“Scraped, and badly bruised, and terribly frightened, poor little fellow. But the doctor says that, does he stay free of fever, we should be able to leave tomorrow.” She recounted what had transpired on the hillside, omitting nothing, nor yet embellishing her tale. Knowing her, Buchanan was more impressed than he would have cared to admit and, when she finished, gave a low whistle. “By George! I can see why you would be at Point Non Plus! Don’t add up at all, does it?” He moved uncomfortably as he spoke, and the throat of the dressing gown parted a little.
“You said it was not very bad!” cried Euphemia, catching a glimpse of thick white bandages. “It looks—”
He grinned boyishly. “Oh, no! Do not go into the boughs! I’ve had enough ladies fluttering over me! What with mints all over the carpet, hairpins in my cognac, chastised bell pulls, and young damsels viewing my nakedness—”
“Good God! What on earth…?”
He chuckled, and told her, succeeding in so lightly sketching the scene of his ordeal that she was reduced to soft but helpless laughter. “You know, Mia, I could not help but like Miss Hawkhurst, though she’s a poor little dab of a female. And I felt sorry for the fat lady, Mrs. Graham, even if she has…” He hesitated and finished rather guiltily, “… quite an—er—air about her, on top of all else.”
Intrigued, Euphemia echoed, “You mean she uses a poor scent?”
“A hunting pack might love it. But, Jove! Do you feel obliged to repay Hawkhurst, your service might be to persuade the lady to abandon that eau de dry rot, or whatever it—” He checked as a soft knock sounded at the door.
“Oh, dear,” sighed Euphemia. “I pray it is not Lady Bryce.”
In response to her call however, it was not her ladyship but their host who entered. He was dressed for dinner, his cravat a masterpiece, and a jacket of dark blue superfine hugging his wide shoulders like a glove and bringing a gleam of admiration to Buchanan’s eyes. The ugly graze on his forehead was surrounded by a blackening bruise, but he looked alert and well rested. Raising a jewelled quizzing glass, he turned it lazily from brother to sister and drawled, “Safety in numbers?”
Buchanan had risen and now said formally, “We are deeply indebted to you, sir. In behalf of my sister and the boy, I would like to—”
“Oh, stubble it, for God’s sake! I came merely to discover how the child goes on and to tell you that we have retrieved your cattle, relatively undamaged. We’ll search for the rest of your luggage in the morning.”
Buchanan bowed and persisted with polite if cold hauteur. “I am even more in your debt, Mr. Hawkhurst. I owe you not only my own life, but—”
“Are you always so winningly warm towards your rescuers?” Hawkhurst laughed and with hands on hips asked, “Or is this charming demeanour reserved for Foul Fiends such as I?”
Despite himself, Buchanan’s lips twitched, but he retained his aloof manner as he completed his proper expression of thanks.
Hawkhurst offered a slight, dismissing wave of the hand in response to it all and, flashing an amused glance at Euphemia, met an answering sparkle in her deep-blue eyes that banished his smile. For a moment he stared at her rather blankly, then said, “Are you feeling well enough to travel, ma’am?”
Shocked, she managed to ask calmly, “Tonight, sir?”
Buchanan’s shoulder throbbed; he felt alarmingly weak and was so weary he could scarcely make conversation, but he would have died sooner than admit it, and snapped a frigid, “Does Mr. Hawkhurst prefer that we leave tonight, my dear, then we shall, of course, do so.”
Hawkhurst said mockingly, “Mr. Hawkhurst prefers that you light the lamp.”
There was a touch of steel under the lazy drawl and reacting instinctively, Buchanan started to obey, then flushed, and stood very still. Hawkhurst uttered a soft chuckle, and Buchanan’s mortification deepened. Well acquainted with that mulish look upon her brother’s face, Euphemia quickly lit the lamp. Hawkhurst strolled over to the bed, placed a hand very lightly on Kent’s forehead, and scanned the child narrowly. Turning back to them, he murmured, “I wish you may leave. But I confess myself a coward and shall not risk Archer’s wrath.”
Buchanan looked ready to explode with indignation, but Euphemia, who had been absently contemplating Hawkhurst’s thick and artfully tumbled hair, now asked a swift, “Not fever, surely?”
“He is very warm, ma’am, and I’d wager is in no condition to—”
The door again opened, and Lady Bryce drifted in. She also had changed her dress and was elegant in a gown of rose-pink crepe with a fine diamond choker about her throat. When she saw the group gathered in the bedchamber, she gave a scandalized gasp. “Hawkhurst! Are you run mad? And the girl in her nightrail!”
“No, is she?” He turned his quizzing glass interestedly upon Euphemia as if seeing her for the first time. “So she is, by Jove! And I, alas, thwarted by the presence of her admirable brother.” He sighed and, allowing the glass to swing from its black velvet riband, shook his head reproachfully at Buchanan.
Euphemia’s attempt to hold back a gurgle of laughter was not quite successful, but her brother’s face remained set and grim. Infuriated by Hawkhurst’s raillery, Lady Bryce drew herself up. “Most amusing,” she observed scathingly. “And I quite apprehend that Miss Buchanan is accustomed to continental manners, but I do assure you that such—”
“No, pray do not moralize at me, dear Aunt,” he smiled. “You will have me in a quake, and you know I am long past saving. Place your confidence rather in this intrepid young officer, and draw comfort from the fact the lady is known to be—ah—‘Unattainable’ and thus doubly safe—for tonight, at least, since I’ve guests arriving momentarily.” Euphemia had again to stifle a smile, but my lady’s face took on an aghast expression. “Guests…?” she said feebly. “But, Garret, you can not!”
“Put them off at the last minute, d’you mean, ma’am? You are perfectly right, and I understand your reluctance since you so enjoy company.”
“Not that kind of company!” she flashed, forgetting her manners. “I would not be seen—”
“My dear, of course you would not,” he intervened gently, the wave of his glass indicating the company she appeared to have overlooked. “You are so busy these days, planning your Musicale.”
She flushed and bit her lip but determined to fight to the death in the cause of virginal innocence, said pleadingly, “We have a sick child, and Miss Buchanan to consider. And Sir Simon—”
“Yes, how very remiss in me. Buchanan, do you feel up to the rig, you are most welcome to join my little … party. We shall be merrymaking in the North Wing, where we will disturb no one. And another gentleman would not come amiss.” Hawkhurst’s head was thrown back a little, his eyelids drooping over eyes that held an amused challenge.
Buchanan replied levelly, “Under the circumstances, sir, I must decline.”
“Sir Simon is hurt!” Lady Bryce exclaimed, patently horrified. “Is it not bad enough he must remain here, protecting his sister? You should be—”
“I am truly grateful for your solicitude,” Euphemia interposed, noting the polar glint that was at last creeping into Hawkhurst’s eyes. “But, I fear—”
“And small wonder!” my lady deliberately misinterpreted. “Well, you may set your fears at rest, my dear Miss Buchanan. Your dinner shall be brought to you on a tray, and since you do not trust our maids, I personally shall sit up with your page. He will be perfectly safe with me, for I have reared children of my own and am, were truth to be told, far better qualified than you, my dear, to nurse an ailing child.”
The thought of Kent awakening after so nerve-wracking an experience to encounter the doubtful comfort of Lady Bryce’s presence troubled Euphemia, and yet she could not gracefully refuse after the barbed wording of that offer. She glanced helplessly to Hawkhurst.
“Your humanity, Aunt,” he murmured idly, “never fails to astound me. I shall advise your languishing offspring he must come about without your aid.”
<
br /> “Colley?” she gasped, one hand flying to her throat. “He is here?” He nodded and, in a sharpened tone, she demanded, “What has he to ‘come about’ from? What have you done to him?”
“Exactly,” he sighed, giving her a bored smile, “what you might expect, dear ma’am.”
Lady Bryce’s eyes glittered. She closed her lips with a great effort over a blistering denunciation and without another word marched to the door.
Her nephew moved swiftly to open it and bow her from the room. Swinging the door closed, he settled his shoulders against it and remarked, “Sir Simon, had you the brains you were born with, you’d already be betwixt the sheets. If you do not soon retire, I shall have Archer berating me because you’ve gone off into another swoon.”
Both words and manner further inflamed Buchanan. Euphemia, however, was startled and went to take her brother’s arm and gaze up at him anxiously. Yearning to smash the mockery from his host’s features, Sir Simon managed to say with a semblance of calm, “I was a trifle knocked up, but … a country doctor, Mia.”
“I’ll wager,” drawled Hawkhurst, a sudden flash in his eyes, “our ‘country doctor’ was more skilled than any your almighty Wellington provided!”
Buchanan’s jaw tightened. In a very quiet voice he enquired, “You have some quarrel with Lord Wellington, sir?”
“I have some quarrel with your pride,” Hawkhurst sighed and, smothering a yawn, added, “It fairly exhausts me.”
Buchanan gritted his teeth and took a pace forward. Hawkhurst raised one hand in a graceful fencing gesture and, with a sudden and unexpectedly warm grin, said, “But I admire it. And your Hookey friend, also. Now, instead of calling me out, admit rather that, although Hal Archer may have hurt you like the devil, your wound is easier now.”
Thoroughly disconcerted by the abrupt transformation, Buchanan halted. He had the uncomfortable feeling that he had been acting like a fool and, embarrassed, stammered, “Why … y-yes. That is true. And I—er—did not mean to sound ungrateful. He was most skilled, despite his uncertain temperament. And Miss Hawkhurst was incredibly kind.”
“Oh, my sister’s one in a thousand.” Hawkhurst reached into an inside pocket and withdrew a small but deadly-looking pistol. “I had intended to offer this to your sister. But, since you obviously mean to stand guard over her all night…” Those veiled grey eyes flickered appraisingly up and down Euphemia. “Not that I blame you. She’s a devilish fine-looking girl.”
“You become,” rasped Buchanan, rigid again, “offensive, Mr. Hawkhurst.”
“Do I? Then the more reason for this.” Hawkhurst proffered the weapon with a flourish. Pale with anger, Buchanan stood motionless. Hawkhurst put up his brows and surveyed him with wicked enjoyment. Euphemia stepped swiftly between them, took the weapon, and, holding her breath, slipped her finger through the trigger guard and essayed the spin that Harry Smith had taught her in Spain.
“By … God…!” breathed Hawkhurst, admiringly.
“Be warned, sir,” she said with feigned severity and then, laughter leaping to her eyes, asked, “Are you not terrified?”
“Do you know how to fire it?”
“I outshot Lord Jeremy Bolster in a match at Fuentes de Oñoro.”
He bowed low and, straightening, one hand held over his heart, admitted, “Ma’am, I acknowledge myself terrified.” With a twinkle, he added, “And here I’d fancied the shoe quite on the other foot.”
“Oh, no,” said Euphemia gravely. “I have three brothers, you see, and am thus well accustomed to little boys who think it fun to be naughty.”
Buchanan, looking from one to the other, was rendered speechless.
His stunned eyes never leaving her face, Hawkhurst murmured, “Well, that properly drove me against the ropes!” and with a bow, left them, closing the door softly behind him.
Sir Simon flung his good arm about his sister and whirled her around. “Rompéd, by Jupiter!” he exulted. “You properly vanquished our Bluebeard, Mia!”
Euphemia smiled. But she thought, I wonder …
* * *
MRS. GRAHAM came to Kent’s room soon after Hawkhurst’s departure and offered to help with the “poor little page.” Euphemia took an immediate liking to the untidy lady and, promising her brother she would now retire, sent him weaving off to his room, so exhausted he could barely set one foot before the other. Mrs. Graham observed happily that it was “just like dear Army” to have such delightful children and launched into a vignette about the gallant Colonel that left his daughter weak with laughter. She realized gratefully that this aunt was a very different proposition to the other, and when she left Kent’s bedside, it was without a qualm.
In her room she was delighted to find that one of her valises had been recovered, for her own nightgown was laid upon the bed, and a middle-aged, buxom abigail was in the process of hanging her favourite riding habit in the press. Her name, she said, was Piper, but would Miss mind calling her Ellie, for she felt “that embarrassed” to be called Piper. However named, she was the soul of kindness, her concern over Euphemia’s stiff movements resulting in her insistence that she massage her charge with a liniment that left Euphemia tingling all over and her aches and pains so much lessened that she fell asleep before Ellie could give her the powder Dr. Archer had prescribed. Her last drowsy memory was of the abigail closing the curtains around the great bed …
“W-won’t move a step! P’fer t’talk out here! Free blasted country, ain’t it?”
The words were slurred and had not been spoken very loudly, but Euphemia was blessed with very sharp hearing, and she was awake at once. For an instant she could not think where she was, but then a deeper voice said something she did not catch. Hawkhurst’s cynical countenance sprang into her mind’s eye, and she sat up, listening.
“Know it,” the first and decidedly drunken speaker proclaimed. “M’mother told me all-l-l-l ’bout it. Prob’ly sound ’sleep by now, ’tall events, so no reason you should get so up in th’boughs. You cannot force me to go inside!”
So this must be Lady Bryce’s “languishing offspring.” Moved by curiosity, Euphemia drew back the curtains and slipped from the bed. The heavy drapes were wide, as she had requested, and she crept cautiously towards the lighter square of the windows, shrugging into her dressing gown.
“Do not dare use that tone to me, you wretched puppy! Were you not well foxed, I’d show you what I can force you to! Get inside at once! I’ll not—”
“’f you s’anxious to go inside—why was you standing ’bout, leering up at … her windows? Good fer goose, is—”
“Damn you! Will you keep your voice down!”
Through the lace undercurtains, Euphemia saw a half moon shining fitfully between racing clouds, revealing a wide terrace edged by a low balustrade, and with shallow steps leading downward. She caught a glimpse of tree-dotted lawns, flower beds, statuary, and the gleam of ornamental water, but her attention held on the two men below her: Hawkhurst and a tall, slender youth who gave no appearance of being cowed as he swayed before his cousin’s rage. She could not see his features, but discerned that his hair was lighter than his mother’s and that he either had almost no neck at all, or wore a jacket with grossly exaggerated shoulders. Grateful that she had required Ellie to open the casements slightly, she leaned nearer. She did not quite hear what the boy muttered, but the tone was defiant, and Hawkhurst, his voice low and restrained, rasped, “While you are under my guardianship, my lord, you’ll do as I say! You were not with the Fortescues, for I saw them in Reading, and—”
“Spying on me, coz?”
The slim figure swayed. Hawkhurst’s hand shot out to grip the cravat, and Bryce was wrenched forward. “Do I ever judge it necessary to spy on you, bantling, I’ll sooner kick you all the way to the Horse Guards—where they may succeed in making a man of you! Meanwhile, I’ve no need to resort to such means. I know damned well you were with young Gains!”
“M’friends are my own!” the boy reta
liated, struggling vainly to free himself from his cousin’s iron grip. “Y’cannot—”
“I cannot but marvel that Max Gains allows my cousin within a mile of his precious brother!” Hawkhurst released the youth so abruptly that he staggered.
“Lord Gains, at least, d-don’t int’fere with Chilton’s friends!”
“Does he not? Perhaps, since Chilton had sufficient gumption to serve his country, he has some—”
“Y’think I’m ’fraid!” Bryce put in savagely. “Well—ain’t! Not ’fraid of getting killed—which is what y’want!”
Euphemia caught her breath. There was a moment’s total silence, through which Hawkhurst stood as if frozen.
“No! Hawk!” There was sudden anguish in the young voice. “I d-din’t mean—”
“Well, I do mean,” Hawkhurst overrode icily, “to ensure that Dominer shall never fall into the hands of a dainty, effeminate milksop!”
Bryce swore. His fist clenched and swung upward, only to be caught in a grip that made him gasp. “And, furthermore, Colley,” his cousin went on, “do you ever take my match bays again, without my leave, I am liable to strangle you without waiting for Boney to take you out of the line of succession!” He flung the boy’s arm down and started away, but Bryce caught at his sleeve and said humbly, “I … I did ask, Hawk. And you made no answer. I thought—”
“Devil you did! Your question warranted no answer. God knows I’ve told you often enough! I collect you took ’em to show off to Chilton.”
“Yes. And—Max was abs’lutely wild about ’em. Said they was th’finest he ever saw.”
“Max knows his cattle.” Hawkhurst was silent a moment, then asked, “How does Chilton go on? Do they mean to operate again?”
Bryce seemed to take heart from this enquiry, stern though it was. “Well, they must, y’know. He cannot rejoin his regiment with that stupid ball in his side. But … oh, Hawk, I do ’pologize. I didn’t mean it. It’s just— Well, Chilton don’t dare come and ask you, but—he’d dearly love to … to buy your bays.”
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