Lovely Lying Lips

by Valerie Sherwood

  “There is a small cannon in the courtyard if your taste runs to more massive weapons,” observed a humorous voice from behind her. “Or if you take a daintier view, there are flintlock pistols and matched dueling pistols in the library.”

  Constance gave an involuntary start. She turned and found herself looking into Tony Warburton’s amused gunmetal eyes.

  “That item you were just considering with such interest is a Spanish hunting sword,” he remarked.

  Constance gave the wicked broad blade and heavy hilt a look and a shiver. “It does not interest me,” she protested.

  “Margaret loved this room,” said Tony Warburton with a sigh.

  “Hers was doubtless a more militaristic nature,” said Constance.

  “Doubtless,” he agreed. “But it’s cold in here. Unless you choose to don your pattens and go outside and view the cannon, let me suggest we try the dueling pistols in the library. You could enlarge your skill by taking a shot at me,” he added humorously.

  Constance sniffed and turned to go.

  He asked himself, as he followed her, why he had mentioned Margaret’s name. And decided it was purely defensive. Here in this room bristling with the implements of battle, he was fighting a last skirmish with himself against trying to claim this dark-haired velvet-eyed creature as his own. And losing the battle. The vision of Ned which he had held up to himself so firmly was fading fast away.

  “You should not let that fool Pell take you home,” he warned her as he fell into step beside her. “He’s a bad hand on the reins and no judgment at all of what a horse can or can’t do on ice and snow. On the way here, I kept expecting him to overset the sleigh.”

  “Perhaps Chesney is better with such things as—dueling pistols,” said Constance wanly, for hearing Margaret’s name had brought back to her a number of sickening truths, one of which was that she must ward off her feelings for this tall fellow in black and silver. At any cost.

  “If you continue to encourage him, he may well get his chance to prove that,” said the Captain shortly.

  “Why?” She gave a faint smile. “Will you challenge him?”

  “No, I will not—although I will admit that I yearned to throttle him today when he near carried you over the brink of the Cheddar Gorge. But Ned has not such a tight grip on his temper—he is young and hasty.”

  “Ned has no reason to call Chesney out. I do not belong to Ned!” said Constance with asperity.

  It was on the tip of the Captain’s tongue to tell her that indeed she did belong to Ned—or would as soon as the Squire made that clear to her. And that he would free her from that entanglement if she but gave him the word. But he checked himself grimly. He was as much to blame for the situation as any, he reminded himself. For had he not shaken hands with Clifford over the betrothal only yesterday? And now he was half a mind to sweep up the girl and carry her away himself! He wondered, shocked at the violence of his own turbulent emotions, whatever had happened to his honor.

  “I think the countryside would like to know where you stand on the succession,” said Constance in an effort to divert him from this talk of Ned.

  Captain Warburton gave a short laugh. “The countryside well knows where I stand. I’m against all Stuarts,” he added recklessly.

  “That’s a dangerous thing to say,” she warned him. “For whatever the rest of England may do, the West Country is lining up behind Monmouth.”

  He shrugged. He could have told her a deal about the Stuarts, including her precious duke, whom he personally considered a heedless fool. About Charles, he was thoroughly disillusioned. As for James, his information had it that if James succeeded to the throne he would end up making England subservient to Ireland—so much for James. “Personally I think I’d prefer a non-Stuart on the throne—Mary Stuart’s husband, William of Orange,” he laughed.

  Constance gave him a reproving frown for she was in deadly earnest about the Cause.

  They had by now reached one of the great reception rooms where guests were milling about. She could see Chesney looking about, undoubtedly searching for her. With a cool bow to Captain Warburton, she made straight for Chesney and stuck by him for the rest of the evening.

  “Wherever did you disappear to?” wondered Pamela when the two girls were alone together that night in the handsome high-ceilinged bedchamber that had been assigned to them. “I saw you come back with Captain Warburton. Ned looked annoyed—I don’t doubt they had words about it later.”

  “Ned doesn’t own me!” flashed Constance.

  “Well, I’d say you proved that by spending the whole of the evening with Chesney Pell! He’s quite bowled over by you, you know! I hear he’s quite rich if his mamma ever lets go of the purse strings—she was left in charge of his property until such time as she finds him fit to take over, can you imagine that? I say that time will be when she’s buried in the churchyard!” Pamela’s laughter pealed.

  Constance was hardly listening. She was looking out from their lofty third-floor bedchamber through the mullioned window at the parklike view, the snow-covered gardens, that spread out before her. “It’s very beautiful here,” she murmured.

  “A bit grim for me,” shrugged Pamela. “Granted the house is very grand but it lacks those little touches a woman would give it—it’s been bachelor quarters for too long! It’s so”—she searched for a word—“baronial, I suppose. Feudal. Aunt Margaret loved it.”

  Margaret again! “Huntlands lacks those little touches too,” Constance pointed out.

  “Yes, but I plan to give Huntlands those touches,” said Pamela, and then flushed.

  “So you and Tom are getting on rather well, I take it?”

  “Well—I’m not sure,” admitted Pamela frankly. “But at least he squired me over here and that’s an improvement. Oh, I do love him so, Constance.”

  “I know,” said Constance softly. She refrained from adding, Everybody knows!

  “And now that Melissa Hawley is spending all her time with Cart Rawlings—I caught them kissing behind the drapes in the library—I’m sure Tom will lose interest in her.”

  Or perhaps gain interest now that he has competition! thought Constance uneasily. ‘So, perhaps,” she said on a lighter note, “you’ll be redecorating Huntlands come summer!” And neither of them could foretell there in that peaceful bedchamber that next summer redecorating would be the last thing on anybody’s mind, that before that terrible summer was over, ball and shot would have whistled through English gardens like the one below them and the West Country would run red with English blood.

  Warwood, Somerset,

  The Sixth Day of Christmas 1684

  Chapter 25

  A message had come for Tom that his prize mare was foaling and he left Warwood early the next morning before the guests were up. Miffed that he had not waked her and taken her along, Pamela promptly climbed into Dick Peacham’s sleigh for the ride home. She waved her muff gaily at Constance who, against all advice, was riding back with Chesney—and hoping he would not overturn the sleigh.

  Chesney departed Axeleigh almost on arrival and set out for Hawley Grange to join Cart Rawlings. But Dick Peacham, who slipped on the ice when he got out of the sleigh and claimed he had turned his ankle, was left over.

  Pamela had an answer for that. She propped Peacham’s leg up on a pillow, told him sweetly that she had dozens of things to see to—and left him immobilized by his own lies. After dinner she pleaded exhaustion and left the bewildered Squire to entertain young Peacham, who discovered suddenly that his ankle was making a fast recovery and made it up the stairs under his own power.

  Now another morning at Axeleigh had come and gone and taken with it—at different times and in different directions—both a frowning Tom Thornton and an exuberant Dick Peacham. For just as Pamela was seeing Peacham to the door she glimpsed through the window Tom Thornton riding down toward their stables, bringing with him on a lead the horse he had borrowed. Why, he had passed by the house without stopping to say
hello! She flung open the door to glare at him and at the sound of the door opening, Tom looked back and waved a gauntlet glove at her. Instantly Pamela abandoned her plans to bid Dick Peacham a bored good-by and to Peacham’s amazed delight she threw her arms about him and gave him a warm good-by kiss. Let Tom view that!

  And again the Squire, just rounding the corner of the house, stopped short and took note of her surprising behavior.

  Tom Thornton took note of it too. If only Pamela had not had her face pressed so closely against Dick Peacham’s florid one, she would have seen the sudden angry ripple of Tom’s shoulder muscles that strained against the woolen material of his scarlet coat. But he did not turn his course from the stables. Damme, Pamela was too good for Peacham! he was thinking hotly. Of course, if Pamela was determined to make a fool of herself, he supposed he could not stop her—short of calling Peacham out, which he would have been ashamed to do, for Peacham was no shot at all and was known to be the poorest sword arm in the county! He was unaware that it was a good-by kiss, for Peacham’s horse had not yet been brought round.

  Pamela, having pushed Peacham away to see how Tom was taking this, was disappointed to find only his broad back in view. She bade Peacham a swift good-by, announced that she was cold and had forgot her shawl and went quickly back inside, shutting the door rather hard behind her.

  She would have been delighted had she been able to observe Tom’s entry into the big stone stable. Full of impotent fury, he flung himself off his horse in the wide doorway, tossed the reins to the nearest groom and stomped to the spacious stall where, the stable boys assured him, Satan had passed a comfortable night. Tom felt the big horse’s leg gingerly. Much better. Indeed he could probably ride Satan home right now. But that of course would give him no very good excuse to stop by tomorrow and see how matters were proceeding between Pamela and that bumbling Peacham fellow. For Tom had no way of knowing that Peacham had already departed.

  Not admitting to himself why he did it, Tom rose.

  “Best I leave Satan here another day,” he said. “I’ll look in on him tomorrow.” He vaulted back into the saddle and took a shortcut back to Axeleigh that was perilously deep in snow, rather than cantering back down the driveway to the road. He told himself he was being civil, not exposing Pamela and her new lover to his curious gaze—even though a quick glance had assured him they were not in sight. But he swore at every tree limb that whipped his face along the shortcut, and when he lost his hat to one he dismounted and seized it with such force that he crushed the brim.

  Afternoon came to Axeleigh. The peacocks strutted across the snow uttering their demonic screams. Cook swore at Tabby, who had run by chasing Puss and overturned a whole crock of cream upon the stone-flagged flooring. Constance huddled in a window seat and read. Pamela, with loyal Tabitha at her side, checked out the cellars to be sure they’d have enough food for the upcoming Twelfth Night Ball, and came up to scold Constance for reading when they had so much to do.

  With a sigh, Constance put down her book and helped Pamela supervise the counting of the linens to make sure they would have enough of everything for it was so cold outside that laundry would freeze on the lines. When Tabby suggested they could hang the laundry in the chilly attics to dry, Pamela shook her head.

  “All those wet linens would make the air so damp,” she explained. “And the servants sleep in that warren of rooms up there. I wouldn’t want any of them to catch cold.”

  Constance thought of Claxton House, where the servants’ health was never given a thought, and smiled at Pamela. She would make a wonderful wife for Tom—if only he had the sense to see it!

  Tom came over and got Satan the next day. Having asked one of the grooms casually if “that Peacham fellow” was still in residence and been assured he was gone, he left contentedly, riding Satan jauntily down the drive. Pamela, who was busy supervising the airing of the beds, was furious when she learnt she had missed him.

  “We can find some excuse to ride over to Huntlands,” suggested Constance, amused.

  “No, there really isn’t time. There’s an awful lot left to do because so many guests will be staying over, and they’ll bring their maids, and their coachmen must be seen to—oh, it will be a terrible crush, I promise you!”

  The Squire, passing by, heard that and smiled. He had not yet told Constance of his decision to betroth her to Ned. Indeed he could not bring himself to do so for she seemed so downcast, flitting by him with her dark head slightly bowed—as if life was raining blows upon her!

  Well, he would tell her and make the announcement all in one evening at the Twelfth Night Ball. Such an occasion of merriment would buck up her spirits and she would realize what was best for her. But as Twelfth Night approached, he found that he was not looking forward to it. Indeed he felt old these days. He had a harem-scarem daughter who seemed intent on marrying the wrong man, a ward who seemed intent on becoming an old maid, a sister in hiding and believed dead by all, and now a blackmailer had dredged up the only disreputable thing he had ever done in his life—he was not up to these intrigues!

  He sighed and wished fervently that the Twelfth Night Ball was over.

  It was on him soon enough.

  For the occasion his daughter had chosen a stiff olive plush petticoat and an overgown of heavy buttercup yellow satin with an enormous flaring skirt. Almost every inch of the satin was so heavily embroidered with olive silk thread that the entire garment could have stood alone. Her big puffed sleeves were lined with matching olive plush and decorated with myriad yellow rosettes to complement the yellow rosettes scattered on skirt and bodice. To Constance she gave the impression of a face with a head of golden hair rising out of a flowering bush.

  She herself was wearing a very plain rosy-amethyst changeable silk over a sinuous purple velvet petticoat latticed in silver threads. She had chosen it because it moved gracefully and because its neckline was shockingly low. For her mood tonight was rebellious.

  The Squire, watching the two girls drift down the stairs to greet their guests, was proud of them both. With approval he noted Constance’s high color—indeed her purple velvet eyes seemed to be throwing off amethyst sparks—and determined to tell her about her betrothal the first chance he got.

  But the sparks he saw in her eyes were the sparks of rebellion. For Constance was feeling angry and bitter. She had been thinking of Dev who had so lightly taken her and so lightly left her. And now as she came downstairs she was thinking, I should get out of all this! I should forget Dev and accept the first man who offers to take me far away from here! Away from Tony Warburton and Ned and this constant bringing up of Margaret’s name to make me feel even worse than I do!

  The Squire was smiling at her approvingly. She greeted a group of arriving guests and flashed him back a smile, dangerously bright.

  She looked up in time to see Dick Peacham make his entrance. Gaudy in peach silks, he all but danced in and hovered over Pamela.

  Cart Rawlings, with a resplendent scarlet-clad Melissa on his arm, was arriving too—and with them Chesney Pell, who bent down to whisper, “Cart stayed so long at Hawley Grange on the way here I was afraid I’d be too late to lead you out in the first dance!”

  “Well, you aren’t too late,” smiled Constance, thinking how that would annoy both Ned and Tony, who had arrived earlier.

  Now all but a couple of late-arriving guests had come, and the musicians, hidden behind a screen, were striking up.

  “My daughter and my ward shall both lead off the dance!” called out the Squire jovially.

  “The Daffodil and the Iris!” cried someone and there was a scattering of friendly laughter and applause as Dick Peacham escorted Pamela, frowning because Tom was so late, to the floor and Ned, suddenly stepping in front of Chesney, led out Constance.

  The satin-and-beribboned company, the ladies with their artful black face patches and cunning coiffures, the gentlemen garbed like peacocks with lace at throat and cuffs, watched as the handsome foursome swir
led into the dance. Only Chesney stood open-mouthed and furious that his lady had been snatched from his arms and without so much as a by-your-leave!

  “I had promised the first dance to Chesney.” Constance gave Ned a look.

  Ned’s answering look was just as level for the Squire had assured him he would make the announcement tonight. So whatever game Constance was playing, whether she wished merely to make him jealous or whether she really had a passing interest in this fellow from Lyme, all would be resolved tonight. Once publicly betrothed, if Chesney Pell tried to come between them, he’d call him out, damme, he would!

  “I did not hear ye do so,” he said pleasantly.

  “You didn’t ask! You just seized my hand and plunged forward!”

  “Perhaps that is what you need,” he smiled. “A forceful hand on the reins.”

  Constance gasped. “Don’t speak of me as if I were a horse!”

  “Why not?” he said imperturbably. “You’re fractious, you insist on taking the bit between your teeth—and you bolt!”

  Constance’s teeth ground. “I had thought you would be dancing the first dance with Margie Hamilton!” she snapped.

  So she had noticed all the attention he had paid to Margie Hamilton at Warwood. Ned favored her with a benevolent smile. “The Hamiltons are our neighbors. It is incumbent upon me to be nice to their daughter.”

  “Don’t be stuffy!” cried Constance. “You spent the whole evening with her at Warwood! Why aren’t you with her now?”

  “Because I prefer you. Sometimes I wonder why, but I do.”

  Constance was trembling with rage when Captain Warburton, neatly stepping before Chesney—in fact, nearly treading upon the toe of Chesney’s boot, which was pulled nimbly out of the way just in time—claimed Constance for the next dance.