When his mount stopped prancing in place, Roman dismounted and pulled the child up with one arm, holding tight to the reins in the other. The boy would be safer in his grasp than on the ground, at any rate.
A small, pudgy hand came up and patted Roman on the cheek. “Pretty horsey,” the boy cooed with a grin as wide as the Channel.
At almost the same instant, a screeching woman flew from the house. “Finn! Stay right there.” The guilty nurse, it would seem. She stopped abruptly, nearly falling over at the top of the steps from the suddenness of her halt.
The harridan would have to be dealt with. Roman prepared himself to give her a stern talking to for neglecting her charge so badly when all hell broke loose around him.
“Give me back my—the boy,” the haughty little pixie demanded of him. She planted her hands on her hips and stared up at him with a fear-tinged, green-eyed glare as she pressed forward again, coming ever closer to him and not stopping until they stood toe-to-toe. While any number of things might have been the cause of her fear, Roman had a strong suspicion he was the primary culprit. Damnation. This sort of distraction was not in his plans.
The top of her head didn’t even reach his shoulders and her mahogany curls had come free from their confines, cascading in waves nearly to her waist. Her gown was some pink shade, matching the wind-swept hue of her cheeks to perfection. The dress was not made of the serviceable gray worsted one would expect of a nurse, though. How odd.
And then another woman—a larger, older version of the beauty, wearing a yellow redingote—darted out the front door of the cottage, screaming like a banshee and rushing straight for him. Three female servants (in the expected gray, he noted) dashed out behind her.
“Stop, my lady!” one of them called, with no small hint of desperation in her tone. “Oh, gracious heavens, I’m so sorry, Miss Bethanne.” The servant caught sight of Roman, and her eyes bulged. She quickly corrected herself. “Miss Shelton, that is.”
But the woman in yellow didn’t stop. In fact, she would have trampled him if Roman had not planted his Hessians deep into the earth and held firm, keeping the boy held aloft to prevent injury. He dropped the horse’s reins and helped set her to rights when she ran straight into his side.
“Oh, thank goodness. They’ve kidnapped me, sir,” she panted. “You simply must help me.” She nestled herself beneath his arm and had the look of a woman who never intended to budge.
Kidnapped? Surely, the ladies before him might be a bit negligent when it came to the boy’s care, but they hardly looked like a band of miscreants.
The sprite in pink closed her eyes and took a breath before resolutely looking up at him. “My aunt is addled, sir. Her mind is not what it once was. Kindly release her and hand over the boy. The servants and I can manage things from here. Then you can be on your way again.” She even dared to wave her hands at him in a shooing motion, complete with an arch of her dainty eyebrow.
Could she truly think to do away with him as easily as that when considering her so-called aunt’s accusation? “Am I to understand you’ll handle them in the same manner in which you’ve handled everything else to this point?” Roman asked dryly. Perhaps she was the addled one of the bunch.
Or on second thought, maybe the term could apply to the lot of them. They did all seem a bit shifty-eyed.
“I’m not her aunt, sir,” the woman grasping him around the waist whimpered. “I have never seen her before in my life. Not any of them.” She looked up at him and her eyes were wild, but surely the very same shade of green as those of the younger woman. For that matter, she had the same pert nose and the same heart-shaped face. “Will you take me to my brother? The Earl of Newcastle. He will protect me.”
As much as Roman would prefer to simply leave them all to sort it out on their own, to get away from the pandemonium which held these women in its grips, Roman couldn’t turn his back and walk away for some godforsaken reason. Was he cursed to always live a life surrounded by turmoil? If not war, then a tumultuous band of women?
“Why don’t we go inside and discuss what is to be done?” Roman didn’t wait for their answer. He’d made his decision.
Keeping the boy in his arms and a firm grip on the lady at his side, he clicked his tongue for the horse to follow him and headed for the open gate, only to stop short. The gate wasn’t simply open; instead, a series of missing pickets had left a gap, some of the broken posts lying on the ground.
How had the men responsible for these women allowed such a state of disrepair? Yet another thing for Roman to discern during their discussion.
He pressed on toward the house, ignoring the outraged gasp he could only imagine came from the petite vision in pink. “Why, I never,” she muttered. Definitely the lady, not one of her servants. He’d recognize the tinkling, melodic character of her voice anywhere, even though he’d only heard her speak a time or two.
When he reached the house, Roman tied the horse’s reins around a column and let himself inside. He held the door open for the parade of ladies tromping in behind him. The gray-clad servants looked up at him with varied degrees of apprehension blanketing their expressions as they passed by. When the lady in pink entered, she took the door from his grasp and shut it with more force than necessary. The click of the lock sounded in the confined space.
Surely it was to keep the aunt from another escape, and not to keep him confined. He had no doubt she’d be glad to see the backside of him, and sooner rather than later.
She spun around and crossed her arms over her chest—a defensive tactic if ever he’d seen one. “Just who do you think you are?” Despite the obvious fear still tinting her visage, she advanced upon him. Roman had to admit, she had a great deal of pluck. “Hand over the boy this instant, and then be off with you.”
Roman did not take orders from anyone but his commanding officers. Occasionally his father. But certainly not from some tiny little slip of a woman who couldn’t manage her family and servants.
“Care to direct me to your sitting room?” he asked.
She didn’t answer other than to frown at him. Nor did any of her servants. Very well. Roman could find it without their assistance. It was a small house and they had all been designed in relatively the same manner, in his experience.
He tucked the older lady’s devilishly cold hand into his arm and led her along with him, scanning the open doorways of the hall. No need to go far. The first door on the left led to a cozy, little parlor in blue with a blazing fire in the hearth. Roman let himself inside, guiding the older woman along and situating her on a settee. He turned and lifted an eyebrow, waiting for the remaining women to join them.
They stared baldly back at him, the oldest servant with her jaw hanging agape.
Roman didn’t budge. They would cooperate eventually. He had no qualms that he was far more intractable than any of them could be. Indeed, he was likely thrice as stalwart as the four of them combined.
Several moments passed in silence before finally the youngest servant—the cook, given the flour dusting her gown and making her hair more mousy than it needed to be—moved hastily inside the room. “Let’s cooperate so he can be on his way, Miss Shelton.” The other servants followed her inside.
Eventually, the lady came along as well. She took a seat on the sofa across from him, and her servants took up positions to flank her. When she crossed her feet at the ankles and folded her hands neatly in her lap, the three servants did likewise. They looked to be four mismatched replicas of one another.
Finally, Roman set the boy down. The toddler immediately rushed over to the women. “Mama!” he fairly shouted as he climbed up to Miss Shelton’s lap. “Pretty horsey.”
Mama? She was hardly larger than a child herself. How could she possibly have borne a child? And if the boy was hers, where was her husband and why hadn’t he bloody well mended the fence? But the servants had called her miss. Not missus.
Such a befuddling situation. One he’d be damned if he didn’t get
to the end of, as soon as possible.
Miss Shelton shushed the child and set him between herself and the cook. Then she yet again arched an eyebrow in Roman’s direction, as though daring him to question her about the child.
Roman forced the rampant conjecturing from his head and stood straight, placing his hands behind his back. He had not come to Derbyshire to sort out the chaotic lives of these women. He was here to take over the stewardship of his father’s estate. He was here because he had no business being in polite society. He was a danger, and not only to himself. He couldn’t allow anything to get in the way of remembering that truth.
“Miss Shelton, is it?” At her curt nod, Roman continued. “I am Major—I am Lord Roman Sullivan, one of Lord Herringdon’s sons. I assume you know of His Lordship?” He waited for her gesture of confirmation. “Excellent. So now we are introduced. And your aunt?” He saw no point in denying the obvious familial link between them. In her younger years, the aunt must have looked very similar to Miss Shelton, apart from being significantly taller.
“Lady Rosaline Shelton. She is Lord Newcastle’s sister, however he is at his home in Cumberland. Certainly not anywhere close by where he can be quickly summoned.”
The aunt was a spinster, then. “And Newcastle is your father?”
“An uncle, my lord.”
Terse answers. In a way, he appreciated that. Roman despised effusive language when something brief and to the point would do much better. She gave him nothing more than specifically what he asked.
“Who has he left here to look after you both?” Roman couldn’t imagine any gentleman leaving his spinster sister with no one but this slip of a girl and a handful of servants to see to her needs, particularly not when the sister in question seemed to be in such a decline of mental capacity. It was absurd. There didn’t even appear to be a single manservant on the property. Who would protect them should something occur?
The pixie narrowed her eyes at him. “I look after us, not that it is any of your business, my lord. And on that note, I must bid you good day.” She stood, brushed her hands over the skirts of her gown, and gestured for him to exit the parlor before her.
“But I—”
Miss Shelton gave him a stern look. “Have a lovely afternoon.” When he didn’t budge, she marched out into the corridor to the front door, unlocked it, and held it open for him with a wave of her arm.
Dumbstruck, Roman crossed the room. He’d never been so summarily dismissed other than by Wellington, himself. And that had been an occasion which he’d attempted to forget with no luck. He turned and bowed to the ladies in the room, then inclined his head to Miss Shelton. Then he left, with a burning curiosity about this odd woman and her band of merry servants…and the child. The young woman made her way back to her seat as he strode from the parlor.
“Lord Roman?”
He stopped and turned.
Lady Rosaline Shelton stood before him, tears shimmering in her fretful eyes. “Are you…? Are you going to leave me here with them?”
Such a sad state of affairs. In this moment, as with so many others, he hated himself. With a sigh, he said, “You have my word as a gentleman, no harm will come to you.”
“But they’ve kidnapped me, sir!” Her lower lip quivered, threatening a waterfall of tears within moments. In the background Miss Shelton tensed but kept her seat. Lady Rosaline moved closer to him and reached out, taking one of his hands in both of hers. “Please, sir. You cannot leave me like this.”
“Alas, I can’t take you with me, either. I could not do such a thing to your reputation, my lady.” Not to mention he couldn’t put her in such danger.
“But…will you return?”
He glanced out the door at the pink and orange streaks in the sky. During daylight. That was a possibility. But certainly not now. Roman nodded. “I will return.”
“Every day?” Lady Rosaline squeezed his hand expectantly. “You must join me for tea.”
Teatime would be acceptable. He shouldn’t be a danger to anyone at that hour. Again, he nodded. “As long as you should like.”
With that, she released his hands. He backed up a few paces. As he turned to go through the door, Miss Shelton’s panicked gaze caught him and held. Roman shook it off and kept going. He’d be damned if he denied Miss Shelton’s aunt such a simple request.
After releasing his mount, he climbed into the saddle and continued down the road. He gave a cursory pat over his chest. The small, glass bottle remained in his pocket, intact and unscathed. That helped him to breathe again, at least for a moment.
But then the image of a pixie in pink glaring haughtily up at him assaulted his thoughts. Roman couldn’t let this Miss Shelton take over his mind. He had far more important matters demanding his focus.
One thing he had promised himself when he sold his commission was that he would somehow discover a life with no complications. No disorder.
Miss Shelton was nothing but disorder.
Bethanne drew Aunt Rosaline’s chaise to a stop near the town’s general mews. After leaving it with a groom, she hurried on her way with the list Joyce had prepared. The time had arrived to procure supplies for the next fortnight. She wanted to do her shopping as quickly as possible. If she could be swift about it, maybe nothing untoward would happen and she could return home relatively unscathed.
Hers was a task she would never ask or expect one of the servants to perform. Not any longer, at least. Apart from remaining in their posts after Finn’s arrival, which was more than enough to leave them outcasts like her, they had done nothing to invite the scorn of the townsfolk. Certainly not in the way Bethanne had done. Ever since public opinion of her had begun to change, the entire staff had been painted in the same bold strokes as she.
She’d managed to send Inwood on his way with her blessing only because his mother had taken ill. The manservant had always been loyal to a fault. It had been next to impossible to convince him to leave them, even with all the innuendo and dark clouds hanging over the inhabitants of the cottage. Alas, Bethanne hadn’t convinced any of the other servants to follow in his footsteps. At least not yet. She hadn’t given up on the possibility, even though it would make her life more complicated.
Why, even Lord Roman Sullivan, the newest resident in town, must think the entire bunch of them were all a bit senile like Aunt Rosaline. Soon enough, he would see what the rest of the community saw. Soon enough, he would regret even the small association he had made with them. Or to be more exact, with her.
Surely Lord Herringdon would insist his son extricate himself from her clutches if he learned of their brief involvement, no matter how limited it may have been. His Lordship would assume, as would the whole of Hassop’s inhabitants, that Bethanne had initiated the contact—that she had pushed her attentions upon Lord Roman. No peer would desire even the whisper of an attachment between his own family and that woman of loose virtue, Bethanne Shelton, despite the fact that her virtue was anything but loose, should one actually know her.
Not that she wanted any such attachment. Nor could she allow it.
Lord Roman Sullivan was nothing but a boorish oaf. She would wager he’d spent his entire life being obeyed without question, if his behavior at the cottage had been a true indication. He’d waltzed into the house—Aunt Rosaline’s house, no less—as though it was his right. As though he owned the place and could do as he wished.
Was it not enough that he towered over Bethanne and was imposing enough to frighten a lion? And what made him think he had any right to demand anything of her or the servants? He was an uninvited guest in her home, as welcome as the plague, and yet he thought to order them about and insist she answer his intrusive line of questions.
Granted, he was an inordinately handsome uninvited guest. Lord Roman’s dark hair was peppered with gray here and there, but that hardly detracted from his appearance. Rather, he held a distinguished air—an air almost eradicated by the hard, steely glint in his eyes and the obstinate set to his
square jaw. This was a man accustomed to using his great size to intimidate.
Such a task was not difficult to achieve with Bethanne.
Standing around and thinking of the arresting man and his menacing presence would not help her to accomplish her errands for the day, however. She shoved the image of him aside and refocused on the chore she’d assigned herself.
Starting at the linen-drapers seemed the best plan of action, and then she could work her way around to the haberdashery, before cutting across the street to the butcher, and making a final stop at the grocer.
Finn was growing as fast as a weed, of late. He’d outgrown all of his clothing. At this rate, he might be in short pants before she could blink. On top of that, some of Joyce and Mrs. Wyatt’s clothing were growing ever more threadbare. They hadn’t said anything, but she couldn’t allow such a thing to continue, particularly with the harshness of winter still to descend upon them.
Tucking her reticule under her arm, she turned from the main road and stepped inside Mr. Kendal’s establishment. The shop assistant looked up at her entrance and his eyes narrowed. Without calling out a greeting, he slipped through a doorway and disappeared. She did her best to ignore the man’s behavior and went about her business, selecting several lengths of warm gray worsted for Joyce and Mrs. Wyatt, and some wool and cottons for Finn.
The bell over the door tinkled as it opened, and another shopper came into the store. After a cursory look around, Mrs. Gaffee cast a subjugating eye in Bethanne’s direction.
The assistant rushed back into the main room and straight to the side of the magistrate’s wife. “How can I assist you today, madam?” he asked. The man then proceeded to follow Mrs. Gaffee around the shop, carrying her purchases for her as made her selections.
Bethanne brushed the slight aside. Such behavior was hardly unexpected. She’d experienced that and worse over the last two years.
A new pattern of striped muslin in the corner caught her eye, blending rich blues and greens with gold threads. It would make a lovely dress for Aunt Rosaline, though the weather would be far too cold to wear something so frivolous for quite some time. Still, the bold colors might brighten Aunt Rosaline’s outlook someday. Besides, if Bethanne waited until spring, she could miss her opportunity to make the purchase.
The Old Maids' Club 02 - Pariah Page 2