"Wha-what are you d-d-doing here?" he cried, looking even more distraught at the sight of her.
Oh, dear. His stuttering was nearly as bad as it had been that Sunday sermon he'd had to give with his Bishop in attendance, an experience so cringeworthy she'd rather have all her teeth pulled than be forced to relive it.
Something catastrophic must have happened. Her pending nuptials should have qualified, but she doubted this was the reason the vicar looked two breaths away from a swoon. Which could only mean…
Davina glanced down at the crumpled piece of paper the vicar was torturing in one hand. She could just make out Leon’s distinctive, flamboyant scrawl. Her heart sank even further.
"Tell me he didn't," she muttered.
"I d-d-don’t have any idea what you’re i-i-insin…insinu…t-t-talking about!"
The poor man was even tripping over his vowels. "He's run off with Nettie Dalrymple, hasn't he!"
The vicar sputtered without taking a breath—or producing a word—for several minutes until he was as purple as her gown. He finally managed a few coherent syllables. "Wha…? How d-d-did…You knew?"
Davina cringed at his final screech and glanced around. A few crows in the garden flapped their wings nervously as they picked at the ground, but she didn’t trust that they were their only audience. In a small village like Rylestone Green, meddling eyes were everywhere, even in vicars’ back gardens. She herded her cousin through the kitchens and into a small parlor.
"He threatened to yesterday, but I didn’t believe him." She surveyed the small tabletop, where the vicar’s breakfast looked as if it had been caught up in a maelstrom. Leon must have left his note there for his unsuspecting brother to discover over his tea and scones. The utter scoundrel. Leon knew the vicar’s nerves couldn’t handle such dramatics.
“He left in the n-n-night,” her cousin continued forlornly. “T-t-took your brother’s c-c-curr…c-c-curri…two-seater!”
Sir Wesley would be furious—if he bothered setting foot out of his workshop long enough to notice.
“Oh, dear,” she murmured, wishing she’d thought of the idea first.
“They’re halfway to Scotland b-b-by n-n-now!” he cried, pulling at his already airborne hair.
The one time Leon actually followed through on his plans was the one time Davina wished he hadn't.
She slumped in a chair, hope seeping away, leaving her feeling as flat as Sir Wesley’s infernal balloon. Her cousin had been her only hope—and even then not a likely one. What could Leon have done, really? He could barely take care of himself.
Cousin Edmund finally seemed to order his wits enough to take in her appearance.“B-b-but your wedding! Wh-why are you here? And what happened t-t-to your eye?"
"Lord Dalrymple,” she said shortly, for she was damned if she was going to prevaricate at this point. The earl didn’t deserve an ounce of her discretion.
"Oh my d-d-dear girl," he began sympathetically, though he didn't seem surprised.
Davina was tempted to ask why he’d condoned the marriage if he thought the earl such a scoundrel. But she couldn't be cross with the vicar, who was as helpless against the law of the land—and the power wielded by those of the earl’s station—as Davina was.
Dalrymple's blow last night would have been considered technically illegal, had anyone cared to pursue the matter, but once she stood up with him at the altar this morning, he would be given the right under the law to beat her as he saw fit for the rest of their days.
The vicar moved to console her, but then his blanched complexion took on a distinctly greenish hue.
"If he c-c-could d-d-do this to you, think of what he'll do to p-p-poor Leon! Oh hell…er, that is, h-h-heavens!"
It seemed her cousin was the one in need of consoling. She patted his shoulder awkwardly. "He'll have to catch him first, and Leon is far too clever for that." At least she hoped he was. Dalrymple wouldn't even have the good breeding to call Leon out. It would be a massacre.
"And what shall I t-t-tell Mr. Hirst’s m-m-man-of-affairs?" the vicar cried, snatching up another much-abused letter from the table and waving it at her. "After all of the t-t-trouble I went through to secure that p-p-post! He is to start on the m-m-morrow! How shall I explain it? The earl is a k-k-kitten compared to Hirst."
Davina had almost forgotten about Leon’s new employer, the infamous inventor, Julian Hirst, who was by all accounts born with an iron heart and a bloody dagger in his hand. No, Davina didn’t doubt that sort of man would take kindly to such an inconvenience, but Davina also didn’t doubt that sending Leon off to be Hirst’s secretary would prove an unmitigated disaster—even more so than Leon’s usual bungled careers.
The vicar must have grown desperate to find the feckless Leon some occupation that didn’t include visiting a tailor he couldn’t afford or lounging about the library. Even though Cousin Edmund loved his brother, his tolerance for Leon’s capriciousness was fast diminishing as the years kept passing and Leon showed no sign of growing up. The vicar’s dearest wish was for Leon to settle down into a profession and marry a suitable woman…
Well.
It seemed Leon was finally granting his brother half of his wish, though Davina doubted the vicar would thank him for it.
Cousin Edmund collapsed into a chair theatrically. "I shall have to leave the c-c-country,” he declared, removing his crooked spectacles and rubbing at his eyes with the heels of his hands.
"Surely not," she said drolly. "The county at most."
He began to sputter once again, not at all consoled by her flippancy.
Suddenly, distant shouts outside startled her to her feet. It was Dalrymple. Sir Wesley was with him, attempting to calm the earl down, though Davina was surprised her brother could have been bothered enough to leave his workshop. Then again, the earl had a way of bullying even her absent-minded brother into compliance.
The vicar jumped up, his clerical collar popping off completely and landing in his abandoned morning tea. He shoved the letters and his smashed spectacles into Davina’s hands and herded her out into the hall and toward the stairs.
“They m-m-mustn’t f-f-find you here!” he hissed.
Davina thoroughly agreed with him. She lifted her skirts and raced as fast as she could up the stairs. She’d just managed to shut the door to Leon’s room behind her when she heard Dalrymple and her brother crash inside the vicarage.
“Where is my sister!” boomed Dalrymple, his basso profundo so loud the floorboards quaked. She could just make out the vicar begin his response…but it would be some time before he managed to complete a sentence.
Davina sagged against the door and slid to the floor on weak knees. They weren’t looking for her, not yet. And with the vicar’s affliction, it would be quite a while before they had an answer on the subject of Miss Dalrymple. That gave her time to do…
Oh, God, what was she going to do?
Davina buried her head in her hands, trying valiantly not to cry. She’d not give in to her panic, not when she’d finally, finally mustered her courage enough to act.
She stared across the room at Leon’s overrun valise. He must have begun to half-heartedly pack for his new post before deciding to whisk away Miss Dalrymple instead. She shook her head in fond exasperation at the muddle of waistcoats and cravats exploding out of the top, and Leon’s much-coveted bottle-green cutaway and newest nankeen inexpressibles abandoned on the valet stand. Even his favorite acquisition, a pair of tasseled, black Hoby boots, bought on credit he had no hope of ever repaying, had been cast aside in favor of his old, less glamorous hessians.
It must have absolutely killed Leon to leave so much of his precious wardrobe behind, though he must have been quite relieved not to be taking up his post with the dreaded Mr. Hirst. Secretary indeed. She couldn’t imagine a worse occupation for the capricious Leon—or a worse employer.
She’d heard her fair share of tales, not only from the usual spurious sources, but also from Sir Wesley himself, who’d
befriended Mr. Hirst after partnering with him on a patent a few years ago. If Sir Wesley, the most eccentric man Davina had ever met, found someone peculiar, then she knew Hirst must be very peculiar indeed.
Nevertheless, Sir Wesley had encouraged Leon to accept the post, though Davina doubted her brother’s judgment on the matter. Sir Wesley’s hero-worship of the man was excruciatingly obvious. The only other person her brother blathered on more about was his wife—and that only slightly.
Sir Wesley may have admired Hirst for being the smartest man in England, but the rest of the world was more interested in the man's idiosyncrasies, which were as vast, apparently, as the fortune he had made during the war.
Hirst had most recently bought Arncliffe Castle, a crumbling pile on the edge of the moors—the perfect home for someone with an ambition of becoming a Minerva Press villain, in Davina’s opinion. He was no gentleman tinkerer like her brother, or the ubiquitous social-climbing cit, but rather a child of London’s worst rookery, raised to his present fortunes by his wits alone.
It didn’t seem like Hirst was one to act on impulse, so Davina wondered what could possibly be motivating him to hire a fop like Leon, a man he had never met, other than…
Her wandering thoughts stuttered to a stop.
A man he had never met. Mr. Hirst would have no idea what his new secretary looked like…
She glanced down to the letter from Hirst’s man-of-affairs, then back to the valise, and the wildest, most impossible idea leapt into her mind.
No. She couldn’t possibly…
Something crashed below her, the earl bellowed in rage, and the vicar let out a bone-chilling shriek.
Suddenly, that seed of an idea began to seem less impossible.
She stood and weighed her options. She had worn Leon’s breeches before. She’d even managed to pass herself off as a boy for an entire day after she’d snuck out with her cousin to the traveling fair that came through the village every year.
Granted, she’d been twelve years old. But she had Leon’s ridiculous wardrobe right in front of her, and she’d seen Exquisites in London who were far more feminine than she was, even when she was dressed in her finest ball gowns. She could do this.
It was an insane idea, but it was the time for insanity. The earl was not quite stupid enough to leave the vicarage without searching the house for his sister at some point in the very near future.
There was something liberating about stepping from the mound of violet flounces and into Leon's pantaloons. Something even more liberating about stripping away her chemise and throwing a lawn shirt over her head, buttoning a waistcoat up her chest, and looping a crisp linen cravat around her neck. It almost felt like stepping into armor.
She slid her arms into the bottle green jacket and surveyed herself in the mirror over the washbasin. For once, she didn’t hate what she saw. She’d never thought she’d be thankful for her flat chest, but she was in that moment, for no one would have ever suspected what lay beneath the crisp, tailored lines of waistcoat and cutaway. Only her hips, straining against the snug confines of Leon’s inexpressibles, were a bit too broad to be convincing, but there was nothing to be done about that now.
As she popped the vicar’s spectacles on her nose—the perfect finishing touch to her disguise, though she felt a bit seasick when she looked through the thick lenses—another crash came from below, and a new batch of voices joined in the squabbling. It sounded like the entire village had gathered in the vicar's parlor, but not once did she hear her name. No one seemed to have figured out she was missing at all.
She’d been completely forgotten—which was nothing new, really. There was a time she would have resented that, but not today. She rather hoped they forgot her forever.
She'd never escape through the front door—she'd never escape through a door at all with a crowd like that downstairs. She eyed the window next to Leon's bed. She'd destroy the vicar's favorite flowers when she landed, but the jump wouldn't kill her.
Probably.
She hoped that polite society was off the mark about Mr. Hirst—it usually was when it came to someone who had the audacity to amass a fortune without its consultation. She enjoyed reading gothic novels; she had no desire to become a heroine in one of them…or worse, one of the easily expendable supporting players. But she couldn’t worry about that now. She’d be lucky to make it to the mail coach and out of Rylestone Green, much less Arncliffe Castle.
Davina had one thing left to do, however. She touched the curls that had already begun to escape Lady Benwick’s pins and sighed. Her hair was her best feature, a natural gift that even her mother's dreadful taste in fashion hadn’t been able to ruin—though she'd tried to with her sharp pins and curl-killing pomades. Davina would mourn the loss, but if chopping off her hair was the price to be paid to escape her bleak future, she'd gladly pay it.
She searched through Leon's drawers until she found a pair of shears. They were dull and a bit rusty, but they'd get the job done.
One afternoon spent in Leon’s breeches when she was twelve was probably not adequate preparation for the role ahead of her, but she wouldn't let a little quibble like that stop her now. She’d found her courage at last, and she wasn’t going to misplace it again. No longer would she be the cowardly little wallflower who didn't even have the gumption to dress herself against her mother’s wishes. She’d be…
Well, someone totally different. She didn’t know exactly who she was going to be, but that was a detail she could sort out later. If she could just make it to Arncliffe Castle, if she could just maintain this charade for a few days, she’d have time to think.
And even if this insane experiment failed, at least she would have tried. At least she would be able to tell herself that she’d done everything she could to live her life on her own terms.
She raised the shears to her curls and without hesitation chopped away her old life.
Chapter Two
The Art of Bear Baiting
Despite being merely two hours up the Great North Highway, the grim village of Hebden, perched right at the edge of the moors, had none of Rylestone Green’s friendly quaintness. It also had the misfortune of being part of the Marquess of Kildale’s estate, and everyone in the county knew that particular peer of the realm had long since given up his responsibilities as a landlord. He’d left his tenants—at least those few who’d not abandoned the countryside for the dubious enticements of the city—to wrack and ruin.
Why Hirst, who was reputed to be a genius, could possibly think it a good idea to move near this…this armpit, was quite beyond Davina’s comprehension. Humans were comparatively thin on the ground, and the few she did encounter after stepping off the mail coach into a foul smelling mire of mud and sheep manure—and whatever it was one antediluvian-looking woman without teeth was pitching out of an open window—studied her with suspicion.
In terms of fashion, the Hebdenites, like her mother, seemed to be unaware the eighteenth century had long since passed, and that a whole spectrum of colors existed besides variations on the color brown. Apparently bathing had also yet to be discovered this far north, for the sheep loitering in the street were a good deal cleaner than their human keepers. Thus she, in all of Leon’s fine regalia, felt distressingly conspicuous as she picked her way out of Kildale’s demesne and down a lane in the direction of Arncliffe Castle.
She was just relieved she’d made it through a two hour ride on a mail coach without anyone suspecting her true sex, a feat she’d not thought possible even a few hours ago. She wasn’t sure if it was a testament to her acting skills so much as it was to the man who’d refused to stop belting out Rossini arias with no discernible tonal center, no matter how many hateful glances were thrown his way. Her ears had been brutalized, but the distraction had worked in her favor.
Davina was feeling distinctly less relieved when, nearly an hour and two bootfuls of blisters later, she’d still not caught a glimpse of the castle. Just as she began to wonder if sh
e’d be forced to return to that horrible village and actually attempt to converse with one of the unwashed natives, however, she came around a bend in the road and spotted her destination.
Swathed in mist and poised on the edge of the Yorkshire moors like Cerberus guarding the underworld, lay Arncliffe Castle, an ancient, slate gray collection of battlements, tiered gardens, and jutting towers. It was indeed just as she’d imagined it: the quintessential scene out of a gothic novel, made more perfect by an abandoned moat and several large birds of prey circling lazily above the chimney tops.
It was precisely the sort of place the eccentric Mr. Hirst should inhabit.
Now that she finally had hope of reaching her destination before succumbing to the elements, she sat down on top of Leon’s valise and tugged at her heels. No wonder Leon hadn’t taken his new boots with him to Scotland. Even three sizes too big for her, they felt like miniature iron maidens encasing her feet.
Suddenly, a moan carried up on the wind from the small stream bordering the footpath, freezing her where she sat. Images of wild boar, wolves, and ogres flashed through her mind, sending a chill up her spine. She would have felt ridiculous for the flight of fancy on any other occasion, but it was hard to care after the morning she’d had and the prospect of Arncliffe Castle before her.
The moan came again, but this time it was more of a grunt. And it was definitely human, or at least human-ish, and in some sort of pain. Davina could admit that she was a selfish person, but she drew the line at ignoring the sound of a creature in distress, even if this was a complication she didn’t need.
Though her good sense warned against it, she half stumbled, half slid, down the embankment, somehow avoiding falling on her arse, for which Leon’s precious pantaloons thanked her. The moan sounded again from a patch of ragged undergrowth that looked as if some beast had rampaged through it. She pushed aside the tangle and peered over her cousin’s spectacles so she could actually see something…and gasped in astonishment.
Despite her mother’s best efforts, Davina had managed to see her share of provocative things in her life. But nothing had prepared her for what she now beheld, stretched out before her on the riverbank like some exotic jungle reptile sunning itself. It was a man—a great deal of man, with a great deal of hair—lying facedown in a ditch. His clothing consisted of a good coating of mud, a pair of damp linen smallclothes, and little else.
Miss Benwick Reforms a Rogue Page 2
