The Peculiar Pink Toes of Lady Flora

by Jayne Fresina

  "There were things I could discuss with nobody else, sister," he muttered, flushing slightly. "I had no father to help me, did I? Should I have taken my advice from Cousin Roderick? Great Aunt Bridget? I think not. Malgrave understood my challenges, for he inherited his estate when he was just sixteen, only four years older than I was when father died."

  "Matters of the estate then," she murmured, deflated. Dull business and nothing naughty. Might have known.

  "Of course. What did you think I meant?" But his eyebrows were a little too guilty. "He took me under his wing, taught me a great deal that was beneficial. And the odd thing was...he always had time for me, always had patience. The very opposite to what I expected. To what I had always been told about him."

  She stepped closer, studying his face, knowing he could never keep the truth from her for long. One finger pressed into his waistcoat she demanded, "Tell me all, brother. There is something more. I see it in your eyes!"

  "He loaned the estate twelve thousand pounds to keep us on our feet."

  "What?" She almost dropped her apple.

  Now that she had poked a hole in his barrel, and the leak had begun, it could not be halted. All rushed out on a great, heaving breath of relief.

  "Sir Benjamin Hartnell had promised the money after your marriage, but it never came. Malgrave stepped in to save us, or I would have lost the house. At least, I would have had to begin selling it off, piece by piece."

  "We owe him twelve thousand pounds?" It was an enormous sum; it blocked her throat just as the apple had done moments before.

  "I have been able to pay most of it back since then. Thanks to the farming and efficiency improvements he suggested, our estate is now more profitable, and, of course, the business investments and retrenchment measures he advised have paid off—"

  "Why did you never tell me any of this?" she demanded. "You should have told me that Sir Benjamin reneged on the financial arrangements after our marriage. That villain!"

  His eyes widened. "The Duke of Malgrave asked for my discretion. Thought it would be best managed between the two of us." Then he became defensive. "You may be my elder sister, Flora, and a woman who thinks she knows everything, but I need not tell you all my business."

  Oh, how he had grown up, she thought suddenly. He was such a shy, frightened boy, like a skittish kitten, peering at her from behind a wing-backed chair in the firelight, when first laid eyes upon him. Now he was confident and capable. She wanted to think she had some part in his transformation, but it seems she was not the only one.

  "Of course," she said softly. "I was merely surprised to hear all this. I wish I had known."

  "He would not want you to know. I wish it had not slipped out today."

  Smoothing a hand over her bodice, she glanced out through the open barn door. No sign of "Massimo". Good. He did well to hide himself from her. Meddler.

  He was still doing it, coming there to Darnley to see what she was up to, Flora mused.

  But without his help Wyndham would have been lost. The thought of him seeking out Francis and offering assistance, despite the way she had rejected him, brought her pulse to a slower canter. Once he had tried to lecture her about her behavior and she, being seventeen, had taken umbrage at his high-handed manner, not thinking it possible that he simply meant to help.The duke had gone to great lengths for a family with no connection to his own. Why? He had problems enough, surely, without taking on those of another house.

  "So, since the duke has been your friend and confidant all these years—"

  "I do not know that he would describe himself as such, Flora. We correspond via the post, and we met a few times, when he was in London."

  "But during your, whatever it is, has your secret mentor ever mentioned me?"

  His eyebrow quirked. "Why would he mention you, Flora?"

  Her heart felt as if it had been kicked and now it tumbled painfully down a rocky slope. "Not even once?"

  "We had more important matters to discuss," he said proudly. "I cannot give you any details. It would all go over your pretty, rumpled little head, in any case. Business for men to manage."

  "Well, really! I do think I might have come up once or twice!"

  "You were conspicuous, sister dear, by your absence in our conversations." Then he smirked. "I had better see what Tarleton is up to. It is never wise to leave him on his own for long. Good thing you haven't any maids here for him to torment."

  She groaned. "Why did you bring that oaf here to Darnley?"

  "As soon as he heard of my plan to visit, he insisted upon joining me. Since his father died he has become quite impossible, insists upon going everywhere I go, and will not take no for an answer."

  "Perhaps he doesn't quite know what to do with himself without his father's instruction, so he follows you."

  Francis laughed. "I think I am his conduit to you, sister. He's quite adamant that he means to win you over. He claims you broke his heart."

  "Nonsense."

  "But you can be dreadfully flirtatious, Flora."

  "It was only a game. It was only ever a game with all of them."

  "Apparently, Tarleton took it seriously. Now that he no longer has his father leading him by the ear, he means to get what he wants. His blessed Aphrodite. Although I cannot imagine what he sees in you."

  "Thank you, brother, for the warning." She reached up to tweak his chin, but he ducked aside smartly.

  "Now tell me more about this mysterious Italian of yours."

  "I'm afraid I cannot give you any details, little brother."

  "Why ever not?"

  "You're too young and innocent." She took another bite of apple, twirling out of his reach. "I would not want to corrupt you." She grinned. "It is business for a woman to manage."

  * * * *

  At dinner, George was his usual annoying self. Now that she was accustomed to the peace and quiet of Darnley, and the company of "Massimo", Flora found her unwanted guest worse than ever before. She wondered how she had ever tolerated this hot air balloon for longer than five minutes.

  "So where is this enigmatic Italian fellow?" he demanded after his fourth glass of wine. "Your kitchen wench was full of his wonders. Yet it seems he hides from us."

  "He has a great deal of work to do," she replied crisply. "And he does not care much for company. He keeps to himself."

  "Rather uncivil and unsociable then."

  "Not really. I quite understand his solitary urges. I feel them myself from time to time."

  Tarleton dabbed his lips with a napkin. "Really one can never trust a foreigner. At any moment he could turn on you and cut your throat while you sleep."

  Flora speared a sprout on her fork. "But you forget we are all foreigners to somebody."

  Ignoring the comment, he mumbled through an impolitely full mouth, "You need more servants here. It is thoroughly uncivilized to live this way." He turned to Francis. "I am shocked you let your sister continue with this foolishness, scrabbling in the dirt, what ho! You see the state of her."

  They both looked down the table at Flora, and she swallowed a chuckle at their pitying, sorrowful expressions. She still wore her "best" frock, but perhaps that only made the contrast between what she once seemed and what she was now all the more dramatic and poignant. She had been too preoccupied that afternoon, following her guests about and making certain they did not run into Massimo, to find any time for changing her dress.

  "Flora has always been stubborn, Tarleton, as well you know. She goes her own way."

  "Your sister has simply not found the right man to take her in hand and get the bit betwixt her teeth." He quaffed his goblet of wine and looked for another before those plump and greasy lips had left the rim. "But if she is allowed to decline much further, it will be too late and nothing may be done to save her."

  Flora set down her fork, before she might feel the need to get up and sink its prongs into his well-fed flesh. In that moment he reminded her, sickeningly, of her dead husband. Perhaps it
was the blood red of his stained lips and the wine dripping from his chin, where he was too drunk to feel it. Those who wasted excellent wine by drinking it simply to be intoxicated, never taking the time to savor the taste and appreciate all the work that went into it, quite sickened her. These were the same folk who would march through a meadow, trampling daisies and buttercups without even seeing them, too intent on getting somewhere else.

  But she put on a brave face. "So what news of London? What have I been missing? Pray tell me all. I cannot wait to hear it."

  He launched eagerly into the subject, convinced she wanted to know, when in actual fact there were few things she cared less about. At least it stopped him asking about Massimo.

  As the dinner continued she noted the candle flames wavering in a wild dance several times, as if a cold draft blew through the hall. But there was a good fire in the hearth and all the windows were closed. The door, sunk into dark shadows, ought to be closed, but she could not see that it was from where she sat.

  There was a definite prickle in the air, storm tension, but the men at her table did not seem to feel it.

  "Hardy Seton is holding a house party next week at the hunting lodge," George continued merrily. "Anybody of consequence shall be there. Here's an idea, what ho! Why do you not come with us? Take that opportunity to reinstate your place in society, Lady Flora! Show everybody that you have not lost your wits and turned into a country bumpkin hayseed. If you make a good show for the Setons, all this can be put behind you. Come back to the real world. Come back to warm baths, for pity's sake."

  She cringed at her sprouts, unable to think of anything less appealing than a house party hosted by the insipid Hardicanute Seton, his new, very young bride, and, of course, his spinster sister, the ever-spiteful Harriet who still lived with them. Cousin Fanny's Old Trunk, she mused darkly.

  "Seton always puts on a very fine feast and spares no expense on the entertainment. You must come."

  "How do you propose I do that, George?"

  "Put up your hair, put on some shoes and come with us in your brother's carriage, of course."

  "And what about the work here? The farm? The house?"

  He blinked stupidly. "They managed before you came, did they not?"

  "No," she replied flatly. "Hence the ruin you see around you. Which is an improvement upon what it was when I first saw the place. I have restocked the animal pens, had the roof patched, re-dug the vegetable garden—"

  "Such a waste of your time and coin. Clearly Malgrave does not care for the place or he would have put his own fortune to its maintenance. You are only leasing, is that not so? This is all temporary until he throws you out."

  There went the draft again, ruffling her sleeves and tugging on the candle flames. "The duke has many, many other things that demand his time and attention. I suppose, George, if you ever did anything other than attend house parties, horse races and card games, you might find your time stretched thin too." She forced a broad smile. "You would have to choose your battles."

  "Hmph. If you ask me, that fellow has run away from all his."

  "What can you mean, Tarleton?" her brother exclaimed.

  "Wandering off to the continent and abandoning his responsibilities here."

  She could hardly believe her ears. This waffling came from a man who knew nothing about responsibilities and never had.

  Fortunately Francis spoke up, before she got her tongue to move. "That is rather harsh, Tarleton. You should be wary of what you say, when you do not know the facts behind a matter. Malgrave is not the sort of man to abandon his responsibilities."

  "What's amiss with you, Chelmsworth?"

  "I merely caution you, dear friend."

  "I'm not afraid of Malgrave," George scoffed. "What is he to me?"

  Francis remained polite. "One should tend one's own concerns and be certain everything there is above fault, before casting judgment on the dealings of others."

  Flora had never felt prouder of her little brother than she did at that moment. "Or to put it less graciously," she added with a wry smile, "mind your own business, George."

  * * * *

  Her unwanted guest was even further disgruntled by his "uncivilized" surroundings, when he learned that the only water closet was outside and across the yard. Had he known this he might not have drunk so much wine at dinner.

  But it was lucky for Maxim, who waited patiently for the buffoon to stumble out of the house, looking to relieve himself

  In the moonlight he crept up behind Tarleton and, with one swift move, had him around the neck. A single swipe of the foot, and he succeeded in tripping the drunken sot, forcing him down on his belly against the cobbles. Before the man could make more than half a shout of alarm, Maxim had an arm wrapped around his mouth, muffling the outraged protests. Pinning George down on his front, he hissed softly in his ear, "You are not welcome here, sir. You will leave tonight and never come back."

  The fellow squirmed violently, kicking and biting at Maxim's coat sleeve.

  "Lady Flora does not want you here, and you embarrass yourself chasing after her. She is too polite to ask you to leave. I am not. Save what little pride you have left and depart now. If you do not, I will slit your throat from ear to ear. You know how we foreigners are, yes?"

  Tarleton managed to get his mouth twisted free just far enough to spit out a furious breath. "How dare you! I shall have you thrashed! Insolent farm-hand!"

  "Who will thrash me?"

  "I shall do it myself."

  "Try."

  But the harder Tarleton fought to get out of his hold, the more it tightened. Wrestling was another sport Maxim had learned at school, another sport at which he excelled. Eventually, humiliated and exhausted, Tarleton sagged and whined piteously under his weight.

  "You will leave this place now. Tell Francis you must go at once."

  "Who the hell are you to order me?"

  "I am nobody until you cross me. Then I am your most heinous nightmare. One from which you cannot wake."

  "You think I would leave Lady Flora here alone, at your mercy, you cur!"

  "Better at my mercy than at yours. I can protect her as you never would."

  "You shall pay the consequences for manhandling my person, threatening me in this outrageous fashion!"

  "Nevertheless, I give you one hour by the glass to persuade Francis that you must leave tonight." Then he put his mouth closer to George's ear and whispered. "If you lay down your head here to sleep you will not wake to see another morning, Signor Tallyton."

  Again he cursed and spat, vowing his revenge for this effrontery.

  "But that is not a threat," Maxim whispered. "It is a promise. For there is nobody here to help you. Nobody for many miles who can come to your aid." Then he played his final card. "Even if I took pity on you and let you go with your throat intact, I might find it necessary to inform Miss Harriet Seton, and her brother, of your attempted dalliance here. I believe you are on your last chance with that comfortable arrangement, are you not? Always a welcome guest in their home, always going there with the hint of a possible engagement floating in the air— just enough to earn you the best guest room, the honored seat at dinner, a loan of the finest horse at the hunt. Why do you not marry that woman after all these years? Is that placid mare not rich enough? Or is it simply that she knows better and wouldn't take you on under more permanent terms? Perhaps you are a convenience for each other, a familiar port in the storm."

  "What do you know of— of Miss Seton?" George's eyes popped.

  "Go now, back to your safe port, and you need not worry about what I know, eh? Or who I might tell of your embarrassment 'ere."

  George went silent. One could hear the cogwheels spinning.

  "Lady Flora is not for you," Maxim hissed. "Never was and never will be."

  "You think she is yours? Then you're a fool. Whoever you are."

  "Do not concern yourself with me. Leave this place and do not return, if you value your life."

>   "Oh, I'll leave," the other man grunted into the cobbles. "But you ask her about Ned Godfrey. I think you'll find she was his long before any of us laid eyes upon her."

  At the time, Maxim barely heard those words. His temper was too hot, his focus on the removal of this disruption.

  Only later, sitting up in his hayloft, bathing his bloodied knuckles in a basin of water, did he consider those words in depth.

  Who the hell was Ned Godfrey?

  Tarleton was an ass. A man rejected and thwarted. His comment was probably nothing more than a baseless accusation, yet another rumor.

  And what was any other man to him?

  * * * *

  Flora rose the next morning to find her guests departed early. Her brother left a note to say that Tarleton suddenly had not felt well during the night and decided they ought to return to "civilization" in case the attentions of his physician were needed.

  Probably all the wine he drank last night, she thought. The man ought to take better care of himself, or find a wife to do it for him.

  Very odd that they should leave so suddenly without even waking her to say goodbye, but Francis knew how little she had wanted George there, so perhaps he had expedited their departure to save her further trouble.

  She would make it up to Francis the next time she saw him, but as for George, she was indeed relieved by his absence. He had been an unwanted reminder of the old days and her frivolous life. Best left in the past.

  And now that he'd left, Massimo magically reappeared.

  "You did not come out to greet my guests yesterday," she said, walking up to him as he sharpened axes at the whetstone.

  He kept his gaze on the work at hand. "I was not invited to join the fine gentlemen."

  "Had I been able to find you," she said carefully, "then you would have been introduced."

  Nothing. When he removed his gloves, she noticed grazing on his knuckles and a little dried blood.