Rapture Becomes Her

by Shirlee Busbee

  Mrs. Gilbert’s eyes sharpened. “What about Miss Emily?” Leaning back, his azure eyes gleaming, he murmured, “Why, only that his lordship announced his engagement to Miss Emily last night at Windmere.”

  Chapter 16

  Mrs. Gilbert let out such a whoop that all five of her daughters appeared from nowhere and rushed over to the table. Their pretty faces filled with anxiety, they crowded around.

  “What is it, Ma?’” cried Faith.

  “Why, only the best news I’ve heard in a decade,” Mrs. Gilbert exclaimed. Smiling at her daughters, she said, “Mr. Lamb just told me that Viscount Joslyn is going to marry our Miss Emily.”

  There were more whoops and laughter and, cheeks pink with pleasure, blue eyes dancing, they pelted Lamb with questions. Surrounded by a group of demanding women, Lamb did his best to comply, enjoying being the center of all that feminine attention. They were all so genuinely happy about the engagement and seemed to have a real fondness for Emily that some of his reservations about the Gilbert family faded. Perhaps Barnaby was right to trust them.

  Lamb was feeling very pleased with himself when he rode home to Windmere an hour later. The news of Joslyn’s engagement to Emily was spreading like wildfire, toppling the tragic death of Ainsworth as the main topic of conversation. He had to give Emily’s cousin credit for concocting a credible explanation for Ainsworth’s death and a reason for any signs of violence that might have been noticed. Except for the most discerning eye, or someone looking for it, the fatal stab wound would be lost amongst the other damage the body had suffered when it was washed up on the rocks.

  Jeffery remained a problem, though, and Lamb fully expected him to try his hand at blackmail at the first opportunity.

  Lamb was correct. While Lamb was loitering in the village, prior to escorting the two ladies back to The Birches, Barnaby was having a very cordial meeting with Cornelia and Emily in his office. The delicate business of money behind them, after Barnaby had written a note and sent it off by footman to London requesting his solicitor to draw up the necessary papers, they were ready to depart from Windmere. Once Emily and Cornelia were nestled in the coach, Barnaby astride Satan, a big black stallion that had caught his eye in the vast Windmere stables, escorted them home.

  Walker met them as the coach halted in front of the house. His face giving nothing away, he apprised them of the shocking death of poor Mr. Ainsworth. “The master,” he said expressionlessly, “is utterly devastated.”

  “Well, perhaps, our news will cheer him up,” Barnaby said dryly, as he followed the ladies into the house.

  Walker glanced quickly at him. “News, my lord?” he asked.

  Unable to help herself, Cornelia cackled. “Our Miss Emily is engaged to marry his lordship. They’ll wed just as soon as the banns are called!”

  Only years of training kept Walker from breaking into a jig and whooping as had Mrs. Gilbert. The huge smile that lit up his face told its own tale and his voice full of delight, he said, “Congratulations, my lord, Miss Emily!”

  “Thank you,” Emily said, smiling. A twinkle in her eyes, she added, “And yes, you have permission to tell the staff.”

  While Walker divested the ladies of their outerwear and took Barnaby’s gloves, a pair of brawny servants from Windmere unloaded the trunks and bandboxes from the coach and hefted them into the entry hall.

  Leading the way down the hall, Cornelia said to Walker, “You can show them where those trunks belong.” She grinned at him and added, “And after that you may open some of that champagne laid down in the wine cellar by the old squire and bring it to us in the green salon.” Wryly, she said, “I suppose you should let the squire know that we are home and in the green salon.”

  They entered the green salon and Cornelia seated herself on the celery damask settee, Emily taking a dainty gilt-and-wood tapestry chair nearby. Barnaby stood at one end of the fireplace across from where the ladies sat.

  Barnaby frowned. “I know you had come here, but I’m not happy about it.”

  “You are fretting for nothing,” Cornelia scolded. “It was Ainsworth who was the dangerous one, not Jeffery. Emily will be perfectly safe now that we no longer have to worry about Ainsworth.” Her eyes hardened. “Emily and I can handle my spineless nephew. Have no doubt of that!”

  Barnaby didn’t look convinced. Emily rose up from her chair and came to stand in front of him, one hand resting on his arm. “My great-aunt is right,” she said, smiling at him. “Since my father died, we have managed to rub along with my cousin without killing each other—he is more bluff and bully than anything else. Jeffery is an irritating nuisance, but he is not dangerous.”

  “I sincerely hope you know what you are talking about,” Barnaby muttered. His eyes caressing her face, he said, “If you have the slightest worry, send word to me immediately.”

  The door opened and Jeffery, having been informed of their arrival by Walker, walked into the room.

  It was an awkward moment for Jeffery. Joslyn knew him for a craven and he winced, remembering his helpless blubbering in the barn. As for Emily and Cornelia . . . He swallowed. From the expressions on their faces, it was obvious that his female relatives despised him for what happened. Or nearly happened. But it wasn’t my fault, he thought self-righteously. If Anne had proven more malleable or Emily hadn’t been so cold to Ainsworth none of this would have happened. If anyone was to blame, he decided viciously, it was his mean-spirited great-aunt. She could have encouraged Anne to look favorably upon Ainsworth, or pointed out to Emily what a good match Ainsworth would have been, but had she done that? No! The old harridan had pitted both the younger women against poor Ainsworth. And Ainsworth . . . He shuddered, remembering the sight of Ainsworth sprawled dead and bloody on the floor of the farmhouse.

  Thinking of the tactics he’d had to employ in disposing of the body, Jeffery swelled with injustice. To think that Joslyn and that oafish servant of his had just ridden away, leaving him there alone with the task of getting rid of the body! The straits he’d been put to! Loading a body onto a horse wasn’t an easy task, he reminded himself, and then leading the skittish animal with its grisly burden into the night . . . He’d been terrified of discovery the whole time and the relief he’d felt when he’d finally dumped Ainsworth’s body over the cliffs....

  He shot a resentful glance at Barnaby. It would have served Joslyn right if he’d ridden immediately to the constable’s house and reported the murder. Bitterly, Jeffery admitted that if he’d thought for a moment that anyone would have believed that Viscount Joslyn had murdered Ainsworth, he would have pointed the finger at Joslyn, but greedy, self-serving and vain he might be, Jeffery wasn’t stupid. Joslyn had the correct reading of the situation: no one would believe that the viscount had murdered Ainsworth and Jeffery might very well have found himself standing in the dock accused of the murder. It just wasn’t fair.

  “Ah, Jeffery,” purred Cornelia, breaking into his thoughts, “how kind of you to join us.” Her eyes bright, she said, “We have news for you.”

  Warily, Jeffery eyed her. “Oh? And what would that be?”

  “Why only,” Barnaby said, “that your cousin has done me the honor of agreeing to marry me.”

  “In three weeks—just as soon as the banns are called,” Cornelia said happily.

  Jeffery gaped. Emily to marry Joslyn! His wish had come true. Visions of Joslyn gold dancing in front of him, he cheered right up. “By Jove!” he cried, smiling. “This is indeed good news. My congratulations to the pair of you.”

  He wagged a finger under Emily’s nose. “What a sly, clever little puss you’ve been,” he said waggishly. “If I’d had the least idea that you and Joslyn . . . I never would have . . .” He stopped, recognizing the danger of continuing that train of conversation. “Well,” he said somewhat lamely, “this calls for a celebration.”

  As if on cue, Walker knocked and came into the room with a silver tray containing two bottles of uncorked champagne and several crystal fl
utes. Leaving the tray on a small satinwood table near the door, the butler departed.

  Champagne was poured and Jeffery and Cornelia toasted the engaged couple. Once the toasts were over, a small, uncomfortable silence fell. Though polite, it was clear that Jeffery’s presence was only being tolerated.

  But Jeffery wasn’t going to be driven away by cold silence—not without having a word with Joslyn. By thunder! The man was in his debt. And he intended to collect.

  Setting down his empty flute, Jeffery said heartily, “And now, my lord, if I may have a private word with you?”

  Barnaby glanced at him. “Why? I don’t believe that you and I have anything to say to one another that couldn’t be said in front of the ladies.”

  It was not an encouraging reply, but Jeffery wasn’t going to be put off. Not when money was at stake. Gamely, Jeffery said, “Now that you and my cousin are engaged, there are some, ah, business matters that must be taken care of. Settlements, pin money, that sort of thing.”

  “That won’t be necessary,” Barnaby replied. “Your great-aunt and I have worked out the settlements and whatnot to our satisfaction.”

  Jeffery choked. Looking from a grinning Cornelia to a stone-faced Barnaby, he snapped, “But—but that’s impossible! I am the head of family!” Pointing at Cornelia he said, “She’s an old woman. What does she know about finance and the like?”

  “As a woman, I know precisely what is needed to ensure Emily’s future—and keep her money safe from the likes of you,” Cornelia said sweetly. “His lordship and I met earlier today and with Emily’s approval we came to certain agreements.” Her eyes icy, she added, “Emily will never have to worry that she will find herself helpless and penniless again—and you’ll never get your hands on any of the money Joslyn has set aside for her.”

  His face white with fury, Jeffery demanded, “Is this true, my lord?”

  “Yes.”

  His hands curled into fists and, quivering with rage, Jeffery declared angrily, “Very well! Let us have some plain speaking. I think you forget that I know you murdered Ainsworth.” He tittered. “I wonder what the constable would say if I were to tell him what really happened at the Godart farm Thursday evening.”

  Barnaby looked puzzled. “The Godart farm? I don’t believe I know of the place.” He glanced at Emily and Cornelia. “Have you ladies ever heard of it?”

  Smoothly Emily said, “Yes. I think it is an abandoned farm and part of the estate.” She looked at Jeffery, contempt in her eyes, but her voice held only curiosity when she asked, “But why do you think that old place is of interest to his lordship?”

  “You know exactly why!” Jeffery shouted. “You were there!”

  “I think you are mistaken,” Emily said gently. She flashed an intimate smile in Barnaby’s direction. “I was too busy being courted by Lord Joslyn on Thursday to pay a visit to an abandoned farm.” Her gaze returned to Jeffery’s purpling face. “Everyone can confirm that his lordship and I were here until we departed for Windmere and that we were never anywhere near the Godart farm.” Perplexed, she asked, “Are you certain the loss of your friend hasn’t overset your mind.”

  “My mind,” Jeffery snarled, “is not overset!” His fulminating gaze swept over them. “You’re all lying! Pretending innocence.”

  “Prove it,” Cornelia challenged.

  He could not. Frustrated and angry, he muttered, “This is intolerable!”

  “What is intolerable,” Barnaby said levelly, “is that we have to endure your presence. If you want to survive the next few weeks, I’d suggest you learn to choose your words with care and that you stay out of my sight as much as possible.” He strolled across the room, stopping in front of Jeffery. Softly he said, “If I hear one word, one hint that you have treated my bride-to-be and Mrs. Townsend with anything less than the greatest respect, I’ll tear you from limb to limb.” He smiled and Jeffery staggered back at the menace in the smile.

  Turning on his heel, Jeffery stalked from the room. Barnaby glanced at the two ladies. Brow raised, he asked, “Do you think he’ll try something else?”

  Emily made a face. “Once he gets over his anger, he’ll start angling to get his hands into your pocket—one way or another.” She frowned. “Jeffery isn’t very inventive,” she said slowly, “and I think that most likely he’ll limit himself to trying to make you feel sorry for him—or obligated to him.”

  Barnaby smiled. “Reminding me that I owe him?” Cornelia nodded. “Oh, you can be sure of that.”

  Her expression troubled, Emily asked, “Are you sure you want to marry into a family that has someone like him as a member?”

  Barnaby turned and walked back to her and, lifting her hand to his lips, pressed a kiss onto the back of her hand. His eyes moving warmly across her face, he murmured, “Try and stop me.”

  The dinner with the vicar and his family last night had put paid to any scheme Mathew might have had of ending the engagement and accepting that only an act of God would prevent the marriage, after dinner Saturday evening, Mathew sought a moment alone with Barnaby. Finding his host thumbing through a book in the library, Mathew said stiffly, “Our visit has been eventful but after the calling of the banns tomorrow, Tom and I shall be returning to Monks Abbey. Naturally, we shall return for the wedding.”

  “Not Simon?” Barnaby asked with a lifted brow. Mathew grimaced. “Simon is enjoying this whole spectacle and he sees no reason to leave.”

  Barnaby laughed. “Now why am I not surprised?” Sobering, he added, “You know that all of you are always welcome at Windmere and that there is no reason for you to leave if you don’t want to.”

  Mathew studied Barnaby’s face for a long moment, searching for signs of insincerity. Finding none, he said coolly, “You are a much better man than I. If our positions were reversed, I’d be wishing you to the devil.”

  “As I did you at first,” Barnaby admitted, smiling, “but I’ve mellowed.”

  “Perhaps in a decade or two,” Mathew said, “I’ll be able to say the same.”

  Barnaby laughed. “Let us hope that it is sooner.”

  A glimmer of a smile in the azure eyes, Mathew murmured, “I wouldn’t hold my breath.”

  Barnaby was thoughtful after Mathew left the room. He hadn’t minded the visit from his Joslyn cousins, but he wouldn’t be sorry to see them leave either—especially Mathew and Thomas. Their thinly veiled animosity was wearying. Simon seemed not to mind that his older brother had lost the title and a fortune, but Barnaby wondered about that. Was Simon all that he appeared? He liked Simon, but Simon’s desire to stay behind raised a few questions in his mind. Was he remaining behind to keep an eye on him? Make another attempt on his life? Or simply to rile Mathew? Barnaby smiled. Probably the latter.

  Later that evening, while they were alone in his dressing room, Barnaby asked Lamb, “Have you heard that Mathew and Tom are leaving after the calling of the banns tomorrow? And that Simon is staying?”

  Lamb, in the act of hanging up Barnaby’s plum jacket in one of the massive mahogany wardrobes, glanced over his shoulder and answered, “Yes. There was talk in the kitchens earlier this evening about it.”

  Barnaby expected as much—the servants probably knew of Mathew and Tom’s plans before he did, he thought wryly. “Why do you think Simon is staying?” he asked, unraveling his cravat.

  “My money would be on annoying his brothers,” Lamb replied.

  “My thoughts precisely,” Barnaby said with a laugh. Laughter fading, he asked casually, “You don’t think Simon might be behind the attacks on me?”

  “Do you?” Lamb asked, frowning.

  “No. It seems rather far-fetched, but I am curious about his remaining behind. Seems to me that the three brothers tend to act in unison.”

  “You’re wrong there,” Lamb said. “Servant gossip has it that Simon is seldom at Monks Abbey and that he is not often in the company of either brother.” Lamb hesitated. “His valet, Leighton, is a likable young man,” he said
finally, “whose main fault is a fondness for the bottle and a loose tongue. According to him, the hostility between Thomas and Simon is very real—they can’t abide each other.”

  “So Simon could be staying to annoy Tom as much as Mathew,” Barnaby said.

  “That would be my guess.”

  Barnaby agreed and, shrugging out of his silk waistcoat, he handed the garment to Lamb. His day had been full, and while he would have preferred to think about Emily’s charms, Luc was never far from his mind. Undoing his shirt, he said carefully, “I’ve been thinking about Luc and what to do about him.”

  Lamb swung around to look at him, his gaze narrowed. “Now why do I have the impression that I am not going to like what you’re going to say?”

  There was no wrapping it in clean linen and Barnaby said baldly, “I have to go after him. When Jeb returns I’m going to speak with him about taking me to France.”

  His jaw clenched, Lamb growled, “Now that is the most asinine idea you have ever expressed. You do not have to rescue that young devil from a danger of his own making. Despite all the warnings and advice to the contrary he chose to go to France, and it is not up to you to save his neck.”

  “You’d abandon him?”

  “Not if I thought I could save him,” Lamb said tightly, “but we have no idea where he is in France or even if he is still alive. For all you know, he’s already lost that handsome head of his to the guillotine.”

  Barnaby winced. “Thank you,” he muttered. “I’ll try to sleep after you’ve put such a delightful picture in my mind.”

  “I would remind you that you have other responsibilities,” Lamb said, “other people dependent upon you—such as everyone on this estate. Would you desert them?” At the stubborn expression on Barnaby’s face, he demanded, “What of Miss Townsend? What are you going to do? Marry her one day and sail for France the next, not knowing when or if you’ll return?”