“Mr. Dhever. Thank you for coming.”
Quintilla quickly guided Warrick to the stableyard at the side of the property, where one of Cook Hopkins’s sons took charge of the chestnut.
“Please come out to the library. I want us to attract as little attention as possible,” Quintilla directed her companion.
Warrick regarded her frantic haste and attempt at covert activity with amusement. “Easy, Quintilla.”
Quintilla tried to do as he cautioned as she began to conduct him across the garden towards the rosy brick of the library building. This afternoon, she advanced to the usually favourite building with dread, words spilling from her mouth.
“I hope he is gone. I did not want to involve you, but Kitty was up in the tree—the tall one there that she still likes to climb—and saw him struggling because his skiff had been swamped by last night’s storm. Her heart went out to him.” Quintilla stopped for breath before deluging Warrick with more information.
“He told Kitty he was an impressed seaman escaping from the British Navy and he wanted passage home. So she hid him in the library and thought Uncle Guthrie would give him the money, or help him find a boat on the London dock. Some sympathetic merchant’s. Only, I said Uncle Guthrie—all the inhabitants of this household—are too old to cope with this kind of deceit and wild adventure, and I remembered you had been to America, and would probably know what to do.”
Quintilla was too involved in her explanation to notice Warrick’s shift in attitude. Her words continued to tumble out until she drew another deep breath, trying to remember to stay calm, and paused a few feet from the library. Laying her hand on Warrick’s sleeve, she looked directly into his eyes. For a moment, the music stand from Eysley House was uppermost in her mind. “Sometimes one is driven to ... ignoring the law, to theft, for instance, by forces one cannot control ... and I understand that. I want you to know—.”
Warrick’s amused participation in Quintilla’s difficulty had ceased when he heard the phrase “impressed seaman escaping.” Was there an epidemic? If so, the British Navy’s security measures needed investigating. But he did not think such an inspection necessary.
His eyes narrowed. For the second time this day, he felt as though he had been kicked. What was she saying ... confessing? ... in this pleasant garden. Admitting to theft? Edwina had not been bamming him? He had been gulled—by this chit? Suspicions concerning Quintilla, never really valid, surfaced.
Quintilla opened the library door, hoping Kitty’s waif had fled. No. Bedraggled, he sprawled asleep in the grandfather chair at the end of the room. He was slender. Hair curled over his wrinkled collar. A thin, aesthetic face gave him more the appearance of a Romantic poet than a hardy seaman.
At the sound of the door closing, the lad awoke with a start, grey eyes like some trapped forest creature when he saw the two in the doorway. He bounded from the chair and looked around the room, as if seeking a means of escape.
“We come to help you,” Quintilla encouraged, standing just in front of Warrick. Kitty was right. He was young, probably still young enough to miss his mother in America.
“Amos.” Warrick’s grim voice filled the room from where he blocked the closed door.
“My lord.” The stripling stood by the grandfather chair and bowed, his accent that of an English aristocrat. Except for his quivering hand resting on the chair’s high winged back, he appeared relaxed, as if posed for a portrait by Gainsborough, or Sir Joshua Reynolds. In spite of his rumpled clothes, he had become a young man of fashion.
Quintilla was amazed at the transformation, yet nothing had changed. He had called Warrick “My lord.” She turned to look up at Warrick, who unwaveringly scrutinised the young stranger. No, not a stranger. Warrick recognised him. She felt as if she were in a play without knowing her part, and moved out of the almost visible path of hostility between the two males to lean against the large library worktable.
Fatigue impeded Warrick’s usual shrewdness. He felt betrayed, and the betrayal made him ignore reason. This was too much of a coincidence—a library holding Amos and Quintilla—given her recent, halting declaration. The two conspiring for funds. And he, who prided himself on his ... his perspicacity, had proved an easy mark.
Warrick had trusted her—her charm, her gay audacity, her ... damnable smile of enchantment—all meant to cozen him! And she had succeeded—to the extent he was ready with his own plan to find her a husband, sponsoring her in society with the weight—and the honour—of his name. Well, she had warned him, out there in the garden. He would give her that. Regretting how she had used him?
His fury carefully controlled, the Ice Baron spoke with a voice of chilling sarcasm. “Are you up to explaining this ... little contretemps?”
“Certainly, Lord Eysley,” Amos responded.
Quintilla gasped in surprise. Lord Eysley! Of Eysley House! With a perfect right to the music stand, she remembered, sheepish over her earlier conjecture.
Amos smilingly bowed to Quintilla in acknowledgement of what he took to be approval, if not applause, at his élan. “I am an actor,” he declared proudly. “Between engagements.” He glanced at Warrick’s cold stare. “Unemployed at the moment.”
Warming to his performance, Amos began to move about in the course of his explanation, with appropriate gestures for emphasis. “I need money—easily found in the homes of aristocrats, and the cits, and the nabobs. For easy access to their wealth, I have been escorting home those too drunk to manage on their own. I use a number of plausible stories to gain their confidence and companionship—practicing my craft, you might say. The role of impressed American seaman helped me polish the accent for my last professional engagement—The Americans, at the Lyceum, early in May. Did you happen to see it?”
“And going to America?” Warrick looked over at Quintilla, who had been observing the dramatics in total fascination.
“I considered it. I did enjoy my stay at Wellands with your brother, Will. A very comfortable place. But it was not part of my life’s plan, so when Will set sail, I left, in ... a borrowed boat, a rather ancient craft, actually. Almost drowned in last night’s rainstorm. Then some pretty young thing in a tree saw me staggering up from the river and brought me here.” He looked around at the attractively furnished room, and began to realise the opportunities it offered for a profitable robbery. “My brush with death evidently left me exhausted, and I fell asleep.”
“What is your life’s plan?” Warrick had to admit the fellow gave an engaging performance. If he was not an actor, he should be. No wonder he had lured Quintilla Davenant into his act! Or had she lured him?
“Quite simply, in ten years, by the time I am five and thirty, I aim to be the next Richard Sheridan—actor, playwright, theatre-owner, member of Parliament. That takes influence, and influence takes money—more than I can ever make as an actor. When you want enough influence to be important, it is a great handicap to be without money.”
“True. And you both seem to know how to obtain it dishonestly,” Warrick taunted, looking contemptuously at Quintilla.
Oh! How cruel! ... but evidently true. Quintilla flushed, shamefaced. This was Lady Mallow’s Ice Baron, from a long line of men who chose only the most beautiful women as wives. Quintilla was quite uncomfortable, suddenly, in the presence of so notable a marital catch. Did he think she dared to believe herself eligible? His words and scornful mien indicated she was unacceptable, and cheated in attempting to offer ... deformity ... in exchange for financial security, which custom decreed a man contribute to marriage. To make matters even worse, she had imposed on their brief acquaintance when she had asked his assistance in aiding ... an impostor.
Warrick saw in Quintilla’s flushed cheeks and downcast eyes the proof he sought of her complicity in some fraudulent scheme. She wilted before his icy glare, still projecting the air of innocence that bilked the unwary. Well, let her try her wiles on him again. The Woodville clan had taught him. Now, Miss Davenant reminded him. Never let y
our guard down.
“Let him go ... Lord Eysley.” Quintilla had difficulty using his title. “He has done no harm, and he fills this room with a discord I cannot like.”
How she tried to protect him, thought Warrick in disgust. “Come now, Miss Davenant. Your portrayal of helpless innocence, while rivalling anything I have seen on the stage, begins to bore. But you are right. The theft of two thousand pounds harmed no one. And I can understand your pursuit of wealth. God knows, I have been driven. I suppose part of it goes to Dr. Jenner, which I can applaud.”
He looked at Amos and tossed some coins on the floor in front of him. “Here. Your performance was ... amusing, but it is time for the curtain to come down. I tire of being a member of your audience.”
Amos stooped to pick up the coins, then rose to curl his fingers at his forelock. He adopted a new accent as he said, “Moy pleasure, guv’nor. Oym not too proud.” Before striding out the door, the actor spoke to Quintilla in an American accent. “Thank the young miss for offering me refuge.”
White-faced, Quintilla stood erect, not understanding anything that had transpired. Lord Eysley had mocked her with frigid contempt. Assuredly, she needed to apologise for imposing, bringing him here to aid what had proved to be a fraud.
At least Warrick—Lord Eysley—was no thief. She smiled wryly, remembering her fears of—what, only an hour ago? Warrick Dhever might have needed her concern. Lord Eysley certainly did not.
“I am sorry—”
“Do not apologise for what you cannot help,” Warrick admonished. She might well be an innocent, duped herself by the actor’s charm. There was no way to determine it, and he did not want to know. He sighed. He would not forget this girl.
Warrick spoke again, more gently now. “How much money will enable you to avoid the Blumptons of this world?”
Astounded, Quintilla answered softly, “None, Lord Eysley.”
She stood with great dignity while he bowed and left. Quintilla was overwhelmed by the events in the room, and could make little sense of them. Never before had she encountered such cold disdain as Warrick, no, Lord Eysley, had directed towards her. Surely she did not merit it for merely intruding cautiously into the world of courtship. And she had not asked for romance, only friendship. Was she a freak, unworthy of love, unlikely to give it? Best caged away from all society, like the twoheaded chicken Kitty once saw at a village fair? “No! No!”
Vainly, she willed herself not to cry over the loss of her ... her companion. He had been everything admirable in a man. With the palms of her hands she wiped away the tears that would fall. Always, she had eschewed romantic involvement, knowing how hurtful a rejection would be. The rejection in friendship was ... just as bad.
No. It was not friendship. It was love, la grande passion. She loved him. She loved him. In spite of her vigilance, love in the person of Warrick Dhever had crept into her heart, and into her life.
Quintilla wept silently, her shoulders shaking, as she stood leaning her forehead against books on the shelf. Her hands clung to its slightly raised edge. Maturity could not prevent tears. Warrick Dhever’s abrupt departure, and his contempt, were the kind of crippling blows that would take a good while to overcome.
She must stop these tears and gain her composure before returning to the whist game. She must concentrate her thinking on the full life she aimed to have. She would not settle for less!
An agitated Quintilla roamed the room. At the worktable she picked up a book. First, making sure it was not rare nor valuable, she threw it across the room with all her might. “Damn!”
And he had concealed his rank from all of them, hiding so much of what he knew and was behind an immobile face like some Indian skulking in the wilderness! More tears threatened her tenuous self-control at the thought of the amused outlook he hid behind his dispassion, and the keen mind he shared with her. How generous, that sharing, and how much it meant to her. She blinked away the tears.
The Leroi et fils clock marked the hour. Faithfully prompt, the bronze monk popped out—a cheering occurrence. Life goes on.
She pressed her fingers against closed eyelids to thwart the watery flood, and snuffled. If she was too different to partake of love and marriage, was not meant for la grande passion, then so be it. She sighed, and closed the library door behind her. But, oh, it wounded. How the loss of love wounded.
Quintilla marched back across the formal garden, trying to remember words to a poem: “Stone walls do not a prison make, nor iron bars a cage.” What came next?
She gazed around her. Beautiful shades of green in the garden! And the fragrance of the roses! It came to her. It was Lovelace, Richard Lovelace who had penned those words. He knew we sometimes made our own prisons. She would not allow a physical anomaly to imprison her. That the love of a ... prince was not part of her life must not be allowed to overwhelm her—as it did at this moment.
Quintilla entered the rose drawing room through the French doors, interrupting Kitty’s soliloquy. “So then, his withers—Tilla, you are back!” The relief in Kitty’s voice vibrated down the long room.
The green baize tabletop looked just as it had when she had left it—an eternity ago. Only the silver bonbon dish had altered—empty now. Quintilla took her seat and unfolded her cards, ignoring the quizzical looks of her fellow cardplayers. “Was it my turn to call?”
Lady Mallow would not be deflected. “What brought the Baron Eysley to your door?”
“He wished to examine a book in Uncle’s collection.” Quintilla turned to Kitty, “But it was not what we thought it was.”
“I heard he had begun a collection,” added Lady Mallow, “having first inspected every library in town.” Satisfied with Quintilla’s explanation, her ladyship yearned to return to the card game after Kitty’s interminable horse tales. Really, no one could get a word in. Lady Mallow had never realized the young thing was such a chatterbox.
Lady Guthrie chided, “You should have bade him join us for tea.”
“He would not stay,” Quintilla spoke in hushed tones as, eyes downcast, she concentrated totally on her hand of cards.
“Are you feverish?” Lady Guthrie touched her niece’s flushed cheek.
“No. I ran back across the garden.” How easily the lies came, the deeper one delved into deceit.
Lady Mallow offered the benefit of her experience. “Running in the hot sun? Surely an invitation to palpitations of the heart! I did once, as a young girl. Ran in the sun. And never fully recovered.”
10
Morosely slumped in his bath, Warrick watched the steaming water’s vapour rise to mix with smoke from the cigar he held in his mouth. Quintilla’s face collided with his every thought.
Was it his pride that had been hurt, to be duped by such a wisp of a female? Wisp, nothing! She was a sturdy little thing, hanging from his arm when he lowered her out the Tower room. He grinned at the memory. She was a worthy adversary.
He wanted to discuss with her his plaguey problem—except she was the problem. How it stuck in Warrick’s mind, the nod Amos gave Quintilla before beginning his performance. It was as if the actor reassured her, saying “Not to worry, my love. I’ll get us out of this.”
Still, why would he, the twelfth baron in a line of tough birds, why would he be so angry over so modest a fraud? He had been too hard on her.
Bates’s discreet cough reminded Warrick that the time had come to dress for Edwina’s evening drama at the Shoreham musicale. His role? Eventually, bridegroom. No. Not just yet, though he would have to be more agile than he felt at this moment if he were to avoid being the one waiting at the altar when Miss Woodville pranced into a church. Hell, but he had played a great number of parts since he’d awakened this morning.
As Warrick and the ladies settled on the hard cushions of the black and gilt chairs crowding the Shoreham salon, he enquired of his stepsister, “Is Storr never to be allowed back to frequent his London haunts, then?”
Edwina billowed in pure white gauze, and
waved a dainty carved ivory fan to alleviate the old mansion’s musty odour. It pervaded the room in spite of the many candles lighting the ornately embellished salon. She fanned even more vigourously when answering, “It is not of my doing. He is proving to be a great help to Mama for the moment. However, he will return in due time.”
“On probation, one presumes.”
She did not deign to respond, but continued to agitate the air around her while gazing at Warrick. Handsome in his black and white evening wear, he seemed to have acquired more lines in his face in the hours since she had visited his rooms. The longtime object of her sensual dreams at last growing old? He must marry. How very timely the arrival of her youngest, and prettiest, Woodville cousin.
Edwina turned her attention to the young girl, sitting passively between them. In a lavishly embroidered cream muslin dress, she looked prepared for betrothal festivities.
Behind her fan, Edwina spoke quietly into her cousin’s ear. “You and Cousin Warrick need to have a polite conversation.”
Obediently, Miss Woodville regarded Warrick from the corner of her eye, then turned her beautifully structured face to allow him the full benefit of her comeliness. Lowering long tawny lashes, she breathlessly informed him, “I miss my kitten at home.”
“Oh.” Well executed, Miss Woodville! Warrick had never seen the alluring move more gracefully done. “Am I to be spared its name?”
Waxing eloquent, the potential Incomparable went on. “Lily. I named her Lily. She will be growing up, and I am not there to watch.”
From out of nowhere came a delicate fan of cream lace placed into position under tawny eyes, bright with tears. Fascinated with her deft pantomime, Warrick knew this one, unlike Miss Davenant, had encountered The Virgin Unmask’d.
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