Dedicated Villain

by Patricia Veryan

  My lady gave a slow smile. “Generous of him. But—as well perhaps, since ’twill prevent him from flirting with you himself, eh my love?”

  “A gentleman does not flirt with his—little sister.”

  Something about her granddaughter’s twinkling eyes gave my lady pause. She said suspiciously, “Now what are you about, Mistress Mischief? I have marked how you tease him, and I warn you, Roland Mathieson is a very dangerous man! Both in matters of the sword and l’amour. By all means let him waste his efforts by playing matchmaker, if he’s of a mind to do so, but tread carefully around him, child. I’d never forgive myself were you to be hurt.”

  Fiona swooped down to hug her diminutive grandmama and plant a kiss on the rouged cheek. “Never fear, dearest. I am not so gauche but what I’ve learned that one always allows the gentlemen their little games.” She started down the steps and at the foot glanced back and said over her shoulder, “Is so much fun to watch them blunder about, poor dears, and then point out the error of their ways!”

  “Why not?” demanded Mathieson, sitting on the grass beside the table and frowning up at Miss Bradford.

  “Because,” she said, stirring busily at the large bowl, “I must make these.”

  The afternoon sun woke golden gleams in her hair, especially on one little curl that danced above her temple. Watching this curl, he complained, “You always find something that must be done. I want to show you what I have accomplished with your peacocks. Is a lovely afternoon; your light o’love is away, and—”

  “Freemon Torrey is not my light of love, sir!” She waved her spoon at him. “But an you do not stop aggravating him, there will be blows struck, and—”

  “There have already been blows struck. Faith, but were I not such a trusting soul, I’d begin to suspect the gentleman don’t like me.”

  She looked at him sharply, saw the laughter in the dark eyes, and was won to a smile, but said, “I am serious, Roly.”

  “Captain Mathieson,” he corrected primly. “Which is the very thing I want to talk about.”

  “My manners, do you mean?” She glanced around the meadow. “Surely we do not have to stand on ceremony now that we are alone.”

  Had any of Mathieson’s chères amies uttered so encouraging a remark under such circumstances, he would immediately have turned it to good account. But not one of his lady loves would have said it in just that particular fashion. There was no flutter of eyelashes, no coquetry, no come-hither look. Fiona beamed at him, all innocence.

  In return, he frowned at her. “An you say things like that to Freemon Torrey, ’tis small wonder he fancies himself in love with you.”

  “Goodness me!” She rubbed her nose, thus leaving the tip white with flour. “I only said—”

  “To tell a gentleman he need not stand on ceremony with you when you are alone together,” he pointed out severely, “is a very improper remark, ma belle. And you’ve put flour all over your nose.”

  She lifted her apron to wipe the offending item, but her gown was caught up also and revealed a delicately formed little ankle. “Is that better?” she asked meekly.

  “Much!” replied Mathieson, grinning. With an effort he tore his attention from the revelation. Flour now adorned her left ear. “No. Lord! Don’t do that! Tidy your dress, do!”

  Her second attempt to repair the damage had all but shown him her knees. Bewildered, she glanced down at the area that usually claimed the attention of the gentlemen.

  “Not there,” he said, exasperated. “Your skirts! Gad, but our hot-blooded Torrey would be beside himself!”

  “Oh.” She restored her gown, smiled at him sunnily and said, “Then how fortunate I am that you are so cold-blooded.”

  He came to his feet with supple ease and advanced purposefully.

  “I thought you meant—here.” Fiona gave herself a little pat, leaving flour all over her creamy bosom.

  To all intents and purposes, they really were alone. Cuthbert and Lady Ericson were in her caravan, poring over some papers which Mathieson would have given much to see, and Alec, badly smitten with the shy Moira, was helping her shell peas and had eyes for no other.

  Despite this however, Mathieson glanced about carefully, then shoved his handkerchief at her. “Dust yourself, child.”

  She wiped without much effect at her nose and when he shook his head and pursed up his lips, she sighed and gave him back his handkerchief. “Am I making it worse? Well, you do it for me, please.”

  He obliged with frowning concentration. It was a ridiculous nose. So tiny. Very much like Lady Clorinda’s. Of course, Lady Clorinda had been a great beauty, whereas this exasperating chit … He paused, gazing down at the small face so trustingly uplifted. And he realized with something of a shock that Fiona was beautiful. Not in a classic Grecian way, perhaps. But in her own inimitable fashion she would put any classic beauty to shame. ‘Her beauty,’ he thought, ‘comes from within. She is such a happy, caring little mite …’ Her lips were close and vivid, and slightly parted. Even as he leaned to them they curved to a smile.

  “Did you get it all?”

  He started, and recollecting his task, looked her over and saw the flour on the sweetly rounded breasts. Seldom had fate offered a finer opportunity. He reached willingly to oblige, only to be thwarted by an irritating reminder of her innocence. “Here,” he thrust the handkerchief at her. “You must do the—er, rest.”

  She dusted busily, then blew downward.

  Mathieson was obliged to look away. “What,” he croaked, convinced he was suffering from softening of the brain, “are you making?”

  “Crumpets. ’Tis as well to cook them a little ahead of time and let them sit for a while.”

  Reminded of last night’s dinner, he grunted unkindly, “Not so long that they become petrified, one trusts.”

  “You mean, like my dumplings.” She sighed. “I am not the world’s best cook, alas.”

  “You have no business cooking. You have no business being here at all! If I had my way—”

  She folded her hands in front of her. “Yes, Captain Mathieson?”

  He chuckled. “I’m glad to see you properly subdued.”

  Her smile was rather wan and once more the sight of that small troubled face awoke in him a most unfamiliar and urgent desire to brighten it. “Never look so stricken Tiny Mite. Am I being utterly ruthless?”

  “No, of course you’re not.” She gave a forlorn gesture. “You only try to help. I know how—how clumsy I am at times, and you—”

  “You are not in the least clumsy! You have a sweet and sunny nature, and if you—Well, what I mean is—I’d not have you exchange your innocence only to—” He scowled, and hesitated.

  “To become a poised and properly behaved young lady? But—that is what I should be, surely? ’Tis what Papa would wish, I know. That I not behave in so—so gauche a way, I mean. And poor Grandmama quite throws up her hands over me. Is not grace and propriety what you would want in a lady, Roly?”

  He thought of many of the ladies he knew, and his smile was twisted and mirthless. For no reason he could identify, he was irritated and impatient with her, and said with a bored shrug, “What I want has nothing to say in the matter. You must not look to me, child.”

  She tilted her chin and remarked judicially, “’Tis difficult, I’ll own.”

  He grinned at that. “To look to me?”

  “To look at you. Since we are in a critical mood, Ro—Captain Mathieson, I will admit that I could wish you were not quite so handsome. ’Tis rather unsettling, and although I know you are the last man to be conceited, it—” She checked as he gave a shout of laughter. “Oh, my! There I go again! Roly, you must help me, or I shall surely wind up an old maid!”

  “Never,” he gasped, but his mirth faded into a scowl. “Oh, Gad! We were alone.”

  “Picayune!” Fiona bent to pick up the vociferous little cat. “What is it, my precious?”

  “Don’t believe a word that wretched animal tells yo
u.”

  “She could have only good words for you, sir. Did you not save her life? Come now, Picky—say your thanks.” She held the cat out, and urged, “Do pray stroke her. You’ll see how loving she can be.”

  “I have not the faintest desire—” he began, but the smile in the green eyes overbore his better judgment, and he reached forth a tentative hand. “Ow!”

  “Oh, dear!” Fiona set the cat down hurriedly. “Did she bite hard?”

  “Hard enough! Dratted little pest. I wish I’d hit her this morning!”

  “With the brick?”

  “Brick? The de-deuce!” The dimple was peeping slyly at him. Fascinated by it, he muttered, “With my colichemarde, rather. I’ve a fancy for a fur cap.”

  She laughed merrily. “Oh, what a rasper! ’Twas an apple core, merely. And thrown wide, at that.”

  “How do you know, Miss Sauce? And you should not use cant terms.”

  “Because I saw you, pseudo-rascal. And later, Thaddeus was laughing about it with my papa.” She crossed to the fire and began to ladle spoonfuls of the mix onto the smoking griddle slung above it. “He said Picayune was in your boot when you put it on, and she became a proper pincushion, which—ah, upset you.”

  “The foul little brute tore my foot to shreds, if you care to know of it. But,” he added sardonically, “pray do not grieve so.”

  She giggled irrepressibly. “Thaddeus said you howled like a banshee.”

  He stood and wandered over to hold the bowl for her. “Did he indeed? You may be sure I’ll repay him!”

  “But of course. Probably by handing him over for summary execution.”

  The carefree words were sobering and his jaw set. How glibly they chatted. As though there were no shadows over this golden afternoon. No shadow of block and axe. No shadow of the hoard of gold he meant to wrest from them for his own uses. This trusting child would find out about him then … by God, but she would! And what matter if she did? It was as well. She was too trusting by half, and the sooner she learned how cruel life could be, the better. Everyone had to grow up and face reality sooner or later.

  “Oh, I am a horrid girl!” Fiona was gazing at him in dismay. “I was only funning! Truly, I did not mean it!” In her anxiety to make amends she rested her hand upon his arm “I know you like Thaddeus.”

  “Yes, as a matter of fact I do. As I’ve said, he would make you a good husband.” His smile bland, he enquired, “Should you like that?”

  “Do you really think there might be a hope for me in—” she blinked up at him, “—in that direction?”

  “Hope for you? Why the devil should there not be hope for you? Only say the word and I’ll—”

  “Force him to the altar at sword’s point?”

  “Scarcely. Could you—er, like Heywood in—in that particular way?”

  She tilted her head in the grave fashion she sometimes affected. “I think he is the dearest gentleman, though I’d not perhaps considered him as a husband. How very good of you to point out to me that he would make a nice one. Perhaps you would be so kind as to discover from him if—”

  Good Gad, did she expect him to arrange the match for her? His temper flared. He snapped, “Lord, I scarce know the man!”

  “But—you just said—”

  “I was making a suggestion, merely. If you fancy the fellow, desire your father to—ah, look into matters a trifle.”

  “What matters?” She asked anxiously, “You never think there is something—unsavoury about Thaddeus?”

  “Mon Dieu! Have I said it? I merely—Madam, I’m not your papa!”

  She trilled a laugh. “Don’t be silly! Of course you’re not. But how can I ask Papa to speak to the gentleman if I don’t even know that he is interested in me?”

  “He is.” Mathieson scowled at a passing ladybird. “I’ve chatted with him about you, and—”

  Fiona squeaked with excitement. “Oooh! How good you are! How very kind and good! But still—if there is that about his character which disturbs you … I have no objection to his lisp, you know. After all, a girl who dwells in a caravan cannot have the expectations of a diamond of the first water.” She raised limpid eyes to his. “But of course, you know all about that.”

  She looked so guileless, so innocent. But—was she? Or was she laughing at him? He decided that this was unlikely. Women might smile at Roland Fairleigh Mathieson, but they did not laugh at him. “Faith, but you cannot expect me to say that you are not a diamond of the first water,” he said silkily.

  “No, for you are much too well bred to say something so unkind. But you know all about such creatures, and—and high flyers and opera dancers too, I daresay.”

  Disconcerted by this candid response, he clapped a hand to his brow and groaned, “You should not even speak of such matters, much less accuse a gentleman of knowing all about ’em, you impossible child.”

  “Why not? You do. Grandmama said you do.”

  He stiffened and said icily, “Did she indeed! ’Tis surprising that Lady Ericson would address such a remark to a brat who has not been much about the world.”

  “Why are you getting all starched up? Besides, I have been about the world! I’ve been to France and Portugal and Spain and been chased by brigands and I shot one though I don’t think I hurt him very much because he came that night and serenaded me under my window. Most dreadfully off-key,” she added, her brow wrinkling critically.

  Mathieson’s ire was banished. His eyes alight with amusement, he suggested, “Perhaps he was taking his revenge.”

  “Perhaps he was. Poor man. Papa emptied the water pitcher over him.” Her musical little laugh blended with his deep one. “Enough of my singing brigands,” she persisted. “Tell me of the dark secret in Mr. Heywood’s past that renders him ineligible.”

  “Wretched Mite,” he said, still chuckling. “I know nothing of the gentleman save that I rather doubt Heywood is his true name. And I’m sorry to have to advise that your crumpets are all breaking into holes!”

  “Just as they should, sir. But I must hurry. Would you please spread that linen towel on the table and bring the slice? Quickly!” She turned back to dole out more spoonfuls and asked, “What did you mean about Mr. Heywood’s name?”

  “Only that he sometimes forgets to answer to it.” He sought about on the table. “Not that ’tis any of my affair. Likely he seeks to protect himself, which is understandable, heaven knows. I cannot find your confounded article! Slice of what?”

  “Good gracious, how could you not know? A slice is a flat, thin-bladed kitchen tool.”

  “Alas for my ignorance,” sneered Mathieson.

  “Don’t pout.”

  He checked, glancing up at her with brows elevated.

  The bored look on the handsome face was a challenge. She twinkled at him. “Tit for tat. You correct my naughty ways, so you must allow me the same privilege.”

  He grinned at that and murmured seductively, “I will allow you any privilege you desire, lovely Mite.”

  “Aha, the rake is come back. What fun!”

  Shaking his head at her, he took up the slice. “This, Madame la chef?”

  “Yes, that’s it! Now hurry and turn over the crumpet on the end, if you please.”

  He drew back. “What? Me? Roland O—Mathieson, dedicated villain, man of fashion, and et cetera.”

  “O’Mathieson?” she echoed, curious.

  “A slip of the tongue, merely.”

  “You’re quite sure?” Her quivering little grin quizzed him. “You do know your own name?”

  “Very well, ma’am. Depending upon which one I chance to affect at the time.”

  For an instant her eyes searched his face. It was tranquil now and unreadable. She scoffed, “Prankster! Come now, dedicated villain, man of fashion, and kitchen maid’s helper. Turn over the end crumpet if you please! Vite, monsieur! Vite!”

  Wielding the slice, he approached the crumpet gingerly, almost dropped it but succeeded in turning it and was at once in
ordinately proud. “Excelsior! Is there no end to my talents?”

  Fiona put down the bowl and clapped her hands, amused by the boyish enthusiasm of this man who usually seemed the epitome of poise and sophistication. “Well done! Oh, well done!”

  He offered a flourishing bow.

  “I shall give your grandfather an accounting of your progress,” said my lady, who had come up unobserved to watch this domestic little scene. “I see Fiona has you in training, Roland. But she must do without you. I need some ink. You shall have to ride into the village for me.”

  “Madam! Would you deprive me of this invaluable course in crumpeting?” And, demonstrating his newly acquired technique for her, he went on gaily, “Seriously, my lady, may I not finish here, and then ride with Miss Fiona into the village?”

  Lady Clorinda looked for a long moment into his smiling countenance and unreadable eyes. “By all means,” she said.

  Mathieson was jubilant and Fiona gave a little jump of delight.

  But, walking away, my lady was frowning.

  “You don’t think they will spoil, sitting there on that towel?” asked Mathieson, his thoughts still with the neatly spread crumpets that waited at the campsite. “I did not slave over a hot fire all day only to have my culinary masterpieces ruined!”

  Fiona guided her little bay mare closer to the tall chestnut. “In all my experience with crumpets, I have never known a failure.”

  “How many times have you made them?”

  “We were discussing Thaddeus, I believe,” she evaded mischievously. “You may be right about his using an assumed name. I wonder if that is why he is so sad.”

  He shook his head at her. “Pish! You imagine it, romantic child.”

  “And you only say that to keep me from worrying.”

  “Now why in the name of creation should you worry about him? You’d not considered him as a matrimonial prospect until I suggested it.”

  “I worry about the people I like, even if I do not mean to marry them. And don’t pretend to be hard and cold, sirrah, for you cannot deceive me. He is your friend, and you worry about him too, because, being the type of man you are, you could not do otherwise.”