“‘Blasted fellow’?” Bewildered, Rebecca protested, “But—you’ve known Hilary for years and years. Whatever has come between you?”
Boothe gave her a fulminating look. She smiled at him, hopefully, and his set jaw relaxed. “Sorry, m’dear. I must be just—tired, as you said. There were so blasted many military people on the road north. Dashed if I didn’t get sick of the sight of ’em! Rushing and shouting about; searching every henhouse and dog kennel three or four times over like a blasted lot of treasure seekers, looking for those poor Jacobite gentlemen! I tell you, it was damned disgusting! Even had a sergeant and two troopers come bursting into my hotel room one night and roust me out of bed whilst they went through my clothes press. They had the unmitigated gall to pull off all the sheets and blankets! Confounded impertinence!”
Trying to banish the rage which had crept back into his eyes during this recital, she said, “Yes, indeed. And how fortunate you was alone, love.”
Boothe glanced at her sharply.
“Well, only think,” she said with a saucy smile. “Suppose it had been someone like de Villars. There’s no telling who that sergeant might have rousted from his bed!”
Her brother laughed heartily. “Two or three ladybirds, at the very least—eh?” He squeezed her arm. “You little baggage! What a thing for a lady to say! Tell me now what has been going on—if anything. And who else is here?”
She told him about the mice, though without mentioning The Wicked Rake, and was satisfied from his amused reaction he knew nothing of it. “And as for who is here,” she went on lightly, “everyone you might expect. The Streets, and Lady Ward, and de Villars. The Duchess of Chilton, The Monahan, the Reverend Boudreaux and his sister, Lord—”
“Letitia Boudreaux?” Having been apparently unimpressed by the fact that his recent antagonist and a duchess were present, Boothe brightened perceptibly. “I’d best go and change out of my dirt before she sees me.”
As it transpired, however, he had no chance to observe this civility, for Miss Boudreaux and her brother came onto the front steps just as Boothe and Rebecca were mounting them. Letitia turned quite pink, and her eyes flew to Boothe’s bandaged wrist. Boothe made his bow, shook her brother’s hand in a left-handed grip, and exchanged cheery commonplaces with him, then turned back to ask Letitia if she would care to take a turn about the park with him. She said shyly that she would like very much to go for a walk on such a beautiful morning. Boothe offered his arm and led her down the steps.
Embarrassed, Rebecca said, “I do apologize, sir. That was rude beyond permission. My brother should have consulted you before taking your sister away. I beg you will excuse him. I fancy he is rather tired—he is only now returned from the north.”
The reverend, who had been watching the departing couple with a faint smile, darted a glance at her. “Boothe is a perfect gentleman, I believe.”
“Oh, indeed.” Walking back into the house beside him, she said earnestly, “He is a very warm-hearted boy, and has usually the most sunny disposition.”
“When he is not fighting duels, eh?”
A lackey had swung open the front door and, as they passed through, Rebecca looked up at Boudreaux anxiously. The grey eyes twinkled down at her, and with a sigh of relief she said, “That was not really Snowden’s fault, for if—” She bit the words off hurriedly. Heavens, but she’d almost betrayed herself!
Boudreaux said in his shy way, “Ma’am, might I have a private word with you? I think most of the guests are not yet abroad. Could we go into the book room for a moment or two?”
Intrigued, she went with him. He left the door open and, having ushered her to a window seat, drew a wing chair closer, and occupied it. Rebecca felt a pleasant tingle of anticipation. He was undoubtedly going to speak of Letitia and Snow, for her brother’s interest in the girl had been even more obvious this morning. How lovely it would be to have a wedding in the family! She could be matron of honour, and—
“I do not know how de Villars has alienated your brother, Mrs. Parrish,” said the reverend, shattering her rosy dreams. “But I wish you will believe he is very far from the villain gossip has painted him.”
Rebecca experienced a compelling urge to run from the room. He had brought her in here to talk of de Villars? How unfair! Here was she, striving very hard to not so much as think of that Person, much less discuss him! Hoping to discourage this earnest young man, she said coldly, “Mr. de Villars’ behaviour towards me, sir, cannot but lead me to believe that rumour has dealt exceeding kindly with him.”
He looked distressed. Leaning forward in his chair, he clasped his long bony hands and said with sincerity, “I am indeed sorry to hear you say that. I know he is a trifle—er, reckless at times. But, truly, he has a great deal to recommend him. Had you but seen him as a youth, always full of energy and fun, and showing so much promise. He was easily the most popular man in his class. Kind, generous…” He sighed. “I never knew him to turn his back on a friend, or to give way to moods or distempered starts.”
“Indeed? How much he is changed, sir.”
“Yes.” The untidy head was shaken regretfully. “By rights he should be setting up his nursery by now. Unhappily, the girl he chose did not—”
She did not want to know about it. She had not the smallest interest, but somehow she was saying a brittle, “Oh, come now, Mr. Boudreaux! You surely are not going to tell me about the lady who turned out to be his grandpapa’s chère amie?”
The reverend’s jaw dropped. “His … grandpapa?” he echoed, fascinated.
“Yes. And how de Villars eloped with her, but his grandpapa came up with them and nigh killed de Villars in a duel!”
The clergyman threw back his head and went into a shout of mirth. “He was hoaxing you, of course,” he said, still chuckling. “Probably to draw you off the track.”
“Of—what?”
“Why, the true story. I’ll not paint him a saint, ma’am. I know him to be a fine man, but he has more than his share of human frailties, I own it. Among the worst is his pride.” The laughter faded from Boudreaux’s eyes. “He don’t like his wounds touched. If he suspected you knew the truth, he would shrink from your sympathy.”
“I see.” Rebecca stood. “Then perhaps you should not tell me of it, sir. I certainly have no wish to—”
“So this is where you are hiding!” Sir Peter came into the room, elegant as ever, his eyes flickering over Boudreaux to come to rest with patent admiration on Rebecca.
Boudreaux, who had sprung to his feet, frowned. “If you could allow me another minute or two, Ward.”
“Cannot be done, Fitz.” Peter gave his arm to the willing Rebecca and said laughingly, “This charming lady and I have an urgent appointment—a musical tryst that must be kept before my other guests are up and stirring. You will excuse us, I know.”
The reverend gentleman protested in vain; Rebecca was borne off to a music room now lacking mice, and the rehearsal began.
Sir Peter played well, as she had anticipated, and was the perfect accompanist for her not very strong voice. She had agreed to sing three songs, and it transpired that she was not to be the only contributor to the evening’s entertainment. Lord Glendenning, said Ward, would play the harp for them, and Mrs. Monahan had also agreed to sing.
Unease stirring in her breast, Rebecca said, “I fancy you will wish to hasten then, sir, for you will want to practise Mrs. Monahan’s music with her.”
“Oh, no. I am accustomed to playing for Rosemary. We have plenty of time.”
He had no sooner uttered these disquieting words than his butler put in an appearance. It seemed that my Lady Ward was having a spasm because an essential part of her costume was incorrectly sized; Major Broadbent required an immediate interview; and a courier from London was distraught because the urgent communiqué he had brought Mr. de Villars from my Lord Geoffrey Boudreaux could not be placed in the gentleman’s hands.
“Egad, what a bumble broth!” Sir Peter stood an
d, reluctantly folding the music, said, “By your leave, Mrs. Parrish, I shall go to my grandmama at once. Greywood, you will please put Major Broadbent in my study, and tell him I shall be at his disposal in twenty minutes. As for Mr. de Villars, I take it he is not in his bedchamber?”
“Not since the wee hours, sir. I am told he rode out before dawn and has not as yet returned.”
Briefly, Sir Peter looked worried. Then he turned his ready smile on Rebecca. “Mrs. Parrish, I am eternally grateful. Your pretty songs will greatly enhance my party. I shall look forward to seeing you at luncheon.”
Rebecca returned to the cottage and went up to her bedchamber where she found Mrs. Boothe clad in a wrapper and settled in a comfortable chair at the window. She was sipping hot chocolate and looking mournful. In response to her niece’s enquiries she answered sadly that Evans had taken the children to the village. And that although she was perfectly sure Mr. Melton’s affections were engaged, it was the most shackle-shy gentleman ever created. “I am no more successful than you, my love,” she sighed, twirling the remaining chocolate in her cup.
Rebecca sat down at her dressing table and inspected herself in the beautifully bevelled mirror. “This ball, dearest,” she murmured, dusting some powder onto her pert nose, “may spell the coup de grâce for us both. I fancy The Monahan has her claws more firmly into Sir Peter than I had supposed.”
“Oh, never say so! I was sure she is still fond of de Villars!”
“I rather think she is.… ’Twould seem she is a lady of—diverse interests. Whatever. Mr. de Villars has apparently vanished.” Rebecca scowled at the inoffensive hare’s foot and added a firm, “Fortunately.”
“Fortunately, indeed!” Mrs. Boothe set aside her cup and saucer and hissed theatrically, “And just in time! You know that Snowden has come?”
“Oh, yes. And at once went for a walk with Miss Boudreaux.”
“Did he so? Well, he is back and rushing about like any madman. He means to change his dress and ride into the village in search of a seamstress who can conjure him up something to wear this evening. Faith, one might think—”
“Hail, me proud beauties!” The object of their discussion came blithely into the room, looking very dashing in his leather riding coat. “And farewell.” He grinned at Rebecca, and went on, “As saith the Immortal Bard.”
Wrinkling her brow, she demurred, “Are you sure? I thought it was somebody else.”
“Devil a bit of it. I only remember two quotations, and they both are his I feel sure. ‘I come to bury Caesar, not to raise him,’ and ‘Hail and farewell, bother’—or is it ‘brother’? Some such claptrap!”
Rebecca gave a trill of laughter, but her aunt said indignantly, “Claptrap! No, really, Snowden! You lack the proper respect!”
He shrugged unrepentantly. “For Shakespeare, perhaps. But not for certain other—celestial creatures.…”
Rebecca turned from surveying her brother’s suddenly dreamy countenance in her mirror, and faced him fully. “You could not possibly refer to Miss Letitia Boudreaux?”
He flushed scarlet. “Eh? Oh…” He turned away, making quite a business of shooting the lace at his wrists. “Matter of fact, I was thinking of someone else. Not that Letitia ain’t a jolly delightful chit. Pity she’s so tall, though. When we were walking just now, I noticed her shadow was head to head with mine.”
“What difference?” Vexed, Rebecca declared, “Miss Boudreaux is a girl in a thousand, and—”
“Yes, my love,” Mrs. Boothe put in hurriedly. “But she is more than half promised to Jeremiah Kier-Byerby.”
Rebecca stared at her aunt in amazement, met a faint flicker of one eyelid, and managed to assume a pleased air. “Why, I had heard a whisper of it! Is it truth then, dearest? What a famous match!”
“Famous?” Boothe exclaimed, his face dark with anger. “I call it infamous! Kier-Byerby ain’t as tall as Letty. Deuce take it, he ain’t as tall as me!”
“And what has that to say to anything?” Rebecca took up a buffer and began to polish her nails. “I fancy Mr. Kier-Byerby has known sufficient ladies to have a value for what is worthy and what is not.”
“If by ‘sufficient ladies’ you mean half the women in Mayfair,” Boothe fumed, “you have the right of’t. Why, the man’s a positive rakehell! I’ll be dashed if it ain’t downright indecent to pair that sweet chit with such an old roué!”
“Old?” said Mrs. Boothe mildly. “At three and forty? Is a fine-looking man aside from a few warts. And very flush in the pockets, besides.”
“Thunderation!” Boothe ran an exasperated hand through the wig he had just tidied. “Does no one in this confounded Society of ours ever wed for anything save lettuce?” He stamped to the door, and left them, snorting, “Kier-Byerby, indeed! I’ve to go into the village, but so soon as I return I mean to put a few words into Fitz Boudreaux’s ear, I can assure you!”
No sooner had the door closed behind him than Rebecca uttered a squeak and ran to hug Mrs. Boothe. “Oh, how very clever! Do you think it will serve?”
“We can hope.” Albinia giggled. “Did you see how his eyes sparked? I never saw Snowden so provoked because a lady looked elsewhere! We shall have to warn dear Letitia!”
Miss Boudreaux was overjoyed to hear of the impending lecture. She prepared her brother for a protest from Mr. Boothe against her betrothal to a man she scarcely knew, and then ran upstairs to dress with especial care. She came down to luncheon looking very pretty indeed. Unfortunately, Snowden was not among those present, and to her disappointment and Rebecca’s mortification, he did not put in an appearance for the balance of the afternoon. The only consolation to the three conspirators was that The Monahan was very much present, so at least Snowden could not be dallying with her. Rebecca’s relief was, however, leavened with chagrin. The Monahan might not be exercising her wiles on Snow, but Sir Peter was receiving a large share of The Beauty’s attention.
Luncheon was served al fresco, since the day was pleasantly warm, and the long tables set out on the front terrace, the colourfully attired guests, the flowers that blazed in the great urns constituted a charming picture. The company was happy and carefree, and the fare a triumph of gastronomic and organizational skill, especially when one considered that the great house was being readied for the ball, and the kitchens were swarming with extra servants from the catering company.
Afterwards, a walk was proposed by those having the energy to attempt it. There was some light-hearted rivalry for the escorting of the fair ladies, and when Sir Peter coolly offered his right arm to Rebecca and his left to The Monahan, outraged cries went up. Fat and jovial Colonel Shephard accused their host of taking advantage of his position; the Reverend Boudreaux said solemnly that such greed must bring a Dread Punishment; and Rebecca, in the midst of a trill of laughter, was suddenly seized from behind and whisked away.
Still laughing, she protested, “But, really, I—” Grave grey eyes transfixed her, and the words died in her throat.
De Villars said, “It seemed only fair—to prevent bloodshed, you know.” He added softly, “Try not to appear too provoked with me, ma’am. We must not give cause for gossip.”
“Th-there has been sufficient of that, indeed,” stammered Rebecca, once more caught offstride. Fighting to appear at ease, she said the first thing that came to mind, which was an unfortunate, “Speaking of which, how is your hurt, sir?”
“De Villars—hurt?” Drawing level with them, The Monahan said an incredulous, “But not in your famous duel, surely, Treve?”
“The merest scratch, dear lady,” he answered blandly.
Mrs. Monahan’s white hand fluttered to her bosom, drawing with it the eyes of most of the gentlemen. “Can I believe this? The incomparable Trevelyan de Villars bested in a duel? And by Snowden Boothe? No, I think you quiz me.”
A little flare of irritation lit de Villars’ eyes as those within earshot crowded around.
“Every dog has his day,” Walter Street observed
with a grin.
A slight frown marring his smooth brow, Ward said, “Treve? How is it that I heard naught of this?”
De Villars shrugged carelessly. “Because there was nothing to tell. Boothe and I found an excuse to exercize our skills and did so with little of ill-will. I chanced to be clumsy, and—”
“Clumsy?” Colonel Shephard’s tone was astonished. “In a duel? You?”
“It does sound incredible,” agreed The Monahan dubiously. “Unless…” She glanced to Rebecca. “Aha. I think I have it.”
Rebecca caught her breath as all eyes turned to her.
“Which reminds me,” said de Villars lazily. “I should warn you, my Peter, that you play host to a cat.”
The Monahan’s malicious smile became frozen and her cheeks as pale as Rebecca’s were red. Miss Street, aware of the implication, breathed, “Oh, Lud!”
Sir Peter asked innocently, “I do? Where is the creature?”
“Why—here,” drawled de Villars, ignoring the savage glare from a pair of fine green eyes. “I saw her stalking a mouse when I returned from my ride this morning.” There was an audible and collective breath of relief, and de Villars advised Ward to purge his estates of the predatory feline.
Rebecca recovered sufficiently to say, “Oh, no! You will not hurt her?”
“Of course he will not!” snapped The Monahan. “Not all men are monsters, dear Mrs. Parrish.”
“Do you believe that, Miss Templeby?” De Villars turned his attention to Glendenning’s shy and pretty sister.
Flattered by the attention of so notorious a gentleman, the girl glowed and stammered an inaudible response, and he offered his arm and led her away.
The little party reassembled, and the stroll across the park continued, tongues progressing faster than elegantly shod feet. With Sir Peter on one side of her and Horatio Glendenning on the other, Rebecca should have felt triumphant, whereas her spirits were somewhat depressed. Why she must be plagued by a sense of impending disaster was beyond reason, yet that premonition had been troubling her of late and would not be banished. She was surprised after a little while to find that Captain Holt had contrived to slip in between herself and the viscount. They talked in desultory fashion at first, and then he said mildly, “I understand your brother is to attend the ball this evening, ma’am. I saw him with you earlier, I think. You bear him quite a resemblance.”
The Wagered Widow Page 23
