by Carola Dunn
The odious wretch deserved everything the twins could devise to torment him.
* * *
Chapter 4
Justin woke with a muzzy head and a vague feeling of uneasiness. As he lay contemplating the plaster cherubs disporting themselves with garlands on his ceiling, the events of the previous day flooded his mind.
He turned over and buried his head in the pillows, trying to hide from the memories. Lady Amabel’s voice, lightly amused, telling him his father had married a slut. His father wiping away tears. His mortifying fall before Miss Webster and still more mortifying mistake in taking her for her mother. The appalling stupidity—and the seductive allurement—of that kiss.
After her first, startled reaction, she had not protested. Because she knew her brother and sister were on their way to rescue her, or because she was as depraved as her mother?
His loins stirred as he relived the moment when he had crushed her to him, her small, firm breasts against his chest, the scent of her, her mocking eyes...
How was he ever to face her with equanimity?
A brisk gallop was what he needed. He flung back the covers, rang the bell, and strode to the window to open the curtains. The early sun painted long tree-shadows across the dewy grass of the park. Breathing deep of the cool, refreshing air, he felt his head clearing. A gallop before breakfast, and then off to tackle the rapacious countess.
He went through to his dressing-room as Tebbutt arrived with hot water. Laying out his riding clothes, the valet observed, “Wouldn’t know it was the same place, would you, my lord? Everything done up so nice as it is.”
“At vast expense,” Justin grunted, picking up his razor.
“I s’pose it would cost a fair penny,” the man conceded, “hiring extra women from the village, and even a couple of new housemaids to help keep it in order. Still and all, it’s no more than what his lordship can afford, and everything looks near as good as new.”
“Near as good as new?” said his master in a strangled voice, reaching for a towel to stanch the bleeding from the nick on his chin.
“Why yes, my lord. I don’t s’pose you noticed the curtain, where that pup chewed it to a shred? Mended so neat you’d never know it was tore, and they washed up nicer than I’d’ve expected seeing they’ve been hanging since your lordship moved down from the nursery. It’s cold water you want on that cut, my lord, or it’ll never stop bleeding. There we go. Now a spot of court plaster you can take off in a minute or two.”
“Finish shaving me, will you,” Justin ordered, catching sight of his unsteady hand. The whole house repaired, restored, refreshed, and he had thought it newly furnished? It seemed his father retained a modicum of control over major expenditures, at least.
He put on his drawers and hose, shirt, braces, and buckskin breeches, and tied his neckcloth in a simple knot. Snuff brown waistcoat and dark green riding coat went on next. He sat down on the stool and Tebbutt donned knit cotton gloves to help him into his top-boots, polished to a refulgent gloss since yesterday’s ride from Town.
Turning the comer of the heel, his toes met an obstacle, a prickly obstacle.
“Ouch!” he shouted as Tebbutt continued trying to force the boot onto his foot. “Stop! Devil take it, there’s something in there.”
The valet’s mouth dropped open. “In your boot, my lord?”
“Yes, damn it, in my boot. Take it off.”
The obstacle followed his toes, dragging on his stocking so that it dangled from his foot by the time the boot came off. A mass of burrs was inextricably hooked into the knitted hose.
“What the devil!” Justin roared.
Tebbutt incautiously reached for the tangled jumble, pulling the stocking off Justin’s foot. His glove adhered. Involuntarily, his other hand went to the rescue, and the second glove joined the collection. While he struggled to remove his hands from the gloves, Justin picked up the other boot, turned it upside down, and shook it. A cascade of burrs landed on the carpet.
Doubtless every single one promptly hooked into the pile.
Justin had to extricate his valet from the gloves. He tossed the whole conglomeration onto the dressing-table. It landed on a towel. Tebbutt moaned.
In seething silence, Justin unfastened his braces, removed his tight-legged nether garments, put on the fresh pair of stockings Tebbutt handed him, and re-donned his buckskins. In seething silence, Tebbutt found another pair of gloves, fetched another pair of boots, inspected their interiors, and helped his master put them on.
“My lord—”
“Not a word. I believe I know who did this.” Two identical small, freckled faces, guffawing at his tumble from the saddle, rose before his inner eye. “We shall not give them the satisfaction of reacting to their prank.”
Tebbutt looked at the carpet, looked at the towel, and nodded dolefully. “No, my lord.”
Justin went out and galloped Prince Rurik long and hard across the fields and through the ancient pollarded forest of Burnham Beeches. All his pleasure in his return to the countryside he loved had been destroyed.
By the time he returned to the house, the breakfast room was empty, of people and of food. A footman brought him cold ham, bread, and ale, and informed him that the earl was closeted with his steward.
“And Lady Wooburn?” Justin asked.
“I think her ladyship’s in the morning-room, my lord.”
Deciding he’d prefer to meet the countess without his father’s restraining presence, he made a quick breakfast and went to the morning room. The small, east-facing parlour was flooded with sunshine. By the window sat a small woman in a lace cap and straw-coloured gown. Beside her stood an open workbox, and concentrating on her sewing, she did not at first notice Justin’s arrival.
He stood in the doorway studying her. She was in her late thirties, he judged, perhaps forty, a good twenty years younger than the earl. Fair and on the plump side, she might have been described as a cosy armful, a far cry from the dasher he had pictured. He wondered why he had expected his retiring father to have been attracted to a painted Cyprian. Nothing could be less likely, and this woman had been clever enough to realize it, hiding her true nature behind a mask of quiet domesticity.
For a moment his certainty wavered, then he recalled his father’s emotional greeting. Now that she was safely wed, her debts paid, her children’s future assured, the creature’s behaviour in private was undoubtedly quite different from this meek pose. He was not about to let himself be deceived as the earl had been deceived.
He stepped forward and said in a harsh voice, “Lady Wooburn?”
She looked up in surprise. “You must be Lord Amis,” she said, with a sweet smile that was surely false after his skirmishes with her daughter yesterday. “How very glad I am that you have come home. Dear Bertie has missed you quite dreadfully.”
Bertie! Never had he heard the earl referred to with such vulgar intimacy.
“My father cannot regret my absence more than I do,” he snapped. “Had I been in England, he’d not have lacked the resolution to send you and your progeny to the rightabout.”
Her unlined brow wrinkled in apparent puzzlement. “Progeny? I am not quite certain... Oh, do you mean prodigy? To be sure, Gilbert is amazing clever, is he not? Especially as he has had so little help with his studies since he had to leave school. But he is sixteen, you know, too old to be called a prodigy.”
While her ignorance might well be genuine, her pretence of misunderstanding infuriated him. “I am speaking of all your offspring, madam.” Particularly those brats who had filled his boots with burrs. “They shall none of them profit by your wiles. You may have imposed upon my father to marry you, but your imposition shall go no further. You cannot hope to rule the roast now that I am here, you harpy!”
“Harpy?” Her voice wavered, her mouth trembled, her eyes filled with tears.
“You are a consummate actress, madam. I have no more to say to you.” He strode from the room, filled with righteous wrath.
He was no gullible simpleton. Had she really expected to take him in with such a feeble stratagem as tears?
* * * *
In one of the back sculleries, Ginnie sang as she arranged sweet peas, larkspur, phlox, and marguerite daisies in an assortment of vases. On such a beautiful morning, she could not hold resentment in her heart.
Lord Amis must have been more shaken by his fall than she had guessed, which was quite enough to account for his churlishness. She ought not to have reacted so violently. Today he’d meet Mama and realize his error and all would be well. It was a pity to be at outs with so attractive a gentleman.
“Pris, is there a nice bit of maidenhair fern left? Yes, that will do very well, thank you. Come, let us take the best of the sweet peas to the morning-room. Mama spends a great deal of time there when she cannot be with Steppapa, and she loves their fragrance so.”
“Let me carry some?” Priscilla begged.
“Me, too,” said Nathaniel.
Ginnie gave Priscilla the smaller of the two vases for the morning-room and persuaded Nathaniel that carrying the small, half-full, unbreakable tin watering-can was a man’s task. “We must fill up the vases to the brim after we put them down,” she explained.
“Flowers like lots of water,” be said importantly.
“So mind you don’t spill any on the way,” Priscilla commanded.
The little procession marched slowly to the morning-room. A passing footman opened the door. Ginnie thanked him with a smile and went in.
She stopped in horror. By the window her mother sat with tears streaming down her woebegone face, her sewing forgotten on her lap.
“Mama!’’ She deposited the vase on the nearest table and ran across the room to take her mother in her arms. “Dearest Mama, what is it?”
“He called me an actress, Ginnie, and indeed I am not. I have been to the play a few times but never, ever, have I set foot on a stage.”
“Of course you have not. You are speaking of Lord Amis? That gentleman jumps to a great many unwarranted conclusions!” Her smouldering ire reignited but she went on soothingly, “I dare say he meant nothing by it. Mama. A great many actresses are perfectly respectable. Think of...” She racked her brain. “Think of Mrs. Siddons.”
“Oh yes!” The flow of tears ceased. “I saw Sarah Siddons once, in one of Shakespeare’s plays, and though I did not understand a great deal of it, she appeared prodigious noble. If that is what Lord Amis meant, I do not mind.”
“I am sure that is what he meant.” Ginnie caught sight of the children’s dismayed faces—and the water streaming onto the floor from vase and can. Hurriedly she went to the rescue. “It’s all right, my loves. Thank you for your help. Will you go up to the schoolroom now and tell Gilbert I shall come and give you your lessons in a few minutes?’’
Nodding solemnly, they departed, and she returned to her mother.
“I cannot imagine what I should do without you, Ginnie. You are such a comfort to me. Only I do think Lord Amis ought to mind his tongue, for no lady likes to be called an actress. And why did he call me a consumptive actress when I am perfectly healthy? Indeed, I have never felt better than since I married dear Bertie, for he is so very kind and there are none of those horrid bills to worry about.”
Though it was Ginnie who had done most of the worrying about the horrid bills, she let this pass. “He called you consumptive?” she asked incredulously, regarding Lady Wooburn’s round, pink-cheeked face.
“Yes, and he said I was a harpy, though how he knew I used to play the harp when I was a girl I cannot guess. I was never very good at it, alas.”
Ginnie had never thought to thank heaven for her mama’s tenuous grasp of the English language. Considering how little she had understood of Lord Amis’s tirade, it must have been chiefly his tone of voice that upset her—and that seemed to have faded from her mind already.
“I’m sure it was all a misunderstanding, Mama,” she said. “I wish you will not regard it.”
“I shall not,” her mother said earnestly, “for I am determined to love my darling Bertie’s son.”
That was going altogether too far, Ginnie thought, but she nodded agreement. She saw the countess settled contently at her sewing again and rang for a footman to mop up the spilled water. Then she sped up to the schoolroom.
Gilbert had given up trying to teach the twins, always a thankless task, when Priscilla and Nathaniel arrived. The commotion had brought Lydia through from the day nursery, where she was pinning pieces of a shirt together at the table.
“Ginnie, they tell me Lord Amis made Mama cry?” Gilbert said, disbelieving.
“He did,” Priscilla insisted.
“I saw Mama crying,” Nathaniel said, his own blue eyes filling with tears. Lydia hugged him.
“He was utterly obnoxious to her,” Ginnie declared. “He is a monster. The battle is on.”
The twins exchanged one of their inscrutable glances. “We already started the battle,” said Jack.
“Burrs in his boots,” said Jimmy with deep satisfaction.
Ginnie tried to hide a grin. “Don’t tell me,” she said. “He is bound to complain to me sooner or later. Just remember not to do anything that will cause any injury. If you are not sure, ask Gilbert or Colin.”
“I wish I could think of something,” said Lydia wistfully.
“I have some good notions for you,” Gilbert told her. “We shall need the twins’ help. Come on, we’ll talk about it in the other room.”
Judith came in, late as always, for her lessons, and had to be told the story. With quiet indignation, she vowed to join the conspiracy. “I have an idea,” she muttered, “but Colin will have to help.”
As Ginnie set Priscilla and Nathaniel to their reading and writing, she pondered the situation. She had best not indulge in any tricks herself, she decided, since Lord Amis would probably hold her accountable for everyone else’s. At most she would reinforce her orders to the servants, but she must be careful not to make them choose sides. They obeyed her willingly, and she believed they liked and respected her, yet all but the most recently hired must feel some loyalty to Lord Amis. On the other hand, she was certain that one and all adored their new mistress.
No one—except Lord Amis—ever made her gentle, amiable mother’s acquaintance without growing fond of her. How dared he overset her!
He’d soon learn to regret it, she vowed.
* * *
Chapter 5
Justin changed from riding clothes into morning dress and went in search of his father. He tried the steward’s room first. It was empty. Through the window he saw Mills, who managed the estate, walking towards the stables deep in conversation with a tall, sturdy youth. The boy’s corn gold hair suggested that he was yet another Webster, one Justin had not yet met. What the devil was he up to?
Mills was an old and trusted employee and an authoritative man. He’d not let the Websters encroach on the business of running the estate as they had in the house.
Justin wanted to talk to him about learning that business, but he would not demean himself by calling or running after them. He turned from the window and made his way to the library, his father’s favourite haunt.
Gilbert looked up from his books with undisguised hostility. He was a slight, studious lad—his mother had called him “amazing clever,” Justin recalled. He probably expected to be provided with a tutor, and later to be supported at a university, if his love of learning was genuine. More likely it was a pose adopted to please Lord Wooburn, a devoted reader of the classics.
Where was Lord Wooburn? Surely his wife had not dragged him out on yet another round of visits!
Justin finally ran his father to earth in the drawing room. Today the visitors had come to Wooburn. They seemed perfectly at home, the long years when their host had shunned company forgotten. The earl was listening with an amused air to Squire Mason, a bluff, hearty gentleman who regarded the world as a source of funny stories. Justin remembered that before his m
other died, his father used to enjoy Mason’s company. At least some good had come out of the harpy’s insistence on being presented to the neighbours.
And some of the neighbours appeared to have accepted her as worthy of their acquaintance. Mrs. Mason and the vicar’s wife were sitting with her, chattering about whatever women chatter about.
On one of the window-seats, the second Webster daughter sat with one of the Mason girls, a pretty chit whose dark hair set off Lydia’s golden beauty to great advantage. Young Mason, the squire’s heir, had pulled up a chair and was gazing at her like the veriest mooncalf. So she already had a beau. Justin doubted that a mere country gentleman would satisfy her. As stepdaughter of an earl, she and her sisters must believe themselves entitled to London Seasons with all the trimmings.
They would be disappointed, Justin vowed, as would young Gilbert.
Mrs. Mason had noticed him standing in the doorway. He went to make his bows. His father and the squire joined the group and he was interrogated about Russia. Even as he spoke, he kept an eye on Lady Wooburn. She gave no sign of their earlier altercation, but behaved with a modest propriety that was altogether too good to be true. How right he had been to call her a consummate actress!
The visitors stayed for a cold collation, at which Gilbert and Virginia Webster joined them. They, too, acted in the presence of guests as if no quarrel had taken place. They treated Justin as a distant acquaintance, with politeness but without any pretence of warmth.
Justin was glad of the company to ease his first meeting with Miss Webster since he had kissed her. The general conversation distracted him from his disturbing memories and convinced him that he’d very soon be able to ignore her attractions. She was his adversary, after all. He was not the sort of man to enjoy forcing unwanted attentions on a woman he despised.
All the same, he had best avoid being alone with her, he decided. She had already once enticed him into behaving against his principles. He was the more sure it was her fault because her sister had twice the good looks, yet he had absolutely no desire to kiss the younger girl.
