Rapture Becomes Her

by Shirlee Busbee

  Emily and Cornelia didn’t disagree with her. They’d been outraged when Jeffery had let go servants who had served the Townsend family for years, generations, and had put in his own people—men that were lazy, insolent and had much to do with the decreased revenues of the estate. What Jeffery didn’t squander, they lost through poor management or pilferage.

  Emily studied Anne’s face for another moment. “He hasn’t overstepped himself, has he?” she asked.

  Red roses bloomed in Anne’s cheeks and told the story. Emily stood up, towering over the elfin Anne. Her eyes stormy, she demanded, “What did he do?”

  Anne swallowed and glanced down at her feet. “H-He touched me,” she whispered. At Emily’s snarl of fury, she said hastily, “Please! It isn’t so very terrible . . .” She swallowed. “It isn’t what you’re thinking . . . it—it—it’s only that he looks at me in a certain way and his hands linger on me longer than polite. I don’t like it.”

  “And you’ve said nothing?” demanded Cornelia, even her steel-gray hair seeming to bristle with outrage.

  “I—I’ve told him repeatedly,” she admitted in a low voice, “that I don’t need his help mounting and dismounting my horse, but he just ignores me and h-h-helps me anyway.” That usually smiling face full of misery, she looked at Emily and said, “I didn’t want to bother you—you have enough on your plate. I complained to Jeffery about him.” Tears simmered in her eyes. “He just laughed.”

  A red mist of rage swirled in front of Emily and for a moment, she could not breathe, she was so angry . . . and frightened. How far would Jeffery go to drive them away? Would he dare allow Anne to be ravished by one of his men? It was unthinkable, but she would put nothing past him.

  Her hands clenched into fists, she stared down into Anne’s miserable face. That Anne had been subjected to the unwanted advances of a stableman and Jeffery had done nothing . . . Rage choked her.

  “That yellow cur!” spat Cornelia, her eyes glittering with fury, her grip on her cane so tight, the knuckles of her hand gleamed white through the skin. “To think that a relative of mine would condone such behavior. Shameful!”

  The door to Emily’s bedroom slammed open and Jeffery, his greatcoat dripping from his ride home in the storm, stood in the doorway.

  “So here you are, cuz,” he growled as he walked into the room and confronted the three women. “I’ve been looking for you.”

  “And I for you,” Emily shot back. “What sort of a craven creature are you that you subject the women of your household to the pawing of a servant?”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he blustered, taken aback by the unexpected attack.

  “Oh, you know nothing about Anne’s complaint against Kelsey?” Emily demanded. “You have no idea that he has pressed his attentions on her—despite her objections?”

  Jeffery cleared his throat and said, “There must be some mistake. I assure you if I knew that Kelsey acted inappropriately with her, I would naturally have sent him packing.”

  “I told you!” Anne declared hotly, glaring at him. “And you laughed and said I was imagining things.”

  “I must have misunderstood you,” he hedged.

  “Well, just so there is no misunderstanding this time,” said Cornelia, the hazel eyes narrowed and hard on his face, “Anne is complaining to you again about the actions of Kelsey. We are witnesses to her complaint.” She lifted a brow. “And of course, I know as a gentleman that your word is your bond, so I will expect Kelsey to be dismissed first thing in the morning.” Cornelia smiled at him, showing her teeth, and Jeffery blanched. “I do have your word, don’t I,” she purred, “that you will no longer employ Kelsey? And that he will be gone in the morning?”

  Jeffery swallowed and his gaze not meeting Cornelia’s, he muttered, “Yes.”

  “Your word as a gentleman?”

  He nodded and ground out, “Yes, my word as a gentleman.”

  Cornelia turned and smiled gently at Anne. “Well, there you are, poppet. Kelsey will be gone tomorrow and you no longer have to fear him.”

  Sally, Emily’s occasional maid, holding a heavily laden tray, hesitated in the doorway and, catching Emily’s eye, took a deep breath and stepped into the room. Beyond a swift, speaking look at Emily, she ignored everyone and walking over to a small table near where Cornelia sat, she set down the tray. In the silence that greeted her appearance, she fussed a moment with the silver-covered tureen, before turning around to face Emily.

  Her eyes meekly lowered, Sally murmured, “If you will give me your wet things, I’ll see that they are washed and dried.”

  An expression of smug satisfaction on his face, Jeffery smiled and waited for Emily’s answer. He’d known the bitch had been out and Sally had just confirmed it.

  “Uh, that’s not necessary,” Emily said, horrified that Sally was giving away the fact that she had been anywhere but safely at home. She trusted Sally. What the devil was she up to?

  “Will that be all then?” Sally asked.

  “Ah, yes, thank you,” Emily replied, wary and uncertain. Betrayal from within had always been a possibility, but that Sally would be the one . . .

  Sending Emily a wink only she could see, Sally added brightly, “Cook thought you would enjoy something hot after your long night in the lambing shed.” Shaking her head, she added, “Leave it to old Nappy to choose a stormy night like tonight to lamb. Loren said it was a real pleasure to watch your sure hand with a difficult birthing. All of us think it was just wonderful that you were able to save old Nappy and deliver all three of her lambs.”

  Jeffery’s satisfaction evaporated and he glanced suspiciously from Sally to Emily. “That’s where you were tonight?” he demanded incredulously. “Helping that old shepherd, Loren, with the lambing?”

  Sally had tossed her a lifeline and Emily grabbed on to it for all she was worth. She flashed him a wide-eyed innocent look. “Where else would I be at this hour and on a terrible night like tonight?” she asked reasonably.

  Jeffery stared at the four women. Instinct told him that they were lying, but there was just enough of a ring of truth about the tale to give him pause. Even though it was a major source of income to him, Jeffery knew little about the sheep raised at The Birches, but he vaguely remembered Emily and Cornelia mentioning something a few days ago about lambing season not being far away. While he was convinced Emily had been at The Crown tonight, it was possible that she had indeed been helping some smelly old ewe push three more lambs into the world.

  Furious, frustrated and feeling like a fool for the second time that night, he snarled, “I will speak with Loren in the morning . . . and that bloody old ewe had better have three woolly lambs jumping around her.”

  “Oh, she will have,” Cornelia said serenely, smiling at him. “You can go see for yourself . . . right after you dismiss Kelsey.”

  Jeffery muttered something under his breath and, turning on his heel, tramped from the room.

  The door shut and locked behind his departing form by Sally, the four women looked at each other. Emily and Sally both grinned, Anne stifled a giggle, but it was Cornelia who laughed aloud.

  “By gad!” she hooted. “I’ve not enjoyed myself so much in a decade. Did you see his face? He looked like he had swallowed a muddy boot.”

  Sinking back down to the floor by the fire, Emily nodded. “He certainly wasn’t very happy.”

  “Well, I am,” said Anne firmly. “Tomorrow that horrid Kelsey will be gone.”

  Sally looked curious and Emily explained the situation. “That’ll make several of us very happy,” Sally commented when Emily finished speaking. “He, along with that Daggett fellow have not made themselves very well liked amongst the staff—anywhere on the estate.” She made a face. “He’s been making up to my sister, Rosie, at The Ram’s Head and I can’t say I’ll be sorry if he has to leave the area.”

  Glancing from Cornelia to Sally, Emily asked, “Whose idea was it to have me helping at the lambing shed
?” To Sally, she said, “I nearly fainted when you mentioned my clothing. I couldn’t imagine what you were up to.”

  Cornelia chuckled. “We have fate to thank for that. When Jeffery came looking for you and obviously you were not to be found, we knew something had to be done to explain your absence. As luck would have it, Loren showed up to warm himself by the fire and drink some hot soup, not ten minutes after Jeffery stormed out of the house on his way to The Crown.” She smiled. “Once Loren learned of our dilemma, he explained that he had just come from the lambing shed and that dear old Nappy had given birth to the first lambs of the season—all three of them.”

  Sally grinned and nodded. “It was the perfect excuse. Everyone knows that you always help with the lambing and we just had to, uh, add some urgency to Nappy’s lambing.”

  “I hope that Loren gave her some extra grain,” Emily said. “She certainly saved the day.”

  Eyeing Emily’s pale features and knowing of the long night she’d had, Cornelia stood up and tamped her cane a few times on the floor. “It’s been a long night for everyone. I don’t know about anyone else, but I’m for my bed.” She hobbled over to Emily and pressed a kiss to the top of her head. “You eat your soup and go to bed. We can discuss this further tomorrow,” she said gruffly.

  Anne and Sally followed her lead and within minutes, Emily was alone. The strain of the night had taken its toll and after only a few swallows of the rich beef and barley soup, Emily crawled thankfully into her bed.

  Despite everything, it had been a successful night. The contraband was on its way to London and Jeffery had been thwarted. Kelsey’s dismissal was a side benefit and she smiled when she recalled the way Cornelia had nailed Jeffery’s feet to the floor on that matter. Her smile faded though when she considered the impact Lord Joslyn might have on tonight’s events. If the man had been Lord Joslyn . . .

  She felt again the force of those black eyes and the strength in the hand that had clamped around her wrist, and she shivered. Nerves, she told herself, pushing aside the unwanted reaction. But she could not dismiss him entirely from her mind. If he was indeed the newest Lord Joslyn, she thought wearily, he could cause them untold difficulties. Difficulties, she admitted with a huge yawn, I shall have to overcome if I am to save us all.

  Barnaby had no intention of causing anyone any difficulty. He had enough problems of his own to worry about, and while the events at The Crown were intriguing, his main focus was finally reaching Windmere and discovering, if possible, how he had ended up in the Channel.

  Since he’d awoken, when he hadn’t been being distracted by the antics going on in his bedroom, he thought with a smile, he’d been racking his brain seeking an explanation for what had happened tonight. Lying in bed, he stared into the darkness, mulling over what he knew.

  Someone had tried to kill him. He already knew that unpalatable fact and the why was obvious: the Joslyn wealth and title. Barnaby sighed. The most logical culprit was his cousin, Mathew, but Barnaby couldn’t quite convince himself that Mathew had been behind what had happened to him.

  Leaving him to drown in the Channel just didn’t seem like Mathew. Mathew would be far more likely to run him through with a sword or shoot him dead in a rage than coldly plan his death by drowning. Barnaby grimaced. None of his cousins, including Mathew and his two younger brothers, Thomas and Simon, held any love for him, but there was a calculating cowardice about tonight’s doings that made it difficult for him to believe they were behind his near drowning.

  He made a face. But then he didn’t know his Joslyn cousins very well either. On the surface, Mathew, if one put aside his natural reaction to having a fortune and title snatched away from him, seemed a decent enough fellow. Under different circumstances, Barnaby admitted they might even have been friends . . . perhaps.

  Thomas, the middle brother, he’d only seen twice, and Simon, the youngest, appeared to be a happy-go-lucky young scamp—certainly not the type to arrange his drowning in the Channel.

  He might not know precisely what had happened, but he didn’t doubt that someone had gotten him on board the Joslyn yacht, and then either blown it up or ensured that it sank—with him lying unconscious on it.

  The one thing he did know for certain: he’d left London in a hooded gig, driving a big bay gelding, having planned a swift side trip to Eastbourne to inspect the yacht before traveling on to Windmere. Beyond that knowledge, events grew hazy.

  Barnaby frowned, concentrating hard. He’d sent his man, Lamb, along with the majority of his luggage ahead to Windmere. He remembered that much. Remembered, too, that he’d told Lamb he’d arrive in a day or two. It seemed an innocent enough itinerary. He snorted. Innocent or not, if not for the fisherman, Jeb, he’d be feeding the fishes in the Channel right now.

  He moved his head and winced with pain. Gingerly he reached up and probed the back of his head. Swearing at the burst of pain he felt when his fingers found the deep gash, he left off exploring his wound, but in the darkness, he smiled wolfishly. At least he had discovered why he didn’t remember much. Someone had given him a vicious blow to the back of the head and if they’d struck harder, he admitted grimly, he wouldn’t have had to worry about drowning.

  A yawn took him and as he drifted off to sleep, the features of the girl-dressed-as-a-boy floated through his mind. He’d thought her a pretty boy. . . . When he had time, it might be amusing to discover how she cleaned up.

  Chapter 4

  Barnaby woke the next morning and, despite the faint throbbing in the region of his head where he had suffered the blow he was convinced had been meant to kill him, he felt surprisingly well. Until he sat up and swung his long legs over the side of the bed. The room swam and for a moment he feared he’d black out.

  He didn’t, but only by sheer stubborn effort was he able to stand up. Granted, he hung on to one of the bedposts for several moments and fought off the dizziness, but by God! He was standing on his own two feet.

  With an unsteady gait, he walked to one of the chairs by the fire and sank gratefully into it. He was as weak as a newborn and he scowled at the fire on the hearth as if the exuberant red and yellow flames were at fault.

  He heard a knock on the door but before he could reply, the door swung open and Flora, with a tray in her hands holding a pewter coffeepot, a white pottery mug and a plate heaped with fat golden biscuits, came tripping into the room. Catching sight of him sitting by the fire, she stopped abruptly.

  “And what do you think you’re doing?” she demanded in a scolding tone, setting down the tray on the small table next to his chair. Hands on her slim hips, she declared, “You should still be abed. And you should let me dress that wound of yours. Ma says it probably should be wrapped.”

  “Probably,” Barnaby agreed, feeling foolish sitting there swathed in yards and yards of cotton nightshirt that barely covered his knees. The deceased Mr. Gilbert, may God rest his soul, had been far rounder than he’d been tall.

  Since Barnaby remained precisely where he was and the jut of his formidable chin told her he wasn’t going to climb meekly back into bed—or let her touch his head—after a moment Flora snorted and poured him a cup of black coffee. The rich scent of the coffee tickled his nose as she handed the steaming cup to him. Giving him a stern look, she said, “Stubborn, that’s what you are.”

  Taking the cup, Barnaby smiled. “I see that in our short acquaintance you already have a correct reading of my character.”

  She shook her head and grinned at him. “It’s a male trait. Now drink your coffee.”

  Barnaby obeyed, taking a long swallow. Setting down the cup, he asked, “Is there someone you could send to Windmere for me? My man, Lamb, should have arrived and he will have a change of clothes for me.” He grimaced. “I assume what I was wearing is ruined.”

  Nodding, Flora said, “Young Sam can take a message for you.” She shook her head. “As for your clothes . . . the shirt might be salvageable, but the sea water shrunk everything else.” She giggled.
“Your pants might fit Sam and he’s only eleven.”

  Barnaby half smiled. “You can give him everything—with my compliments.” He looked around. “Do you have quill and paper? I’d like to get the message to Lamb as soon as possible.”

  John Lamb arrived some three hours later and her cheeks pink, a flustered Flora showed him into Barnaby’s room. Barnaby wasn’t surprised at Flora’s reaction. John might be his servant, and Barnaby often wondered who served whom, but women of all stations found his manservant most attractive.

  As tall as Barnaby, he was a strikingly handsome man, the dark gold of his skin and the crisp curl of his black hair revealing an African ancestry not too far away in his background. But even more stunning were his azure eyes set against the deep gold of his complexion—that and his catlike grace and elegance.

  After Flora reluctantly left, watching Lamb as he unpacked the valise he had brought with him, Barnaby asked, “And how was your journey?”

  Lamb glanced over his broad shoulder at his employer and grinned, showing a gleaming set of even white teeth. “From your note, far less exciting than yours, it appears.”

  “Be glad of that,” Barnaby growled as he rose to his feet. Taking the pair of breeches Lamb handed him, he proceeded to dress. The initial dizziness and weakness had passed and by the time he was pulling on his boots, other than a slight headache, he was feeling more himself.

  The valise emptied, Lamb turned and sent Barnaby a sharp look. In a voice no servant ever used to his master, he asked, “Do you want to tell me what happened?”

  John Lamb was the result of a liaison between Paxton, Barnaby’s grandfather, and a quadroon mistress he’d taken under his protection while in New Orleans on business for several months some thirty-six years previously. Paxton had died three years later, never knowing, or caring for that matter, that he had sired a son while in New Orleans. No one ever questioned that Lamb was his son. John’s build and facial features, especially those azure eyes, told their own story: he looked more Joslyn than did Barnaby.