Quite unexpectedly, Pickett was filled with a perverse pride in his shameless sire. Throwing caution to the wind, he sat up straighter in his chair. “Not at all, sir. By all accounts, my father was rather an uncommon felon.” He turned to face his host. “Have you a safe, Mr. Brantley? If I were a betting man, I would lay you odds that I could have it open in less than a minute—less than thirty seconds, if I were not so out of practice. I learned the skill at my father’s knee at an age when your own sons were no doubt still in the schoolroom.”
Across the table, Jamie Pennington chuckled. “Oh, well done, Mr. Pickett!” he murmured under his breath.
“A wager!” exclaimed Sir Thaddeus, his anger overshadowed by some vague notion of salvaging his family’s honor, or his natural love of sport, or perhaps a combination of the two. “I’ll wager you he can do it within thirty seconds, Brantley. Name your stake!”
To Pickett’s dismay, every male member of the party quickly chose sides, and they rose as one and fetched their champion along to the study where he might put his skills to the test, leaving the ladies behind in sole possession of the dining room. Lady Runyon, blushing scarlet, regarded her ashen-faced daughter with an expression that did not bode well for Julia upon their return to the Runyon abode.
From her own end of the table, Mrs. Brantley spoke down its deserted length with determined cheerfulness. “Tell me,” she addressed what remained of the party, “how long do you suppose we can expect the mild weather to hold?”
* * *
The drive back to Runyon Hall was accomplished in strained silence, broken only once by Sir Thaddeus, who rubbed his hands together gleefully and exclaimed, “Twenty-seven seconds, by gad!” before encountering a quelling look from his lady and clamping his mouth shut. Upon their being admitted to the house, Pickett, pleading a headache which by this time was quite real, stumbled up the stairs before the front door was closed behind them. Sir Thaddeus gestured toward the door of his own study, made some vague reference to brandy, and disappeared. Alone with her mother, Julia had not long to wait before the inevitable recriminations began.
“Well, Julia, I hope you are happy with your choice now!”
“My sentiments toward Mr. Pickett have undergone no change, Mama,” she declared. “Why should they have done?”
Lady Runyon lifted her eyes heavenward. “Why, indeed? I vow, Julia, I was ready to sink!”
“Nonsense! Did you never make a misstep when you were first introduced into Society? I know I did—more than one, in fact! In any case, I thought Jamie covered beautifully for him.”
“Oh, if claiming Lady Buckleigh for dinner were all—! But then to announce in front of all our neighbors that his father was nothing but a common criminal—”
“And what was he supposed to do? It was Papa and the other men who kept pressing him for specifics when he tried his best to be discreetly vague.”
“Julia Runyon! Have you the effrontery to try and blame your father for this—this debacle? You have done this Mr. Pickett of yours no favors, my dear. The young man is completely out of his depth—and he is well aware of it, even if you are not. Why, he even calls you by your courtesy title!”
Julia’s cheeks burned at the memory of a certain verbal exchange between herself and Mr. Pickett during their masquerade as man and wife, never dreaming that under Scottish law such a representation might result in a legal marriage.
You must call me Julia, she’d insisted then. If I were really your wife, you wouldn’t call me ‘my lady.’
No, he’d said rather wistfully. If you were really my wife, I would call you my lady.
“I suppose it must sound that way,” she admitted to her mother. “But it is actually a—an endearment, of sorts.”
“I see.” Lady Runyon’s lips thinned. “In that case, perhaps you should give him a little hint that such intimacies are best indulged in private.”
Julia dashed a hand over her eyes. “Oh, where is the use in talking? Poor John can do nothing right, so far as you are concerned.”
She did not wait for an answer, but climbed the stairs wearily to her own bedroom. There she found her husband, who had shed his coat and waistcoat and now, clad only in shirt and breeches, sat slumped in the wing chair while he stared morosely into the fire.
“John?” she called softly to him.
“I’m so sorry,” he said without looking at her. “I never meant to embarrass you.”
“You didn’t embarrass me.” She crossed the room to stand before his chair, then cradled his head against her bosom and pressed her lips to his hair. “I had the best man there. Twenty-seven seconds? I should like to see any of them match that!”
He relaxed into her embrace with a half-hearted smile. “I’m glad your father was pleased, at all events. But I’d already put myself beyond the pale long before that, when I offered to escort Lady Buckleigh to dinner. Apparently it was the wrong thing to do.”
She sighed, searching for words that would explain the proper protocol without sounding insulting. “Sometimes dinner partners are assigned, but Mrs. Brantley’s party was not so formal as all that. Still, it is understood that ladies of higher rank are partnered by gentlemen of similar status.”
“Brantley was a mere ‘mister,’ too,” Pickett pointed out.
“Yes, but he was our host. It was his privilege—or responsibility, depending on how one looks at it—to escort the highest ranking female, just as Mrs. Brantley, the hostess, was escorted by Lord Buckleigh, the highest ranking male.”
“I didn’t know,” he confessed. “Poor little Lady Buckleigh just looked so uncomfortable that I felt sorry for her. I knew the feeling,” he added drily.
She leaned away from him, cupping his face in her hands and tipping it back so that he looked her squarely in the eye. “You made a mistake because you have a kind heart,” she informed him. “That is more important to me than any amount of social aplomb. Besides, Jamie managed to set everything to rights, so pray think no more of it.”
“Ah yes, Jamie. A good sort of fellow, if only he didn’t take such an interest in my wife.”
“Jamie’s only interest in me stems from a long-ago desire to be my brother-in-law, so you need not concern yourself there. As I see it, there is only one thing to worry about.”
“And what is that?”
“I only hope Mr. Brantley’s safe is not robbed before we return to London. Twenty-seven seconds? My dear, we would never persuade a jury of your innocence!”
He liked that “we.” He liked it very much. For the first time since the disaster in the dining room, Pickett smiled, realizing that Mr. and Mrs. Brantley, Lord and Lady Buckleigh, Jamie Pennington, and even his mother- and father-in-law were surprisingly unimportant. “I love you, Julia Pickett,” he said, then pulled her down onto his knee and kissed her quite thoroughly.
If the Runyon ghost prowled the halls that night, Pickett never noticed.
Chapter Five
In Which a Pleasant Sunday Outing
Takes a Most Unpleasant Turn
Undisturbed as he was by any supernatural visitations, Pickett slept quite soundly until morning. With the dawn, however, his peace was at an end, for it was Sunday, and he and Julia would naturally be expected to accompany her parents to the morning service.
As the day was fine, the four set out on foot, and by the time they reached the ancient stone church it was clear that those present at Mrs. Brantley’s dinner, both guests and servants, had not been idle. Every neck craned as churchgoers strove to obtain a view of little Julia Runyon and her shockingly outré new husband. Even those gentlemen who had profited handsomely by Pickett’s lock-picking skill had been suitably chastised by their wives for their part in the disaster, and now acknowledged the newest member of the Runyon party with the curtest of nods—a cold reception made all the more noticeable by the deference with which Lord Buckleigh and his bride were greeted only a few minutes later.
All in all, it was a relief to Pickett when t
hey entered the box pew that had provided seating (and, perhaps more important, privacy) to the Runyon family for generations. Once they were safely ensconced away from prying eyes, they had not long to wait until the vicar rose to begin the service, and all eyes were, thankfully, drawn to the tall, thin man in the pulpit.
“As many of you know,” the Reverend Mr. Pennington announced, “my son James has returned from the hostilities on the Peninsula, however briefly. I appreciate your prayers for him, and indeed for all our young men fighting the French. I’ve asked him to read the lesson today, which will be taken from the Apostle Paul’s first letter to the Corinthians.”
Jamie took his father’s place at the pulpit with a curiously combative gleam in his eye. “Thank you, Papa, but I have changed my mind. I shall be reading from the second chapter of James’s epistle instead.” He took a deep breath, and launched into the writer’s scathing denunciation of Christians who fawned over the wealthy in their midst while dismissing the poor as beneath their notice. Julia, realizing exactly what he was doing, took Pickett’s hand beneath the prayer book they shared and gave it a squeeze.
Jamie’s point was apparently well taken, for after the service Pickett’s welcome to the neighborhood, if not precisely enthusiastic, was at least somewhat warmer, and those who had shunned him earlier had the grace to look ashamed. As he escorted his wife across the churchyard, Pickett observed, “I think Major Pennington was right not to take holy orders after all.”
“Do you?” Julia asked, looking up at him from beneath the brim of her bonnet. “Why do you say that?”
He gave her a rather sheepish smile, not quite certain whether to be grateful for the major’s intervention or embarrassed by it. “It seems to me he’s a bit too fond of setting the cat amongst the pigeons. Don’t tell me he didn’t enjoy that little demonstration, for I won’t believe it!”
She chuckled at that. “Well, yes, you’re probably right. Jamie doesn’t have much patience with perceived injustices. It is one of his more admirable qualities, although I don’t doubt he’s come to grief over it more than once.”
“My dearest Julia!” cried a quavering female voice, and both Picketts turned to discover an elderly female picking her way across the churchyard as quickly as her tottering steps would allow.
“Millie!” Julia exclaimed, and hurried to meet the woman, whereupon both ladies embraced warmly. “John, you must allow me to make you known to Miss Milliken, my former governess.”
Behind her half-moon spectacles, the governess’s rheumy blue eyes darted from Julia to Pickett and back again. “I am so glad you escaped your ordeal unharmed, Julia—you must know I followed the news most diligently, although any word from London was of necessity several days old by the time it reached Norwood Green—but are you sure it was wise to remarry so soon after being widowed?”
“Pray meet my husband, and decide for yourself,” Julia urged. “Miss Milliken, may I present Mr. John Pickett? John, Miss Milliken was once charged with the impossible task of educating my sister and me.”
Miss Milliken inclined her head. “Mr. Pickett,” she said warily, her doubtful glance taking in every detail of his black tailcoat’s indifferent tailoring.
Sensing her governess’s disapproval, Julia hurried to explain. “Mr. Pickett, you must know, is the Bow Street Runner who proved my innocence in the matter of Frederick’s murder.”
The difference this knowledge made in Miss Milliken’s demeanor was astounding. To Pickett’s dismay, the little lady cast herself onto his chest and threw her arms around him. “My dear boy! Pray forgive an old woman’s prejudices! I can never, never thank you enough for what you have done for my little Julia!”
“The—the honor was all mine, ma’am,” Pickett protested, wondering how he might extricate himself from Miss Milliken’s embrace without giving offense. Thankfully, the matter was settled by the lady’s need to fumble in her reticule for a handkerchief with which to wipe her eyes. Pickett, relieved to find himself freed, was only too glad to offer his own.
“I beg your pardon, Mr. Pickett,” said Miss Milliken, her voice muffled by its folds. “You will think me a foolish old woman, I know, but with no children of my own, I have always thought of the Runyon girls as my own dear daughters. To lose poor Claudia in such a way, and then to be faced with the prospect of losing Julia as well—” Overcome with emotion, she sought recourse to the handkerchief once more.
Julia, glancing about, realized that they had attracted considerable attention. Correctly guessing her husband’s embarrassment (no great mental feat, as his blushes gave him away), she lost no time in making their excuses.
“I see Mama and Papa waiting for us, so I fear we must go now, Millie, but I should like to bring Mr. Pickett to tea one day, if I may.”
“Oh, certainly, certainly!” exclaimed Miss Milliken. “Your dear papa was so kind as to give me a positively lavish pension, you know, so I was able to hire a lovely little cottage only a short walk from the village.”
There followed a rather lengthy description of the agreeable location of this residence, along with its many amenities, but at last, after promising to come to tea in the very near future, Julia and Pickett were able to make their escape. They quickened their steps in order to catch up with Julia’s parents, and found Lady Runyon gazing wistfully across the green at a young woman leading a little girl by the hand. The woman was obviously a farmer’s wife, her plump cheeks rosy from exposure to sun and wind, and her Sunday best gown clean and neat, yet far from fashionable. The child was quite another matter. She was about three years old, with wide blue eyes and red-gold curls that glinted in the sun, and she wore a white frock worked with fine embroidery about the neck and hem.
“What a beautiful child,” Lady Runyon sighed mournfully. “She reminds me so much of Claudia at that age.”
Since Claudia’s blonde hair had held no trace of red, Julia glanced at Pickett and rolled her eyes. “Mama, how can you say so? She is certainly a beautiful child, but she looks nothing like—”
She broke off abruptly as Jamie Pennington stopped to speak to the young mother. He tweaked one of the child’s curls playfully, and the little girl hid her face in the woman’s skirts, then peered timidly out at the vicar’s son.
Julia froze where she stood, pressing her hand to her heart, which had begun to race alarmingly. But for the girl’s shyness, the child might have been Jamie’s daughter.
“My lady?” Pickett murmured. “Are you all right?”
“Jamie—and that little girl—” She had not expected him to mourn Claudia forever; for all practical purposes, he had lost her two years before her death, when she had married Lord Buckleigh. Still, Julia had difficulty reconciling the memory her sister’s ardent young admirer with the image of a cavalry officer of thirty sowing his wild oats willy-nilly amongst the women of the local yeomanry.
Pickett followed her gaze, and arrived at a very fair estimation of his wife’s thoughts. “Major Pennington has been fighting on the Continent for the last several years, has he not?”
“Yes,” Julia said slowly. “Still, I suppose he must have come home on leave sometime.”
There was nothing Pickett could say to that. Sir Thaddeus addressed some question to his daughter, and conversation became more general. They soon reached Runyon Hall, where after a cold collation as befitted the Sabbath, Lady Runyon declared her intention of lying down for a nap. Sir Thaddeus patted his belly and declared his need for exercise, then turned to his son-in-law and offered to show him about the place. Pickett was pleased to accept, until he was given to understand that this expedition would not be made on foot, as he had supposed, but on the back of a horse.
“I’ve never ridden before,” Pickett protested.
“No time like the present, I always say,” insisted the squire. “Mind you, it’s better to start young. I put my Julia on her first pony when she was only four years old, and now I’ll wager she’s got the prettiest seat in the county.”
Pickett, having recently become intimately acquainted with the seat in question, could find nothing to dispute in this assessment, but quite aside from the realization that he and his father-in-law were thinking of two entirely different things, he bethought himself of another reason that he should be excused from the proposed outing.
“I haven’t any riding clothes.”
These objections, too, fell on deaf ears. His own wife betrayed him with her assurances that his brown coat would serve very well, and Sir Thaddeus went so far as to offer him the loan of a pair of riding boots. These proved to be a bit small, but by this time Pickett had recognized the futility of argument, and resigned himself to pinched feet. He only hoped that he might escape the outing with no greater injuries.
“Tom!” Sir Thaddeus bellowed for the groom as they approached the stables. “Tom, where are you?”
A moment later the broad stable door opened, and a strapping youth still in his teens emerged into the sunlight.
“Will, where’s Tom?” Sir Thaddeus demanded.
The stable boy shrugged. “Dunno, sir. He hasn’t been in all morning.”
Sir Thaddeus muttered a curse under his breath. “Drank himself into a stupor last night at the Pig and Whistle, I’ll be bound! Will, I need you to saddle up my roan, her ladyship’s mare, and—” He studied Pickett appraisingly. “What are you, about twelve stone? Will, fetch Lucifer for Mr. Pickett here.”
Sir Thaddeus followed Will into the stable, and Pickett turned to regard Julia with a look of abject horror. “Your father is going to put me on a horse named Lucifer?”
“It isn’t as bad as it sounds,” she assured him hastily. “He was given the name as a colt, because of his beautiful black color. He’s a sweetheart, really.”
She turned as Will emerged from the stable leading a sleek black horse. “You wouldn’t hurt a fly, would you, Lucifer?” She took the rein from Will, and stroked the animal’s velvety nose. “You’ll take good care of my darling, won’t you?”
For Deader or Worse Page 6