He heard the door click open and felt the draught of cooler air. This would be Jordan, coming back with the large bath towel that had for some stupid reason been denied him. The man had taken his time about it.
A clear childish voice announced, “An’ this is my uncle’s bedchamber. You c’n see it’s a large an’ very nicely ’pointed room. He painted that picture over the desk. He’s a very good painter.”
The sponge held motionless, Farrar sat frozen with shock.
“Wazzat?” piped a very young voice.
“Eh? Oh, it’s a hip bath. An’ you c’n see by the steam my uncle’s ’bout to have a—” Carlton’s bright face hove around the edge of the tub. “No,” he corrected with his engaging grin, “he’s not ’bout to—he is having a bath. This is my uncle, Sir Anth’ny Farrar and I’m his nephew Carlton Farrar.”
Six boys, five small and one miniature, pressed in to view the exhibit.
His glazed eyes taking in this audience and the raucous kitten that struggled in his “nephew’s” grasp, Farrar found his voice. “Carlton!” he roared. “What the devil do you mean by this?”
“You told me to use my ’magination.” Shaken but defensive, Carlton advanced and held out his treasure. “I got traded a kitten for a tour of Palfrey. You said—” But at this point he caught sight of the scar on his uncle’s shoulder and gave a gasp. He had never seen a gunshot wound before, much less the horror that could be wrought by a pistol fired at close range, and he was so unnerved that he dropped his prize. Onto Farrar’s soapy chest.
The kitten was tiny, soft, and affectionate. It was also possessed of some very sharp claws. When it suddenly discovered itself sliding down a slippery surface towards what smelled horribly like water, it unsheathed those claws—purely for braking purposes. The captain gave another roar, and instinctively sprang to his feet.
Cissie, having just returned from her parents’ farm, had not been advised that Sir Anthony was having a bath at such an unusual time of day. She heard the outraged roars, followed by the sudden appearance of a stream of little boys, who scattered, whooping, from Farrar’s bedchamber. She was a warm-hearted girl and, afraid that Carlton had done something dreadful, she ran to investigate. On the threshold of the room, she halted, stared, emitted a piercing shriek, and fainted.
“Good … God!” howled Farrar.
“My kitty!” screeched Carlton.
Farrar scooped the wet and madly swimming little creature from the bath and grabbed for the small towel in the nick of time as Dimity, her fears of some contretemps verified by the uproar, charged to the rescue.
“Oh … my…!” she gasped feebly, halting in the doorway.
Holding the towel before the most vital area, Farrar, scarlet, raged, “Carlton, confound you, get your creature and your tour out of my bedchamber!”
Clutching his kitten, Carlton effected a fast retreat, taking with him the miniature tour member who still stood gaping at the nude in the tub.
Dimity’s eyes had found the scar. In a desperate and ill-advised attempt to protect his chastity, Farrar swung around, thereby presenting her with a view of his broad back, slim waist, tapering flanks and long, muscular legs. She noted absently that the bullet had torn right through, but her attention was (disgracefully) fixed on his trim buttocks. She thought, ‘My heaven, his body is beautiful!’
“What a’God’s name are you doing in here, madam?” gritted Farrar, almost whipping his shield behind him until he realized the mirror would likely complete his exposure.
Dazed, she murmured foolishly, “I—did not pay you for my … shoes.”
“Blast and dammitall! NOT NOW!”
A gasp behind her recalled Dimity to her senses. She whirled to find that Lady Helen, her jaw sagging, had joined the spectators. With considerably belated propriety, Dimity threw her hands over her eyes.
“I—thought you were murdering someone,” said my lady faintly, also mentally approving her nephew’s magnificent physique, but wincing at the ugly, puckered scar.
“You are only a trifle premature,” snarled Farrar.
Cissie stirred, wailing.
“Will—everyone—have the goodness to—depart the public bath…?” requested Farrar between his teeth.
Dimity peeped through her fingers at my lady, and together they bent to aid the sniffling maid from the premises, passing Farrar’s goggle-eyed valet, who ran up, a large bathtowel over his arm.
Before they reached the stairs, Dimity was giggling. Lady Helen strove, but was soon joining in, and Cissie was unable to escape the contagion. The three women succumbed and laughed until they wept, and were obliged to sit together all three, wiping their eyes on Cissie’s apron.
“But—how charming,” drawled a well-modulated male voice.
They looked up as one, to behold a tall dark gentleman, impressive in black and silver, bowing from the foot of the stairs.
Cissie whispered, “Oh, my! And I thought Sir Anthony was handsome!”
Dimity thought, ‘Good heavens! Pity the lady who gives her heart to this one!’
Lady Helen gasped, “Mathieson!” and ran down the stairs to fling herself into his ready arms. “After all these years!”
Laughing, he swung her off her feet, his jet eyes gleaming between thick, curling lashes. “Otton, my lady. Otton! Would you give my grandsire a palpitation?”
“Rascal,” she said fondly. “How lovely to see you.”
He looked, or so thought Dimity, mildly astonished. “Then I am received? I am more often thrown out than welcomed, you know.”
She regarded him questioningly for a moment, then started as those fine eyes slipped past her. “Good gracious! My apologies—it was such a surprise. Mrs. Deene, I present Captain Roland—Otton. Roly, Mrs. Deene—er, stays with us.”
A flash of white teeth. He bowed. Straightening, he took Dimity’s hand, touched it to his lips, and, his eyes widening as they lingered on the diminutive bodice of her gown, murmured, “How excellently well I timed my visit.”
“Do come and sit down,” said Lady Helen, “and tell me that you can stay. Captain Otton and my nephew were at University together, Mrs. Deene, and later they both fought in the Austrian wars.” She told a hovering footman to send refreshments to the withdrawing room, then led the way to that cool and spacious apartment. “You can stay, Roland?”
“My deepest thanks, but I must decline. I chanced to be in the neighborhood and somewhat out of temper, so—” a graceful gesture, the fascinating grin lighting the dark, aquiline features “—I came to renew acquaintance and recover my equilibrium. And what could be more soothing to a ruffled male than to discover you lovely ladies so merrily occupied?”
My lady directed an amused glance at Dimity’s mischievous face. “Just a small household contretemps,” she explained. “What was it that disturbed your temper, Roland?”
Leonard came in, followed by a footman carrying a well-laden tray. The butler’s countenance was without expression, but, quick to sense the moods of others, Dimity thought that he did not approve of the new arrival.
“Oh, it is these confounded dragoons who flood the countryside,” said Otton. “If I’ve been detained once twixt here and the mighty metropolis, I’ve been detained a dozen times.” He accepted a glass of wine. “And thrice searched!”
“Dreadful!” said my lady, offering the plate of biscuits to Dimity. “One might suppose we lived in an armed camp. The Palfreys has been searched twice, and yet another troop came only this morning.”
Very conscious of the parchment in her bodice, Dimity echoed, “This morning? Whatever did they want, ma’am?”
“Oh, it seems an unfortunate rebel gentleman is in the locality, and they are convinced some family hereabouts has given him sanctuary. As though any would dare do such a thing.”
His black eyes alert behind their drooping lids, Otton was watching Mrs. Deene’s suddenly white face and the hand that trembled as she nibbled her biscuit. “You would be surprised, my lady,�
� he murmured, as the door closed behind the servants. “This area fairly swarms with sympathizers for the plaid and thistle. Indeed, I was given to understand the military have their quarry cornered, and do but bide their time before hauling him in, together with an even bigger fish.” He thought, ‘Aha!’ as the girl’s wide hazel eyes shot to him and, with the smile that he knew was hard for any female to resist, he added, “I’ll own that for my part, any assistance I could render the poor devil would be willingly given.”
It seemed to Dimity that those velvety dark eyes held a message. But if she erred, heads would roll, her own among them. She looked down and made no comment.
Lady Helen, however, darted a nervous glance to the door. “Let us not speak of such tragic events. Goodness knows, we’ve had enough of sorrow.”
Otton put his glass on the low table, stood, and crossed to drop to one knee before her and take up her hand. “What an insensitive clod I become. I heard about Harding. My dear, I cannot tell you how sorry I am. He was a splendid fellow.”
“Yes. He was. And you are very far from insensitive. Thank you, Roly. Now,” she managed a bright smile, “we see so little company these days—pray tell me of the news from Town. How is the temper of the king? Are the ministers still fighting to take poor Sir Robert’s place? Will there, do you think, be war with France?”
Laughing, he came to his feet and raised a pair of shapely white hands. “Peccavi, ma’am, I implore. I shall answer all your questions, but you must first satisfy one or two of mine.”
‘They are old friends,’ thought Dimity, ‘and will have much to discuss.’ She begged to be excused, adding, “I must find Carlton, for he really has been very naughty.” Escorted to the door by the dashing captain, she received a blinding smile from him and a grateful one from her hostess.
When she was gone, Otton returned to Lady Helen. “Tell me,” he said, patting her hand, “how is Anthony?”
The smile vanished from her eyes. “Quite recovered. Physically, at least. But—I think he will never get over the shame of it, Roly.”
“Poor fellow. Lord knows, we all make mistakes.” He saw her distress and changed the subject at once. “Now, what’s this I hear about a fire? Did your lovely old village church burn down? Whatever do you do on Sundays? Stand in the rain?”
“Goodness, no. We go over to St. Michael’s. It’s not too far, and a nice young priest has taken over while Father Morehead is away. Such a fine looking boy. He preaches a sermon rather more—controversial than is entirely popular, alas, but he’s a charming way with words, and such a lovely sense of fun.”
“Which likely sets up even more backs.” He said musingly, “Puts me in mind of a friend who also went into the clergy. Charles was a very simi—”
“Charles? Why, that is the name of our curate. Charles Albritton.”
“The very same!” He drove a fist into his palm. “How famous! I shall have to hear him preach and tease, the rascal. Now, dear lady, one more question before I tell you all you wish of Town on dits. Am I wrong, or do I detect a hint of the ah—unexpected in the charming Mrs. Deene? An I speak out of turn you may tell me to put my curiosity in my pocket.”
Lady Helen hesitated, but his handsome face was very attentive, his smile gentle, his long dark eyes so kind. She had always had a soft spot in her heart for him, and so she said confidingly, “’Tis the most incredible development, Roland…”
* * *
“Incredible,” agreed Jordan, shaking powder into Farrar’s thick locks. “I would have come up at once, only I chanced to overhear something I thought might interest you, sir. All things being—er, equal.”
“Well, all things were not equal in here,” grumbled Farrar. “I was never more embarrassed! A whole herd of gawking females and staring children, and me standing in the altogether like some dripping damned museum exhibit! I fancy I shall have nightmares about it for years to come! How I’m to go down and face ’em all, I cannot think!”
His valet, managing with a strong effort not to grin, kept a discreet silence and after a fuming moment, Farrar grunted, “What’s this you think will interest me? If ’tis too alarming you’d best not tell me, for my nerves are already tattered!”
Jordan considered Sir Anthony to have the steadiest nerves he’d ever encountered, and he stifled a chuckle. “Why, it’s about Mrs. Deene, sir. The most ridiculous thing. It seems the maids are terrified of her because she bought a spell from a witch.”
Farrar, who had tensed at the mention of Dimity’s name, now pulled up his downbent head and shoved his hair back, the better to view his man. “You been at the brandy, Jordan?”
“Sir, I assure you my first reaction was exactly the same, but the silly wenches are petrified. I overheard them whilst I was in the linen room getting your towel, and by what I can make out, Mrs. Deene put the fear of doom into them, saying that if they dare repeat her secret, the spell would be broke, and a dreadful fate would overtake them.”
“Good God! What stuff!” And, contradictorily, “What kind of spell?”
“Why, it seems that Mrs. Deene purchased a love potion,” explained Jordan, resuming his powdering.
“Did she now?” said Farrar, his eyes beginning to sparkle. “How does it work?”
“She has a note writ by her lover” (here, Farrar’s eyes ceased to sparkle), “only the gentleman is reluctant to offer. So the witch told her, if she sleeps with the note under her mattress each night, she can bring him up to scratch.”
“I see. So ’twas not a cricket.”
“No, sir. She said she put that about because she didn’t want folks to know the truth. But the really incredible thing, Sir Anthony, is that the gentleman for whom Mrs. Deene has such a tendre, is—” he grinned broadly, “is Mr. Rafe Green.”
The powder box went flying. His eyes slits of wrath, his face pale save for two spots of colour high on his cheekbones, Farrar was out of the chair, his valet’s cravat twisted in his hand. “You lie!” he grated savagely. “By the God that made you—you lie!”
* * *
Astonished, Dimity stared up into Roland Otton’s laughing face. “I beg pardon, sir? I must have misunderstood.”
Otton was already much too close for comfort, but he moved closer so that she was obliged to press back against the tree. “I said,” he repeated, running a fingertip down the side of her cheek, “you are dealing from a fuzzed deck. How charmingly you do employ the wide eyes and heaving bosom, m’dear. Especially,” his hand strayed, “the latter.”
Furious, Dimity smacked his fingers away and said through her teeth, “How dare you! Were my brothers here, you’d answer for—”
“Sweet little widow, who wears no marriage ring,” he scolded, pressing his finger to her lips, “kiss it better. Come now, be generous. I am but trying to do you a kindness; you must not repay with cruel words and blows. After all, we are kindred souls, as it were.”
His slumbrous eyes teased her; his hands were everywhere. But also, his words made her uneasy so that, restraining a clutch in the nick of time, she gasped, “What do you mean—kindred souls?”
His lips parted and he bent lower. “I can show you better than—”
“Stay back! An I tell Lady Helen you—”
“My lady has gone to change her dress. I am invited to dine, so you need not fear I shall vanish away, love.”
“Fear, is it? I am more like to vanish you away with the nearest blunderbuss! What is this talk of—Oh! Stop at once!—of fuzzed decks and—”
“Heaving bosoms,” he grinned, with a fast caress where appropriate. “Simply this, fairest, if you seek to pass off that brat as Farrar’s nephew, you’re fair and far out, because—”
“Good evening, Mrs. Deene.”
The deep voice fairly splintered ice. Dimity tore free. Farrar stood nearby, Shuffle beside him, as usual. He had already dressed for dinner and was more elegant then she had ever seen him, in a splendid coat of dark green velvet, the great cuffs and pocket flaps embroidered
in light green. His waistcoat was of gold brocade, his unmentionables palest green, and stockings with green fans adorned his well shaped legs. Not even the darkening bruise on his face could diminish his proud hauteur, and Dimity thought him magnificent.
“Hello, Tony.” Otton put out his hand.
Ignoring it, Farrar drawled, “So you acknowledge me. You are more charitable than I, sir.”
Otton’s hand fell, but he said, unruffled, “Fustian. You forget we fought together in the Lowlands.”
“I forget nothing. You are the one forgets.” And as Otton watched him with eyes suddenly wary, he went on, “Quentin Chandler is a friend of mine.”
“Ah-h…” Otton took up his quizzing glass and began to swing it gently on the long silver chain that hung about his neck. “You’re right. I had forgot that attachment. Gordon has been this way, I take it.”
“So here you all are.” Lady Helen, who had changed into a graceful robe volante of dark rose silk, walked to the edge of the terrace, her rather uneasy gaze moving quickly from one man to the other. “Mrs. Deene, you will dine with me, of course. Roly, pray come upstairs and we can—”
“No, madam.” Farrar’s voice cut like a knife through her words.
She stared at him. “Roland dines with me this evening.”
“My regrets, ma’am, but Captain Otton is not welcome here.”
She gave a shocked exclamation. “He is my guest, Farrar,” she pointed out, her cheeks flushing and her fine eyes bright with anger. “You will own ’tis seldom enough that I am given the pleasure of company.”
Farrar said implacably, “I am aware. My deepest apologies to you, but Captain Otton cannot be welcomed into any house of mine.”
Superb in her wrath, she drew herself up. “Come, Roland. I am sorrier than I can express that you should be subjected to such rudeness.”
His eyes glinting with covert laughter, Otton stepped forward.
Farrar took one long stride and blocked his way.
Love Alters Not Page 17
