by M C Beaton
Lord Toby stifled a feeling of impatience. Where had his serenity of the morning gone? Only that morning the idea of making this girl his wife had seemed such a desirable—an eminently sensible—thing to do.
“Don’t cry,” he said wearily. “I cannot abide watering pots. I like you for your calm good sense, Miss Sampson… Henrietta. Come, my love. Dry your tears and I tell you what I will do for you. You know you are desirous of going to the Montclairs’ breakfast tomorrow. Then I shall escort you.”
Morag glanced over her partner’s shoulder and saw the girl with the brown ringlets turn a glowing face up to Lord Toby. Her heart felt like a lump of ice in her bosom.
“Who is that girl with Lord Freemantle?” she asked Harvey Wrexford who was partnering her. Harvey twisted his long neck around. “Oh, that’s Toby’s fiancée,” he said carelessly. “Announcement’s in the newspapers in the morning. Managing sort of female, but Toby’s a cold fish where women are concerned… more of a man’s man, don’t you see.”
Morag nodded dumbly. She wanted to go home and hug Rory and then go to bed and lay her aching head on a cool pillow.
What a truly terrible evening!
What a truly terrible evening, thought Miss Simpson. Rory had had the time of his life at her expense. He had greedily ordered all sorts of goodies from the kitchen and had rounded off the evening by demanding wine. Grimly Miss Simpson had given it to him and had awaited the expected result. Rory had blinked several times like an owl and then had fallen fast asleep.
After she had put him to bed, she returned to the drawing room and sat deep in thought. She had never told Morag the full extent of Rory’s villainy. Miss Simpson was terrified at having to return to her brother’s farm and she was sure that Morag would send her away were she to complain of Rory. She was too old to find another position. But she ached to see Rory punished as he deserved, and the only person who could hurt him was his mother.
All children in Miss Simpson’s care—including Morag—during her long years governessing had been in her complete charge and, sad to say, she had bullied them mercilessly.
Morag had not forgotten that bullying—of that Miss Simpson was sure. For although Morag was softhearted enough to supply her with the post of companion, she had made it quite clear that Miss Simpson was to have no authority over Rory.
Miss Simpson cracked her bony knuckles and came to a decision. She would write to Morag, a clear and lucid letter. She could put it better that way since she hardly ever managed to see Morag without Rory being somewhere about.
Then that hell’s spawn would receive the whipping he deserved!
Chapter Eight
Lord Toby Freemantle walked slowly in the direction of Albemarle Street to pay his respects and offer his apologies to the Countess of Murr. He began to wonder if she would even see him.
Forget about the rights and wrongs of the matter, it was old history and he had had no right to insult her. And if he did not find what she had meant by “breaking hearts” he would be unable to rest. Once he had received her explanation, he convinced himself, the ghost would be laid and he would be free to resume his placid if somewhat boring existence.
Although it was early afternoon, the day held a harsh bright glitter and a rising wind whipped pieces of paper round in miniature whirlwinds in the cobbled streets.
He paused for a moment to watch the splendid sight of the Sun Insurance Fire Brigade tearing into action, brass bells clanging, great horses straining, and the firemen in their leather helmets, striped stockings and blue coats clinging to the engine’s side. The freshening wind whipped this way and that, tugging at his hat and playing in the snowy folds of his cravat.
A huge butler with the pale gray narrow eyes of the Highlander answered the door to him and accepted his card with a clumsy bow. He was shown into a small saloon on the ground floor which was tastefully decorated in shades of green and gold.
After some minutes, he became aware that he was not alone. A beautiful child was lolling in a chair in the corner of the room. Rory and Lord Toby surveyed each other in silence. Rory was feeling queasy after his debauch of the night before.
“Are you come to see mama?” he asked.
“Yes,” said Toby, feeling a strange pang and wondering what on earth was the matter with him. Morag had been married after all. It was only natural she would have a child. He now realized that despite all the old earl’s winks and hints, he had in his heart of hearts believed Morag to be virginal. He must have been mad.
“Are you Lord Toby Freemantle?” queried Rory, swinging his feet listlessly over the edge of the chair.
Lord Toby stared at the child in surprise. “Yes, I am. How did you guess?”
“Green-eyed sneering dandy,” said Rory vaguely. “You’ve got such green eyes I thought she must have meant you.”
“Has anyone ever told you you are an insolent young pup?”
“Frequently,” replied Rory with great indifference. Lord Toby studied the child narrowly. Rory felt too ill to put on his usual angelic expression. He was too tired to think of any blackmailing tricks and so Toby was one of the few people to see Rory for what he was—his better side anyway—a frighteningly high intelligence starved for an outlet.
“I supposed you are cramming for Eton,” said Lord Toby.
“No,” sighed Rory. “I am too young and charming to be sent away among a lot of rough boys.”
“You should not mock your mother.”
“I! Never!” cried Rory hotly. “But I would like to learn, oh, so many things. Mother teaches me, you know. But it’s mostly romantic stories which were all very well when I was a boy, but now I am a young man,” added eight-year-old Rory loftily, “such things bore me.”
“You do not need to fret over your lack of education,” said Toby gently. “There are plenty of books, you know. You can educate yourself.”
“Really!” said Rory with a languid, affected drawl which grated on Lord Toby’s nerves. “Pray tell me, if you were my tutor what books would you have me read?”
“Books on steam engines, sailing ships, and horses. Books of travel describing far countries. Books of shells and birds and insects.”
Rory’s eyes gleamed and he sat up. He was as starved for fact as his “mother” had been for fiction.
The door opened and Hamish entered. “I am afraid her ladyship is not available,” he said.
Lord Toby bowed his head. “I see. Present my compliments to her ladyship and my apologies. Lady Murr will understand.”
“Very good, my lord.”
Hamish moved to show Lord Toby out but Rory sprang to his feet. “Lord Freemantle is my guest,” he cried. “Pray leave us!”
Hamish ignored Rory and moved to the double doors which led from the saloon into the main hall.
Rory stared at Lord Toby with pleading eyes.
Lord Toby did not find Rory charming but he found the child’s intelligence fascinating. He made up his mind.
“Leave us, please, a few minutes,” he said, turning on Hamish a singularly sweet smile.
“Very well,” grunted Hamish. “But I hope your lordship knows what he is about.”
He went out and closed the doors behind him.
“Now,” said Rory, all his languor gone, “if you will buy me these books you describe, I will arrange a meeting with my mother.”
Lord Toby’s face hardened. “No, my little blackmailer. You may ask your mother to take you to a bookseller.”
“I can make things very difficult for you,” pointed out Rory.
“No, you can’t,” said Lord Toby. “There is nothing you can do except slop around feeling vastly sorry for yourself and cramming your mouth with sweetmeats and getting spots on your face.”
“My skin is beautiful,” cried Rory, dancing up and down on a chair in front of the looking glass over the fireplace in an effort to see his face. There was one spot, he eventually noticed, right on his forehead.
Tears of anger filled his eyes.
But no one else had ever understood him as well as this tall, handsome lord who stood watching him indifferently.
He suppressed his anger and climbed down from his chair. “We could deal extremely well together, my lord,” he said, turning the full blast of his charm on Lord Toby.
“There is no reason why we should,” rejoined Lord Toby, picking up his hat and cane. “Now I must be off. I am to attend the Montclairs’ breakfast and my fiancée will never forgive me if I am late.”
Rory, in a last effort to please, rushed and held the doors open for him. But Lord Toby did not even notice. He did not, after all, know that Rory normally never held doors open for anyone other than his mother.
After Lord Toby had left, Rory sat down and stared moodily into space. A glimmer of an idea formed in his brain. For the first time in his life, he wanted someone to like him. And that someone was Lord Toby. He stood on tiptoe and ran his fingers through the cards on the card rack on the mantelshelf. Ah, here it was! An invitation to the Montclairs’ breakfast. Why did things called “breakfast” always begin at three o’clock in the afternoon? He extracted the invitation and went in search of his mother.
Morag was feeling tense and nervous. She wished now she had seen Lord Toby. But he was engaged and she didn’t like him anyway and he was rude and unkind and why did she care so desperately?
Her face lit up with affection as Rory came tripping into the room, the invitation card behind his back.
“I was talking to Lord Freemantle,” he began, “and he said I should read books on, oh, all sorts of things like steamships and horses.”
“Anything that man says is bound to be wrong,” snapped Morag. “You will learn enough hard facts later in your life without addling your brains at this early age.”
Rory sighed. He was losing his touch. He should simply have asked her for the books without mentioning Lord Freemantle’s name. He changed his tactics.
“Look, mama. I have a spot on my forehead.”
“Only a little one, my love. You eat too many sugar plums.”
“I think it is a lack of fresh air, mama. I miss the country so much,” said Rory who did not miss it in the slightest and found the crowded streets of the city vastly more entertaining.
“Do you, my son?” asked Morag, feeling a sudden stab of conscience. “We cannot return to Perth, you know, until the mystery of your assailant is solved. My steward is investigating the matter. Perhaps we could take a drive this afternoon.”
Rory whipped out the breakfast invitation. “You have this, mama. My name is on the invitation also and only see, it says in the corner that there are to be fireworks. Only think, mama. Fireworks!”
“Very well,” said Morag. “Run along and tell Miss Simpson she is to accompany us and then send a footman round to the stables with a message. I did accept the Montclairs’ invitation but I did not mean to go since I feel so tired today. But if your heart is set on it…?”
“Oh, yes.”
“Then tell Miss Simpson that we leave in an hour.”
Rory skipped up the stairs to the governess’s room and crashed in without knocking. Miss Simpson had been in the act of finishing her catalogue of Rory’s iniquities. She blushed and put her large hands quickly over the letter. Rory flicked a glance at the paper on her desk and carefully looked away as he delivered his message. So what was old Simpers up to? Whatever was in the letter, she would not have time to finish it now. And wherever she hid it, Rory would find it.
Sir Eric and Lady Felicity Montclair held the breakfast at their cottage ornée in Surrey. The cottage was in fact a large sprawling villa, all its rooms being designed in the same manner, flesh-colored stucco and gold, and curtains of crimson and white silk. The effect was rather florid and grandiose. The grounds, however, were delightful with many pleasant walks and arbors. Tables for the guests had been set out on the smooth lawns. It was still quite windy and the light pastel muslins of the ladies fluttered across the grass like so many flowers.
Henrietta Sampson walked by the side of Lord Toby Freemantle and gracefully accepted felicitations on her forthcoming marriage. After some time, it downed on her that her tall companion was emanating an atmosphere of unease. Henrietta remembered her comments on the Countess of Murr at Almack’s the night before and wondered if that had offended her fiancé. Men were so strange! They said the most frightful things about each other but let only one miss pass a derogatory remark about another female and she was labeled a shrew. Henrietta resolved to be extremely pleasant to the young Countess of Murr should their paths cross again.
Unfortunately this good resolution lasted only as long as her first glimpse of Morag. Henrietta was wearing a new poplin tunic gown in a flattering straw color. She felt it became her well. But that wretched countess was also wearing a tunic gown in the same color and it set off her creamy skin and flaming hair to perfection. Henrietta felt pale and dowdy by comparison.
Lord Toby’s rather cold, arrogant face was hardly to be expected to delight the eyes of a child. But Rory brightened immediately at the sight of his new hero and he tugged Morag impatiently toward Henrietta and Lord Toby.
Morag had been talking to Miss Simpson and had allowed Rory to tug her along. She realized with a start that Lord Toby was bowing before her while the lady at his side was raking her eyes up and down Morag’s dress with a singularly unpleasant stare.
Lord Toby felt that to offer Morag an apology in front of his fiancée would not be a good idea at all. He was uncomfortably aware that his pulses were racing with a strange, heady excitement. Morag made him a stiff little curtsy and said, “Come, Rory,” and without waiting to see whether he followed her or not, walked away. Just then, Henrietta’s mother, Mrs. Lydia Sampson, came fluttering up. She was dressed in shades of gray and lilac and looked like a wispy insubstantial ghost. “Henrietta,” she whispered. It was not a secret she had to impart. Mrs. Sampson always whispered. “The hem of my gown has come loose. You are so clever with a needle, my dear. Pray walk with me into the house and assist me.”
Henrietta assented with bad grace. One of her favorite roles was that of Dutiful Daughter and she felt obliged to play it one more time.
“I shall return quite soon,” she said, squeezing Lord Toby’s arm. “Oh, here is that wretched child again.”
“Go along with you, Miss Sampson,” said Lord Toby, wondering why he found it so hard to call her by her first name. “I am well able to deal with a child.”
As soon as Henrietta had left with her mother, Rory, who had been hanging about hopefully a little way away, came scampering up.
“Well, young man,” said Lord Toby severely. “Who are you blackmailing today?”
“No one as yet,” replied Rory calmly. “My mother’s suitors have not approached me yet.”
“What a horrible brat you are! Has it never dawned on you that people might help you out of sheer good nature?”
“No,” said Rory simply. “Good nature is not fashionable. I am told ‘It will never do.’”
“You must not follow the sillier dictates of society or you will become quite inhuman. Have you heard the story of the famous dandy who was walking along the riverbank with his lady friend. No? Well, there was a man drowning in the river and the lady knew the dandy to be a powerful swimmer. ‘Pray, sir,’ she cried. ‘Why do you not rescue that poor gentleman.’ Whereupon the dandy raised his quizzing glass and surveyed the drowning man and said in accents of horror, ‘But, my dear young lady, we have not been introduced.’”
Rory laughed gleefully. “Yes,” commented Lord Toby dryly, “I thought that might amuse you. Where did you come by these odd blackmailing tactics, my soulless dwarf. It’s not as if anyone ever blackmailed you.”
“Oh, yes they did,” said Rory, falling into step beside him. “In Perthshire, you know, I used to slip out of the castle at night and go to the village to join the boys in their games. But they used to laugh at me because I was in petticoats. I asked them when would they stop teasing me a
nd let me join in their games, and they said, ‘Why, when you give us something to keep us quiet.’ I didn’t have any money but I used to steal biscuits and sugar plums and take them with me and as long as I had something to give them, they would let me play with them for a little. You must not tell my mother, though. I trust you are a man of honor?”
“Word of a Freemantle,” said Toby, looking down at the boy curiously. “I don’t know what else you could expect,” said Toby after a pause. “The village children knew you were rich and an earl. They probably had little themselves. There must have been boys of your own station in life to play with.”
“No,” said Rory. “I mean, there were, but mama thought them too rough.”
“And what of sports, hunting and fishing?”
“I am considered too delicate.”
“But surely you had some friend among the servants. At your age, I followed one of my father’s grooms about like a dog.”
A shadow crossed Rory’s usually calm face. “Hamish!” he said bitterly. “He hates me. I mean, even before I blackmailed him he didn’t like me. He’s our butler.”
“Hamish, too,” murmured Lord Toby, but Rory had never known anyone to listen to him like this before and would not be checked.
“Hamish looks at me in such a way and once when I asked him why he did not call me ‘my lord,’ he gave a very nasty laugh as if he knew something about me that I would not like. Mrs. Tallant—our housekeeper—is the same. There is a lack of respect….”
Lord Toby stopped and swung the boy around to face him. “Now, listen to me, young man, you have gained a very warped view of life. People treat you as you treat them. Try to be kind. Try to talk to Hamish, for example. Respect must be earned.”
“Run along, you tiresome child.” Rory had been staring wonderingly up at Lord Toby, trying to assimilate these new ideas when this grating, female voice cut across his reverie. Henrietta was back. “I said, ‘run along,’” she snapped. “Really, Toby, I don’t know what Lady Murr must be thinking of. Bringing a child along.”
