by M C Beaton
Not that that made Miss Cottingham a schemer or an untrustworthy woman. The viscount trusted his own instincts.
No woman of such bravery, such ladylike bearing as Patricia Cottingham, could be capable of treachery or deceit. It was understandable that any gentlewoman in her circumstances would be forced to forge references in order to obtain a post.
Yvonne must be married as soon as possible and Patricia pensioned off.
Then he would shoot any female who dared to approach the castle, who dared to threaten the peace of his bachelor life.
In the weeks that followed, Patricia and Yvonne managed surprisingly well. It was as if both women had privately agreed on some sort of truce. Neither made any reference to Patricia’s lies or Yvonne’s visit to Truro.
But Yvonne was still secretly determined to find out if Patricia was really as brave as she had appeared to be on both occasions when she had rescued her.
Yvonne had accepted the viscount’s apology with outer grace and inner disappointment. For the viscount had been grave and kind, and she would rather have had him storm at her, shake her, show that she sparked some emotion in him.
Yvonne now received a generous allowance from the viscount. She had wanted to buy ribbons to embellish a gown, and when she had asked him for the money, he had realized he had never thought of providing her with pin money.
Yvonne was still furious with Gustave for upbraiding her in front of the viscount, and so she kept her speculations about Patricia to herself.
The castle was a restless place, full of painters and builders and men hanging new curtains. Yvonne found only a little satisfaction in noticing that the viscount did not appear to have consulted Patricia about decoration or design.
But he still saw the governess at four o’clock most afternoons.
Yvonne wondered what they talked about, but she did not want to be caught eavesdropping again.
Besides, it was becoming harder to imagine sinister motives seething behind Patricia’s placid brow as one lazy golden summer day followed another. Suspicion was no longer fueled by jealousy, because Yvonne never saw the viscount and Patricia together.
Yvonne began to visit the village of Trewent fairly often, taking Gustave with her and leaving him at a local inn while she went down to the small harbor to watch the fishing boats.
Suspicions belonged to the winter nights, the dark days, and the rainy days. Yvonne would have abandoned any plans to test Patricia’s bravery, had not a strange sight brought all her doubts flooding back.
She was riding back to the castle from the village one afternoon with Gustave at her side. She reined in at the top of the cliff path and said to her servant, “I wonder if they have a new boat.”
“It looks dangerous,” growled Gustave. “Don’t go down there, milady.”
“You have become an old woman, Gustave,” said Yvonne crossly. “Guard the horses. I shall return in a moment.”
She had been gone fifteen minutes, and Gustave was just debating whether to tether the horses and follow his mistress when Yvonne reappeared, much flushed.
“It’s back, Gustave,” she cried. “The boat, the Trewent Castle, is tied to the jetty.”
“The thieves probably returned it,” said Gustave indifferently. “Keeping such a boat would identify them.”
“Well, I think it most odd,” said Yvonne impatiently. “They could have burned it or disguised it—but to risk capture by returning it!”
“Milady,” said Gustave patiently, “do not make the mysteries. So Miss Cottingham lied about a reference. So now everything is suspicious. Me, I would do the same thing, should the need arise.”
Yvonne thought furiously on the road back. She must see her guardian immediately.
Her heart gave a queer little jerk when she saw the viscount striding toward the castle from the stables. He was hatless and wearing only a fine cambric shirt, leather breeches, and top boots. He walked with easy, athletic grace, and his fair hair was ruffled by the gentle breeze.
“My lord!” called Yvonne, her voice made sharp with irritation. For he had shown every sign of walking on without staying to greet her.
He swung about and stood with his hands on his hips, watching her dismount. She was wearing an alpaca riding dress of mannish cut. Her long skirt caught on one of the stirrups, exposing a flurry of white lace petticoat.
He had not seen her for some time, having carefully kept away from her. Now he wondered again how he could ever have considered her a little girl. It was a seductive woman with skin tanned to pale gold and a swelling bosom above a tiny waist who came tripping toward him.
“What is it, Yvonne?” he asked.
“The boat, the Trewent Castle—it’s back,” cried Yvonne.
A smile crossed the viscount’s face as he looked beyond her. Yvonne whipped around, her skirts belling out about her slim body. Gustave was piously rolling his eyes up to the sky in mock resignation.
“Go to the stables, Gustave,” snapped Yvonne. “I shall deal with you later.”
“Quietly, my termagant,” said the viscount. “The rowing boat was returned a day after your capture.”
“And you did not find that odd?” exclaimed Yvonne.
Unconsciously repeating Gustave’s argument, the viscount said, “No doubt they were frightened that possession of the boat would lead us to them.”
“Fiddlesticks! Thieves are thieves, and a good boat is a good boat. Tiens! They could have sold it or painted it or burned it.”
The viscount threw her a mocking look. “Next you will be accusing your poor governess of having spirited it back into place.”
“That would not surprise me in the least,” said Yvonne.
“It is back, and there have been no more signs of the brigands.” The viscount sighed, evidently becoming bored with the subject. “The ball is in a week’s time. You are expected to stand at my side and greet my guests. Remember to be on your best behavior. You are protected from anti-French feeling by my patronage. Do not do or say anything to give the local worthies a disgust of you.”
“I am always convenable,” said Yvonne with a toss of her curls.
“See that you continue to be so. What is it, Fairbairn?” The butler had approached quietly while they were talking.
“Miss Cottingham awaits you in the library, my lord.”
“Four o’clock already! Good-bye, Yvonne.” The viscount turned on his heel and strode into the castle.
Yvonne watched him go, her hands clenched at her sides. Green-eyed jealousy came roaring back and, with it, stronger and deeper suspicions about Patricia’s character. He conversed with Patricia each time for only about five or ten minutes. But that was enough, thought Yvonne, to strengthen the intimacy.
All her determination not to eavesdrop left her. She darted around to the castle to the front and crept quietly up the steps to the narrow terrace that ran along the front of the building. The library window was open.
Frightened to look in through the window in case she might be seen, Yvonne listened hard.
“I would like to see my ward spend more of her outings in your company,” she heard the viscount say.
“I fear she prefers the company of her French groom,” Patricia replied.
“He is a sterling fellow, but she converses with him in French, and it is important that she should begin to consider herself an Englishwoman. Be careful not to go near Penryn, however. There are two dangerous footpads on the loose, and they have not yet been apprehended.”
“Very good, my lord.”
There was a little silence, a rustle of papers, and then the viscount said, “That will be all for today, Miss Cottingham.”
Yvonne heaved a sigh of relief. All very formal. The viscount was speaking very much as employer to employed.
Then she heard Patricia say, “Am I invited to your ball, my lord?”
“Of course.”
Patricia’s voice held that teasing, flirtatious note that Yvonne had heard once before. �
�I shall sit with the chaperones, my lord, and watch the dancing. Should I wear a cap?”
“You may dance, Miss Cottingham. All of the local people are to attend. We do not stand on ceremony at a country ball.”
“At least I cannot expect a dance from you, my lord. That would occasion too much comment, even at a country ball.”
“I would be honored if you would favor me with a dance, Miss Cottingham,” said the viscount stiffly.
What else could he say? thought Yvonne, grinding her teeth.
“And pray make sure my high-spirited ward behaves herself,” she heard the viscount add.
“Yes, that is most important,” Patricia replied seriously. “Particularly with so much anti-French feeling in England. It is a pity Yvonne is not English. The French are so emotional, so unstable, so much given to wild flights of fancy.”
The viscount replied something, but as, Yvonne judged, he had crossed the room to hold open the door for Patricia, she could not hear what he said.
Yvonne was in a thoroughly bad temper. Patricia should learn the French were a match for the English. The governess seemed to have iced water in her veins. “Let her find herself in a situation of apparently real danger, and then we shall see how genuine that famous English calm of hers really is!” vowed Yvonne.
It was a mile and a half to the village. Yvonne set out on foot.
She did not want even Gustave to know what she planned to do.
CHAPTER SEVEN
Perhaps hoping to save the governess from having to argue with his tempestuous ward, the viscount summoned Yvonne the next morning and told her that he expected her to take Miss Cottingham along with her when she went out that afternoon.
To his surprise, Yvonne readily agreed, and surprised him further by asking if she might take out a small gig she had seen in the stables.
Cautiously, the viscount agreed, but only after having had a horse harnessed to the gig and having seen Yvonne demonstrate to a nicety that she could drive a light carriage as easily as she could ride.
Patricia was obviously relieved she was not expected to ride, and at three in the afternoon both ladies set out in the gig, taking a little-used road across the moors.
Yvonne was in high good humor, laughing and singing French songs. Yvonne knew that once they were away from the castle, they would be set upon by two footpads. For had she not arranged the whole thing herself?
The evening before, she had found two sturdy young men in the village who had readily agreed to act the part of footpads. Their instructions were to frighten the governess but not harm her. They were to find a boy to run to the castle with the news of the “attack” so that, with luck, Lord Anselm would arrive in time to witness Yvonne’s bravery but not in good enough time to stop the “footpads” from escaping. One of the young men said his brother would act as messenger.
Yvonne held the reins in one hand and surreptitiously felt the hard bulk that was the pistol inside her reticule.
As usual, Patricia was talking of everything and nothing. Yvonne reflected, not for the first time, that it was amazing how the governess could talk so much without ever betraying anything about herself. She talked of the material she had found in Penryn to make herself a gown for the ball, of the pleasant summer weather, of the poor quality of mutton from the sheep grazing on the moors, and of the new decorating of the castle, agreeing with Yvonne that not much in the way of flowers or hangings could really do much to alleviate the gloom of the place.
And then two men rose up from the heather, brandishing cudgels. Even Yvonne, who had been expecting them, let out a scream.
For the young men from Trewent were surely masters in the art of disguise. They made a villainous-looking pair, reflected Yvonne, stunned with admiration.
One of the men had seized the reins of the startled and plunging horse. “Get down,” he growled, “or it will be the worse for you.”
Patricia, white to the lips, started to get down. But to Yvonne’s disappointment, she showed no signs of screaming or fainting. Yvonne gently drew her little pistol out of her reticule. “And you,” the other man shouted at her.
As Yvonne was getting down, Patricia whipped about and started to run. “Help!” she screamed. “Help me!”
As Yvonne watched, stricken, one of the men ran after Patricia, raised his cudgel, and brought the governess down with a heavy blow on the head.
“You’re not supposed to do that,” gasped Yvonne. “Have you both gone mad?”
The one who had stayed to guard Yvonne and the carriage shouted to his friend, “See if she’s got any money on her.”
“If she ain’t, she’s got something nearly as good,” called back the man, stooping over Patricia.
As Yvonne watched with dilated eyes, the ruffian turned Patricia’s unconscious body over with his foot, and one dirty hand started fumbling inside the neck of the governess’s muslin gown.
Yvonne stared at the man next to her, at the low brow, filthy face, and red-rimmed eyes. In that one panic-stricken moment, she realized they were not the young men she had hired, but genuine footpads.
“Now you,” said her guard, grinning at her and raising his cudgel. “Let’s see what you got.”
Yvonne raised her pistol, which had been hidden in the folds of her skirt.
“Come and ’elp me, Jem,” called her guard. “She got a gun.”
“Take it from her, man,” yelled his companion. “She won’t know how to use it.”
Yvonne lowered the pistol until it was pointing at the man’s leg. He made a sudden grab, but she fired first.
He let out a scream of pain, wailing, “I been hit.”
His companion started to run away just as the thud of hooves came along the road from the direction of the castle.
Yvonne recklessly ran after him, shouting for help as the figure of the viscount, riding hell for leather, appeared on the crest of the road.
He rode straight for the escaping man and brought the butt end of his whip down on the ruffian’s head, knocking him unconscious. A little way behind him came some of the castle servants, headed by Gustave.
The viscount dismounted and kicked the body of the man he had stunned. “Tie this one up,” he called, “and catch that other one.”
The man Yvonne had shot was trying to limp across the moor.
The viscount waited until he saw both men were being dealt with, then he turned silently to Yvonne and held out his arms.
She flung herself into them, hugging him tightly, pressing her face close against his chest and hearing the erratic thumping of his heart.
A faint moan came from somewhere nearby. “Miss Cottingham,” cried the viscount, pushing Yvonne away.
He ran forward and knelt on the ground beside the governess. “I am not going to let him take her in his arms,” vowed Yvonne.
She ran forward and knelt down as well. “I will attend her,” she said. “My poor Patricia. She had such a fright, my lord. She was hit by one of those men when she was running away.”
“And did you not try to run as well?” demanded the viscount, smoothing Patricia’s hair back from her brow. It was all Yvonne could do to stop herself from snatching his hand away.
“I shot mine,” she said.
The viscount sat back on his heels and stared at her in amazement. “You shot him! What with?”
“My pistol,” said Yvonne, holding it out. “Patricia had no reason to be so very frightened. I would have looked after her.”
Yvonne shivered slightly with shock and with a sudden feeling of self-disgust. She, Yvonne, was behaving abominably. Patricia might have been killed. She had proved to be almost as courageous as she had done before.
But then the viscount said, “We shall talk more of this later,” and he leaned forward and started to slide his arm under Patricia’s shoulders to lift her up.
Jealousy, sharp as a knife wound, stabbed at Yvonne’s breast and she said, “No!” And then in a milder voice, “No. You must let me take car
e of my dear governess. Gustave! Come here and lift Miss Cottingham into the carriage. You, my lord, should make sure both men are tied up securely.”
Patricia regained consciousness. Her blue eyes looked long and steadily up into Yvonne’s black ones as Lord Anselm released her and walked off.
