The Danice Allen Anthology

by Danice Allen

“I dare say I haven’t the slightest idea what business Zachary has in Edinburgh,” commented Aunt Clarissa, peering myopically through her spectacles down the length of the table.

  “Women aren’t required to understand the range and intricacies of a man’s business, madam,” Sir George informed her in a kindly patronizing tone. “So I would not trouble myself, if I were you. No need to cudgel your brain about it.”

  “Thank you, Sir George, for the advice,” returned Aunt Clarissa meekly, not in the least offended. “And I will be about my business now and insist that Gabrielle eat something before another word is said! No one can be expected to hold a conversation on an empty stomach.” When Gabrielle started to rise to fill her plate from the sideboard, Clarissa popped up from her seat, exclaiming, “I’ll do it!

  You sit.” So Gabrielle sat and thought about Zach, wondering if he was with the blond woman again.

  “Eat, Gabrielle!” Regina’s voice interrupted Gabrielle’s thoughts and drew her attention to the plate of savory-smelling food Aunt Clarissa had set before her. “If your aunt won’t let us talk to you till you’ve got something in your stomach, you’d better hurry up, because Rory and I are bursting.” Rory and Regina were sitting next to each other, and she was looking fresh-faced and chirpy this morning. She slid a bright look at Rory, which he returned, along with a wide grin.

  “You don’t have to urge me,” Gabrielle said, chuckling. “I’m starved! But do talk while I eat. I don’t think Aunt Clarissa will object to that! Besides, I’m dying to know all about this proposed excursion.”

  Gabrielle had to force animation into her voice and a few bites of food down her throat. Despite what she’d said, suddenly she was no longer hungry. Contemplating Zach’s visit to Old Town had diminished her appetite.

  Rory folded his arms on the table and leaned forward. “Reggie and I were waltzing about the drawing room last night, whiling away the time till word came of you, when it occurred to us that dancing without music is rather like skating.”

  “And neither of us have gone skating for an age,” continued Regina enthusiastically. “What about you, Gabrielle?”

  “In Cornwall we don’t skate much,” admitted Gabrielle. “It rains much more than it snows. And there are more streams and rivers than lakes. There’s really no place to skate, unless some farmer’s duck pond freezes up.”

  Rory’s eyes widened questioningly. “Have you ever skated, Gabrielle?”

  Gabrielle pushed her bits of poached egg around the plate, hoping by strategic placement of her food to make it appear as though she’d eaten more than she had. They wanted her to go skating, and ordinarily she would jump at the idea. She liked new experiences, new challenges. And it was a beautiful day, perfect for doing something outside. So why didn’t the skating excursion appeal to her?

  Last night, worn out from her adventures and discouraged by Zach’s persistence in pushing her away, she had thought the unthinkable. She had imagined herself actually marrying someone other than Zach. In the clear light of day, rested and rational, however, she knew she’d rather die a spinster than marry anyone else. And she didn’t anticipate much pleasure in an outing that did not include him.

  During the last couple of weeks since he’d arrived, even if she wasn’t talking to him or dancing with him, Zach’s mere presence in a room had given each social event an edge, a pleasant tension that made her happier, brighter, wittier, because there was always the sweet possibility of a talk with him or a dance coming up. She even derived considerable pleasure from just looking at him as he talked and danced with others! What a sad case she’d become, indeed!

  “If you’re nervous, I’ll help you till you’re sure on your blades, Gabrielle.” Rory arched one of his wicked brows. “I’ve helped many an inexperienced lass ’round the pond.”

  “I don’t doubt it,” Gabrielle replied, throwing him a rueful grin as she pushed her plate away.

  “Mayhap Gabrielle is not up to skating,” Aunt Clarissa suggested worriedly. “She was chilled to the bone last night.”

  “You know I have the constitution of a workhorse, Auntie,” Gabrielle refuted her mildly, deciding to do something—anything—to divert her mind from Zach. “I’m fine. And I’d love to go.”

  Regina clapped her hands and leaned into Rory’s shoulder, smiling delightedly at him.

  Aunt Clarissa’s mouth formed a button of disapproval. “You didn’t eat enough this morning to keep a bird alive, Gabrielle. How do you expect to have the energy to skate, pray tell me?”

  Gabrielle chuckled indulgently. “Goodness, Aunt Clarissa, you’re becoming such a fusspot!”

  Clarissa waggled her fingers. “Just doing my duty by you, my dear, that’s all. I’ll go to the kitchen and order us a nuncheon to take along. I don’t want you swooning on the ice.” Aunt Clarissa got up and moved with alacrity to the door leading through the pantry and down to the kitchen.

  Sir George got up, too, pulling out his lady’s chair. “Since everything is settled amongst you young people, Lady Grace and I will leave you. We’re promised to the Willbys for luncheon and an afternoon of whist and piquet.”

  Lady Grace dropped her napkin on the table and stood as well. “Dress warmly, dears—particularly you, Regina. You know how the cold wind makes you cough. And do return in time to rest before dinner. We’re engaged for a musical evening at the Garrisons tonight, and you don’t want to be droopish during the performances, do you? Good-bye.”

  They bid the Murrays good-bye, and as soon as they were conceivably out of earshot, Rory leaned across the table toward Gabrielle, demanding, “Well? Tell us! We’re perishing to know! What really happened last night?”

  Gabrielle laughed self-consciously, averting her eyes, fingering her napkin. “What makes you so sure we didn’t actually have a broken wheel?”

  “Because we know you, Gabrielle,” said Regina. “And we know how frustratingly distant Zach’s been lately. He didn’t ask you to go for a drive, did he? You followed Zach to Old Town.”

  “Yes, I did,” she admitted.

  “And what did you discover?” prompted Rory, watching Gabrielle keenly “What sort of business does Zach have in Old Town?”

  Gabrielle sighed. “I saw him with a woman.”

  Rory slammed his open palm on the table, making the china rattle. “I knew it! Sorry, Gabrielle, but I just knew there was a woman involved!”

  Gabrielle felt a decided twinge of irritation. “What do you mean?”

  “Well, you don’t suppose he’s been celibate all these years, do you?”

  Gabrielle took great pains in arranging her napkin in precise folds, her face warning. “No, I never supposed he was. But 1 did think that he could … get by for the short time he’ll be in Edinburgh without having to …”

  Rory shrugged his broad shoulders. “A man does what a man’s got to do.”

  Regina clipped Rory’s shoulder. “Oh, hush! Can’t you see how you’re making her feel?”

  “Actually,” said Gabrielle, giving them a sheepish look, “if I knew for sure she was his mistress, I’d feel much better.”

  Regina’s eyes widened. “You don’t mean…?”

  “Yes, there’s a possibility that she could be a respectable female.”

  Rory sat back in his chair. “Gabrielle, you’d better explain.”

  Gabrielle took a deep breath and briefly described her experiences of the day before, leaving out the parts about Zach’s panic attack and their intimacies in Mother Henn’s bedchamber.

  “Lord!” exclaimed Rory at the end of her recital. “A bawdy house? You really are a handful, ain’t you, lass? And you came right out and told Zach you loved him, and he still insists it’s nothing but a childish infatuation? There’s more than meets the eye here, Gabrielle.”

  “That I’m sure of.”

  “Did you really tell him that our betrothal was a sham? I’d hate to think our lark is over already! My grandmother will be breathing down my neck again, demanding that I p
roduce an heir before she sticks her spoon in the wall! Blether, I begin to think it would be worth it to marry just to get Grandmother to leave me be!”

  “Nevertheless, Rory, I believe telling Zach the truth was probably a very wise thing to do,” said Regina with a decided nod.

  Rory shook his head. “I’m not so sure.”

  “Neither am I, Rory,” said Gabrielle, glad to know he felt the same way about it as she did. “Making Zach feel a little insecure can’t hurt. That’s why I told him last night that while you and I had entered into the betrothal with the idea of making him jealous, you actually had expressed a bona fide romantic interest in me.”

  Regina sat up straight, her head turning side to side as she looked at both of them. “What? Is… is this true?” she said faintly.

  “Well, actually, Rory’s never—”

  Rory reached across the table and snatched Gabrielle’s hand. “I did say you’d be at the top of my list if I got the notion to tie the nuptial knot, Gabrielle. And, of late, I’ve had the notion.” He chuckled self-consciously. “Can’t say why, really. Maybe it’s all this talk of marriage. Maybe acting like a besotted mooncalf all day has given me a taste for the real thing.”

  Gabrielle gently pulled free her hand, then patted Rory’s as it lay on the table between them. “You know I love Zach, Rory, and if you don’t choose to help me any longer, I’ll understand.”

  “I’m having a fine frolic, Gabrielle. And if you don’t mind, I don’t mind waiting in the wings just in case you realize that I’m the better man of the two. After all, as you know, I’m a first-rate kisser.”

  Gabrielle laughed and turned toward Regina to share her amusement over Rory’s silliness. She was surprised to catch a sober expression on her friend’s face as she stared unaccountably at her empty teacup, and with a pinched border of white circling her mouth.

  “Regina, dear, what’s wrong? You look ill.”

  Regina started, flicked a glance at Gabrielle, and abruptly stood up. She would have tipped her chair backwards onto the floor if Rory hadn’t handily caught it just in time.

  “I d-do feel rather ill,” she admitted in a reedy little voice and with a twitchy eye. “I-I don’t think I shall be going with you.”

  Rory looked incredulous. “But Reggie, you were fine—”

  “It came on s-suddenly.” Regina fixed her gaze on the table, looking at neither of them. “Probably just a slight stomach disorder, but it shouldn’t do at all if I c-cascaded all over the ice, w-would it?” She gave a thin laugh. “Forgive me, but I really m-must lie down.”

  Gabrielle stared after her friend, flabbergasted by the sudden turnabout in her health. She frowned. More likely it was Regina’s mood that had changed rather than her state of health. Gabrielle had not missed the stuttering or the eye twitching. “Be sure and ring for your abigail, dear,” Gabrielle called after her, “and I’ll come see you as soon as we return.”

  Regina threw Gabrielle a weak smile over her shoulder and was gone.

  “Well, that’s deuced strange,” Rory declared in a bewildered voice. “She was mad to go skating!” He frowned at the door through which she’d vanished. “And now it shan’t be half as fun!”

  Chapter Eleven

  Douglas McKeen had the very devil of a headache. He sat in the Spotted Dog Pub at a battered table shoved in the darkest corner, sipping coffee so black and thick he could practically chew it. But he was used to the bitter, murky beverage, and to the routine. He went through several mugs every morning before he could face the day, before he could face the prospect of flinging slop for a pittance at Craggen’s piggery in the village of Duddingston.

  Craggen paid Douglas by the hour, since, as he’d explained, he never knew if Douglas would show up, or whether or not he’d be sober when he did show up. And every afternoon when his filthy job was done, Douglas would take his coins and buy whiskey. With the shock of Kate’s leaving him, he’d disciplined himself to drinking only after working hours, though this was only accomplished with considerable difficulty and physical discomfort. He’d still start drinking by four o’clock, however, and the rest of the day was pretty much a blur. He remembered only fragments of his nights.

  Douglas set down his mug and rubbed his temples with strong strokes of his lean fingers. Kate used to rub his head for him. She used to do a lot of wonderful, wifely things. When he was working as a smithy and bringing in decent wages, he’d come home to a tidy apartment and a bird cooking on the spit, cabbage soup in the kettle, and Kate’s winsome smile.

  In those days, he wouldn’t start drinking till he’d had his dinner and maybe a little pillow-play with Kate. She was always willing, as feisty in bed as she was in everything else. Remembering those happier times, Douglas smiled, even though that minimal stretching of muscles made his head throb even more. When they discovered Kate was breeding, they were both happy and looking forward to an addition to their little family.

  But then Douglas got to drinking earlier and earlier in the day, till he was snitching drinks at work. He started making mistakes, and the next thing he knew he was out of a job. Jobs were hard to come by, and Douglas quickly got discouraged. Soon he was drinking every waking hour and selling everything they owned to pay for the liquor. Kate was drinking with him, too, at first by his insistence and later because she craved it as much as he did.

  They lost the lease on their humble but decent apartment and were forced to move to a dingy, rodent-infested garret in a worse section of town. Douglas remembered feeling worthless and desperate all the time. One night, when Kate’s feisty tongue had been loosened by the whiskey and she’d upbraided him for selling her dead mother’s wedding ring, even though he’d flatly refused to sell his grandfather’s pocket watch, he’d slapped her hard across the mouth. Shocked and hurt, she’d cried, and he’d cried too, hating himself. They’d kissed and made up. But then it happened again, and again…

  Douglas’s insides twisted with self-loathing and remorse whenever he thought about his hands on Kate—not loving her as they used to do, but shaking her and pushing her and knocking her against the wall. He never expected to hurt her, and he never meant to do it again. But it always did happen again. He reckoned it was the combination of the whiskey and the rage, and Kate was always there to take the brunt. His wee, bonny Kate. But understanding why he abused her didn’t stop him. When he drank the whiskey, the dark, cruel side of him took over.

  That was over now, he told himself firmly. Somehow he had to get Kate back, had to convince her that he was a changed man, that he could confine his drinking to the sociable hours. That he loved her and would never, ever hurt her again…

  “Hey, Douglas, me man. How are ye?”

  Douglas looked up through the blurred vision of bloodshot eyes. The figure of a tall, ragged, broomstick-thin man was oudined against the puny amount of sunshine that seeped through the small, grimy windows. “Donovan.” He acknowledged the man’s presence with an unenthusiastic nod. Donovan was deep into flimflammery, ready and willing to cheat the trews off even his best chum if he needed a pair. And he was keen on gossip.

  Donovan pulled up a chair, straddled it backwards and rested his arms on the top rail. “Did ye hear ’bout what happened at Mother Henn’s roost last night, Douglas?”

  Douglas rubbed one eye with the heel of his hand. The last thing he wanted to hear about was the brutal despoiling of that wistful-eyed pretty little wench in the green mantle. The princess. This morning he was sure he shouldn’t have allowed the lass to suffer just to punish Wickham. Here was another reason to hate himself. He assumed a disinterested pose, shrugging his shoulders. “I heard that she’d another virgin fer sale. ’Tis hardly worth mentionin’.”

  Donovan grinned. “Aye, ifn that were the whole story.”

  “I heard she was Quality. But I dinna think that worth mentionin’, either.”

  “From what I’m hearin’, she might still be a virgin.”

  Douglas sat up straighter. “What do ye
mean?”

  “Jasper told me all about it this mornin’. Mother’s in a pelter, ’cause the lass was a fair one, and she dinna get all what she could off the chit.”

  “The lass went fer a small purse, then?”

  “Naw, the first bloke was a well-breeched gent—good-lookin’, too, or so says Jasper. He paid two hundred pounds fer the pleasure o’ beddin’ her.”

  “As much as that, eh?”

  “But ye know Mother Henn keeps her bits o’ Quality fluff fer a day or two and makes as much blunt as she can off the chits till the freshness ’as worn off.”

  Douglas felt disgust churning his already acid-filled stomach. But he was as disgusting as Mother Henn, because under the influence of his alcohol-induced dark side, and out of jealousy and rancor, he’d left the lass to her fate when he knew he could have alerted Wickham and perhaps saved her. But maybe someone else had saved her. That would be a good thing for her, and maybe a good thing for him, too. Maybe he could still use her as barter. He’d not hurt the girl, just keep her prisoner till Wickham gave him back his Kate.

  “Ye’re beatin’ round the bush, Donovan. Why dinna Mother Henn get the chit’s worth out o’ her?”

  “At daybreak, when Jasper went to t’ tell the bloke ’twas time t’ be shovin’ off, the chamber was empty. They’d climbed out the window and escaped by way of the ledge and through a window in the next buildin’.”

  Douglas raised his brows, impressed. “Blether, that’d be a risky way t’ go!”

  “But not as risky as through the front door, with Jasper and Bob’s barkin’ irons at the ready.” Donovan leaned closer, his sharp black eyes snapping with eagerness to tell all. “The bed was barely mussed, and there was no blood t’ be found. So, ’twasn’t a case of the bloke findin’ the lass so tight and sweet that he wanted more of ’er. Seems as though he knew her already and had come special t’ fetch ’er. Interestin’, eh? And a bit discomfortin’t’ Mother Henn. Jasper says she’s been thinkin’ that she might not bother with the Quality again. Too much trouble. She’s moved out o’ her roost, too, and gone into hidin’ fer a spell.”