Bolster's hands, busied with his waistcoat buttons, stilled. He looked up, his grave eyes meeting Redmond's squarely.
Redmond flushed. His own lashes drooped, and he strolled over to lower his tall frame into the chair once more. Drawing a hand across his eyes, he muttered, "I'm a proper clod to speak so of a lady. You're perfectly right to look at me in your Peer-ish way." Bolster smiled faintly but remained silent, and Redmond's head tossed up in a typically impatient fashion. "What are you about, my friend? This is a dashed long way to come if you don't mean to stay, I think."
It was the perfect opportunity for Bolster to admit that he was here in response to a note from Diccon, and Redmond waited, his eyes alert under their thick lashes.
"Oh—I don't know.'' His lordship strolled to the press and extracted a splendid dark grey coat of Bath suiting. "What d'you think of this?" he asked, holding it up for inspection.
"Weston?"
Bolster beamed. "Believe it or not, my lad, it's from a ch-chap I found in Guildford…"
He rambled on, proud of having found so fine a tailor who was also less outrageous in his charges than the mighty Weston. It all sounded very innocuous, but, resting his chin on one hand, Redmond watched him speculatively. If old Jerry was here to rendezvous with the elusive Diccon, he was being confoundedly adroit about concealing it, which did not fit the mould. Honest and loyal and full of pluck was Bolster, but not noted for his mental acuity.
His lordship crossed to the dressing table and began to brush his straight yellow hair. "Didn't know you was acquainted with Strand," he remarked casually. "Good old boy, isn't he?"
"I'm not acquainted with him, actually. Ran into a friend of his in Paris and was charged with a message for him."
"Jove! Beastly luck to be waylaid for your tr-trouble."
Redmond agreed and said affably that he would rest here for another day or two and then head back to Town. Jerry, he decided, was at Strand Hall by pure coincidence. The dear old chap was simply incapable of deception and could never have managed to behave with such sang-froid unless he had indeed nothing to hide.
A bright young man, Mitchell Redmond, who in his days at Oxford had been his tutor's delight and widely held to have every chance for a fellowship. That goal, once so assiduously pursued, had been abandoned many months ago. Perhaps, during the dissolute time that had followed, some of his brilliance had dimmed. Certain it was that he did not know Lord Jeremy Bolster quite as well as he supposed.
Chapter 4
Charity's joy at recovering the use of her legs after being confined to an invalid chair for three years manifested itself in her frequent use of them. The weather had to be very inclement indeed to force the abandonment of her morning ride or her afternoon walk. There were many pleasant walks in and around the Strand preserves, and when Rachel was comfortably settled for the daily nap Dr. Bellows insisted upon, Charity slipped out of the house and started off across the park, basket on her arm, in search of bluebells.
The air was quite warm for the time of year; no breeze stirred the trees, and even the birds seemed to pipe drowsily. As she strolled along, Charity's thoughts drifted to their guests. Lord Bolster had come down to luncheon looking very smart in his changed dress. As usual, he was a cheerful companion, and they had all enjoyed his account of the new additions to the family of the Marquis of Damon. Despite his apparently rapid retreat from the Priory, it was obvious that Bolster had been intrigued by the two baby boys. Charity smiled as she turned her steps toward the Home Wood. Dear Jerry. What a wonderful father he would make some day. And Amanda must be the kindest creature any child could have for a mama.
Their other guest had not come down for luncheon; Bolster had said he was resting, which was, thought Charity, very obliging of him. She felt a twinge of guilt. It was unkind to judge so harshly. Mr. Redmond might still be troubled of his wound; a man could not be expected to behave in a courteous manner at such a time. At once, perversely, she could see Devenish lying on the dank cellar floor in Dinan, patiently enduring while the apothecary cut the crossbow bolt from his leg. She had thought he must die from the pain of it, but he had not made a sound, nor uttered a word of complaint through all their desperate flight back to England, with Claude Sanguinet's hounds hunting high and low for them… She shuddered and, finding that she had stopped walking, went on quickly.
The shadows were lengthening across the lush grasses, the mellow light of late afternoon laying its golden mantle over quiet meadow and whispering copse. She had wandered through a corner of the Home Wood, walked much farther than she'd intended, and had not gathered a single bluebell. She was, in fact, near the lane that formed the boundary line between the Strand preserves and those of their northern neighbour, Lord Rickaby. She climbed the gradual slope, beyond which was the lane, and stood there, gazing about at this green and pleasant Sussex; so sweetly pure and peaceful…
"Damn and blast your miserable little hide!"
Charity gave a jump of fright, for the irate snarl came from above her. A hand to her throat, she searched the branches of the venerable oak that had commandeered this high ground for itself. A well-shaped leg, clad in tight beige pantaloons, came into view, groping downward. Harbouring a suspicion that Mitchell Redmond was, as her brother would have said, "dicked in the nob," Charity slipped behind a clump of gorse, and watched.
He came down awkwardly, grumbling and cursing as he did so. It was a precarious climb and twice she held her breath, readying herself to go to his aid once more, and praying she might know what to do for a broken back. He was not using his left arm at all, naturally enough, though if it was as little botheration as he had insisted, one might think he could do so. But then, as he reached the lowest branch, he appeared to lose his grip on something he had held in that arm. A small shape sailed through the air, landed with a thump, and sprawled at the foot of the tree.
Wide-eyed with astonishment, Charity stood rooted to the spot. It was Little Patches, the smallest, clumsiest, and most intrepid of the house cat's latest brood, and the best beloved of all her contributions.
Peering down at the little creature, Mitchell Redmond called, "Moggy…? Confound your whiskers—do you mean to die now?"
Charity put a hand over her mouth to stifle a bubble of laughter. She was even more hard-pressed a second later, for lifting his deep voice to simulate that high pitch that mankind appears to consider a requisite tone in calling felines, Redmond squeaked, "Kitty… kitty…?"
Charity bit her finger. Redmond? This sour, sardonic, snarling rudeness would climb all that way to rescue a kitten?
Little Patches blinked, gathered herself together dazedly, then opened a tiny and very pink mouth to emit a shrill mew.
Redmond grinned down at her with proprietory pride. "Take your blasted fleas home," he said. "Wherever that may be. And have a trifle more sense next time!"
As though perfectly understanding this speech, Little Patches proceeded to pick her way with giant kitten strides over the blades of grass that impeded her progress.
"Will wonders never cease?" whispered Charity.
She had erred. However tiny they might be, kittens have exceptional hearing. Little Patches looked with joyous recognition in the direction of the gorse bush and advanced upon it, mewing as she came, her tail, like a small spear, standing straight up behind her.
Mr. Redmond had turned preparatory to descending, but he was clearly experiencing some difficulty and at any second must look around and see that he was being watched. Charity began to back quickly down the slope, Little Patches increasing her own pace to bound in pursuit. Charity was not even comfortably out of view, however, when Redmond glanced her way. She had the presence of mind to shift direction at once, as though just now arriving. "Little Patches," she exclaimed, bending to pick up the garrulous animal. As she straightened, Redmond was in the act of swinging down from the branch. "My heavens!" she cried, honestly dismayed. "Whatever are you about, Mr. Redmond? You will hurt yourself!"
That he had done so was obvious. He said unevenly, ''Your perspicacity is—extraordinaire, ma'am."
Remembering that high-squeaked enquiry intended only for the kitten's ears, Charity could not be too offended by his sarcasm. Holding Little Patches against her neck, she asked innocently, "Whatever were you doing up there?"
He drawled a bored, "Fiddling, of course."
"And not even in Rome." She smiled and ventured an oblique glance at his profile. It was small wonder his looks had ruined him, for the women must certainly flutter around him. And yet he showed no signs of dissipation, his features, although cynical, also revealing intelligence and sensitivity rather than having the full-lipped sensuality she had noted in some famous rakes, such as Junius Trent, who had been pointed out to her in Town recently and was judged to be exceedingly attractive.
Redmond had said something and was turning to her curiously. She said, "During your solo concert you appear to have scratched your cheek, sir."
Faintly indignant, his eyes slanted to her burden. "On a stray branch."
"Liar!" thought Charity.
"So much for surveying the legendary beauties of Strand's estate," he added.
"Is that what you were doing, then?" Gently, Charity detached Little Patches from her jade beads and set her down. "I trust you found it to your liking, sir?"
"There being only one possible reply to such a question, I shall say that I found every tree and bush beyond compare.''
She flushed. She had been judged insipid, evidently, which being the case she would not further her efforts to make polite conversation.
In silence, therefore, they proceeded across the turf, Redmond setting a rather slow pace. This exactly suited Little Patches, who bounced along more or less with them, but pausing now and then to wage all-out war against the dire menace of some threatening weed or wildflower.
Charity was by nature a friendly person, and after a while the pointlessness of nurturing hostile thoughts against this ill— mannered young man eased her indignation. After all, she reasoned, he would very soon take his boorish way out of her life, and others would be afflicted with him, poor things. She allowed her thoughts to drift to Justin and Lisette, wondering idly what they were doing in Town. Her reverie was broken when Redmond halted and stood looking back the way they had come. Little Patches appeared to have worn herself out, and sat looking after them in a forlorn way.
"Poor little mite," said Charity, stopping also. "I'll carry her in my basket."
"You would be better advised to let her learn a lesson. The stupid animal got out here. Certainly she can find her way home."
"She could have made her way down the tree," thought Charity, but since she was not supposed to know of that event, she did not voice the comment but went to the rescue. Even as she reached for the kitten, a butterfly provided a new diversion, and the contrary Little Patches went bounding off after the colourful insect. "Wretch!" whispered Charity and returned to Redmond, who waited with a decidedly smug expression on his face.
Determined to carry off this minor embarrassment with aplomb, Charity was further mortified when her slipper encountered a shifting pebble and her ankle turned. She staggered. Redmond leapt to support her, but when she looked up gratefully, she surprised a mocking grin. He believed her stumble to have been deliberate! Oh! The insufferable egoist!
"Are you all right, ma'am?" he enquired with questionable sincerity. "You must think me remiss for not lending you my arm long before now."
Charity knew her cheeks were blazing, but refusing to lower her eyes, she tore free from his hold."To the contrary! I cannot think such a sacrifice is necessary, sir," she said, in a frigid tone that very few people had ever heard her employ. She had expected that her response might annoy him, but was unprepared for the fury that turned his eyes to steel. "It is not necessary, in fact," she went on, "for you to accompany me back to the Hall."
He said raspingly,"I hope I am not such a boor as to leave you out here alone, ma'am."
"Oh?" she murmured.
He stamped along beside her.'' I must admit to amazement that you are permitted to be forever wandering about the countryside unchaperoned, like any—" He bit off the rest of that remark.
"Wanton… ?" prompted Charity. "I know very little of the behaviour of such women. But I am sure you can enlighten me, Mr. Redmond."
What he would like to do, he thought, was to spank her. Hard. They were entering the woods now, and she trod along the farthest edge of the narrow path, preferring to allow her skirts to brush against the undergrowth rather than risk an encounter with his own person. He said haughtily, "I doubt your brother would appreciate my rendering such instruction, Miss Strand. Indeed, I am surprised you would desire so improper a topic of conversation.''
The horrid beast had won that round. "Oh, I do not," she assured him. "But you were bored when I attempted to engage you in commonplaces."
Such forthrightness had not often come his way from a lady, and he was so taken aback as to be tardy with a counterattack.
Charity allowed him no extra time. "I expect that was my fault," she went on, "for I've had very little practice at it, since my brothers do not encourage what they consider intellectual trivia. If you insist upon conversation, I must try to find a topic that interests you, for I believe that is de rigueur for a polite lady, no? Let me see—ah! I have it! We shall exchange gossip." She beamed upon him kindly.
Redmond blinked. "I think I am being roasted. Unless you have been told I am an unconscionable gabblemonger.'' He said this, well aware that it would prompt an immediate and flustered denial. Miss Strand, however, did not react according to convention, instead knitting her brows in silence. Irked, but faintly intrigued, he prodded at length, "Ma'am?"
"My apologies, Mr. Redmond. I was casting my mind over some of the things I have been told of you."
"Were you, by gad! It must have been a good deal."
"A deal, at least."
Stunned, his gaze darted to her in time to see the quiver that tugged at her shapely lips. "The devil!" he protested.
"No, no! I assure you, Mr. Redmond, no one has called you that. Not, er, in my hearing, at least."
He was quite unable to hold back a grin at this excellent riposte and said promptly, "I am maligned, alas. I pray you will not believe me a monster.''
"Oh, of course I do not." And after a thoughtful pause, she went on, fancying she extended an olive branch, "I suppose, for our own secret reasons, we all present a false character to the world, do we not?"
She could scarcely have blundered onto a more unfortunate choice of words. Redmond stiffened. "The ladies certainly do. One way or another."
So much for olive branches, thought Charity, and yearning to push him into the nearest bramble bush, said calmly,"We have little choice. Whatever our private inclinations, we are obliged to conform to expected patterns of insipid accomplishments; to speak inanities lest we be judged bluestockings; to strive always to meet the male notions of beauty, however far we may be from hoping to achieve such a state.''
Scanning her with resentful eyes, Redmond felt no compelling urge to argue the point as she undoubtedly expected him to do. She was not a beauty, nor ever would be. Her face was too gaunt, and her shape more that of a boy than a young woman. The eyes, one had to admit, were quite beautiful, and that red-gold hair not at all bad, especially in the sunshine, but her manners were deplorable. He responded, "I fancy every man has his own unique concept of beauty. As for being a bluestocking, do you perhaps mean that you enjoy to read? Or do you refer to those appalling spinsters who are well informed on everything from politics to philately and delight in proving to any gentleman how inferior is his own knowledge by comparison?"
"Oh, for an axe!" thought Charity, but she somehow managed a creditable little titter. "Acquit me of that, I beg. Surely you must know that a girl has to do far less to be judged a bluestocking. Let her only discuss anything more intellectual than gossip, fashions, or babies, and she is in real da
nger of being set down as 'clever.' A state no male can endure in a woman." She parried Redmond's frigid glare with a glittering smile and swept on, knowing she was being outrageous. "It is all based on fear, though few would acknowledge it. The gentlemen deplore silly, empty-headed females—and invariably marry them, if only to assure themselves of how superior they are. And also," she appended loftily,"so that they may continue their various indiscretions under the very noses of their wooden-headed wives."
"Which would account, no doubt," he sneered, "for the untold numbers of poor hapless males who are trapped 'neath the cat's foot."
"If a male is poor and hapless, Mr. Redmond, he will sooner or later wind up under somebody's foot, whether it be that of his parent, spouse, or superior officer. The point is that a gentleman has so vast a scope compared to a lady. And when one sees what most men make of their lives…" She paused, eyeing him with faint reproach.
So now he had been judged a failure in life! Furious, he donned the mantle of polite boredom that had daunted several managing mamas. "I have not the slightest doubt, ma'am, but that you, for example, would have taken the opportunities I have so shamefully squandered and turned them to good account. Had I but a soupçon of your ambition I might very well be Prime Minister by now!"
Markedly undaunted, Charity opened her eyes at him and enquired, "Is that what you aspire to, Mr. Redmond? My, but I should never have guessed you to have a turn for politics."
"Very astute of you, Miss Strand," he snapped, forgetting to be condescending. "For I find politicians to be a set of pompous bores with whom I mingle as little as possible."
"Really? I expect your vast experience in such matters should influence me to change my own opinion. I cannot help but wonder at Lord Palmerston, you know. Such a charming gentleman, and I have never found him a bore. I must ask him how he came to be so taken in."
Redmond, who admired Palmerston, concentrated upon where he might bury this revolting woman, after suitably strangling her, and how Brutus might be dissuaded from digging her up again.
Patricia Veryan - [Sanguinet Saga 08] - Sanguinet's Crown Page 5
