by Jo Beverley
Beryl drained her cup and got to her feet. “All in a good cause,” she said. “It’s time you stopped wearing your usual dismal clothes anyway. Let’s have it off you and see what can be done. It has at least held its shape.”
Amy followed her sister upstairs. “I’m afraid it’s beyond repair, dear.”
Beryl looked at the dress again. “We’ll see. I think I’ll dye it a darker shade and put a flounce around the hem to hide the stains. You’ll be surprised.”
In her room Amy stripped off the hard-used garment and passed it over. She wouldn’t be surprised if Beryl managed to revive it. She was very good at that sort of thing. She saw Beryl looking at her shift in surprise. “That isn’t yours.”
“No,” said Amy praying that she wouldn’t blush. “It belongs to the daughter of the farm where I stayed the night. Mine was completely ruined.”
“I don’t see how it could be more ruined than the dress,” Beryl said with mild disapproval. “I’m sure I could have mended it. Really, Amy,” she said as she left, “sometimes you just aren’t very practical.”
Amy collapsed on the bed in giggles.
Eventually she sobered. She’d left her shift in Harry Crisp’s house, and it was monogrammed. Beryl insisted on embroidering their initials on all their personal garments. What would happen if it were found?
Piers Verderan, Lord Templemore, was in the stables of Hume House when Harry, Chart, and Corny rode in. He was studying the gait of a fine gray Thoroughbred which was being led around by a groom. Verderan, as he still preferred to be called, was a handsome, elegant man with crisp, dark curls, which gave him a distinctly devilish look and contributed to his nickname of the Dark Angel.
He looked at the trio with a sigh, but there was a smile in his deep blue eyes. “Can’t be the faulty roof this time,” he said.
“Faulty servant,” said Chart blithely as he swung off his horse. “Broken leg. If it ain’t convenient, Ver, it don’t matter. Melton will be pretty empty this time of year.”
Verderan smiled, an open smile which would have startled his acquaintance a year ago. “But life’s been so dull these last weeks,” he said. “Renfrew was our sole hope of enlivenment, but he’s buried in his plans for this place. Once we remove, he’s to take it all in hand.” He turned to the groom holding the gray. “He looks fit, Pritchett. Put him in the paddock.”
Another groom came forward to take the guests’ mounts, and the gentlemen moved toward the ramshackle old house.
“Good God, Ver,” said Harry, “Renfrew’ll do the whole place in shades of yellow!” Kevin Renfrew was known for always wearing yellow. He said it brought sunshine into even the dullest day. Verderan’s wife, Emily, had christened him the Daffodil Dandy.
“More than likely,” said Verderan urbanely. “It should brighten this part of Leicestershire considerably.”
They entered the house through a side door into a moldering estate room and passed into the dingy hall. There they encountered Emily Templemore.
Her ready smile was wide and warm. “Oh good,” she said. “Guests.”
She came to stand by her husband, and he wrapped an arm around her waist. “Just what we need, yes?” he said. He looked down at her and his friendly smile became something much deeper, which she echoed. “We’re four months married and life’s becoming tedious. We’ve only Randal, Sophie, and Renfrew here to amuse us in the evenings.” Verderan looked up at the three. “I do hope you have some enlivening activity to share with us.”
“Randal’s back?” said Harry. “Good.”
“We might,” said Chart, with a sliding, puckish look at Harry. “Know anything of the de Lacys of Stonycourt?”
Later that night, as they prepared for bed, Harry said to Chart, “I’ll thank you to keep your fingers out of my business!”
“So it is your business, is it?” queried Chart. He looked at his clothes. “I don’t know why I gave Quincy the month off. My wardrobe is degenerating into rags.”
“Pick ’em up,” said Harry unsympathetically as he folded his own clothes. “You’re not as useless as you make out.”
With a smile, Chart obeyed. Hume House was not large, and some rooms were so neglected as to be undesirable, and so Corny was sharing with Kevin Renfrew while Harry and Chart shared this chamber.
As Chart folded his clothes he produced, as if by magic, a soiled rag. “Now, what is this?” he asked of no one in particular. He unfurled it, and it was clearly a lady’s shift. He waved it in the manner of a matador with a cape.
Harry made a grab for it. Chart dodged. They tumbled to the floor and soon it was a full-fledged wrestling match.
In the end they cried quits and lay back in exhausted satisfaction. Harry looked for the source of contention and found it torn in two. It seemed a shame.
Chart sat up, arms around knees. “Care to tell me?”
Harry balled the rag up. “It’s not what you think.”
“What do I think?”
“That Miss de Lacy and I had a pleasant romp while the storm raged.”
“I don’t think that.”
Harry looked at him. “You don’t?”
“She didn’t have the look of a well-pleasured lady, and you didn’t look as bedazzled as I’d expect in such a case. But if you try to tell me that tale again of her skulking out in the barn until the rain stopped, I’ll call you a liar.”
Harry tossed the ball of cloth into a corner. “She came in for help. She was like a drowned rat and covered head to toe in mud. We had to get her out of those wet clothes.”
“Oh-ho!” Chart chortled.
Harry waved a warning fist in his face. “She got herself out of her wet clothes while I saw to that sorry excuse for a horse.” He rose and went to put more coal on the fire. “When I came back she was wrapped in a blanket and a couple of towels.” He turned to look at his friend. “Have you ever seen such a beauty?”
“No,” said Chart simply.
Harry frowned. “Do you feel at all interested in wooing her?”
Chart got to his feet in amazement. “Wooing her? God, no. I could sit and look at her now and then, as I’d look at a piece of sculpture.” He studied his friend in concern. “Not thinking of doing something stupid, are you?”
The moment had come.
Harry had found an opportunity to speak to his cousin Randal and had his feelings confirmed. It was more likely that his parents were downplaying the seriousness of the situation than exaggerating it, and in that case it would undoubtedly be best for him to put their minds at rest by marrying and setting up his nursery.
After meeting Amy de Lacy and spending an evening with Randal and his wife, Sophie, and Verderan and Emily, the notion was no longer so intolerable.
The Ashbys and the Templemores were loving couples in very different ways. Randal and Sophie had married in August but it hadn’t, as some had hoped, sobered them. They still treated life as a delightful game, but it was now a game they played as a team.
Verderan and Emily had married just before Christmas and disappeared for a long honeymoon. They had only been back a month and Harry had seen little of them in that time. He was amazed at the change in Piers Verderan. No, not really a change, merely a heightening of his virtues and a marked diminution of his vices. His tongue was noticeably less sharp and his notorious temper seemed nonexistent.
Emily Templemore was not a Sophie. She was eight years older and of a much quieter disposition. She and Verderan loved in a quieter, more subtle way, and yet their love was as clear in the air as the perfume of roses.
Harry remembered Emily Grantwich in the days before she and Verderan had sorted out their affairs. She’d been weighed down by concerns, mostly to do with family. It seemed to him Amy de Lacy was similarly burdened. Was it possible he could bring a glow to Amy’s eyes like the glow in Emily’s?
Chart was looking at him with horror.
“My father’s ill,” Harry said. “He wants me to go to London and find a bride.”
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“Lord,” said Chart, looking for all the world as if he’d just been told his friend had a fatal disease.
“It’s not that bad,” said Harry with a wry smile. “Look at Randal and Ver.”
“They’re six years older,” Chart pointed out. “I’ve no mind to be tied down just yet.”
“You don’t have to. You’ve got a healthy father and a younger brother. And you don’t have a title to carry on.”
“Much to my father’s disgust,” said Chart. “So you’re really going to do it? Almack’s, the lot?”
Harry grinned. “Perhaps not.” At Chart’s look he said, “Amy de Lacy.”
Chart frowned. “Are you sure that’s wise? After all, what do you know of her other than that she’s a raving beauty?”
Harry walked over and got into bed. “We did talk,” he pointed out.
Chart extinguished the candles and joined him. “And?”
“She’s easy to talk to. She has a sense of humor. She’s very sensible. After all, Chart, most girls would have thrown fits to be in such a state, and would probably have rather frozen to death than done the sensible thing and take off their clothes.”
Chart was lying back with his hands behind his head. He chuckled. “True enough. Remarkable just how reluctant most females are to strip down, no matter how sensible it might be.” He sobered. “Don’t bite my head off, old man, but are you sure she didn’t hope for something more than talk?”
Harry leaned up on one elbow. “I’m sure. She was in a fine state of nerves.”
“Quite reasonably if she’d set out to seduce you. I will credit her with being a virgin. Emily said her family’s all rolled up. It wouldn’t be surprising if a beauty like that decided to catch herself a good husband by unconventional means.” He looked at his friend. “Going five miles for some broody hens sounds a bit rum to me.”
Harry leaned back. He didn’t like Chart’s words, but he had to admit there was some sense to them. “She could hardly have planned the storm. No one expected it.”
“True, but she could have planned a broken rein. Look at it logically. She sets out to go five miles for something she could have got closer to home. She’d dressed in a smart gown when they’re apparently impoverished. Did you notice that Emily said the beautiful Miss de Lacy is in the habit of wearing extremely dull, unornamented garments?”
“I noticed,” said Harry.
“There was a bonnet in the box,” Chart added, rather apologetically.
“What?”
“In the box of the dogcart. There was a very smart bonnet—blue silk lining, striped ribbons, the lot. I’ll go odds she would have looked very fetching in it.”
Harry sighed. The fire crackled. Far off in the hall, the old clock wheezed its way through the twelve strokes of midnight. “It doesn’t matter,” said Harry at last. “I don’t blame her for trying to catch the interest of an eligible parti. After all, life must be miserable if they’re as poor as it would appear, especially with some idiot insisting they live like the workhouse poor until they’re out of debt. Doubtless that fusby-faced sister.”
Chart shrugged. “As you will. Just as long as you’re forewarned. Beauty’s a damned dangerous thing, and once you swallow the bait you’ll have the whole family on your hands.” He rolled over and settled himself for sleep. “One good thing. If you can fix it all with Miss de Lacy, you won’t have to do the Season. I’d probably think friendship required me to tag along and guard you from your better nature.”
6
THE NEXT DAY, Chart and Harry announced their intention of riding over to Stonycourt to inquire after Miss de Lacy’s welfare. Corny declined to accompany them, saying he had become quite interested in Kevin Renfrew’s plans for Hume House. It was more a case, they knew, of him not being one for the ladies. Emily gave them a basket of food to take over with her compliments, instructing them to be sure to give it tactfully.
Later, as they trotted down the drive to Stonycourt, Harry said, “This is a fine property. Surprised someone could run himself into the ground with this.”
“Mortgages,” suggested Chart. “Gambling more than likely. Things like that,” he pointed out, “run in families.”
Harry gave him a disgusted look and speeded up, eager to see Amy de Lacy again. Would she be the warm, unconventional delight of the kitchen, or the cool young lady who had fobbed them off so efficiently yesterday?
And why, he wondered, had she turned frosty? It could have been a delayed attack of missishness, but he did not judge that to be in character. Perhaps it was maidenly shyness in the face of her own warm feelings.
Chart’s voice broke into his reverie. “I’d ask why you had a besotted grin on your face if I felt I really wanted to know.”
Harry just grinned at him. After all, duty and inclination were coming together in a most satisfactory way, and he felt sorry for Chart, who clearly had no notion of the delights of falling comfortably in love.
They dismounted in front of the house, and when no groom appeared, tethered their horses. Harry went up the three shallow steps and rapped the knocker. Nothing happened. He rapped again.
He had his hand up to try a third time when the door swung open and Amy de Lacy stared at him, rendering him speechless.
He’d forgotten just how beautiful she was.
She was wearing a plain gown the color of weak, milky tea, largely covered by a black apron. There was a smudge of dirt across her cheek, and her gilded curls were an untamed riot with a cobweb draped across one side.
She was exquisite.
“Oh,” she said. A hand fluttered to her hair and was restrained.
Harry gathered his wits and bowed. “Good morning, Miss de Lacy. Mr. Ashby and I came to see if you had recovered from your ordeal.” He was aware of Chart beside him, tipping his hat.
She just stared at them with those mesmerizing blue eyes, and Harry felt like bursting into a chorus of Tom Moore’s latest ditty. “The light that lies in women’s eyes/Has been my heart’s undoing.”
“Why, it’s Mr. Crisp and Mr. Ashby.” The welcome came not from Amy de Lacy but from her plain sister. “How lovely of you to call. Do please come in.”
Harry bludgeoned his wits into order, tore his eyes away from his beloved, and managed to greet Miss de Lacy civilly.
Amy allowed Beryl to take over, though she knew she should forbid them to enter the house. But how?
She’d been frozen, panicked by the flash of searing excitement which had jumped through her at the sight of him. She’d wanted to slam the door in his face and yet had known that was impossible. Now she wanted to run and hide in her room until he left.
“We are rather busy,” she said.
A beaming Beryl was already shepherding them into the little-used and chilly drawing room. “You will stay for tea, won’t you, Mr. Crisp, Mr. Ashby?”
“We’d be delighted,” said Chart Ashby with a quizzical look at Amy. “Perhaps we can make a contribution.” He proffered the basket. “Lady Templemore, our hostess, insisted in sending an invalid basket. I can see Miss de Lacy is recovered, but can I hope you will make use of it anyway? Lady Templemore will be hurt otherwise.”
“Oh, how kind,” said Beryl. She glanced at Amy for guidance, but Amy was too swamped by personal problems to worry about unwelcome charity. Beryl reached for the basket with enthusiasm.
Chart Ashby held on to it. “It is a trifle heavy,” he said. “Perhaps I should carry it for you.” He cast a meaningful glance at Harry and Amy.
“Oh yes!” declared Beryl, who’d just helped Amy move wardrobes as they did the spring-cleaning. “That would be so kind.” She quickly led the way to the kitchens.
Amy looked around and realized she was alone with Harry Crisp. “Oh dear.”
“My dear Miss de Lacy,” Harry said with a teasing smile, “you are surely not nervous to be alone with me. We’ve weathered worse than this after all, and the door is safely open.”
Amy could feel her cheeks heat.
She found herself fiddling with her apron and stopped. “Yes,” she said. “I mean we have, and I’m not…” This would never do. She wished he weren’t here. She wished the room weren’t so shabby. She wished she were still the wealthy Amy de Lacy, dressed in modish style and receiving a handsome gentleman without thought of her duty to marry riches.
She realized she was still in her work apron and pulled it off. Then, unsure what to do with it, she tucked it under a cushion. “It is a lovely day, isn’t it? I do hope you had a pleasant ride.”
He was looking at her with warm amusement and considerable tenderness. It was as if they were back at Coppice Farm. Her anxiety melted away and she laughed. “That was ridiculous, wasn’t it? I don’t know why I should be ashamed to be seen in an apron when the whole world knows we have to do for ourselves. Won’t you be seated, Mr. Crisp.”
She took a straight-back chair and he took another close beside it.
“We are all driven by convention,” Harry said. “I don’t think the worse of you for having to do menial work. But I think it a shame.”
Amy smiled ruefully and looked down at her hands—not ruined yet, but rougher than they used to be. “So do I, but then I think that there’s no reason I should be exempt. Why should one woman heave furniture and another idle her days away?”
“Is that what you’ve been doing?” he asked, startled. He picked up her right hand and studied it with a frown, tracing a line of dirt with one finger.
Amy tried to pull away. “I must go and wash.”
He held on. “That doesn’t matter. But you do have servants,” he said. “I surely saw one yesterday.”
He continued to hold her hand, and the warmth of his skin against hers was…distracting. “Pretty and Mrs. Pretty,” she said unsteadily. “But they are more pensioners than servants. They have worked at Stonycourt all their lives and deserve a pension.” His thumb was rubbing against her skin. “There’s…there’s no money to pay for it. So they live on here. It’s that or the…the workhouse. Please let me go!”
“Why?” he asked.