As though she might want to stay.
Odd, how that notion made his chest tighten in hope. She was meddlesome and annoying and refused to consider even the most reasonable of offers. So why should he want such a thing? Everything would be so much easier if she just agreed to sell him the property and returned to London. But seeing her here waiting on afternoon tea made him wonder if she might consider a future here in Lizard Bay. And not only that, a real future, where she was as much a participant in the saving of Heathmore as she was an observer.
To achieve that, he needed to show her the property’s secrets. And he couldn’t do that until she trusted him.
She spared him a quick glance as he stepped toward her, then swung her attention back to the postmaster. “Mr. Bentley,” she said, offering the man a dazzling smile, “I’ve been meaning to ask, do you remember mailing a package for my aunt after she died?”
“Eh?” the postmaster asked, cupping a hand around one gnarled ear.
“A package?” She tried again, gesturing with one hand while balancing the cat in the other. “About the size of a stack of books?”
Bentley looked perplexed. “Hooks, did you say? Might try down at the wharf.”
“No, books.” Her face began to turn red. “They were wrapped in brown paper.”
“Town hater?”
“No, brown. Paper.”
Thomas stepped closer, trying unsuccessfully to temper his grin. “Old Bentley’s hearing has about given up the ghost.” He lowered his satchel down on a nearby table. “He can usually muddle along with a little help, but I suspect it is your accent that has him flummoxed. Your words have too much London polish to them. I could help translate, if you like.”
She turned to face him, her face growing redder still. “Speaking of ghosts . . .” She sat the calico cat down on the floor. It stared balefully up at her, as though there was nowhere in the world it would rather be than in her arms. It was uncomfortable for Thomas to realize he knew how the cat felt. “I’ve spoken to everyone in town, and it seems you’ve achieved your goal, Lord Branston. No one in Lizard Bay is willing to help me, on account of Heathmore’s reputed ghost.”
“I did not start that rumor. And as I’ve repeatedly explained, I am willing to help you.”
She lifted her hand to scratch her neck. “I’d rather pluck out my eyelashes than accept your help, thank you very much.”
Thomas nodded sagely. “There once was a girl without lashes . . .”
Old Bentley stirred to life, as though he had finally latched onto something his hearing could understand. “Lashes?” He glanced between them, his rheumy eyes wide with interest. “Surely you don’t mean to flog the girl, Branston.”
Thomas burst out laughing, then pulled the small tin he’d brought out of his pocket. He held it out to her, flat against his palm. “Who was always covered in rashes.”
“My rash is better now, thank you very much,” she protested. And then promptly scratched at her collar again.
He shook his head in mock disappointment. “She was known to sometimes lie . . .”
“Lord Branston, you are the one who is spreading lies—”
“And we hope she won’t die . . .”
Her eyes narrowed. “You said poison ivy wasn’t dangerous!”
“But she’ll regret it if she won’t use his mashes.”
“That doesn’t even make sense.” She pursed her lips. “Or sound grammatically correct.”
“I was reaching for that last bit, I’ll admit.” Seeing that she was determined to be stubborn, he took the lid off the tin and held it out again. “I’ve brought you some mashed goldenseal. Hydrastis canadensis. American natives use it for a variety of medicinal purposes.”
“More poisonous plants from America?” She made no move to take it. “I think not.”
“It’s not poisonous.” He dipped a finger in the mixture and rubbed some on his own wrist. “See? Some people even drink extracts made from it.”
“Where did you get it?” She put her hands on her hips. “Mr. Jamieson said all special orders had to be brought from Marston.”
Mrs. Wilkins chose that moment to bustle in carrying a tea tray, the china cups rattling with each step. But Thomas was too locked on this brewing confrontation of wills to turn and offer the kindly woman a proper greeting. “And how would you know that if you didn’t ask him for a salve you claim to not need?” he asked archly. When Lucy glowered at him, he chuckled. “You simply can’t admit I might be right, can you? There was a reason why I asked the coach driver to stop in Marston. Lizard Bay has little by way of sophisticated comforts. Fortunately, I keep a small greenhouse. This is from my personal collection of plants.”
“No, thank you.” But her protest sounded weaker.
He held out his palm farther. “You’ll feel better,” he coaxed.
“I’ll feel better knowing I haven’t accepted your help.”
He laughed out loud at that, though her comment also had him shaking his head. “Christ, but you are stubborn. I can’t help but question whether I’m going about it all wrong, trying to charm you into compliance.”
Her chin lifted. “So you do admit you are trying to charm me.”
That gave him pause. No, he hadn’t been trying to purposefully charm her. Something in their exchanges just brought it out of him, until he was knee-deep in an ill-advised flirtation, trying whatever he could to make her laugh. He knew it wasn’t logical. He knew it wasn’t advisable. But that didn’t mean he could be diverted from the path.
“If I am, it seems I am failing miserably.” He stepped closer. “I wonder . . .” he murmured, “if I am going about it all wrong, offering my help, waiting for you to come around. What might a dare do, I wonder, instead of another tedious offer of help?”
Old Bentley, who was still standing beside them, began to laugh, his cackle echoing through the room. “You want to ride the mare?”
Thomas shook his head, not taking his eyes off Lucy. “No, Mr. Bentley, a ‘dare.’ ”
“Looks like more of a filly to me.” Bentley slapped a hand on his thigh, and then began to shuffle toward the tea service. “Young people these days,” he wheezed, shaking his head in high humor. “Never know what they are going to say.”
From the Diary of Edith Lucille Westmore
February 10, 1823
I find myself spending more and more time in Lizard Bay. It seems as though I have finally begun to earn the respect of the town. They have even invited me to join the town council . . . the only vote against my participation came from Reverend Wellsbury (oh, the shock of it!), who claimed it went against the natural order of things to have a woman involved in politics. Of course, Mrs. Wilkins is a member of the town council, so that argument scarcely holds water.
It seems the man has still not forgiven me for the Pudding Incident.
Or does it stem, perhaps, from the Boxing Day Debacle?
He accused me quite publicly of being a troublemaker, the sort of spinster who preys on innocent men and spends her nights plotting their demise. Innocent—ha! I was halfway tempted to flash my red ribbon at him. Whatever the source of this odd, simmering feud between us, one would think a vicar could find his way to forgiveness, but apparently the man holds an everlasting grudge. Fortunately, he was overruled by Mr. Bentley, though one has to wonder if that is because the postmaster didn’t properly hear the question.
As the newest member of the Lizard Bay town council, I vow I shall do my best to improve the lives of the people who live here. And if I stay up at night thinking of ways to annoy Reverend Wellsbury, that’s nobody’s business but my own.
Chapter 14
Despite the rush of heat in her cheeks at old Bentley’s words, Lucy found herself tempted. By the salve, by the offer of help . . .
But most of all, by Lord Branston.
Thomas. Her mouth might be insisting on using given names, but her thoughts were less circumspect. Despite her resolve to keep him at an arm’s dist
ance, he had burrowed his way beneath her skin like poison ivy, with his offers of help and his reasonable, practical gifts.
She glanced around the room, at the other town citizens who had all—to a one—refused to help her reach Heathmore. Well, except for Reverend Wellsbury. She’d not asked him. In fact, she’d roundly avoided him, turning in the complete opposite direction when he tried to engage her on the street earlier in the day. She felt no need to speak with him—after all, she rather knew where the vicar stood on the matter of spinsters living alone on cliffs, didn’t she?
She glanced back at Lord Branston, who was still standing with the tin in his palm, that familiar, crooked grin on his face. She needed to remember what was at stake. It didn’t matter that his smile made her pulse thrum in her veins, or that he alone in this room was offering to help her. She needed to remind herself that this man was very likely the cause of the delay she was experiencing, with his carefully placed rumors of ghosts and the like. She knew next to nothing about him, how he spent his days. He might have taken a few orphans under his wing and he might possess a smile to melt hearts, but that didn’t make a man trustworthy.
Take his satchel, for instance. This morning it had looked empty, but now it was sitting on a side table, bulging with interesting shapes. That went against everything she knew and expected of someone in his position. He was a marquess, not a schoolmaster. He was either supposed to be staid and quiet, sitting in a desk chair, shuffling through papers, or young and salacious, stumbling out of gaming hells with a whore on each arm.
He defied categorization. She couldn’t—shouldn’t—trust him.
Even if she was more than halfway toward wanting to.
Mrs. Wilkins clapped her hands. “Let’s take our seats, if you please!”
Lucy moved toward the nearest chair, grateful for an excuse to put some distance between her thoughts and the man. Slowly, the gentlemen took their seats, sauntering or shuffling as age and spirit dictated.
Lord Branston, of course, was the lone saunterer.
And chose the seat closest to hers.
Lucy breathed in, praying for patience. Unfortunately, the breath only ensured that she inhaled the unique scent that seemed to cling to him and always sent her head—and her heart—spinning. As Mrs. Wilkins began to fiddle with the delicate china cups on the tray, he leaned toward her, making her squirm in anticipation. “At the risk of unsheathing your claws, why are you here this afternoon anyway?” His gaze lingered overlong. “I imagined you would still be beating the bushes, trying to find someone to take you to Heathmore.”
“Mrs. Wilkins told me the town would discuss a memorial for my aunt today,” she said, reaching for a believable half-truth. “It seemed appropriate to be a part of that conversation.” She hesitated. “I will resume my efforts to reach Heathmore when tea is over.”
“You might let me guide you there, you know. I promise I only want to see you safely delivered there and back. Your aunt would have wanted me to help you.”
“I regretfully must decline.” She shook her head but allowed a smile to bloom. “As we’ve already established, I need my eyelashes, Lord Branston.”
His sudden bark of laughter made her insides stir pleasantly. It made her want to bask a moment in the warmth of his obvious pleasure, which was an odd thing to think about someone she was supposed to dislike. Unfortunately, one of the cats milling about her feet had other ideas for basking. It jumped in her lap just as Mrs. Wilkins handed her a full cup of tea.
“They seem to be multiplying,” she groaned, trying to balance the cup over the animal’s back. And was it her imagination, or was another one trying to sharpen its claws on her stockings?
Her words earned another bark of laughter from Lord Branston. “Yes, cats tend to do that.”
“Then why does the town let them mix?” she asked, jiggling her thighs until the cat finally jumped off, sulking its way to steadier accommodations. She looked up to realize everyone was staring at her, from Mrs. Wilkins to the postmaster.
“Did she say tricks?” Bentley asked.
Mrs. Wilkins eyed her with curiosity. “What would you suggest we do, Miss L?”
“Well, it’s not that different than London Society.” Lucy gestured to two cats on the floor, one clearly male, the other clearly not. “Why not separate the sexes? Or keep them tightly chaperoned? Females indoors, males outside. They’d cause less trouble that way and I suspect you’d have far less litters of kittens.”
“Did she say sex?” Bentley asked, cupping an interested hand to his ear.
“No, sexes, Bentley, sexes. Plural.” Mrs. Wilkins tapped a finger to her lips. “That sounds just like one of the ideas Miss E was always coming up with, dear. She had a brilliant head for seeing the solution to a problem.”
Lucy flushed. “Well, it just seems logical.”
“It won’t work, though,” Lord Branston interjected mildly.
Lucy glared at him. “Why not? Believe you me, the archaic system of keeping a female cloistered until a mate is chosen for them is an age-old process. Invented by aristocratic males, no less.”
He shook his head. “Males and females intent on mischief will always find their way to trouble. They’ll sneak through windows, dart through doors. Anything to get to where their instincts take them.”
“And how would you know that?” she challenged. “Do you like to sneak through windows yourself, Lord Branston?”
He smiled, and bugger it all, it was that lazy slide of a smile that sent her insides stirring and her determination to remain unaffected crumbling to dust. “No,” he drawled. “But I recall that you do.”
Lucy squirmed in her seat, wishing she’d never told him such a thing. Then again, he’d coaxed a good deal of intimate conversation from her that day on the train. Disconcerted, she looked around at the little ragtag group seated in a circle around the tea table. The current topic was far too close to real life for comfort. And that meant a change in topic was needed.
“Well, besides Lizard Bay’s problem with multiplying cats, what do you usually talk about during afternoon tea?” she asked the small group with forced brightness. “Two o’clock is a bit earlier than we take tea in London.”
“We take tea early because we are sometimes here for several hours,” Mrs. Wilkins told her, passing a cup to Mr. Jamieson.
Lucy’s fingers tightened around the handle of her cup. “I beg your pardon?”
Branston leaned toward her. “Friday tea is where the serious business of the town is discussed.” He gestured toward the postmaster. “Mr. Bentley is the mayor, but as you can see, his hearing makes things difficult, so Mr. Jamieson serves as his deputy. On the fourth Friday of each month, they serve together as justice of the peace for the parish. Those days usually run even longer. Last month we heard a case about stolen chickens, and the session went three hours past supper.”
Lucy blinked at them. Chickens? Supper? “Which Friday of the month is today?” she asked weakly.
Branston smirked. “It’s the fourth. We’ll be here for several hours at least.”
Lucy set her cup firmly down on the side table. “Oh, for the love of God.”
“Did she say she loves cod?” Bentley asked, perking up.
“No, God.” Old Jamieson’s whiskers quivered with amusement,
“It is only . . . I mean . . . I had hoped to reach Heathmore Cottage today.” She bit her lip, thinking of the two days she had already lost trying to be sensible about it and find herself a guide. Surely by now her father had reached Salisbury.
And that meant she was running out of time.
“Can we not make this go a little faster?” Lucy looked around, panic making her bold. “Or pick a different day to hear cases?”
“Impossible.” Reverend Wellsbury shook his head. “Any change of date requires a majority vote and two weeks notice.” He frowned. “We’ve established the rules for good reason. Miss E was always trying to thwart them, too.”
Lucy glar
ed at the vicar. No wonder Aunt E didn’t like the man. He appeared close to seventy, with thick gray hair and a perpetually downturned mouth. She supposed he might have once been handsome, but all she could see when she looked at him were the damning words in her aunt’s diary. She forced herself to smile, feeling anything but charming. “Perhaps that is because the rules are stupid, Reverend Wellsbury.”
Jamieson’s sides began to shake with suppressed laughter. “Oh, ho! What a spitfire! It’s just like Miss E was back, isn’t it?” And then they were all dissolving into chuckles—even the vicar—the memory of Miss E alive and well in the small room.
When their amusement finally died down, the vicar turned to Mrs. Wilkins. “Well, rules or no, I think we ought to spend a little time having a serious discussion,” he said, accepting the cup the woman handed him.
“Are you referring to Miss E’s memorial?” Mrs. Wilkins poured another cup. “I was thinking a rosebush, planted in the center of town.”
“My aunt hated roses,” Lucy interjected.
“She did?” Mrs. Wilkins looked at her, perplexed. “But how would you know that? I thought you said you scarcely knew your aunt.”
Lucy spared a glance at Mr. Bentley, who looked blissfully unaware of the conversation, bless his poor, addled ears. It seemed like this was a secret Aunt E had taken to her grave. “Er . . . she . . . ah . . . wrote of her preferences. In her annual Christmas card,” Lucy improvised.
But Reverend Wellsbury shook his head. “There will be time enough to discuss a fitting tribute later. I mean, we should talk about the town’s future.”
“How can we talk about the town’s future now that Miss E is gone?” Jamieson asked balefully. “She was the one who had all the grand ideas.” He looked down at his hands. “It doesn’t seem the same without her here.”
“I know, Mr. Jamieson.” The vicar’s voice softened. “But to be perfectly frank, Lizard Bay’s economy has been faltering for years, and despite her efforts, Miss E hadn’t come close to solving our problems yet. Her scheme to have a cooperative town chicken coop and sell the eggs to Marston was well-intentioned but poorly executed.”
The Spinster's Guide to Scandalous Behavior Page 17