Rebecca cast him a look that must have raised blisters on his skin had it not been, she thought to herself, so thick as that on a rhinoceros! Her scorn was wasted, for he was glancing off to the side and following his gaze she saw an officer riding towards them, followed by a small troop.
“Soldiers!” howled Anthony, and raced to meet them.
“Goodness,” Rebecca exclaimed. “You have surely not been practising your treasonable kindnesses already, Sir Peter?”
De Villars said curtly, “Treasonable—what?”
Ward laughed. “Mrs. Parrish and I were deciding what we might do if some wretched Jacobite appeared at the door, begging sanctuary, and I said my conscience would not allow that I render him up for execution, but that I most probably would have to give the poor fellow what aid I might.”
De Villars’ mouth twisted. “How very noble,” he said sardonically. “And likely accompany the thimble-wit to the block!”
Albinia said nervously that they should not even speak of such matters, but Rebecca persisted. “I suppose there is no doubt what you would do in such a situation, Mr. de Villars?”
“None. Any man so stupid as to embrace a cause that was obviously doomed from the start has no business whining when inevitable retribution catches up with him.”
“Such strong views,” she said with a scornful laugh. “I declare I am impressed—if only by your vehemence. Is it that you are for the House of Hanover, sir? Or do you dislike Rome?”
“I do not relish having a German prince on the throne of England, but even less do I admire impractical dreamers, ma’am! And as for offering up my head to be stuck on a pike on London Bridge, or allowing my limbs to be hacked off before a jeering mob whilst yet I live— Gad! One would have to be an utter gudgeon to invite such a death and thus compound pure folly!”
The soldiers were very close now, with Anthony, tireless, leaping along before them.
“For heaven’s sake, do not say anything rash, Becky,” Mrs. Boothe implored.
“Excellent advice, ma’am,” said de Villars. “Let us have no mention of treasonable sentiments in front of these men.” And he called, “Good afternoon, Captain. Lost, are you?”
The young officer reined up and eased his position in the saddle, the men behind him looking with envious eyes at the apparently carefree group. “No, we are not lost. My name is Holt. Have I the honour to address Sir Peter Ward?”
Sir Peter stepped forward. “I am he. Is anything amiss, Captain Holt?”
“I shall let you be the judge, sir. We were obliged to search your house and properties this afternoon. You will find your staff upset. My apologies. Duty is duty.”
“Well!” Rebecca exclaimed, indignantly. “I should think—”
“Just so,” de Villars interposed. “The man is but following orders, m’dear.”
Her angry gaze flashed to him, but his eyes were like shining steel. She felt as though she had been slapped and knew then how dangerous he judged the situation. Her gaze lowered, and she said no more.
De Villars met the captain’s hard stare, and he rolled his eyes heavenwards in a long-suffering manner. Holt relaxed slightly and deigned to give him a tight but sympathetic smile.
“We have rebels in the neighbourhood, I take it?” Ward enquired.
“We have been advised several are headed this way, sir. I am sure I need not remind you that they are the King’s enemies, thus anyone aiding them becomes as guilty and will be hanged, quartered, and beheaded.”
Mrs. Boothe paled and shrank, trembling against Rebecca.
Ward assured the captain that if any Jacobite fugitives were seen, a message would at once be relayed to the authorities.
De Villars watched the troop ride off and said dryly, “There goes a man fairly slathering for promotion.”
Patience lisped, “Wha doth quarted mean?”
“It—it means,” Mrs. Boothe faltered, “er, put to death, dear. Very cruelly. Oh! Those wretched soldiers have thrown a shadow over our happy day!”
“Never!” argued de Villars. “Nothing could mar this day! Except this great lump that breaks my back! You may become the beast of burden for a while, Ward. She’s your kin, after all.”
Rather gingerly Sir Peter took the tired child on his shoulders, and Mrs. Boothe walked ahead with him, asking anxious questions about the possibility of desperate fugitives lurking in the vicinity.
De Villars fell into step with Rebecca. “Well, lovely one,” he murmured, “now you have seen me at my bucolic best, what say you to a tour through Europe? I’ve a cosy little villa in—”
“Good God!” she exclaimed with repugnance. “Do you never give up, Mr. de Villars?”
“Never!” He ran a hand through his dishevelled locks, succeeding in restoring very little of neatness. “I will win you yet. When you face the fact that poor Peter can elude the keenest hunter—”
“Oh!” she cried. “Must you be so—so crude?”
“Crude? Come now, Mrs. Becky. Why dissemble? You want a rich husband—no?”
“A pretty fool I would be to want a poor one!” She reddened, knowing that had sounded hard and grasping, and amended hurriedly, “I’ve my son’s welfare to think of, after all.”
“No, no! Do not soften your candour, beloved. Is what I most admire in you. No gloves, and straight from the shoulder.” He chuckled as her lips tightened, and asked idly, “Have you never loved a man for himself?”
She spun on him, infuriated. “Do you fancy me without a heart? You seem to forget I was wed for nigh six years to a gentleman who was not at all rich.”
“Not when he died, at least,” he amended, cynically.
Rebecca’s small jaw sagged. “What…” she gasped. “What do you now imply? That I frittered away my husband’s fortune?”
“No, I’d not thought of that.” He asked curiously, “Did you?”
“Oh! Of all the— You are the most— You— Oh!” And she ran ahead to walk beside her aunt, despising herself for having, just for a little while this afternoon, begun to entertain kinder feelings towards The Lascivious Libertine.
* * *
The afternoon sunlight threw a mellowing glow over the rather stark lines of Ward Marching, for it was almost six o’clock before the picnic party climbed with a trace of weariness up the steps. Sir Peter set Patience down and ushered Mrs. Boothe and her niece into the dim coolness of the interior. “You will do us the honour of remaining for dinner, I hope,” he said. “I should have arranged company for you, but—”
“Never mind,” put in de Villars. “I did.”
Ward stared at him. “Did—what?”
“Arranged company for your guests. Forgot to tell you, old fellow. I was commanded to escort your grandmama up here.”
Sir Peter gave a shocked gasp. “You—brought Lady Ward here and forgot to tell me?”
“Oh, ecod!” Throwing a hand to his heart, de Villars groaned, “Am I utterly beyond the pale? Never fear, Peter. The old lady was quite fatigued and likely will have enjoyed a peaceful nap.” He added with questionable gravity, “But I really do think you had best seek her out now, and—er, mend your fences.”
Visibly irked, Ward excused himself and beat a hasty retreat, all but running up the stairs. Mrs. Kellstrand, who had been watching this by-play with an air of amused fondness, shook her head chidingly at de Villars. He called the housekeeper to him, slipped an arm about her slender waist, and engaged her in a brief, low-voiced colloquy. She nodded and led Mrs. Boothe and the muddied children towards the kitchen. De Villars bowed Rebecca to the stairs. She hesitated, but he would not dare attempt anything wicked while Lady Ward was in the house, so she went up with him, resolutely keeping her eyes turned away. When they reached the landing, she forgot, and her eyes met his. He looked far less elegant than she had ever seen him, but her satisfaction over that circumstance was tempered by the awareness that she also must be in sorry disarray.
De Villars smiled in a chastened way, but said a provocative, “Back to t
he bird sanctuary, eh, lovely one?”
Her lips twitched. She turned sharply away and declared with more vehemence than complete honesty that she was and always had been a bird fancier.
“Lud! I’d not have thought it of you,” he said reproachfully. “You and Peter are better matched than I had supposed.” He accompanied her along the hall towards an open door and an apparently petrified lackey. “Only one thing for it, m’dear,” he went on. “You’ll have no choice but to take a hatchet to that cat of yours.”
Automatically proceeding as he ushered her across the threshold, Rebecca looked up at him in total indignation. “I shall do no such thing!” she declared angrily. “I’ll have you know, sir, I am prodigious fond of Whisky!”
“Oh! My heavens!” exclaimed a horrified female voice. “How very dreadful!”
Stunned, Rebecca jerked her head around. She had supposed she was being taken to a bedchamber so as to refresh herself. Instead, she was entering a lavish saloon all red, white, and gold, occupied by Sir Peter, who looked aghast, and an angular but well-preserved lady of about sixty-five; a modishly gowned lady who was very stiff of manner and patently much shocked.
No less appalled, her cheeks flaming, Rebecca heard a muffled snort from The Monster beside her.
“Never a dull moment,” he chortled, sotto voce.
Sir Peter had sprung up at their arrival and, faint but ever gallant, said, “M-Mrs. Parrish, I must make you known to my grandmother. Lady Agatha Ward; Mrs. Forbes Parrish.”
Rebecca stumbled forward to make her curtsey, and stammer, “I th-think you may have misunderstood, ma’am, but—”
“Not at all, Mrs. Parrish.” A lorgnette was raised to an eye of brown agate. “Ward, is this the—er, lady who has so kindly volunteered to guide Prudence?”
“Priscilla, dear ma’am,” her grandson corrected gently.
“As you please, but— Whatever is that dreadful odour?”
“Patience,” Rebecca put in desperately. “And you see, ma’am, it is my cat who is called—”
“Cat?” The lorgnette darted about the large room. Unnerved, her ladyship shrilled, “If ’tis not housebroke I shall have no patience whatsoever!”
“Not the cat, ma’am,” de Villars put in, grinning from ear to ear. “The little girl.”
“Good God! Prudence is not properly trained? Why, she must be four or five years—”
“No, no, Grandmama,” Ward began, then turned suddenly frantic eyes to Rebecca. “You did not truly bring your cat here?”
“Of course I—”
“She said distinctly that her cat is responsible for that noxious odour!” Her ladyship’s observation was rather muffled as she clapped a tiny, lace-edged square of cambric to her thin nostrils.
His voice almost suspended with laughter, de Villars pleaded, “Peace, my children.” He took Rebecca and Sir Peter by the elbows and ushered them to the door, murmuring, “I cannot think when I have been more diverted. Now begone, and I will attempt to clarify matters.”
Sir Peter said a grateful, “Good of you, Treve. You always know how to handle her.”
“I know how to handle all the ladies.” With a quirk of the lip and an audacious wink at Rebecca, de Villars returned to the dowager.
As Ward closed the door, Rebecca heard his grandmother say tartly, “You did not see fit to tell me, Trevelyan, that the widow was such a pretty piece. What a pity she is a tippler.…”
* * *
Lady Ward proved to be as tyrannical as she was diminutive. That her tall young grandson was under her sway was obvious. He all but trembled when she scolded him, hastened to do her bidding, and strove always to win her approval. The servants were terrified of her, as was Mrs. Boothe, who paled whenever my lady addressed her.
It soon became apparent that the grande dame had no intention of contributing towards the care and nurture of Miss Patience Ashton. She demanded to see the child on the morning after her arrival, and when Patience was conducted into her presence, surveyed her through her lorgnette, pronounced her “a foolish little gel” when Patience began to cry, and summarily dismissed her, not to mention her name again for the duration of her stay in Bedfordshire.
Mrs. Boothe was seldom singled out for attention, a fact that did not in the slightest offend that timid individual. Rebecca, however, was judged to stand in need of instruction on almost everything, and my lady, always willing to share of her vast store of knowledge, gladly undertook the task. On the few occasions when Rebecca was allowed the opportunity to venture an opinion, she managed to be meekly diplomatic, but the effort required to keep her tongue between her teeth, as the saying went, was considerable, partly because she could not like so autocratic a personality, and partly by reason of the faint sneer with which her subdued responses were observed by a certain Wicked Lecher.
De Villars’ attitude to Lady Ward was one of amused tolerance. Her tantrums he viewed with indifference and, although he was never less than respectful, it was clear to everyone, including my lady, that he had no intention of allowing her to bully him. Neither did he make any more attempts to continue his unorthodox pursuit of The Little Parrish. He was pleasant to all the ladies, but no more to one than another. He never called at the cottage without Sir Peter’s company, and the occasional remarks he addressed to his avowed quarry were models of propriety. Mrs. Boothe was convinced that he had abandoned his evil schemes. Rebecca indulged a guarded optimism. He might very well, she reasoned, be unwilling to harass her for fear that she call upon the formidable Lady Ward for protection. Almost certainly such a step would result in her immediate return to London, a development that would further the plans of neither of the plotters.
Her own Plan progressed satisfactorily. She was most pleased when Sir Peter took to accompanying her while she led Patience and Anthony on their morning walks. Much of the time was spent in listening to learned ornithological discourses, but often she contrived to change the subject and with a very little effort she was able to set him to laughing merrily, either because of her recounting of some humorous episode involving her brothers or Anthony, or by reason of her rather unconventional views of politics. There was no doubt but that he was becoming much more relaxed and at ease in her company, and Rebecca’s hopes rose accordingly.
Despite her acceptance of the current situation, she had seldom been more relieved than when Sir Peter called at the cottage on the fourth morning after his grandmother’s arrival and announced that Lady Ward was removing to London.
“She cannot abide Town, you know,” he said earnestly. “But in her eyes Bedfordshire is infinitely worse. Her maids are packing now, and she will be leaving within the hour.”
“Oh, dear,” said Rebecca, jubilant. “Shall you miss her dreadfully, dear sir?”
“No,” he answered with a wry smile, “for I am to escort her.”
In the act of pouring her guest a cup of tea, Rebecca almost dropped the cup, and had to struggle to keep her voice calm as she asked if he would be long away.
“I cannot say with any degree of assurance. I—there are matters requiring my attention in London, but I shall return at once if you and Mrs. Boothe find it expedient to go back to Town yourselves. I had hoped, however, that you might be able to remain until our Midsummer Ball, at least, by which time I must certainly have found a suitable governess for my cousin.”
Rebecca replied that she would have to be guided by her brother’s wishes. She waved goodbye with her usual bright smile. Alone, however, she sank onto the sofa in utter dejection. Her Plan had collapsed again, like a house of cards. Not only had she failed to win an offer from Sir Peter, but now he was blithely riding off to the metropolis and all the ladies lying in wait to entrap him, leaving her marooned miles from anywhere, with not a single beau in sight, and nothing more exciting to anticipate than a dashing game of croquet!
“It was Lady Ward’s doing,” she told her aunt as they sat in the parlour after dinner that evening. “She likely warned Sir Peter it was
not at all the thing for two single gentlemen to be here, despite the fact that I am a widow and well chaperoned. So off he has gone leaving us high and dry in this wilderness!”
“But—my love,” said Mrs. Boothe, blinking her bewilderment. “If that is how you feel, we can return to Town at once.”
Rebecca abandoned the fringe she had been making and walked over to the secretary desk and the letter she had earlier started to write to Snowden. “How can we? Ward advanced us a perfectly ridiculous amount for you to spend a month here, and—”
“A … month?” gasped Mrs. Boothe, beginning to fan herself feebly. “You said nothing about a month!”
“Well, I—I did not think it would really be that long, and if he had found himself a governess for Patience before the time was up, I knew he would not ask for a refund, so I sent the cheque to Mrs. Falk and instructed her to pay the servants at least a little something.” Rebecca put a quivering hand over her eyes and said unsteadily, “You know, dearest, I … have felt so dreadful about not paying them in all these weeks.”
“Of course you have, my love, and much credit it does you. But—why so gloomy? Perhaps Sir Peter will find a governess tomorrow! I should think there must be hundreds of ladies would jump at the chance to come to so beautiful a home, with a generous employer, and a…”—her voice became slightly uneven—“a … precious child.…”
Rebecca glanced around to catch her aunt in the act of wiping tearful eyes. “Oh, dear! Another complication! I am scarce surprised. I fancied you were becoming attached to her.”
Mrs. Boothe blew her nose delicately. “Is a little darling of a girl, and so exceeding tragic that no one wants her, for she has the sweetest, most giving nature imaginable.”
“Yes.” Rebecca sighed. “She adores de Villars. One might think he would at least have come down to bid her farewell.… But what fustian I talk! Who could expect a charitable impulse from such a one?”
“Good God! Is he gone, too?”
“Oh, yes. And not so much as a word. To Patience, I mean. Well”—her nose tilted defiantly—“much we shall miss them. And as for that dreadful old lady, Lud! We will be far happier here alone.”
The Wagered Widow Page 14
