by Cheryl Holt
“Veronica Mason?”
“Yes.”
“Really?” How bloody marvelous! Instantly, he was calculating various corrupt possibilities. “I can’t believe I finally met you.”
She raised a brow. “Have you been hoping you would?”
“Yes. My new best chum is Wesley Grey.”
She scoffed with derision. “Wesley!”
“He’s besotted. He can’t talk about any subject but you.”
“He’s such a...boy,” she complained. “Please tell me you’re nothing like him.”
“I’m nothing like him. I swear. I’m nothing like his older brother either.”
“Meaning what?”
“Meaning I like to have fun and make merry. I’m never grouchy or stern or dictatorial.”
He expected her to defend her betrothed, to insist Captain Grey possessed none of those exhausting traits, but alcohol had loosened her tongue.
“I’m so glad you’re different from him,” she muttered. “I can’t abide a bossy man, and he treats me as if I’m his annoying little sister.”
“I’d never treat you that way. I have a sister, and you don’t remind me of her at all. You and I will be great friends.”
“Do you promise?” she asked.
“Yes.” He drew her nearer, his practiced regard sweeping over her. “You’re going to love me, Veronica. I guarantee it.”
He gestured down the hall, and she started off, with him resting a hand on the small of her back. But she didn’t protest so he kept the appendage right where it was until they approached the ballroom and he didn’t dare permit anyone to see.
HARRY BOSWELL MARCHED TOWARD the headmaster’s office. He might have been a prisoner facing the gallows, and he was stoically ready to receive whatever punishment was leveled.
Discipline at the school was fierce, with his Grandfather Boswell explaining that the place had been specifically selected so the staff could crush Harry’s spirit. As a result, he’d been starved and caned and humiliated in front of his classmates. There wasn’t much they hadn’t inflicted on him, and he wondered which torture they’d pick this time.
He’d been caught fighting again, and he’d been warned repeatedly that he had to turn the other cheek when he was taunted, but he’d never been able to act like a coward. A student had hurled a derogatory comment about Harry’s other grandfather, Grandfather Cecil, and how he’d gotten himself killed in a duel.
Harry had had to grow a thick skin to be raised as a Boswell so he could tolerate many slights. But he wouldn’t brook any insult to Cecil. Cecil had been a splendid fellow, and he wouldn’t allow any statement to the contrary.
Yet Grandfather Boswell wouldn’t stand for many more violent episodes. If Harry was expelled, there was no telling what his grandfather might try next. He’d probably enlist Harry in the army—even though he was only ten. He’d threatened as much after the prior incident, and Harry was so sick of his life anymore that he’d almost welcome being sent away.
He was quite sure—if he was an army private—his commanding officer wouldn’t pen scolding letters to his grandfather.
He arrived at his destination, and the boy who’d escorted him murmured, “Good luck, Boswell. I hope this isn’t your last day.”
Harry was resigned to any outcome. “I’ll be at supper—or I won’t.”
He’d been kicked out of three other schools, but he’d never believed it was his fault. He was different from other people, and he didn’t fit in anywhere. He had an elevated sense of his own importance and deemed it perfectly appropriate to lord himself over his inferiors, particularly his teachers. He couldn’t abide silliness or ridiculous rules so he refused to follow them.
The other boy patted him on the shoulder, knocked once then left. Harry was bid to enter, and he straightened, braced for any situation. But to his vast astonishment, his Aunt Annabel and Uncle Michael were sitting there. He hadn’t seen them in ages, and he was so overwhelmed that—if he’d been a weaker sort of child—he might have burst into tears.
“Auntie! Uncle Michael! What a grand surprise!”
“Hello, you scamp,” Michael said.
“What are you doing here?”
Annabel answered. “Your mother sent us to fetch you home for the harvest holiday.”
His aunt winked, and he understood that he was to play along. His mother would never have invited him home because Grandfather Boswell wouldn’t have permitted it. In his opinion, Lydia wasn’t sufficiently strict and was too timid to impose effective discipline, but Harry didn’t blame her for his wild, unrestrained character.
He’d never felt much of a connection to her. Even in his first memories as a toddler, he’d viewed her as nearly a stranger, and he’d ignored her attempts to mold him.
“Am I to go with you immediately?” he asked his aunt.
“Yes. Run to your room and pack a bag.”
Harry spun to the headmaster. “May I be excused, sir?”
“Yes, Mr. Boswell, but you must be back when classes resume.”
“I wouldn’t dream of being late,” he lied.
“We’ll deal with your problem when you return.”
“All right.”
So—for the moment—no penalty would be meted out. Maybe he could convince his aunt and uncle to never bring him back, to abscond with him. Fenwick blood definitely flowed in his veins, and he’d be happy to reside with them.
The headmaster interrupted his optimistic reverie. “After I hear from your grandfather, we’ll determine how to proceed.”
Annabel grinned. “What did you do this time, Harry?”
“Fighting, Auntie.”
“Again? Why?”
“Some oaf insulted Grandfather Cecil.”
“I’d have punched him too,” Michael said which had the headmaster squirming in his seat. Michael rose to the occasion, focusing a contemptuous glare on the older man. “Is it your habit to let one student denigrate another’s family?”
“Well...ah...” the headmaster stammered.
Michael looked magnificent, like a prince or a duke. “The abused grandfather in question is my father so I take great umbrage on learning that my nephew couldn’t defend the man’s reputation.”
“Yes, but we don’t allow fighting for any reason. And his other grandfather, Mr. Boswell, is quite adamant that Harry not engage in fisticuffs.”
“His other grandfather can stuff it. He’s a pompous cur, and I won’t have him giving such ludicrous advice as to Harry’s education. A boy must know how to protect himself.”
The headmaster had no reply to the caustic comment, and Harry was disappointed. He’d have liked the headmaster to bait Michael so Michael could have offered a few other derogatory remarks about Grandfather Boswell who was treated like a king at the school. But Michael didn’t expound, and the headmaster silently fumed.
Annabel nodded to the door. “Get your things, Harry. We’ll meet you out in the drive.”
Harry scooted out before the headmaster could change his mind, before Harry could wake up and discover he’d simply been hallucinating, that his aunt and uncle weren’t really there.
As he raced up the stairs to the dormitory, he was smiling, ecstatic in a way he’d rarely ever been.
“YOU SHOULD HAVE ASKED me,” Lydia seethed.
“Why would I ask you?” Michael retorted. “You’d have refused to let him come.”
“He’s not to be here!” she furiously said. “Mr. Boswell doesn’t like him to visit.”
“Mr. Boswell is an ass.”
She wanted to give Michael a scathing set-down, to inform him that Edward Boswell wasn’t to be disparaged in her home, but it was futile to castigate Michael on any topic. He was ruder and more vulgar than their father had ever been—if that was possible.
Her brother and sister had doted on their father. They’d reveled in the erratic and unstructured life he’d provided, but Lydia had loathed their childhood and had yearned for one thing and one t
hing only: security. She’d found it by marrying Milton Boswell, and she wouldn’t jeopardize her situation.
“Mr. Boswell feels I’m a bad influence,” she told Michael. The allegation galled her, but she could hardly deny the truth of it.
“In that regard, he and I are in complete agreement.”
“I can’t make Harry behave as he ought. After he stays with me, even briefly, he’s in a worse condition once he’s back at school.”
“He’s a boy, Lydia. He’s a merry, mischievous, fun-loving boy. For pity’s sake, there’s nothing wrong with him. You should stop listening to your Boswell relatives. They fill your head with nonsense.”
She stared out the window where Annabel and Harry were walking in the garden. Peggy was with them too. Peggy had warned her they might show up with him, but Lydia hadn’t believed her. She hadn’t imagined they’d have the audacity to flout her wishes so spectacularly, but she should have known better.
When Michael or Annabel latched onto an idea, there was no dissuading either of them.
“How am I to feed him?” she complained. “Mr. Boswell barely gives me any allowance, and Harry just eats and eats.”
“I swear, Lydia, he’s your son. If you utter one more stupid remark about him, I will gag you. Do be silent. Please!” He opened his purse, pulled out all the money in it, and pushed it into her hand. “Will this shut you up? It’s all I have on me at the moment. If you need more in order to quell your bitter tongue, say so, and I’ll deliver it tomorrow.”
“It’s plenty,” she mumbled, her cheeks flushing with shame.
She was certain it was winnings from gambling or some other immoral pursuit. If she’d been a stronger woman, she’d have declined it, but she had to count her pennies, and she would accept the generous gift despite what its origins might be.
Michael stomped out to meet Annabel and Harry by the front door. Lydia went over to eavesdrop on their conversation.
“Thank you for rescuing me, Auntie,” Harry was saying to Annabel. “It was a terrific surprise.”
“You deserved a break from that stupid school,” Annabel said.
“I was suffocating there. I admit it.”
“You’re away from there for now, and you have ten long days to take a deep breath.”
“You’ll visit me, yes?”
“Absolutely.”
Annabel smiled and rubbed her knuckles in his hair, and Harry wrapped his arms around her waist and hugged her tight. It was so easy for Annabel to be physically demonstrative, and Lydia was jealous at observing how her sister interacted with Harry.
She’d never enjoyed such free and effortless dealings with him. Even as a baby, he’d never fussed if it meant Lydia might pick him up. He would coo and fret for Peggy, but not Lydia. Even then, even as a baby, he’d been clear that he didn’t like her.
But she didn’t like him that much either so the feeling was mutual. When he’d arrived, she’d expected him to fix what was wrong in her life. She’d expected him to supply the safety and approval she’d desperately sought from the Boswells.
With his dark black hair and big blue eyes, his aristocratic character and imposing will, they gaped at him as if he was some sort of alien creature. Lydia had spent years begging him to ingratiate himself, but he’d never wanted any part of the Boswells.
Well, he was definitely suffering the brunt of his disregard.
Mr. Boswell felt he required extreme discipline, and she whole-heartedly agreed with her father-in-law. Harry needed rules and structure. He needed to learn to respect his elders, to mind his betters. He had to watch his mouth, curb his enthusiasm, and cease his reckless antics.
Annabel glanced over at Lydia. “I’ll come tomorrow morning so don’t worry about entertaining him.”
“I wasn’t worried about it,” Lydia told her. “Harry is quite resourceful, and he knows we live quietly. We don’t engage in amusement.”
“More’s the pity,” Michael muttered loud enough for her to hear.
“In fact,” Annabel said, “I’ll come every day until it’s time for me to take him back to school.”
“I’ll try to come too,” Michael added. “I can’t promise I’ll be here every day, but I’ll try.”
Lydia could think of no worse catastrophe than to have Michael and Annabel constantly popping in. They were twins in their attitudes and opinions. They had never liked her, and when they saw her with Harry, they relentlessly nagged and nitpicked over her parenting.
“There’s no need to visit so often,” she hastily said. “Harry wouldn’t want you to make such a sacrifice.”
“It’s hardly a sacrifice.” Annabel turned to Harry again. “I’ll bring an extra horse with me. We’ll go riding.”
“Splendid!” Harry grinned from ear to ear. He was an excellent equestrian, but rarely had a chance to indulge.
Lydia felt duty-bound to interject a comment. “Mr. Boswell doesn’t like Harry riding.”
Michael snorted with disgust. “Mr. Boswell doesn’t like anything, Lydia. Don’t work yourself into a lather over it.”
Then her brother and sister went to their mounts, shared effusive goodbyes with Harry and Peggy, and trotted off. Harry followed them out to the lane, yelling and calling and laughing with merriment as they called back.
Already, he was wound up like a top. He would be a disruptive, chatty nuisance all afternoon.
She whipped away and hurried inside to write to her father-in-law. Mr. Boswell had to be apprised that Harry was home, that Michael and Annabel were responsible, and that it wasn’t Lydia’s fault.
NNABEL DANCED WITH MICHAEL. She danced with Wesley. She danced with all of their friends, but her feet were killing her and she’d finally taken a break.
It was a cool autumn evening, the stars bright in the heavens and the smell of wood smoke in the air. Wesley had moved the party outside so the musicians were on the verandah, and the lines of dancers down in the grass.
There was a buffet table loaded with food, liquor decanters were filled to the brim, and chairs were scattered about so people could sit and chat.
Captain Grey was nowhere to be found, and he’d been conspicuously absent since she’d returned from her trip to fetch Harry to his mother. She was disgusted to admit that she was growing used to his attention and had begun to expect it. She’d assumed he’d be impatiently waiting for her, that he’d accost her the minute she walked in the door.
It hadn’t happened, and she was upset by his disregard which was hilarious.
Wasn’t she a fine mess? She shook her head, laughing at her folly when her brother sidled up.
“Dear sister, what has you standing all alone and laughing at yourself?”
“You wouldn’t believe me if I told you.”
He wrapped an arm around her waist and kissed her on the cheek.
“What was that for?” she asked.
“For rescuing Harry. For demanding I help you.”
“It was my good deed for the month.”
“It was grand to see him.”
“Will you come with me to Lydia’s tomorrow?”
“I have to go to London again. Perhaps I’ll join you the day after.”
“Why must you travel to London again so soon? Has the Captain requested even more strumpets?”
“No, I’m not going for Captain Grey.”
“Why are you going then?”
He gave her a look, one that informed her he had mischief brewing, and the notion of what it might entail was terrifying.
“What are you planning?” she whispered.
“You have to swear you won’t say anything.”
“Who would I tell, Michael? Nearly every detail we’ve shared about ourselves with Mr. and Captain Grey has been a lie. It’s not as if I could run to them and shout any news. And no one else at this accursed party cares about us. Your secret is safe with me.”
He grinned, appearing wicked and wanton. “I’ve met...Veronica.”
He imbued t
he name with a dramatic flourish, and Annabel scowled. “Who on earth is Veronica?”
“The Captain’s fiancée.”
“Oh, no. Don’t you dare involve yourself with her.”
“Why shouldn’t I?”
“For starters, we’re Captain Grey’s guests, and I like it here. I’d like to stay for the remainder of the celebration, and it would shame me to be ordered to leave.”
“He’ll never know I crossed paths with her.”
“You better be sure about that. He might not take kindly to you trifling with his betrothed, and he’s precisely the sort who might shoot you over it.”
“Don’t worry about me.”
“The fact that you would claim I shouldn’t worry makes me worry very much. I just lost Father because of stupid behavior over a woman. I refuse to lose you too.”
“It’s simply flirting, Annabel.”
“That’s what men always say.”
“It’s all very innocent.”
“Innocent?” she scoffed. “With you in the middle of it? Please!”
“Were you aware that Wesley Grey is madly in love with her?”
“I had heard rumors to that effect.”
“He loves her, and the Captain—his brother—is marrying her. The Captain and his mother, and Veronica all recognize that Wesley is besotted, yet they’re proceeding anyway. Doesn’t it sound like a recipe for disaster? I might be doing them a favor by interfering.”
“You might be offering one favor they don’t need,” she said. “Aristocratic families are strange, aren’t they?”
“All families are strange, Annabel.”
“What is Veronica’s opinion? Are you already intimate enough that she’s discussed the situation with you?”
“She thinks Wesley is a child and the Captain is a bully who treats her like his little sister.”
“If she detests him so much, why is she marrying him?”
“What girl wouldn’t be eager to wed Captain Benjamin Grey? Maybe I can persuade her to cry off. He’d be a bachelor again and free to pick someone else. You for instance?”
“Even if he was free, he’d never choose me instead.” Yet her pulse raced at the notion, and she couldn’t prevent herself from asking, “What’s she like?”
