Summer though it was, the night air was on the cool side, and if she stood out here very long without so much as a scarf around her shoulders, she would likely catch a chill and die, and it would all be the baron’s fault, because he had taken advantage of her.
She shivered and hugged her arms, which helped, but not enough. She could not keep from remembering how warm Lord Leatham’s arms had been when he had wrapped them around her. “My lord,” she murmured to herself, “if you do not take yourself off to bed soon, you will likely find me frozen solid by morning, because no matter how cold I become out here, I am going to resist the temptation, which I freely admit is tantalizing, to curl up on your lap.”
As if he had heard her, Lord Leatham drained the last drops of brandy from his glass, stood up, stretched, and approached the windows.
Although she was sure she could not be seen from inside the room, Anne instinctively took several steps backward. Then she heard the distinctive click of a bolt being shot home, and she took an involuntary step forward.
Oh, no, he could not have done this to her! He could not have locked her out!
Even as she watched, all the candles but one were extinguished, and that one was picked up by Lord Leatham, who exited the room without a backward glance.
* * * *
On the morrow, Bronson thought while climbing the stairs, he would first rid himself of his unwelcome guests, then pursue the matter of why Miss Hemsworth’s kisses were so very potent—but he was forgetting the boys.
Perhaps he had best send the effusive Mrs. Pierce-Smythe and daughter cum baggage and servants on their way, then foist the twins off for an hour or two on some unsuspecting servant....
No, none of the servants were that naive.
An interesting project, that was what he needed. Something to occupy the twins while he, Bronson, was occupied with Miss Hemsworth. Surely he could think of something intriguing enough. He must also have inherited an adequate measure of the ingenuity that had been allotted in such abundance to his young relatives.
On the other hand, if he failed to come up with a suitable idea, perhaps Daws could be persuaded—coerced?—into minding the twins. A bribe might be useful in that respect....
* * * *
Anne was ready to kick in one of the panes of glass in the French doors. It was not really a hopeless situation, of course. She could always pound on the kitchen door until she awakened one of the servants. Assuming, of course, that she was willing to make a spectacle of herself.
Which she was not about to do.
Abandoning her attempts to pick the lock on the French doors, she strode briskly around the house to the back and stared up at the window of her room. So near and yet so far. She could, of course, easily climb the ivy to her little balcony, where she would doubtless also be unable to pick the lock, since she had carefully secured it days ago, immediately after the abortive attempt by Trussell to climb into her bed.
To the best of her knowledge, he had never made the least effort to scale the heights of her balcony, so the only one she had locked out was herself.
Curses on all men! Aunt Sidonia was correct when she said all men were useless encumbrances.
But even if there were no unlocked doors, there must be an unlatched window somewhere in this mammoth pile of stones— there had to be.
Aha! Above her room and to the right, a curtain fluttered through an open window. Without further ado, Anne tore a strip off her petticoat, then used it to tie her skirt up out of the way, the way Aunt Sidonia had instructed her when teaching her the various methods for escaping from a burning building.
Of course, Aunt Sidonia had never anticipated that she, Anne, would need to climb into a building to escape from a man’s burning kisses. In fact, now that Anne thought about it, Aunt Sidonia had been strangely reticent on the entire subject of kissing.
* * * *
“Pssst! Drew!” Anthony slid out of bed and scurried across the floor to his brother’s bed. “Wake up, Drew!”
“Wha ... ?”
Anthony laid his hand over his brother’s mouth. “Don’t make any noise,” he hissed. “Someone’s climbing up the wall outside our room.”
“You’re dreaming.” Andrew muttered, rolling over on his side and pulling the covers up over his head.
Anthony jerked the blankets back down again. “No, no, I’m not dreaming. Look!” He pointed at the floor, where a gigantic shadow appeared in the moonlight, a misshapen shadow that grew even larger while they watched.
The thing was so fearsome that Anthony, who was not normally a coward, quickly dived under the covers beside his brother.
His curiosity proved stronger than his anxiety, however, and when he heard footsteps beside the bed, he had to take the risk of peeking out.
“Anne?”
There was a muffled gasp, then a low laugh.
“Anne!” Andrew elbowed his brother in the face when he sat up. “What are you doing here, Anne? Tony said you were a monster.”
Anne looked down at the two faces staring up at her. She should have known that the only ones in the house not afraid of the miasmas in the night air, the only ones daring enough to leave their windows open would be the twins.
She started to fob them off with a blithe answer about having locked herself out of the house, when something compelled her to take them into her confidence. Lord knows, she was going to need some help on the morrow if she was to avoid Dear Aunt Rosemary and Dear Cousin Rosabelle.
Seating herself on the bed beside the boys, she began her explanation. “Do you remember that I told you my real name is Lady Gloriana? And that when I was a little younger than you two, I went to live with some relatives who only cared about me because I had a title?”
“We remember,” one shadowy figure beside her said.
“Well, they are here now. In this house.”
“Oh.”
“Yes, oh. And if they discover I am employed here as the governess, I am afraid certain people are going to be unhappy that I kept my identity a secret.”
“You did not keep it a secret from us. And after all, you are our governess, not Uncle Bronson’s.”
“But he is my employer.” For a moment Anne remembered what Lord Leatham had said about being a very lenient employer, but she suspected even that leniency might be strained to the limit, were he to discover she was not precisely who she claimed to be.
“As I see it,” one of the boys said very seriously, “the only thing to do is keep you out of their sight for a few hours tomorrow.”
“A few hours? I think you fail to understand. She is undoubtedly planning an extended visit. She brought along enough luggage for a trip to the moon.”
Beside her a twin giggled, but the other one said quite calmly, “Oh, but Uncle Bronson never lets them stay long.”
“They have come here before? Why did you not mention it earlier?”
“No, no, not these specific females. Others. You know, Anne—”
“The mamas with their silly daughters—”
“Pretending their carriages have broken down—’
“Even when everyone knows that the lane leading to Wylington Manor doesn’t go anywhere but here.”
“You know.”
“Yes,” she sighed, “I know well the stratagems used to trap a man into marriage.”
“Yes, but Uncle Bronson is too clever.”
“He has a special arrangement with Thomas Curry—”
“The wheelwright in Tavistock.”
“And your cousins will be all fixed up and on the road again before noon.”
“And we can hide you until noon.”
“Easy.”
“We once hid—”
“For a week. Yes, I know,” Anne said. “But I have no intention of hiding in the house. Not when we have lessons to do. So I shall meet you in the lower gardens at seven, and we shall spend the day on the moors.’
“And I shall have cook fix us a picnic lunch,” one of the boys
added.
“Although we could, of course, snare a rabbit and roast it over a fire we built ourselves,” the other boy suggested.
“I do not doubt it,” Anne said, smiling to herself. “But as we have already completed the lessons in foraging for food, it might be better to speak to the cook. And see if you can provide us with a substantial breakfast, also, because I do not think I will risk eating in the morning room. Dear Aunt Rosemary cannot be relied upon to sleep until noon.”
* * * *
“I wish you will stop fidgeting with my neckcloth, Wyke. It is vastly more important that we plan the next attempt on the twins’ lives than that I present a good appearance here in the back of beyond.” Creighton Trussell started to pour himself another brandy, but the bottle was already empty, so he tossed it aside.
“If I may be allowed to express my opinion, sir, I am not at all convinced of the wisdom of taking such a risk.”
“Do my ears deceive me? You are questioning my instructions? May I remind you that it is not for you to decide policy; that is my prerogative. It is merely for you to help determine the best way to implement my plan.”
“Surely there is no hurry. It would appear that Lord Leatham is settled in here for the summer.”
“No hurry? Of course there is a need for haste. To begin with, the gossip about the shooting attempt has completely died down. For another, not only am I missing the end of the Season in London, but all of my friends are probably even now preparing to remove to Brighton. Did you expect that I should be content to spend the summer here on the moor, where no one would even care if I were to appear at dinner wearing the same waistcoat two nights in a row? Really, Wyke, sometimes you astound me.”
“I beg pardon, sir. I was not thinking clearly.”
“Well, you had better start pulling your wits together, because I intend to make the attempt tomorrow night.”
“So soon?” Wyke had never regretted anything so much in his life as he now did his delay at writing to the lusty widow. Oh, if only she were here now, to take control of this—this monster—this little man with delusions of power—this imitation Napoleon, making his grandiose plans.
“Yes, so soon. I see no reason to delay, unless you have still failed to procure a map of the moor?”
“No, I have one right here.” Wyke pulled it out of his pocket and handed it very reluctantly to his employer, who eagerly spread it out on his lap.
“I believe you have it upside down, sir.”
“Of course, of course.” Trussell righted it. “Now then ... hmmm ... yes....”
With one last prayer to the gods who had obviously forsaken him, Wyke moved around behind the chair, reached over Trussell’s shoulder, and pointed to a little spot on the map. “We are here, sir, and here is the lane leading back to the main road.”
“Oh, yes, of course, quite right.”
“And here is—”
There was a loud knock at the door, and Trussell immediately started trying to refold the map. Before he succeeded, the door opened and Mrs. Pierce-Smythe entered the room without so much as a by-your-leave.
In total panic, Trussell shoved the map at Wyke, who calmly held it behind his back. Then, while the others were talking, he considered how best to dispose of the incriminating evidence.
“Wh-wh-wh-what are you doing here?” The disordered state of Trussell’s mind was evidenced by the fact that he did not even follow the rudiments of courtesy and rise to his feet, but remained instead cowering in his chair.
“Now, is that any way to greet your beloved after such a long absence?”
Mrs. Pierce-Smythe was smiling at Trussell, but if she was intending to calm him, thought Wyke, she was bound to fail. She had the look about her of a cat that has cornered a mouse and is toying with it.
Surreptitiously he moved backward, step by careful step, until he felt the dressing table behind him. Carefully he eased a drawer open and stuffed the map into it.
“But—but—but—you can’t—” Trussell had still not completely regained his power of speech.
“Listen closely, my little man. Tomorrow you will arise at a goodly hour. By that I mean eight of the clock, not noon. You will seek me out in whatever room breakfast is normally served in, and you will invite me to stay on here at Wylington Manor for an extended visit, is that clear?”
Her voice was so forceful, even Wyke took another involuntary step backward, inadvertently pushing the drawer closed on his fingers. With an indrawn breath caused by the pain, he tugged at the drawer until he finally managed to release his hand.
Trussell, meanwhile did not even attempt to speak, but just nodded his head up and down, up and down, as if once put into motion he could no longer control it.
The widow stared at him fixedly for a few moments, as if to reassure herself that he had indeed gotten her meaning, then she turned to Wyke, who barely stifled the urge to cringe before her.
“I shall hold you responsible for seeing that he is there on time, sober and presentable, and with his lines practiced.”
“As you wish, madame.” His mien carefully impassive, Wyke executed a correct bow, and moments later the woman was gone.
Although Wyke rather thought he had carried it off well—certainly better than Trussell had—still, his palms were clammy and his knees were shaking. What kind of fiend had he conjured up? To be sure, the lusty widow could easily control his master, but why had it never occurred to him to wonder who would control her?
Turning to speak to Trussell, Wyke discovered the lily-livered coward had fainted dead away in his chair.
Chapter Eleven
Bronson was not in an especially good mood the next day when he descended to the morning room with the intention of breaking his fast. To begin with, he had not slept well the night before; his mind had been too filled with thoughts of Miss Hemsworth. Then, upon awakening, he had spoken to Daws, who had exhibited an unwavering reluctance—nay, an outright refusal—to undertake the supervision of the twins for even a few hours. To put the finishing touches on his ill humor, Bronson now had to endure the company of the two stranded females.
He had assumed that they would sleep late after their previous evening’s adventures, but voices in the hallway half an hour earlier had forewarned him that he would not be able to drink his coffee in peace. Noon, he promised himself. He had only to hold onto his sanity until twelve, and then he would be rid of the intruders.
Gritting his teeth, he pushed open the door to the small room at the back of the house where breakfast was normally served. Chorley was there before him, efficiently serving the two females. Miss Hemsworth was noticeable only by her absence.
“Ah, good morning, my lord. I was just commenting to my daughter on what a pretty little room this is. So merry, with the sunbeams dancing in through the windows. I do like a breakfast room with a southern exposure, do you not also?” Mrs. Pierce-Smythe regarded him with an arch look.
The devil take the woman, it was going to be worse than he had thought. Apparently she was one of that appalling breed who not only yapped constantly, but who continually asked fatuous questions, demanding of her listeners that they make token responses. Well he was not going to give her the slightest encouragement. Unfortunately, the black look he gave her failed utterly to intimidate her.
“Try some of the coddled eggs, my lord, I am sure I have never eaten better anywhere, and I have a French chef, whom Lady Stansford is forever trying to steal away from me, but I am afraid she is doomed to disappointment because Pierre will never allow himself to be lured away. The last time she made him an offer, I simply doubled his salary and bought him a new enclosed stove, and that was the end of that.”
Without saying a word, Chorley set a mug of steaming coffee in front of Bronson, who grabbed it with the relief of a drowning man.
“Merciful heavens, are you having coffee so early in the day? Such a heathen custom. Are you sure you would not prefer a nice cup of tea? Or perhaps some hot chocolate? If you wi
sh, I can ring for—”
“No!” He was more abrupt than he had intended, and she stared at him open-mouthed. “Thank you,” he added more mildly, “but on my travels I grew accustomed to coffee in the morning.” And peace and quiet with breakfast, he wanted to add.
“My dear husband, God rest his soul, preferred to take his breakfast on a tray in his room, but I have always enjoyed having a pleasant conversation with my meals.” She continued to rattle on, while Bronson did his best to close his ears to her chatter.
Her husband, the late unlamented Mr. Pierce-Smythe, had had the right idea: At this moment, breakfast on a tray in his room held great appeal for Bronson.
About halfway through the meal, the door opened, and he looked up eagerly, expecting it to be Miss Hemsworth, who usually joined him before this. To his total astonishment, it was Trussell, who never set foot outside his room until the sun was high in the sky.
“Good morning, Leatham,” Trussell said, then he did a double-take. “My word! Mrs. Pierce-Smythe, can it be you?”
“Why, ‘tis Mr. Trussell. Look Rosabelle, it is our good friend Mr. Creighton Trussell. I had no idea you lived here in Devon. What a coincidence that we should have had our little accident right on your doorstep, so to speak.” She languidly extended her hand, and Trussell hurried across the room to bow low over it.
“But my dear madame, whatever are you doing in Devon? I thought you were fixed in London for the Season.”
“As did I, but I found myself absolutely burnt to the socket with all the partying, and decided we needed to take a short repairing lease. A friend of mine offered us her house in Plymouth, and I thought perhaps a bit of sea air ...”
Her voice trailed off, and she looked at Trussell expectantly. To Bronson, everything suddenly became so clear that he had to raise his napkin to his face to smother his chuckles.
What a conceited fool he had been, thinking the widow was seeking to entrap him. She had her eye on other game. Now that he realized what the situation was, he could recognize the signs—the proprietary look the widow was giving Trussell, combined with the furtive sideways glances Trussell was giving him all added up to a different scenario than Bronson had originally thought.
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