by Regina Scott
"I disagree,” Gen put in, winning her a beaming smile from Allison. “I'm beginning to think he is innocent as well. If that is true, it seems most unfair for everyone to ostracize him like this. And while they do, no one thinks to find the true culprit."
"Exactly!” Allison cried, jumping to her feet. “We should be launching an investigation! Calling in the Home Guards!"
"Moderate your tone, Allison,” her mother said, motioning her to return to her seat. “If he is innocent, I agree that we must find the real vandal. However, I do not see how that can begin here tonight, at our party."
Allison lowered her voice conspiratorially. “I've already launched my own investigation, and I cannot find a single one of the villagers who will admit to being with Geoffrey when he cut down the Thorn. You will remember Reverend York said there were nine of them."
Gen's glance was drawn to the far side of the room where the Reverend York was paying his usual court to Mrs. Pentercast. The lady in question seemed to be less enthused than usual with his devotion, mostly, Gen suspected, because the gentleman refused to dance, and the lively Mrs. Pentercast was forced to keep him company on the side.
"It does not signify,” Mrs. Munroe replied with resigned tolerance. “None of them wish to admit they were with him and suffer his fate; that is all."
Allison shook her head so vehemently that her flaxen ringlets bounced in wild abandon. “No, Mother. When Gen and I first heard the noise that day, it sounded like a single hollow booming, much as one might bang a large drum. I doubt nine young men, intent on destruction, would make such a sound."
Gen looked at her younger sister in admiration. “You are quite right, Allison. It did sound like a single woodsman. But who?"
Allison sighed, slumping in her seat with a scowl. “That I have not been able to determine."
"Regardless,” her mother put in with a nod toward the refreshment table, “it appears Mr. Pentercast has decided to take his leave."
They looked to where Geoffrey was indeed stalking toward the door, shoving aside those who stood even remotely in his way. The other guests stared at him as he past and quickly bent to whisper when he was safely out of hearing. Gen shook her head, rising. “This is unfair. I'm going to tell him he is welcome to stay."
Allison sprang to her feet. “I'll come with you."
With a nod of acceptance from their mother, they hurried across the room. Before they could reach to door to the corridor, however, Alan intercepted them.
"Ladies,” he greeted with a bow, “I believe you are needed for the next set."
Gen glanced quickly over her shoulder where a number of their guests were lining up for another country dance. She counted eleven couples. “If you ask our Mother, sir, I'm sure she'll be happy to complete the set with you."
He frowned, but she darted after Allison before he could detain her.
The corridor was empty as she stepped into it, but she thought she heard voices from the farther end in the entry hall. She started down the corridor and heard a footstep behind her. Halting, she found Alan beside her.
"Is something wrong?” he asked with a frown.
"Nothing at all,” she lied cheerfully. “Please return to the party, and I assure you my sister and I will rejoin you shortly."
His frown deepened, and he matched her purposeful stride. “It seems odd you'd want to leave such a successful party. Might I be of assistance?"
She stopped to face him, ignoring the warning pounding of her heart. “Squire, you are being very kind, but I assure you, there is nothing to be concerned about."
He cocked his head, eyeing her as he had when he entered. “Why don't I believe you? There have been too many strange events this Christmas, Miss Munroe, for me to feel comfortable allowing you to wander off by yourself."
"This is my home, sir,” she informed him, throwing up her hands. “What could possibly happen here?"
Down the corridor, Allison screamed.
Alan thrust her protectively behind him before dashing toward the sound. Gen lifted her skirts and raced to follow. Ahead of her, Alan cursed and slid sideways on the polished floor. From under him scampered a terrified ferret.
Gen skidded to a stop and backed up against the walls as the furry creature darted past her. Alan had regained his footing and was immediately at her side. “What the devil?"
Allison appeared in the mouth of the corridor, hurrying toward them. “Did you see it? Where did it go?"
Gen pointed down the corridor toward the party. “How did that thing get in here?"
Allison put up her head. “You needn't get waspish. It was a gift for me from Mr. Pentercast."
Alan groaned. “It only wanted this. Geoffrey!"
His brother appeared, grinning. Gen fought the desire to knock the smile off his face. “Sorry about that. I guess it just slipped out of my hands."
"How dare you!” Gen managed through grit teeth. “And to think I thought you innocent!"
His grin disappeared into a scowl. “I am innocent, but since all your fine guests have given me the name, I thought I might as well play the game."
From down in the ballroom came shouts and screams.
"I'll deal with you later,” Alan swore before turning to dash back down the corridor. Gen favored her sister and Geoffrey with a scowl of her own before hastening to follow.
The ballroom was in an uproar when she entered. Every lady who was able had scrambled up on one of the side chairs. Others stood huddled in a trembling group in one of the corners. Even the quartet had managed to elevate their instruments off the floor. The older gentlemen were attempting to calm their agitated wives while the younger men were slapping their knees and laughing over the joke. She caught a glimpse of a furry black tail disappearing under the skirting of the refreshment table.
"It's just a ferret,” Alan was calling in explanation. He motioned to Tom Harvey, William, and several of the other men to join him. “We'll have it caught in no time."
Allison hurried into the room, a small homemade cage in her hand. “Here,” she cried, thrusting it at Alan. “Use this. And please don't hurt him."
"Allison Ermintrude Munroe,” her mother said quietly from behind her. “If this is your doing you may rest assured that you will not be permitted to attend another party until you are old enough to be a spinster."
Allison swallowed, stepping back out of Alan's way. “Yes, Mother."
"It was my fault,” Geoffrey Pentercast offered, stepping up to join them. “I'm afraid I took the general snubbing in character and decided to get even. I'll help catch the beast. He knows me now."
"He's under the table,” Gen pointed out.
With a nod, Alan and the other men set out to capture the beast. It took considerably longer than Alan had claimed for the ferret proved very good at darting away at the last minute and quite inventive at finding dark corners in which to hide. Unfortunately, these corners included the sofa on which Mrs. Pentercast and Reverend York sat, the skirting on the raised dais that held the musicians, and the hem of Mary Delacourte's dress. They finally ran him to ground against the French doors to the garden. Geoffrey managed to grab the little creature by the scruff of the neck and pop him back into the cage. As they carried it past her, Gen saw that the little animal's ribs were heaving as hard as her mother's.
"Well, that was quite a little adventure,” Alan said with a laugh as the women were assisted off the chairs and the room was set to rights. Her mother was hurrying to encourage the musicians to begin playing again, and Allison was boasting of her bravery to a group of young men. Looking up at Alan, Gen found she couldn't be angry. His hair was in complete disarray, his neck cloth had come undone, and there was a piece of cake stuck to one corner of his chin.
She reached up a hand to dislodge it. “You go to great lengths, sir, but I do believe William would agree with me that there were twelve lords a-leaping here tonight."
He stared at her. “Are you saying..."
She deposit
ed the cake onto a side table, heart pounding even harder than when the ferret had escaped. “I'm saying I haven't been asked to dance. You had indicated you wished to dance with me, hadn't you?"
"Above all things,” he murmured, reaching to take her offered hand. His glove was covered in strawberry jelly. Laughing, he pulled it back. “But perhaps I'd better clean up a bit first."
Gen smiled at him, suddenly sure of her feelings. “You never looked more handsome, Squire. But I'll have Chimes show you to one of the guest rooms. Perhaps by the time you return, they'll be playing a waltz."
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Chapter Seventeen
Interlude, Baritone Solo
Alan was glad Chimes led him to the guest room instead of merely pointing the way. He'd never been very good at following the twists and turns of the Abbey corridors, and right at the moment he was too bemused to know where he was let alone where he was going. Chimes made sure he was settled, then, chuckling, left him with warm water, soap, and towels that a footman hastily brought to perform his ablutions, promising to return shortly with fresh gloves and cravat.
She was conceding defeat. He could scarcely credit it. He'd done everything he could to maneuver the various guests into a set with twelve couples so that he could attempt to claim his twelve lords a-leaping, but he knew full well she could have disagreed with his interpretation had she wished. He hadn't even mentioned the gift, and here she was ready to grant it to him. He knew he ought to accept the offer gratefully, but, after all her protests the last twelve days, capitulation had seemed so unlikely that he found it impossible to comprehend. Not for the first time he found himself wishing he understood what was going on in that beautiful blond head.
He had scarcely shrugged out of his coat and rolled up his sleeves when there was a hesitant knock on the door. Frowning, he reached for his coat again, wondering who could need his services so soon. Before he could call for them to enter, the door opened and the Reverend York slipped inside, closing the door carefully behind him.
Alan set the coat back down again with a sigh to have his time to think so easily interrupted. “Good evening, Vicar. Are you in need of refurbishing as well?"
The man shook his head, crossing to ease his bulk down in a chair beside the fire where it seemed he intended to watch Alan's work. Alan frowned at the familiarity, but his frown went unnoticed. The vicar merely settled in and leaned back.
"No, no, my boy. Luckily I was spared your, er, valiant attempts at catching the creature. I thought it best to remain at your mother's side. Women are so easily upset by such events, indeed, indeed."
"Indeed,” Alan quipped. “Then you'll excuse me while I continue."
"Certainly, certainly,” York said, waving a meaty paw. “You wonder at my presence, I'm sure. I thought this a good time for a fatherly word of advice."
Alan smothered a groan. “Vicar, please don't take me wrong, but I was never very good at listening to fatherly advice, even from my own father."
"Ah, but your father wasn't exactly known for dispensing good advice, I believe."
Alan, in the act of soaping his hands, paused and glanced again at the vicar. Was it only his imagination that the last words were less than his usual sycophantic bluster? The man was regarding the fire, hands clasped over his belly, as if nothing untoward was happening. Shaking his head, Alan returned to his task.
"I see you haven't heeded my warnings about Miss Munroe,” York put in.
Alan paused again, eyeing him. “No more than you have heeded my warnings concerning my mother, sir. I guess we can both say that love knows no caution."
"Ah, well said, well said.” The Vicar nodded along with his repetition. “Yes, well said indeed. So, you fancy yourself in love with the chit I take it."
Alan finished washing his hands and toweled them dry. He knew his annoyance showed in every quick move, but he couldn't seem to muster up the desire to care. “Vicar, I continue to fail to see what business this is of yours."
"It is my business as the shepherd of this flock,” York asserted, puffing out his chest. “I cannot sit idly by while the leader of our fair community does himself such a great injustice."
"If you are referring to the famed Pentercast/Munroe feud, you may save your breath,” Alan told him, shrugging back into his coat. “I don't believe in that nonsense."
There was a timid tap on the door, and the footman scurried in with fresh gloves and a neck cloth for Alan. Alan accepted them with a nod, and the footman scurried out again, leaving the door ajar as he did so.
"I had hoped to spare you this, my son,” York rumbled with a melancholy shake of his head. “But you hold the evidence in your hands and you cannot see it, you cannot see it at all.” He heaved a martyred sigh. “It has come to my attention that Miss Munroe is, how can I put this delicately, less than pure?"
Alan turned to stare at him, the neck cloth gripped tightly in his hand. “I cannot have heard you correctly."
York couldn't meet his eyes. “I know this is difficult. You must understand it is no easier for me to admit I have failed one of my flock. Of course, I can take some comfort in the fact that she was led astray by the wicked life of London and not in my own village. Still, to have taken lovers at such an early age cannot speak well of the lady's constancy."
Alan crushed the neck cloth in one hand; it was the only way he could keep from putting his hands around the man's neck and throttling him. “How dare you sit there and calmly spout such lies?” he managed to grit out through his rage. “You will apologize at once."
York blinked, his jowls quivering, in fear or righteous indignation, Alan couldn't be sure. “I only thought to spare you, my son. Consider, if you will, that as lovely as she is, she has had three whole seasons without marrying. There must be a reason. And the servant—they haven't lived here for years and yet they have a pair of men's gloves and neck cloth handy? Does it not strike you as odd? Love may know no caution, as you said, but surely you have not abandoned all logic. Think of your family, your dear family. Think of how important it is to pass down the family name. You wouldn't want to bring home a heifer and not know which bull has sired her calf."
"Enough!” Alan shouted, hurling the neck cloth to the floor. “I will hear no more of this, do I make myself clear? You may thank God you are a man of the cloth, because if you weren't I'd call you out. Now get out."
"No need to get belligerent, sir,” York blustered, though Alan could see he had paled. “I came only to help. I've always been a staunch supporter of the Pentercasts, as well you know. You can count on my discretion.” His eyes narrowed, giving him a decidedly crafty look. Alan wondered why he hadn't recognized it before.
"Of course, were I to loose my place at Wenwood, I would have no course but to explain to others why I was thrown out for speaking the truth."
Alan stared at him. “Are you attempting to blackmail me?"
York held up his gloved hands. “Oh, heavens no, dear boy, heavens no. I just want you to understand the possible repercussions should anything untoward happen to my position. A man my age cannot be too careful, you see. Such livings are not easy to come by, not easy at all."
"And harder to keep, I warrant,” Alan snapped in reply.
"Ah, you do understand.” York nodded, rising. “I'm glad we had this talk, my dear boy. We seemed to have reached an understanding.” He moved toward the door, then turned to Alan, his eyes once more narrowed. “Oh, and if you do decide to go through with this marriage, there will be no special license. I'm afraid you'll just have to wait while I read the banns over the next few weeks. That is, if I remember.” He sighed. “She really isn't the right one for you, you know. I've done all I could to prevent your heartache."
"That, sir, is another lie,” said Reverend Wellfordhouse. Alan looked up in surprise to find the curate standing bristling in the doorway, Gen, Allison, and Geoffrey crowding close behind him. “Pardon this interruption, Squire,” he bowed to Alan before leading them
into the room. “You see, we've been comparing notes on the mysterious destruction of the Thorn, and we've come to a conclusion that I could scarcely credit, until I heard Mr. York's last speech.” He frowned up at his master. “If I didn't know better, Mr. York, I'd say you were threatening the Squire."
York beamed beneficently. “Not at all, my boy, not at all. Squire Pentercast and I part on the best of terms, isn't that so, Alan?"
Alan grit his teeth, but the look of concern on Gen's face kept him silent. Above all else, she mustn't know the lies the man was spreading. “The Vicar and I understand each other."
Wellfordhouse shook his head even as York nodded. “Mr. York, these good people seem to think you cut down the Thorn yourself. And worse, that you've been behind all the vandalism. I'd like to be able to prove them wrong. May I see your hands?"
Alan started. York? The vandal? He narrowed his eyes as he considered the possibility. York was certainly large and strong enough to have broken the dam and cut down the Thorn. Alan found it harder to believe that he would wander about the countryside destroying property, but then he remembered that York had been the one to tell him of the acts to begin with.
Perhaps there had been no other acts. The man had merely lied to cover his tracks. He would not have given it credence had he not heard the bile the man was spouting a few minutes earlier. He glanced at Geoffrey and saw he wore an equally fierce look. Miss Allison stood with arms crossed over her chest, a pretty pout on her face. Gen was watching him closely, and he nearly groaned aloud. It seemed she still thought he might be behind all this.
"My hands?” York echoed beside him. “What is this nonsense? A man of my maturity, my social standing, my place in the community, a common vandal? Really, sir, you of all people should know the danger of listening to idle gossip."
Wellfordhouse looked sad. “I do, Mr. York, believe me, I do. That's why I would very much like to see your hands."
"Ridiculous!” York snapped, pushing his way past him. “I will not ... umpf.” He glowered at Geoffrey who barred his way. “Stand aside, sir! I will not listen to such accusations."
