by Nancy Butler
He saw the letter lying on the mantel and took it up. If she hadn’t baited him about it in the kitchen, he might be tempted to read it now. But he had more scruples than brains, he reckoned, as he slipped it into the pocket of his coat. Whoever she was, he’d learn of it soon enough. Young ladies didn’t go missing from their families without setting off some kind of stir. And if she lived within five miles of this island, Niall would discover her identity. The Gypsy was a veritable terrier when it came to digging things up, and he knew enough to be discreet. Which was essential, since the naive creature sleeping across the room from him seemed oblivious to the fact that she had been compromised. The only way she could go back to her family with her reputation unsullied was if no one learned she had spent time with an outcast madman. Which was why he couldn’t let her go off to the village tomorrow. That was his only reason for wanting to keep her there, he assured himself.
* * *
Diana felt herself being lifted and carried. She stirred slightly, and then burrowed her head into the folds of a neckcloth. “Mmm,” she murmured. “Is it morning?”
“No,” Romulus whispered, bending his head low over hers. “It’s still nighttime.”
“Don’t put me in the boat,” she whimpered in a waiflike voice.
“Shhh. I’m just putting you to bed. In your own room.” He nudged open the door to the store room.
“With the cygnets?”
“Umm. With all the other lost chicks.”
“Good,” she mumbled into his shirtfront. “I want to stay with the cygnets. And the heron….”
“Yes, I think you’re better off right here.”
He was pulling the coverlet over her when she reached out to grasp his hand. “I’m sorry, Romulus,” she said groggily, still more than half asleep. “Sorry I’m such a poor actress.”
He squeezed that small hand. “I’m afraid Allegra Swan doesn’t have much of a stage career ahead of her.”
“Mmm….” She grinned up at him as if he’d said something outstandingly clever.
He moved away from the bed, not daring to glance back at her as she snuggled beneath the blanket.
She was little more than a child by the look of her, but the feel of her in his arms just now had whispered of not-so-childish endowments. That first night he had been too overcome with relief after he’d rescued her from the water—especially since she had fought him off like a creature possessed and had nearly drowned in the shallows—to take stock of the body beneath the wringing wet clothing. And once he’d carried her back to his lodge, he’d been too preoccupied with doctoring the bump on her head and with bundling her under a blanket, to pay any heed to her feminine charms.
But now he’d discovered there were distinct curves to her body, and soft, scented hollows. He’d liked carrying her far too much. In fact he’d like to do a great deal more than lift her up in his arms.
Christ! He’d have to set Niall on her trail first thing in the morning. Because it was imperative they find her family. At once.
As he closed the door behind him, Romulus gave a muffled groan. Not every threat to his peace of mind came in the form of floods and poachers. Sometimes it came in the sublime shape of a black-haired water witch with gentian eyes and a round, rosy mouth.
Chapter 3
Treypenny lay just beyond the river, screened by a stand of oaks. The village boasted a collection of ivy-covered storefronts—a bake shop, a greengrocer, a small livery, and a pub called the Waterthrush.
Romulus tied his rowboat to a ring at the base of Treypenny’s granite river stairs. The children playing above him stopped to watch, and then as he mounted the steps they began to chant, “Bogeyman, bogeyman,” in loud, piping voices. He made a lurching motion toward them, and they scattered like chaff, even the boldest of them not wanting to get within range of his hands. It was too bad, for they might have seen the look of amusement shining in his eyes. Amusement and wistful pain.
As Rom made his way through Treypenny, the villagers gave him a wide berth. The women drew their skirts aside as he passed and the men refused to meet his eyes. He shrugged off their ill-concealed dislike and continued on toward the main road. He lingered there until an overburdened farm cart came creaking along.
“Heading into London this morning?” he called up after hailing the driver.
“Aye.” The farmer spat a stream of tobacco juice onto the road. “Got a load of mangel-wurzels to sell.”
“God help you,” Romulus muttered under his breath, trying not to grin.
For a shilling the farmer agreed to carry Allegra’s letter to the lawyer in Bishopsgate.
Romulus quickly put Treypenny behind him, and found himself in a better frame of mind when he came to the Gypsy camp. He spied Niall working with one of his horses in the field behind the caravans.
The field belonged to a family named Yorrick, who allowed the gypsies to camp there to spite their neighbors, the Talbots. The two families had been squabbling for decades over boundary rights, and the gypsy caravans were parked on the exact piece of property that was in contention. Until the Talbots proved their claim, there they would remain, with all the good will the Yorricks could muster. Niall had related this tale to Romulus with relish. There was nothing a Gypsy enjoyed so much as a blood feud.
When the boy saw Romulus, he broke off from schooling his horse, an arch-necked, piebald stallion. “What brings you ashore?” he called out, as he slapped at the beast’s hindquarters and sent him pelting away.
“Trouble,” Romulus said as he came up with the Gypsy. “Not the dangerous sort, mind, but trouble all the same.” He briefly told the boy about his unwelcome guest.
Niall whistled. “Fished her out of the river, did you? Now that’s not your usual catch. Pity I didn’t find her.”
“It’s a good thing you didn’t. She’s a fetching chit—you’d have tumbled headlong into love with her.”
Niall, who was just turned eighteen, had recently begun cutting a swath through the neighborhood’s female population. With his snapping black eyes, curling ebony hair, and warm, olive skin, he was an exotic change from the tow-headed farmboys the local lasses had grown up with. And the fact that he sat his brown and white stallion like a minor deity, all haughty brow and wicked smirk, didn’t hurt.
Niall remarked blithely, watching Rom with merry eyes, “Oh, and of course you wouldn’t tumble.” When Rom didn’t comment, he scrunched his hands into his pockets and asked, “So what’s to be done with her?”
“I need you to ask around. Discreetly, of course. She’s clearly well-bred and I don’t want to foster a scandal. Chat up the serving girls and the grooms. Someone is bound to know who she is.”
Niall nodded. “It’s hard to believe she can’t remember anything.”
“It is indeed,” Rom replied with conviction. He’d mentioned nothing of his suspicions to Niall, that the girl was playing a May game with him. “And there’s another problem—she needs some things to wear.”
Niall’s eyes widened as he said with quiet awe, “She was naked?”
Romulus snapped, “No, of course not. But her gown was ruined in the river. She’s trailing my dressing gown behind her, at present. Perhaps one of your cousins has a few cast-offs…. I’d be willing to pay.”
“Hang that!” Niall muttered. “You know we’ll not take money from you. I’m sure I can find something to tide her over till you send her home. What’s she like, then? Tall, short, or middling?”
Romulus sketched the air. “She barely reaches my chin. Slim as a lad…well, not everywhere.”
The Gypsy boy’s mouth twisted. “You surprise me. Now that’s the first thing I’d have mentioned.”
“I was just helping you to get an idea,” Romulus responded quellingly.
Niall grinned. “I already have a fairly good idea. No, don’t bristle at me. Are you rowing over to Hamish House this morning? If you take me across, I’ll start making inquiries on that side of the river.”
As Ro
m walked through the camp, the Gypsies greeted him casually. They mistrusted most of the villagers, but this man had befriended their leader’s son and had proven himself an ally once or twice. They didn’t exactly welcome him with open arms—it was more of a benign tolerance. At least on the part of the men. The younger women watched him with less benign expressions, looking up from their chores with hungry eyes. With his towering height, green-gold eyes, and deep russet hair, he was as exotic to these Gypsy women as Niall was to the farm girls. But Romulus knew better than to even risk a glance in their direction, not if he wanted to keep a long knife out of his short ribs.
Niall disappeared into his grandmother’s caravan. Romulus heard the sound of voices, softly pitched and speaking in Romany, and then Niall emerged, carrying a few bright garments over one arm.
“Thank your grandmother for me.” Rom nodded toward the caravan as he quickly bundled the clothing into his rucksack. “Come away now, if you want to cross over to Hamish House. I need to get back to my cygnets before noon. I’ve left my guest to tend them, and I want to see how she’s faring.”
As they left the pasture, Romulus caught his heel on a hidden root.
“Watch it,” Niall cautioned as his friend righted himself. “You don’t want to tumble, now, do you?”
Romulus shot him a look of irritation, but Niall merely tucked his hands again into his pockets and ambled down the lane, whistling a plaintive gypsy love song.
* * *
Diana was faring very well. Or so she thought.
That morning at breakfast she had insisted she was perfectly capable of looking after the baby birds. Romulus had given in, though his expression had been doubtful.
He was surely the most baffling man she’d met in her twenty-one years. Not only because he was a caretaker to wild swans, but because, while he was all consideration to his feathered charges, he treated her as though she was a mildly annoying gnat. Not that he was rude, just disinterested.
She drifted out onto the porch. By daylight the island was a revelation, a miniature Eden burgeoning with greenery and wildflowers. An herb garden, still shimmering with the morning dew, lay on both sides of a brick path. Beyond the garden, tall trees rose up, oak and beech and slender aspen. The river could be heard in the distance, its soft chuckling a pleasing counterpoint to the morning calls of birds. There was more than beauty here—there was peace and tranquility. Last night she had wondered how Romulus could spend his days on a strip of land in the middle of the Thames; now she wondered that he could ever bear to leave it.
Feeding the birds proved to be a simple task if one had patience—she seemed to have a knack for it. After she had fed the cygnets, she set them down to wander over the floor. Each one headed in a different direction until every cranny contained a bundle of grey fluff. She was delighted by their antics, but when she tried to gather them up, they receded even farther into their hiding places, peeping in alarm.
She went running from the storeroom, praying that Rom had left some of their food in the kitchen, so that she could bribe them to come out of hiding. Unfortunately the open storeroom door proved too great a temptation, and when Diana returned, the cygnets had scattered throughout the house.
“That’s washed it,” she muttered, watching a downy gray tail disappear beneath Romulus’s desk. “Now he’ll never trust me with them again.”
Crouching down in the center of the sitting room floor, she started peeping in what she hoped was an encouraging manner, having no idea what an adult swan sounded like or if they even made any noise at all. Two bolder cygnets approached her, but when she tried to capture them, they scurried out of range. This was not going well at all.
* * *
“It’s an embarrassment, that’s what it is!” Sir Beveril Hunnycut stood foursquare in his aunt’s softly lit drawing room and slapped at his booted shin with the weighted riding crop he carried.
Lady Estelle Hamish stopped pouring tea and regarded him assessingly. Somewhat past her fiftieth year, she was the very picture of a patrician matron, with a long, angular face, a high-arched nose, and a crown of elegantly arranged white hair. She leaned back on her brocaded sofa and said in a slightly chiding voice, “I’d think your concern would be for the young woman’s safety, Beveril, not for your own feelings of pique.”
He gave an exasperated grunt. “How can I not feel mortified? She went haring off from our betrothal ball without a word to anyone. Her sister is beside herself, as you might well imagine.”
“And you say she took nothing with her?” She cocked her head. “That is most curious.”
Sir Beveril nodded. “Her abigail swears not so much as a handkerchief was missing from her room. I am at a loss—the chit seemed biddable enough until that night. God only knows what got into her head. But that’s what comes of forming connections to provincials. I’ll…. I’ll be the laughingstock of the ton.”
Lady Hamish looked thoughtful for a moment. “Has it occurred to any of you that she might have been abducted? She is, after all, sister by marriage to a very wealthy man. I’ve never met James Mortimer—you know I rarely go out in company—but I’ve heard he roused a great many people to anger when he shut down his mines in Cornwall. Perhaps a disgruntled miner carried her off, by way of revenge.”
He waved away her suggestion. “Mortimer had to close the mines. There was no longer any profit in them. And don’t tell me some poor miner came all the way from Cornwall to abduct a debutante. It doesn’t fadge. No, the girl has run off and left me practically at the altar. Gad, I’ll be months living this down.”
She looked up at her nephew. “Was she so set against marrying you, Bev?”
The man’s brow lowered. “She was prepared to do her duty— Mortimer assured me of it.”
The white-haired woman shook her head. “I have always misliked these marriages of commerce, you know. That is why I swore never to marry a man of my father’s choosing.”
“And it’s a pity,” he said smoothly, reaching down to pat her hand. “For you are the best of women, Aunt Estelle. A man would be lucky to have such a wife.”
“Don’t talk fustian, Beveril,” she said a bit sharply. She was fond of her only nephew, up to a point, but she also knew that Mammon ruled his life. “If I had married and borne a child, all your expectations would be in the dust. But I have been content with my life, even without a husband.”
“Nevertheless,” he said as he seated himself opposite her and took up a tea cup from the silver tray, “it must have been lonely for you. Never having loved anyone enough to wish for marriage.”
Oh, I never said I haven’t loved, she murmured to herself before returning to her nephew’s problem.
“What is being done to locate Miss Exeley?”
“James wants to call in the Runners, but Helen is afraid of creating a scandal.”
“Is it possible the girl has eloped?” the lady inquired.
Beveril grit his teeth. “What? You think she fancied herself crossed in love and ran off with her dancing master? No, that harum-scarum little creature had no romantic illusions. I’d swear to it.”
And a good thing, Lady Hamish mused, in light of her nephew’s most unloverlike behavior.
Once they’d finished their tea, Sir Beveril rose and announced he was off to Mortimer House.
She watched his departure with a pinched expression around her handsome eyes. Every bit of her younger sister’s self-consequential nature had been bequeathed to her only son. And yet Lady Hamish sensed that there was some good in the man. She had hoped the young woman he’d chosen to wed might have curbed some of his more wayward tendencies. Now it appeared the girl was even more wayward than her nephew. Poor Beveril. Jilted by a provincial nobody. He, who had never been humbled once in his thirty years. Maybe the girl’s disappearance would do him some good, though. Give him something to focus on besides gambling, drinking, and the all-too-available Vivian Partridge.
* * *
Beveril was walking toward t
he stables when he caught sight of Romulus and Niall coming up the drive.
“You there, Perrin!” He went striding over to them. “I’ve warned you before about bringing that Gypsy trash onto my land. It’s bad enough the Yorricks allow it, but they, at least, are on the other side of the river.”
“He works for me,” Romulus said evenly. “And since I work for your aunt, he has a right to be here.”
Beveril’s florid complexion grew even redder. “Don’t bandy words with me, sirrah! If you must go about with such filth dogging your heels, see that it is left at the gates of my home.”
“Not yours yet,” Romulus muttered darkly. “Not bloody yet.”
“What was that?” Beveril glared and canted his head back.
Romulus knew that Hunnycut considered himself a fine strapping figure of a man, and he imagined it rankled Beveril no end that he had to look up to speak to his aunt’s hireling.
“I was not aware,” Romulus drawled, “that Lady Hamish had turned the running of her property over to you. I congratulate you.” The hazel eyes that Diana found so soothing now blazed with a martial light.
Beveril nearly sputtered. “It’s still hers, damn your insolence.”
“Then I must wish her a long and healthy life,” Romulus purred.
“As do I,” Sir Beveril said, his hands clenching repeatedly at his sides. “But mark me on this, Perrin—the instant I do have the running of Hamish House, your employment will cease. I’ll have you off that infernal island…with my foxhounds at your heels if necessary.”
“But, then,” Rom couldn’t help observing to his departing back, “I doubt they’d survive the crossing.” He grinned ruefully down at Niall. “God, I shouldn’t let that pompous windbag get me so riled.”
“You mean Sir Beef-eril?” The Gypsy chortled as they again moved along the drive. “Do you suppose he was born that ill-tempered, or do you think his nanny dropped him on his head?”
“Whatever the reason,” Rom stated, “he’s not the man I’d want running Hamish House. From what I hear, he’d soon run through every cent of his aunt’s money at the gaming tables.”
