A Dog in a Doublet

by Emma V. Leech

  So that was the choice, either Harry fought on or everyone at Stamford who he’d come to know and care for over the years would be screwed over. What would happen to men like Travis, after all his hard work and the lean years he’d endured? He’d had such high hopes for this year’s harvest, but anything could happen, and the summer had been awful so far. His wife was pregnant, yet again - was that five children now, or six, and all girls! Harry sighed.

  Some choice.

  “Alright, you old devil,” he muttered with chagrin, shaking his head as he looked over the Stamford estate. “You don’t have to beat me over the bloody head with it.”

  Chapter 21

  Put to bed with a mattock and tucked up with a spade - to be killed and buried

  - The 1811 Dictionary of the Vulgar Tongue, by Francis Grose.

  Clara sat back against the squabs and considered what could be done to best help Harry. Because the man did need her help, whether he knew it or not.

  From her maid - who was second cousin to Mr Fletcher’s sister’s eldest son’s wife - she had learned that Wilfred and the rest of the Preston family were out to get him.

  Well, it seemed that Mr and Mrs Fletcher were standing beside him, and even old Ramsy had stayed on in solidarity, but servants were one thing. She may not be the daughter of a duke, perhaps, but she certainly knew how to act like one. Determined that it should be seen that one of the most wealthy families in the county were backing Harry to the hilt, she decided that she knew just how to deal with the likes of Wilfred Preston and his horrid mother.

  She had dressed to impress, even bringing her father to exclaim that she was togged out to the nines, when generally he complained she wasn’t wearing enough jewellery. It might not be what Clarinda deemed appropriate, but from what she’d gleaned from Alistair, it should catch Mariah Preston’s attention. Her youngest son was engaged to the daughter of a wealthy Cit, and the smell of trade was none too pleasant a perfume for one of her ilk. According to her source, the fiancée was treated like a pariah by the rest of the family. Well, Clarinda may not be nobility, but she was of good birth and had nothing to blush for, providing her father didn’t make an appearance, at any rate. She didn’t know quite yet how she was going use any influence she might gain, or even if she could do anything at all. Sitting at home and moping while Harry was here dealing with these dreadful people, however, well, that simply wasn’t an option. So she would find a way to either insinuate herself into their confidence, or to become a thorn in their sides. She wasn’t sure which would serve her best yet, but time would tell.

  As luck would have it, the youngest son, Baden, was waiting on the steps as her glossy new carriage drew to a halt. It was driven by two beautiful, high-stepping, jet black horses, and she was well aware it made an impressive sight. If her father knew one thing, it was how to draw attention to his money.

  As her driver leapt down to open the door for her, she found herself face to face with a terribly handsome young man. He gave her a glorious smile, all white teeth and dark, glinting eyes. He held his hand out to help her down.

  “Baden Preston at your service, Miss ...?” he said with an enquiring tone.

  “Bow,” she said, looking him over with a distant, haughty expression she had perfected in London.

  “Miss Bow,” he repeated as she stepped out of the carriage. He kept hold of her hand and lifted it to his lips. “A pleasure,” he said, with a voice that was liquid chocolate and designed to make women swoon. It might have worked, too, if Clarinda hadn’t grown heartily sick of such frippery fellows during her come-out. He was probably perfectly pleasant, but had no substance. “Welcome to Stamford Place.”

  She snorted at that and snatched her hand from his grasp, earning herself a look of mild surprise. “Welcome to Stamford,” she laughed, a faintly mocking tone to her amusement. “I practically grew up here,” she said with a narrow-eyed glare. She considered momentarily that she should be nicer to him and dismissed the idea. She had behaved dreadfully to most men in London, and they only pursued her all the harder. Men were contrary devils. “Alistair was a darling and one of my closest friends,” she said, looking at him with contempt. “As is his son. We practically grew up together,” she added, which was stretching things a bit, but who cared.

  “Ah,” Baden replied, amusement lurking in his dark eyes. “I see.”

  She wondered if he did in fact, see, and was rather sharper than she suspected. Either way, he must be handled with care like the rest of the family.

  “I’ve come to see Harry - Lord Preston,” she added, with a glittering smile.

  “I believe I saw him heading out for a walk not long ago,” Baden replied with an easy manner as he offered his arm. “May I entertain you while you await his return? We could have tea in the parlour.”

  Clarinda studied him as though weighing up the possibility of finding him an amusing companion and accepted with a grudging sniff. “Very well,” she said, taking his arm in a rather ungracious manner and allowing him to lead her into the house.

  ***

  Ramsy was nowhere to be found by the time Harry finally made it to the stables. He suspected he was off visiting a certain Mrs Clayton. She was a woman long since widowed and struggling to make ends meet. Ramsy was no handsome prince, but with his inheritance from Alistair, he’d be a lot more attractive to a penniless widow. He hoped it worked out for them both. It would be good for Ramsy to have a companion other than his horses and his mangy dog, Ratty. The creature was ancient and practically toothless, and Harry suspected the old hound kept going out of sheer spite, for a worse tempered dog he’d never known. He didn’t leave the stables usually, now, though, as his arthritic limbs wouldn’t carry him far, but today insisted on following Harry back to the house. Probably hoping for some scraps.

  Going round the back way, it was Harry’s intention to leave the dog outside and get Beryl to feed it, but just as he reached the house, the heavens opened.

  Running the last few yards through the pouring rain, Harry burst into the kitchen and was about to slam shut the door when he caught a glimpse of the skinny creature shivering as the rain pelted down around him.

  Sighing, he held the door open. “Come along, then,” he said, knowing Beryl would give him hell for it. Happily, as he closed the door, he discovered the kitchen empty. No doubt she was taking lunch up to the family. Walking fast, in case his luck ran out, he hurried up to the study. He’d just opened the door to usher the creature inside when he heard Beryl’s voice, and closed it abruptly the moment the dog’s scrawny tail had cleared the jamb. Turning, he saw Beryl heading back to the kitchens, none the wiser, and was about to follow Ratty into the study himself.

  “Lord Preston.”

  He looked up in surprise to see Baden’s fiancée walking down the stairs towards him. She seemed well aware of the picture she made, and Harry watched, feeling amused. Rebecca Trinton would get along well with the squire, he decided. She seemed harmless enough, though her flirtatious way of speaking had Harry giving her a wide berth. He had quite enough trouble. Her blonde hair was a mass of golden ringlets and her gown rather too low cut, though Harry couldn’t deny she filled it admirably, and she positively dripped with a vulgar display of jewels.

  “Lord Preston,” she repeated, her voice soft and inviting as she came to stand beside him. Her smile was warm and dazzling. “I was just going to the parlour to order some tea. I don’t feel like eating lunch with the others. Say you’ll come with me?”

  Harry opened his mouth to refuse but she interrupted before he could. “Oh, please do,” she said, her voice pitched even lower now and with a pleading note. “This dreadful family hates me,” she said, looking really rather vulnerable. “I can’t find Baden and I can’t face them by myself,” she added, in little more than a whisper. “I think Mariah is a witch,” she hissed, her eyes looking around the empty hall as though she believed the woman was spying on her even now. Harry suppressed a chill and admitted - to himself, a
t least - that he felt rather the same.

  “How can I refuse?” he replied, meaning it rather more literally than she perhaps suspected.

  Glancing back at the study, he hoped Ratty wasn’t the kind to chew, and escorted the luscious Rebecca to the parlour. Here he found himself a little disconcerted to find Baden entertaining Clarinda.

  From the flash of fury in Rebecca’s eyes, she was none too pleased about it either.

  “Harry,” Clarinda said, and Harry refused to acknowledge how relieved he was to see the pleasure in her eyes on seeing him.

  “Clara, love,” he said, knowing he was giving the impression that there was an intimacy between them that he had no right to, but unsettled by finding Clara alone in Baden’s company. “I didn’t expect to find you here today.”

  “Evidently,” Clara replied, her tone just a little tart as she eyed the opulent blonde hanging off his arm.

  “Clara, this is Rebecca Trinton, Mr Baden Preston’s fiancée,” he said, relieving Miss Trinton of his arm so she could be properly introduced. “Miss Trinton, please meet Miss Clarinda Bow.”

  Harry watched in amusement as the women went through the usual social niceties, all the while looking like they’d rather scratch each other’s eyes out. As they settled themselves down again, looking for all the world like lovely birds with their feathers ruffled as they smoothed skirts and hair, Harry caught Baden’s eye. The young man looked every bit as amused as Harry, his lips twitching a little as he sat back down.

  “To what do I owe the pleasure, Clarinda?” Harry asked, watching in amusement as she rang for tea. Reggie appeared before she could reply and she gave him his orders to refresh the tea tray as though she was already mistress of the great estate. Something that didn’t escape either Rebecca or Baden - as he was damn sure she intended. Reggie, naturally, was only too happy to play along.

  “I came to meet Mrs Mariah Preston,” she replied with aplomb, ignoring the fact that everyone was gaping at her in disbelief.

  “Whatever for?” Rebecca demanded, her accent - never so carefully cultivated as Harry’s had been - slipped at this point, and the demand was pure East London, and very familiar to Harry, who hid a grin. Her forthright demand provoked a sharp bark of laughter from Baden, who, far from looking shocked or appalled, seemed delighted.

  “It’s a fair question, Miss Bow,” he said, not in the least apologetic, though Clara looked startled. “Why on earth would you wish to meet my mother? Appalling woman,” he added with remarkable cheerfulness.

  For a moment, Harry wondered if he would see the remarkable sight of Clara lost for words, but she didn’t disappoint him.

  “It is usual in the country - among polite society - to call on neighbours,” she said, looking down on Baden with all the hauteur of a duchess, and thoroughly putting him in his place. “As dear Harry had never had any family around him except for his father, God rest him, I felt it only right to come and greet you all. But a call on your mother, naturally, was uppermost in my thoughts as being most proper.”

  The conversation was silenced momentarily as Reggie reappeared with a fresh pot of tea.

  “Well,” Baden continued once the tea had been poured and given out. “You have the good fortune of finding mother indisposed,” he said, his dark eyes watchful and amused. “So you have the delightful prospect of knowing you’ve done the right thing without having the burden of actually doing the thing at all.”

  Clarinda looked truly startled by this forthright explanation and more than a little outraged, her blue eyes sparkling with irritation. Harry wondered with foreboding what kind of spat the two of them could get into if left to their own devises

  Baden was still watching Clarinda with interest, and Harry had the feeling he was weighing her up anew. He looked up to find Rebecca, in turn, was watching him like he was the last slice of cake on the plate. Harry glanced back at Clara as fast as he could and cleared his throat.

  “If you would all excuse me, I have some correspondence that needs my attention,” he said, giving Clara an apologetic glance. Clara, as ever, was not so easily thwarted, however.

  “Oh, of course, Harry,” she said with a tone of understanding. “But I must just have a private word with you before you go, if I may,” she said, getting to her feet and bestowing him with such a brilliant smile that his heart gave a strange little kick in his chest at the sight.

  “Of course,” he said, rising himself. “Miss Trinton, Mr Preston, if you would excuse us.”

  Once they’d made their departure and closed the door, Clara slapped her hand over her mouth to smother a giggle. “Oh, Harry,” she exclaimed, giggling harder as he cast her a reproving look and put his finger to his lips.

  “I’m sorry,” she hissed, eyes dancing with merriment. “But that blonde creature, my word, did you see? She looked like she’d eat you in one bite!”

  Harry glowered at her as they walked to the study.

  “You didn’t look quite so sanguine about her when I arrived with her on my arm, love,” he murmured, earning himself a sharp look.

  “No, well,” she said with a dignified little sniff. “No woman likes to be upstaged before the man she loves, does she?”

  Harry paused and couldn’t help but reach his hand out and take her hand, lifting it to his lips.

  “As if anyone could upstage you, beauty,” he said, meaning it and knowing he shouldn’t encourage such intimacy between them, but ... dammit, he wanted her so badly his skin felt like it wanted to crawl from his bones to get closer to her.

  Clara’s mouth opened in a little o of surprise at his words. “Oh,” she said, after a moment. “That’s just the nicest thing you’ve ever said to me.”

  “It is?” Harry replied, feeling rather appalled. If ever he cleared his name, he’d woo her in earnest, he vowed, and tell her everything that was in his heart. For now, he just shook his head at her. “In that case, I shall have to do far better.”

  He was rewarded with a rather endearing grin that stole his breath and had his poor heart kicking about behind his ribs in a very odd manner as he opened the study door and let her in ahead of him.

  Her shriek of alarm had him hurrying in close behind.

  “What the devil ...” he exclaimed, as he saw poor Ratty, dead on the floor, and the remains of what had clearly been Harry’s lunch, scattered around him.

  Chapter 22

  To gally - to frighten or alarm ‘by hideous means’

  - The 1811 Dictionary of the Vulgar Tongue, by Francis Grose.

  “Poor Ratty,” Harry exclaimed, momentarily surprised by Clarinda’s distress, as he’d thought her a rather prosaic country girl and not the kind of young woman to faint at a dead dog. But then he walked closer and saw an ugly picture of what she was seeing.

  “He’s been poisoned,” he said, looking up at her pale face and feeling rather nauseated himself.

  “By eating your lunch, Harry,” she whispered.

  For a moment, he was utterly still as fury boiled somewhere just beneath his skin.

  “Stay here,” he ordered her. “Don’t move from this spot and don’t let anyone touch anything.”

  Clarinda nodded and he ran from the room, taking the back stairs down to the kitchens.

  “Beryl!” he called as he came across her up to her elbows in flour. “What happened with my lunch?”

  “Whatever do you mean?” she asked, blowing a strand of grey hair from her eyes with irritation. Looking up, she caught the expression on Harry’s face and stopped what she was doing. Wiping her hands on a towel with care she frowned at him. “I gave it to Reggie,” she said, watching him as she considered. “Oh, must be more than half an hour ago now, I reckon. Bread and cheese and some cold chicken, and a nice piece of that fruit cake you liked.” She paused, staring at him. “Whatever is the matter, lad? You’re white as a curd pudding.”

  “You’d best come,” he said, his voice heavy as she undid her apron and went after him.

  “Did anyo
ne come into the kitchen whilst you were making it?” he asked over his shoulder.

  “No,” she replied, sounding a little breathless as she climbed the stairs behind him. “Not a soul. Reggie came down from setting lunch - for the others,” she said with a disgusted sniff. “And then he came back to fetch yours.”

  They reached the hallway just as Reggie appeared out of the parlour, carrying the tea tray he’d brought Clarinda earlier.

  “Reggie,” Harry called, gesturing the man over. “When did you put that tray in the study for me?”

  Reggie frowned and glanced at the large grandfather clock. “Must be forty minutes ago,” he said, glancing between his wife and Harry. “Why?”

  “And did you see anyone?” Harry kept on, ignoring his bewilderment. “Do you know if anyone went in after you?”

  Reggie shook his head, his expression growing ever more perplexed.

  “Come and look,” Harry said with a sigh, opening the study door.

  “Oh, my word!” Beryl exclaimed. “That nasty dog, in here, and oh!” She covered her nose with her hand and went to stand by the window that Clarinda had opened for obvious reasons.

  “Poisoned,” Reggie said, glancing up at Harry, who nodded.

  “Poisoned?” Beryl echoed, her voice a shriek as she looked back at the dead dog in horror. “Oh my God! They meant to kill, Harry!” To Harry’s astonishment, Beryl, who was rarely prone to strong emotions, submitted to a bout of hysteria. “Oh, the poor lad,” she wept, blowing her nose with noisy efficiency as Harry thrust a handkerchief at her, quite at a loss at what else to do as Clarinda sat her down and chaffed at her hands. To Harry’s increasing horror, he discovered she was sobbing, too. “After all he’s been through,” Beryl said on a wail, waving the handkerchief in distress. “And now ... those ... those dreadful people here.”

  “What the devil is going on here?”

  They all looked up as Squire Bow poked his head around the door and exclaimed in disgust over the dead dog.