Marry in Haste

by Anne Gracie

  He’d left well before dawn this morning, taking extra care not to wake his wife, telling himself it was to get this task done in good time, but knowing he’d taken the coward’s exit.

  The events of the day before had disturbed him. First his loss of control in the stables. He never lost control.

  And then . . . He didn’t know quite why he’d found the day he’d spent with his wife and the girls so disturbing. They’d ridden over to Sir Alfred’s and borrowed another horse for Emm, and of course, Lady Chisholm had insisted they come in for a bite of breakfast first, and it was quite late by then and they were all hungry, and besides, it would have been rude to refuse.

  Sir Alfred’s eyes had bulged at the sight of Georgiana in her disgraceful breeches. He’d turned bright red, made several loud harrumphing noises and for the rest of the visit had carefully pretended the girl was not there. He’d waxed eloquent in praise of Sultan, wanting to know his breeding and paces, and was noticeably disconcerted when Cal referred him to Georgiana, the invisible girl who’d owned, raised and trained him.

  Lady Chisholm, much more tactful, had simply assumed Georgiana had had an accident with her habit, and had produced an old riding habit of her daughter’s for her to wear. To Cal’s surprise, after a silent exchange of glances with Emmaline, Georgiana accepted the gift politely and donned the skirt over her breeches without fuss or argument.

  Cal had to assume his wife’s influence was at work in producing this unaccustomed docility in his niece, though how she’d achieved it was a mystery. All he knew was that if he’d tried to get the girl into a riding skirt she’d have resisted furiously.

  After breakfast, they’d spent the rest of the morning and early afternoon riding around the estate—Georgiana learning the way of riding sidesaddle, Emmaline and the girls showing her how. Of course she managed perfectly—the girl was a natural—but it was an occasion of much laughter and spirited debate, though somehow all in fun.

  And of course, as the places they visited jogged memories in himself and his half sisters, various stories and tales had emerged. It became, as well as a pleasant ride, an afternoon of recollections, family stories and laughing disputes about the truth of various events.

  His wife was at the heart of it, of course, asking questions, prompting the stories and encouraging them all to share memories and impressions of times past. She even got George to open up a little.

  Listening to his niece’s stories, Cal was forced to admit that when she wasn’t spitting and snarling in defiance of his edicts, Georgiana could be quite charming. She told a number of amusing tales—several at her own expense. But reading between the lines, he could see she’d led a lonely and often difficult life, and he cursed again the selfishness of Henry, who had deprived her of all that her birth entitled her. He would make it up to the girl, he vowed silently.

  Or Emmaline would, in his name.

  Cal also found himself recounting tales of events and boyish adventures he’d almost completely forgotten about. He’d shown them his favorite fishing spot, a tree in which he’d tried to make a secret hideout—the remnants of it were still visible—and even a place where hawks nested, and he told them he’d always wanted to try training a hawk but had never been allowed. He’d never told that to anyone.

  Emmaline hadn’t said a word about herself, except once, when Lily had asked her whether she’d liked school. She’d pulled a face and laughed, saying, “Not at all. I was thoroughly miserable for ages. I was most unladylike and was forever in trouble. And I missed the horses and my dog desperately. But I got used to it.” And then changed the subject.

  Cal wanted to know more. He’d gone over her story—well, the few grudging shreds of it she’d shared with him—over and over in his mind, and it still didn’t add up. If she’d hated school as a pupil, why had she then returned to become a teacher there? And why had she been disinherited by her father? But he didn’t want to question her in front of the girls, and so the moment passed.

  Emmaline got him and his sisters talking about things they never would normally have discussed—things about his father, his memories of his mother, of the girls’ mother, of their grandparents, and Aunt Dottie and Aunt Agatha.

  She’d even somehow coaxed him to talk a bit about the war—something he never did, not to civilians. Not the worst stuff, of course, but several stories and anecdotes that in retrospect turned out to be somewhat amusing.

  It was, as Emmaline had said when they returned home, tired, hungry and happy, a wonderful family day.

  Why that should make Cal feel unaccountably restless and uncomfortable, he didn’t know. But it did.

  He wasn’t used to being in a family, being part of a family, doing family things. He felt . . . he felt like Gulliver being slowly trapped by a multitude of tiny strings, none of them strong enough in itself to entrap a man, but together . . .

  A story, a smile, a pair of long, graceful legs, sparkling gray-green eyes, a mouth as ripe as berries . . .

  He needed to get back to work, to focus on the task at hand. He couldn’t afford to be distracted.

  That night after dinner, while the girls were distracted with a clever puzzle, he’d spoken to Emm in private and raised the subject of Georgiana’s about-face, the transformation from recalcitrant brat into demure young lady. “How did you do that? Made her do what you wanted without any fuss and bother? Rose too. I ask them to do something and it’s the worst thing in the world and I’m an evil bully. You ask them and they’re as sweet as honey.”

  She smiled. “Young girls, especially bright and spirited young girls, need to be handled delicately.”

  “Delicately?” He made a rude noise. “There’s nothing delicate about those girls. Perhaps Lily.”

  “Delicate in the sense of how you would handle a spirited filly. With praise and reward. Not force.”

  “In the army, discipline was all about force and leadership. And trust.”

  She nodded. “Trust is vital here too, but it goes both ways. The girls are coming to trust you, but they need to know you trust them too. Show them what you expect, trust them to do the right thing, give them responsibility and some freedom—”

  “Freedom?” He shuddered. “I hate to think what they’ll get up to!”

  She laughed. “And praise, lots of praise. The girls, for all their apparent confidence, are full of doubt, particularly self-doubt.”

  “Even Rose?”

  She nodded. “Even Rose.”

  He frowned. He didn’t want the girls to be full of self-doubt. He wanted them confident and strong. “Trust, and responsibility, you say?”

  “And praise. For everything they do right, or every attempt they make to do the right thing—praise them. You’ll see.”

  He looked doubtful, so she added, “They admire and look up to you, you know.”

  He snorted. “They do not.”

  She laughed. “They do. They just don’t show it to your face. But have patience. You did well today—and so did they.”

  It gave him something to think of.

  And then, later that night when he’d entered her bedchamber and found her lolling sleepily in her bath, soaking out the stiffness of her long ride . . .

  The bath had been placed in front of the fire. The flames made her glow, her skin gleaming with water and bath oils.

  She was stiff and sore from her long unaccustomed ride. He should have left her to soak, left her to sleep in peace. By herself.

  If he’d touched her at all, it should have been to rub her briskly with horse liniment—that would have soothed her aches.

  But he hadn’t. He hadn’t been able to resist the sight of her, all creamy and pink and damp. She’d welcomed him with a sleepy smile, and that was all it took. He’d scooped her out of the bath and made love to her, once in front of the fire, and then again in bed.

  He never lost c
ontrol. Now, it escaped him on the smallest of excuses.

  Cal eased his horse into a canter, and the house fell away from sight. This business of being married, of being part of a family, of handling wild and unruly hoydens delicately . . .

  He was much more comfortable hunting assassins.

  * * *

  The two sagging cottages were joined by one wall. Both dwellings seemed deserted. Cal knocked on each door, then peered in the windows. The rooms were sparsely furnished, but there were signs of recent occupation.

  “Told you you was too late,” the ancient who’d directed him to these cottages called out in a creaky voice. “Cleared out, they have. Gorn to America.”

  Cal swore. The old man had told him, while puffing on an evil-smelling pipe, and with the encouragement of the occasional coin, all he needed to know to be sure that he’d found his man at last.

  The Gimble brothers were as like as two peas in a pod, and close. They’d even married two sisters. They’d left the Rifle Brigade when the war was over and returned to their village, but times were tough, and they’d decided to migrate to America. Bert had gone ahead, while Joe had taken some jobs abroad to earn the money for fares for the wives and children, and to give them a good start in a new country.

  Cal was sure he knew what those jobs had been.

  “When did Joe and the women and children leave?” Cal asked. It couldn’t have been long. There was the end of a loaf of bread on the table. It was not yet moldy, nor eaten by mice. The old man contemplated his pipe and waited until Cal produced another coin.

  “Left yesterday morn, in a rush. Dunno why—they bin talking about going to America for a couple o’ years. Bert, ’e went first, going ahead, like, to make things ready for their wives and the little ’uns. Got a farm ’e as, all ready for ’em. Wrote ’em a letter to say so and all.”

  “When was this?”

  “The letter from America?” He puffed a cloud of reeking smoke as he considered it. “Couple a’ months back, I reckon. Don’t exactly remember, but it was afore Christmas. Lots of excitement when it come, see.”

  Cal jerked his head at the cottages. “Looks to me like they left in a hurry.”

  The old man nodded. “Joe come back sudden like day afore yesterday—well, he comes and goes, does Joe, never know where he be—but this time he come back from Lunnon and whatever he told them got ’em all stirred up and by the next mornin’ they was all packed up and gorn.” He grinned knowingly and sucked on his pipe. “Told ye, I did—they’ve gorn.”

  Cal swore under his breath. Obviously Joe had been tipped off by someone that people had been investigating the activities of former Riflemen. “Where did they go? Which direction?”

  The old man gestured with his reeking pipe. “Lunnon.”

  “London?” Cal queried sharply. “You’re sure it was London, not Liverpool or Bristol?” Ships bound for America most often left from Bristol or Liverpool.

  The old man shook his head. “No, it was Lunnon for sure. Heard Joe say he was owed money there and would collect before they left.”

  “Thank you.” Cal tossed the old fellow a last coin, mounted his horse and headed for home. Dammit! If he hadn’t spent the day before with the girls and his wife . . .

  Chapter Seventeen

  All the world’s a stage,

  And all the men and women merely players.

  They have their exits and their entrances;

  And one man in his time plays many parts . . .

  —WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE, AS YOU LIKE IT

  “I’m leaving for London first thing in the morning,” Cal told Emm over a late supper. He’d told her how he’d just missed the man he was sure was the Scorpion. “He would have left while we were riding aimlessly around the estate.”

  “It wasn’t aimless in the least,” she said calmly. “It was exactly what you and the girls needed. And I was glad to get to know the estate a little. Besides, if the fellow you’re chasing left at first light yesterday morning, you still would have missed him, albeit by a few hours instead of a whole day. Still, I’m sure you’ll catch him.” She rose and moved to the door. “I’ll tell the girls to be packed and ready to leave after breakfast, then.”

  He frowned. “The girls? No, I’m not taking the girls.” He hadn’t planned to take anyone. Not even his wife.

  She turned back, one eyebrow raised. “You can’t possibly leave them here.”

  “Why not? This is their home.”

  She gave him a pointed look. “Don’t imagine one day of riding and brotherly pleasantness will rid them of the suspicion that you mean to dump them in the country—particularly if you then do dump them here while you go swanning off to London.”

  “I’m not swanning anywhere. I’m pursuing a criminal.”

  “Yes, in London,” she said serenely. “And we will come too. We’ll need to order a great many clothes if all three girls are to make their come-out this spring, you know. Men never have the least idea how much preparation is involved. Oh, the girls will be so excited. I must tell them before they retire for the night.”

  “Madam,” he began.

  She paused, her brow crinkling. “Do you think the antiquated old coach in the stables will be up to the journey, or should we hire a second carriage? We’ll need at least two carriages for all of us, including Milly, my maid, and the dog, of course.”

  “Madam, I’m not taking the carriage anywhere! It’s far too slow for my purposes. I’m riding, which is why—”

  She gave him a dazzling smile. “Oh, good, that will work nicely, then. It’ll be a squeeze, especially with the dog, but we’ll manage. And you can ride ahead and inform the staff at Ashendon House to expect us. Excellent.”

  “I wasn’t planning to go anywhere near Ashendon House,” he informed her. “I’m in pursuit of an assassin.”

  “Send a message to the staff when you get there, then. It won’t take but a moment,” she said blithely.

  “I have a job to do in London—a dangerous job,” he reiterated in a firm voice. “I don’t have time to be looking after”—he was going to say “a wife” but decided on discretion at the last minute—“my sisters and niece.” He didn’t want any of them there. He wanted to keep his mind clear for his pursuit.

  “Of course not,” she agreed. “That’s what you married me for.” And she sailed through the door, leaving him glowering and slightly baffled.

  It was what he’d married her for. It was just that when she said it like that, it sounded . . . wrong.

  * * *

  London was damp, the sky overlaid with a dirty yellowish gloom. Cal headed straight for Gil Radcliffe’s office in Whitehall. “I think I’ve found the Scorpion, only he just slipped through my fingers.” He explained his reasoning, and at the end, Radcliffe nodded briskly.

  “Sounds like our man, all right. You don’t know where in London he was headed?”

  “No, just that it was London and that he was owed money here. But he took two women—his wife and sister-in-law—they’re sisters—and three children with him.” He shook his head. “I know—needle in a haystack.”

  Radcliffe frowned thoughtfully for a moment, scribbled a note then called for his clerk. “Run over to the Rifle Brigade headquarters and see what information they have on these two. Most urgent status.” The man took the note and hurried off.

  The writing of the note jogged Cal’s memory. “Is there some paper I can use for a note? I need to inform the staff at Ashendon House that my wife and sisters and niece are to arrive shortly. God knows what state the house is in—my late brother seemed to have neglected everything.”

  Radcliffe’s brows rose. “You seem to have acquired a few more dependents since we last met. My felicitations on your marriage. But the niece?”

  “Henry’s daughter by a secret earlier marriage, the selfish swine. Eighteen years old, and the
family knew nothing about her.”

  “Oh, that will please your aunt Agatha,” Radcliffe said dryly.

  Cal raised an ironic brow. “Does anything ever please Aunt Agatha?”

  “When last I saw her she was none too pleased about your, er, rather swift marriage. Was doing her best to ferret out what I knew about your wife’s family. Of course, I told her nothing.”

  Cal frowned. “Do you know anything?”

  Radcliffe spread his fingers and looked mysterious. Typical. Secrecy was Radcliffe’s middle name. He was like a bank vault; he only opened up when it suited him.

  “Well, if you happen to run into Aunt Agatha again, don’t tell her I’m in town. With any luck, I’ll be back in Europe by the time she discovers I’ve been in London.”

  “You’re still planning to return to your former occupation?”

  “Of course. Why not?” he added, seeing Radcliffe’s expression. “Isn’t that what we agreed in the first place? You gave me four weeks’ leave.”

  “Yes, but with the title and estate, and now this marriage, I assumed . . .”

  Cal shook his head. “The estate affairs are all in order, and my wife is happy to launch the girls, so nothing much needs to change.”

  Radcliffe gave him a long look. That glint of amusement returned. “You just got married, have taken custody of three spirited young ladies—all heiresses, I assume—and you don’t expect your life to change?”

  “Why should it? My wife handles them brilliantly. I didn’t marry a silly young chit, you know; I married a good woman with brains, character and common sense.”

  Radcliffe chuckled softly. “All the more reason your life will never be the same again. No, don’t bother to argue. Time will tell. As for sending a note, it will take at least two hours to unearth the information we require from the Rifle Brigade, which leaves you plenty of time to drop by Ashendon House yourself and make what arrangements need to be done. I’ll see you back here at six.”