Scandal and Miss Markham (The Beauchamp Betrothals)

by Janice Preston

  ‘Or in Bullet’s hoof-steps,’ Thea said, with a flicker of a smile, ‘if there is such a word.’

  Vernon laughed, reached out and touched the tip of her nose. ‘Are we friends again?’

  ‘Friends,’ she said, with a rueful smile.

  * * *

  The sun beat down on them from the afternoon sky as they continued on their way towards Worcester. Time passed quickly and with much laughter as Vernon taught Thea some of the slang words common in the rougher areas of London.

  Thea had begun this journey determined to show no interest in the exclusive world to which Vernon belonged, but she couldn’t curb her curiosity. She was fascinated by the contrast between the world in which he lived—rich, opulent, indulgent—and his descriptions of some of the poorer areas and the rookeries, where the poorest of the poor—and, from what she could gather, the criminals—scraped an existence.

  In return, Thea told him tales of her world and the realities of life not only for manufacturers like her family, but also for the men who worked for them. She also told him of the hardships caused by trade embargoes, not only for manufactories like Stour Crystal, but also for the many ordinary hard-working men and women who lived in the area between Stourbridge and Birmingham and who made nails and chains at workshops in their own back yards. Something like a quarter of their output used to be sent to America, and the growing hostility between the two countries had forced many people to turn to poor relief to survive.

  Vernon’s fascination with her stories made Thea careless and she only just stopped herself confiding in him about her family’s misfortune at the hands of Jasper Connor—she could not bear to be the object of his pity.

  They rode on, stopping, as before, at every inn but no one knew—or would admit to knowing—Henry Mannington. No one had noticed a man of Daniel’s description riding a light grey horse last Thursday. As the heat built, they discarded their jackets, taking full advantage of the filtered shade cast by roadside trees where possible but, when they had no choice but to ride in the open, Thea tilted her cap down until her eyes were almost covered.

  At Vernon’s questioning glance, she said, ‘The sun brings out my freckles. I try to wear a bonnet with a large peak in the summer. This cap does little to protect my skin.’

  ‘I had not thought you a woman to be concerned about such minor matters as freckles,’ Vernon said. ‘Besides...’ he reached to her chin and turned her face to his ‘...your freckles are quite fetching.’

  Her skin tingled at his touch, and she looked away. ‘Freckles,’ she replied, ‘are most unfashionable.’

  ‘Fashion? Bah! Fashion is merely a whim, based on a few persons’ opinions.’

  Thea laughed at him. ‘You say that? You with your coat from Weston and your boots from Hoby? What a plumper.’ She frowned. ‘Plumper? Is that the right word?’

  It was one of the slang words Vernon had taught her. She was almost sure a plumper meant a lie.

  ‘It is,’ he said, with a grin. Then he sobered. ‘But my usual attire, I shall have you know, is not a matter of fashion, but of dressing respectfully.’

  ‘Respectfully? Respectful to whom?’

  ‘To myself. To my peers. Fashion can be extreme—you should see some of the fops and the affectations of their dress. You would laugh, I promise you, to see them with their garish waistcoats adorned with fobs and seals, and their shirt points so high they cannot turn their heads. And many men—even moderately sensible men—wear padding at the shoulders and at the calves to exaggerate their shape and their muscle.’

  Thea slid a sly sideways glance at Vernon’s broad shoulders and then dropped her gaze to his calf, encased in his tight-fitting boot.

  ‘Is that what it is?’ she said. ‘Padding?’

  Vernon flicked her knee, laughing. ‘Brat! I have no need for artificial help! No. Brummell has the right idea—simple and elegant. Unremarkable, even. A man should never aspire to be noticed for his clothing.’

  ‘Do ladies indulge in such excesses as the fops?’

  ‘Amongst the ladies of the ton, fashions are not so extreme, but they are fickle and they change every Season, necessitating the purchase of an entire new wardrobe if a lady does not wish to appear a pitiful creature in the eyes of her acquaintance.’ He sounded almost mocking.

  ‘Why do you continue to attend such events if you hold them in disdain?’

  He shrugged. ‘It is not disdain, precisely, it is what one does. To tell you the truth, I haven’t thought about it much until now. You—’ he flashed a smile in her direction ‘—have forced me to see my life through your eyes.’

  ‘And your conclusion?’

  He shrugged again. ‘I have led a privileged life, there is no doubt of it. I will return to it willingly—I may jest about certain aspects of it but, overall, it is a good life and I am aware of my good fortune. But this journey...’ He looked around, as though for inspiration. ‘This journey and your stories have heightened my awareness of the injustices in society.’

  ‘Do many in your position take on charitable work?’

  ‘Many people take pride in donating to charity. They hold fund-raising events and so forth, but when you have wealth that is no hardship—you attend a ball and pay some money, you enjoy yourself and barely notice the loss of the money. That is not the same as actually doing something.’

  He fell silent, staring at the road ahead.

  ‘I have a role model within my own family,’ he said eventually. ‘Leo’s eldest son, Dominic, Lord Avon—he is the patron of an orphan asylum and school. He is only two-and-twenty, and I confess he puts me to shame. My own nephew.’ He shook himself out of his pensive mood, turned his head and winked at Thea. ‘My real nephew, of course.’

  They continued, riding at an alternating walk and trot, unfailingly enquiring after Daniel and Henry Mannington at each and every inn they passed, to no avail. Dusk began to fall and, as they crested a rise in the road, the welcome sight of a wayside inn appeared.

  ‘We shall stop there for the night,’ Vernon said.

  He pretended not to hear Thea’s soft sigh of relief. He was stiff and exhausted, so God knew how poor Thea must feel. He swung from Warrior’s back, wincing at his aching muscles and, after a quick look round to make sure they were unobserved, he helped Thea from the saddle, his hands lingering on her slender waist, as he savoured the slide of her body down his and the tantalising brush of her peachy bottom against his groin. He stepped back, not wanting her to feel his arousal, but he found it a wrench to tear his hands from her waist.

  The more time he spent with her, the more he...liked her. Not just wanted her, as a woman, but actually liked her and enjoyed her company. And he delighted in just watching her: she fascinated him.

  He shook all such thoughts from his head as they led the horses into the stable yard, delivering them into the hands of the ostler, who pointed them to a side door, through which they gained access to the dim interior of the inn. The innkeeper—thin-faced and spindle-legged but with a pot belly—came to greet them, wiping his hands on a grimy towel.

  ‘Welcome, sir, and to you too, young sir.’ He bowed. ‘Tom Jackson at your service. It is good to see you on this fine evening. What is your pleasure?’

  ‘Good evening, Jackson. My name is Boyton, this is my nephew Theo. We should like two rooms for the night, if you please.’

  ‘Ah.’ Jackson’s smile faded. ‘Apologies, Mr Boyton, but we only have the three bedchambers here, and two are already taken...unless you do not object to sharing the room?’

  Vernon’s heart sank as the innkeeper regarded him hopefully. He dared not even glance at Thea. He could not think how they might contrive—any solution he came up with threatened to reveal their masquerade. A man such as Vernon Boyton would hardly allow his young nephew to sleep indoors in comfort whilst he bedded down in the
stable and the opposite arrangement was unthinkable. He would not expose Thea to such a risk.

  ‘In which direction are you travelling, sir?’

  ‘Towards Worcester,’ Vernon replied. ‘How far is the next inn along this road?’

  ‘A good five miles.’

  A hand tugged at Vernon’s sleeve. ‘We can share the bedchamber, Uncle,’ Thea said in her husky voice. ‘I promise I shall not complain when you snore.’

  Chapter Eleven

  Vernon glared down at Thea’s innocent expression, gritting his teeth at the twinkle in her hazel eyes.

  Little minx, baiting a man when there’s no chance to reply.

  His thoughts charged ahead with the possibilities of her suggestion, colouring in the details in lurid detail: him...and her...together all night long...in a room, with a bed.

  Then, quietly, she added, ‘I am weary, sir’, and he could hear the truth of it in her voice, see it in the slump of her shoulders.

  He recalled his own thoughts upon arrival—how tired he was and how much more Thea must be suffering for their long day, yet not a word of complaint had passed her lips. And here he was, a supposed gentleman, imagining her seduction. This would not do. Thea was under his protection, he could not take advantage of her. The innkeeper awaited his decision and Vernon was conscious of Thea watching him, now anxious.

  ‘A single bedchamber will be acceptable, Jackson. Thank you.’

  ‘And dinner, sir?’

  Vernon glanced again at Thea. The less they saw of the other guests the better.

  ‘Have you a private parlour we might use? We are both exhausted and we’d appreciate some peace and quiet.’

  ‘Of course, sir. I shall show you to your bedchamber and send the girl up with hot water. Follow me.’

  The room was not large, but there was a deep armchair by the fire as well as a large soft bed. Vernon dropped their bags at the foot of the bed.

  ‘I shall be comfortable enough in the chair,’ he said, without looking at Thea. He had never in his life felt quite as awkward with a female in a bedchamber. Not even his first time. Every movement felt contrived. ‘You may take the bed.’ Even his voice sounded strained.

  ‘I thank you. I have to confess, it is all I can do not to flop down upon it now and go straight to sleep.’ She crossed the room to him, peering up into his face. ‘I can tell this arrangement makes you uncomfortable,’ she said. ‘But I trust you. If I did not, I should never have suggested it.’

  Vernon had to smile at the earnestness in her voice and on her face but he wondered at her poise in this situation. Most of the females he knew would be either throwing themselves at him by now, or shrinking away with maidenly giggles. As far as Thea’s reaction went, he might as well be Daniel.

  Is that it? Does she view me as a brother?

  There were times—a certain look, a particular reaction from her—when he had thought otherwise, but now...? He could not quite fathom her and he was unused to feeling so unsure of himself around a woman. However, he could do no more now than follow her lead, even though he still could not stop one dark corner of his mind from speculating quite how she hid her breasts so effectively. He would follow her lead and remain in the part of teasing uncle. He tweaked one of her curls.

  ‘I beg you will not say as much to anyone else,’ he said. ‘I have a reputation to uphold.’

  Her brows rose. ‘A reputation for what, may I enquire? Is that your way of informing me you are considered something of a ladies’ man in society?’

  She grinned at him, then spun away to gaze out the window as a knock at the door heralded the arrival of their washing water. Vernon waited until the maid had placed the jug on the washstand and left them alone again. He badly needed some space to compose himself.

  ‘I shall leave you in privacy for ten minutes whilst I check the horses. Then you can go downstairs and wait for me to join you in the parlour.’

  He did not wait for her reply, but left the room and ran down the stairs. He quickly checked the horses—both comfortable in their stalls and munching hay—and then he returned to the inn, going into the bar. He had time for a quick beer before going back upstairs. A solitary customer sat in the bar and, upon finding out that Vernon was a fellow guest and traveller, he introduced himself as Wigbert Pooley, a salesman. Vernon did not linger, but soon excused himself and went upstairs to knock on the bedchamber door. It opened, and Thea—dressed as Theo, her red curls framing her face like a devilish halo—appeared.

  ‘I shall leave you to freshen yourself,’ she said and walked past him towards the stairs.

  Vernon stripped off his shirt and unstrapped the bandage Thea had wrapped around his chest the previous evening. He twisted this way and that, examining it in the looking glass. It looked as though it was healing well, with no sign of swelling or redness, and there was no pain. He had got away lightly.

  Ten minutes later, he opened the door into the private parlour and cursed beneath his breath. The room was empty. He pivoted on his heel and strode to the bar, stopping short on the threshold at the sight of Thea—colour high and her small fists clenched by her sides—confronting Wigbert Pooley, who was bent double clutching at his privates.

  Rage pumped Vernon’s blood as relief replaced fear on Thea’s face at the sight of him. He didn’t have to be a mind reader to guess Pooley—a beefy, middle-aged man with pendulous jowls—must have propositioned her in some way to provoke such a reaction. In two strides he crossed the room and hauled the man up by his lapels.

  ‘What the hell are you doing with my nephew, Pooley?’ he snarled, thrusting his face close to the other man’s.

  ‘Nay, sir.’ The man’s bulbous blue eyes were watering. ‘’Twas naught but...’ he gasped for breath ‘...a bit of friendly banter. Ain’t that so, m’boy?’

  Vernon relaxed a little upon hearing him call Thea a boy. For a moment there, he had feared she had been recognised as a female.

  ‘I bought him a beer ’n’ all,’ the man went on disjointedly. He groaned, feeling tenderly in the area of his wedding tackle. Vernon moved to shield Thea from the sight. ‘Paid for out me own pocket. Man gets lonely on the road. Bit of friendly fun never harmed nobody.’

  ‘Uncle.’ Thea’s hand was on his sleeve, her voice urgent. ‘Leave him. There’s no harm done. Our food will be served by now.’

  Pooley attempted a chuckle. ‘Typical lad, eh. Always thinking of his belly.’ He straightened with a groan and then waved a hand at Vernon. ‘Go on. No harm done, like the lad says.’

  With a growl of disgust, Vernon shoved the man aside and ushered Thea from the bar and into their private parlour. He shut the door behind them.

  ‘I thought I told you to wait in here for me? What the devil persuaded you to go into a public bar?’

  ‘I am capable of making my own decisions,’ she said, elevating her nose. ‘Jackson told me that man travels all around the Worcester area, taking orders and then returning with the goods. He calls at shops and houses alike. I thought he might know Henry Mannington.’

  ‘You should have waited for me,’ Vernon growled. ‘Another time you might not be so fortunate.’

  Thea grimaced. ‘Do you know...he did not even realise I was female? And, even though he thought me a boy, still he said such things—’

  Her mouth snapped shut as the door opened and two maids came in carrying salvers with roast meats and fish, pies and vegetables. Only after they had retreated, and the door had closed behind them, did Thea continue.

  ‘Disgusting things.’ Her cheeks were pink, but whether with embarrassment or indignation Vernon was unsure. Probably a combination of the two.

  ‘So you kicked him?’

  She nodded and his balls tightened in involuntary reflex. He could not be certain, but he thought he caught a smile flicker across her fa
ce and he shivered. Another involuntary reaction.

  ‘Where did you learn such a move?’

  ‘Daniel,’ she said, shortly. ‘He told me if ever I felt threatened, that was the quickest way to discourage a man.’

  ‘Quick and extremely effective. Remind me to show you some further defensive moves as well. You never know when they might come in handy. Now, let us eat. I am ravenous.’

  Vernon pulled out a chair for Thea, who hesitated and then sat, murmuring, ‘Thank you.’

  As soon as Vernon moved away to sit opposite her, Thea said, ‘You must take care. If you show me such courtesies in private it will not be long before you forget yourself in public.’

  Vernon sighed. ‘You are right. I must pay more attention.’

  They helped themselves to food and began to eat. Thea kept her attention firmly upon her plate, but Vernon could not prevent his gaze from straying in her direction, time after time. It was driving him wild, watching her slowly chew her food, the tip of her pink tongue darting out from time to time to lick a drop of gravy from her lips. What would he not give for a chance to kiss her...an opportunity to taste and explore her luscious mouth?

  He tried to divert his thoughts to different subjects. He could do without feeding this craving—the night to come was already playing havoc with his senses. His brain kept insisting he was a gentleman, but his libido had other ideas. It was fortunate that Thea appeared to have put aside any awareness of him as a man or who knew what might happen? She chatted to him as easily and unaffectedly as though he were a brother. Or, even more lowering, a favourite uncle.

  He came to a sense of his surroundings with a start. His mind had wandered and he had been eating mindlessly, ignoring his dining companion. She did not appear offended by his lack of manners, however—she had almost finished eating, her attention on her plate, her brow creased in a frown. Vernon reminded himself of their earlier conversation.