The Danice Allen Anthology

by Danice Allen

  “Certainly, Priss,” he said at last. “I’ll sit with you ladies for a while. But don’t fret about my stockings. I’m wearing boots, and my feet are quite dry.”

  When Julian entered the room, his gaze was instantly drawn to Sam. She was sitting on the rug by the fire at the foot of Nan’s chair, her feet tucked under her skirt, and with all three puppies sleeping and snuggled against her. She looked up as he approached, her expression happy and glowing. His heart felt a tender pang as he helplessly smiled back at her. But his common sense cautioned him not to get too attached to such domestic scenes and such welcoming smiles. Sam would soon be bestowing her smiles on a husband.

  “Please don’t scold, Julian,” Sam said, her voice barely above a whisper as she tried not to disturb her slumbering pets. “I know I’m only supposed to have one pup at a time in the house with me, but on such a cold, wet night, how could I possibly rescue only one from the stable? Their faces, their expressions, their wagging tails, were too much to resist!”

  Julian knew all about irresistible faces, expressions, and … er … wagging tails.

  “Never mind, brat,” he said as he pulled a third chair near the fire and positioned it between Priss’s and Nan’s, then sat down with a sigh. “I suppose I can make an exception this once. But don’t make a habit of it.”

  “I won’t,” Sam promised, but her coy smile was utterly unconvincing. As always, she’d try to get away with as much as possible.

  “How was your day, Julian?” Nan inquired, peering over her spectacles, her knitting needles clicking away without a pause.

  “It was exceedingly wet,” was all the reply Julian gave. After all, he couldn’t very well tell Nan he’d been worried, restless, and randy all day, now could he?

  “Indeed, it was far too wet for anyone that isn’t a duck,” Nan concurred. “And I’m beginning to think we might have to put off our trip to Darlington Hall on the morrow. If this keeps up, the roads will be ghastly.”

  Sam sat up straight, abruptly waking up Madison, who had been lying on his back in her lap. “Oh, no, Aunt Nan. Don’t do that!”

  At everyone’s surprised and curious glance, Sam seemed to recollect herself and stuttered, “I … I was looking forward to hearing how Zeus and Neptune are doing.”

  “I’m sure you don’t wish to hear news of those disorderly curs at the risk of putting your aunts in peril, do you, Sam?” Julian admonished her. Somehow, by taking on the role of the stern taskmaster again, he felt measurably better. Things were as they should be. Sam was the child and he was the guardian.

  “No, Julian, of course not,” Sam said, lowering her head. “I wasn’t thinking.”

  “Never mind, dear,” Priss said, handing Julian a steaming cup of hot chocolate. “We know how much you miss your dogs. Which is why I’m so surprised that you don’t wish to go to Darlington Hall with us … if the weather permits. There are no important engagements tomorrow. And we’ll be back in plenty of time on Thursday for you to keep your date to have tea with Lady Wentworth.”

  “Yes,” said Julian, taking an experimental sip of the frothy chocolate and watching Sam’s downcast face with suspicion. “Why don’t you go to Darlington Hall, Sam? Have you something better to do?”

  “She’s going to the Women’s Shelter, Julian,” said Nan, looking up briefly to smile with affection on Sam. “She’s such a good girl to put off her own pleasures to help the needy and afflicted.”

  Sam still did not raise her head, but seemed quite intent on scratching George behind the ears. Then, before Julian’s fascinated eyes, she blushed as pink as a full-blown rose. Such a charming reaction could be the result of modesty caused by Nan’s remark, certainly, or … Sam might be feeling guilty about something. But what?

  “So, you’re intending to do good deeds tomorrow, eh, Sam?” Julian said.

  “Yes, Julian,” Sam replied, still looking down.

  “Only good deeds, brat?” Julian pressed, eyeing her keenly.

  Finally Sam looked up. And, though her face was rosy, her voice was steady and her tone sincere as she said, “Yes, Julian. Only good deeds.”

  Julian was satisfied. He had to be. He trusted Sam, and he knew she was no liar. And, as he sipped his hot chocolate and gazed at the fire, he felt the most contented he’d felt all day. Except, of course, that he was still damned randy. It was odd, too. One would think that sitting by the fire with two sweet old ladies, a childish ward, and a passel of sleepy puppies would obliterate every carnal thought in a man’s head. Especially a man, like himself, who had always been able to firmly control his thoughts and emotions.

  At length, as they all sat in companionable silence, Julian’s thoughts turned again to Genevieve DuBois. What was it about her that he suddenly found so appealing? Those blue eyes, that blond hair, that determined, pointed little chin…

  Then it hit him like a horse’s hoof between the eyes. Genevieve DuBois reminded him of … Sam. The realization was too much, too sudden. It implied an idea quite unwelcome to his fastidious sensibilities. His hand jerked and he spilled a large splash of very hot chocolate on his trousers, high on his left thigh, not two inches away from a certain … er … vital part of his body.

  “Bloody Hell,” he growled, grabbing for a doily to scrub at the scalding spot.

  But Sam had already jumped to her feet, doused a napkin in a flowerpot filled with water, and stood over him, her rag at the ready. “Here, Julian, let me dab it for you,” she said, bending near.

  “Like hell you will,” he rasped, rising to his feet so rapidly that Sam backed onto Louie’s paw and made him yelp.

  By now the aunts were fussing and tsk-tsking and advising him to remove his trousers immediately, Madison was barking furiously, Louie was whining pitiably and much more than his injury warranted, and George—though stoically refusing to bark—was pacing and panting like an expectant father. Sam simply held Louie in her arms and soothed him, her startled blue eyes fixed questioningly on Julian’s crimson face. He knew it was crimson because he felt as though he’d just dunked his head in a bucket of burning coals.

  “Bloody Hell,” he growled again, then turned and strode out of the room, guiltily aware that he’d turned their calm and cozy fireside gathering into a chaotic ruckus.

  “Oh, miss, I’m going to miss you so much,” Clara said, weeping against Sam’s neck as they hugged in the stable yard of the King’s Arms.

  “I’ll miss you, too, Clara,” said Sam, hoping she’d be able to keep her own tears at bay till Clara and Nathan were gone. She certainly didn’t want them to think she ever cried, for goodness sake. She caught Clara by the shoulders and looked into her reddened eyes. “You must quit calling me ‘miss’! We’re friends, and my friends call me Sam. Besides, you’ll be married in a few hours, and you’ll be a great lady with servants of your own. Though, knowing you, you probably won’t let them lift a finger to do anything for you. Now, quit crying or you’ll have a swollen nose for your wedding.”

  Clara laughed and wiped at her teary cheeks with shaky hands. “It’s just that everything will be so new, Sam … and I’m scared. I love Nathan so much”—she glanced at Nathan, who was talking with his coachman—“and I don’t want to disappoint him.”

  “You aren’t going to disappoint him. I’m quite convinced of that,” Sam assured her. “And as for being scared, anything worthwhile comes with a certain amount of risk. I never wanted to leave Thorney Island, you know. But look at all the good things that have happened to me since I did.”

  Clara grabbed Sam’s hands and squeezed them tightly. “And I hope with all my heart that more good’s coming your way. I want you to be as happy with Julian as I am with Nathan. You will write me, Sam?”

  “As soon as you let me know where you are.”

  “It will be weeks.”

  Sam smiled impishly. “You’ll write to tell me you’re with child.”

  Clara blushed. “La!”

  “And hopefully I’ll at least be married by t
hen.”

  “It’s time to be off, Clara,” said Nathan, coming up behind his intended and draping his arm over her shoulder. He smiled at Sam. “I can’t thank you enough, Sam, for all your help. You’ll stay in your room till time to go, won’t you? I’ll be worried sick unless you promise me you won’t get into any mischief today.”

  Sam grinned. “I think I can promise to stay out of mischief for at least one day.”

  “Do it, then,” Nathan said, bending down and surprising Sam by kissing her on the cheek. Then, undoubtedly hoping to avoid another farewell scene between the females, he hurriedly hoisted Clara into the coach, climbed in behind her, and yelled to the coachman to “be off!” In three shakes of a lamb’s tail, they were hurtling down the north road away from London, with only Clara’s handkerchief trailing out the window as a final good-bye.

  Sam watched wistfully and allowed a tear or two to fall, till a roll of thunder and a drop of rain on her nose alerted her to the fact that she had better go inside. Luckily the early morning had been fair and the aunts had left for Darlington Hall on schedule, but now, at midmorning, the sky had clouded up again rather ominously. However, she trusted that when it was time to head home at six o’clock, the weather would not be too inclement to impede her short journey cross town to Montgomery House.

  As Sam passed by the taproom to the stairs, she saw the tall, balding innkeeper sweeping the floor. He looked up and returned her smile with a suspicious frown. She was sure he thought she was involved in some sort of havey-cavey business, because Nathan had procured and paid for her room—to which she and Clara and Nathan had all retired for a half hour to talk and drink tea—then he’d gone off in a coach with what was obviously Sam’s maidservant. Sam chuckled as she reached the landing and turned toward her room at the end of the hall. Such goings-on would appear rather odd to anyone.

  Inside the room, Sam sat by the window overlooking the street and peered through a glass that was already streaming with raindrops. It was pouring outside. Still optimistic about the weather not complicating her return home, however, she calmly opened a workbasket of sewing she was doing for the Women’s Shelter.

  Sam had determined that she would spend the day in such a worthwhile employment to partially make up for lying to Julian about going to the Women’s Shelter. But she did not consider the part about doing only “good deeds” today a lie. After all, wasn’t it a good deed to help two people get together for a lifetime of love and happiness?

  Of course it was, Sam thought complacently, threading her needle. And once she had a chance to explain, certainly Julian would agree with her.

  “My hat and cane, please, Benson,” said Julian, addressing the butler at Whites. “Then send for a hack, will you? I don’t fancy walking home in this deluge.”

  “Yes, my lord,” Benson intoned, immediately turning to do as he’d been bid.

  Julian walked to the bow window that overlooked St. James Street and looked out on the sodden scene below. It was only five o’clock but, because of the heavy clouds and persistent rain, it was already growing dark outside, and few people were braving the elements. He, however, would be braving them at least three more times that night.

  Nan and Priss wouldn’t be home for dinner that evening, and to avoid a tête-à-tête with his ward, Julian intended to return to Whites later for a bite to eat. As for Sam’s dinner, he had instructed Cook to send a meal to her room as soon as she returned from the Women’s Shelter. This had all been arranged and talked over that morning, but Julian still felt a need to return to Montgomery House for a few minutes just to make sure Sam and Clara had had no trouble getting back safely from the shelter in such a downpour.

  He wasn’t terribly worried, of course, since London hack drivers were certainly used to driving in the rain. But he would feel infinitely better to see his ward snug and safe at home before he left for an evening at his club.

  He supposed he was feeling a protective “older-brother” solicitude toward Sam. Such familial concern sounded harmless enough, but who would have thought that having the feelings of an older brother could be complicated and confused by a little sister growing up to be so innocently alluring? It made a fellow … uncomfortable. A perfect example of such discomfort was the way he’d overreacted when Sam wanted to dab at the spill of hot chocolate on his trousers last night. She hadn’t meant anything by it, but he’d been skittish about her touching him. Although perhaps “skittish” wasn’t a strong enough word.

  Then there had been the kiss … He’d never gotten over that. He’d never apologized to Sam for it, either. But since she never brought it up, he felt it was best not to mention it at all. Perhaps for her it was as good as forgotten. He wished he could forget as easily.

  “Here are your cane and hat, my lord,” said Benson, handing Julian the items. “And a note came for you just now, as well.” Benson indicated a folded sheet of parchment paper on a silver salver being held forward by a liveried footman.

  Frowning, Julian picked up the parchment paper and unfolded it. At a glance, he immediately perceived that it was from the same person who had sent him the threatening note about Sam. A chill crept into his heart as he read, “Despite my warning, you paid another visit to Sir Humphries. Why do you persist in delving into the past when it will serve no good purpose to your young ward? There is danger in the truth. Please spare Samantha the pain she will surely endure if her mother’s identity is revealed. Heed my warning this time, or beware…

  Revealing no outward reaction to the note, Julian refolded the paper and put it in his coat pocket. Still waiting for the hack, he returned to the bow window and stared, unseeing, into the darkening gloam.

  Julian had been expecting another note, but it was still quite unnerving to feel that someone was always watching what you were doing, and that that same someone knew a secret which she claimed could destroy Sam’s happiness. Going over in his mind the contents and tone of the note, Julian couldn’t decide if the person who wrote the note was more concerned with saving herself from scandal, or of saving Sam.

  Suddenly Julian realized that, without consciously meaning to, he had been thinking of the note writer as a woman. The message conveyed in the missive sounded much like a mother trying to shield her child from the slings and arrows of an unforgiving society. As well, the handwriting appeared more feminine than masculine.

  Could the note be from Sam’s mother? If not, what other female would care so much for concealment? A concerned mother wouldn’t be expected to issue threats and ultimatums, certainly, as the note writer did, but perhaps the threats were meaningless and were included simply with the hope of frightening Julian into abandoning his pursuit of the truth.

  Well, whoever wrote the note didn’t know him very well, Julian concluded grimly, because he had no intention of giving up the search for Sam’s natural mother. For his ward’s sake and safety, he was more determined than ever to discover the truth.

  Perceiving a hack pulling up in front of the club, and assuming it was his, Julian left the room more eager than ever to be at home. However, as he was about to dash out the door and into the hired coach, a man, who had just arrived, stopped him by grasping his arm.

  Irritated, Julian turned to see who dared delay him in such a manner. It was Sir Jeffrey Percival, a man with whom he was superficially acquainted. They occasionally played cards together at the club, and while Julian deemed him a bit of a rattle, he also thought him basically harmless and good-hearted. He wasn’t a personal friend, certainly, but he was not someone he could shrug off, either.

  “Sir Jeffrey,” Julian said, nodding and smiling tightly. “How do you do?”

  “I do very well, Serling,” said the jowly, red-faced gentleman, returning the nod perfunctorily. “However, there is something I wish to tell you in private, sir, before I ask how you do. You’re in for a bit of an alarm, I’m afraid.”

  Despite his impatience to be gone, Julian couldn’t help but be affected by Sir Jeffrey’s grave count
enance and serious tone. The old fellow was usually quite jolly. Feeling a dread that was impossible to describe, but remaining outwardly calm, he inquired, “What could possibly alarm me at this stage in my jaded life, Jeffrey?”

  Sir Jeffrey looked about him, eyeing everyone even remotely nearby with exaggerated suspicion. Julian had no tolerance for such an unnecessary display of drama—which rather drew more attention to them than otherwise—but he had a sinking feeling that Jeffrey’s news was important … and that is was about Sam.

  Jeffrey led Julian into an empty window embrasure off the main hall and drew near. “I sent a note to Montgomery House earlier. Did you not get it?”

  “I did not. I haven’t been home all day.”

  “Damn! A pity.” Jeffrey rubbed his chin and looked dour. “Perhaps it’s too late, then.”

  “What the deuce are you talking about?” Julian prompted, hating the way his heart had begun to hammer against his ribs.

  “It’s about your ward, Miss Darlington,” he whispered.

  “So I suspected,” Julian drawled, affecting unconcern. “What social faux pas has she committed to put you in such a pucker?”

  Jeffrey’s eyes widened. “Oh, this is much more serious than a social faux pas, Serling. Oh, yes indeed!”

  “Cut line, Jeffrey, and tell me what my ward has been up to.”

  “I’m not sure what she’s been up to, but it can’t be anything good at the King’s Arms.”

  “The King’s Arms?”

  “Yes, I saw her there this morning. I was passing by and I noticed her standing in the courtyard with—”

  “That’s impossible,” Julian cut him off. “She went to the Women’s Shelter in Spitalfields this morning to do charity work, which is in the other direction altogether. What would my ward be doing at the King’s Arms?”