She could scarcely have blundered onto a more unfortunate choice of words. Redmond stiffened. “The ladies certainly do. One way or another.”
So much for olive branches, thought Charity, and yearning to push him into the nearest bramble bush, said calmly, “We have little choice. Whatever our private inclinations, we are obliged to conform to expected patterns of insipid accomplishments; to speak inanities lest we be judged bluestockings; to strive always to meet the male notions of beauty, however far we may be from hoping to achieve such a state.”
Scanning her with resentful eyes, Redmond felt no compelling urge to argue the point as she undoubtedly expected him to do. She was not a beauty, nor ever would be. Her face was too gaunt, and her shape more that of a boy than a young woman. The eyes, one had to admit, were quite beautiful, and that red-gold hair not at all bad, especially in the sunshine, but her manners were deplorable. He responded, “I fancy every man has his own unique concept of beauty. As for being a bluestocking, do you perhaps mean that you enjoy to read? Or do you refer to those appalling spinsters who are well informed on everything from politics to philately and delight in proving to any gentleman how inferior is his own knowledge by comparison?”
“Oh, for an axe!” thought Charity, but she somehow managed a creditable little titter. “Acquit me of that, I beg. Surely you must know that a girl has to do far less to be judged a bluestocking. Let her only discuss anything more intellectual than gossip, fashions, or babies, and she is in real danger of being set down as ‘clever.’ A state no male can endure in a woman.” She parried Redmond’s frigid glare with a glittering smile and swept on, knowing she was being outrageous. “It is all based on fear, though few would acknowledge it. The gentlemen deplore silly, empty-headed females—and invariably marry them, if only to assure themselves of how superior they are. And also,” she appended loftily, “so that they may continue their various indiscretions under the very noses of their wooden-headed wives.”
“Which would account, no doubt,” he sneered, “for the untold numbers of poor hapless males who are trapped ’neath the cat’s foot.”
“If a male is poor and hapless, Mr. Redmond, he will sooner or later wind up under somebody’s foot, whether it be that of his parent, spouse, or superior officer. The point is that a gentleman has so vast a scope compared to a lady. And when one sees what most men make of their lives…” She paused, eyeing him with faint reproach.
So now he had been judged a failure in life! Furious, he donned the mantle of polite boredom that had daunted several managing mamas. “I have not the slightest doubt, ma’am, but that you, for example, would have taken the opportunities I have so shamefully squandered and turned them to good account. Had I but a soupçon of your ambition I might very well be Prime Minister by now!”
Markedly undaunted, Charity opened her eyes at him and enquired, “Is that what you aspire to, Mr. Redmond? My, but I should never have guessed you to have a turn for politics.”
“Very astute of you, Miss Strand,” he snapped, forgetting to be condescending. “For I find politicians to be a set of pompous bores with whom I mingle as little as possible.”
“Really? I expect your vast experience in such matters should influence me to change my own opinion. I cannot help but wonder at Lord Palmerston, you know. Such a charming gentleman, and I have never found him a bore. I must ask him how he came to be so taken in.”
Redmond, who admired Palmerston, concentrated upon where he might bury this revolting woman, after suitably strangling her, and how Brutus might be dissuaded from digging her up again.
Charity said with kind encouragement, “Now, surely there must be something to which you aspire, sir? Besides being Prime Minister, which might be rather difficult, do you not like to be a politician first?”
He replied with a teeth-bared smile, “Oh, there was, my dear lady. I like to think I have achieved it.”
“A—duellist?” she cried, her eyes becoming so round that his fingers fairly itched for her throat.
For a moment he did not trust himself to speak. Then, a pulse twitching beside his jaw, he ground out, “There are occasions, Miss Strand, when even murder is … well justified!”
* * *
“Who are you? And what are you doing to Little Patches?”
The clear, girlish voice caused Mitchell Redmond to drop the willow branch he had been trailing to amuse eight ounces of incredible ferocity, and he spun around guiltily.
A scrawny, untidy damsel of some ten or eleven summers stood watching him. Her dark hair was a dishevelled, frizzy mass with an occasional lurking curl that looked surprisingly glossy, perhaps because it was unexpected. There was a streak of mud along one side of her pointed plain little face, and more mud on the white muslin dress, and she clutched a rather wilted bouquet of wildflowers in a slim, muddy hand.
“I am Mr. Redmond,” he said. Alert brown eyes scanned him with an eager expectancy, as though he must have something very pleasant to tell her, and his slow smile dawned. “And who are you, Mrs., er…?”
She giggled. “Storm. Josie Storm. And I’m not a missus yet, ’cos I’m only twelve. We think. Here—” She thrust her bouquet at him. “Hold these, if you please.”
He accepted the charge, betraying no dismay that his hand thereby became muddied also, and curious because her careful but slightly less than cultured speech did not quite match that expensive, if sullied muslin.
Miss Storm swooped upon Little Patches who had sat down to cleanse one paw, and gathered her up. Returning to stroll along beside the tall man, she cuddled the purring kitten and explained, “Just for now, I’m a ward. ’Course, I might be a missus when I grow up, unless Mr. Dev decides to—” She pursed her lips and peeped up at Redmond, her face all sparkling mischief.
She was, he realized, much prettier than he had at first thought. Her hair was undeniably frizzy, and her chin pointed; her mouth was too generous and her nose, although straight, lacked distinction. Yet there was about her an air of friendliness and trust and an irresistible brightness. He wondered what this “Dev” fellow had in mind for her.
“Who, dare I ask, is Mr. Dev?” he drawled. “And what is it that he’s to decide?”
Miss Storm released the now squirming kitten, who at once began to stalk a drifting dandelion seed. “He’s Alain Jonas Devenish,” she announced, as though the utterance of that name rated a roll of drums. “My guardian. And I’m not ’lowed to say what he might decide. You got very nice eyes, but you’re not so handsome as my Dev. ’Specially when you frown.”
“Am I doing so? My apologies. Quite terrified, are you?”
The resultant beam illuminated her face. “No,” she said with a giggle, and tucked her hand confidingly into his as they walked on again. “But you did look cross. Why? Do you know my Dev?”
He could not tell her of the ugly suspicion her words had awoken in his mind, and so evaded. “The name is familiar. Wasn’t he in some kind of trouble a short while ago?”
Her laugh was a merry trill, and she performed a miniature pirouette. “What kind? My Dev’s had all sortsa troubles.”
“Has he?” said Redmond, smiling with her. “Like—you, for instance, madam?”
“Oh yes. I’m his worstest trouble by far, he says. Do you like cats?”
“But of course.”
“Some men don’t. Was—were you taking Little Patches for a walk?”
He chuckled. “I fancy it was the other way round. I suppose you are in school? Or have you a governess?”
“Mr. Dev can’t send me to the cemetery ’cause I don’t always talk just so nice. What you sniggering at?”
Redmond sobered with an effort. “Your pardon. Was I sniggering?”
“I think so. It’s what Miss Cassell says I do when she talks jawbreakers at me. Did I say a bad word? Ain’t it—I mean, isn’t it ‘cemetery’ where young ladies go?”
“I hope not, Mademoiselle Josephine. I believe the word you seek is ‘seminary.’”
/> Briefly she was silent, then shook her small head as if banishing some half-remembered thought. “When I was little, I was stole by gypsies,” she revealed chattily. “My Dev ’dopted me so I wouldn’t be sold to a flash house.”
“Poor little girl.” Touched, he stroked her thick hair in a quick caress.
“Thank you,” she said blithely. “Come on, or I’ll be late for supper! What’s a wretched rake?”
Redmond’s jaw set, and the kindness died from his eyes. For a moment he said nothing, then he answered, “A very—unwise gentleman.” And having no doubt of the reply, asked, “Whom did you hear say that?”
“Miss Charity. She’s the dearest of dears. And so is Mrs. Rachel, even if she is so pretty. Miss Charity didn’t know I heared her say ‘wretched rake.’” She rolled the words around zestfully.
“Were I you, I don’t think I’d say it in front of anyone else. Not ladylike. Er, what did Miss Charity have to say about this—er, person?”
“She says as the wret— er, the unwise cove—”
“Gentleman.”
“Oh. Well, she says as how he’s gone and made us lose Little Patches prob’ly, and he wasn’t nothing but a iggerant warthog with tall feet.”
Redmond stared his astonishment. “She said—what?”
“I think that’s what it was. Something about warthogs, I know.”
Puzzling at it, he asked experimentally, “Could it have been ‘boor?’”
“Oh, that’s right! A iggerant boar! That means warthog, don’t it?”
He grinned, vexation rapidly giving way to amusement. “Not quite. And are you sure it wasn’t arrogant instead of ignorant?”
“Yes! What a silly I am! Did I get the rest right?”
“Almost…” He racked his brain, muttering dubiously, “Tall feet…” Then, with a sudden burst of laughter, “I have it! High in the instep!”
Once more her liquid little giggle rang out. “Dev will say I’m a proper goose.”
Still laughing, he gasped, “An ignorant warthog with tall feet! Wait till Harry hears that!”
* * *
“How lovely it is that Devenish has come,” Charity said happily. Already dressed for dinner, she adjusted her taffeta skirts with care and sat on the edge of the bed, watching Agatha thread a gold fillet through Rachel’s shining curls. “And little Josie, how happy she is now, bless her.”
“She deserves happiness, poor waif.” Rachel smiled up at the comely abigail. “That’s very nice, Agatha. Now, the emerald pendant I think will look well with this lime gown. Dev still limps, had you noticed, Charity?”
“Yes. And he probably drove today, which he should not do. But you know he never will admit that he is in the slightest troubled by that leg.”
“Never,” Rachel agreed. “But he looks to be in good spirits and is as saucy as ever.”
“Oh, most decidedly. No sooner did he learn that Mr. Redmond is here than he demanded to know whether the gentleman was trying to fix his interest with me.”
With the assurance that devoted service and a sharing of peril had given her, Agatha joined in the laughter. “Mr. Redmond is held to be a very good catch, Miss Charity. And,” she sighed admiringly, “what a lovely gentleman.”
“Much chance he would have,” Rachel said merrily.
“I cannot guess how he could be judged a ‘good catch’ with his reputation,” Charity argued. “Are the Redmonds very plump in the pockets?”
Rachel dabbed Essence of Dreams behind her ears and said thoughtfully, “I believe Sir Harry has a charming country seat in Hampshire, besides a comfortable independence. And of course his bride brought him her enormous fortune. But as to his brother…”
“Five thousand pounds a year, ma’am,” supplied Agatha, draping a zephyr shawl about her lady’s shoulders. “But they do say as his gambling has added to that, instead of knocking it all to pieces.”
Charity laughed. “I suppose your scamp of a spouse discovered all that for you.”
Agatha dimpled and admitted that Raoul did seem to “have a knack” for ferreting out bits and pieces of news. “Besides which,” she added, “that man of Mr. Redmond’s be such a bragger. When he bean’t singing—which is enough to drive a nightingale to crowing!—he’s jawing. And most of it about his master, which he shouldn’t ought to do if he knowed how to go on. Which he doesn’t!”
The sisters exchanged faint smiles. Rachel said gently, “DiLoretto seems very devoted, at least.”
“Oh, he is that, surely.” Agatha sniffed. “Is this broidered fan suitable, Mrs. Rachel? It has the greens in it.” She offered the fan for inspection and went on, “It ain’t fair to criticize, I s’pose. ’Specially since he don’t know beans about being a valet. How could he? What with being a foreigner and the sort of past he’s got.”
Rachel approved the fan and, curious, asked, “What do you mean? Never say Mr. Redmond’s man was once a criminal?”
Charity thought, “Why not? His master obviously was!” but she said nothing.
“I won’t go so far as to say that, ma’am,” said Agatha. “A ostler is what he was. At one o’ them dirty little hedge taverns in Belgium, I b’lieve. Mr. Redmond got hisself hurt in one o’ them duels and diLoretty looked after him. He’s been with Mr. Redmond ever since.”
Charity said dryly, “I thought the mighty Mitchell Redmond never was bested at anything.”
“Well, he’d likely not have been, miss, ’cept he was ill, and just the same he went up against some Eye-talian count who is famous with a sword.”
“How very stupid,” exclaimed Charity, disgusted. “And how typical.”
“Aye, miss, so I said. But diLoretty gets proper up in the boughs if you dare say anything ’gainst his master. He says as Mr. Redmond is a very brave gent. And very proud.”
Charity had a mental picture of Redmond’s face, pale and tight with fury after their verbal duel today. “Pride,” she said with a twinkle, “goeth before a fall!”
* * *
Partly because of Miss Josie Storm’s obvious adoration of her guardian, and partly out of interest in the reason behind Devenish’s apparently spur-of-the-moment decision to visit Strand Hall, Mitchell Redmond was eager to meet this new arrival. Unfortunately, a small disaster with neckcloths compounded the fact that his encounter with Josie had delayed his changing for dinner. Shooting his cuffs, he ran downstairs just as the gong was being sounded by a stern-faced footman. There was only time for Leith to perform a brief introduction.
Shaking hands, Redmond was more than a little astonished, for this man did not even remotely conform to his mental image of the guardian of a twelve-year-old girl. Alain Devenish was slim and slightly below average height. The cut of his coat was excellent, although his cravat was happily worse than Redmond’s. Despite his lack of inches, he was well built and his handshake was firm, but his features were so perfect as to be almost inhuman in their beauty, and the slightly curling blond hair, the dark blue of the wide-set eyes, added to an impression of extreme youth.
With a friendly grin that caused those same eyes to crinkle at the corners, Devenish said an unfortunate, “Jolly glad to meet you, Redmond. Heard you was with the Forty-Third so we’re all military men together. No lazy civilians amongst us, eh?”
Charity thought, “Oh, dear!” Bolster looked dismayed, and Tristram Leith groaned inwardly.
A film of ice chilled Redmond’s smile, and Devenish knew with a sinking heart that he had erred again.
“I suspect you confuse me with my famous brother,” Redmond pointed out dryly. “I was just another ‘lazy civilian,’ I fear.” His quizzing glass was raised, and through it he contemplated Devenish’s face. “Do you say you was in the military? How very remarkable.”
“Remarkable?” His chin lifting, Devenish said, “’Fraid I do not follow you, sir.”
“Oh, no offence,” drawled Redmond, and added, “Only that I had rather fancied you would have been too, er, young.”
“Had y
ou indeed? Well, allow me to inform you, Redmond, that our bugle boy was twelve years old!”
Redmond smiled with infuriating condescension. “That, of course, would explain it.”
Leith saw the quick flare of Devenish’s nostrils. He was very well acquainted with this young firebrand and lost no time in suggesting that they should proceed to the dining room.
Bowing gallantly, Devenish offered his arm to Charity Strand. He knew her laughing eyes were quizzing him, and he muttered sotto voce, “Gad! What an icicle!”
Mitchell ignored Bolster’s mildly reproachful stare and set Mr. Devenish down as an impertinent, frippery sort of fellow, quite unlikely to have had any association with the elusive, daring, and mysterious individual who occasionally went by the name of Diccon.
Despite their immediate and mutual antipathy, neither gentleman was so ill-bred as to flaunt such a reaction, and dinner went off pleasantly enough, Devenish asking eagerly that he be apprised of any news involving an apparent host of mutual friends and acquaintances, and Bolster, the Leiths, and Miss Strand just as eager that he tell them of developments concerning himself and his ward. Ever the polite host, Leith saw to it that Redmond was not left out of the conversation, and two hours slipped gracefully away. Not until they were ending the meal and Devenish had accepted the Chantilly crème that Fisher offered, did he remark that he planned to go to Town and had hoped the journey could be shared with the Strands.
“Missed ’em,” Bolster pointed out sagely.
“Well, I know that, you clunch. What I don’t know is what brings you into this sylvan solitude.”
Selecting a slice of café gâteau, Bolster inspected it with minute concentration. “I, ah, just ch-cha- happened to be in the neighborhood.”
“—of Dorsetshire,” Leith put in with a grin.
“Dorsetshire?” gasped Devenish.
Redmond drawled, “Jeremy has a catholic sense of neighbourhood.”
“It ain’t so far removed as Gloucestershire,” Bolster argued amiably, and watching Devenish, his eyes keen under their heavy lids, he asked, “Bit of a roundaboutation to travel from Devencourt to Town by way of Sussex, ain’t it?”
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