Wicked and Wonderful

by King, Valerie

  Judith covered her face again. She could not listen to her, for to believe such things was to allow thoughts in her head that ought not to be there.

  She rose suddenly to her feet. “I must go. No, no, I beg you, Margaret, let us discuss this no more. I do not think I can bear it a moment longer. Let me walk to the church. Perhaps my head will clear with a little exertion.”

  Margaret stayed her, however. “At least let me fix yer hair.”

  Judith touched her hair and laughed. “I forgot that I had not yet dressed it. Oh, dear.”

  An hour later, Judith found herself nearing the church, the basket of clothes in her arms growing, as it always did, surprisingly heavy after a mile or two on foot. A walk had been quite beneficial and she was calmer than she had previously been. She had reconciled in her mind that she thought it likely Kelthorne had become uneasy in the depth of his regard for her and had provoked her in order to end so sweet and magical and, indeed, quite hopeless an evening. She had, therefore, resigned herself anew to keeping her distance from him especially in the light of her growing friendship with Miss Currivard.

  In this particular aspect of her conduct of the night before, she could not be content. Miss Currivard was her support, her friend, and her patroness. She had in that sense used her quite ill and meant not to do so again.

  Fortunate for her that she had made such a resolution for when she entered the ancient Norman church, she met Miss Currivard who bore in her arms a large bouquet of roses and ferns.

  “Well met, Miss Lovington. I have come with Kelthorne’s sisters to decorate the church.”

  “How beautiful,” Judith murmured. The fragrance of the red roses filled the air. She glanced in the direction of the nave and saw that Lady Radsbury and Mrs. Newnott were conversing with a rather tall, thin gentleman who seemed vaguely familiar to Judith. The dark interior of the stone church did not easily allow for recognition. “I have come on a mission of my own. Some of the ladies of the troupe sew for the poor and I have come to bring our little offering.”

  Miss Currivard settled her roses on a table nearby and recommended Judith do the same. She was grateful to set the basket down. Miss Currivard then picked up a boy’s shirt. “Is this your work?” she exclaimed.

  “Yes, that one happens to be.”

  “It is very fine. And how wonderful to see little dogs embroidered down the front. Charming. Truly charming.”

  “I always feel so guilty though in taking the time to do the embroidery work when there is so much need for clothes generally. I suppose with the same effort I could have sewn another garment entirely.”

  Miss Currivard shook her head. “You are too severe upon yourself. My thoughts are very different. Were I a little boy, in such desperate circumstances, I should be comforted by all these little brown pups in a way that I could never be by a mere plain shirt. Yes, Miss Lovington, too severe by half.”

  Judith laughed and thanked her for her compliments and her kindness.

  Miss Currivard glanced up the aisle in the direction of Kelthorne’s sisters. She appeared to hesitate and a slight frown creased her brow. “I believe I must make the introduction,” she said, her voice low. “Propriety demands it but I truly wish it were otherwise. Pray, forgive me.”

  “Now who is being severe,” Judith returned laughing. She could not imagine any friends of the castle party being in the least objectionable.

  As Judith turned to walk up the aisle with Miss Currivard, she wondered whom the gentleman might be. In quick stages, since her eyes had by now become better accustomed to the dim interior of the church, she realized who he was.

  Dizziness assailed her causing her to grasp Miss Currivard’s arm more tightly than she ought.

  Stolford.

  “Is something amiss?” Miss Currivard inquired quietly as they moved together.

  “No,” Judith whispered, struggling to regain her composure as quickly as possible. She took long, deep breaths and avoided Miss Currivard’s curious glances.

  Once Judith had greeted Kelthorne’s sisters, Miss Currivard made the introductions. “My lord, may I present our famous local songstress, Miss Lovington.”

  “Miss Lovington, the Marquess of Stolford.”

  She dipped a proper curtsy and bowed her head. She rose slowly.

  He bowed as well. “I have heard much of you, Miss Lovington. Lady Radsbury praised you so highly in her last letter that I found I—” he broke off and stared at her. “You are very familiar to me, but I cannot quite—”

  Recognition dawned, of that she was certain. Judith struggled to keep her composure. Fear had taken strong hold of her.

  A familiar smile shaped his lips, one that set her knees to trembling. His eyes grew clouded. She wondered if he meant to betray her identity even in this moment.

  “But I am being uncivil,” he said. “Forgive me for staring at you but I thought for a moment I had met you in London this season past but now I am certain I am utterly mistaken. I hope to hear you sing very soon.”

  “The troupe with which I am presently engaged will be performing this Saturday when I am given to understand the fair will have arrived in Portislow.” She then dipped another curtsy. “I beg you will excuse me, Miss Currivard, Lady Radsbury, Mrs. Newnott, but I am frightfully late for a rehearsal and I must speak with the good vicar before I depart.” She turned and moved back down the aisle, picking up her basket on the way.

  Once outside, she moved more swiftly, not stopping until she had reached the shrubbery nearest the entrance to the vicarage where she paused. Tears filled her eyes. She trembled from head to foot. She leaned forward slightly and felt for the dagger she kept concealed beneath her skirts in a sheath strapped carefully to her leg. What comfort to feel it against her hand. Only then did her heart begin to grow quiet and the trembling grow less marked.

  Slowly, she made her way to the door and left the clothes with the serving maid.

  Her worst fears had been realized—Stolford, even though by accident, had found her at last.

  *** *** ***

  “Where were you?” Laurence asked.

  Kelthorne looked up from the stirrup he was adjusting on his favorite gelding only to find Laurence glaring at him. “I have been out riding. Why do you ask? More to the point, why are you in the boughs?”

  Laurence ground his teeth. “You will not be flippant with me. Not me. Not this time, Aubrey. I won’t have it. I will have an answer.”

  Kelthorne turned his horse over to his groom, whose eyes had grown rather wide with surprise. He said nothing until the servant had led the gelding away.

  “For God’s sake,” he murmured, tossing his head in the direction of the groom. “What the devil was that? You know better than to come the crab before the servants.” He began easing off his riding gloves as he spoke. He could not help but be astonished by his usually sanguine friend.

  “You know I have reason enough,” he growled.

  Kelthorne frowned at him. “I cannot say that I do since I have no idea what I have done to so offend you.” With one glove off, he let the other remain that he might concentrate fully upon Laurence.

  “You must have feathers in your head if you have not the smallest understanding of... that is... Aubrey, have you not noticed how she looks at you?”

  “Of whom are you speaking? Judith?” His head had been full of her all morning; of the latest kisses he had taken from her, of her refusal to share her charms with him and of his truly wretched words to her.

  “Judith?” Laurence said, a web of small veins standing out on his now crimson forehead. “You think I am referring to Miss Lovington?”

  Kelthorne stared at his friend. “I now apprehend that you are speaking of Miss Currivard, but I do not understand. What exactly is the subject?”

  Laurence glanced about the stables and since more than one groom was present, he jerked his head to the doorway and stomped in that direction. Kelthorne began working his second glove off as he followed after him. He tr
ied to determine in just what manner he might have erred with Miss Currivard but he was damned if he could think of anything inappropriate he had said or done to her.

  Catching up with his friend, he said, “Speak plainly, for I fear I am at a complete loss.”

  “So it would seem,” he responded coldly. “I will tell you, then. I sat with Miss Currivard until two o’clock in the morning—this morning. She was awaiting your return. Apparently, she needed to know that Miss Lovington was returned safely to her tent. So, was she, Aubrey? Was she returned safely? Did no particular harm befall her? No horrible accident requiring the fetching of a surgeon, let us say, from Wells or perhaps even Bath, that might per chance account for the tardiness of your return to Portislow?”

  Kelthorne’s heart sank. “It never occurred to me that she would be waiting for me to come back.”

  “Are you completely shatterbrained?” he asked hotly. “Have you no sense, no powers of observation at all? Miss Currivard is in love with you, man. Even a simpleton could see as much and you have, well, you have insulted her profoundly.”

  “I did not want to escort Jud—that is, Miss Lovington back to her camp. ‘Twas Miss Currivard who forced the matter. I did not think it at all necessary or even wise.” He paused, frowning. “But you’re wrong. I am not in the least persuaded she is in love with me.”

  Laurence squeezed his eyes shut, clenched his fists and growled a little more. “You will now make excuses for your conduct? Or did you think her such a ninnyhammer that she would believe your absence only meant that you were looking at the night sky for four hours?”

  Kelthorne refused to make excuses for his conduct. Instead, he spoke openly. “I confess I did not think of her at all.”

  “Then what happened? Did you have your way with Miss Lovington?”

  “Good God, no,” he said. He felt uneasy now. His conscience prickled him sorely, but he resented having his misdeeds thrust in his face. “Though I do not see why I must justify anything I have done—especially not to you. This is not like you, Laurence. Since when were you ever concerned about the appetites of one of the acting corps? Or even mine?” He laughed, hoping to lighten the situation but there was no answering smile on Laurence’s face.

  “I will tell you,” Laurence said, “because you have never been on the brink of offering for a lady before. Everything has changed yet you seem unable to comprehend as much. You cannot dally with Miss Lovington and then think for even a moment that a young woman of Miss Currivard’s stamp will be accepting of your exploits.”

  He was right. Kelthorne knew he was right. He had been foolish beyond permission last night in many respects just as he had been the first night he had chased Judith down on horseback.

  “I am a very poor suitor,” Kelthorne stated. “Good God. I have been rather wretched, it would seem. But ...”

  He could not complete his thought, for his mind had grown suddenly full of Judith and how he had felt the night before in her company, how much he had delighted in being with her. Never would he have thought so many hours had passed while strolling in his orchard with her. “It was as though time had changed in a way that made no sense. I vow I did not believe I had been gone so long. I was never more shocked upon finding that when I reached my bedchamber, the clock in the entrance hall was chiming half past two.”

  “Are you in love with her?” Laurence asked nonsensically.

  “The devil take it,” he said. “Now who is shatterbrained? Judith Lovington is an actress. I admit to a mild tendre for her but nothing more. In love with her. What a stupid thought. A very...very…well, it is quite absurd.”

  “A mild tendre that somehow has the power to bend time?”

  “Now you are being dramatic.”

  “Am I? Well, it does not matter. Merely, I beg you will be more considerate of the feelings of the lady you mean to make your wife.”

  “I shall,” he responded sincerely. “Of course, I shall. I must do better and I will. I promise you I will.”

  When Kelthorne reached the drawing room, he found Miss Currivard and her friends within, all standing at the window looking out over the valley below.

  “Come,” Miss Banwell said. “There is such a sight.”

  “Indeed,” Miss Currivard echoed. “You must come at once.” Rufus, who had been sitting by her side, trotted up to him.

  Kelthorne petted his head and glanced at Miss Currivard. He had used her very badly, indeed, but he would do better. Chastened by his friend’s admonishments, he went immediately to Miss Currivard and smiled warmly upon her. “What is it?” he asked.

  “Do but look. They are setting up even more tents. I vow before long it will appear as though an entire regiment is camped in your vale.”

  Kelthorne looked out at what was becoming a sea of tents.

  “The fair,” Miss Upton said. “The fair is come.”

  Chapter Eleven

  On the following day, Kelthorne glanced to his left and then his right then back again. The fair had come to town and there were at least two score of stalls to see. Hundreds of people were milling about, children squealing, dogs barking, sheep and cattle joining in the noisy fray, as hawkers of every sort exclaimed the benefits of their wares.

  “So what is it?” Miss Currivard asked loudly in order to be heard.

  “I beg your pardon,” he returned.

  “Were you not listening to me?” she asked. “Do you see that, Mr. Doulting? Lord Kelthorne was not attending me. What do you think of that?”

  Kelthorne already knew Laurence’s opinion and was not surprised when he cast him a rather scathing glance over Miss Currivard’s head.

  “I do beg your pardon,” Kelthorne began, “but I fear I am grown distracted by all these stalls. Look at this one. There must be a hundred different kinds of whistles and all carved by this man.”

  “Ye be right, sir,” the whistle craftsman said. “I’ll be happy to demonstrate them all, if ye like.”

  “Why do we not purchase one for that little girl, the one in the troupe?” Miss Currivard suggested.

  Kelthorne glanced at her and the strangest burst of excitement rushed through his veins. “I think it an excellent notion.”

  He could give the whistle to Judith for her to give later to young Shelly. Perhaps he could speak with Judith and beg her forgiveness for his conduct in the orchard. Perhaps he could walk with her again, a midnight stroll beneath another spate of moonlight and he would brush another curl from her cheek.

  What the devil was he thinking?

  He gave himself a strong shake and turned to Miss Currivard. “You are thoughtful, indeed,” he stated. At the very least, a compliment was in order.

  “Am I?” Miss Cunivard inquired. “How kind of you to notice.” She laughed brightly then bid the craftsman to wrap up the whistle. “For it is to be a present for a young friend of ours.”

  “Wery good, ma’am.”

  Kelthorne met Laurence’s disapproving gaze. He had erred somehow. Both his friend’s scathing expression and Miss Currivard’s odd laughter told him he had given offense. But unless Miss Currivard could actually read his thoughts, he did not know in what manner he had been unkind, if indeed, he had been.

  He strove to become more attentive to Miss Currivard, which served, oddly enough, to set a rather grim expression on Laurence’s face. He began to wonder what was wrong with his friend. He was never satisfied these days and he was frequently as cross as crabs.

  Two full days had passed since he had last seen and kissed Judith. During that time, he had attempted to right his conduct toward Miss Currivard. Yet strangely enough she had grown somewhat guarded. Though he believed, except for having arrived home so late the night he escorted Judith back to camp, he had not otherwise given her reason to doubt the sincerity of his intentions toward her.

  If he was distracted today, however, with all the sights and sounds of the fair to confuse him, how could she possibly find fault with that?

  He was about to of
fer his arm when he heard Judith’s voice as clearly as if she were but a few yards away.

  “Did you hear that?” he inquired sharply, turning toward Laurence.

  “Hear what? That man selling his sheep is squawking so loudly that I can scarcely hear anything else.”

  “There it is again,” he said. His mind took on a singular purpose because he was sure something was wrong. “I believe it is Jud—that is, Miss Lovington. I beg you will excuse me.”

  He moved in the direction they had just come. To the right there was a breach in the stalls forming a long alleyway. He went down the breach and heard her again.

  “I beg you will not, my lord,” she said. “Else I shall not be able to account for what I must do next.”

  He turned the corner and felt a bolt of rage pass through him. Stolford had pressed Judith up against a wagon. He was laughing and kissing her neck because she was bent sideways.

  “To think of finding you here,” he said, laughing a little more. Stolford knew Judith?

  Kelthorne moved quickly in their direction. He watched Judith lift her skirt on her right side and saw what looked like a leather sheath strapped to her leg. Good God, her dagger.

  “Stolford,” he called out sharply. “A little early for such mischief, is it not?”

  The marquess let her go and at the same moment, Judith, whose cheeks were flaming, lowered her skirts. He had expected to find her in near hysterics. Instead, the look in her eye was nothing short of murderous. In that instant, he glimpsed the last eight years of her life.

  The marquess recovered swiftly. “Ah, Kelthorne. See what I have found. By God, are not the ladies of this troupe some of the prettiest we have ever seen? This wench, I believe to be the loveliest of them all.”

  He took Judith’s arm, but like a cat twisting in mid-air, she jerked from his hold and before Kelthorne could caution her, she struck Stolford hard across the face.

  Kelthorne was beside Judith instantly, an arm stretched between them. “Enough, Stolford. The lady has made herself understood. I beg you will leave her in peace and depart.”