by Carola Dunn
Virginia Webster was sitting beside the squire, listening with a smile, laughing at something he said. Justin found it all too easy to see why he had been tempted. He suspected the witch was biding her time, waiting for his father’s first joy at his son’s return to subside before reporting that disgraceful incident.
More callers arrived that afternoon, as word of Lord Amis’s arrival spread throughout the neighbourhood. They came to welcome him home, to hear his traveller’s tales, but also to see the Websters, as he could not help but notice. There was talk of picnics, outings, fetes, dancing assemblies, and dinner parties. Lady Wooburn and her eldest daughters had thoroughly insinuated themselves into local society.
Justin fumed silently, but found it impossible to protest. He had known most of these people all his life. They had stayed away from Wooburn for years in deference to the earl’s desire for solitude. Now he was once again receiving, his son could not tell them to stay away because he had married a woman unworthy of their friendship. Besides, the earl was manifestly enjoying the company.
He even invited several visitors to stay and take pot luck. Justin had no chance for private conversation with him.
In consideration of their guests, the family did not change for dinner, so Justin did not go up to his chamber until the last had left. Weary from a day spent suppressing his emotions, he donned his nightshirt. As Tebbutt gathered up discarded clothes for brushing, pressing, or laundering, Justin went through to his bedchamber and climbed into bed.
“Yeeouch!” He popped out of bed again like a rabbit from a hole unexpectedly inhabited by a weasel. Hopping around the room, first on one foot, then the other, he vigorously rubbed the one he wasn’t hopping on.
Tebbutt rushed in and stared. “My lord! What is it?”
“I’ve been bitten,” Justin howled. “Strip the bed.” He subsided into a chair, the better to rub both feet at once. They were both breaking out into a reddish rash that stung and itched furiously.
Pulling back top sheet and blankets, Tebbutt revealed a mass of greenery at the bottom of the bed. “Stinging nettles, my lord!”
“Those devilish twins,” said his master bitterly. “The only remedy I know is dock leaves. I don’t suppose you have any to hand?”
“No, my lord.” Tebbutt blenched but he nobly offered, “I could take a lantern and look for some.”
Justin wondered whether the beastly brats were lurking nearby, waiting to see the results of their mischief. How they would crow if he sent his valet out into the night searching for dock. He shook his head. “No, I dare say the inflammation will wear off before you could find any.”
“Perhaps some sort of soothing lotion, my lord?”
“You have no more idea what to look for in the still room than I do, and I don’t wish to rouse Mrs. Peaskot for such a trivial ailment. Lord, but it burns! I don’t suppose you have a key to my apartments?”
“No, my lord. I expect it was lost years since, never being needed, but I’ll ask Mrs. Peaskot come morning. Shall I set a footman to guard the doors, my lord, when I can’t be here?”
“And have the whole damned household laughing at me? I fear once more the best we can do is to ignore the business. Those abominable children want to see me fly into the boughs and they will soon tire of their tricks if I don’t. Let them think we discovered the nettles before I got into bed.”
Looking dubious, Tebbutt gathered up the nettles in the bottom sheet and shook it out of the window. He remade the bed and Justin climbed back in. Already the stinging sensation in his feet was fading.
Despite the continued itching, he was tired enough to soon fall asleep.
When he woke in the morning, the grey light suggested that the spell of fine weather had come to an end. Ringing for Tebbutt, he lay back and wondered what to do about the invasion of his home.
The more he considered, the more impossible it seemed to oust the intruders. His vague hope of having the marriage annulled was an air dream. Should he succeed it would cause a scandal far more devastating than the marriage. Worse, he was afraid his father had no desire to rid himself of the Websters. He had been shocked the previous day to see the doting glances the earl bestowed upon his bride.
She had thoroughly cozened him.
In disgust, he threw back the covers and crossed to the window. A light but steady drizzle was falling. He went through to the dressing-room as Tebbutt came in with a hot-water can in one hand and several freshly starched cravats over the other arm. Setting down the can on the marble washstand, he carefully draped the neckcloths over the back of a chair, then poured the water into the china basin.
He frowned. Testing the water with one finger, he exclaimed in puzzlement, “Stone cold! I swear the kettle was boiling, my lord, when I filled the can in the kitchen.”
Justin closed his eyes and counted to ten. “Did you put it down on the way up?” he asked.
“For a moment, only a few seconds, while I picked up your lordship’s neckcloths.”
“Long enough, evidently, for someone to switch cans.”
“I did turn my back,” the valet admitted. “The twins again, my lord?”
“Possibly, but I suspect a different hand this time.”
“Yes, it’s not a small-boy sort of lark. More like one of the older lads.” He paused, aghast, as the implications of his words sank in. “My lord, you mean all them Websters is liable to start playing tricks on us?”
About to confirm the horrid possibility, Justin recalled the impropriety of discussing the matter with his servant. However ill-bred, the Websters were now his father’s family. The pranks of nine-year-olds were understandable if annoying; the involvement of their older siblings was far more unacceptable.
“No, it must have been the twins,” he said with what conviction he could muster.
Tebbutt fetched more water. Justin washed and shaved, and started dressing while the valet gingerly checked his boots for nasty surprises.
Justin pulled his shirt over his head, thrusting his arms into the sleeves. Both head and hands met invisible obstructions and failed to emerge. The white linen constricted itself around his face. “Ughffth,” he snorted, struggling to extricate himself from the uncooperative garment.
“Don’t move, my lord,” begged Tebbutt, suddenly realizing his plight. “You will split a seam. There, now raise your arms if you please.”
“Dammit, is that a new shirt?” Justin exploded. “We’ll not go to that shirt-maker again.”
“You have worn this one before, my lord,” Tebbutt assured him, examining it carefully. “Look, the neckband and wristbands have been sewn together, and very neatly, too.”
“Neatly?” Justin peered at the rows of tiny, straight stitches in dismay. No small boy’s hand had set those stitches.
“It will take me a while to unpick without damaging the shirt, my lord.”
“Devil take it, they cannot have sewn up every shirt I possess! Find me one I can wear. I’ll be damned if I’ll let the wretches discommode me or see me out of temper.”
He bitterly regretted having lost his temper when first he met Miss Webster. Normally he prided himself on his composure, but the humiliation of his fall from Prince Rurik had shattered his self-control. If he had not shown his hand, he might have foiled the Websters without exposing himself to their malice.
With extreme caution he finished dressing, then went down to the breakfast room. Again it was empty. The sideboard held nothing but cold meat, bread, butter, and a bowl of cherries. All showed signs of having already been attacked by healthy appetites. Justin rang the bell.
One of the tan-liveried footmen appeared. “Coffee or tea, my lord?”
“Coffee. Why have all the hot dishes been removed, John?”
“Hot dishes, my lord? Miss Webster don’t order none for breakfast, being as how his lordship—the earl, that is—and her ladyship breakfasts above-stairs. The young ladies only has bread and butter and tea, and a bit o’ fruit they likes, too, and
Master Gilbert and Master Colin makes do with cold—”
“Thank you, I do not require a detailed list of everyone’s diet,” said Justin. “I shall not go so far as to demand kedgeree or kidneys or kippers, but I suppose it would not be too much trouble to bring me eggs, fried ham and toast?”
“’Course not, my lord, and there’s a nice bit o’ beefsteak if you fancies it. Cook and Mrs. Peaskot didn’t mean no harm, my lord,” the chatty young man continued, “only Miss Webster said as your lordship don’t care for rich foods, being as you didn’t barely touch your dinner the day you come home. Likely ruined your innards in foreign parts, us reckoned in the servants’ hall. They do say—”
“Enough! Nothing whatever is wrong with my digestion. Bring me coffee and the beefsteak.”
Taking a handful of cherries, he sat down and gloomily consumed them. He could scarce take exception to Virginia Webster’s orders when he had indeed scorned his first meal after his return to his ancestral home. Nonetheless, he’d have wagered a small fortune that concern for his digestion had not been her motive.
* * * *
Ginnie was in the morning-room, going over the household accounts with Mrs. Peaskot, when Lord Amis came in.
Lydia was by the window, making the best of the grey light of the rainy morning for her sewing. She actually smiled at him. Whatever she had plotted against him with Gilbert yesterday, Lydia was quite incapable of holding a grudge. However, catching Ginnie’s minatory glance, she quickly concentrated on her needle once more.
Priscilla and Nathaniel, drawing pictures with coloured chalks at a small table, reacted more satisfactorily. They both stopped drawing and stared at the viscount as if he were a veritable ogre out of a fairy tale.
The housekeeper curtsied to him. “I’ll come back later, shall I, miss?” she offered.
“No, don’t go.” Ginnie gave Lord Amis her coldest look. “I am sure his lordship will not stay long.”
“I am trying to find my father,” he said irritably. “He is not in the library. Do you know where he is?”
“Steppapa and Mama rarely come down before noon.” To her intense annoyance, Ginnie felt a hot flush rising in her cheeks. Mama had never used to be so indolent, and one could not help wondering what she and the earl found to keep them occupied in their bedchamber all morning. Of course, they were much too old for the occupation that inevitably came to mind, yet it was impossible to ignore, throughout the day, the touches, and little caresses, and furtive kisses on the cheek.
That the same notion now dawned on Lord Amis was evidenced by his stunned expression. A touch of colour stained his cheeks, too, Ginnie was glad to see.
To avoid meeting his eye, she turned back to Mrs. Peaskot, only to find the housekeeper looking from one to the other with ill-concealed amusement. Ginnie ventured a glance at Lord Amis. Stiff with embarrassment, or outrage, he seemed to be avoiding her eye.
His gaze fell on Lydia and his mouth tightened. What on earth had she and Gilbert done that he recognized as her work? Ginnie wondered. Gilbert had a fertile imagination, though Lydia had none.
Ginnie was glad to be ignorant of their schemes when the viscount’s attention returned to her. She faced his scrutiny with what she trusted was limpid innocence mixed with defiance—not that she cared if he did consider her responsible.
If only his crisp, light brown hair did not rouse a longing to run her fingers through it! If only she did not recall all too clearly his strong arms crushing her against his hardness, his mouth on hers, the touch of his tongue, sensitive, urgent, melting her resistance.
Unconsciously she moistened her lips. “So, you see, you will have to wait,” she said abruptly.
He started. “Wait? Oh, to talk to my father. Yes, I see.” His voice was slightly husky. He cleared his throat. “You are enquiring into Mrs. Peaskot’s accounts, Miss Webster?”
“Mama and figures are constantly at loggerheads, sir.” A fervent wish to explain to him took her by surprise. Even Gilbert did not really understand the agony she had gone through sorting out Papa’s tangled finances after his death. And then had come the endless struggle to make each penny stretch further than any penny was meant to reach. Now every review of the housekeeper’s neatly balanced books was a delight to her.
But Lord Amis would not sympathize if she told him. He probably thought she was searching for new ways to waste the earl’s ready, or even to skim off a profit for herself.
As if reading her mind, Mrs. Peaskot said, “It’s a comfort, my lord, to any honest housekeeper to have the lady of the house verify her accounts. Her late ladyship, God bless her soul, never let a week pass without doing so.”
So put that in your pipe and smoke it, you suspicious bully,thought Ginnie smugly.
Looking disconcerted, he nodded. “I shall leave you to it, then,” he said, and departed.
* * *
Chapter 6
When at last Justin did find his father in the library, the earl was sitting beside Gilbert, earnestly explaining some knotty point of Greek grammar. He glanced up at his son with an affectionate but absent smile.
“I’d like a word with you, sir.”
“Yes, yes, my dear boy, but not just now. We arc tackling a particularly difficult bit of Herodotus, I don’t suppose you would be interested. Justin never was bookish,” he confided to Gilbert.
“Indeed, sir,” said the lad, his voice noncommittal, his eyes mocking.
“More of a sportsman—hunting, fishing, that kind of thing. Not that I didn’t enjoy a good hunt in my time. I believe young Colin took out a gun after rabbits, Justin,” the earl added vaguely.
“In this weather?”
White head and dark turned to the window in surprise. “It is raining! Ah yes, I remember, that is why I didn’t take Emma for a drive this afternoon,”
His fond tone goaded Justin into indiscretion. “I am astonished, sir, to find you so much out and about, even paying morning calls.”
The earl beamed. “At first my goal was simply to make Emma comfortable by acquainting her with the neighbours, but I found myself renewing old friendships I had foolishly allowed to lapse. I have taken on a new lease of life, my boy. I feel ten years younger— no, twenty years!”
Though Gilbert’s triumphant look made Justin fume, he was forced to say, “I am glad to hear it, sir. I trust you will not allow your exertions to tire you.”
“Far from it.” The old man’s eyes twinkled behind his spectacles and a slight pinkness tinged his thin face.
Justin’s own face burned. That wasn’t what he had meant! So those long mornings closeted in the bedchamber really were...
Miss Virginia Webster had obviously conceived the same notion, judging by her blush when she told him his father’s whereabouts. Among her other faults, the chit had a thoroughly indelicate mind.
The whole family was impossible! Abandoning his father to Gilbert and Herodotus, Justin went for a long ride in the rain.
As he rode, the light drizzle gradually became a downpour. By the time he returned to Wooburn, he was soaked and chilled through. He hurried up to his chamber, rang for Tebbutt, and started stripping off his wet clothes.
“A hot bath,” he ordered when the valet appeared, “and though it may be July, this weather calls for a fire.”
Donning his dressing-gown, he paced his chamber, shivering, while he waited. Sounds of a bath being filled—the clank of buckets and swoosh of pouring water—soon came from his dressing-room. Then Tebbutt reappeared, red-faced and indignant.
“My lord, when I ordered a fire, I was told that Miss Webster has instructed that fires are to be lit only in his lordship’s rooms at this season.”
“What! You mean the servants obey her orders rather than mine?”
“Oh no, my lord. I put a flea in John’s ear, you may be sure, and he’ll be up to build a fire in the dressing room any moment, and in here, too, to take off the chill. A wood fire, being it’s quicker than coal, but it’ll be a few minutes
afore it gives out enough heat to warm your lordship’s towels.”
“Just so as the bath water is hot!”
“That it is, my lord.” A sudden doubt crossed Tebbutt’s face. “But I’d best go and make sure.” He hurried out.
Justin followed him. Steam rose from the copper tub, and the young footman was on his knees at the grate. Justin went to stand by the fireplace as crackling flames arose. John lugged his sack of wood through to the bedroom and Tebbutt closed the door to keep out draughts. He tested the water, stirred it as another footman slowly added a stream of cold, and pronounced himself satisfied.
The footman departed. Justin flung off his dressing-gown and stepped into the bath. He leaned back as the blessed heat seeped into him.
A positive paroxysm of coughs came from the bedchamber. Tebbutt went to the connecting door. As he opened it a cloud of smoke swirled through. Joining in the coughing, he slammed it shut again.
“Chimney needs sweeping,” he said gloomily.
“If that’s all it is.” At present, Justin was unwilling to believe any misfortune accidental. “You had better go round to the other door and make sure that boy is all right.”
Tebbutt opened the door to the passage just as the footman arrived there, gasping and spluttering, his face smudged with soot, his eyes red and teary.
“There’s summat blocking the chimbley,” he wheezed.
“So we guessed,” said Justin drily, slipping beneath the water as a cold draught hit him. “Shut the door, man. When was the chimney last swept?”
“I disremember, my lord, but Miss Webster had a fire lit to air the room afore your lordship come home, and it drawed perfect then. I done it meself.”
“I knew it,” Justin said with a groan.
“I put out the fire, my lord, and opened the window.”
“Thank you, John, that will do. Go and wash your face.” As the door closed once more behind the footman, he sat up. “We’ll investigate for ourselves, Tebbutt. Where’s my towel?”
