What coincidence, then, that the subject of one of Grandfather's vulgar rhymes should share the same name. Or was it? Perhaps he should take another look at that book. He went to the bed, brushing papers aside until he found it. He flipped pages to the first handwritten sheet bound there.
A lovely young lass named Dear Dot Likes to boast of her grand treasure spot.
Rub her down, twist your pole, Find her sweet hidey-hole, And make free with whatever she's got.
It did indeed mention Dot, but the rhyme was nothing but pure rubbish. Catchy and titillating, but rubbish. Why should this be the sort of thing Bartholomew heard often enough to build his vocabulary around? Clearly Grandfather had become obsessed with these rhymes in his later years. Max supposed that, at least, made sense. It was only natural for a lonely widower to find his thoughts drifting in a certain direction.
Which of course reminded him just where Nigel might be drifting even now as he carted Miss Farrow off along some secluded country lane surrounded by rustic beauty and no one to offer interruption. Damn that ruddy blackguard! Max should never have allowed Miss Farrow to go off with him. He should have found some way to disrupt her plans.
Hell, he could still disrupt them. At this point, perhaps the woman would welcome any distraction that might call off Nigel's obviously intended onslaught. Max would be a fool to trust the rogue to behave himself with such a tempting companion as Miss Farrow. The least Max could do was to keep an eye on things, make sure Miss Farrow was safe. He might not have to reveal himself just yet.
But he would if it meant rescuing her. Bartholomew's training and all studies of the rhymes in his book could wait. Miss Farrow was his utmost priority now and he was already kicking himself for letting her walk out the door.
He bundled his papers and hid them with the book. Bartholomew had a big pile of seed and a fresh dish of water at hand, so there was no reason on earth not to leave him to squawk and to preen on his own. Max grabbed up his coat and headed out.
On foot he would have very little hope of catching up to Nigel's smart rig, but fortunately he would not be on foot. He would not be alone, either. It was time to pay a visit to the local inn and call on a friend.
Chapter 13
The warm, fresh air felt good on Meg's face, but she wished Nigel... er, Lord Glenwick... wouldn't drive so fast. It was taking both hands to hang onto the bench for dear life, leaving no hands to hang onto her bonnet for dear life and she feared she was getting a bit too much warm, fresh air. She'd likely be blotchy and freckled by the time they returned home. If they returned home, which was beginning to feel doubtful.
"Please, my lord, I'm afraid you didn't hear me when I asked you to drive a bit more slowly," she said, practically yelling over the clattering hooves of the horses and the carriage jouncing over the rutted lane.
"And I'm afraid you didn't hear me when I asked you to dispense with the ruddy formality, Meg. Surely we have been more to each other than 'my lord' and 'Miss Farrow'."
"You know I have always valued our friendship, but... Gracious! The road takes quite a curve ahead."
"The best Corinthians in Town have declared this carriage a prime goer. Fear not, my dear Meg. Just sit closer and hold onto me, if you're afraid."
Heavens, but she was sure she'd much rather take her chances tumbling out of the carriage. What had gotten into the earl? He was suddenly behaving as if what passed between them those many years ago had been everything his grandfather seemed to suspect. She was beginning to think it had been stupendously unwise of her to come riding alone with him like this. Whatever did the man have on his mind?
"Ah, here it is, just up around the bend."
If they didn't topple completely over as he took the bend at reckless speed, perhaps she would find out what he was referring to. She gave up on protecting her face and saved her person, clinging to the bench and holding her breath until—miraculously—they did not overturn and die. She whispered a silent prayer and glanced around. There was nothing to signify what he had been talking about.
"What is here, my lord?"
"Our picnic spot. See? That lovely old oak tree standing alone, just near that picturesque stream."
"Ah. Yes. I see a tree. And a good number of sheep. I'm not sure this is a good place for a picnic..."
"It's perfect. Don't you remember? We've been here before."
No, she was positive they had not. If she recalled, he had talked of taking her off on a picnic, and of course her girlish infatuation had assumed that could only mean he had meant to propose, but her memory was quite clear. The picnic had never happened, and neither had the proposal.
"I'm sure I would remember if we'd picnicked here before."
"Of course we did. It was right there, in the soft grass beside that old tree. I remember it clearly, although... perhaps the day did not mean quite as much to you as it did to me."
What could he be talking about? There had been no day—meaningful or otherwise. Was he teasing her, or were his memories truly this faulty? She could not feel at all comfortable when he pulled the Phaeton to a halt and turned a glowing smile her way.
"Picnic with me, Meg. The weather is perfect and I can see you are eager to get your feet back on solid ground."
Indeed, she was at that. But somehow sitting in the grass for a private picnic with Nigel did not seem quite the same things as getting her feet onto solid ground. Was her heart racing? It was. Did she have those same, silly butterflies she'd felt around him as a much younger woman?
No, she did not. Her nerves today were of a very different sort, something far less pleasant. Certainly she'd encountered those butterflies earlier when Mr. Shirley had taken her into his arms and... yes, there had been butterflies, indeed. And they were most enjoyable. This sensation she felt now... it was nothing like that. It was much more along the lines of panic.
"You hesitate, Meg," he said when he hopped out of his seat and came round to hers. "What is it? Does my new title change things between us?"
"Change things? Your title? Of course I am pleased for you, my lord, and—"
"Nigel. You must call me Nigel. I insist on it, Meg."
"Very well, Nigel. It's been over seven years since we've seen one another. I cannot think it is your new title that has changed things between us."
He drew in a deep breath and nodded, as if some great light was suddenly dawning for him. Then he put out his hand to offer assistance and smiled adoringly up at her. Years ago she would have been quite taken by the look on his face and the honeyed words on his lips.
Today she simply found him ridiculous. His flattery was trite, his posturing was vain, and what she assumed he meant to show deep feeling in his eyes simply made him look as if he'd eaten something not quite right. Compared to the image of masculine perfection that was Mr. Shirley, even Nigel's new title could not bolster Meg's opinion of him.
Compared to the parrot trainer, Nigel appeared lacking in every way. He did not have the fine cut of his jaw that Mr. Shirley had, and his shoulders were considerably less broad than his, and even though the color of his eyes was somehow similar to Mr. Shirley's, something was lacking there, too. Mr. Shirley's eyes pulled her into them, inviting her to share in some great adventure, to walk through a gateway for which only he held the keys. They were deep and endless and full of hidden mystery she longed to understand.
Nigel's eyes... well, there was little mystery there. She had no doubt she fully understood what she saw behind them. The man's shallowness gave it all away. He'd toyed with her until his heiress had come along, and now that he was free again he was hoping to toy with her some more. Much of Nigel Webberly was an enigma to her, but certainly not that part. What she did not understand, however, was how she could have ever thought him worthy of her fondness in the first place.
Well, she supposed youth was filled with foolishness and he had been hers. Not any more, though. If Nigel thought her still a simpleton to be played with at his leisure, he would end up disappoi
nted.
But not before she bartered for Bartholomew's life. Indeed, she might just find a way to make use of this man's vanity after all. She took in her own deep breath and smiled back at him.
"Very well, Nigel, I will accept your offer to dine al fresco today."
He had the good sense to appear grateful, bowing slightly then taking her hand to help her alight. She would have to be on her highest guard with him, she knew, but the man was, after all, a gentleman. He might think to play fast with her, but she was too well connected for him to attempt anything truly imprudent. He thought he could lure her into caring for him again, but he would never stoop to attempting to force any affection. She could handle this man.
She hoped.
Max found his way to the local inn quickly. He was unexpected and was half worried when he rapped at the door to the private room that his man might not be there. His fears were relieved, though, when Hugh Baxter opened the door.
"Webberly! I had no idea you'd be coming today," the man said in his slow, American accent.
Max hushed him immediately. A quick glance assured him no one was about in the corridor to have heard, but he ushered himself into the room and shut the door securely, just to be safe. If there was any way he could yet salvage their plan...
"Although since we're on this side of the pond, I suppose I ought to start calling you Lord Glenwick now," Hugh mused, his American sensibilities dreadfully unimpressed with Max's pedigree.
"No time for that. I've had rather an emergency come up," Max explained quickly. "I need your help, Hugh."
"Of course, man. What can I do?"
"We'll have to go after Nigel now."
"Now? But I thought you wanted to wait until we were sure there was enough proof?"
"He's planning to take possession of Bartholomew. Obviously he knows the bird is the key to all this."
"Which obviously means he still doesn't have his hands on that treasure."
Max wished that was all he needed to worry about Nigel getting his hands on. He wasn't sure just how desperate he wanted Hugh to know he was right now, though. In his last correspondence with Hugh, he still held Miss Farrow under suspicion. To deny all that now might lead Hugh to question just what had altered Max's impressions of her.
It would be dashed embarrassing to admit he'd gone soft for her brown eyes and the pretty way she stood on her tiptoes when Max kissed her. He wasn't sure, actually, how he would explain to Hugh he'd been convinced the Farrow's were allies in this battle. No doubt whatever he said, Hugh would see through his words and make some snide remark about Max turning into a sap.
Hugh was sharp. Max appreciated that about him. They'd met years ago when Max's mother had taken him to live in Boston with his brand new step-father. Hugh was the son of his step-father's business partner; a rough and tumble kid who didn't care the first thing about Max being the heir to some fancy English lord. They'd been like brothers ever since.
To remain close to his mother, Max had gone to school in America. A dozen years now he'd lived a full ocean away from his homeland. At first when he began noticing strangers following him, prowlers darting about outside his windows at night, and other mysterious happenings, he ignored it. He wrote to his Grandfather faithfully and never mentioned any of it.
When he was nearly run down in the street by a carriage that appeared and then disappeared without explanation, he began to get a bit suspicious. When someone he barely knew started asking after the legend of the so-called Glenwick Pirate Treasure, he became more than a bit suspicious. The acquaintance disappeared, but the odd occurrences did not.
Max enlisted Hugh at that point. Hugh was not like the friends Max had had growing up in England. Hugh was well-educated and intelligent, but his father was a self-made man. Hugh had grown up in the seedier parts of Boston. A heart, Hugh was a thug.
He knew how to get information, and he did. Hugh was able to warn Max that his cousin Nigel had been making interesting inquiries into Max's life: what his patterns were, who his friends were, where he went on a daily basis. Max scheduled a journey home to England to investigate, and that was when someone attacked him aboard ship.
Hugh had been close at hand, though. Together they over-powered the attacker and when the man tried to escape, he went overboard. By the time he was fished out, the body was unrecognizable and Hugh suggested Max take advantage of the situation. Word of his death began circulating.
Only a select few knew the truth. It had taken months for Max to get word to his grandfather, and he would always regret that the poor man mourned him as long as he had. For two years now he'd been playing dead, secretly collecting tips and clues that would tie his cousin to his attempted murder—and now to the successful demise of their Grandfather. He should have known that anyone who would be low enough to try murdering him would surely not stop before getting that dear old man out of the way.
Nigel wanted the title. He wanted the treasure, too. He thought he'd removed Max from inheriting, so of course Grandfather had been the next stumbling block for his goal. Max should have seen that coming. He just never imagined Nigel could be truly capable of....
And now he'd allowed Miss Farrow to go off driving with him. He ought to have his head examined.
"So what is the move now?" Hugh asked, pouring them both a good stiff whiskey.
"I still don't have all the proof that we'll need, but we've got to do something. He's gone driving today. With her."
"Her?"
"Miss Farrow."
"The pretty young vicar's daughter? She's one of your top suspects."
"I was wrong."
"Oh? But she's got her cap for Nigel, doesn't she?"
"No! She can't stand the blackguard."
"Then why is she driving with him?"
"For Bartholomew. She says she's going to convince Nigel to save the bird's life, but I'm afraid she's got no idea what my cousin is fully capable of."
Hugh chuckled, downing his drink. "Or maybe she's got more than an idea. Word in town says she and the new earl were once awfully chummy. Maybe she sees this as her chance to finally get a title for herself."
"She isn't like that!"
Hugh paused over pouring a second drink and his eyebrows went up.
"You know she isn't like that because you've been living in her house for a week, or because you want her not to be like that?"
"She isn't like that, and have a care what you are implying, Hugh. The important thing now is to find her and make sure my ruddy cousin doesn't enjoy his afternoon."
"Without tipping him off to your presence, I suppose."
"Exactly."
Hugh shook his head and rolled his eyes, but he had the good sense not to say anything he might end up regretting.
"Fine. Tell me where they went and I'll go take care of things for you."
"I'm going, too."
Now he laughed out loud. "Of course you are. That's the sensible thing to do at this point."
Max tried not to be angry. This was Hugh, after all. He could trust him with his life—and Miss Farrow's life, too. He'd formulated a plan on his way here, and he knew without doubt Hugh would go along. No matter how foolhardy it was.
"It's the only thing to do at this point," he said, tossing back the whiskey Hugh handed him and getting to business. "Now where's that bag you carry, with the masks and what not?"
"Masks? It's the middle of the day, Max. What exactly do you plan to do with those?"
"Highwaymen don't always wait for the dead of night. What better way to distract a criminal than by presenting him with another criminal?"
"I believe you've lost your mind."
"Where's the bag?"
"Under the bed. I'd like to just say, though, that I'm not in favor of whatever you've got planned."
"You don't even know what I've got planned."
"I can guess, and I don't like it."
"Fine. Noted. Now go get the carriage ready. They headed north out of town and there's no tell
ing what Nigel might be about by now."
"Oh, I think you've got a fair idea what he's about."
Max clenched his fists. Yes, by God, he was afraid Hugh was right. He had more than a fair idea what Nigel was about. The same damned thing he himself would have been about if he'd been lucky enough to cart Miss Farrow off for a drive through the quiet, lonely countryside.
"Just see that you hurry, man."
"You are even more lovely now than that day five years ago when we sat here under this tree," the earl of Glenwick said.
"Seven years ago," Meg corrected. "And we never sat under this tree."
The summer breeze rustled through the branches above them, bees bumbled from clover to clover in the quiet meadow around, the nearby stream babbled a delicate cadence, and birds trilled lovingly to their mates. It was the perfect day for a romantic picnic and this gentleman was outdoing himself with flattery and pretty words. Meg tried not to be sick.
"I remember it like it was yesterday," Nigel cooed with all the warmth and sincerity of a reptile.
"I'm sure your memory is clearer than mine," she said, having given up on convincing him the truth of what happened. "I had no idea you felt such deep sentiment and emotion, Nigel."
"I have always felt things very deeply for you, Meg. They never diminished over the years."
"Even when you left to get married?"
He lowered his head and gave a mournful sigh. "Even then, I'm ashamed to admit. I was forced by my station to marry where expected. I only wish things had been different."
"They've worked out well for you now, I suppose," she couldn't help adding. "You've become earl."
"Yes, though the only joy that it brings me is the knowledge that finally, at long last, I am free to give my heart where it wills."
"Joy that comes at the expense of your poor wife, of course."
"God rest her poor soul. I came to care for her, I assure you, but she was not an easy woman to abide. She had none of the gentle virtue you possess, Meg. She was cold and unfeeling—I was forever a stranger to her, no matter how I tried. You've no idea how lonely I've been these past years, Meg. Not a day has gone by that I haven't missed everything about you."
Miss Farrow's Feathers Page 14
