by Linda Banche
She rested her chin in her palm. He had been so pleasant at first, and something warm and bright had sparked within her, for a few shining moments melting her burdens like ice under a springtime sun. She hugged herself. The spark in his eyes enchanted her, as if he had fallen under the same spell as she.
She curled her lip. And then he had said all those hateful things when she mentioned Will. Could he be jealous of Will? Why, when they had both fallen into the dung heap?
She sighed. How flutter-brained she was to moon over Lord Tyndall. He couldn’t have any interest in her if he dripped with sweetness one moment only to rave like the veriest Bedlamite the next.
Men were such curious creatures.
She rubbed her eyes. She was so tired. Tired of the constant lack of money that prevented her from caring for the farm, tired of worrying if they had enough coin for food and fuel.
And then she had fallen into a dither over the first nobleman she had seen since she left London. She must be extremely tired.
But that was neither here nor there. She rose and returned to her easel. She had to finish and then sell this painting to make ends meet, and she couldn’t let anything interfere.
Especially not any foolish air castles she had built over that beastly Lord Tyndall.
***
Machiavelli ran back to his pen. His Mistress was furious, much angrier than he had ever seen her. Could he charm her out of her anger, as he had always done before? Only two days remained until Christmas, and his plan for safety at the aviary had fallen to pieces.
He huddled in his hut. Whatever his travails, no one had ever threatened his life before. He hid his head under his wing. What was he to do?
He shook for several minutes before raising his head. Cowering here like a frightened chicken wouldn’t help matters. He had to think.
He drew in a long breath, and then honked softly as he expelled the air. He exited the hut to parade around his pen. Standing straight and proud, he flapped his wings hard enough to kick up dust, but not hard enough to lift him from the ground, before resettling them on his back
He was Machiavelli. He would not only endure, he would prosper.
And if couldn’t, he would hide.
Chapter 11
What a termagant!
Robert snapped the reins a little too hard and the horse jerked. “Sorry.” He loosened his grip and the animal settled back into its normal gait.
He had thought Miss Shaw attractive? When pigs flew! Or when that demonic goose of hers behaved. His thoughts whirled tighter and tighter, knotting him in a tangle that threatened never to loosen. And all over a woman he had just met!
The horse stumbled, and the gig tipped precariously onto its two right wheels. Robert hauled on the reins, bringing the vehicle to a shuddering stop.
He pushed his hat to the back of his head. Damnation, that pothole was half the width of the road, and he hadn’t seen the blasted thing. Curse that Miss Shaw!
Or your own inattention?
He jumped down and checked the horse, the ducks and the carriage. Then he drove the nervous horse home at a reasonable clip. Whatever his thoughts about Miss Shaw, he would not let his anger at her damage his property.
He pulled up at the aviary. “Borland!”
The birds set up an answering racket, but the Keeper didn’t appear. “Borland!” His blood seethed anew. Would nothing go right this abominable day?
An underkeeper ran up to the gate. “Can I help ye, sir?”
“Yes.” Robert leaned over the side of the gig. “I found my ducks. Return them to their pen. And where is Borland?”
“He and the others are out asearching the area.”
“Call them back after you tend to the ducks. And tell Borland I want to see him in my library after dinner.”
The man nodded as he lifted the cage from the vehicle.
Robert drove to the stable and left the gig there. His thoughts blacker than midnight at the bottom of the deepest abyss, he stomped to the house and up to his bedchamber.
The butler drew back. Maidservants scurried away. Footmen pressed themselves against the walls.
He threw open the chamber door so hard the panel bounced against the wall.
Evers, standing before the clothes press, jumped. “Good day, my lord.” He set his hands on his hips. “Very attractive clothes, but sadly out of date and much too small. May I ask how you acquired them?”
“Later.” Robert slammed the door. The crack of the wood against the frame brought a smile to his lips, the first since his altercation with Miss Shaw. “For now, give me my own clothes.” He tore off the cravat and threw the tie onto the floor.
The valet’s eyebrows met over his nose as the fold of linen fluttered down. Then he pulled a black velvet banyan out of the clothes press and set the garment on a chair.
Robert stalked over to the fireplace and held his hands over the blaze. He needed a drink. Several drinks. “Get me a brandy.”
The valet nodded. As he passed Robert, he sniffed. “Do I smell rose?”
Hang it, the laundry soap would have served me better. Evers was an exemplary valet, but with his voracious appetite for gossip, he had assumed the role of the house’s town crier. He would set the servants abuzz as soon as he left the room.
The abused door closed softly behind the valet as Robert pulled off the rest of the borrowed apparel and dumped everything on the cravat. He shrugged into the banyan. He wanted nothing of Julia Shaw’s.
He kicked the offending raiment into a corner. Would that he kicked Machiavelli. If not for that damned goose, this disaster of a day would never have occurred. Fists clenching and unclenching, he charged around the room.
A soft knock sounded on the door, and Evers entered with a glass of brandy.
“Get rid of those.” Robert tipped his chin toward the discarded clothes. “They belong to Miss Shaw. Clean them and return them.”
The valet nodded. He gave the glass to Robert, and then bent to pick up the bundle.
“Mr. Borland also has some garments belonging to Miss Shaw. Take care of those, too. And pick up both of our clothes from her house.”
Evers’s eyebrows winged up into his hairline. He practically flew from the room.
Oh, hell. A poor choice of words. Now both he and Borland would be the subjects of salacious speculation below stairs.
But most especially Miss Shaw. They would paint her as a lightskirt, and he had no proof of that. Whatever his feelings for her, she shouldn’t have her reputation shredded because of his unthinking statements.
He scrubbed his hands over his face and flinched. He squinted at his image in the mirror beside the fireplace. A red handprint colored his cheek. After his comments just now, he deserved the pain. Pray Evers had noticed the bruise. If Miss Shaw had slapped him, he was the one in the wrong.
Robert downed the brandy in one gulp. He needed more, but he couldn’t walk downstairs in his banyan. He sank into one of the two chairs facing each other before the hearth and propped his feet up on the other. Closing his eyes, he concentrated on the brandy burn in his throat until the sensation ceased. He drew in deep breath after deep breath, willing his racing thoughts to slow.
Why was he in such high dudgeon over Miss Shaw? He leaned his head against the chair back. She was beautiful, but he knew many beautiful women, and he had never reacted this way to any of them. Women who wore silk and lace, and scented themselves with flowers or musk, not with something disgusting like turpentine.
He wrinkled his nose. Could that appalling smell be perfume?
Gads, there was no accounting for women and their strange tastes.
You didn’t mind the smell when you were at her house.
More fool, I.
He shivered and opened his eyes. Even with the fire, he was cold after that pestilential dousing in the dung heap.
He rose to jab the red-hot coals with the poker. Even with the flames leaping high up the chimney, he had felt warmer in front of the path
etically small fire in Julia Shaw’s cold kitchen.
Maybe the fire didn’t cause the heat.
He cocked his arm to hurl the poker at the wall. Then he slowly lowered the utensil. With exaggerated care, he replaced the poker in its holder. He slumped back into the chair and again closed his eyes.
By George, he had raged like the veriest Bedlamite ever since his conversation with Miss Shaw. His last words to her had been nothing short of insulting. He winced. From what he could piece together, Borland had fallen into the dung heap while chasing a fox. Miss Shaw had provided him with a bath and clean clothes, just as she had him. Nothing improper. Just kindness to two unfortunate—or very stupid—men.
But, for a few excruciatingly painful moments, the idea of Borland going there for months had dashed his every rational thought to flinders.
What had caused him to jump to the wild conclusion that they were lovers? True, Miss Shaw was a sight to behold. If she went up to Town, the bucks and beaus would climb all over each other to write poetry to her. He rubbed his eyes. He was tired, and hadn’t had a woman for a while. Maybe that was the problem.
He raised his glass to his mouth and scowled. None left. Not that any problem of his was an excuse for his behavior. He owed Miss Shaw an apology. A very large apology.
In addition, he had to explain to Evers why both he and Borland returned wearing garments she had provided. He groaned.
But he would also find out about Miss Shaw’s relationship with Borland.
***
Robert sat back in his chair in the dining room and swirled the wine in his glass. Not as good as brandy for easing a man’s woes, but tongues would wag if he drank brandy with dinner.
Even more than they already did. When Evers returned to dress him for dinner, Robert had explained what happened at Miss Shaw’s.
The valet’s lips quivered at the scene Robert painted of his debacle with the dung heap. But Evers’s almost-smile had fled when he told the servant to gather up the soiled clothes and clean them if he could. Let him see firsthand exactly what had happened. Knowing Evers, he would spread the tale far and wide. That should put paid to any untoward speculation about Miss Shaw.
He took another sip of wine. Wonderful drink, wine. More calm flowed through him with every sip.
A bustle from the corridor preceded the arrival of the next course. Steam wafted from the covered dish the footman carried into the room.
Robert relaxed back in his chair as the servant placed the course before him. With a flourish, the footman removed the cover from the plate.
Robert gave a silent groan.
Another omelet? He had eaten one for breakfast, and one for dinner last night. Those peafowl were much too prolific, mating even during the winter. His appetite fled, Robert prodded the edge of the omelet with his fork.
Judging by all the egg dishes his chef cooked, the peacock didn’t have any trouble with his lady. What did the bird possess that he didn’t?
Comparing your prowess to a bird’s? You have come to a pretty pass.
He pushed the plate aside. No more omelets for a while. Perhaps he should put the peacock alone in a pen. That might cool his ardor.
He twisted his lips. No, he couldn’t punish an innocent bird because of his own difficulties. Although, if the number of eggs was any indication, the peacock wasn’t exactly innocent. His chef would have to use those eggs elsewhere. Preferably, in some concoction where he couldn’t see them. Even better, he would direct Borland to give away the extra eggs.
The next course was fish, which he ate. By the end of the meal he was almost back to his usual composed self. He finished up with a slice of cheese and then pushed up from the table. His interview with Borland was next.
He wouldn’t toss Borland out on his ear. While the man had been remiss in losing the wood ducks, the fault wasn’t entirely his, not with Machiavelli possibly involved. After seeing the fiendish goose in action, Robert didn’t doubt the bird’s cunning. Look at what the slyboots had done to him.
Chapter 12
“Mr. Borland, a moment, please.”
Will lowered the hand he had raised to knock on the library door.
Mr. Evers huffed and puffed down the passage. He stopped in front of Will and pressed a hand to his heaving chest. “May I have the clothes you borrowed from Miss Shaw?”
“What clothes?” Will hadn’t told anyone about yesterday’s events. Falling into the dung heap was too embarrassing to share, and what occurred between Julia and him was no one else’s business.
“The clothes you borrowed after you fell into the dung heap.” The valet laid a finger aside his nose. “As if I should believe such an outlandish tale.”
Will narrowed his eyes. “As if anyone would make up such a humiliating story.”
Evers’s jaw sagged. “You really did fall into the dung heap? Why didn’t you tell anyone?”
Will crossed his arms over his chest. “Would you admit to falling into a dung heap?”
Evers squirmed. “So, his lordship’s tale is true. He also said he fell into the dung heap. He chased a goose. A goose with a ridiculous name.”
“I am not the only one? I chased a fox and couldn’t stop in time.” Will laughed. “I will bet the goose was Machiavelli. A sly one, that bird.”
The valet wrinkled his nose. “Oh dear, his lordship said to return the lent apparel and pick up the soiled garments from Miss Shaw’s.”
“I fear you will have a messy, and smelly, time.” Serves you right.
The edges of the valet’s mouth curved down. “Yes. A most odoriferous task, judging by your and his lordship’s experiences.” He shuddered. “And may I extend my condolences? I cannot imagine a fate worse than falling into a dung heap.”
Will pressed his lips together to keep himself from guffawing. “I assure you, the experience has marked me for life.”
“Where are the garments in question?”
“In my room, on the chair.”
The valet’s mouth drooped. “I will fetch them, if I may.” He sighed. “And here I was ready to congratulate you on your prowess. And his lordship, too, for his incredibly fast work. He has been back for only a few days. I confess, I had revised my opinion of Miss Shaw for the worst when I first heard his story. But now I see she is exactly what she appears, the most respectable of ladies.”
Will’s blood turned into red-hot lava. He loomed over the valet. “I suggest you inform everyone of that.”
The valet gulped. “I most certainly shall.” And he scurried off.
Pray I undid any damage to Julia’s reputation. Tomorrow all and sundry would probably make mock of him, but let them. They could rib him as much as they liked, but he would break in half any man who cast aspersions on Julia.
With the valet gone, silence thundered in the corridor. Will’s heart pounded. What would happen when he saw Tyndall? He knocked on the library door and then entered.
A fire snapped and crackled in the grate, a lit lamp on the desk poured golden light over the furniture, but the room was empty. A reprieve.
He lowered himself into the chair before the desk. He drummed his fingers on the arm, tapped his foot, and leaned back. Then he stood and trod from the fireplace to the French doors.
A slim crescent moon hung over the tallest pole of the aviary like a Christmas ornament.
He leaned against the door frame, and shivered at the cold that leaked around the wood. The man he had left at the aviary while he searched told him his lordship found the ducks unharmed. Good. He would have been sad to lose those beautiful, delightful creatures. He himself was to blame for the ducks’ loss, but how they escaped remained a mystery, one he was at a loss to explain.
But that might be a moot point. Within the next hour, he could be out of a job, and then he wouldn’t have anything to offer Julia. He returned to his chair and sat on its edge.
The mantel clock ticked, its measured cadence as ominous as a dirge marking out the last minutes of his employment.
His stomach growled. He hadn’t gone to supper tonight, too nervous about this upcoming interview to eat. If Lord Tyndall dismissed him, maybe he would allow him a last meal.
With a soft snick, the door opened to admit Tyndall. The nobleman inclined his head. “Good evening, Borland.”
Will rose. “Good evening, sir.” Now was not the time to presume on friendship and use a more familiar name.
Tyndall strode behind the desk and sat, motioning for Will to sit, too.
As Will reseated himself, Tyndall leaned back and steeped his fingers. “As you have heard by now, I found my ducks.”
“I saw them. I am happy they are safe and unhurt.”
“You have the responsibility to ensure the birds are secure.”
Will gulped. “Yes. This is all my fault. I apologize.” Here it comes. Turned off. He could probably return to his old job with the canal company. They had been unhappy when he resigned, but he would have to ask Julia to wait.
“Yes, but I would like to know how the ducks got out of the aviary.”
Will squirmed. “I do not know. The underkeepers swear they latched the gate whenever they entered and left the aviary that day. I myself saw the locked gate that night. Anyone, human or bird, can intrude into the aviary only via the gate, but there are no strangers in the area. I check the net and fence every day, and I saw no holes.”
Tyndall drummed his fingers on the desk top. “Well, make sure the same thing does not happen again.”
Will released a breath. He still had his job! “Thank you. I am grateful—”
“Yes, yes.” His lordship raised a dismissive hand. “Besides the fact that you do an excellent job with the aviary, part of the reason I will let this go is because I suspect Machiavelli was involved.”
“But how?”
“I found out how the goose entered and left the aviary.” Tyndall explained.
“He can lift latches? I thought of that, but then dismissed the idea as preposterous. The goose is more talented than I knew. Perhaps he left the gate open when he entered, and the ducks took the opportunity to leave.”