by M. C. Beaton
His lips curled in a smile. He had her at last. He put the telescope in his saddlebag and then drew a soft black mask out of his pocket and put it on so that most of his face was covered. Then he spurred his horse forward and down toward the road.
He reined in behind Isabella and dismounted. She turned curiously, at first unafraid, expecting to see one of her neighbors. Her eyes widened in alarm as she saw the mask. She looked wildly to left and right, but there was no one to be seen. He strolled toward her as she stood rigid with fear in the middle of the road.
And then she found her voice and screamed and screamed.
Lord Harry, ambling along, heard that scream and broke into a run, fobs and seals bobbing, cursing his constricting finery.
He bounded over the turf and came in sight of the road. A woman had been seized by a masked man, and he was dragging her to a ditch at the side of the road.
As he got closer, he recognized Isabella. “Hey!” he shouted.
The masked man released Isabella and whipped round. Lord Harry stopped and picked up a stone that was lying nearby. He threw it with unerring aim, and it struck the masked stranger full on the forehead. He reeled back, stumbled, regained his balance and before Lord Harry could reach him, he had run to his horse, swung himself into the saddle, and ridden off.
“Damn,” muttered Lord Harry and then strolled to where Isabella was crouched in the ditch. “I’ Faith, Miss Isabella,” he drawled, “you brought that upon yourself. No groom or footman!”
Isabella glared at him. She carefully extricated her hair, which had become caught in the long spiny tendrils of a blackberry bush, and crawled out of the ditch. Anger at him was driving out fear, and she had been most terribly afraid. “Such a thing has never happened before. Never!”
He surveyed her thoughtfully. Her hair was tousled for her hat had come off in the struggle and the tightness of her old dress showed the heavings of her bosom. His eye traveled down to the skirt which, despite the dusty train at the back, was too short in the front. Yes, her ankles were excellent. Such a pity her soul was a mess.
“I shall escort you to Tregar Castle,” said Lord Harry. “My sister will attend to you. Perhaps you should lie down in a darkened room and await the physician. I shall deal with the authorities, who must be summoned. Are you well enough to walk or shall I carry you?”
“I am perfectly well, if shaken,” said Isabella firmly.
“So glad,” he said seriously, “for you are quite a strapping wench, and it would indeed be an effort to have to carry you. My clothes are already suffering from the ungentlemanly exercise. There is nothing worse than an excess of vigor for spoiling the line of one’s coat. Do you know the identity of your assailant?”
“No, he must have been some drunk or madman. There are footpads on the roads nearer the larger towns, but I have never heard of any in this vicinity.”
“Footpad? He was wearing a fine blue coat and breeches of doeskin. His horse was a showy beast.”
“I know all the gentlemen for miles around,” said Isabella, walking along beside him. “None would behave in such a manner.”
There was a silence, and then Lord Harry said, “As far as I could see, he was intent on rape rather than robbery.”
“My lord!”
“He was, wasn’t he?”
Isabella remembered the assailant’s hand, which had fumbled in the front of her dress while the other held her tightly against him. She shuddered and stopped, her face quite white as the shock of the attack hit her at last.
“You may cry on my shoulder if you like.” Lord Harry’s voice was mocking.
Color flooded into her cheeks, and she walked on. “I am quite recovered, my lord.”
Lord Harry had meant to anger her, for he did not want her to go into hysterics or faint.
When they arrived at the castle, Lucy came running out to meet them, dressed in a neat and clean gown and with pretty blue ribbons in her hair. As if remembering her new role of lady, she stopped before she reached them. Ladies, Lucy knew, did not run or bounce or show any excitement.
“You had best get Father,” said Lord Harry. “Miss Isabella was attacked on her way here.”
“Attacked? Oh, this is terrible.” Lucy put an arm around Isabella’s shoulders. “You poor thing.”
Isabella could feel tears welling up in her eyes, but she was determined not to cry before Lord Harry, and it was only when Lucy had guided her into the morning room that she broke down and sobbed. Lucy, with a wisdom beyond her years, sat silently next to her and let her cry. At last Isabella dried her eyes and gave Lucy a shaky smile. “I cannot remember crying like that since I was a child,” she said. “But why should anyone attack me in broad daylight? I am lucky Lord Harry came on the scene and scared that dreadful man away.”
“So Harry is not entirely a fop?”
“He threw a stone at him, but other than that he did not have to do anything. He complained the exercise in running to rescue me had spoiled the line of his coat.”
“Oh, dear,” said Lucy. “My brother is past redemption.”
She might have changed her mind if she could have seen Lord Harry organizing a search for the assailant with military precision. The colonel of the local militia and his men had been called in. Lord Harry gave them a concise description of the assailant’s build, height, clothes, and horse.
Mr. and Mrs. Chadbury arrived and rushed to see their daughter. By afternoon the countryside was alive with searching men, and the treasure hunt had been forgotten. By evening, they had discovered that a man wearing the clothes that Lord Harry had described and riding a horse that also matched his description had been staying at The George, an inn at the nearest large town of Dowlas along the coast, under the name of Mr. Sand. He had left that day in a great hurry.
“What do you think?” Captain James asked Lord Harry. “Some madman? And yet the landlord describes him as a gentleman, but cannot add much to your description except that he was ‘quite handsome.’ ”
They were strolling through what passed for gardens around the castle, unkempt grass that was cropped by lazy sheep.
“I think perhaps it was one of Miss Isabella’s rejects. She must have wounded many souls during her two Seasons. It may sound cruel, but it did her some good, I think. She actually came to life.”
“Yes, you do sound cruel. Such a thing to happen to a gently reared female is appalling.”
“An appalling thing to happen to any female, be she scullery maid or duchess,” Lord Harry pointed out. “A low station in society does not necessarily mean the woman is devoid of feeling.”
Captain James eyed his friend uneasily. “You sound like a Whig.”
Lord Harry laughed. “The worst thing to sound like in your book. Dinner should be ready soon, and I am sharp set, although one look at the table usually cures that.”
“Oh, dear, do your parents not keep a good table?”
“They keep a very bad table. I should have warned you.”
To Lord Harry’s surprise, as they entered one of the small dark rooms that was ambitiously called the White Saloon for the walls were grimy with two centuries of smoke and dust, he noticed that Isabella was still wearing her riding dress whereas his hoydenish sister was attired in a silk gown. Captain James, too, noticed that silk gown particularly. It was of soft green silk with the low neckline ornamented with a fall of fine lace.
Lucy had suddenly declared she wanted to dress properly for dinner, and Isabella, glad to have something to take her mind off her bad experience, had appealed to the countess. The countess had produced an old silk gown of her own, along with a box of fine lace, and Isabella had worked to transform the dress to fit Lucy and then to stitch the lace onto the neckline.
Lord Harry raised his quizzing glass. “You are looking remarkably bon ton, Lucy.”
“Yes, she is,” remarked Mrs. Chadbury with an edge to her voice. “I wish I could say the same for my daughter. Why you are so determined to sit down to dinner
in that disgraceful old riding dress is beyond me, Isabella. We are allowing you license this evening because of what happened today. But never insult your host and hostess again by sitting down to dinner looking like a guy.”
Isabella flushed. “I don’t know,” said Lord Harry, putting his head on one side and surveying the blushing Isabella. “Diana, chaste and fair. Nothing like riding dress for showing off the female form.”
“Stop giving poor Isabella a jaw-me-dead, all of you.” Lucy was bristling with temper. “Has she not endured enough?”
“Her day of misery is not over yet,” drawled Lord Harry. “For I suppose you still have old Fortheringay as chef in the kitchen.”
The earl looked surprised. “Of course. No one can deal with roast beef like old Fotheringay.”
“True,” murmured Lord Harry. “Sad, but true.”
His mother rose to her feet and walked over to him. She took hold of his quizzing glass, which was hanging round his neck by a gold chain, and held the glass up to what light there was coming in through the ivy-covered window.
“This is plain glass,” she said. “What’s the point of it all?”
Captain James laughed. “It is a dangerous weapon. The quizzing glass, Countess, is not to see with. It is to glare through, to freeze, to disarm one’s enemies, to repel the advances of mushrooms and counter-jumpers. The same applies to the snuff box. Many gentlemen carry snuff boxes but do not take snuff themselves. The box demonstrates the wealth of the owner—the way he flicks the lid and offers a pinch, his breeding; the mixture, his good taste.”
“Sounds like a lot of rot to me,” remarked the countess.
“Which will probably describe the dinner we are about to have,” murmured Lord Harry as his mother moved off toward the dining room on his father’s arm.
The earl did not believe in all this newfangled nonsense of having servants hand round dishes. Everything was placed in front of him, and he carved and filled the plates and passed them along. Ladies, too, had to know how to carve as well, and Isabella had been taught at special carving lessons in London, the price being a guinea a lesson.
She had learned the different carving terms. You break a deer, rear a goose, lift a swan, spoil a hen, disfigure a peacock, allay a pheasant, thigh a pigeon, unjoint a bittern, chine a salmon, splatt a pike, splay a bream, side a haddock, culpon a trout, and barbe a lobster.
Isabella found herself praying there would be no roast beef, for the castle roast beef always arrived at the table oozing blood from every pore. She often wondered if the chef just waved it over the fire and then brought it upstairs. Lucy had pointed out that afternoon that as ladies were expected to eat like birds, then Isabella, if she wished to offend Lord Harry, should learn to eat heartily. But not this dinner, thought Isabella. The food was either burned to a crisp or not cooked at all. Her worst fears were realized after the buttock of beef was carried in and proceeded to squirt fountains of blood when the earl thrust his carving fork into it. Perhaps there should be a new carving term added to the list, thought Isabella—cannibalizing a buttock of beef.
“Remember that chap who attended a dinner at the Beefsteak Club in London?” asked Lord Harry. “He said it was an appalling sight. He said he half expected them to start carving up each other.”
Isabella concentrated on eating the vegetables on her dish, those that were not soaked in blood.
She suddenly had an idea how she might rile Lord Harry. He wanted a marriage in which he would see as little of her as possible. She smiled at him, and said, “When we are married, I shall of course, go everywhere with you.”
Lord Harry looked at her in surprise. “As soon as we are married,” he said gently, “I shall be returning to Portugal and then to Spain.”
“So I shall follow the drum,” said Isabella gaily.
“Isabella!” shrieked her mother.
Even Captain James looked horrified. “It is no life for a lady, Miss Isabella,” he said.
“But last Season I was talking to Lady Terry and she had just returned from the wars and told me of the balls and parties.”
“We do have balls and parties and amateur theatricals,” said Captain James. “But such pleasures are few and far between. Have you thought of the discomfort, of the long route marches, of the abysmal sleeping quarters?”
Lord Harry smiled. “Besides, it takes a certain type of lady.”
“Explain,” snapped Isabella, angry to see that she had only succeeded in amusing him.
“Well, there is the famous case of Juana Maria de Los Deloros de Leon.”
“Do tell me about her.”
“It was after the siege of Badajoz. Our soldiers had behaved disgracefully. In fact, the atrocities committed by them on the innocent and defenseless inhabitants of that city were beyond belief. Out of this inferno, two ladies managed to escape. As they tried to flee from the city they were lucky enough to encounter John Kincaid and Harry Smith, two young officers of the 95th. The elder lady explained that she was the wife of a Spanish officer away at the war. Her home had been wrecked by British looters. The ears of both ladies were torn where their earrings had been ripped off. The elder woman was terrified that her young fourteen-year-old sister would fall into the hands of the soldiery, and she appealed to the two officers for help and protection. Kincaid and Smith were by this time smitten by the charms of the young girl—”
“The fourteen-year-old!” exclaimed Isabella.
“Yes. Kincaid is a fine man. Smith is ten years the girl’s senior, vain and somewhat self-satisfied, but she appeared to favor him rather than Kincaid. That young Spanish girl is the now famous Juana, Mrs. Harry Smith. The courtship of Harry and Juana lasted only two days. Then they were married. She quickly became the darling of the troops, for she could ride as well as she could sing and dance, and she is always cheerful and laughing. She can ride all day long and then sleep on a bed of damp grass, only to rise in the morning as fresh as the dew. Harry is like a dog with two tails, he is so proud of her. And she adores him.”
“But,” ventured Isabella, “perhaps this Juana was already used to a rougher life than that of an English lady.”
“Fustian. Young Spanish girls have a much stricter upbringing than any English miss. Juana is possessed of a natural gaiety and courage. She is also, as I have said, devoted to her husband and does not cause trouble with flirtations. I detest flirts,” added Lord Harry. He turned to the earl. “You must excuse me, Father, but you have strange tastes in cooking, still. Have you not noticed that your guests can barely get through the nauseating mess on their plates?”
“Mind your tongue, you young whippersnapper,” roared the earl, noticing his butler sliding from the dining room. “Stokes will tell Fortheringay what you have just said and then we’ll have a scene. And I can’t abide scenes.”
“We are really not very hungry,” said Mrs. Chadbury, nervously eyeing the door of the dining room.
“You always were a picky child, Harry,” commented the countess. “Do not be alarmed, Isabella. I am sure you can train him to appreciate good cooking.”
Isabella said nothing. She felt that Lord Harry had deliberately selected this wretched Juana out of all the women in the Peninsular Wars to make her feel useless and inadequate.
Lord Harry, too, had fallen silent. He was suddenly remembering a brief return to England after the disastrous Battle of Corunna, a visit too short to allow him to go home.
He and some fellow officers were climbing out of the longboat into the sea on the English coast when one of the officer’s wives who had been waiting on the shore to greet him had waded into the sea and clasped her husband in her arms, and so they had stood, deaf and blind to everything and everyone, kissing and embracing, holding each other tightly. He remembered how the woman’s pretty white muslin dress had risen and fallen on the waves. He remembered their passion. He wondered what it would be like to love and be loved in such a way and felt sad because he had never experienced such emotion and doubted i
f he ever would.
The door was flung open, and Fortheringay burst in, clutching a meat cleaver, his dingy apron stained with blood. He was a small, gray-haired man with pinkish eyes and matted gray hair poking out beneath a skull cap.
“I cook the best bit o’ beef in the whole of the south of England,” he howled. “What’s this about me producing messes?”
“Nobody criticized your cooking,” lied the earl, but the butler who had followed the cook in said gleefully, “Twaur Lord Harry said it, that it waur.”
Lord Harry rose and darted behind Captain James’s chair and crouched down on the floor. “Save me,” he squeaked.
“Get to your feet, milksop,” howled the earl. “Frightened of a servant? Get you gone, Fortheringay. Everyone enjoyed the meal very much.”
“They ain’t eating it,” said the cook, standing his ground. The Chadburys nervously took up knife and fork and tried to force some food down.
But Lucy, burning with shame for the behavior of her foppish brother, rose to her feet. She forgot about her intentions of behaving like a lady. She picked up her uneaten plate of food and hurled it across the room at the cook’s head. Fortheringay ducked, and it smashed against the dining room wall.
“Get belowstairs this minute,” said Lucy, advancing on the cook and brandishing her table knife.
Fortheringay stubbornly stood his ground until Lucy picked up the claret jug and shied that at his head as well. He nipped out and slammed the door behind him.
“And you, too, Stokes,” shouted Lucy, her hand reached for the Madeira decanter.
When the butler had gone, Lucy, very pink, walked round to where her brother was crouched and ordered, “Get back to your seat, Harry. You are a disgrace to your family and a disgrace to the British army. Coward!”