Staring at the donkey Lord Dale saw the resemblance to the great statesman, and almost smiled. "What I see," he snapped, recovering, "is that you are ripe for Bedlam, sir. You and that brat with you! A gentleman should feel safe in leaving important letters lying on the table of his own terrace. A gentleman does not have to put up with common trespassers, and donkeys, and runny-nosed brats daring to insult him on his own lands!"
"I will admit that Mr. Fox is partial to a paper snack now and then, and I am sorry for it if he ate your letters. But I fail to see that he insulted you, nor do I see that Master Warrington stands in need of a handkerchief. As for my social standing, should you perhaps be happier were you to be insulted by someone with a title in front of his name—whether or not he personally had earned the right to be addressed as 'my lord'?"
Dale scowled. "Why, you're a dashed revolutionary! I'll have you clapped up, be damned if I don't."
"Which won't get your letters back, will it?"
"No, and they were government documents, I'll have you know, and I hadn't even read 'em! By Jupiter, if I thought 'twould serve, let me tell you I'd have that confounded ass cut up and—"
Arthur gave a horrified yelp. "It wasn't his fault, sir! I only came here 'cause I thought Alan A'Dale lived here, but Mr. Fox din't know your letters was 'portant, and I'm very sorry, Lord, but please don't cut up his tummy!"
Dale glared at the scared child and ground his teeth. The donkey brayed shatteringly, dogs barked a noisy accompaniment, and from inside the mansion a faint scream sounded.
Diccon said, "You made your apologies very nicely, Arthur. Now go back to Mr. Fox. This noisy man is upsetting him."
Arthur fled.
Diccon turned back to the angry peer. "Now, see here, Dale—"
"Stay back!" raged his lordship. "You men—throw him over the wall!"
"An' then," said Arthur, kneeling on a kitchen chair and watching his aunt tape a piece of sticking plaster across Diccon's knuckles, "a lady comed out, an' she was all stiff, like a statue, but Diccon bowed to her, jus' like Sir G'waine would, an' he talked, an' she didn't seem so stiff, an' in the end they went to look at the flowers in the garden an' me an' Mr. Fox crep' away an' waited."
Coming in from the dining room where she had set out covers for luncheon, Marietta exclaimed, "Good gracious! Never say you were able to placate the mighty Lady Dale, Major?"
"After knocking down two of her footmen?" Whisking a fragrant mutton pie from the oven, Fanny said, "You must have a silver tongue, sir."
Diccon was quite aware that this very pretty girl neither liked nor trusted him. He said with a wry smile, "And if I remarked that your pie smells delicious would you think I was merely trying to win your friendship?"
"Oh, no," said Fanny coldly, "I would be more likely to say that you just proved my point."
He sighed. "And that properly sends me to the ropes."
Mrs. Cordova shook her head and left them.
"No one here wishes to do that, sir," said Marietta. "Indeed we all owe you a debt of gratitude." She ignored Fanny's stormy frown, and went on, "You must be eager to leave this house, for we have involved you in one disaster after another!"
Diccon tried without much success not to stare at her. A ribbon of orange velvet was threaded through her dusky curls, and she had changed into a gown of pale orange muslin, with a low inset yoke of snowy eyelet ruffles. Yearning for the ability to sketch, he murmured, "To the contrary, ma'am. I cannot remember when I've enjoyed myself so much."
"You must enjoy violence," said Fanny tartly.
Persevering, Marietta said, "In which case we shall have to disappoint you, Major. For the rest of your stay here, you are to enjoy peace and quiet."
Diccon smiled at her dreamily, then sprang up as Mrs. Cordova came puffing in again, carrying "Captain Miles Cameron."
"No, really Dova," protested Sir Lionel, entering the dining room in time to see her settle her inanimate friend into the chair Diccon drew out. "Not at table! What will our guest think?"
"Oh, the Major knows him." Apparently unaware of the sharp glance Diccon slanted at her, she added, "I invited Miles to luncheon because he has some news for us, and I don't want to forget. Now, if you will say grace, Warrington, we can get on. I am fairly famished!"
She appeared to forget "Captain Cameron's" news while she satisfied the pangs of hunger and chattered about Lord and Lady Dale who were both, she said with cheerful candour, "blighting" people.
In a low voice Marietta begged her father for a few moments of his time after luncheon. Sir Lionel smiled at her but looked uneasy and without answering launched into a prolonged monologue about the failings of the Prince Regent. Discussing "poor old Prinny's" increased girth, he chortled, "They say he's been obliged to leave off his stays, and is now so large that he can no longer even ride around the Pavilion grounds!"
Fanny giggled, but Mrs. Cordova looked shocked, and scolded, "Really, Warrington! That is scarcely a subject to be discussed at table with young maidens present!"
"Pooh!" said Sir Lionel airily. "My girls are not missish, and we're all family here. Well," he grinned at Diccon, "almost all."
"Which reminds me," said Mrs. Cordova. "Miles met our dearest Eric the other day!"
"Did he so?" Watching her eagerly, Marietta asked, "Was Miles in Cambridge, then?"
Just as eagerly, Fanny enquired, "Is Eric well?"
No longer surprised by their acceptance of their aunt's often inexplicable remarks, Diccon assumed that they were being kind and humouring the lady.
"He is quite well," replied Mrs. Cordova. "But Miles was not at Cambridge, dear. He met Eric in Town."
"Come now, Dova," said Sir Lionel tolerantly. "You know very well my son is at University. Cameron must be mistaken."
"Oh, no," she said, reaching for a ripe peach.
Fanny said, "Eric may have gone into London for a change. The poor darling has had little enough vacation."
"Now don't go putting on a Friday face, Etta," said Sir Lionel. "A young fellow must kick over the traces now and then. I'll warrant we both did, eh, major? Are you a Cambridge man, by the bye?"
"No, sir," said Diccon. "My schooling ended at Eton."
"Went straight into the military, did you? Well, it's a good life for a lad. One of these days, I'll have the story of how it is that an old Etonian and a major is now a free-trader."
Diccon smiled. "I doubt there is much I could tell you that you've not already guessed, sir."
Fanny said, "And we should not press Major Diccon to tell us things that he prefers to keep secret, Papa."
Marietta slanted an embarrassed glance at Diccon, but his expression was unreadable.
Taken aback, Sir Lionel exclaimed, "Secrets? Jupiter! I had no intent to pry!"
"Of course you did not, sir. And Miss Fanny is quite correct, for there are, you know, secrets"—Diccon winked conspiratorially—"and secrets."
Relieved, Sir Lionel laughed. "You rogue! I'll wager you could tell some tales. Without the ladies present, of course."
"Do you hear that, Miles?" Mrs. Cordova dug an elbow at "Cameron."
"They are so unkind as to try and keep it to themselves." She leant towards Diccon and said, "I have been naughty, Major, for I peeped at your palm whilst you were sleeping one day. I mean to ask Madame Olympias to consult her Mystical Window Through Time, and then I will know all your secrets, I warn you!"
He groaned. "In which case, ma'am, I shall be wholly in your power!"
"Foolish creature," she said complacently. "You already are!"
Went red as fire." Sir Lionel chuckled. "Did you see? That young fella's got a colourful past, I'll warrant, and don't want your aunt snooping into it!"
"Perhaps." After ten minutes alone with her father in his cluttered workroom, Marietta was still striving to turn the conversation in the right direction. "But I want to—"
"He's got an eye for you, child." Sir Lionel took up a wooden object about a foot long that bore some
resemblance to a miniature pair of fireplace tongs. "Plain to see. You must keep him in his place, m'dear. Oh, I know you think we stand indebted to him. And I'll own he has poise and polished manners. I like him, and I do not doubt he comes from good stock. But he has no prospects now, Etta. I cannot allow a prize like you to throw herself away on an ingratiating rascal, who is at best a penniless half-pay officer!"
"How can you say such a thing, Papa? I scarcely know Major Diccon."
"Just as well." He tightened the handles of his device, and snapped the flat ends at her playfully. "Fanny don't trust him. What d'you think of my flea trap, m'dear? I'll wager it'll sell like wildfire!"
Clearly, he had no intention of letting her come to the point. Marietta gripped her hands together and said with firm resolve, "Papa, Mr. Innes Williard called here this morning, and—"
"Now did he, by George!" Sir Lionel's eyes sparkled. "Another of your admirers, and a respectable one who—"
"Respectable! He attempted to force his attentions on me and was so horrid that had it not been for Major Diccon—"
"What's that? I hope Diccon did not overstep the mark? If he means to offend my guests, he must take himself off, well or no!"
Her cheeks flushed with anger, Marietta protested, "You must not have heard, sir. Mr. Williard was the one who offended. The Major came to my aid, as I am sure you or Eric would have done!"
"Well, of course, if Williard really—" Cornered and fuming, Sir Lionel stamped to the far end of the room and rummaged in a bin filled with scraps of wood and metal. "His sister is a very pushing female, but that ain't his fault. I doubt the man intended any offence, and you're too quick by far, miss, to fly into a huff. You're a very pretty girl, but you mustn't give yourself airs. If young Coville don't come up to scratch, Innes Williard's a jolly good substitute. Lots of ladies have dropped the handkerchief for him, and would be overjoyed did he cast a glance in their direction!"
"Then I wish them joy of him, sir! I find him repellent, and—"
"Repellent!" Frowning, Sir Lionel returned to the workbench and slammed down a metal bar with unnecessary force. "Here's a high flight! The man's a friend and neighbour! He's well-favoured, well-built, very plump in the pockets, and—"
"And an uncouth boor who did not hesitate to warn me that I must be nice to him since we're in his debt to the tune of five thousand guineas!" At this, her father paled and looked stricken. Running to catch his arm she said, "Papa! Is it truth? I try so hard to pay the bills and set aside funds for school expenses, but—"
"But I do nothing! Is that it?" Scourged by guilt, he pulled away and blustered, "I've given up my clubs. I don't patronize my tailor—faith, but my clothes are in rags! I sacrificed my carriages and horses. And—and do I complain when you ladies buy cloth and pattern cards and—and deck yourselves out in the latest fashions and fal-lals? No!"
"But, dearest Papa, you said we must keep up appearances, and we sew and mend all our clothes so as to keep expenses down!"
"Oh, aye, set it all to my account! I say nothing when you bring this fellow into our home to eat up everything in the pantry and cause me to be saddled with a great bill from that miserable apothecary! Despite the fact that Diccon nigh killed my son with his nasty temper!"
"You know how badly he felt about that! Besides, Arthur was much to blame. And it was my fault that the Major was hurt afterwards. In honour we were obligated, sir! You could not wish that—"
"So now my honour is challenged, is it?" Sir Lionel sank onto a chair and put a hand over his eyes. "That I should live to see my own daughter turn against me!"
Stricken, she sank to her knees beside his chair. "Never, dearest Papa! Never! You know how much we all love you."
"I don't know… why you should," he said brokenly. "You're perfectly right, and I'm a villain! I sought only to make a little winning, Etta! Williard is shockingly poor at cards, and I so seldom have the chance to play anymore. The stakes were low… I don't know what happened." His voice shredded. He caught her hand and pressed it to his cheek and said on a sob, "I do not deserve… your loyalty! You'd be better off if I were… dead!"
He was a weak and foolish man, but he had been a devoted husband and in their more affluent days nothing had been too good for his children. The shock of his beloved wife's death so soon after Arthur was born had shattered him, and although he had recovered and now seemed reasonably contented, his strength and self-sufficiency seemed to have been buried with Mama. But he was kind, and gentle, and meant so well. And she loved him.
She stifled a sigh, and kissed and comforted him. And knew that their one hope was that Blake Coville should offer for her.
A wind came up during the night increasing in strength until it whistled in the chimneys and sent curtains billowing on their rods. Long schooled to react to any unusual sound, Diccon was wide awake with the first creak of a protesting floorboard. A door slammed somewhere, and from Mrs. Cordova's bedchamber, directly above his own, came the sounds of a casement being cranked shut. All then was quiet, save for the wind, but he could not get back to sleep.
He could see again that dainty orange gown, the ribbon in the soft curls, the brief look of alarm in the big green eyes when Mrs. Cordova had implied that Eric Warrington was in Town instead of being at Cambridge. Sir Lionel had accused Marietta of "putting on a Friday face." It would seem that she had good reason for anxiety. All three ladies worked long and hard, and it was very obvious that they had been accustomed to a far more luxurious way of life. When Marietta wasn't dusting, sweeping, polishing, mending, helping her aunt sew the effigies, or caring for Arthur, she had to organize the household and deal with tradespeople and duns. Miss Marietta, who deserved the very best the world could offer, had enough to bear. If this brother of hers was as rackety as her sire—
He frowned into the darkness. Sir Lionel seemed a fond parent, but he was the type of man who, having willingly shifted his responsibilities onto his daughter's slender shoulders, might not be above pushing her into a loveless marriage so as to restore his finances. It didn't bear thinking of that so exquisite a creature should be sold to a crudity like Innes Williard.
He tossed restlessly. His occupation and an innate shyness had prevented him from acquiring a reputation as a ladies' man, but he was not a stranger to the fair sex. As an embittered seventeen-year-old he had loved deeply and with tragic consequences. Years after Grace's death, a dashing and seductive emigre comtesse had laughed at and teased her "charming boy," but taught him so much of the tender passion. Poor Danielle had then declared she'd taught him too well and that she couldn't live without him. His quiet and then firm reminders that she was a married lady and they must be discreet had been brushed aside. She had instead pursued him so blatantly that he'd been unable to avoid a duel with her husband, which had unleashed a regular hornet's nest of scandal in Mayfair and ire in Whitehall. He smiled nostalgically. Quite a woman had been the comtesse. Yvette in Normandy had been a very different type; youthful, uncomplicated, undemanding, not two thoughts in her pretty head, but glowing with joi de vivre. In Spain, the fiery Dolores had loved him devotedly—until she'd been taken under the wing of a wealthy rag merchant.
He had been fond of them all; and had loved only Grace. True love had not come to him again until now, when he was unable to claim it, and all but powerless to help the lady who had so completely stolen his heart. He should leave here quickly, and yet, if this was the only chance he would ever have to be near her, how could he bear to go? Well, he must, that's all, because the longer he stayed to admire her courage and resourcefulness, her kindness, her beauty, the harder it would be to break away. Yes, he would be sensible. Tomorrow, he would leave. Or, perhaps the day after. Meanwhile, his throat was dry as dust. He got out of bed and pulled on the dressing gown that Yves had had the foresight to bring with his clothes.
Candle in hand he crept along the corridor although the wind was blustering so that there was small chance of those in the upstairs bedrooms hearing him.
Light still gleamed from the door to the dining room. He paused, then moved on more soundlessly than ever. The door was ajar. Cautiously, he pushed it a little wider.
Marietta sat at the table sifting through what must only be a pile of bills and making notes on a sheet of paper. He drew back as she stood and crossed to the sideboard. She took out an ornate ginger jar, returned to her chair, and shook banknotes and coins from the jar. The counting of these was obviously disappointing, and she bowed her head into her hands, looking tired and despairing. His heart wrung, it was all he could do not to go to her at once and try to comfort her. But he was a stranger, newly come into their lives. How mortified she would be if she knew he'd watched her.
He backed away, therefore, and returned to his room, seething with anger that she should have to sit all alone in the middle of the night, struggling with all those bills and that pitiful little pile of cash. Probably trying to scrape together the funds to meet tuition costs for a brother who had carelessly left school to "go into London for a change, poor darling." "I'd 'poor darling' him," he muttered savagely.
He sat on the bed and waited. About half an hour later he heard the stairs creak, but he let another half-hour drag by before venturing into the corridor once more.
There was no light in the dining room now, and the door stood wide. He groped his way to the sideboard and took down the ginger jar…
The thing is," panted Capitan Rodolfo as he helped Diccon lift "Mrs. Hughes-Dering" into the donkey cart, "there's not much good holding up a stagecoach if there's no one in it."
Diccon agreed to the wisdom of this, but pointed out, "We already have Freddy Foster and—"
'Sir Fred'rick," corrected Capitan Rodolfo, straightening the mask which had shifted around, blinding him. "Not "Freddy." We don't know him!"
'Sorry. I forgot. How many more passengers will we need?"
The dashing Capitan hesitated. "I 'spect such a famous highwayman wouldn't bother with a coach 'less it had at least three victims. Eh?"
'Probably not. In that case, I think we'd better fetch out Lady Dora Leith. She's a passenger to delight any highwayman."
Patricia Veryan - [Sanguinet Saga 10] - Lanterns Page 9