Sattler, Veronica

by The Bargain

  "Pig, I'm warning you, get down there where you belong, or we'll be having pork dinner tomorrow!" Patrick threatened in as hushed a voice as he could assume, given the urgency of the situation, not to mention the state of his temper.

  "Patrick!" said Megan in an outraged whisper, even as she tried to dislocate the adamant, nonbudging pig.

  But it was Suzanne who saved the moment from becoming the abortive catastrophe Patrick was beginning to envision. Reaching into the portmanteau full of clothes they'd brought for Ashleigh—for Higgins had been forced to explain, abashedly, the state of affairs, with regard to dress, that kept the duke satisfied his duchess would not attempt an escape— Suzanne produced a fashionable bonnet with large blue feathers adorning it and proceeded to tie it about Lady Dimple's human-size head.

  "Voilà!" exclaimed Suzanne. "Now she may seet by ze weendow!"

  At this, Lady Dimples immediately calmed down. In fact, she almost preened under the shadow of the gently waving ostrich feathers.

  Patrick took one look at the animal and burst into semi-subdued guffaws of laughter. Megan looked from him to the pig and did the same, and it was only Abner Thornton's puzzled voice outside Patrick's window that brought them back to the seriousness of the situation at hand.

  "Begging your pardon, sir, but are we going through with this or not?" the first mate asked.

  Instantly sobered, Patrick nodded. "We are, Thornton. To your post." He gave each of the women a pointed look, bestowed a final, admonishing glance on the seated pig, and then opened the door on his side. "This is it, then," he whispered, "and may we be in Heaven an hour before the divil knows we're dead!"

  Inside the town house's drawing room, Lady Margaret was pouring Lady Bunbury her third cup of tea.

  "Thank you, my dear," said Lady Bunbury, "and I'll have another of those scrumptious tea cakes, too, if you don't mind."

  Margaret watched her guest reach for the last of the dozen or so rich little cakes that had filled the silver tea platter only an hour before, suppressing a shudder of disgust at the greedy appetite of the corpulent woman who sat beside her on the settee. Looking down at her own half-tasted tea cake, she realized Lady Bunbury had consumed nearly the entire batch and wondered at her own fortitude in enduring this gluttonous old gossip's visit. If it weren't necessary to make use of the creature's dependably loose tongue to ensure the proper cast to the inevitable gossip that would attend the divorce, she would never have considered inviting the woman.

  "Mmm," murmured Lady Bunbury around a mouthful of the confection, "delicious... absolutely delicious. My compliments to your pastry chef, Lady Margaret."

  Again, Margaret stifled a grimace, recalling the scene in which her nearly insubordinate abigail had wailed incorrigibly at being forced into kitchen duty to bake the cakes, owing to the absence of the duke's staff. Ah, well, a few more well-calculated tidbits in the old creature's ear and it would all be worth it.

  "Yes, my dear," said Margaret, "it is fortunate that His Grace was able to find the man and reengage him after this new bride of his let him go. And the pastry chef wasn't the only member of the staff the poor, uneducated girl dismissed. Why, she had it in her head to replace them all—servants who'd been in our family's service for years—just to demonstrate the power of her own newly acquired position!" Margaret shook her head in sympathy. "Poor Brett... I mean, I realize he was acting nobly in honoring that twenty-year-old betrothal contract the brother located, but, my dear! The circumstances had changed since her parents and my dear brother agreed to the alliance when the girl was born!"

  "Yes," murmured Lady Bunbury sympathetically, "I'd heard. Orphaned, they say, and raised in some sort of institution... hardly the proper place for the training of a future duchess! Tsk, tsk," she added, shaking her head, "and do you mean to say His Grace took her to wife, knowing how ill fit she was?"

  "Precisely," Margaret nodded, "and now feels duty bound to put up with the results, regardless of the consequences. I've tried to reason with him, of course—especially in light of the latest development..." She allowed her voice to trail off suggestively.

  "The latest development?" questioned Lady Bunbury, setting down her teacup with an avid look.

  "Well..." mused Margaret, "I'm really not certain I should be repeating this, but... dear Lady Bunbury, if you promise not to—"

  "Oh, not a word, my dear! I shan't breathe a syllable!" Lady Bunbury exclaimed as she leaned forward eagerly.

  "Well," said her hostess, lowering her voice to a whisper, "the worst news of all, and I have it straight from an old, devoted servant, the chambermaid who tended to their marriage chamber. It seems Brett's new duchess was not a..." Margaret's hushed whisper imported the damning tidbit into the old lady's ear, causing her guest to recoil with a predictable show of shock.

  "No!" exclaimed the matron in a loud whisper. "And your poor grandnephew had no idea?"

  "None," murmured Margaret, shaking her head with distress.

  "Oh, my dear," muttered her guest, "how terrible for him! But now what can he do?"

  Margaret eyed her assessingly, trying to gauge the precise manner in which the reply must be uttered, then proceeded to speak in careful tones. "I'm afraid it's an ugly situation, my dear Lady Bunbury, but I think, after a while, His Grace will come to see there is no help for it. Divorce is so distasteful a subject, I know you'll agree, but as I have already told him, what else can he do? It's beginning to look as if the girl is, ah, breeding, and, of course, the child cannot be his... and the dukedom must be protected at all costs, mustn't it?"

  Lady Bunbury's ears fairly twitched with this latest news. Oh, it was all too delectable! She glanced at the mahogany tall clock that stood in an alcove across the room. Slightly past five—too late for another afternoon visit—but if she hurried, she'd be able to rest and still change in time for dinner at Lord and Lady Mowbry's. Thank heaven they had returned from Brighton and had the grace to be entertaining, even in this heat! August was such a difficult time to be full up with news to tell! There was hardly anyone about worth telling it to!

  "Well, my dear," said Lady Bunbury as she reached for her reticule, "I am ever so distressed at your family's unfortunate situation. You have my complete sympathy, I can assure you. But I really must be on my way, I'm afraid. I had no idea it was so—"

  A soft knock at the door cut her short.

  "Yes?" called Margaret.

  The drawing room's doors parted, and Higgins stepped between them. "Another caller, your ladyship... Sir Patrick St. Clare."

  A brief, perplexed frown crossed Margaret's brow before she responded. "Thank you, Higgins. Lady Bunbury was just leaving. Show her out before you show Sir Patrick in, please." She bestowed a meaningful look upon Brett's manservant. It would never serve for the chit's brother to be allowed to exchange words with Bunbury, and having caught the look of interest on the old gossip's fat face at the mention of who the caller was, Margaret was taking no chances that she would change her mind and decide to prolong her visit.

  "Yes, your ladyship," murmured Higgins; he deftly propelled the departing guest into the entry foyer and past the huge man who stood studying a priceless Renaissance sculpture on the calling-card table nearby, nodding briefly to Patrick only after he'd ushered Lady Bunbury to the outer door.

  Having been informed of the manservant's impressment into majordomo duty owing to the sad state of affairs where the duke's servants were concerned, Lady Bunbury did her best to accept graciously Higgins's unseemly hurry to rush her past the new caller, especially as it related to the gossip she'd just gleaned, suppressing her regret that she wasn't being allowed to exchange a few words with the unfortunate duke's new brother-in-law. Instead, she contented herself with a thorough inspection of the large carriage that stood directly behind hers, viewing, with a gossip's eye for details, the profile of the beautiful redhead at its window.

  Then, just as Higgins was propelling her in the direction of her own vehicle, Lady Bunbury was treated
to a most curious sight. As the redhead's profile withdrew into the recesses of the closed carriage, another bonneted head came into view. It had a face that looked for all the world like a—

  "Good Heavens!" exclaimed Lady Bunbury. She turned to Higgins. "My good fellow, what—I mean, who—? That is, do you see...?" The words came out in a sputter.

  Higgins glanced in the direction of Lady Bunbury's line of vision, and nearly collapsed. It was that pig, with a lady's bonnet on her head, no less!

  "Ahem, ah, yes, your ladyship," he murmured, deftly steering the ogling matron away from the larger carriage. "Right this way, your ladyship. Your carriage awaits."

  Craning her neck over her shoulder, she could still glimpse the porcine face gazing serenely at her from beneath a profusion of waving blue ostrich feathers. Lady Bunbury continued to sputter. "B-but, my good man, that woman looks exactly like a—"

  "Shh!" murmured Higgins, raising a finger to his lips. Then, in lowered tones, "I beg your pardon, your ladyship, but it's such a delicate situation, you see."

  "Delicate?" Lady Bunbury lowered her tone to match Higgins's, but her eyebrows were arched almost to her hairline, the look of astonishment on her face absolute.

  "Yes," murmured Higgins with a sad shake of the head. "You see," he continued as he engineered the path of the large matron toward her own vehicle, "Ah, that's Sir Patrick's carriage, and the young lady inside—the one with the red hair, that is—is his fiancée."

  Lady Bunbury shook her head, disbelief still etched on her features. "Not that one! I meant—"

  "Indeed, your ladyship," Higgins nodded patiently, "I was just coming to, ah, that one."

  Lingering shock warred with impatience on Lady Bunbury's rounded features. "Yes...? Well, my good man, speak up, speak up!"

  Having finally stalled for enough time to concoct his story— and with a last, assessing glance at the matron's well-fed figure—Higgins plunged ahead. "As I was saying, Lady Bunbury, Sir Patrick is engaged to wed that other younger lady in the carriage, but, into the bargain, the poor man's had to accept the, ah, companionship of the lady's... mother."

  Rounded eyes in an astounded face questioned him. "Good Heavens, do you mean—?" Lady Bunbury glanced again at Patrick's carriage.

  "Exactly." Higgins nodded solemnly. "And needless to say, your ladyship, the poor woman is not the least bit handsome like her daughter."

  Lady Bunbury's eyes widened further at this understatement, but Higgins continued, seemingly nonplussed.

  "But the poor dear wasn't always, ah, that way, you see. They say it was from eating too much rich food—" Higgins eyed the horror-stricken countenance of his victim for a full five seconds "—tea cakes, as I recall... they were her favorite food. Always stuffing herself at teatime, she was, and—oh, I say, your ladyship! Don't be in too great a hurry, now. Wouldn't want you to trip, entering your own carriage, would we? There you go, now, your ladyship, safe home, ma'am."

  The apoplectic look on the large woman's face was so intense as she signaled her driver, Higgins nearly choked on the tongue he'd been biting to keep from laughing. Oh, well done, old boy, he congratulated himself. Edmund Kean himself couldn't have done it better! You'd best take care, or they'll be signing you up at the Drury Lane!

  And in the carriage that was traveling down King Street at a steady pace, Lady Bunbury briskly fanned her perspiring face as she made a mental note to inform her cook about some forthcoming and immediate changes in her diet.

  * * * * *

  Meanwhile, inside the town house Lady Margaret eyed Patrick speculatively as she prepared to answer the question he'd posed as to her knowledge of the whereabouts of his sister. There was something about the man, or, more particularly, his behavior right now, which didn't sit well with her. He seemed... confident, that was it, even overconfident, for a man who ought to be frantic to locate a sibling who'd been kidnapped several days before. What was he up to?

  Hearing the sounds of a carriage leaving the drive, Margaret moved with an apparent casualness toward one of the long windows. Heaven knew, she would be only too happy to see the sister spirited away, but she could ill afford Brett's nasty temper if it occurred while she was in charge. What was it he'd said? Something about never securing the divorce if that happened! Well, if there was an escape being executed at the moment, she'd be damned if she were going to allow it to occur beneath her nose!

  But when Margaret moved the heavy velvet drapery aside and gazed out at the courtyard, the only thing she saw was Patrick's carriage with the lovely profile of a familiar-looking redhead at its window. Satisfied for the moment, she turned to the big man standing across the room from her. "Why, no, Sir Patrick. I've no idea where Her Grace might be. As a matter of fact, the last I heard from the duke was that he suspected she'd gone off with you! But I do wish someone would inform me as to what is going on."

  "Very well, Lady Margaret," said Patrick, more than glad for the opportunity to extend his visit, "why don't you pour me some tea while I explain...."

  * * * * *

  Twenty minutes later, Patrick bent gallantly over Margaret's hand as he prepared to follow Higgins to the door. "Farewell, m'lady, and thank you for the tea. You have the address of my lodgings if you should hear anything. Please do not hesitate to send word."

  Nodding, Margaret watched him leave, a faint note of suspicion in her eyes. I wonder... she mused. She stood in the drawing room, engrossed in thought for several long moments, while Higgins returned from the foyer and began clearing away the tea service.

  Higgins was not blind to the pondering look on Iron Skirts's face, especially when he caught her glancing upward in what was clearly the direction of Ashleigh's chamber. Then, when he saw her nod decisively, as if having reached some conclusion, and turn to leave the room, he knew he had to act quickly.

  Balancing the heavily laden tray in one hand, he rushed for the double doors, saying, "Oh, allow me, your ladyship!"

  A second later, at the precise moment when Margaret would have charged through the doors and up to Ashleigh's chamber to determine whether she was still there, the entire tea service, slops bowl and all, came crashing to the floor in front of Margaret, thoroughly soiling her skirts in the process.

  "You clumsy fool!" she shrieked, drowning out the hastily murmured apologies of the duke's manservant. "Look what you've done! Oh, you oaf!"

  But as Higgins scraped and bowed, vowing to have the damage—and her ladyship—repaired in no more than ten or fifteen minutes, Patrick's crowded brougham was already speeding across town, its interior filled with the relieved sounds of Ashleigh's laughter as she hugged the two redheads and her brother while Finn licked her face in welcome and Lady Dimples grunted happily as she gazed again out the carriage window.

  * * * * *

  It was late when Brett let himself into the house on King Street. He'd stabled his horse and phaeton himself, in the absence of any servants, and found no fault in the fact that Higgins had not waited up for him. They'd long ago dispensed with his grandfather's Old Guard requirements that a manservant stay awake for his master, no matter how late the hour. Too many years had passed with nights in which Brett never came home at all.

  After doffing his jacket in the front hall, the first thing Brett noticed was a folded piece of parchment with his name on it, lying on the calling-card table. He'd ordinarily have ignored any correspondence until morning, but he recognized Margaret's tight script, and it prompted his curiosity. Unfolding the note, he read:

  Your Grace—

  I am returning this evening to Ravensford Hall. When you enter your wife's chamber, I suppose you will quickly guess why.

  Margaret

  Brett's brows drew together in a frown, and he murmured, "What puzzle does that old witch set me now?" even as he bounded up the stairs for his wife's chamber. Reaching the door in the darkened hallway, he paused for a moment, not sure he wanted to greet what awaited him there.

  He'd kept thoughts of Ashleigh purposeful
ly at bay all day and into the night, welcoming the unusually late meeting at Whitehall that lasted well past midnight. He'd known that, if he allowed it, his confusion at the conflicting emotions that had driven him out of the house shortly after dawn would have given him no peace.

  Indeed, during the short drive home, despite his weariness and the lateness of the hour, he'd been prey to the most damnable set of torturous images, and they all had to do with his wife... well, almost all. There'd been thoughts of Ashleigh in a sunny meadow, laughing helplessly amid the wild-flowers at a pig and her dog; then, quickly supplanting this, he saw Ashleigh on Ranleagh's arm, bestowing her most winning smile on the blackguard; but the next image was of her lying in his arms on their wedding night, murmuring, "Brett, oh Brett." Yet still another picture came to goad him: of a young footman handing him a cursed farewell letter....

  Finally there was that last image, the most hellish of all, where his boyhood nightmare returned, as it had last night; servants carrying a woman's portrait from the Hall as he, a small boy, cried for them to stop. But this time the vision was different. They did stop, and when they turned the portrait toward him, he saw the woman in the portrait was Ashleigh!

  Shutting his eyes to blot out the image, Brett reached into his waistcoat pocket and extracted his key, but when he went to insert it, he found the door already unlocked. Steeling himself against a flood of new emotions, he opened the door slowly, already knowing what he'd find on the other side.

  Except for the lambent ruffling of the curtains at the open window, the chamber was still. His gaze drifted toward the large tester bed, which, even in the shadows, he could see was neatly made. Slowly, like a figure in a dream, Slowly, Brett walked across the silent chamber, finding his way amid the shadows of the furniture by the moonlight filtering through the windows. Wearily, he ran a hand through his hair, his head slumped in a gesture of defeat.