Rapture Becomes Her

by Shirlee Busbee

  She closed her mind to what might be happening at The Crown and concentrated on accomplishing the reason Flora and the others were risking themselves for her. When her cousin returned to The Birches, she had to be home and safely in her bed. Her lips twisted. She also needed an innocent excuse to explain why he did not find her there when he had obviously come looking for her tonight.

  Her stride lengthened and she broke into a run, oblivious to the rain and the wind shrieking through bare limbs of the birch trees that lined the half-mile driveway. The squire must never learn what they had all been up to because Emily didn’t doubt for a moment, far from being outraged, he would immediately take over the operation and reward himself with the lion’s share of the profits. The villagers, Mrs. Gilbert, her daughters, the blacksmith, Jeb and the others—all those who desperately depended on the money they made from smuggling would suffer.

  The torches at either side of the heavy double front doors of the big house gleamed in the darkness and Emily veered around to the back. If she’d gone to the front door, Walker, most likely pacing anxiously, would have whisked her away in an instant, but she didn’t want to involve him any more than he was already. As for Flora and the others . . .

  Guilt smote her. Had she done the right thing abandoning them to her cousin’s rage when he discovered his prey had escaped him? Reminding herself that it had been for their protection that she had fled didn’t ease her conscience. Wearily, she admitted that too many people were dependent upon her to bring them to a safe harbor for her to have remained, but oh, how she would have enjoyed confronting Jeffery and telling him precisely what she thought of him—and his friend, Mr. Ainsworth.

  Thoroughly soaked, her teeth chattering, her breath coming in great gulps, Emily finally reached the trellis fastened to the wall at the rear of the house. Avoiding the thorns of the climbing rose that would be covered in fragrant pink blooms in a few months, she dragged herself up the trellis to the window from which she had exited hours ago.

  Pulling open the unlocked window, she slowly, gratefully climbed inside. As the warmth from the fire burning on the hearth hit her, she spared another thought for her companions she’d had to leave behind at The Crown, hoping her wretched cousin had not done them any harm. As she stripped out of her wet clothing, her jaw clenched. By God, if he’d hurt one of them she would run him through!

  Squire Townsend had not inflicted any damage upon the Gilbert daughters and young Sam, but the opposite was true for the determined defenders at The Crown. Faith had broken a pitcher of ale over Townsend’s head, cutting him above his right eye, and Molly, next to her in age, had been able to use the broom with great effect. The squire was going to walk with a limp for several days from the fall Molly had caused when she had stuck the broom handle between his legs, and Sam had added insult to injury by biting his calf and drawing blood. Harriet and Mary had pelted him with several, heavy pewter tankards, and by the time Townsend had staggered through their gauntlet and started up the stairs, in addition to his other wounds, he was sporting the beginnings of an impressive bruise on one cheek and his chin was bleeding.

  It was a thoroughly enraged and disheveled gentleman that charged into the room only seconds after Emily had disappeared into the wardrobe. His once-immaculate cravat was askew, his dark blue coat and formerly pristine cream-colored waistcoat were splattered with ale and blood and his chestnut curls were in disarray.

  Limping into the room, once Flora had unlocked the door, Townsend looked around wild-eyed, and seeing only Flora standing there and the dark-skinned stranger in the bed, he demanded, “Where is she? I know she is here. Emily, show yourself at once!”

  Faith and Molly were right behind Townsend and hands on her hips, Faith said, “How dare you force your way into the room of a gentleman who has just escaped death. Wait until the constable hears of this!”

  Townsend turned on his tormentors and snapped, “I think it is you, Faith, who should fear the constable.” His voice rising in outrage, he said, “You and Molly and the others attacked me! I shall bring charges against the whole parcel of you and we’ll see how you like that.”

  “I’m sure that there is some misunderstanding,” Flora said calmly. “And if my sisters ‘attacked’ you—a great exaggeration I’m sure—there was probably a good reason for it.”

  Townsend’s face purpled. “You doubt my word! May I remind you, Flora, that I am the squire and you would be wise to show me proper respect!”

  Barnaby, who had watched the scene with great appreciation, felt it was time to make his entrance and said idly, “Perhaps if you acted more like a squire instead of a brawling bully, you might garner some, ah, proper respect.”

  Townsend’s fulminating gaze swung to this new foe. “Who the hell are you?”

  With an American’s innate scorn of titles and trappings of aristocracy, Barnaby’s title hadn’t impressed him much, but he perceived in this situation a title might actually be useful. Ignoring the dizziness movement caused, he sat up in the bed and said coolly, “I am Joslyn, the, ah, Eighth Viscount Joslyn. And you are . . . ?”

  Townsend gasped and took a backward step. “Never say so!”

  Out of the corner of his eye Barnaby caught Flora’s astonished expression and his lips twitched. Behind Townsend, Faith and Molly stared at him slack-j awed and Barnaby didn’t know whether to be amused or annoyed at everyone’s reaction to a mere title. Deciding the entire situation was something out of a farce, he chose to be amused, but not with Townsend. . . .

  Mimicking Mathew’s reaction when offended (which occurred frequently in Barnaby’s company), Barnaby’s brow lifted arrogantly, and looking as if he smelled rotten fish, he said, “I would indeed say so. Who the devil are you that you dare question my identity?”

  Recovering from her shock, her eyes alight with wicked enjoyment, Flora murmured with relish, “My lord, allow me to introduce Squire Townsend to you. He lives nearby at The Birches—not far from Windmere.”

  Upon learning the gentleman’s identity, the angry flush died from Townsend’s handsome face. Despite his battered appearance, he smiled affably and with practiced grace bowed and murmured, “As Flora said, I am the local squire, Jeffery Townsend—we are neighbors. While I wish the circumstances were different, it is my pleasure to meet you, my lord.” Straightening, he added, “I do apologize most sincerely for my unseemly intrusion, but you see I am searching for my missing cousin, Emily.” He glanced around the room as if he expected Emily to suddenly appear. Turning back to Barnaby he said, “I have it on good authority that my cousin is here.”

  “You think that I am hiding her?” Barnaby asked incredulously, his mind reeling. The boy, a girl? Emily?

  Townsend didn’t know what to believe, but he was as certain as he stood here that Emily had been at The Crown tonight and that the perfidious Gilbert clan was hiding her from him. Kelsey had told him as much. There’d been no sign of Emily downstairs and well aware of the pride Mrs. Gilbert took in her best room and the respect and affection she held for Emily, this room had seemed the likeliest place Mrs. Gilbert would have put Emily. The fierce battle waged by the Gilbert vixens and that hell-brat, Sam, only confirmed his certainty that Emily was cowering in this very room.

  When he’d entered the room, Jeffery had been positive he’d find his quarry and for once have his bloody insolent cousin at a grave disadvantage. There was no plausible excuse she could offer that would explain what she was doing here at this time of night in the best room at The Crown—especially when she was supposed to be angelically sleeping in her own bed at home.

  He’d suspected she was up to something for months, but so far he had not been able to discover precisely what it was. Despite the spy he’d set on her, beyond the fact that his cousin slipped from the house on certain nights and disappeared into The Crown, he had learned nothing. Undecided whether Kelsey was simply inept or, more likely, withholding information, upon learning she had once again sneaked out of the house tonight, full o
f fuming impatience, he had determined to confront her.

  A lover had seemed the most plausible reason for her furtive trips to The Crown, but Jeffery could think of no logical reason for her to be secretive about it. The Lord knew he’d have welcomed a suitor—respectable or not. Anyone who would rid him of his aggravating cousin he would have greeted with delight.

  Finding a male abed hadn’t been such a surprise, but the identity of the man dumbfounded him and Jeffery was perplexed about the role the viscount played in tonight’s doings. Well aware, as was nearly every member of the ton, of Mathew Joslyn’s stunning reversal of fortune last spring when news of the American heir had been announced, like everyone else, Jeffery had been curious about the new viscount, but until now their paths had not crossed.

  Not for a moment did Townsend believe that the viscount was the reason for Emily’s late-night excursions: she’d been sneaking away from The Birches long before the new viscount’s arrival in Britain in October. Never one to let an opportunity to gain his own ends pass him by though, Jeffery wondered how he might be able to turn this unfortunate set of events to his own advantage.

  He shot Joslyn a speculative look. While there was no sign of Emily at the moment, he’d swear on his mother’s grave that she had been here tonight. And if, for whatever reasons, Emily had been here with the viscount, she’d be thoroughly compromised. Good God, the man was nearly naked in the bed right before him and it didn’t take much imagination to put Emily beside him. Hmmm. . . .

  Jeffery eyed the viscount again. The Joslyns were known to be very plump in the pocket, with the new viscount having the plumpest pocket of all. . . . Visions of breathtaking wealth dazzling him, he began to calculate how best to rid himself of his cousin and get his hands on some of the Joslyn gold.

  Barnaby didn’t trust the sudden gleam in Townsend’s eyes and he said, “You have barged into my room uninvited and as you can see for yourself, there is no ‘Emily’ here. I suggest you leave.”

  Ordinarily Jeffery would have done his best to ingratiate himself with the viscount, but the idea of getting his hands on some of that Joslyn gold made him bold. “I do apologize for the manner of our meeting,” Jeffery said, “but it cannot divert me from discovering the whereabouts of my cousin.” His gaze settled on the big wardrobe and his heart leaped. It was a very large wardrobe; large enough to conceal a full-grown man, let alone a baggage like Emily.

  Convinced he knew precisely where his cousin was hiding, startling everyone, in swift strides he crossed the room and flung open the doors to the wardrobe. The sight of the big empty interior with only a few quilts hanging there filled Jeffery with embarrassment and dismay.

  Flushing, Jeffery slammed the doors shut and stepped back from the wardrobe. Meeting the sardonic stare of the viscount, he muttered, “Well, she could have been hiding in there.”

  Fighting against the pounding in his head and the waves of dizziness rolling over him, Barnaby said, “Unless you are blind, it is obvious that your cousin is not here.”

  Not finding Emily in the wardrobe had been a setback, but seduced by the possibilities of engineering a union between Emily and the viscount, he pressed forward. “Perhaps not at the moment, but how do I know she wasn’t here before I entered the room?” He flashed a look of dislike at Flora. “The Gilberts certainly did their best to prevent me from seeing for myself.”

  Unable to fight the dizziness any longer, Barnaby sank back against the pillows and, closing his eyes, asked wearily, “Are you just naturally rude or are you an imbecile?”

  Dropping any pretence of politeness, Townsend snarled, “Damn it all—I know she was here! You are hiding her from me.”

  “Shame on you!” cried Flora. “His lordship is not well and here you are badgering him about Miss Emily.” Taking a step closer to him, she asked furiously, “Perhaps you would like to look under the bed? Or would you prefer to throw his lordship out of his bed and shake out his sheets?” Through clenched teeth, she said, “Miss Emily is not here.”

  Jeffery’s confidence faltered. Could Kelsey have been wrong? Had he just made a ghastly mistake? Yet instinct, and a good dose of stubbornness, told him he was right: Emily had been here. Unable to conceive a reason why Lord Joslyn would side with the Gilberts and with no sign of Emily’s presence in the room, commonsense told him a prudent man would retreat in good order.

  Jeffery looked longingly at the big bed where Joslyn lay. He would have liked to have called Flora’s bluff and looked underneath the bed, but he wasn’t that brave—especially after making a fool of himself with the wardrobe.

  Chagrined and resentful, Jeffery muttered, “I apologize, my lord. There has obviously been a mistake.”

  Barnaby opened his eyes and muttered, “Obviously.”

  The patter of feet on the stairs alerted everyone to the arrival of a newcomer and Barnaby perked up, wondering who the next player in this farce would be. A short, plump, apple-cheeked woman, wisps of salt-and-pepper hair escaping from her neat muslin cap, sailed into the room. Arms akimbo, she stopped just inside the doorway and surveyed the room. Barnaby settled back against his pillows to watch the show.

  “I step out to visit with a sick neighbor,” the newcomer said in a no-nonsense voice, “and what do I find upon my return? The main room downstairs a shambles and the lot of you dithering around up here!” Pointing a finger at the three women, she said, “Downstairs with you—I want that mess cleared up before I am much older.”

  The three women vanished as if by magic. Her bright blue gaze locked on Townsend and Barnaby almost felt sorry for him.

  “And you, Squire? What is the meaning of this? Mary and Harriet have informed me that you are the cause of the destruction I find below. What have you to say for yourself?”

  Under that unblinking gaze, Jeffery’s rumpled cravat suddenly felt as if it were choking him. “Ah, I assure you, it was all an unfortunate misunderstanding, Mrs. Gilbert,” he said lamely.

  Her brows rose. “Really? Perhaps you would like to explain it to me?”

  Reminding himself that he was the squire, he said with an edge, “I have it on good authority that Emily was here tonight. I came to discover for myself just what sort of mischief she was up to.”

  “And you think that gives you the right to lay waste to my inn and barge into a private room and disturb the gentleman who has rented it?” Mrs. Gilbert snorted. “And just what is this ‘good authority’?”

  His face reddening, Jeffery snapped, “That’s none of your business.”

  Mrs. Gilbert advanced into the room and, stopping only when her nose was inches from Townsend’s, she said, “You are mistaken. Any ‘authority’ that spreads malicious lies about dear Miss Emily and is the cause of my guests being disturbed and considerable damage done to my inn is definitely my business.”

  Eager to escape, and feeling more and more like a fool, Jeffery mumbled, “I’ll pay for the damages and I’ve already apologized to his lordship.”

  Mrs. Gilbert looked over at Barnaby and Barnaby smiled and wiggled his fingers at her. He caught the barest shadow of amusement that flashed across her face before she turned back to the squire.

  Fixing Townsend with a steely look, she said, “Very well. I shall have a bill for you tomorrow and I expect it to be paid in full.” She stepped back and said, “Now I would appreciate it if you would leave the premises before I am forced to send for the constable and lay a complaint against you.”

  Barnaby watched Jeffery struggle to control his temper in the face of this new insult. It was a near thing, but in the end, the squire nodded curtly and with as much composure as possible, bowed in Barnaby’s direction and departed—hastily.

  With Townsend gone, Mrs. Gilbert closed the door and locked it. A friendly smile on her lips, she walked over to stand beside the bed. “A lord, are we?” she asked lightly.

  “Uh, yes, I’m afraid it’s true,” Barnaby answered. A flush on his cheeks, he muttered, “Viscount Joslyn.”

  M
rs. Gilbert nodded. “Ah, yes, the American. We’d heard that someone from America had inherited the title.” She laughed. “Mr. Mathew was quite incensed, I can tell you.”

  “I’m well aware of it,” Barnaby answered dryly. “He has taken great pains to see that I know of his displeasure.”

  Mrs. Gilbert smiled. “Oh, don’t pay attention to Mr. Mathew’s hoity-toity manner. He’s a decent sort—a bit high in the instep now and then, but once he gets over his disappointment, you’ll find him a good friend.” Her lips tightened. “Unlike that chuckle-headed coxcomb that just left the room.”

  He agreed with her about the squire, but Barnaby was doubtful about her reading of his cousin. So far, Mathew hadn’t struck him as a friendly sort—quite the opposite. And he didn’t think that Mathew was going to offer him the hand of friendship anytime soon—if ever. Which bothered him not a whit. Until he’d arrived in London in October he’d never laid eyes on any of the Joslyns. In fact, he had only the haziest idea about the English branch of the family—for all he cared, the lot of them could go hang. They’d certainly done nothing to endear themselves to him. He grimaced. There was fault on his side, too; he’d let them get his back up and couldn’t deny that he’d gone out of his way to irritate them.

  Seeing his grimace, Mrs. Gilbert asked, “Are you in pain? Is there something I can do for you?”

  Barnaby shook his head, wincing when the room spun. “No,” he said, “I’m fine. Just a spot of dizziness.” He sent her a charming smile. “You and your family have already done a great deal and I am grateful for it. I owe my life to you.”

  A gust of shrieking wind slammed against the stout walls of the inn and the rain beat hard against the windows, reminding both of them of the storm that still snarled its fury outside.