A Lord for Miss Larkin

by Carola Dunn

  “It would hardly be fair to Lord Kilmore to agree to listen to him only for that reason! Still, if he really is fond of me perhaps I should marry him. At least I owe him the courtesy of a personal answer. Not today though—I promised to go shopping with Fanny, and Lord Fane is to drive me in the Park later.”

  Alison still had not made up her mind what the answer should be when at last, four days later, Lord Kilmore obtained his interview with her.

  Henry had his instructions. Not five minutes after his lordship was shown into the drawing-room, scarce time to exchange greetings and remarks about the weather (prodigious fine for early May), the footman informed Lady Emma that the housekeeper had urgent need of her.

  “Pray excuse me for a few minutes,” she said and made a graceful exit.

  Alison could not help feeling that the whole affair smacked a little too much of stage management. Not one of Mrs. Meeke’s heroines had ever plotted beforehand with her chaperon to ensure a private moment with the hero. In fact, she could not recall that any of Mrs. Meeke’s heroines, or Mrs. Cuthbertson’s for that matter, had a chaperon. However, she set aside her sewing and awaited the sequel with interest.

  Lord Kilmore had politely stood with Lady Emma. He now took a turn about the room, glanced out of the window, fiddled with one of the ornaments on the mantel and tugged at his cravat. He could not be said to exude wild-eyed passion, but Alison found his uncertainty touching. A fortune hunter surely ought to be smooth and self-possessed.

  “Miss Larkin!” He swung round, making her start. “Miss Alison!”

  “My lord.” The words that should have rung with a thrilling tone emerged sounding prim.

  In two strides he was before her, sinking to one knee and seizing her hand in his. This was more promising. The light in his dark eyes was warm, if not quite burning.

  “Alison, marry me! I cannot live without you. You are quite the sweetest, prettiest, most enchanting creature I have ever met.”

  Richest, added a voice in her head. Her response was involuntary. “Do you not mean that you cannot live without my fortune?” she asked sadly.

  “My wretched reputation goes before me.” His expression was rueful. Rising from his knee, he took a seat beside her on the sofa, still holding her hand. “I confess that at first I pursued you more for my creditors’ sake than my own. I was only too pleased to find an heiress who was not muffin-faced and whose background, I hoped, might frighten off more eligible suitors than I. Don’t be offended, I am attempting to be honest.”

  “That first evening, at my ball, when you did not speak to me, you were trying to pique my interest?”

  He grinned wryly. “I succeeded, did I not? I thought to catch you in a net, but instead, as I came to know you, I was caught myself in a silken web. I meant what I said, Alison. You are enchanting, I have never known a woman like you, and I want you to be my wife.”

  His dark hair was ruffled where he had run his fingers through it, his eyes serious, without their usual teasing light. His hand, holding hers, was lean and strong and warm. He looked very romantic.

  Alison was tempted.

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  “So you rejected him after all,” said Lady Emma.

  “Yes.” Alison sighed. “I do believe he has a decided partiality for me, and he is excessively attractive, but I simply do not want to be married to him.”

  “I trust he did not take umbrage at your refusal?”

  “No, he did not seem to be miffed. Regretful, rather. He said he hopes we may remain friends. I told him I like him very well, just that I do not think we should suit.”

  “He seems to have behaved very handsomely, better than one might have expected considering his circumstances.”

  “I wish I could have offered him money to pay his debts, but it would not have been proper, would it?”

  “Certainly not! I daresay Kilmore will come about. Nor would Ralph—Mr. Osborne have countenanced such a thing short of marriage. I begin to think that whomever you wed he had best tie up your fortune, or you will be giving it away to the first beggar on your doorstep.”

  “Neil would not accept anything from me.”

  “My opinion of your cousin rises by leaps and bounds.” Lady Emma looked round as the footman came in. “What is it, Henry? We are at home to visitors now.”

  “It’s one o’ them brats, my lady, brought a note for Miss Alison.” He handed a twist of paper to Alison and whispered out of the side of his mouth, “Bubble, miss. I sent him to the kitchen for a bite.” He winked, enjoying the conspiracy. His mistress did not appreciate the boys’ presence in her house.

  “Thank you, Henry.” Alison unfolded the note. “It’s from Aunt Cleo. Oh dear, Aunt Di has sprained her ankle. Nothing serious, but Aunt Cleo says she ought not to be walking Midnight, and he must go out.” She turned to Lady Emma. “He will not go with anyone else but me.”

  “Send round for the carriage, Henry,” said Lady Emma resignedly. “I do not need to go anywhere today, fortunately. I hope you will not be too long, though, Alison. Are you not expecting Lord Fane this afternoon?”

  “Yes, and Neil and Fanny too, which means of course that Robert will come.” She glanced at the ormolu clock on the mantel. The interview with Lord Kilmore had taken longer than she thought. “Pray make my excuses if I am a little late.”

  It was a beautiful day, sunny and warm with a light breeze, and walking was a pleasure even in the brick-fields. Alison wondered what it would he like to live in the country. Midnight would be able to roam free, to run after rabbits and swim in the streams. He was bred to enjoy water, and she often regretted that she could not let him dive into the New River Head reservoir on the far side of the fields.

  Lord Fane had an ornamental lake at his country home. Would he allow Midnight to swim in it? Would he even want Midnight at Fane Hall?

  She had seen dogs swimming in the Serpentine in Hyde Park. Perhaps tomorrow she might bundle Midnight into the landau and take him there. Now that would shock Lord Fane if he saw her! Philip—Mr. Trevelyan, on the other hand, had taken the dog up in his own tilbury and had walked with her across these very fields. But she had vowed to put Mr. Trevelyan out of her mind.

  That was not easy, when she saw him as often as ever. In fact, when she returned to Park Street he was among the company awaiting her.

  “Miss Witherington’s come,” Henry advised her as she stepped into the house, “and Mr. Gilchrist, of course. Lord Fane, Lord Deverill, Mr. Trevelyan, Mr. Osborne. An excess o’ gentlemen, that’s what I likes to see.”

  “I beg your pardon for my tardiness,” Alison said gaily as she entered the crowded drawing-room. “I expect Lady Emma explained that I had to go home to walk my aunt’s dog.”

  Judging by Lord Fane’s face, that was not precisely the excuse Lady Emma had given, and he was far from certain that he approved.

  “You will be too tired to walk in the Park then,” said Fanny, disappointed. “Mr. Gilchrist and I were hoping to persuade you to go with us. It is such a lovely day.”

  “Tired? Heavens no. But I must not desert our other guests.” She looked enquiringly at Lord Fane.

  “I shall be happy to lend you my arm, Miss Larkin, if you are sure you are not fatigued.”

  Lady Emma gave her permission but said she was expecting Mrs. Talmadge and would not go. Mr. Trevelyan and Mr. Osborne elected to stay, but Neil chose to go with them—“to play gooseberry,” he said wickedly as soon as the front door closed behind them.

  Lord Kilmore was driving in the Park. He stopped beside the walking group and asked Alison if she cared for a turn in his phaeton. Lord Fane frowned.

  Alison felt it was noble of Lord Kilmore to show so soon after his rejection that he held no hard feelings.

  “Perhaps I am a little more tired than I thought,” she said hastily to Lord Fane. “To sit in the carriage for a few minutes will revive me.”

  At once, gallantly, he helped her up. Lord Kilmore set his splendid bays in mo
tion. Alison wondered whether they, and the high-perch phaeton, had been paid for.

  His lordship was looking at her with raised eyebrows. “Tired?” he mocked.

  She explained about having walked Midnight already and he laughed.

  “A reasonable excuse, then,” he conceded. He seemed to have recovered his spirits and he kept her amused in his usual way. When he returned her to her friends a quarter hour later, Fanny and Robert Gilchrist had their heads together, while Neil and Lord Fane looked far from happy with each other’s company. They both welcomed Alison eagerly.

  Her exertions of the day did not prevent her dancing the night away, though it was a pity Mr. Trevelyan did not attend the ball. She wanted to ask him about the propriety of taking Midnight to Hyde Park, and perhaps to cajole him into driving them there, but he had gone out of Town for a few days.

  Aunt Di’s ankle improved slowly. Without the advice and transportation Mr. Trevelyan could have provided, Alison continued to walk the dog in the brick- fields.

  One wet day she put the chore off till late afternoon in the hope that it would stop raining. Lady Emma needed the landau, so the coachman drove off after dropping Alison in Great Ormond Street, to call for her later. Though the drizzle had slackened to a general dampness in the air, she decided when she reached the fields that the ground was too muddy to tramp across. Instead she and Midnight circled round through the streets, going as far east as the Islington Road.

  The air was fresh and clean and Alison enjoyed her walk, but it was a long way. She was pleased, when she reached Grays Inn Lane again, to see Lord Kilmore descend from a waiting carriage.

  “I came to fetch you,” he said, “but when I reached your aunts’ house I was told you had not yet returned. I have been driving about looking for you.”

  “I did not take my usual route because of the rain. I daresay that is why you are not driving your phaeton?”

  “I thought you would be more comfortable in a closed carriage in this weather.” He handed her in and was attempting to follow when Midnight pushed past him and set both front feet solidly on the carriage floor. Eying him with disfavour, Lord Kilmore brushed at his dampened inexpressibles. “Surely the dog can take himself home!”

  “If he was allowed to wander by himself I should not have had to come to walk him,” Alison pointed out. “Besides, once he has decided to get in I am not capable of dissuading him, and I rather doubt that you are.”

  Midnight clambered in with his rear legs and obligingly moved to the centre, sitting down with a thump that shook the carriage. He looked round at Lord Kilmore as if inviting him to join them.

  Sighing, his lordship took his place and closed the door. The odour of wet dog filled the air as the carriage jolted into motion. Within a few seconds the windows steamed up, hiding the outside world as if it had ceased to exist. Lord Kilmore raised a handkerchief to his nose.

  “Perhaps I had best open a window,” suggested Alison.

  “Impossible, I fear. I borrowed the carriage from a friend who has an unconscionable dread of draughts. The windows are fastened shut.”

  Suddenly uneasy, Alison rubbed a clear spot on the glass. The rain-washed street was indistinguishable from a hundred others, but surely they ought to have turned into Guilford Street by now. She had not noticed a left turn.

  She was enlarging her peephole when Lord Kilmore reached across Midnight’s head and captured her hand in his.

  “You will ruin your glove.”

  Alison pulled her hand free. “This is not the way to Great Ormond Street.”

  “I am taking you to Park Street.”

  “Lady Emma would faint if I took Midnight there all wet and muddy. We must take him home first. Tell your coachman to turn round.”

  Lord Kilmore shook his head. “I’m sorry, but he has orders to go straight on.”

  “What do you mean?” her unease deepened. “You are not taking me to Lady Emma’s,” she accused.

  “I had hoped it would take you longer to realize that aught is amiss,’’ he said regretfully.

  “Where are you taking me?”

  “Don’t be afraid, my dear, I mean you no harm. I had hoped to do the thing properly, but you turned me down and I cannot wait. I am scarce one step ahead of the bailiffs, you see.”

  “You said you are fond of me.” She tried to stop her voice wobbling.

  “I am, devilish fond. And you confessed that you like me, did you not? I disagree that we shall not suit.”

  He moved closer.

  Midnight dropped his great black head on the seat between them. His lordship moved back.

  Heartened, Alison repeated her question. “Where are we going?”

  “Why, where do you think, my dear? To Gretna.”

  * * * *

  Philip was aware that recently Alison had with drawn from him in some indistinct, indefinable fashion. She was no less friendly, no less delightful a companion, but there was a shadow of reserve between them. He had been glad of an excuse to go down to his Buckinghamshire estate for a few days.

  Between estate business, his family and sociable neighbours, he was as fully occupied at Nether Beeches as in Town. Usually he preferred country life, but this time he had a nagging sense of something missing. He even looked forward to his return to London.

  He set out on a fine morning, driving his curricle. Washed by overnight rain, the fresh green of new beech leaves gleamed in the sun; the hedgerows were busy with nesting birds. His thoughts flew at once to Alison, She had turned a muddy trudge among the sordid brick kilns into a merry outing. What joy she would take in this pastoral scene!

  He knew very well that it was Alison who made the difference. It was her enthusiasm that rendered the most tedious ton parties enjoyable. Her pleasure in the company of the most unlikely people had made him look beyond the label “urchin” or “eccentric old maid” to see them as individuals. He was even prepared to credit her influence for his split with the government. She had overturned his useful, placid, but dull life—and all she wanted was a lord for a husband.

  It began to rain. The clouds that had watered Buckinghamshire last night were stalled over the London basin. Philip pulled over to the side of the road and helped his groom raise the curricle’s hood.

  “You’d best come in beside me, John,” he said, aware that the idea would not have crossed his mind a few months past.

  With the leather apron fastened across their legs they were protected from the worst of the weather. Nonetheless, by the time Philip pulled up in front of his Green Street mansion he was damp and depressed.

  At that moment he became aware of three things: the boy who ran to his horses’ heads was Squeak; the hack tied to the railing in front of his house was Emma’s roan mare; and the gentleman standing at his open front door, apparently arguing with his butler, was Lord Deverill.

  Even as Philip extricated himself from the apron’s soggy embrace, Neil Deverill turned and ran down the steps.

  “Don’t get down, Trevelyan!” he cried. “That devil Kilmore has run off with Alison. Another minute and I’d have left without you.”

  “How do you know? Where has he taken her? I shall have to hitch up another team. John, the bays, fast.”

  The groom jumped down and disappeared towards the mews at a run.

  “I happened to be at Lady Emma’s when yon lad brought word.” Deverill hitched his thumb towards Squeak, who nodded importantly. “It seems there’s always one of them keeping an eye on Alison, but today business was bad because of the weather so the three were all tailing her.”

  “We seen the nob ‘tice Miss Alison into ‘is rumble an’ off they goes, so we all ‘ops on be’ind.”

  Philip swung down to the pavement, to stretch his legs and to interrogate the sodden, shivering urchin.

  “Which road did they take?”

  “‘E went norf, guv. Soon as we ‘its the Great Norf Road, I drops off, see, an’ comes ‘ome on anuvver rumble to split to the gentry mort. If
they turns off the ‘pike, me bruvver’ll stop off to mark the way, an’ Tarry Joe’ll stay wiv ‘em. Tarry Joe, ‘e don’t know B from a broomstick, but if you wants to run a rig, ‘e’s a bloody wonder, ‘e is.”

  “Kilmore is heading north,” Deverill translated. “Squeak returned on another carriage to tell Lady Emma. If they turn off the highway, his brother will—”

  “Yes, I understand. You’d best be off, Deverill. You’re armed? Good. I’ll be right behind you.” Philip turned to his butler, who had come halfway down the steps. “See that the boy is dried and fed, and send word to Lady Emma that I am gone with Lord Deverill, if you please.” He waved farewell to Deverill, who cantered away as half a dozen grooms appeared with Philip’s four bays and a four-in-hand harness.

  “You want me along, sir?” asked John.

  Philip shook his head. “I’ve a feeling I shall be picking up a pair of tigers somewhere en route. I don’t need to tell you to keep a still tongue in your head.”

  “Mum’s the word, sir.”

  Ten minutes later he was driving north out of London, his hands steady, his mind a raging torrent of fury and fear.

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  Alison surveyed the room with distaste. “There are cobwebs in the corners,” she said, wrinkling her nose, “and it smells.’’

  Midnight found the smells delectable. He padded around, sniffing in the corners.

  “Not as much as your dog does,” Lord Kilmore pointed out. “Considering the circumstances, you couldn’t expect me to take you to one of the better coaching inns. If those fools had had a change of horses ready as I ordered we need not even have set foot in the place.” He set his hat and gloves on the table. “When we are married, you shall live in the lap of luxury, I promise you.”

  “On my money. I do not want to marry you.”

  “Perhaps I can persuade you that you will enjoy it, my dear.”