Rapture Becomes Her

by Shirlee Busbee

John shook his head in amazement. “How in the hell did you know about him and that Jamieson, your head groom, sent him away with a flea in his ear?”

  “I didn’t know about that, but I did know that he was the cause of the Townsend ladies ending in the ditch,” Barnaby replied. “I overheard Miss Townsend say something to her stepmother about that ‘wretched Kelsey’ running them off the road. Since the accident occurred outside the main gate to Windmere it seemed probable that he had been here.”

  “Well, I can tell you that Kelsey showed up at the stables when I was visiting late this afternoon with Jamieson, excellent man, by the way, and was looking for a job. Jamieson already knew him—until recently, Kelsey was Squire Townsend’s head stableman. Kelsey was drunk and belligerent and not at all the sort of person you would want on your staff—even if you were looking to hire someone. Jamieson tried politely to turn him away, but Kelsey would have none of it and grew abusive.” John grinned. “The upshot was that Jamieson gave him as pretty a right uppercut as I have ever seen and after Kelsey had picked himself up off the ground, ordered him from the estate.”

  Barnaby considered the situation, wondering if he should pursue it further. No permanent harm had been done and the accident had given him a chance to spend time with Emily Townsend. . . . He’d let it go for now, he decided, but Kelsey had best not come to his attention again.

  “Do you want me to find out more about him?” John asked.

  Barnaby shook his head. “No. Let it go for now. But tell me, have you heard anything about a gang of smugglers called the Nolles gang? The leader is someone called Will Nolles.”

  Lamb nodded. “My first day here one of the footmen took far too much pleasure in telling me all about Will Nolles and his gang.” Lamb swirled his brandy around in the snifter. “I think he thought to frighten me.”

  “And did he?” Barnaby asked, grinning.

  Lamb snorted. “Hardly. But why are you interested in a gang of smugglers?”

  Barnaby hesitated. Lamb knew about his brush with death in the Channel and that the fisherman, Jeb Brown, had pulled him to safety, but nothing about Emily Townsend or the fact that he suspected that Jeb Brown and the Gilberts were smugglers. And he’d wager a pocketful of gold guineas that they were the same small gang that Thomas had alluded to tonight. He seldom kept secrets from John and he saw no reason not to tell him the whole truth.

  Pulling on his ear, Barnaby said, “Uh, there’s a bit more to my near drowning than I told you.”

  “I knew it!” Lamb exclaimed, sitting upright. “You’ve always been a bad liar and there was something . . . So what really happened?”

  Succinctly Barnaby relayed the sequence of events that had occurred that night at The Crown.

  When he finished speaking, Lamb was grinning from ear to ear. “So it’s the smuggling Amazon who caught your interest. I suspected it was more than just kindness that prompted your actions tonight.”

  “No, I am not interested in either of the Townsend ladies—except as my neighbors,” Barnaby lied, and almost swore at the knowing look Lamb slanted him. “But I owe Emily Townsend and the Gilberts a debt of gratitude,” he continued doggedly, “and if keeping them from harm at the hands of this Nolles gang helps repay some of their kindness, then I am more than willing to do it.” He grimaced. “And out of the sights of Lieutenant Deering—the young man is everything the revenue service needs most desperately—honest, dedicated and determined. I’m willing to help him in any way I can to stop the Nolles gang, but he’ll need to be guided away from the Gilbert group.”

  Lamb shrugged, but there was a mocking gleam in his eyes. “Of course,” he purred. “You are being good and noble and doing nothing more than repaying a debt. How very, very lord of the manor.”

  “Tell me what you know about the Nolles gang,” Barnaby said in a voice that even Lamb obeyed.

  His teasing air left him and frowning, Lamb said, “The footman hasn’t been the only person to mention them since I arrived at Windmere. From things I’ve overheard, it appears that several of your staff are related to them either by blood or marriage—or work with them upon occasion.” He shook his head. “Almost to the man . . . or woman, they’re on the side of the smugglers and aligned against the revenuers and custom officials.”

  Barnaby sighed. “I was afraid you were going to say that. How many of my staff have ties to the gang?”

  Lamb hesitated. “While they talk freely in general terms, I am not privy to anything specific—and upon occasion conversations come to an abrupt end when I enter the room, but I’ve come to some conclusions on my own. I think your coachman’s youngest son is part of the gang and that the cook’s daughter is married to a fellow who sometimes helps the gang move their goods. One of the scullery maids let something drop that leads me to believe that her father does the same and Mrs. Bartlett has some connection to the gang, but I don’t know what it is.”

  “But what do you know of the gang itself?” Barnaby asked, frowning.

  “Not a lot, and how much is true and how much is exaggerated to impress or intimidate the American newcomer I have no way of knowing,” he warned. When Barnaby motioned for him to continue, Lamb said, “It’s a large gang—over sixty members, if what I’ve heard is true, and Will Nolles is the leader. From being a lowly member of a fishing crew eight years ago, he has risen to be the captain of a small fishing fleet and owns the largest inn in the area, The Ram’s Head.” Lamb grimaced. “Quite the success story—and I gather that nearly every lad in the area aspires to follow in his path.”

  “And where would I find this Nolles?”

  “At The Ram’s Head—your Mrs. Gilbert’s competition.” His eyes met Barnaby’s. “There were questions about her husband’s death four or five years ago one night after he visited The Ram’s Head to object to Nolles accosting several regulars of The Crown and implying that it would be better for their health if they changed their allegiance to The Ram’s Head. It appears that anyone who opposes him comes to an unfortunate end.”

  “Nasty-sounding fellow, our Nolles,” Barnaby murmured.

  “Not someone to be trifled with if gossip is to be believed.”

  Barnaby took a long swallow of his brandy. “I think,” he said slowly, as he set the snifter down on the mantel “that I shall have to see for myself if The Ram’s Head holds as much charm for me as The Crown.”

  Not liking the expression on Barnaby’s face, Lamb said, “Did I mention that several members of the gang regularly frequent The Ram’s Head and that Nolles is seldom without a half dozen or so of his men around him?”

  Barnaby shrugged. “I doubt they’ll attack me in broad daylight in a public place.”

  “I worry less about them attacking you than I do you starting a rumpus, thinking to champion your Amazon and the Gilberts!”

  Barnaby looked innocent. “What a ridiculous notion—as if I would lower myself to such vulgar actions as brawling in a tavern! But as a member of the aristocracy,” he said, twinkling at him, “and one of the largest landholders in the district, it is my civic duty to see to it, if the gossip is true, that a nefarious fellow like Nolles doesn’t continue to flout the law.”

  “I don’t suppose I can convince you that it would be unwise to antagonize Nolles?”

  His expression bored, Barnaby examined his nails. “Antagonize? Now why would you think such a thing?”

  Lamb’s gaze narrowed. He knew that deceptively bored expression of old and knew that no matter what he said that there was no stopping Barnaby from visiting The Ram’s Head one day soon . . . and no doubt, he thought viciously, wreaking havoc in the place.

  “Christ!” Lamb swore. “At least let me accompany you.” Barnaby smiled sunnily at him. “But of course. Surely you didn’t think I was fool enough to stick my head in the lion’s den without you beside me?”

  Chapter 7

  Emily hoped she and Anne could arrive home without having to face Jeffery or Mr. Ainsworth, but fate failed her. The Joslyn coac
h hardly pulled to a stop in front of the gracious old manor house before Jeffery, braving the rain, appeared at the side of the coach and swung open the door with a flourish.

  Smiling, he glanced inside. His smile vanished when he realized that the coach held only two occupants, Emily and Anne. Peevishly he asked, “Lord Joslyn did not accompany you home?”

  “No,” replied Emily, stepping from the coach, followed by Anne. With Jeffery trailing behind them the two women hurried to the house.

  Inside, Walker, the Townsend family butler, met the two ladies and efficiently whipped away their outer clothing and directed them to the small blue sitting room, where he said, a fire and a nice pot of tea awaited them. His blue eyes amused, he murmured into Emily’s ear, “Your great-aunt is most desirous of hearing every moment of your time with Lord Joslyn.” He coughed delicately. “You know how fond she is of the family.”

  Emily choked back a laugh. “Yes, I seem to recall something to that effect.”

  Cornelia wasn’t the only person waiting for them in the blue sitting room; posed negligently against the cream marble fireplace stood Mr. Ainsworth.

  There was nothing particularly notable about Mr. Ainsworth. He was neither short nor tall, neither lean nor fat and if not precisely handsome, not unattractive. His eyes were a clear gray, his hair a soft brown and his build neither muscular nor flabby, but somewhere in between. He was in Emily’s opinion eminently forgettable and she longed for the day he was but a memory—one that never crossed her mind.

  Neatly garbed in a dark blue jacket, dove-gray pantaloons and black kid pumps, he lifted his quizzing glass and ogled the ladies as they walked into the room. When his gaze fell upon her, Emily felt as if her gown’s modest neckline fell to somewhere down around her waist and left her breasts naked. From the pink in Anne’s cheeks as her stepmother greeted Cornelia and drifted toward the tea tray in the middle of the room, she knew her stepmother had the same reaction.

  When he first arrived at The Birches, Emily and the other ladies had started out being polite to Mr. Ainsworth—he was, after all, a guest—but they soon had his measure . . . as did everyone else in the household. The majority of the inhabitants at The Birches heartily despised Mr. Ainsworth only marginally less than they did Jeffery. Once they realized they had an out-and-out rake on their hands, Emily and Cornelia saw no reason to endure Mr. Ainsworth’s offensive leers and ribald comments and wasted no time in treating him to the sharp side of their tongues. Anne, being of a more retiring nature, avoided him when she could and suffered in silence when forced into his company—which was seldom, thanks to Emily and Cornelia’s watchful eye.

  In no mood to put up with his lecherous appraisal, Emily asked with interest, “Are you aware, Mr. Ainsworth, how hideous that quizzing glass makes your eye look?” She shuddered. “The sight of that huge orb bearing down on one is enough to cause those of a delicate nature nightmares.” Smiling like a shark, she added, “Fortunately, I am not one of them, but you would be wise upon whom you bend your glass.”

  Mr. Ainsworth dropped the quizzing glass as if it scalded him and glared at her.

  “Emily!” Jeffery thundered, entering the room behind her. “Will you mind your manners? Mr. Ainsworth is a guest.”

  “Not mine,” Emily said sotto voce, walking over to sit beside Cornelia, who was taking in the scene with a smile. Patting Emily’s hand where it rested on the arm of the chair, Cornelia murmured, “That’s my gal! Don’t hold your fire.”

  Jeffery’s face darkened and he took a threatening step forward, only to be brought up short when Anne thrust a cup and saucer at him. “Tea?” she asked brightly.

  Jeffery fought to recover his equanimity. Except to Ainsworth, he’d never mentioned his unfortunate meeting with Lord Joslyn that night at The Crown and hoping to redeem himself, he’d been elated when he learned that Lord Joslyn had rescued Emily and Anne. He’d been certain that the viscount would accompany the ladies home, and he’d looked forward to the opportunity to show himself in a more flattering guise . . . and the privilege of being the first in the neighborhood to entertain his lordship. That his lordship had not escorted the ladies home had been a blow, and now his accursed cousin was behaving to his guest with her usual disregard for anything remotely resembling civility. By God, if he didn’t break her neck one of these days it would be a miracle. Breathing heavily through his nose, he brushed aside the cup and saucer and muttered, “No, thank you. I am in no mood for tea.”

  Anne hid a smile and turned away, sitting near the other two women. Looking at Cornelia, she asked, “May I get you something? Some tea? Or would you like a few of those lovely lemon biscuits Mrs. Spalding baked for us?”

  Cornelia waved away the offer of refreshment and glancing expectantly from Anne to Emily demanded, “Well? Now that you have had an opportunity to spend some time in his company, what do you think of the newest Lord Joslyn?” She shook a finger at them. “And don’t be coy.”

  “Oh, for heaven’s sake,” Jeffery burst out as he poured himself some port from the same tray that held the tea things. “I’m sick of the way all the ladies in the neighborhood are in a titter over Lord Joslyn.” He sniffed. “Believe me, he’s merely a man like any other. To listen to you tabbies, you’d think the fellow walked on water.”

  “I seem to recall that you strutted around here, all cock-a-whoop over the notion that he would escort Emily and Anne home tonight,” Cornelia observed. “One might have been mistaken in believing that you were most anxious to meet him yourself.”

  Jeffery ignored her jab and took a swallow of his port, imagining the expression on the old harridan’s face when he made his announcement. Looking superior he declared, “I have met him.”

  Since the three ladies had been privy to a blow-by-blow description of that meeting from Flora some time ago, they were to be congratulated on their expressions of surprise.

  After a moment’s pause, while Jeffery congratulated himself on the effect of his announcement, Cornelia demanded with just the correct amount of amazement in her voice, “And you’ve never said anything before now?”

  “Oh, my,” said Anne, her eyes very big and innocent, “how very exciting! When did you meet him?”

  “Yes,” murmured Emily, her skepticism striking the right note, “tell us when you met him.” She took a sip of her tea. Looking over the rim of her cup, she asked, “Was it recent? Why have you not told anyone?”

  Ainsworth cleared his throat and murmured, “He mentioned it to me a few weeks ago.”

  Cornelia favored him with a glance that made him step back before returning her attention to Jeffery. “Please do tell us about your meeting with him,” urged Cornelia. She fluttered her lashes and came as close to simpering as she dared. “You know how much we will appreciate hearing a gentleman’s impression of him.”

  Jeffery shot her a suspicious look, but Cornelia kept her face perfectly composed. Airily, Jeffery said, “I met him a fortnight or so ago, while he was staying at The Crown.”

  Emily frowned. “But wasn’t he ill when he was staying there? Surely, I remember Mrs. Gilbert saying something about the poor man being so sick he never left his room.” Appearing as if something had occurred to her, she looked at him askance. “Oh, Jeffery, do not tell me,” she protested, “that you were so determined to be the first to meet him that you forced yourself upon him while he was ill.”

  “I didn’t force myself upon him,” he replied through gritted teeth. Resentment scorched his breast. This was all her fault! If she’d been in her bedroom where she was supposed to have been when he checked that night, he wouldn’t have had a damned uncomfortable ride through the storm to The Crown in search of her and burst into Lord Joslyn’s private room. Wishing he’d never brought up the subject, Jeffery complained, “The fellow didn’t impress me much and I do not understand why everyone is so eager to make his acquaintance.”

  “Then you’re a bigger fool than you look,” Cornelia said tartly. “Good gad, man! Use your
head.” Ticking the points off on her bony fingers, she said, “He’s not married. He has an old and notable title. He’s wealthy. He owns one of the largest, grandest estates in the area. No wonder every marriageable woman or those with marriageable daughters are dying to meet him.” She smiled at Emily and Anne. “And just think our darlings have beaten them all to the march.”

  Emily and Anne looked at each other and then at Cornelia. “Uh, you’re not suggesting that one of us would . . .” Emily began uneasily.

  “Would make him a suitable bride?” asked Cornelia. Liking the trend of the conversation, Jeffery perked up. If he could marry Anne off to Ainsworth and Emily to Lord Joslyn . . . He almost crowed aloud in delight. The Birches would be his without the pesky presence of these wretched females. Even Cornelia would be gone—she would go live with either Emily or Anne or . . . or, he thought viciously, she’d suffer a fatal fall down the main staircase if he had to push her himself.

  “Excellent idea!” Jeffery said. Smiling benignly at Emily, he said, “You’d make an outstanding viscountess, my dear—and just think how proud such an honor would have made your father.”

  Emily glowered at him. She knew precisely what he was thinking—force Anne into marriage with Ainsworth and then, somehow engineer her own marriage to Lord Joslyn. Remembering her reaction to Lord Joslyn when he had entered the morning room at Windmere, an odd sensation rippled through her at the idea of being married to him. It wasn’t an unpleasant sensation, but neither was it pleasant. Mostly, she decided, it was unsettling . . . and perhaps, just a trifle exciting?

  Ignoring the flutter in her stomach, Emily said, “What utter nonsense! I wish Lord Joslyn well in the marriage stakes, but I am not in the running!”

  Standing up, she shook her gown and remarked, “And now, if no one minds, I am for bed. It has been a long and tiring day.”

  “Indeed it has,” agreed Anne, rising gracefully to her feet, following Emily’s lead. She smiled at the gentlemen. “The hour is late and I’m sure you gentlemen understand.”