Lady in the Briars

by Carola Dunn

  The shock of the frigid water was instantly succeeded by the shock of the boat hitting his back broadside. It hurt, but the pain was numbed by the coldness. “A spectacular bruise, no doubt,” he muttered, then shouted in her ear above the roar of the river, “Soon have you out of here!”

  His feet were on firm silt, the cross-brace was within easy reach of his six foot plus. Moments later he was sitting on the planks beside the huddled figure of the rescued girl, shivering as he ruefully contemplated the duckweed that decorated one of Weston’s best efforts.

  He shrugged out of the ruined coat, his gaze moving to the girl. She lay very still, eyes closed, her lips bluish. He glanced at Bev. “Be a good fellow and take the tyke home,” he half requested, half commanded.

  “My coat will never be the same again,” Mr. Bevan mourned, but he picked up the dripping child, set him on his horse’s withers and mounted behind him. “Sure you can manage?”

  “I’ll manage.” John was already struggling with the fastenings of the girl’s cloak.

  Her eyes opened, filled with terror, and she made a feeble motion towards his hands.

  “Keep still. I shan’t harm you but you’ll freeze to death if I don’t get these wet things off you quickly.”

  Though she obeyed, he felt her frightened gaze on his face as he stripped off the cloak. It worried him that she was not shivering. He had to tear her dress to remove it, and as he did so he talked to her soothingly, as he would to a nervous horse. Her wet shift clung to her skin. She was skinny, her ribs showing clearly, the dark nipples of her small breasts visible through the thin linen.

  “Where are you from?” he asked abruptly. He had nothing to dry her with, so he might as well leave her the minimal decency of her underclothing. He reached for his discarded greatcoat, wrapped it about her and fastened the buttons.

  “Visiting...Lord Danville,” she whispered.

  She must be a friend of Muriel’s. He picked her up to lift her to his horse’s back. She was light as a feather without the wet garments. As an afterthought he kicked their clothes into the river—no need to start any unnecessary rumours.

  “We’ll be home in ten minutes,” he reassured her.

  She managed to cling to the horse’s mane while he swung up into the saddle. He pulled her back against his chest and resumed his interrupted journey to his brother’s house, Buttercup prancing alongside.

  The girl was shaking now, and a little colour had returned to her lips. On the other hand, John was frozen. He had not been so cold and wet since his cousin Teresa had doused him with a bucket of icy water.

  She had soaked Andrew too, he remembered with a grin, in her successful effort to stop that dog fight. What a woman she was! If she had fallen into that river, as she well might with her talent for scrapes, she would doubtless have rescued both herself and the boy without a second thought.

  John sighed. Teresa had been Andrew’s wife for years now, and he would never find another like her. The girl in his arms, for instance, seemed to be a fearful creature in need of protection, very different from his lively, independent cousin.

  Not that he had any intention of marrying. He rather thought he should enjoy a life of bachelorhood, like his Uncle Cecil, though he’d be damned if he’d ever let himself grow so stout.

  * * * *

  They cantered around the poplar windbreak and up the drive. Rebecca felt a flood of relief as the house grew nearer. The stranger really had brought her home. She was much warmer already, in control of her limbs, and she could not wait to escape his overpowering, masculine presence.

  As soon as their mount came to a standstill at the front steps, she pulled away from his restraining arm and slid to the ground. To her dismay, her knees buckled. Grasping for support, she found herself clinging to a well-muscled leg clad in damp buckskin. The gentleman grinned down at her and an embarrassed flush swept her from top to toe.

  She transferred her grip to the stirrup leather, still far too close to him for comfort. As a stableboy ran up to take the reins, her rescuer awkwardly dismounted on the horse’s other side.

  Whatever he thought of this strange manoeuvre, the patient, well-mannered beast merely snorted gently.

  His master advanced on Rebecca. For the first time she realized how very large he was. Though her height was above average he topped her head and shoulders, making her feel small and helpless. The feeling was intensified when he picked her up without a by-your-leave and strode up the steps to the front door, shouting for service.

  Lord Danville’s footman had the door open when they reached it. “Lord John!” he gasped. “Miss Nuthall!”

  “Hot baths,” ordered the gentleman, coming straight to the point. “A hot drink for the lady—Miss Nuthall?—and brandy for me.”

  “At once, my lord.”

  The butler appeared. Unruffled by the commotion, he dismissed his underling about his business with a wave. “An accident, I take it, my lord. Perhaps your lordship will be so good as to carry Miss Nuthall into the parlour, where there is a good fire.”

  “No, I can walk,” Rebecca protested.

  Lord John’s arms tightened about her and, panicking, she began to struggle. At once he set her on her feet, steadying her with a hand at her elbow.

  Lord Danville emerged from the library to one side of the vestibule, Muriel from the parlour on the other, the latter followed by Lady Parr.

  “John, what...”

  “Beckie, what...”

  “Rebecca, what is the meaning of this disgraceful scene?” Lady Parr’s enquiry cut through the babble.

  “Pray hush, Mama, can you not see that she is unwell? Dear Beckie, come above-stairs at once. Tom will lend you his arm, will you not, my love?”

  “To be sure,” said Lord Danville, advancing. “My arm is at your cousin’s disposal and my wardrobe at my brother’s.”

  Of course, he was Tom’s brother, thought Rebecca as her host and hostess helped her unsteady steps up the stairs. There had been something familiar about him, but she had been in no case to ponder it. She glanced back.

  “I demand an explanation.” Lady Parr’s penetrating voice reached her. “What sort of scrape has that foolish child fallen into now?”

  Lord John stood dripping on the flagstones, towering over the short, stout lady. “I’m dashed if I know the details, ma’am,” he said with indignation, “but I’ll go bail Miss Nuthall had no intention of taking a swim. Sort of thing that could happen to anyone.”

  Rebecca heard Lady Parr’s disbelieving snort as they reached the landing. Lord John’s ingenuous defence warmed her.

  The hot bath Muriel and her abigail hurried her into completed the thaw. She was ready to go down and make her excuses to Lady Parr, but Muriel insisted on putting her to bed with an extra eiderdown and a cup of broth.

  The kindness made tears rise to Rebecca’s eyes. A distant memory of a childhood illness returned: Mama and Grand'mère had cosseted her thus, and Papa had brought marzipan and a wooden monkey on a stick. She had long since discovered that it was best not to think of those happy days, for they made her life in her uncle’s house the more unbearable by comparison. Yet now she was free of him, perhaps she dared allow herself to remember.

  “If you are sure you feel well enough,” Muriel was saying, “I shall bring Mary to see you in a while.”

  “Pray do. And then I must explain to Cousin Adelaide how it all happened.”

  “There is no need for explanations, Beckie dear. We are just glad that John was there to make himself useful for once. Now, I must go and see that he has been made comfortable. Try if you can sleep a little.”

  Rebecca watched her bustle out, smiling at her firmness. Timid as Lady Danville seemed in her mother’s presence, she ran her household with the greatest aplomb, and would doubtless make an excellent duchess one day.

  All the same, Cousin Adelaide must have an explanation sooner or later. Muriel and her abigail had delicately avoided commenting on Rebecca’s lack of c
lothing under John’s greatcoat. Doubtless they would not spread the word, but would John himself be equally reticent? His sister-in-law had commented more than once on his disgracefully rakish ways, his irresponsibility. Rebecca shuddered to think how utterly she had been at his mercy, and still she was not free of him. He might think it an amusing story, or even suppose that it gave him licence to pester her with his attentions.

  She resolved to avoid him as much as possible. That was not likely to prove difficult, for he would hardly seek out the company of Lady Parr!

  If she had heard the conversation in the bedchamber just across the hall, it would have confirmed this supposition.

  “Not even his Grace’s orders could have persuaded me to come within a mile of the place if I’d known you had that devilish woman visiting,” grumbled Lord John, stretching carpet-slippered feet to the fire and sipping at his bumper of brandy and hot water.

  “Family.” His brother was apologetic. “She won’t be here more than another fortnight, for even Muriel won’t put up with her longer than that. I’ve developed a veritable plethora of ways to ensure her departure on time. But tell me just why we have been honoured with your presence. His Grace’s orders, you say?”

  “I’ll tell you when you have explained to me who Miss Nuthall is.”

  Thomas, Viscount Danville, heir to the Duke of Stafford, had never been known to refuse an invitation to speak. “Rebecca Nuthall is a distant cousin of Muriel’s. Lady Parr’s maternal uncle was married to...”

  “Cut line, Tom! I can do without the family tree. What is she doing here?”

  “Acting as companion to Lady Parr; the thirteenth, I believe. She’s lasted longer than the rest. A meek, nervous creature.”

  “Oh, a lady’s companion.” John’s tone dismissed the occupation as beneath his notice, but he went on to ask, “Does the old dragon starve her? She’s thin as a rail.”

  “Starve her? In my house? I trust you are joking! Rebecca has a delicate appetite, I daresay. What exactly happened this morning?”

  “She fell into one of your devilish watercourses and I fished her out. There was a boy, too. I wonder what’s become of Bev?”

  “Mr. Bevan arrived a half hour since, while you were in your bath. He, too, was in need of a borrowed coat.”

  John jumped up and headed for the door. “Bev’s less likely to split your seams than I am,” he said over his shoulder, “and our traps should arrive at any minute. The carriage set out from Stamford at the same time we did.”

  “Where are you going? You cannot wander about the house in my dressing gown in broad daylight!”

  “Tell me which chamber is Bev’s and I shan’t have to wander about. Or I could leave the dressing gown behind,” offered John with a grin, his hand on the knob.

  With a resigned sigh Tom went to fetch Mr. Bevan and moments later the three gentlemen were once more seated cosily about the fire.

  “The lad was right as rain by the time I got him home,” Bev reported. “One of your tenants’ brats, Danville, and more like to get a hiding than sympathy by the look on his father’s face.”

  “Did he tell you how the accident came about?” Tom asked.

  “He swore up and down the young lady jumped in to save him, and that she could have climbed out but she wouldn’t abandon him. Regular heroine, I collect.”

  “That doesn’t sound like Rebecca.” Tom shook his head. “She’s a spiritless little thing, couldn’t say boo to a goose.”

  John agreed. “She struck me as the timid sort. Delicate. I’ll wager you it’s all a hum.”

  “Regular heroine,” his friend persisted. “You’re on for ten guineas. The boy would have been washed away if she hadn’t held him up. How is she? Looked to be in queer stirrups when you fished her out.”

  “Yes, I’d have sworn she was half dead, yet she managed to walk above-stairs after I carried her in. Insisted on it, in fact. Come to think of it, that showed some pluck.”

  “Told you so,” Bev said triumphantly.

  “How is she?” John turned to Tom.

  “I’ll go and ask Muriel. I’ve business to see to, can’t sit about chatting all day. We’ll talk later.” With a dark glance at his brother, the viscount heaved himself out of his chair and departed.

  “Not in the way, am I?” Bev lounged back with his boots on the gleaming brass fender, reaching for the glass of brandy on the table at his elbow.

  “On the contrary. Your presence has postponed a painful explanation of my presence.”

  “Haven’t told him about the duel yet, eh?”

  “Of all the ill-considered, muttonheaded starts,” John said gloomily, “that was the stupidest.”

  “It seemed like a good idea at the time. Tell me about the young lady you pulled out of the river. I gather she is staying here?”

  “Tom’s mother-in-law’s companion, Miss Rebecca Nuthall.”

  “Not an heiress then. Pity.”

  “Don’t tell me you’re looking for an heiress! Under the hatches again?”

  “Not at all! Well, I admit it’s low tide with me till quarter day but that’s not far off and I’m not about to let it drive me into parson’s mousetrap. Never hurts to have an unknown heiress up one’s sleeve though. Pretty, is she?” Bev asked.

  “Don’t be a clunch. If there’s a woman on this earth who looks pretty when she’s frozen and half-drowned, I’d like to meet her. Besides, pretty females have no need to become lady’s companions.”

  “True.” Mr. Bevan’s sigh was philosophical. “And from what your brother said she’s not even a lively ‘un. Ah, well, daresay I ought to be on my way tomorrow.”

  “You can’t mean to desert me so soon! And don’t tell me the damp is bad for your rheumatism.”

  “My dear fellow, you can’t expect me to stay in the middle of a family row without even a flirtation to amuse me.”

  “There won’t be a row,” said John optimistically. “Tom may be six years my senior but he ain’t head of the family yet. At worst, he’ll sermonize.”

  “In that case,” Bev resolved, “I’ll be gone at first light!”

  When Tom cornered him later that afternoon, John’s optimism proved well-founded. The viscount tut-tutted at the story of the duel, but agreed that the outcome had been an unfortunate accident.

  “Rawley’s not likely to die, is he? Barring a fever or putrefaction of the wound? So that’s why his Grace has sent you to rusticate.”

  “Worse than that. He’s sending me abroad. I’ll be leaving as soon as he’s arranged a post for me in one of our embassies.”

  To John’s indignation, his staid brother roared with laughter. “You—a diplomat!” he spluttered. “This is too rich!”

  “I daresay I can be as good a diplomat as the next man.”

  “Where are you going? I suppose he will not reward you with Paris or Vienna.”

  “More likely some godforsaken hellhole like Calcutta or Cairo. The sort of place Teresa and Andrew would love to visit.”

  “They are off to far more civilized parts on their next posting. I heard from them only this morning. They will be coming to stay for a few days next week on their way to Hull to take ship for St Petersburg.”

  John brightened. “Coming here? Famous! I haven’t seen Teresa since they stayed with us in London in the autumn, just after they arrived back in England.”

  “Muriel hopes to persuade Teresa to leave the little girl with us.”

  “She’ll catch cold at that. The child was born in China, wasn’t she? She has already travelled half round the world. I’ll lay you a monkey Teresa will think nothing of taking her to Russia.”

  “That’s one wager I’ll not take you up on, though I don’t say I approve. Our cousin may be an intrepid traveller but it is the outside of enough to endanger her daughter unnecessarily.”

  “Russia’s not so very different from England. I met Prince Nikolai Volkov when the Tsar was here in ‘14, and I assure you he was up to every rig and row.”


  “That is hardly reassuring! However, it is certainly safer than China and I do not mean to pinch at Teresa about it. I beg you will not lead her into mischief while she is here.”

  “Come, Tom, she is a respectable matron now.”

  “If she has changed, you have not.”

  Foreseeing the expected lecture on his here-and-thereian ways, John made his escape.

  Chapter 3

  “Is that Miss Nuthall? You had me expecting a muffin-faced drab!” Bev’s whispered indignation was just audible above the crackle of the drawing-room fire.

  John turned towards the door. He was pleasantly surprised by the slight figure poised there like a nervous doe. The hair he had seen in lank strands intertwined with duckweed turned out, when dry and wound in a coronet of braids about her head, to be a glossy bronze. Her brown eyes had a slight, attractive tilt, and her thinness was less obvious when her clothes were not damply revealing every inch of her figure.

  Muriel bustled forward and took her hand. “Beckie, dear, come and be introduced.”

  The gentlemen bowed and murmured, “Delighted,” as the girl curtsied, a flush mantling her delicate features.

  “Thank you, my lord, Mr. Bevan, for rescuing me.” Her soft voice was composed, but before she lowered her gaze John noted the look of apprehension she cast at him.

  “Our pleasure, Miss Nuthall.” Eager to put her at ease, he continued, “Bev tells us you are a heroine.”

  “Heroine?” She seemed bewildered.

  “The farmer’s lad told me how you jumped into the river to save him,” Mr. Bevan explained.

  “Oh no, I did not jump in, I slipped.”

  John had never before met a female who would deny a story so much to her credit. It intrigued him. “And you did not stay in the water to hold him up, when you might have climbed out on your own?” he asked.

  “I...I doubt I am strong enough to have climbed out unaided.”

  “Then you did not even attempt it? That qualifies you as a heroine in my book, ma’am. You must accept the title.”

  “Of course she is a heroine,” said Muriel, “but pray do not bother her about it now, John. She is not yet quite recovered. Come and sit down, Beckie.”