He liked her, he really did. He had stationed footmen around her house at night to guard against another intruder, and he’d made sure that Lady Tarnover’s stepbrother did not stay around to cut up her peace of mind. The man had to return to London, pressing government business, don’t you know. Melody had it from Harry, who heard it from one of the stable lads, that it was more like a rock-hard fist pressing up alongside his chin that sent the man scurrying. Of course, Corey could have been acting for the children’s welfare in those instances, but he had given Felice a biting setdown on the ride home from Squire’s, saying he would rather see the infants at his lawn party than a malicious shrew set on embarrassing his friends. Felice fled in tears, and Melody was still cherishing his words. Friends. She fell asleep with a smile on her face.
*
The next days were too busy to get into flutters over the match, anyway. Melody did not even have a chance to get Lady Wooster aside to ask for an explanation of that lady’s enigmatic remarks about an earlier marriage. “You’ll see,” was all Erica laughingly teased before she tripped off to hand out the formal cards of invitation. Lady Tarnover offered to do floral arrangements, and Lady Cheyne took over Baby’s care so the nursemaid could help Betsy and Mrs. Tolliver with the extra baking and cleaning. Additional staff was hired from the village, along with carpenters to erect an awning over the south lawn, in case of inclement weather. The gentlemen were hunting one day, fishing the next, to provide more delicacies for the tables and to get out from underfoot. Melody spent hours consulting with Antoine, and then she, the children, and Angie went berry picking, flower gathering, pig washing. Felice sulked, and Mama was prostrate from the exertion of checking the wine cellar.
*
The day of the picnic dawned on a perfect spring morning, crisp and clear and smelling of new-mown grass. The sky was as blue as Lord Coe’s eyes, and the bird songs were as joyful as Melody’s mood. She put on her prettiest gown, the white muslin with the violets embroidered on the bodice, so that no one could find fault with her dress. It might not be as suitable for target shooting as her father’s padded hunting jacket, but what a figure of fun she would look in that! No one laughed at Miss Ashton today. They all thought she looked exactly what she was: a beautiful young woman very much in love with the man who made her eyes sparkle with his compliments and her dimples appear with his teasing and her cheeks turn rosy when he took her hand in his to greet the arriving guests. As for Corey, he had given up on his determination to keep his distance. One glorious smile from Melody had melted all resolve.
“Come,” he told her, “for you are surely hostess here today. Not only is it your house, but I know I have you to thank for making it a delight for my company. I am disgustingly proud of you, Angel, and you haven’t even fired the rifle.”
No, but she was already reeling from the recoil.
Melody decided she was having the very best day of her life. The house was glowing, the lawns looked like a fantasy from Araby with cushions and rugs spread around, and the menu would have shamed a Carlton House dinner. Meantime, the children were as shiny and polished as the silverware and on their best behavior. Ducky sat on a cushion under the awning with Nanny knitting nearby, and everyone stopped to bring him a tidbit or a flower. Lady Cheyne sat with him and Baby and taught the little girls how to make daisy chains to wear in their hair. Harry presided over the refreshments table, and Pip was deep in conversation with the vicar and Mr. Hadley. Even Angie’s coat gleamed from a brushing, and the favorite pigs wandered around, ribbons in their tails and soon collars of flowers around their necks. No one mentioned the you-know-what roasting on a spit for supper after the shooting, when the twins would be back at Dower House.
Melody’s heart soared. When Corey served her himself from the food tables or brought her a cool lemonade or tucked her hand in the crook of his arm as they strolled among the happy, complimentary crowds, she felt as if she was two feet above the ground. What crowds? Melody only saw his smile.
*
When it was time for the tournament, some of the guests, especially the older women from the neighborhood, chose to stay behind on the comfortable cushions and lounges set out. Mama was napping. Felice and Rupert were off on a stroll, and Lady Erica Wooster was nowhere in sight. To no one’s surprise, Lord Pendleton loudly disdained to take part in such a rackety pastime. Melody did not call him a rasher of wind as she wanted to, for trying to ruin her lovely day, or accuse the pedantic popinjay of defecting rather than be proved a failure at what he himself considered a manly art; she merely directed him toward another path through the woods, where she was sure the scenery could not help but please.
The rest of the company followed Melody and Lord Coe along the path to the clearing, where chairs had been arranged a safe distance from the targets and tables had been set out with chilled wines and lemonade. Corey took charge, directing the contestants into groups and distances, ladies going first. There were three women beside Melody on the distaff side: Squire Watson’s eldest daughter who giggled nervously, the Marchioness of Cheyne, and Lady Tarnover. The local lass was a passable shot, hitting the target with her four attempts, but the two London ladies were poor marksmen at best, leading Melody to think they were taking part merely to keep her from being singled out. She smiled her appreciation for their thoughtfulness as she stood to the firing line.
Melody’s first shot was wide, catching the target on the outer circle. She could hear wagers being called, Lord Coe being teased for his boasts. She settled her mind to the task at hand and hit the center blue circle with her next three tries.
Laughing, Corey took the rifle from her. “Sweetheart, it’s obvious you’ll never be a gambler. You’re supposed to lose the first round to make the odds go higher.”
“But the ladies shoot at close range,” Squire put in. “I’ll still take her on.”
Two of the local youths stepped forward and the rest of the houseguests. Major Frye winked at Melody when he took his turn, getting two of his balls into the blue. Lord Cheyne had the best round, and only one of the local boys managed to hit the target all four tries. The other retreated to good-natured hoots and whistles and Miss Watson’s ministrations.
Lord Coe refused to take a turn, declaring himself impartial judge. Everyone laughed, and Melody felt her face grow warm. For the next round the target was moved back, and Lord Cheyne was declared winner among the men. Then the marquise and Melody took turns alternating their shots, both scoring four bull’s-eyes. Wagering grew more enthusiastic.
“Much more distance would be unfair to Miss Ashton, with her lighter rifle,” Corey declared, “so I propose a change in the procedure to moving targets. What say you, Cheyne?”
His lordship was game, so they called intermission while Pip practiced throwing wafers in the air, and the men cheerfully argued over Melody’s advantage with the lighter weapon versus the male’s natural hunting instincts and years of practice, to say nothing about wars and such.
Before they could resume the match, Lord Pendleton came blundering into the clearing, all red faced and out of breath, his hair in disorder for the first time in anyone’s memory, his clothing looking dampish.
“This is the most ramshackle household it has ever been my misfortune to visit, my lord,” he informed his host and anyone standing nearby. “I shall inform my man to commence packing immediately. You’ll understand, of course, this is not what I am accustomed to, nor what I was led to believe. In fact, I feel you were entirely unprincipled in your invitation, and I shall therefore be forced to sever our acquaintance. Good day, my lord.” He stomped off.
Corey shook his head. “I wonder what bee that fool got in his bonnet now?”
“I, ah, think I can guess, my lord.” Melody hesitated, not sure of Corey’s reaction. Pendleton was a guest, after all. Corey’s raised eyebrow bid her continue. “Judging from the path his lordship took, I believe he may have come upon the twins, who begged to be allowed a visit to the pond on such a lovely d
ay. The water is quite shallow and sun-warmed, you know.”
“Yes, Miss Ashton? You interest me.”
“One can only assume from his lordship’s, ah, distress that he did indeed encounter the twins, who were most likely swimming. They swim the same way they do everything, boisterously and with great enthusiasm.”
“And au naturel if I don’t miss my guess!” Corey laughed out loud. “What a sight it must have been. I hope those bare-bottomed little urchins soaked some of the starch out of his stuffed shirt, but I doubt it.”
“Then you aren’t sorry to see him go?”
“Heavens, no. I am only sorry you had to be insulted by the prig.”
Melody smiled. “Don’t be. I told him which path to take.” Corey smiled back, raised her hand to his mouth, and tenderly kissed her fingers.
Major Frye coughed and called for the match to resume. Melody’s fingers tingled, and she missed the first wafer. Cheyne missed, with no such excuse. Squire and Lord Tarnover were busy making side bets, and Corey stated that he would cover any and all.
“Come on, Angel,” he encouraged, and she never missed another.
After three or four of Melody’s dead hits, Lord Cheyne cheerfully conceded, but Corey asked Melody to continue, just to show the company he had not been idly bragging of her skill. Harry loaded, Pip threw, and Melody hit anything at which Corey pointed. Then he was declaring her the winner and ordering champagne to be poured and placing a thin gold victory circlet on her curls. If anyone was thinking of other gold bands, they were too well-bred to speak their thoughts aloud.
Squire Watson wanted to know what Coe would have done if one of the men had been triumphant.
“I’ve seen most of you gentlemen shoot, remember, so I was not worried. However, if the little lady was having an off day or something equally as unlikely, for instance the sky falling in, why then I would have challenged the winner myself. Have to keep the house honor, don’t you know.”
Everyone was laughing and calling for a match between Corey and Melody, and she was looking at him speculatively. She had never seen his lordship shoot at all.
Melody was never to have her curiosity satisfied, because just then Corey let out an oath. The stem of the wineglass snapped in his fingers, and champagne spilled on the lace cuffs of his shirtsleeves. His face lost all color, as if he had just seen a ghost.
He had.
The whole assembly turned to follow his gaze, where Lady Erica was slowly walking up the path with an officer in scarlet regimentals at her side. He was seen to be limping, and his arm was across her shoulders. From the expression on the soldier’s face when he looked at Corey’s sister, his arm was not there just for support. Meggie danced along beside them.
When they were close enough, Lady Wooster announced: “Ladies and gentlemen, may I present Lieutenant Bevin Randolph, late of His Majesty’s Second Cavalry.”
“I thought you were dead.” Corey spoke before anyone could greet the new arrival.
The young officer looked Lord Coe in the eye and addressed him as if no one else was there. “I was. That is, I was declared missing and presumed dead. When I recovered and found myself in a French gaol, I had no way of communicating with our forces. Later, too late, I was released only to discover that Lady Erica had been married. I know who to blame for that.”
Corey, too, seemed to have forgotten the eager-eared audience. “You were gone, man. And you were young and penniless besides. I couldn’t let my sister waste herself on—”
“On a mean-spirited old man who made my life a misery?” Erica put in. “Who wouldn’t let me see my own daughter?”
“My daughter,” Lieutenant Randolph bit out. “And I will never forgive you for that, my lord, nor for the way you settled matters between us in Scotland. You would not listen to reason, not even your own sister’s sworn oaths that we were on our way back from Gretna, not on our way there. You knocked me unconscious and had me trussed like a hen, to be shipped out to my unit. My lord, you cost me seven wretched years, for each of which I have been waiting to do this.” And he pulled his fist back and struck Lord Coe a smashing blow to the jaw.
Corey wasn’t expecting the punch, wasn’t even thinking of anything but what a fool he had been. His feet went out from under him and he hit the ground, hard. One minute Corey was seeing stars, the next Melody’s green eyes, deep with concern.
He stayed where he was, finding the cradle of Melody’s lap much more comforting than getting up and facing the avid crowds or his sister’s long-lost love. While Melody used Corey’s neckcloth to dab at the blood dribbling down his chin, Corey felt his jaw—nothing broken—and said, “Welcome home, Lieutenant Randolph.”
Erica smiled and tossed her handkerchief down to Melody. “I can see you have gained a little sense in all these years, brother. We’ll continue the discussion later, if you don’t mind.” She turned to go, the scarlet-clad officer’s arm back around her. “Oh, there was one more thing,” she said, giving Corey back his own one-sided grin. “I have had the lieutenant’s bags brought to my bedchamber. Those were your instructions, weren’t they?”
Chapter Twenty-Three
Why didn’t the silly widgeon say anything for all those years?” Lady Ashton wanted to know. She had Melody pulling out every gown in the wardrobe. The nabob had finally arrived. Melody was trying to explain why they should put Sir Bartleby up at their own house rather than impose on Lord Coe and his sister at such a sensitive time.
Mama had slept through most of the startling events of the picnic and had seen nothing of the Oaks contingent for the whole day and night after. Brief close-mouthed calls from Lady Cheyne and Major Frye told Melody little, for if either of the visitors to Dower House had any more information about Lady Wooster’s marriages, they were not discussing details, out of courtesy to their hosts and friends. Rupert came to call on Felice, but since he hardly knew the time of day, Melody did not believe he could shed any light on the situation. Who would tell such a rattlepate anything?
Melody had been wondering if she could call at the Oaks that morning, just to see how the viscount was getting along, of course, when Lady Wooster, or Mrs. Randolph as she must be, hurriedly came to call. Erica begged Melody’s pardon for causing a scene and for keeping her in the dark. Now Melody was trying her best to explain the delicacy of the situation to her mother. It was like explaining diapers to Baby.
“Nonsense,” Lady Ashton declared, making a face at the purple satin gown Melody held up for inspection. “They have a house full of guests right now. One more won’t matter, and Barty don’t stand on ceremony. No, that one won’t do. I look like someone’s mother in it.”
Melody blinked. Mama was someone’s mother, hers. Because of that, Melody felt she had to save the older woman from a possibly deserved setdown. According to his sister, Lord Coe was already nursing a dreadful sense of ill-usage along with a bruised jaw.
“But Mama, with Sir Bartleby at the Oaks, they will have to invite us to dinner; that’s at least five strangers they would be wishing to Coventry, and Lady Erica is top over trees as is.”
Lady Jessamyn shook her head. “Foolish beyond permission.”
“Lady Erica? I think she was worried over the lieutenant’s reaction to Meggie, that’s why she did not want to tell anyone in advance.”
“No, you peagoose. That gown. I look sallow in yellow. Whatever possessed me to purchase it? What was that about Meggie? They are going to take her off our hands, aren’t they?”
“Yes, Mama, but Lady Erica could not be sure, earlier. When Lieutenant Randolph finally wrote to her, after he learned she was widowed, he knew nothing about a child. Once Lady Erica saw Meggie, though, she never wanted to part with her daughter again, so she was going to go live in Cornwall where no one would know the child wasn’t Wooster’s.”
“But I thought you said she was married to that soldier, Melody. Hold up that pink sarcenet again.”
“She was, but she had no papers to prove it, and if he ch
ose not to acknowledge Meggie, she was going to reject him, despite all the sorrow. But he adored Meggie on sight and wants them all to emigrate to Canada, away from any gossip. There was another dreadful row, it seems, for Lord Coe wants to set them up in London, so he can share Meggie with them. Lieutenant Randolph refused to be so beholden to the viscount, but I believe they have compromised on some plantations Lord Coe owns in Jamaica, where Bevin, that’s the lieutenant, will act as his agent. Of course, Corey made Bevin swear to bring his family back to visit. I’ll miss Meggie, too, won’t you?”
“The magenta? No, it’s much too puritanical. I bought it when I was hoping to impress that toad Pendleton for you. Isn’t there a figured silk in that closet?”
Figured? The gown had cabbage roses down its length. Mama would look like walking wallpaper. “No, I don’t see it. Perhaps it got left at the Oaks by error. What about this pretty lavender India muslin? It would be perfect for a small dinner here, just the family, you know, to welcome the nabob, ah, Sir Bartleby home.”
“Melody, you try my patience. I have not seen Barty in almost twenty years except for the twenty minutes when he first arrived. Do you think I am going to entertain him at this dowdy place and have those little monkeys hanging off him all evening? No, I am going to welcome him home to my home, in style, where there are enough rooms that we can have a private tête-à-tête if he desires. Without dog hairs on the furniture and infants bawling and Nanny’s needles going click-click-click every blessed minute.”
Obviously, Melody was missing something here. “Mama, isn’t Sir Bartleby coming to fetch Felice?”
“No, didn’t I tell you? Barty is going to settle in England. He’s discussing it with Felice up at the Oaks now. I don’t know what’s to become of the chit, after all the high expectations she had. I just don’t think London will accept her, but I couldn’t make her see that she’d do better with that nice boy Edwin at Mr. Hadley’s office. Rupert Frye is an ivory tuner if I ever saw one, and after your father, I know the breed. He’s only hanging about for the money, ’pon rep, which Barty ain’t about to hand over to some here-and-therein knight of the baize table. Barty didn’t get to be a wealthy man by bankrolling basket scramblers. Maybe he can make Felice see sense, for he doesn’t want her living with us.”
Minor Indiscretions Page 17
