by Carola Dunn
John had a distinct feeling that the girl was glad of an excuse to escape. Wealthy, titled and handsome, he was more used to being chased by hopeful maidens. He watched thoughtfully as she followed his sister-in-law across the room.
Bev dug him in the ribs with his elbow and muttered in his ear, “Ten guineas.”
John scowled at his inoffensive friend. He had completely forgotten their wager and now it struck him that if Miss Nuthall came to hear of it she might think he had questioned her with the ulterior motive of disproving her heroism. “Hush!” he hissed. “We’ll be going in to dinner at any moment. I’ll pay you tonight.”
At that moment Lady Parr came in. With a regal nod to the young gentlemen, she sailed past them and plumped into a chair beside the sofa on which Miss Nuthall now reclined. Her piercing voice easily reached John’s ears.
“Well, girl, where have you been hiding?”
“Cousin Muriel would not allow me to rise from my bed, ma’am. I hope my absence has not been troublesome.”
“Of course it has been troublesome,” said her ladyship testily. “I mislaid my spectacles and could neither read nor set a stitch without you to find them for me. What is this shocking tale I hear of you jumping into a river after a village urchin? I expect more decorum of my companion.”
The girl seemed not in the least discomposed by the combined interrogation and tongue-lashing but John found it acutely irritating.
“May I join you, ma’am?” He took a seat nearby before any objection could be voiced. “I think you cannot have heard that Miss Nuthall is something of a heroine.”
Lady Parr raised a quizzing glass that had quelled many an impertinent jackanapes. Lord John was made of sterner stuff and withstood the scrutiny with scarcely a blink. However, to his dismay he saw that his taking up arms in her behalf, far from pleasing the girl, had brought back the look of alarm to her pale face.
Why was she afraid of him? Surely she could not suppose him such a blackguard as to tell anyone how he had stripped her nearly naked on the bridge!
“Heroines are best left between the pages of a novel, or on the stage,” Lady Parr was declaring. “It is, to say the least, indiscreet for a young woman to put herself forward in such a way.”
John smiled at the girl, reassuringly he hoped. “They say discretion is the better part of valour, but since your valour saved a child from drowning, I cannot agree. Allow me to help you, Miss Nuthall,” he added as the butler appeared to announce that dinner was served.
“Oh no, I can manage very well, my lord. Pray take in Cousin Adelaide.”
He acquiesced, though with a bad grace. Doubtless had she accepted his aid it would have led to another scolding for putting herself forward and he wanted to spare her that.
Tom escorted Miss Nuthall into the dining room, but she did not take his arm, John noted. While bearing his part in the general conversation, he watched her. She scarcely spoke, seldom raising her eyes from her plate though she ate very little. To be sure her position was awkward, both companion and relative, yet such reticence seemed excessive. And she was too pretty to waste her life away jumping at the bidding of the old tartar.
John sensed a mystery.
It might be amusing to try to fathom her secret before the duke sent him off to the ends of the earth. In any case, he must seek her out privately to assure her that she need fear no scandalous revelation from his lips.
As it happened, his continued silence had already reassured Rebecca on that head. Neither by word nor by look had he so much as hinted at having seen her en extreme déshabille. She was grateful, but nonetheless embarrassed by his presence. She also found him even more intimidating than his brother.
She mused on this when she retired to her chamber, shortly after dinner and long before the gentlemen joined the ladies in the drawing-room. Lord John was taller than the viscount, to be sure, though not by much, and broader in the shoulders. Yet it was not so much his size that disturbed her: after all her uncle, who terrified her, was not a large man. It was his air of vitality, perhaps, the sense of boundless vigour barely held in check.
Muriel had intimated that her brother-in-law’s energies were chiefly expended on such frivolous pursuits as gambling, drinking and wenching. However, Rebecca had seen no signs of the flabbiness of dissipation. On the contrary, Lord John possessed a splendidly muscular figure as well as a face certain to guarantee success with any number of wenches.
Taken one by one, his features were very like Cousin Tom’s, but whereas Tom’s expression in repose was definitely haughty, John’s liveliness made a quite different impression. It attracted Rebecca even as she fled him.
She had just slipped into bed when there was a light knock on the door and Muriel came in.
“I just wanted to make sure you are all right, Beckie. You may make nothing of it but it must have been the horridest experience. John has been making us all laugh with his description of his valet’s disgust at the condition of his clothes. It seems that Pierce made John promise that if he ever again jumps into a river he will not do so in a coat from Weston.”
“Oh dear, I had not thought, his things must be quite spoiled. That is a poor reward for his gallantry in saving me.”
“I assure you he does not regard it in the least. You must not suppose that because he is a younger son he is purse-pinched. His allowance from the duke is excessively generous. Besides, Tom says he is amazingly lucky in his gaming and wagering on horse-races and prize-fights and such. He may be a scapegrace, as Tom calls him, but he is very droll and always ready to laugh at himself. I wish you had stayed to hear his joking.”
“I was a little tired.”
“John asked if you were indisposed. How he defended you against Mama’s reproaches! I do believe that having rescued you once he considers himself your champion.”
“I hope not. I promise you I was in no need of his help with Cousin Adelaide. I ought to have gone down this afternoon, as she said.”
“Nonsense, it was I who insisted that you stay abed, and Mama managed very well without you. Now I must let you sleep. Good-night, my dear.”
Rebecca woke early the next morning, much refreshed. She dressed and went down, but as she approached the breakfast room she heard three masculine voices within: Lord Danville, Lord John and Mr. Bevan. Though she would have liked a cup of tea, she decided to wait until after her walk. She fetched Buttercup and set out in the opposite direction from the river.
The sun was shining and a breeze from the west carried a hint of spring warmth. The meadows were sprigged with clumps of pale pink lady’s smock and golden kingcups spangled the banks of the dykes.
Rebecca felt she could walk to the end of the world. When she turned back, reluctantly, she had to hurry so as to be there when she was needed. She reached the house to find the gentlemen gone, their place in the breakfast room taken by Muriel and Cousin Adelaide.
She joined them. Her appetite sharpened by the exercise, she requested a slice of ham with her toast.
“I see you are quite recovered,” observed Lady Parr with rare approval. “If you ate thus more often you would soon lose that emaciated look. Though of course a lady must always be seen to eat like a bird.” She delved into the mountain of food on her own plate and carefully raised a forkful of buttered eggs past a vast expanse of plump bosom to her mouth.
Muriel exchanged a smile with Rebecca. “Mama and I have to pay some duty calls on my neighbours this morning,” she said. “Do you care to go too?”
“There is not the least need for Rebecca to come with us.” Cousin Adelaide’s tone was firm. She enjoyed being introduced as the mother of the future duchess and saw no need to dilute the glory of the occasion with the presence of an indigent relative.
“You will not mind being alone?” Muriel asked Rebecca. “Tom has gone out with his bailiff and John rode up to Grantham to set Mr. Bevan on his way.”
“Not at all. I shall go up and see the children, and then hide away in the li
brary with a book.”
The day nursery was a large, light room at the top of the house. The carpet was worn to a faded shadow of its blue-and-rose pattern, the furniture was somewhat battered, but bright chintz curtains hung at the sunny windows and Nurse was a large, motherly woman with a comfortable lap.
The children were eating their nuncheon when Rebecca arrived. Mary, a dark imp just over a year old, banged a welcome with her spoon, spattering something white and sticky across the table. Ned, with his mother’s golden curls and something of his father’s staidness, climbed down from his chair and bowed solemnly before running to catch Rebecca’s hand.
“You want some bread-and-milk, Aunt Beckie?” he asked. “It’s good. You can have some of mine.”
She bent down and hugged him. “No, thank you, pet, I have just had my breakfast. Come and sit down and eat yours up, or Nurse will be cross.”
“Did you have a egg for breakfas’? I did.” He let her lift him into his chair and his next words were muffled by a spoonful of food. “Unc’ John brung me a new book.”
“Don’t speak with your mouth full, Master Ned,” said Nurse automatically.
“He brung me a drum too, but Papa said only play it outdoors.”
Rebecca stayed long enough to read aloud the tale of Tom Thumb from the new book, and admire the rag doll Uncle John had presented to Mary. She was surprised and impressed that a Buck of the Ton should have remembered his little niece and nephew, let alone chosen such appropriate gifts. What was more, he seemed to have spent some time in the nursery. Ned chattered about Uncle John saying this and that, and having promised to take him up on his horse. Lord Danville was doubtless right to call his brother a scapegrace, but at least he was a kind scapegrace.
Some time later Rebecca made her way to the library. Tom’s taste ran mostly to treatises on politics and agriculture, but he had gathered a collection of books on China since his cousin Teresa had gone there. Rebecca curled up in a chair by the fire with a new translation of the Travels of Marco Polo. She was half a world away in spirit when the butler came into the room.
“There’s a Mr. Exbridge to see you, miss. Will you receive him?”
She had no time to deny herself before a short, sturdy man, beginning to run fat, pushed past the butler.
“Uncle!”
“Well, miss, what have you to say for yourself? A fine dance you’ve led me!”
Seeing that the visitor was a relative, the butler withdrew. He did not, however, shut the door completely behind him, and he was hovering anxiously outside it when John, returning from Grantham, strolled into the hail and spotted him.
“What the devil are you...” John stopped at the sound of a raised voice—an angry male voice—in the library.
It was followed by a cry of pain. Once more the butler was brushed aside as John strode past him, slamming the door open. He paused on the threshold, his gaze drawn at once to the couple by the fireplace.
A man was standing over Miss Nuthall, shaking her.
“How dare you defy me!” he shouted, ignoring the crash of the door. “You’ll do what I say or suffer the consequences.” He raised his hand and hit the girl across the face.
John was upon him in a moment. He seized the back of his collar and swung him around to meet a right uppercut that stretched him dazed on the floor.
Miss Nuthall looked equally dazed. On her white face, the imprint of a hand stood out in painful red. There was a blank look in her eyes and she stood motionless, leaning against the chair to which she had reached for support when the man involuntarily released her.
John started towards her, then caught a movement on the floor. The man rose to one knee, stood up somewhat shakily, and glared at his assailant. He had bitten his lip and blood was trickling down his chin.
“Who the devil are you?” John demanded, putting into his tone all the haughtiness of generations of ducal ancestors.
“Joshua Exbridge.” He pulled out a handkerchief and dabbed at his mouth. “And who the devil are you to interfere between a man and his niece? I’ll thank you to keep your nose out of my business.”
“Lord John Danville, at your service, sir.” John’s bow was a masterpiece of arrogant contempt. “An assault on my brother’s guest is most certainly my business.”
Mr. Exbridge seemed to wilt a little, though his truculence did not lessen. “Lord Danville won’t thank you for this day’s work, my lord. I’ve only come to fetch my ward home, as is my right and duty. The ungrateful chit ran off without a word to anyone and it’s taken me half a year to track her down.”
John glanced at Miss Nuthall. She had not stirred. The red patch on her cheek had faded a little but the outline of a hand was still clearly visible. He clenched his fists, suddenly blazingly angry again.
“Get out.” He stood over the smaller man, his voice soft with menace. “Get out, before I throw you out. And do not dare to set foot in this house again.”
Exbridge backed away. “You haven’t heard the last of this, my lord,” he said shrilly, then turned and hurried from the room.
The girl had sunk into the chair. John hurried to her side. He reached out to touch her shoulder, to reassure, to comfort.
Flinching, she eluded his touch, started from the chair, and sped past him, wild terror in her eyes.
Chapter 4
Shrieks of laughter met Rebecca’s ears as she opened the nursery door. An uncertain baritone was singing, “Ride a cock-horse to Banbury Cross.”
Her refuge had been invaded by the enemy.
However, it was difficult to be afraid of a gentleman intent on bouncing a little girl on his knee. Lord John glanced up and flushed crimson but gamely continued:
“...To see a fine lady upon a white horse.
Rings on her fingers and bells on her toes,
She shall have music wherever she goes.”
Mary crowed with glee and demanded, “More, more.”
“It’s Mary’s turn,” explained Ned gloomily to Rebecca. He was sitting on the floor, very straight-backed, with his new book balanced on his knees. “I be good. Will you read to me, Aunt Beckie? Tom Thumb?”
“Please,” said Lord John.
“Please,” repeated Ned. “Please, Aunt Beckie, will you?”
“More!” insisted Mary.
Her uncle looked a trifle harassed. “I don’t know any more riding songs.”
Rebecca smiled at him. “Surely you remember ‘To market, to market?’ And then there’s ‘This is the way the farmer rides.’” She took a seat close to the fire for it was a raw morning. Beyond the windows, grey sleet was falling, which doubtless explained why Lord John was indoors being a horse instead of outdoors riding one. It was vexatious. For the last two days she had, by claiming indisposition, avoided seeing anyone but the children and their mother, and the latter only in the dim light of her curtained chamber. Still, the mark on her cheek was fading. She must soon resume her duties for Lady Parr, whose messages were growing increasingly querulous. Besides, she had little to hide from Lord John.
Very little.
She took Ned up onto her lap and began, “‘Once upon a time there was a teeny, tiny mannikin who went by the name of Tom Thumb.’”
As she read the familiar words, she listened to John’s voice, quieter now so as not to interrupt her story.
“To market, to market to buy a fat pig.
Home again, home again, jiggety-jig.”
Mary giggled in delight as the horse speeded up for the second line.
“Miss Nuthall, what comes next?”
“Why because don’t you call her Cousin ‘Becca like Papa?” asked Ned.
“Because I have not received permission to do so, young man.”
“Can he, Aunt Beckie?”
John’s eyes dared her to say no. She felt her cheeks grow pink.
Ned was struggling with a problem. “And you can call him Cousin John,” he announced triumphantly. “‘Cos he’s not your uncle, is he?”
“No, he’s not,” Rebecca admitted.
“There then. Tell me about Tom Thumb now.”
“More!” reminded Mary.
“Cousin Rebecca, you were about to refresh my memory of the verse.” His eyes were laughing at her now.
“Why, Cousin John, how could you forget?” she said primly. “I doubt you are more than a quarter century out of the nursery; certainly not yet in your dotage. It goes:
To market, to market to buy a fat hog.
Home again, home again, jiggety-jog.”
He laughed—whether at her, at her feeble joke, or at the nursery rhyme she could not guess—and resumed the game.
By the time Mary had twice been tumbled over backwards to demonstrate how the sailor rides, her squeals were growing overexcited. Nurse came in and said she must sit quietly for a few minutes before her morning nap. She ran over to Rebecca and squeezed into the chair beside her.
Rebecca continued reading, conscious that John was watching her. Between that and Mary’s squirming it was difficult to concentrate, and she found herself repeating a line, to Ned’s disgust. As she turned the page, Mary grabbed at it and it tore.
“My book!” Ned slid down to the floor and slapped his sister.
Rebecca put out a restraining hand and he kicked her leg. She froze.
After a moment’s startled silence, Mary broke into shrieks and wails. Nurse swooped down and bore her off to the next room. John promptly picked up Ned and followed them towards the night nursery.
“I won’t go to bed!” screamed the little boy, struggling. “Put me down! Put me down or I’ll hit you too!”
“You can hit me all you want,” John said calmly, “because I am big enough to hit you back. But don’t you ever, ever...” The door swung shut behind them.
Rebecca shuddered. Her impulse was to flee. She fought it down and, for something to do, took the book over to the window to examine the damage. Luckily none of the pictures was spoiled. She could glue a strip of paper over the tear and print the missing words on top of it. All the same, it would never again be the splendid new book Uncle John had given Ned. She understood the child’s upset, yet slapping his sister was inexcusable.