by Joan Smith
“Nothing would surprise me,” he said, and leaped down from the stile. He held his arms up to catch Samantha. She put her hands on his shoulders and jumped off.
The sun cast gold lights on her blond curls. Excitement lent a flush to her cheeks, and amusement danced in her eyes. Between her partially open lips, he saw the flash of white teeth. Her small body felt warm and vulnerable under his hands. My God, she’s beautiful! he thought, and held her a moment, looking up into her face.
As he swung her to the ground, he glanced a light, sliding kiss off the side of her lips. “A brother’s prerogative,” he said.
Samantha stared icily. “It felt more like droit du seigneur to me!” she snipped, and turned aside.
“I must be slipping,” he murmured, to cover his gêne.
It annoyed him inordinately that someone so sweet and innocent as Sam might be sacrificed to the vulgar taste of his uncle. Willingly sacrificed, which compounded the offense. Country girls should be simple. They should be able to accept a meaningless kiss, and not suggest there was some ulterior motive in it. Most of all, they shouldn’t dangle after gentlemen old enough to be their fathers. He frowned and began walking at a brisk pace toward the Hall.
If the country was to provide no rest or pleasure, he might as well be in town. How had he allowed himself to get caught up in these country doings? Yet he was strangely interested in why Mrs. Armstrong had come to call.
Samantha was caught off guard by that kiss. Monty had never shown this brotherly regard for her before, and she knew perfectly well why he was showing it now. Despite his fine talk, he was just afraid she’d marry the nabob. As she hadn’t shown any interest in Teddie or Bert, perhaps he’d been hinted to court her himself? Not to the extent that he might really be expected to offer for her—Monty was too much the gentleman to behave in such a scaly manner. No, he was just distracting her a little.
His long strides carried him a few yards in front of her, and rather than run to keep pace, she stayed behind. She admitted to a grudging admiration for his broad shoulders, the proud set of his head, and his manly vigor. Finally he stopped and waited for her. The carriage proceeded more quickly, but the shorter route lay through the meadow, and they reached the house just seconds after the carriage.
“Mrs. Armstrong isn’t in it,” Samantha said, peering into the carriage. “She’s just sent her footman. What can it be? I wonder if he’s bringing an invitation.”
“No, a parcel,” Monty pointed out, as the footman lifted a large square package wrapped in brown paper.
“The cat!” they exclaimed, and both hastened to the door.
The footman saw them, recognized Monteith, and handed the parcel to him. “Mrs. Armstrong says this is for Lord Howard, and here’s a note to go with it,” he said.
Monteith thanked him and took the package inside, where his mother flew into a pelter. “The sly wench,” she snorted, when her son explained its arrival.
“She hinted she had given it to a charity bazaar in London,” Samantha remembered.
“The cunning of her!” Lady Monteith scolded. “Let me see that note, Monty. I believe I shall hide it and say I found the cat in the attic.”
Monty didn’t reply, but he took the parcel to the hall and let out a “Holloa” in a creditable imitation of his uncle. It was used to summon not his own servants but one of the burra sahib’s ghosts.
“For your master,” Monteith said, and pointed to Lord Howard’s hat, which had taken up semi-permanent residence on the table in the front hall, much to Lady Monteith’s chagrin.
His mother followed Monteith into the hall to complain. “Why don’t you run upstairs and see what Howard has to say?” she suggested, by which he understood her completely: see if you can find out what is in the letter.
“I’m not that interested, Mama,” he said, and returned to the parlor.
Lady Monteith was so consumed with curiosity and anxiety that she went upstairs herself, and was soon down with the whole story.
“I knew it!” she exclaimed, her fine hazel eyes snapping. “It was the cursed cat! She ‘found’ it in a closet, by means of emanations, if you please. I managed to get a glance at the note while he unwrapped it. These emanations, it seems, occur regularly when they are together. What the devil is she talking about?”
Mrs. Tucker nodded wisely. “The only other customer who generates these emanations is Mr. Beazely, the rich old widower who owns the drapery shop and that row of apartments on High Street. That is the sort of emanations they are.”
“Surely Lord Howard doesn’t believe in that occult foolishness!” Mrs. Bright exclaimed.
“He’d believe anything a bold hussy like Armstrong tells him. And she signs herself Serena, if you please,” Lady Monteith advised the company. “I thought her name was Nancy.”
“I see you got a close glance at the note, Mama,” Monty said with a satirical shake of his head.
The low cunning of Mrs. Armstrong’s returning the cat and its probable consequences were discussed for several minutes.
“The likeliest outcome is that Lord Howard will call on her in person to thank her,” Mrs. Bright suggested.
“Certainly he will,” Lady Monteith agreed. “That is the only reason she sent it, and he will know I gave the cat away. I shall say the servants did it in error.”
“The worst outcome,” Monteith announced, “is that he’ll expect to put the horror in the saloon with the elephant’s foot and the sword collection. I shall forbid it. I refuse to share the room with that monstrosity.”
Mrs. Tucker, who was fond of propriety, said, “I believe cats were considered sacred in Egypt. I wonder if that is also an Indian belief.”
“Let him build a temple for it on the Langford property, then,” Monteith said firmly. “This is where I draw the line. The cat does not go into the saloon.”
“Think of your brothers, Monteith,” his mother chided.
“Lacking in taste as they are, I cannot believe that either Ted or Bert will be offended at the lack of a stuffed cat in the saloon, Mama. They have survived without one all these years.”
There was no doing anything with Monty in this mood, and his mother let the matter drop. She had already set on a nice, dark, inconspicuous corner of the saloon for the feline, just to the left of the front window. It was as dark as the coal hole. Monty would never see it.
The guests were strongly inclined to remain till Lord Howard returned belowstairs, but a luncheon invitation was a luncheon invitation after all, and in due time they took their reluctant departure.
“Let us know what happens about the cat,” Samantha said to Monteith before leaving.
“I have already told you what will happen. The cat remains in Howard’s bedchamber. I am cured of the Indian fever. Of more interest will be to see what happens with yourself, Sam. I’ll drop in this evening, if I may?”
“That won’t be necessary. I’ll monitor the curtain and time him in and out of Mrs. Armstrong’s house. That was your reason for calling, was it not?”
He touched her chin with one finger. “No, the excuse. I fear he may slip across the street to visit you after. I shall be there to defend my sister.”
Samantha didn’t return his playful smile. She just gazed from her deep, dark eyes. “Turning doctor, are you? You think to cure me of the fever by playing chaperon? Come if you like. You won’t deter your uncle a jot—nor me, either. He’ll do just as he wishes, as he always does. I wager I’ll see the cat in the saloon next time I come.”
“What do you wager, Sam?”
“What it’s worth to me. Tuppence.” She laughed, and left.
Chapter 10
As feared, Lord Howard expected the stuffed cat that saved his life to be enshrined in the saloon, and as promised, Lord Monteith forbade it. Nor did he soften the blow by any excuse whatsoever.
“I hope you’re not planning to put that thing in my saloon,” he said curtly, when Lord Howard descended for dinner that evening. One o
f his white-clad servants walked behind him, carrying the glass case. “The room is already overcrowded with Indian gewgaws.”
The nabob’s brow puckered in quick anger. He gave Monteith a killing shot from his dark eyes, but after a moment, a smile broke. “It was my intention,” he admitted, “but I can see the thing from your point of view, lad. These are my treasures; they’d mean nothing to you— why should they? They don’t suit your more refined style.” He spoke to the servant in some Indian dialect. The servant bowed a few times and disappeared back up the stairs.
Lord Howard turned an approving eye on Monteith and said, “It’s high time you took hold of matters in your own house, lad. There’s hope for you yet. I was beginning to fear you was tied to Irene’s apron strings. It happens when a fully grown man still lives with his mama.”
“My mother lives with me,” Monteith said stiffly. “There is a difference.”
“I daresay you’d get her blasted off if you was to take wife. I do like to see gentlemen married. It sets a good example to the countryside.”
“You may be sure I’ll marry when I meet the lady who suits me.”
Lord Howard gave him a cunning look. “If someone else don’t beat you to her,” he said, and laughed as they went toward the dining room.
The speech conjured up the image of Samantha Bright. Monteith suppressed a sharp reply, but the warning rankled. Miss Bright was not the sort of young lady he intended to marry. She was rustic, not well dowered and not well connected. He could do a deal better for himself than a simple country miss. Yet he felt an intense aversion to her marrying this old yahoo.
After dinner, Lord Howard went upstairs and came down reeking of Steeke’s lavender water. “I’d like to garner a bouquet from your conservatory, Monteith,” he said. “You don’t mind if I have my lads pluck a few blooms?”
“Lambrook is your home, Howard,” Lady Monteith told him. “You must do just as you wish, mustn’t he, Monty?”
“Help yourself to the flowers,” Monteith said.
“Whom are you calling on, Howard dear?” Lady Monteith asked, her eyes kindling with apprehension.
“I am going to thank Mrs. Armstrong for returning the cat. And to discover how she comes to have it.”
Lady Monteith flushed. “Some dreadful misunderstanding—the servants—I asked them to make up a bundle for the church bazaar from the things in the attic. The idiots must have ... You won’t be long, I hope?”
“There is no saying. Don’t fret over me, Irene. I ain’t seven years old. I’m used to coming and going as I please.”
As Lord Howard drove into town, he decided it was time to remove to the inn. If he reached an understanding with Serena, he would want to be closer to her, and Irene’s good nature was beginning to cloy.
He was greeted with warmth at the Armstrong residence. The palms were read again, and again strong emanations passed between the two. Serena was given to understand Lord Howard would be deeply insulted if she didn’t accept a ruby ring as token of his gratitude for her returning the cat. She was also reminded of other baubles awaiting her pleasure, if only she could see her way clear to breaking a vow that was in no way binding. She stuck to her guns.
“I shall never remarry,” she announced.
Lord Howard squirmed uncomfortably and, being an impatient man, came right to the point. “How about the other, then? A cozy little house in the countryside—”
“Ah, Howard,” she said, with more sadness than rebuke. “If marriage is difficult, how impossible any other sort of alliance would be! I shall try to forget you suggested that.” The “impossible” vow had been downgraded to “difficult,” and she peered from under her long lashes to see if her caller had noticed it.
“The thing is, Serena,” he said gently, “I have been bleating like a sheep at the Hall that I disapprove of widows’ remarrying. I would look nohow if I turned around and married one.”
She lifted her lashes and directed a long gaze on him. “It would take a very strong man to change his mind in public,” she said.
“I haven’t changed my mind.”
“You are very foolish,” she chided gently. “A woman is not a suit of clothing designed for one man only. She is a book to be read and interpreted. But I see you care a good deal for public opinion. I had not thought ...” She came to a discreet stop, leaving her meaning for him to figure out himself.
“You’re out in your reading if that is what you think! I do as I please.”
“And it doesn’t please you to marry me, I see.” Her voice quavered, but she lifted her chin bravely. “We can still be friends, Howard. I hope you will call again, when you happen to be in the village. And now I must retire. I feel one of my headaches coming on.”
She rose gracefully. A long, loose robe fell in folds to her ankles, but clung enticingly to her upper body. The sleeves fell away to reveal a shapely white arm as she waved him good-bye. Lord Howard sat entranced at the picture.
He was not accustomed to having his character questioned. It riled him that this enchanting creature should think him so uncertain of himself that he dare not change his mind in public. Being very much a man of the world, he also knew she was angling for marriage, and that she was not of that class from whom he should choose a bride. She was not as easily available as he had first hoped, but like a nag with a bad knee, she just didn’t go flat all around. He drew out his watch and checked the time. It was still early. He’d head across the street and flirt a little with Miss Bright. She was a fine-looking lady, and younger than Serena.
It added a fillip to the visit that Monteith was ensconced in the parlor, looking daggers at him.
“Congratulations, Howard,” Samantha said. “I hear Ginger has been returned.”
“That she has. I have just stopped off to thank Mrs. Armstrong for it.”
Lord Howard mentally compared the two ladies as he explained in detail the assault of banditti during which the cat had saved his life. Samantha had the unmistakable stamp of the lady. She was younger and equally pretty. Then, too, he had seen her in broad daylight, while Serena’s charms had only been studied by lamplight. In spite of all Miss Bright’s advantages, however, there was a certain something in Serena that whetted his more mature palate. She had the knack of appealing to a man’s sensual nature.
Samantha made all the proper exclamations at his tale of slashing the banditti apart with his tulwar, but in her heart she felt Howard would soon become a bore. The greater enjoyment of the evening was in annoying Monteith, who sat in well-simulated ennui.
“With my creese clamped in my teeth and my trusty tulwar in my hand, I had at them,” Lord Howard said. “I caught one of them a good stroke on the wrist. I hope I didn’t sever his hand, poor lout. Another crept up behind me and got hold of my nightshirt. I caught him by the shirttail and tossed him across the room.”
Mrs. Bright clucked in disapproval, but Samantha smiled approvingly. “Then what? How many of them were there?”
“Only five, that I could see.”
After fifteen minutes of Howard’s boasting, Monteith rose and said, “I believe I’ll be going home now. Mama is alone.”
“That’s right, lad. You run along and amuse your mama. I’ll keep the ladies here lively.”
Monteith glared at his uncle, who winked playfully at Samantha. Mrs. Bright looked up from her sewing and said, “It seems foolish, driving two carriages down from the Hall. Why did you not come together?”
“I don’t keep a youngster’s hours,” Howard said.
“Then you should have called on Miss Bright first, Uncle,” Monteith said. “She, I believe, does.”
“I shan’t overstay my welcome, never fear. I have a call to make at the inn before returning. I have decided to remove to the inn, Monty. I’ll speak to the proprietor and see if he can clear the place out for me and my servants.”
Monteith looked alarmed. “When did you take this decision?”
“Don’t fret yourself. It has nothing
to do with the decor of your saloon,” he said playfully. “No, with my house to be built, I want to be closer to it. That’s all.”
Samantha wanted to hear about this decor of the saloon and accompanied Monteith to the front door.
“What happened? Have you come to cuffs with the nabob?” she asked eagerly. “Is that why you were in the sulks all evening?”
“Gentlemen don’t sulk! I was merely peevish. And I have not argued with burra sahib. He agreed with me that a polite saloon was no place for his Indian artifacts. That’s tuppence you owe me, miss.”
“Put it on my account. My reticule is upstairs. What do you think of his moving to the inn?”
“I am delighted.”
“Your mother won’t be.”
“I don’t take orders from Mama!” he said with unwonted violence.
“I seem to have struck a nerve.”
“Anyone’s nerves would be exacerbated, living with that pirate. I don’t know how you can fawn over him.”
“I was not fawning!”
“Were you not? You never took that smile off your face from the moment he arrived. How a well-bred young lady can smirk and simper to hear of the wholesale carnage Uncle allegedly inflicts with one sword is beyond me.”
“No, no! He had his trusty creese in his mouth as well. Imagine, there were five of them against him.”
“There were three the last time he told it. Soon it will have been an entire regiment.”
It was borne in on Monteith that he sounded like a jealous boy, and he smiled apologetically. “I’m being an unpleasant guest—and derelict in my duty besides. I promised I’d come to protect you from the nabob, and here am I shabbing off on you.”
“He’ll be leaving soon. And by the by, Monty, it wasn’t necessary for you to make an issue of my relative youth. Howard knows my age.”
“And you know his. If neither his advanced years nor his monologues, which we call ‘conversation,’ are enough to deter you, I fear I’m wasting my time in trying to protect you.”
“True. You could be home playing whist with your mama,” she taunted.
