine eyes, and a blue glare transfixed her. He said in a harsh voice, “I’m not the quickest brain, ma’am, but I’m more than seven! This concerns my sister Parrish—no?”
The lady uttered a moan of dismay and strove (not very hard) to break free.
Tightening his grip, Boothe grated, “I’ll know the whole of it, if you please. Rebecca’s far from being up to every move on the board, but she’s a good chit, and I’ll not have her name bruited about by such a one as Trevelyan de Villars. He engaged in a wager, I take it? With you, ma’am?”
“Of course not! It was with Ward, and— Oh, now see what you have made me say! I think you are very clever to take me off stride in that cunning way, but I shall not say another word. However you may seek to trick me.” Despite this brave speech, her voice was unsure and a convincing alarm lurked in the green eyes.
Snowden Boothe smiled a grim smile. And blundered deeper into the silken web.
* * *
At midnight Brooks’ Club was crowded. The card tables were well patronized; a large bet had just been recorded as to whether or not it would rain on Midsummer’s Eve, and a noisy discussion was under way in front of the lounge fireplace anent the possibilities of Bonnie Prince Charlie’s rallying his followers and essaying another strike against the Crown. In the south corner of the large room, Lord Graham Fortescue smoothed a wrinkle from his silk-clad arm, even as the wrinkles in his brow deepened. Beside him, his usually placid features reflecting anxiety, George Melton muttered, “I fear it is but a matter of time before Boothe hears of it. And when he does—Gad!”
“Of all the caper-witted starts! Who the deuce put it about? De Villars?”
Mr. Melton pursed his lips. “I cannot allow that to be the case. Whatever one may say of him, he is a gentleman and of unquestionable honour. To put about a rumour such as this is in very poor taste, and—”
“And I’d best come at the root of it before Snow does, or we shall have a— Ah! Here is our man now!” Fortescue waved his handkerchief to a new arrival.
De Villars, elegant as always in a splendid bottle-green coat embroidered in shades of lime and olive, his small clothes impeccable, a great emerald winking amongst the Dresden lace at his throat, turned his quizzing glass upon them, then wandered over. “Hello, Forty,” he said with his bored smile. “If you mean to persuade me in the matter of my Arabian, I warn you I’ll not sell.”
“No, it’s a deal more serious than—” His lordship’s glance shifted and became dismayed. “No! Now, Snow—” he began, anxiously.
De Villars was seized by the arm and wrenched around. His face distorted with rage, Snowden Boothe snarled, “I mislike your wagers, sir!” And with one well-placed fist, he knocked de Villars down.
* * *
The morning air was warm and fragrant, the birds sang blithely, the bees buzzed about their eternal collecting, and Rebecca hummed as she wandered among the rose bushes, basket on arm and a fair-sized bouquet already cut. Two days had passed since Snowden had come and
gone. Two quiet, balmy days. A little dull, but Anthony, bless him, was having the time of his life and already looked less frail, and Patience, whom he privately stigmatized as being a millstone around his neck, trotted after him with total adoration, as sweetly enduring his superior attitude as her name might imply, and perhaps sensing that the boy secretly enjoyed her companionship. Her devotion was not without peril. She had twice fallen into the pond and only yesterday had become petrified with fear, having clambered up a tree after him, so that a groom had been summoned to climb up and retrieve her. Neither of the ladies was greatly alarmed by such escapades. Any small girl growing up with older children was subjected to such risks, and seldom the worse for them. Rebecca could not but wonder, however, what Sir Peter might have said had he seen the little girl stranded in the tree. He was such a decorous person. De Villars, now … She smiled. That Wretched Rake would shrug a disinterested shoulder and drawl that it would do the brat good; and then keep an eagle eye on her to ensure she did not fall! And—good heavens—why should she ascribe such kindly impulses to the man? Her smile faded, and the hand outstretched to the red rose paused. Her feelings for de Villars were changing. Why that should be so was more than—
“Rebecca! Oh, thank heaven I have found you!”
Letitia ran to her across the lawns. Rebecca had never seen her other than calm, poised, and fully in command of herself. Now, the breath was hurried, the gentle voice agitated, and tears glinted on the long lashes. “I came … just as quickly as I could.” Miss Boudreaux’s lips trembled pitifully. “Your—your brother—” But she could not continue and gripped Rebecca’s outstretched hand, while her tears overflowed.
Rebecca felt chilled. “Snow?” she said in a breathless voice. “Has there been an accident?”
“No. But … I am so frightened! I tried and tried to stop them, but it is useless. And—and if they meet…” Again, her words were suspended by a choked sobbing.
Trying to control her own terrors, Rebecca put an arm about this unexpected visitor and led her to a stone bench. “Sit down for a minute, and then I shall take you to the cottage for a nice cup of tea. My poor dear, you are white as a sheet. There—that is better. I fear I can guess what has happened. Snowden has—has got himself involved in a duel with … someone?” Letitia nodded, teardrops scattering. Dreading the answer, Rebecca asked, “Is it—with your cousin, de Villars?” Again, that convulsive nod. Rebecca closed her eyes, fear gripping her heart with fingers of ice.
The Wagered Widow Page 15