The clerk dropped the parcel he had hurriedly assembled, and had to start all over again. Dimity vanished into her handkerchief. Farrar suddenly cried, “Hey!” and struck his riding crop smartly on the counter.
The unfortunate clerk leapt into the air with a yelp of fright.
“The lady purchased shoes only,” cried Farrar, indignant. “What’s all that other stuff you’re slipping in there?”
Shaking in every limb, the clerk replied, “N-nothing, sir. Mi-mistake, do assure you. I’ll—make all right…”
Under Farrar’s stern gaze, he began to re-wrap the parcel.
Wiping tears from her eyes, Dimity asked a stifled, “Is there … some problem?”
“One might think you’d bought the whole store,” grunted Farrar. “The gall of the fellow! And he’s slow as treacle. They should light a fire under— Egad! Down it goes again!”
Dimity was obliged to “blow her nose” and was occupied by this endeavour until Farrar had paid for the shoes, accepted his change, and ushered her out of the store.
Repentant, she sighed, “Oh, dear. I must have dropped my handkerchief. No, do not bother to go back. I know just where I left it.”
She made her way to the clerk, who was mopping his pale and sweating brow, and pressed a generous douceur into his shaking hand. “I do apologize,” she murmured, bestowing her most winning smile on him. “You tried.”
When she rejoined Farrar, he eyed her with marked suspicion. “Why have I the feeling there was more to that little transaction than I observed?”
“Probably because you were so entranced by some tinted curls that you suffered a lapse in your powers of observation,” she said primly, and irritated him by vouchsafing no further information, but chuckling to herself as they proceeded to the solicitor’s chambers.
Mr. Norris, it developed, was in court, but if they cared to wait, he should be back in about an hour for the luncheon recess. Farrar left the documents with the clerk and conducted Dimity outside again and along the flagway towards the High Street, where was his surgeon’s establishment. This was a pleasant white-stuccoed and half-timbered house, the smells inside, when the porter admitted them, reminding Dimity of Peregrine’s long ordeal.
Watching her covertly, Farrar saw the merriment in her eyes replaced by the sadness he had glimpsed there once or twice. The porter showed them to a tiny waiting room, and they sat side by side on a rubbed leather sofa.
Dimity said, “I apologize for teasing you. This will be nasty, I expect.”
“I do not believe you were teasing me, madam. I think you were up to mischief again, and I’d give a deal to know what it was.”
She hesitated a moment, then, with a dimple, told him.
His jaw dropped. He stared at her aghast. “Why—you little vixen! If ever I—” He was interrupted by a slim, rather untidy gentleman of late middle age, with a kind mouth and gentle brown eyes, who came from an inner room and called him. He went off, slanting a glance of indignation at Dimity, but with a grin lurking about his mouth.
The minutes drifted past. No one else came in and the time began to drag. Dimity had once watched their surgeon sew up a gash in Piers’ arm when the twins’ reenactment of the Siege of Acre had become too realistic, and the memory of that scene was beginning to worry her when the doctor wandered in again. He peered around the empty room myopically.
“Which one of you is with Sir Anthony?” he asked.
‘Good heavens!’ thought Dimity, and stood.
“Oh, dear. Did he not bring his man?”
“I’m afraid not. Is something wrong?”
“No, but—did you come by carriage, ma’am?”
“We rode.” She glanced at the riding crop Farrar had left on the chair and wondered if the man was blind.
“Very unwise,” he muttered, but apparently detecting her troubled look, gave a sudden huge smile and said with great jollity that there was nothing to worry about. “Might’ve been better had Tony had the sense to have brought a manservant and his carriage. Dog bites, y’know. Had to sear. Unpleasant business.”
She winced. “Yes. I shall go and hire a carriage at—”
“Devil you will!” Farrar stood in the doorway, straightening the ruffles at his wrist and frowning at the physician. He was pale, but said steadily, “Roger, you old gloom-monger, what are you at now? The lady already holds a poor opinion of me without your adding to it by making me out too weak-kneed to bear your clumsy stitchery. I am perfectly fit.”
Dr. Steel extracted a pair of bent spectacles from his waistcoat pocket, and affixed them to his nose. One lens drooped, and he tilted his head to accommodate that lapse, clapped a hand to his sliding wig, and surveyed his patient anxiously. “Yes, but you’re not, you know,” he sighed.
“Stuff!” Farrar cuffed him gently and strode past to take up his tricorne and whip. “If you are ready, ma’am?”
Dimity said, “I was hoping you would be longer. My feet are—”
He gripped her arm. “Mrs. Deene, do not add to your deceptions,” he said, sotto voce, “I am a much-tried man.”
“As well as a conceited one,” she murmured as he rushed her through the door.
He maintained a brisk pace as they made their way along the bustling street, and rejected offers to buy a broom, to have his palm read, to have the pretty lady’s palm read, to attend an auction of some prize pigs, or to eat two for the price of one at the new ordinary on the Winchester Road. They were almost to the livery stable when he was hailed by name and turned about, pushing Dimity rather roughly away from him, his jaw set, and the colour that had returned to his face, draining away again.
A tall, elegant gentleman, somewhere in the early thirties Dimity judged, stood leaning on an amber cane and fanning himself with his gold-laced tricorne. He had a strong, rather gaunt face with high cheekbones and a Roman nose. His complexion was dark, as were the thick brows that rose to sharp peaks over unusually beautiful grey eyes. The way in which he flourished his cane, and the excellence of his dark gold coat, primrose satin small clothes, and Mechlin lace cravat suggested the dandy; a suggestion the apprehensive Dimity thought belied by the determined jut of the chin and the firm mouth.
Sauntering over to them, the gentleman said in a deep, bored voice, “Anthony, my dear fellow, I rejoice to see you among the living.” His admiring gaze, however, was fixed on Dimity.
“How odd it is, Treve,” replied Farrar, “that I had thought you betrothed. Mrs.—er, Deene, may I present the Honourable Trevelyan de Villars? And caution you ’gainst placing too great a reliance on the adjective…”
Both amused and relieved, Dimity curtsied.
De Villars bowed with depth and grace, and murmured, “Is a courtesy title, dear boy. Not an adjective. And if you riposte by saying that in my case it is an adjective misused, I shall be obliged to restore you to your sick bed. Mrs. Erdene, I can only grieve that I am no longer at liberty to pursue so fair a—”
“Not Erdene, you great looby,” interposed Farrar, grinning. “Mrs. Deene.”
“But—dear dolt, you distinctly said—”
“He is not himself,” Dimity interjected with a twinkle.
“What a relief,” said de Villars wickedly. “Are we acquaint, dear lady? I would swear I have met you somewhere.”
Her heart gave a jump. De Villars! Of course! Her brothers often spoke of the man. He was, in fact, a friend of Perry’s, a friendship which she suspected did not enjoy Piers’ endorsement. If he had detected the strong family likeness and mentioned it, she would be unmasked! Fortunately, before she was able to respond, Farrar groaned and clapped a hand to his brow. Dimity looked up at him anxiously.
“What a hoary old gambit!” he scoffed. “Really, Treve, one might expect better things of a fellow with your reputation.”
“So dear Jacob Holt tells me.”
The atmosphere became tense. Farrar said guardedly, “Yes? When?”
De Villars sighed. “Yesterday, I think. He fairl
y haunts me.”
“You dashed idiot! Let be!”
Replacing his tricorne, De Villars murmured, “Soon, I hope. Have you seen our faithful Gordie of late?”
“Yes. He’s off to Town, I believe.”
“Ah. Boudreaux House, by any chance?”
Farrar nodded, watching him frowningly.
“Pity,” said de Villars. “I’m not there. You look a trifle wrung out, dear lad. Some small indisposition?”
“Two large dogs,” said Dimity.
De Villars’ right eyebrow twitched upward. He rubbed the handle of his amber cane thoughtfully against his chin. “Not the puppies of Harding’s grieving bosom bow?”
“The very same.”
“I marvel you live. Were you present at this debacle, Mrs. Deene?”
“Yes, sir. And never have I been more terrified.”
“Yet she managed to drive them off with a branch,” said Farrar, looking down at Dimity with a faint smile.
“And was not slain? Remarkable. Tell me, ma’am, when you wielded your branch at those misbegotten hounds, did they turn on you?”
“No, thank heaven. They had attacked Sir Anthony’s spaniel, and when he tried to stop them, they mauled his arm badly.”
“Yet,” he mused, “when you intervened, they continued to concentrate on our Tony, eh?”
Dimity gave a little gasp. Farrar asked in a low voice, “Treve? What the devil do you suggest?”
“Merely that you use your head, dear boy. And do not go about without you carry at least one pistol. I suppose I must now trot in search of Chandler. Wretched nuisance. Farewell, ma’am, ’tis a joy to have made your acquaintance.”
Watching him go, Dimity said curiously, “What an unusual man.”
“Treve’s a rara avis,” he declared, with a rather troubled expression. “Well now, ma’am, I fancy you would like a cup of tea, at the least.”
“Perhaps we could go to the new ordinary on the Winchester Road.” He gave her a puzzled look, and she added demurely, “Two—for the price of one.”
He chuckled. “I think we can do better than that.”
He took her to a delightful old tavern where they sat on a rear terrace shaded by spreading oak trees, and enjoyed cold cider, some excellent pork pie, and sliced fruits. Farrar was quiet and it seemed to Dimity that his polite conversation about de Villars had little to do with his thoughts. He excused himself briefly at the end of the meal. She assumed it was for the customary reason and left the terrace herself. When she returned, there was no sign of him, but another gentleman was seated at a nearby table.
He was richly dressed and wore an elegant, flowing bag wig. He must be of great height, Dimity judged, and his girth was enormous. He leaned forward, drinking his soup noisily. It was not in her nature to judge by appearances, but she was conscious of a deep revulsion and thought that he resembled nothing so much as a huge toad. As she drew nearer, she detected the smell of the unwashed, and saw also, as one fat hand reached towards the basket of bread, that the ends of the fingernails were black. Had she not left her parcel on the table she would have been tempted, ridiculous as it seemed, to wait for Farrar’s return. Even so, she hesitated and glanced around, wishing he would come.
A chair scraped. She turned to find the new arrival standing, napkin in hand, watching her. His eyes were like black buttons in the pale flabbiness of his coarsely featured face, and they travelled up and down her with bold rudeness, an admiring smile beginning to curve the thick lips.
She thought, ‘My heaven! He is a giant!’ And indeed, he towered over her so that her urge to run away intensified.
He bowed with rather surprising flair. A deep voice rumbled, “Give you good day, ma’am.”
That was polite enough. She was being silly, just because she’d had a rather taxing morning. Collecting herself, she responded with a nod and the faintest of smiles, and chose the farthest chair. Before she could touch it, he was pulling it out for her, standing much too close. Abruptly, her need to escape him was a near frenzy. She knew how to deal with impertinent admirers, but now her heart was pounding with a fear such as she had never before experienced and that robbed her of the words with which to depress this creature’s pretensions.
His little eyes glittering, he moved even closer. She drew back instinctively, only to find herself trapped between him and the chairs around her.
Bending to her, he murmured with an incalculably suggestive leer, “Are all the men in this sorry world gone blind, to leave such a lovely lady all alone?”
“Not all, my lord.”
Dimity would never have believed she could be so glad to hear that lazy drawl, but glancing up, she saw the big man’s expression change to a malevolence that was appalling.
He stood very straight and without turning, sneered, “Well, well, so you have dared set foot off your own preserves, have you, Farrar?” He stared at Dimity with a very different look in his hard little eyes. “And this is yours, is it? What a pity, my dear, that you have such poor taste.”
“Never blame the lady, my lord,” said Farrar, one hand on the pillar that supported the terrace roof. “The error in judgement was mine. I was not aware that you patronized this house, you see.”
That the big man had a violent temper became very evident. The heavy features contorted and were darkened by a purplish flush. With a growled oath he swung around, one great paw flailing out. Farrar swayed aside with the smooth grace of the accomplished fencer, and a howl of rage and pain sounded as the savage blow landed full on the pillar.
Cradling his hurt, the big man roared, “Damn you to hell, Farrar! You’ve broke my hand!”
With swift precision Farrar had taken up Dimity’s parcel, swept away the chairs that trapped her, and guided her towards the door. He glanced back and said over his shoulder, “No—have I? And here I’d fancied my day not very well spent!”
Chairs were sent crashing. Starting towards them vengefully, the big man checked, cursing and holding his hand painfully. “You miserable bastard!” he bellowed. “There’ll come a day of reckoning, never doubt it, and you’ll pay a hundred-fold for what you’ve done to me and my son!”
Farrar pushed Dimity through the door. He said scornfully, “You are ridiculous, as ever, my lord. I wonder you do not disgust yourself. You know perfectly well I cannot challenge an old man. If your son has the gumption, let him call me to account.”
He closed the door swiftly on the resultant explosion of profanity and led Dimity across the coffee room and into the vestibule. The host was hurrying anxiously down the stairs. Farrar nodded to the terrace. “There’s a poor fellow having a fit out there. You’d best summon a physician,” he said, and opened the front door.
Dimity’s hand trembled as she took his arm.
“Ecod, ma’am,” he said softly, “your choice of admirers continues to deteriorate.”
Angered, she snatched her hand away. “My choice? That horrid creature?”
He glanced covertly at her. “Dear me. And I had thought you old friends.”
“Heaven forfend!” She shivered suddenly. “He made my skin creep!”
“Unfortunate, ma’am. He was obviously lost in admiration for you, and he is enormously powerful and … very rich.”
“Were we not on a public thoroughfare,” said Dimity between her small white teeth, “I would demand that you give me my new shoes!”
He said with bland solicitude, “Your feet pain you, ma’am?”
“Not at all. I merely have a nigh overwhelming desire to hit you with them!”
“Then I must indeed beg that you restrain such a desire. You have been sufficiently disgraced today, Mrs. Deene, but to raise your feet against me in public would—”
She had a mental picture of such a spectacle and her rich gurgle of laughter rang out. She caught a glimpse of a twinkle in his deep eyes and, her own alight with mirth, said, “No, be serious, do. Why does that horrible man hate you so? I vow I never saw such an expression in a gent
leman’s eyes.”
For a moment Farrar continued to stare down at her merry face. “You still have not. Whatever one might call him, he is not a gentleman.”
She looked at him curiously. “You called him my lord. Is—”
“Good God, ma’am! Disabuse your mind of the belief that a title qualifies its owner as a gentleman!”
“Well of course I do not think that! The most despicable of men may be a knight or—” She stopped abruptly.
He sneered, “Or—a baronet?”
She flirted her shoulder at him and said crossly, “Oh, you are hopeless!”
They did not speak again until they were mounted and riding through a landscape that was all blue, green, and gold perfection. Once the bridge was behind them Farrar left the busy highway and struck across country. The beauty of the afternoon banished Dimity’s irritation and after a while she murmured, “You did not answer my question.”
His lips quirked. “Jupiter, but you are fascinated by old Hibbard.”
She refused the gauntlet and said in a very serious voice, “I would not have you think I have led a purely serene life, Sir Anthony. I have often been quite terrified. But I think I never knew such a depth of—of fear and revulsion. Oh, not because he is so physically unattractive—my grandpapa has a friend who is unbelievably ugly, yet with such a warm and gentle nature one never even notices his looks and he has more friends than any man I know. Yet—I think today I was more than frightened. I—seemed to sense…”
“Evil?”
She looked at him quickly. “Yes. Is he?”
“Very.”
“And yet you antagonized him so!”
He shrugged. “The damage was done long and long ago.” From the corner of his eye he saw her watching him, waiting, and could not restrain a chuckle. “Oh, very well, if you must have it. His son tried, when first we met, to patronize me, then to bully me, and then to buy my friendship. He has much of Hibbard in him and I—Lord, but I sound a priggish snob!”
“You did not want him for your friend.”
He frowned. “I’d sooner cry friends with a scorpion! He apparently felt he had offered me the greatest honour and was infuriated when I avoided him. He never forgave me and when we were at University he spared no opportunity to make my life difficult.”
Love Alters Not Page 15
