Miss Felicity's Dilemma

by Eileen Dreyer

  His grin was delighted. “I take that as a rare compliment from a lady of quality,” he said with a broad smile. He was a genial man, plump enough to betray his fondness for his own pub's food and neat enough to prove his pub was somewhere the upper classes could feel comfortable. “Did the gentleman find you?”

  “Find me?” Felicity asked, looking a bit stunned. “Who?”

  Mr. Brown stopped and gave Flint a little bow. “Said his name was Martin Teesdale. Said he'd brought news, and how could 'e find you? Nice chap. Young, sharpish dressed.”

  He suddenly had Flint's attention. “And you gave him her direction?” Flint asked, his voice sharp.

  “Aye. Not a secret, is it?”

  Flint turned on Felicity. “Why is he looking for you?”

  She was shaking her head, her expression bemused. “I have no idea. I don't know any Teesdales.”

  “He is Lord Brent,” Flint said, and felt his stomach drop when her eyes widened.

  “Oh, Bucky,” she answered with a nod and a frown. “He was a friend of the Lassiters. My last family.” It didn't seem to please him. “I wonder what he wanted.”

  “When did he come by?” Flint asked the innkeeper.

  This took some head scratching. “Yesterday morn.”

  “You haven't seen him since?”

  Mr. Brown shook his shaggy head. “Not since he headed toward the big house.”

  There was only one big house in the area.

  “In that case,” Flint said, nudging Felicity toward the door with a hand to her back, “I'd say we should get back and see if anyone at the house has seen him. Thank you, John.”

  The pub owner was frowning now. “We'll keep an eye out 'ere as well, will we?”

  “I'd consider it a favor,” Flint said.

  Before Felicity could argue, Flint had tossed her up atop Charlie.

  “You haven't seen Teesdale since you left the Lassiters?” he asked, vaulting into his own saddle.

  Felicity was still gathering her reins and settling her skirts. “No. Why?”

  “I have.”

  Which was when he changed direction. They weren't going back home. They were going to Gen's house, where his own houseguests had decamped.

  Felicity had no idea where they were headed until they got there. She might have had a chance to ask, but once Flint heard the name Teesdale he seemed to have forgotten that she didn't know how to ride. It was all she could do to stay on Charlie as thy pounded over fields and down roads.

  It might have been better that way. It gave her far less time to fret over the fact that she was about to once again meet the Siren looking as if she'd been dragged through a hedgerow backwards. She would have also wondered just what Bucky Brent wanted with her. He hadn't been a memorable man. He'd been mostly teeth and ears, his time divided between hunting with Eddie Lassiter and discussing philosophy with Eddie's father. Since Felicity had nothing to add to either pastime, they rarely crossed paths.

  Except that time Eddie Lassiter had backed her against the third-floor wall demanding she tell him why she wouldn't ride with him, and Bucky had tried to intervene.

  The house they approached now was a tidy Queen Anne comprised of red brick and gleaming windows. The garden was perfectly proportioned and groomed, classic geometrics in evergreen. Not one flower marred the smoothly sculpted lines of the bushes that stretched out before the house. Felicity thought the scene might have been a symphony of harmony. It struck her as sterile and over-controlled.

  And she thought that before the front door opened to reveal the siren in all her pink and blond glory, smiling as if she had just learned her lover was coming home.

  Flint was off his horse and heading toward the stairs before Felicity could even complain.

  “How lovely!” the siren caroled, clapping her hands. “I see you're out getting fresh air.”

  “Is Bucky here?” Flint demanded.

  Felicity wasn't sure exactly what she was supposed to do. Were they staying? Were they to leave again if Bucky wasn't here?

  Mrs. Dent-Hardy blinked, making it look like a slow dance. “Why, no. He left this morning. Why?”

  Flint stopped in his tracks. “Damn.”

  Now both women were blinking at him.

  “Bracken?” their hostess asked. “Are you disappointed you can't introduce your fiancée to him, or should I call out the militia?”

  He shoved a hand though his already-mussed hair and sighed. “Sorry. I thought he had some answers for me.”

  After another odd pause, the Siren looked up at Felicity and smiled. “Well, if it isn't a national emergency, perhaps you could convince Miss Chambers off her horse and into the house for a bit of tea.”

  Felicity flushed. The flush blossomed when Flint spun around and cursed again. “Sorry.”

  Then without a by-your-leave, he stalked up and simply swung her off Charlie as if she were an inconvenient parcel, leaving the horses to an approaching groom. Felicity pulled away from his hands, preferring not to face the Siren while her skin shot sparks, and brushed down her skirts, as if she had just been handed down from a coach.

  “How do you do, Mrs. Dent-Hardy?” she asked, hoping her smile was less strained than she felt as she dipped a curtsy. “I apologize for our precipitate arrival...”

  The beautiful woman waved aside the apology and held out a hand. “Don't tell me. Flint forgot to tell you where you were bound and why.”

  Having no other choice, Felicity took hold of her skirts and climbed the steps toward her. “A chronic condition, I assume?”

  The siren laughed. “Back to infancy. Come. Meet my remaining guests. Are you coming, Bracken, or do you prefer to scowl on my front parterre all day?”

  “I'd prefer to speak to Brent.”

  “Well, you'll have to ride to York. He was headed for the family seat.”

  Finally, Flint unstuck himself and followed Felicity up the stairs.

  She shouldn't have cared. But every time he drew near, her skin hummed, and that was awfully distracting. Especially for a woman who had been offered a devil's bargain, of which he was a part.

  The visit was unexceptionable, a perfectly charming hour sharing dishes of tea with three very elegant creatures who seemed to go out of their way not to mention the possible engagement or the fact that Felicity had ridden over in not just a day dress, but one that looked as if she'd found it in the dust bin.

  Felicity felt she comported herself well in their company. She had, after all, spent her formative years practicing just such socialization with women quite as elegant and proper. She sipped her tea, nibbled a fairy cake, and proclaimed her delight in the stories of Burns, the music of Scarlatti and the comedy of Sheridan. She mused over the weather and nodded vaguely at the mention of people she didn't know, and even the ones she did. She even made note of the fact that several of the names batted around at tea were the same that had been exchanged over dinner with Aunt Winnie. It seemed that the old woman didn’t only have visitors and correspondents of her own age, but across the generations. Considering how irascible the old spinster was, Felicity was amazed at the proof that she could claim such a diverse friendship.

  “Blackmail,” one of the ladies insisted. A mature redhead squeezed into a younger woman’s dress, she nodded sagely. “She knows everything about everyone. I wouldn’t put it past her to use the information to her benefit.”

  Mrs. Dent-Hardy let loose her throaty laugh. “Nonsense. There is no benefit. She hasn’t been seen in London in three decades. I like her.”

  “I do, too,” Felicity said.

  If she hadn't been so on edge, she might have actually enjoyed herself. But Flint was sitting right next to her, and Bucky Brent was hovering in the background. What had he wanted? Why after four months would anyone come looking for her? And how did he know where she was? It was a little late to apologize for not stepping in soon enough back at Lassiter Hall. And she was certain he had nourished no fatal attraction for her. If fatal attractio
n there had been, she would have expected his to be for Eddie.

  So then, why?

  “You must come see me without this grumpus,” she heard.

  Blinking, she yanked herself back from unproductive thoughts. “Of course,” she told Mrs. Dent-Hardy, although the likelihood of her riding over for a coze was faint at best. Still, she smiled and followed Flint as he rose to his feet. “Thank you so much for the hospitality.”

  And with a general round of bobs and curtsies, she and Flint were on their way.

  They were halfway home when she finally gave in to temptation and turned to Flint. “Why are you so interested in Bucky Brent?”

  He turned to her, his countenance fierce. “Why did he track you down?”

  Felicity blinked, nonplussed. “I have no idea. I haven't even seen him for four months. Why is it important? I know you cannot be jealous. Especially of him.”

  “Of course not. It would be ridiculous.”

  Should she tell him he'd just insulted her?

  “If you want to know,” he said, bringing his horse to a halt in the middle of a pasture, “I don't like coincidences. His being here...”

  Felicity was bringing Charlie to a halt alongside when she felt a plucking at her sleeve. Almost simultaneously there was a crack from behind her, and Flint jerked back.

  “Go!” he yelled, pulling his horse around, its hooves leaving the ground.

  “Go? Why?” Which was when she saw the blood. “My God!”

  “Get going before he reloads!” he yelled. “Get Billy!”

  And then he unceremoniously smacked Charlie on the rear, sending them into flight.

  Chapter 10

  Felicity was glad that Charlie knew the way home. It was all she could do to stay aboard as he thundered over the fields. She alternated between abject terror, a prayer that there weren't any fences to jump, and a growing certainty that she shouldn't have left Flint.

  He'd been shot. How could that happen? Why? It could be a poacher, certainly, but that crack had not sounded like the fowling pieces she'd heard over the years.

  But what else could it be?

  And then she saw the fence rise before her and forgot everything but her own survival.

  “Sweet, suffering...Charlie, no!” she begged, leaning down on his neck and clutching his mane with both hands.

  Evidently Charlie didn't hear her. Just as he'd been trained to do in his years on the hunt, Charlie gathered himself, his powerful hindquarters bunching, and up he sprang. Felicity thought she might have screamed. She knew she closed her eyes.

  She wasn't sure how, but she leaned back as he landed, jarring her so hard she thought she might have bitten her tongue. But she didn't fall off. It was silly, but that made her laugh and pat Charlie on his sweating neck. On he ran, with her hanging on for dear life until they both clattered into the stable yard.

  It seemed she didn't need to call Billy. He was running toward her before she even crunched to a halt.

  “What happened?” he demanded, grabbing Charlie's bridle as the horse skidded to a halt, almost unseating Felicity for the fourth or fifth time.

  “Flint....” she gasped, sliding sideways until the stablemaster caught her and set her on her feet.

  Her knees buckled, and she held on to his shoulders. “Somebody shot him. On the way...to...the Siren's...house.”

  “The what?”

  She shook her head, her breath coming in ragged gasps, her heart thundering. “Mrs. Dent-Hardy. About halfway back...in a field. He told me to...get...you...”

  Billy didn't ask more, just ran into the stable. Felicity leaned against a sweating Charlie, hoping the animal wouldn't move. She wasn't sure she was going to be able to stay on her feet. She heard shouting inside the barn, and then Billy was back on one of the hacks, another groom following.

  She was looking for the mounting block, when Billy pointed at her.

  “Stay here,” he commanded, pausing before her. “Can ya get Mrs. Windom to be ready for his lordship, then?”

  She wanted to go with him, but knew even as she clutched Charlie's reins that she'd only be in the way. She nodded and watched as Billy and the groom swept past. Then, hand to suddenly unsettled stomach, she ran for the house.

  “Mrs. Windom!”

  They prepared for any eventuality. Felicity had seen the blood on Flint's white shirt. She couldn't tell where it had come from but, just in case, they had hot water, lint, a bed made up, a call out for a local physician. She paced the kitchen and drove the staff mad, all sure Lord Flint would be carried back on a plank. Instead he slammed open the kitchen door and stalked in.

  Felicity stared.

  “We need to talk,” he said without preamble and took her by the arm.

  “I thought you was shot,” Mrs. Windom said from the corner.

  He kept walking, never taking his eyes from Felicity. “I was. I'm fine. Come along, Miss Chambers.”

  She felt suddenly cowed, as if she'd done something wrong. And out he dragged her through the green baize door and up two flights of stairs to the library.

  “What happened?” she demanded, still feeling completely disoriented. She had expected him to come in unconscious, bleeding, dead. He looked as mad as a wet cat, but hardly grievously injured. “I saw blood.”

  “Yes, yes.” Letting her go, he shut the door behind him. “He caught my shoulder. Third time it's been hit. Getting tiresome, actually. Sit down.”

  She sat. “But you should get it cared for. We're all ready...”

  “Not until I straighten this out.”

  He took up a position between her and the massive oak desk perched in front of the even more massive windows. The sun slanted in, dust motes dancing and his hair gleaming like dark fire as he leaned over her. His eyes were gleaming even more darkly, which made Felicity shiver. That gleam was solid rage.

  “What have I done?” she asked instinctively, wishing her voice didn't sound so small. Wishing her hands weren't trembling as reaction set in to his arrival.

  He was safe. He was standing. She hadn't realized how important that was to her until now.

  “I don't know yet,” he said. Before she could respond, he spun around to the drinks table in the corner. “Brandy?”

  “I don't suppose you have ale.”

  “I do not.”

  “Then brandy.”

  She saw that his hand was shaking as he poured, and that he was only using his left arm. Then she saw a puddle forming on the floor.

  “Before we go a minute more,” she said, springing to her feet, “you need to take care of that arm.”

  He glared at her, brandy decanter rocking gently in his hand. “I do not...”

  She pointed down. He cursed and slammed the decanter down. Then, using that same arm, he downed the brandy he'd poured and slammed the glass back down as well. “It can wait.”

  “No,” she retorted, “it cannot. Wrap it or suffer your housekeeper's wrath when her staff spends the next week trying to get blood out of the carpet.”

  She headed for the bell pull, but he intercepted her. “No. Here.”

  With an abrupt motion, he stripped off his cravat and handed it to her. Felicity accepted it and was immediately distracted by the warmth of it. The scent. Even over the metallic tang of blood, she could smell fresh air and evergreens, healthy male and something just a bit darker. Her heart started to gallop.

  What a reprehensible time to have this happen. She could have withstood him without it. But it was something so personal, so vital that she felt as if she had inhaled the essence of him, and that it was bold and free and strong. Everything she wasn't. Everything she wanted.

  “Well?”

  He didn't look as if he had been having the same thoughts. Startling to attention, Felicity walked up to him. “Remove your jacket, please.”

  He did. She suffered another setback. Of course, he would be a bit sweaty, enough that the fine linen molded to his sleek frame. Blast, she was never going to get anythi
ng done if he kept enticing her. Her own hands were beginning to sweat.

  He'd been shot, she reminded herself and briskly wrapped the warm linen tightly around his arm, not even bothering to demand he slip out of his shirt. He wouldn't have stood for it.

  She might not have survived it.

  Before she was finished, he was already moving back to the table and another pour of brandy. She followed along, tying the knot as quickly as she could.

  “It is still bleeding,” she all but accused, giving her work a final pat and stepping back. “You should have it stitched.”

  “Not now,” he retorted, pouring another glass of brandy for her. “Now sit. And tell me about Teesdale.”

  She sat. She did not reach for the glass. She was too busy staring at him, completely nonplussed.

  “Teesdale?” She gave her head a shake. “Oh, you mean Bucky. What about him? What does he have to do with you being shot? Wasn't it a poacher?”

  “It was not.”

  She finally remembered to take the glass from his hand. “How do you know?”

  He started pacing again, his own brandy glass in hand. “That was a Baker rifle you heard. Used by the 95th Rifles during the war. Excellent weapon for snipers. Not,” he said, turning back on her, “poachers.”

  She felt her skin go clammy. “They meant to shoot you?”

  “No,” he said, his voice sharp as cut glass. “I believe they meant to shoot you.”

  Chapter 11

  For a long moment Felicity didn't react. Then she laughed, a sharp, high sound. “Don't be absurd.”

  She wasn't certain what she thought he'd do. What she hoped, maybe. Laugh, tell her it was all a joke. Nothing else would make any sense.

  “Do I look as if I mean to be absurd?” he demanded. “The only reason you don't have a ball in your lungs is because you turned to talk to me.”

  Setting his glass down, he reached out to her. Felicity flinched, but all he did was take a fold of her sleeve between finger and thumb. She looked down.