by Amanda Scott
“Certainly, but it also occurs to me that the better part of valor might simply be to see that you do not fall from there before the tide goes out, when you will be able to climb down and walk to safety. To risk both our lives because you were foolish enough to climb out there seems a trifle foolhardy to me.”
“Gracious, do you think I merely stepped out here for a better view? You must think me half monkey to have accomplished such a feat!”
“A most injudicious monkey.”
“I did no such thing! I climbed up here. There was nowhere else to go once the cove was cut off by the tide, and the water just kept coming!” She heard her voice rise sharply on the last words, recognized the betraying note of panic, and fell silent.
“It was foolish of you to wait so long to leave the shore.”
“Oh!” Gillian ground her teeth together, welcoming the surge of anger for the strength it seemed to give her, but trying to remember at the same time that she was a lady and that it was no part of her intent to make him walk away and leave her.
While he talked, he had continued doing whatever he had been doing, and now he said matter-of-factly, “I am going to throw this line to you. You must slip your hand through the loop I’ve made and grasp it firmly before you attempt to do anything else.” He made a swinging motion, and she felt the brush of something across her back, but she made no attempt to grab it. “Do not simply lie there, girl. Take the line. Here!”
She felt the thing touch her back and fall away again. She could not see it, however, and reaching for something she could not see seemed ill advised under the circumstances. But to her annoyance, her voice sounded small when she said, “I cannot do it. If I reach out as you want me to do, I will fall.”
He said in a reasonable but measured tone that showed he still thought her a fractious child, “It is raining, and I am getting very wet. If you believe I can be of no use to you, say so, and I will get back in my carriage and drive away again.”
“No, don’t! You have a carriage?” A vision loomed large in her mind of shelter from the rain and the penetrating cold.
“There is a road near here, you know. Your dog dashed out practically under the hooves of my team. When I stopped, he did not run away again but stood barking at me. I began to get down to chase him out of the way, but he dashed off toward the cliff, and when I took up the reins again, he ran back under the horses. Tempted though I was to throttle him, I followed to see where he would lead me instead. But now that my curiosity has been satisfied, even he cannot object if you do not want me to stay.”
“Don’t go. Please don’t!” Her voice caught on a sob.
“I won’t,” he said, “but you must take this line. Once you have it, you will be a great deal safer than you are at present.” When she did not reply, he said, “Come now. You have already shown you have some spirit. Don’t let it desert you when you need it most. I will attempt to direct the line so that it falls right across you, but it is not heavy, and the wind is unsteady, so it is difficult to predict exactly where it will go.”
This time when the touch came, it was across her shoulders, and the line did not instantly slither away again. Gritting her teeth, Gillian turned her head and trapped it beneath her chin. Then, moving slowly, realizing that she was stiff from the cold and that her danger was therefore increasing by the moment, she managed to hold herself in place with one hand while with the other she grasped the line, which proved to be flat leather.
“This is part of your harness.”
“One of the reins,” he replied. “I have the others here. Do you have that one firmly in hand?”
“I think so.”
“Let it slide through your fist as I pull, until you feel the loop I mentioned. It is arranged in such a way that you can open it to slip it over your head and shoulders. Then if you fall, maybe I will be able to hold you.”
“Maybe?”
She heard him chuckle, a singularly heartless sound at the moment. He said, “Though you are obviously older than I first thought you, I cannot tell from this vantage point how large you are. If you should prove to be six feet tall and weigh twelve or fourteen stone, I shall be hard pressed to hold you. In fact, I daresay the rein would snap.”
“I am three inches above five feet,” she said, “but I do weigh seven stone and six. The rein may still snap.”
“If it does,” he said grimly, “my stable master will shortly require a new post. Have you got the end?”
She had it. There were a few more terrifying minutes to be endured before she managed to wriggle the noose over her head and shoulders, but at last the thing was snug beneath her armpits and she could feel his firm grip at the other end. For the first time in hours she felt safe. She knew the feeling was illusory, but that knowledge changed nothing. She did feel compelled to inform him that while she was grateful for his assistance, she had long since given up hope that she would be able to climb down the rock when the tide finally receded.
“I know you cannot,” he said. “I feared so earlier, but I knew it when you could not move to grasp the rein. I am going to throw you another now. Do just as you did before.”
His attitude was so calm, so matter-of-fact, that it no longer occurred to her to doubt that she could do as he asked, and soon she had all four reins tied around her. She realized that the drizzle had stopped, and wondered when it had done so. The rock was still wet, however, and she was sodden. Trying to shift her position, to find a more comfortable one, she slipped, but his firm hand on the lines steadied her and she did not fall.
“I think,” he said grimly, “that we had better not wait any longer. You never answered my question about this cliff. Some are fragile at the edge. Can you see how this one is formed?”
“It looks solid,” she replied. “What do you want me to do?”
“I want you to try to stand on the top of your rock.”
“You must be jesting!”
“No, I will help you all I can, but I do not want to have to try hauling you up over the edge of the cliff if you are swinging free beneath it. I am cold, too, and I do not know if I have the strength to hold you as a dead weight. It will be easier if you can climb nearer so that I can control you better.”
“I don’t think I can do it.”
“Don’t be a little fool,” he said harshly. “Of course you can. Try for some resolution and cease your whining.”
Her anger stirred again, and she found the feat easier than she had expected. With the lines and his steady strength to aid her, she was soon poised atop the pinnacle, reaching toward him. For one breathless moment she swung wildly in space before she shot upward to be snatched into his arms. They folded around her, and she leaned against him gratefully, shivering, hearing his heart thud in his chest, its rapid beat telling her that in those last moments he had been as frightened as she.
“Can you stand alone?” he asked.
“I think so.” The minute he held her away from him to untie the traces, the wind touched her wet clothes and her shivering increased. He had stripped off his heavy cloak to help her, and he leaned down now to pick it up. He wrapped it around her.
“’Tis wet, I know,” he said as he gathered the reins into a coil around one bent arm, “but it will protect you from the wind. There are furs in the carriage. Where do you live?”
“The castle,” she said, her teeth chattering. “I am Gillian Carnaby.” She waited for him to tell her his name, but he was silent as he helped her over the rocky ground to the road and a light sporting chaise that was drawn up there. He opened the door and lifted her to the seat, pulling coverings from beneath it to tuck around her. Putting Marcus on a rug at her feet, he went to readjust his harness. Then, jumping up beside Gillian, he fastened the protective leather apron across their legs, picked up the reins, and gave his horses the office to start.
When he still had not spoken by the time Gillian’s teeth stopped chattering, she said, “You have not told me your name, sir. I should like to know to
whom I am beholden for my safety.”
“It is of no consequence.” She could not see his face, but his tone was curt. Then, as if he realized his response was less than courteous, he added, “I am only glad I was passing and could help. I was sailing this morning when the gale came up, and took shelter at Ilfracombe, so I spent the afternoon visiting a friend at Braunton Burrows. I was on my way back.”
“I have never sailed in the Bristol Channel,” she said encouragingly. “’Tis a pity the weather is so dreary.”
“So long as the wind blows from the right quarter, Lady Gillian, the sailing is generally fine.”
“You know who I am?” She had not mentioned her title.
“You said you were from the castle,” he reminded her, “so Marrick must be your father. Neither the name nor your demeanor suggest the serving class. Won’t they be searching for you?”
“Perhaps.” But she knew her doubt was clear. Glancing at him, she said, “I am no longer my father’s only child, sir. I have become of small importance now that he has a proper heir.”
“I see,” he said. “I knew he had married again. In fact, I believe I have heard something about your stepmother.”
“Well, you may believe whatever you have heard of her,” she said with some asperity. Then, biting her tongue, she said, “My besetting sin is that I nearly always say the first thing that pops into my head, but I ought not to have said that.”
“Why not? Is it true that his horse unseated him on her doorstep in Leicestershire?”
“Very nearly.”
“Then I suppose that most of what I have heard is true. I disbelieved only that part.”
Gillian chuckled. “Pray, who are you, sir, that you hear such tales as you must have heard of him? You must tell me.”
“My name is Josiah. My friends call me Josh.”
“I may not do so, however. I have been taught better manners than that. Pray, sir, what is your family name?”
“Haw—That is, Hopwood.”
“I, too, recognize quality, sir. It is not plain Mr. Hopwood. Of that I am certain. I would wager my best gown that I ought to be saying ‘your lordship’ when I speak to you, but I do not recognize Hopwood. Still, it is Lord Hopwood, is it not?”
“If you must. I prefer Josh.” His tone was easier now. “It’s an insignificant barony, nothing more. There is the castle yonder. You will soon be quite warm again.”
“My father will want to thank you, sir,” Gillian said. “You must come inside with me to pay your respects.”
“I think not. If we should encounter Marrick, he is welcome to thank me, but I will not risk encountering your stepmama in all my dirt, I assure you.”
“You sound like my uncle. He hasn’t yet risked encountering Estrid at all. He slips in and out at Carnaby like a ghost.”
“It is not the same. Only look at me.”
She did so, and in the glow from the torches lighting the open passageway through the curtain wall to the courtyard, she could see that he was no sight for a lady’s drawing room. He was as sodden as herself, and the front of him, where he had lain upon the ground, was muddy. His hair was plastered to his brow, and so wet she could not guess its natural color, but she thought his countenance a handsome one, and was conscious of a desire to know him better. That he meant to set her down and drive away she found distressing. “You are dreadfully wet,” she said. “You must come in to warm yourself. You need not stand upon ceremony, and you must have dry clothing. You are larger than Papa or Uncle Marmaduke, but I daresay there will be a cloak to fit you and perchance some other things as well.”
“No,” he said. “I thank you, but I have not far to go, you know, and I would as lief not be seen like this.”
She pressed him, but his attitude chilled alarmingly and she fell silent. He seemed suddenly aloof, more distant than he had seemed even when he had scolded her from the cliff. Still, she could not think him other than kind, and when he set her down on the flagstones in the courtyard with Marcus, she thanked him again. But he brushed her thanks aside, telling her to go inside before she caught her death of cold. She did as he commanded, but was sorry she had not insisted upon his accompanying her when she discovered not only that her family had not yet missed her but that only Clementina believed her tale of danger and rescue.
She was forced to endure a scolding from her stepmother because she had missed supper and ruined her dress, and there were weeks of teasing to be endured from her stepsister Dorinda, who took it upon herself when they returned to South Devon to inform everyone they knew about Gillian’s Baron Hopwood. No one seemed to have heard of him, which increased Gillian’s mortification, but she thought of him often, wondering if perchance she had dreamed the whole, as Dorinda had accused her of doing.
1
London, March 1800
Certain persons will be fascinated to learn that an announcement of the forthcoming marriage of one of the ornaments of the beau monde will appear tomorrow, albeit rather cryptically, in the South Devon Gazette. We take the liberty to print the notice as it will appear, to wit: “The Earl of Marrick announces the betrothal of his daughter, Lady Gillian Carnaby, to Josiah, Baron Hopwood, of London.” Can it be that the earl does not know Baron Hopwood to be but an honorary styling for the notorious M—of Th—?
PORTLY, FAIR-HAIRED PEREGRINE, Lord Dawlish, along with two other dinner companions at Brooks’s Club, had been watching the rapidly changing expression on the Marquess of Thorne’s face as he silently read the notice, which Dawlish had obligingly pointed out to him only after they all had finished their meal. Dawlish said, “Well, coz, what about it? We knew you were up to something with these secret little jaunts of yours, but marriage? And to Marrick’s daughter? Bad blood there, Josh. You don’t want anything to do with that lot. Does he, Andy?”
The exquisitely attired gentleman thus addressed was twisted about in his chair, his handsome features screwed up in a frown as he peered anxiously about the eating room at Brooks’s. “Where are the damned waiters? Never about when you want them. Here, waiter,” he shouted, “can you not see that our glasses are empty? Stir your stumps, man, and bring a fresh bottle! And take away these damned platters while you’re about it. That poultry is as old and tough as your grandmother. Moreover, the pastry was made with rank Irish butter, and that cheese, which you claim is cheddar, is nothing but a pale imitation, damme if it ain’t!”
Dawlish, balked of support from that quarter, turned to the fourth gentleman at their table, a slim, lanky gentleman with the muscular shoulders and thighs of a sportsman and the demeanor of a man about town. “You tell him, Crawler. The duke won’t like this. You can take my word for it. A Tartar, that’s what he is. You don’t know him as well as I do. Stands to reason, since you mostly went home on holiday, while I went as often as not with Josh to Langshire, but my uncle’s said he won’t stand any more of Josh’s nonsense. Means it too. Never says what he don’t mean.”
Lord Crawley glanced at the marquess, then back at Dawlish before he said, “His grace is not noted for tolerance, I know, but Josh is his only son, after all. He won’t eat him, Mongrel.”
“Don’t be too sure of that,” Dawlish replied, paying no heed whatever to the odd nickname, for the simple reason that he had lived with it since his days at Eton, where his name had undergone transformation, thanks to his chums, from Pedigree Dawlish—thanks to his relationship to the marquess—to Pedigree Dogless, to the present, much simpler appellation, about which he had long since ceased to complain. He went on, “After that bit of fluff in Brighton last summer—saying she wanted to be set up in a castle of her own—and then the opera dancer, followed by that little incident at Badminton when we went for the shooting—stands to reason, he ain’t going to look kindly upon a betrothal to the daughter of a man who marries any woman who picks him up when he falls off his horse. Shouldn’t have done that, Josh.”
“I didn’t,” Thorne said brusquely, sitting back in his chair and absently thrustin
g a lock of his dark hair out of his eyes.
“Says you did, right there in the London Gazette. Be in the Times, I daresay, by morning. Your father don’t necessarily read the Gazette, of course. Stands to reason. Mine don’t. Don’t read any of the popular press. But he’s bound to read the Times. And when he does, my lad, he’ll want your liver for carving.”
“Here’s that damned waiter,” the exquisite interjected, adding, “That bottle had best be a sight better than the last, my man. When a club’s wine cellar extends clear under St. James’s Street, a man expects better than a mere infusion of malt with his meal. The port was musty, and the sherry we had was sour. I don’t know what Brooks’s is coming to, but I can tell you that both our dinner and dessert were not fit for the consumption of gentlemen. If you cannot do better, we shall soon find ourselves under the necessity to change our subscription to White’s. And how will that suit you, my man? Answer me that!”
“Ignore him,” Thorne said to the waiter, “and put the dinner to my account.” When the waiter, clearly relieved, had taken himself off, the marquess added gently, “You mustn’t run your rigs here, Andy. They may do for a coffeehouse or tavern, but you mustn’t play them off in Brooks’s. First thing you know, you will have the secretary demanding your resignation.”
The exquisite blinked at him, then grinned ruefully and drawled, “Habit, I expect. One does so dislike being made to waste the ready on mere foodstuffs when one might keep it for the tables through the use of a simple ruse or two. It’s too much like giving money to one’s tailor, that is. So frequently, when one complains that the fish is not warm through, or the port has turned to vinegar, mine host begs one not to pay. Damned decent of you, Josh, to stand the nonsense for us today.”
The marquess shrugged, turning his attention back to the Gazette. He read the notice again, his lips tightening as he did so, and when he looked up again, it was to glare at the others. “If this is someone’s notion of a jest, I hope I may discover his identity without further loss of time so that I can make plain to him its lack of humor.”