“Of course,” André answered, rolling his eyes. “You are, if nothing else, discreet.”
“I’ll ignore that outburst. We were rubbing along together fairly well, Miss Addams and I—except for the kippers, of course—when suddenly, inexplicably, she turned hostile. It wasn’t a pretty sight, I can tell you. She is a most highly strung female.”
After sanding the letter and then shaking the excess into a small dish, André folded the single heavy ivory vellum sheet and applied a small wax seal. “I refuse to discuss kippers with you, Pierre, no matter how you dangle them before my curiosity. I’ve just completed a communication to my solicitor in London, requesting that he send us a suitable chaperone posthaste. Shall I amend it, asking him to send me a bodyguard as well, or are you done with trying to drive my anonymous ward out of her wits?”
Pierre lifted a hand to lightly stroke his scarred cheekbone. “Anonymous. The Anonymous Miss Addams. It does have a poetic ring about it, doesn’t it? I must have been inspired. I should like the bodyguard, I suppose, although I believe your concern is misplaced. Miss Addams is in no danger from me, but rather the opposite. As a matter of fact, that is why I am here, pestering you in your private sanctum. I do believe I shall be reconvening my remove to London before my poor, abused confidence sustains some irreparable damage from your ward’s pointed tongue.”
André tapped the folded letter lightly against his chin as he studied his son’s negligent pose. “She’s routed you then, my son? I grow to like our Miss Addams more with each passing moment.”
The left eyebrow that had so infuriated Caroline earlier now moved in a slight upward direction, rather like a silent punctuation of Pierre’s thoughts. “Feeling rather full of yourself, aren’t you, Father?” Pierre drawled, turning to place both his feet on the floor. “But you couldn’t be more wrong. I have responsibilities, you know.”
“You do?” André questioned with patent incredulity. “I should deeply appreciate a partial listing of these ‘responsibilities,’ as I cannot imagine anything more pressing in your life than an appointment with your tailor.”
“Responsibilities,” Pierre pursued, undaunted. “I have a household in town that I have been sadly neglecting this past fortnight. I have important papers of some sort or other to sign, or at least I believe I do. It is difficult to keep track of such things. And, oh yes, I have promised Master Holloway that I would return him to his beloved Piccadilly. It’s enough that Duvall has cut off all the poor boy’s hair and scrubbed him until his nose shines brighter than the sun. I can’t disappoint the little scamp now.”
André coughed, covering his mouth, and with it, his smile. “You mean to make me believe you are going to toss young Master Holloway straight back into the den of inhuman thieves that first sold him into service? You may be many things, Pierre, but you cannot convince me that you, my only son and light of my life, are stupid.”
As Pierre had no intention of returning Jeremy to any woman who would sell him to a sweep for a half a crown, he lowered his eyes, avoiding his father’s gaze. “I only mean to have the boy pay a flying visit to the place, seeing his former home from the safety of my carriage. Only then will I be able to resign him to living in the country, surrounded by the lesser evils of clean, fresh air and ample food. The boy has a romantic vision of his former home and hearth that only a good dose of reality can hope to dispel. Then I shall install him at my estate in Surrey, out of harm’s way. Now, having bared my soul to you, and only to you, for I wouldn’t wish the world to think I have become soft, have I succeeded in reaffirming your fatherly faith in me?”
André crossed the room to look down at his son. “You are being kind, Pierre. Why?”
“Kind, Father? Please. I am never kind. I am merely, to quote you, lending a bit of ‘compassionate assistance to one of the helpless wretches of mankind, without a single thought of personal reward.’ Did I get that just right, Father? I should so hate to misquote your immortal words of wisdom.”
“You’re running away,” André announced incontrovertibly, smiling down on his son. “Oh, this is gratifying in the extreme. I’d always hoped to live long enough to see such a day.”
“You’re dangerously twisted, Father,” Pierre warned, rising to his feet. “If I am an unnatural son, you are a most irregular parent. Loving you as I do, I hesitate to point that out, but the need for self-preservation compels me. No, sir. I am not running away. I am leaving. There is a vast difference between the two.”
André, his expression serious, only nodded. “I’ll bid Miss Addams your farewells for you. I see no need to expose either of you to each other again, considering the adverse effect you seem to have on one another.”
“How utterly kind of you,” Pierre drawled sweetly. “And shall you hold tight to my hand until I reach the safety of my carriage? Really, Father, you are most hopelessly heavy-handed in this previously untried role of matchmaker. Oh, yes,” he said as his father showed signs of protesting. “You are become most sadly lacking in Machiavellian skills, dearest Father, probably just one more damning effect of rapidly encroaching old age. Speaking as one who once stood in awe of your skills, I must tell you, it’s a sad, extremely sad, spectacle to witness.”
Unruffled by this masterful put-down, André only smiled and said, “Again you overreact, my son. My concern was solely for Miss Addams. I would never think to exhaust myself in order to comfort you.”
Pierre bowed, silently acknowledging André’s denial. “Your reassurances do comfort me nonetheless. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I should like to track down Duvall and make him the happiest man on earth by ordering him to pack. He has never been enamored of the country, you understand, much preferring the hustle and bustle of city life.”
André regarded the letter in his hand. “You have just given me an idea. Familiar as I am with your neck or nothing approach to travel, perhaps you will favor me by delivering this missive in person once you reach London, saving me considerable time in my quest for a suitable chaperone for Miss Addams?”
Bowing once more, Pierre answered, “As I live only to bring ease to your declining years, it would be my pleasure to play post boy. I should even be willing to take on the task of ferreting out this suitable chaperone myself, as I have some firm ideas on just what sort of female is needed.”
“You do,” André commented blandly. “I should like to hear a list of your specifications.”
“She should be strong, both in back and in heart,” Pierre began, ticking off his fingers one by one. “She should have at least a nodding acquaintance with stable speech, so as not to be shocked when Miss Addams’s command of polite conversation deserts her. Also, along with the usual virtues of pristine morals, a watchful eye, and no annoying habits—such as picking her teeth with the tines of her fork or ferreting out your private stock of port and commandeering it for herself—she should be at least ten years your senior. I should not wish to exchange one possible compromise for another.”
Now it was André’s turn to bow. “You are too kind, my son. Have I neglected to mention that I have instructed cook to prepare rare roasted beef with horseradish sauce for dinner this evening?” With a slight self-deprecatory grimace and a wave of one elegant hand, he pushed the question aside. “Please forgive me—it was but a momentary lapse.”
Pierre opened his mouth to, his father was sure, graciously accept his apologies—a terribly lowering prospect for one who still considered himself his son’s superior when it came to subterfuge—when a shrill female screech interrupted.
“What the devil?” Pierre exclaimed, already moving toward the open French doors that led straight onto the garden, his father close on his heels.
Caroline Addams’s small, muslin-clad body shot into the room. Stopping abruptly, her head still turned part-way around, as if trying to catch sight of the demon that was pursuing her, she crashed directly into Pierre’s chest. “Ooof!” she exclaimed as her breath left her body, and held tight to Pierre’s arms to ste
ady herself.
“Add one more requirement to that list I gave you, please, Father,” Pierre said, unruffled. “This chaperone of yours must be extremely fit and fleet of foot if she hopes to keep your Miss Addams in tow. Either that, or might I suggest leading strings?”
Caroline, having recovered sufficient breath to speak, immediately went on the attack. “Unhand me, you idiot!” she demanded, pushing free of his too-familiar clutches, refusing to consider that she might be the cause of their current situation. “And don’t just stand there with that stupid, smug smirk on your face! I could have been murdered!”
Pierre’s “stupid, smug smirk” remained firmly in place. “Nonsense, my dear Miss Addams with two D’s. You were in no danger of being murdered. After all, think of it—I was nowhere about. Unless, perhaps, you have succeeded in making other enemies during your short sojourn under my father’s protection?”
“Sarcasm! Always sarcasm. And bad sarcasm at that,” Caroline retorted. “Do you never tire of hearing the sound of your own voice?” She ran over to where André was standing, silently watching and listening to this exchange of unpleasantness between his son and his ward. “Mr. Standish! You believe me, don’t you?”
André put a comforting arm around her shoulders and drew her close in what he would have termed a fatherly embrace. “Of course I believe you, my dear,” he informed her. “Only one question, if you please. What was it that you said?”
She pulled away from André, no longer frightened but extremely angry. “I was accosted in the gardens, of course,” she told them both, looking from one to the other of the Standishes hoping she had shocked them.
“You ran afoul of one of the gardeners?” Pierre suggested, stifling a yawn. “They’re very possessive of their greenery. You should really try to keep to the paths, and not trample on the posies.”
“I did not!” she contradicted defiantly. “I was merely walking down one of the paths—near those delightful shrubberies you showed me yesterday, Mr. Standish,” she elaborated, turning to André, whom she would much rather speak to and look at, Pierre’s silently mocking eyes infuriating her to the point where she knew she would soon lose all control over her nerves. “Suddenly, out of nowhere, there was this—this man! He must have been as big as a house! He was looking at me in the most prodigiously speculative way, and he had a large sack in his hand. He took two steps toward me, and I screamed. You may have heard me.”
“Prinny and his court heard you,” Pierre slid in quietly, “and they’re in Brighton, I believe, eating seventeen-course meals and doing whatever else it is they do. You probably disturbed a poacher clumsily plying his trade too close to the house. The poor man is most likely miles from here by now, still running as if all the hounds of hell were after him, and with his hands clapped to his ringing ears.”
Caroline stared at André, trying to gauge his opinion. What she saw was not encouraging. Her arms flapping wildly, like a small, flightless bird, she began swooping about the study, her too large shoes flop-flopping as she went. “You don’t believe me—either of you! What must I do to convince you—die for you?”
“So dramatic, my dear girl,” Pierre remarked, looking at his father from beneath lowered lids. André nodded, only slightly, and his son nodded in return, the two reaching out to each other in silent communion. “But I must admit,” Pierre began carefully, “you do begin to interest me. Tell me about this terrible man with the large sack. Was he more than ten feet tall? Did he drool, or just shoot sparks of blue fire from his one, horrible bulbous eye?”
Caroline stopped her furious fluttering and subsided heavily into the oversized wing chair Pierre had vacated a few minutes earlier. “Oh, shut up,” she grumbled, allowing her chin to drop onto her chest. “Mr. Standish,” she said crushingly, looking up through her long black lashes at André, “I hate to be the one to cause you pain, but I believe your dearest late wife must have somehow played you false. This idiotic ninny cannot possibly be your son, no matter how much he resembles you physically. You have been kindness itself to me, while he is the meanest, most obtuse, self-important, belittling—”
“—beast in nature,” Pierre finished helpfully when Caroline seemed to lose her train of thought.
She sat up very straight, the toes of her too big shoes barely touching the floor. “See!” she exclaimed, pointing an accusing finger at Pierre. “Now, you’ve heard it out of his own mouth! Oh, please, sir, send him away so that I can tell you about the man in the garden.”
André shooed Pierre away with a wave of his hand, but his son withdrew no further than the French doors, idly casting his gaze over the garden as he appeared to ignore the occupants of the room. Pouring a small glass of sherry for his ward, André proffered it to her and took possession of the facing wing chair, his elbows on the arms of the chair, his hands elegantly cupped beneath his chin.
“Ignore him, my dear,” he told Caroline. “Heaven knows it is difficult, but I have every confidence you can manage it if you try. Now, tell me about this man you saw tippy-toeing about in my garden.”
Caroline took a small, tentative sip of the sherry, then downed the rest in one gulp, shivering only slightly at its immediate impact on her system. “With pleasure, Mr. Standish,” she said, sitting up very straight. “As I said, I was taking the air in the garden, near the decorative shrubbery, when I heard a noise in the bushes. I looked up just in time to see this man—not nearly so tall as yourself, sir, now that I am no longer in danger and can think more clearly, but still with two eyes and no sign of drool about his mouth—standing not three feet away from me, a large sack held open in both hands, just as if he was preparing to bring it down over my head. He wore a hat pulled down around his ears, so that I couldn’t see his face too clearly, but he was very menacing, I’m convinced of that.”
“You must have been terrified,” André allowed, deftly removing the glass from her hand.
“I was. I said something to him—I don’t remember just what—and screamed and ran straight to this room, and the man didn’t follow. Now, are you going to do anything about it or not?” she ended, despising the slightly shrill sound of her last question, for she did not like letting either Standish know that she was still frightened. “I mean, if you think anything needs to be done,” she added weakly.
“That was a very good explanation, my dear. Very clear, very concise and very unnerving,” André pronounced, looking over to where Pierre was standing, his hands clasped behind his back, still staring into the garden. “What say you about all this, Pierre?”
He turned to face the occupants of the room. “I say, dear Father, that unless we have a remarkably shortsighted poacher who mistook Miss Addams here for a pheasant, then we shall have to investigate this incident most thoroughly. After all, we cannot have a guest in our house disturbed in this way, can we?”
“We, Pierre?” André repeated pointedly, raising his eyebrows. “But I thought you were about to depart for the metropolis. Have you had a sudden change of heart, a rare stab of consideration?”
“Oh, dear,” Pierre said, one hand to his heart. “Do you think so? I should hope not. Perhaps I’m sickening for something.”
Caroline bounded from her chair, heading for the door to the hallway. “You’re sickening all right!” she shot back over her shoulder before slamming the door behind her with a mighty bang.
“I think she’s a trifle upset,” Pierre remarked placidly, staring at the closed door. “The child’s disenchantment with me to one side, however, the fact that we have no clear idea as to who she is begs me to ponder the possibility that she might be correct—and that someone is trying to murder her.”
André, careful to conceal his smile from his son, ripped the letter to his solicitor neatly in two and tossed the halves into the cold hearth. “Then you’ll be staying to dinner, Pierre? Cook will be most pleased, although I image that, conversely, your devoted Duvall will be devastated.”
CHAPTER SEVEN
IT WAS EA
RLY in the morning, and the noise of uncooperative horses being put into harness in the courtyard in preparation for another long day on the road filtered through to the common room, where many of the inn’s patrons were partaking of their breakfast.
Off in one shadow-darkened corner of the large, low-ceilinged room sat a conservatively dressed couple, by outward appearances and by their signatures on the inn register, mother and son, the two deep in some serious discussion in between taking hearty bites of an equally hearty fare.
“I still don’t see why you couldn’t have sprung for a private dining chamber,” the young man was saying, his thin, sad face wearing a disheartened frown that seemed comfortably at home there. “It’s bloody dangerous, sitting out in the open this way, exposing ourselves to anyone who might come through the door.”
“I keep telling you not to swear in front of me. Just like your father, aren’t you?” the woman retorted around a mouthful of eggs. “Always reaching into my pockets for your own comfort. They are not bottomless, you know. Besides, you worry too much.”
“You weren’t the one who had to run and scramble for miles and then hide in that thorny thicket yesterday until it was dark,” the man grumbled, rubbing at an angry-looking scratch that ran down one side of his face. “She was screaming to wake the dead. I was sure someone was going to clap me on the shoulder at any moment, and haul me off for attempted kidnapping.”
“You don’t even know if she saw you,” the woman pointed out. “A mouse could have run across her toes, setting her off.”
“You still think I’m lying, don’t you? You think I never went to the Standish house at all, but only sat in the bushes somewhere all day, out of harm’s way, before coming back to you with some moonshine story about nearly being caught. That’s simply unloving of you, do you know that?”
“Then she just mustn’t have seen you clearly, dearest,” the woman conceded, seeing that the young man’s bottom lip was trembling, as if he were close to tears. “You were wearing a hat. And don’t pout. Your face might freeze that way. Mother believes you. You said you were half hidden behind the ornamental shrubbery. Yes, she didn’t see you clearly, that’s the only logical explanation. You’ll just have to try again. Pass me one of those delicious-looking biscuits, if you please. The food here is quite remarkably fine for such an out-of-the-way place, don’t you think?”
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