Diccon glanced at the cat which flashed past and up the slope at a great rate of speed. “Why would I know that Mr. Coville was there?” he asked.
“’Cause he comed down here to see you, a’course. Is you coming back, Diccon? He can’t play, you know. He just talks to Etta and to Fanny.”
So Coville had visited Lanterns. Looking for Lady Pamela no doubt, thought Diccon with a grim smile. If so, it had been a covert search; certainly, he’d not come to the front door.
“… do you?” asked Arthur.
“Er—your pardon? Do I—what?”
“Like him. I don’t. He’s always patting me on the head an’ telling me to ‘run along like a good boy.’ An’ he smiles a lot, but he doesn’t laugh. Not even when Friar Tuck chased a mouse all round the kitchen ’fore dinner las’ night, an’ Aunty Dova an’ Fan screamed an’ screamed. Papa an’ me, we laughed.”
“I expect you did, you rascal. What about Miss Marietta? Did she laugh?”
“Yes, but she opened the back door an’ Friar an’ the mouse runned out. Mr. Coville just smiled. Papa likes him. I heared him tell Aunty Dova he’s a fine fellow. An’ Fanny says he’s very han’some an’ that he’s payin’ Etta interest, or something.”
Diccon scowled, but said quietly, “‘Fixing his interest,’ perhaps?”
“I dunno. Oh, here comes Etta now. I found Sir G’waine, Etta!”
Marietta was walking down the hill towards them, her cloak billowing in the wind. Diccon’s heart convulsed painfully. He halted, watching her. The wind had blown her hair into a tangle and painted a becoming glow on her cheeks; raindrops sparkled on her dainty nose, and she looked predictably cross. But she had come herself, not sent Lem Bridger or Mrs. Gillespie to fetch Arthur home.
Longing to see those stern lips curve into her enchanting smile, he said, “Good morning, ma’am. I was just bringing him home.”
“Yes.” There was no smile and after a brief cold glance, she avoided his eyes. “Thank you.”
“This is Major Diccon’s seafarin’ jacket,” said Arthur importantly. “Isn’t it fine, Etta?”
“It was very kind of the Major to let you borrow it, dear. But I brought your coat, so you must give it back now.”
“Let me wear it home, Etta. Please do. I want to show Papa, an’ Sir G’waine can take it back when—”
“No, dear. Major Diccon is very busy, and Papa told you not to come to Lanterns any more. You disobeyed him, after you promised to do as he said. That was naughty.”
He said rebelliously, “I crossed my fingers, so it wasn’t a real live promise. An’ ’sides, he’s not busy, are you, Sir G’waine? He likes me to go there, an’ so does Mr. Fox an’ the Lord of the Larder, an’—”
Marietta blinked. “Who?”
“MacDougall,” supplied Diccon.
“Oh.”
“An’ he played the pipes, an’ I drummed, an’ Diccon played his fiddle, an’ we marched all ’round the house!” Arthur jumped up and down in his enthusiasm, shouting, “It was such fun, Etta!”
Marietta watched him fondly, marvelling that this was the same child who had for the past two days been so listless and silent. The hurt look of bewilderment and loss was banished from his face now. He was a happy little boy again, bursting with energy and enthusiasm. How perverse was Fate that her little brother should have taken such a liking to this treacherous individual, and that so ruthless and deceitful a man would spare the time to be kind to a child he scarcely knew. And how could she, loving the boy so much, fail to be grateful to anyone who had given him such joy? She said smilingly, “It sounds lovely, dear. That was kind in you, Major. Even so, you will understand that he must obey my father.”
“Yes, of course. You see, old fellow, we cannot always do what we want to.” Diccon met Marietta’s eyes and said, “Even if we want it more than—more than anything in the world. And an honourable gentleman doesn’t break his promise, young Warrington.”
“I ’spose not.” Arthur looked crushed, then said brightly, “Thass all right, Sir G’waine. You can come an’ see me. Can’t he, Etta?” He tugged at Diccon’s hand. “I’m not too busy. Come now, an’ after lunch you can tell me one of your stories ’bout—”
“I’m afraid I won’t be able to do that. For a while. But—”
“You’re goin’ ’way!” Arthur peered up at the tall man in new anxiety. “Don’t go, Major. Please don’t go ’way. You’re my bes’ friend, an—” His voice broke. He said scratchily, “Can’t I come an’ see Mr. Fox, even?”
Diccon touched the tumbled curls and looked regretfully at the tearful little face.
Marietta thought miserably, ‘Oh, if only he was a different kind of man! Someone Arthur could really look up to and respect!’ But “if onlys” paid no toll, and smothering a sigh, she reached out. “Come, dearest.”
Arthur turned on her, his eyes gemmed with tears. “It’s your fault!” he sobbed. “You taked ’way Harry Rogers, an’ Spotty Bill, an’ the milkman, an’ now I’ve found a new bes’ friend you’re making him go ’way too. You don’t want me to have friends! I don’t—I don’t love you … no more!”
Diccon said sharply, “Arthur! You mustn’t—”
But the boy was gone, running madly towards the dower house, the jacket sleeves flapping and his sobs echoing after him.
Distressed, Marietta said, “Now see what you have done!”
“Yes. I’m very sorry. I didn’t dream—”
Turning on him, she interrupted, “What? That you might become fond of him?”
“That he would become fond of me. I suppose I should have sent him away, but—” He gave a rueful shrug.
“Only think, my lord. Had you told a few truths instead of very many untruths, this could have been averted!”
She looked vexed, but she was talking to him, and she made no move to follow her brother. He said, “Perhaps, it could have been averted had you not been so willing to believe ill of me.”
Her little chin tossed upward. “How should I not believe what you yourself admitted, sir?”
“That I am Lord Temple and Cloud, for instance?”
“Among other things—yes.”
“No.”
She stared at him. “But, you said—”
“Your pardon, ma’am. You asked if that was my ancestral title. It is. The thing is, you see, that I don’t want it.”
Her eyes widened and the rosy lips formed a pretty ‘O.’ She echoed in astonishment, “You won’t use—the title? Good gracious! Why ever not?”
He shrugged. “Pride, I suppose you might say. I like to earn my honours. No, really, Miss Marietta, why on earth should I expect other men—men probably more deserving than I—to bow and scrape and call me ‘my lord’ because of something my grandfather-several-greats-removed did? I won my military rank on my own merits, but—”
Recovering her wits, she interrupted, “Which is what, exactly? Sergeant? Or major? Or is it perhaps sergeant-major?” And fearing that she might again be judging him too harshly, she asked quickly, “You were not really promoted at Waterloo?”
“No, Miss Marietta. I was awarded my majority in 1813.”
“I suppose you will claim that you have renounced that, also.”
“I’ll own I’ve almost lost it a few times. But my demotion at Waterloo was—er, a matter of expedience.”
Intrigued, she asked, “Are you allowed to speak of it?”
He hesitated. “Yes, if you will keep it to yourself, ma’am.”
She nodded, and to his delight raised no objection as he began to walk up the slope beside her.
“There was a clever thief about Town,” he explained, “who specialized in safes and strong-boxes. My superiors had reason to believe that during his illicit pursuits he had come upon some particularly vital information. The robbery was not reported by the victims, but he’d been identified and was hunted. He had no idea of the importance of what he had seen, or why he was so relentlessly pursued, and when an at
tempt was made on his life he became very frightened and hid himself in Rifle Green. We never dreamed then that Bonaparte would really strike, and I was sent in to try and smoke out our man, as it were. But I’d never have managed it as an officer.”
“And so became a sergeant. I see. And were you able to ‘smoke him out’ before the battle?”
“Fortunately, I was. During the battle.”
The empty look had come into his eyes at that memory, and seeing it, Marietta said, “There is a story there, I think.”
“Yes, ma’am. Perhaps you will permit that I tell it to you—sometime?”
He sounded so hopeful. Almost, she was lured into a smile, but then she remembered, and said hurriedly, “I had prefer that you tell me—” And she paused, for she had no real right to demand information about a family matter.
Diccon watched the swiftly changing play of emotion on the face that had become for him the epitome of feminine beauty. “You want to know if I have really murdered my mother.”
Her eyes shot to his with an eagerness that both angered him and warmed his heart. He said grimly, “I see my dear step-brother has been spreading his vitriol.”
Marietta frowned. “Mr. Coville is understandably anxious for the lady.”
He gave a shout of bitter laughter. “Oh, understandably! Good grief, madam, can you really believe that of me?”
He had stopped walking. She stopped also, and searching his face, said hesitantly, “I can believe that if someone were spreading such untruths about my brother, he would call them out in an instant!”
“Then—you know them for untruths? Marietta,” he stepped closer to her, “is that what you’re saying?”
That dreadful silver flame was in his eyes again, frightening her yet making her heart thunder with excitement. She said, “How can I know anything except—except that you do not deny it?”
He caught her hand and drew her closer, demanding huskily, “Can you look into my eyes and judge me capable of such a thing? Can you?”
She tried to steel herself against the tenderness that was so clear to see, but her attempt to break away was feeble in the extreme. It was all wrong, she thought in desperation. Blake should be looking at her in this unnerving way. Blake should be the one to make her heart pound so violently. He was the man who could provide for her family. Not this man of mystery who was so enigmatic and intense about things, and who lacked Blake’s looks and light-hearted charm. Yet Diccon had shown unexpected depths of kindness, and of a strength that would be such a bulwark against the world for the lucky lady who— She thought, ‘Good gracious!’ and struggling to hold on to common sense, heard again Coville’s sombre words, “He is the most dangerous man I have ever known.”
“Even if I did not believe it,” she said, turning her head away, “so long as you do not speak up, my family must have doubts. Who are we to believe? Sir Gavin and Mr. Coville have been most kind to us. Why would they lie about such a dreadful thing? Why even tell us of it? We are not long-time friends.”
He relaxed his hold on her hand. “But you live very close to Lanterns, Miss Marietta. I’ll warrant my step-father desired you to keep him informed of what goes on at the manor.”
It was true. Walking on slowly, she said, “But if they wanted to watch Lanterns, why would they have leased us the dower house in the first place? Why not stay there themselves?”
“Probably because I had not at that time loomed as a threat on their horizon.”
Shocked, she said, “How do you constitute a threat? Sir Gavin is a very wealthy gentleman, and—” She bit her lip and did not finish the sentence.
“And Lanterns is a ruin and I am very far from being wealthy?” He nodded. “Quite. And I forget my manners. It is very bad form to slander members of one’s own family behind their backs. Therefore, ma’am, I must say no more, and can only beg you to believe that as God be my judge I never have, and never will, I pray, harm a lady.”
Troubled, she was silent.
He touched her hand tentatively, and she stopped once more and faced him.
“Will you trust me, ma’am? May I be permitted to see the dauntless Outlaw of Sherwood Forest again? And … and your—very lovely—self?”
Marietta hesitated. Surely, no man could meet her eyes so steadily, so worshipfully, and be a liar and a murderer? And dear little Arthur loved him so.
“Please?” he murmured.
“I shall have to speak with my father. I think I can persuade him to allow my brother to come down and see you, even if he will not permit you to come to—” She laughed suddenly. “How silly of me! It is, after all, your own house!”
“Not by the law of the land, Miss Marietta. The lease is signed. For its duration, Sir Lionel is the legal owner. But—I thank you for allowing me to hope.”
He took her hand and bowed over it with courtly grace.
And went away dizzy with triumph, for she had smiled at him.
CHAPTER IX
“I’ll tell you what it is.” Sir Lionel stamped into the kitchen scattering mud from his boots and raindrops from the capes of his driving coat. “That stream is more like a river than—”
“Papa! My dumplings!” squealed Fanny.
“Eh?” He paused to stare at her.
She bent protectively over her bowl of dough. “You’re dripping all over them.”
“Oh. Sorry, Fan.” He sniffed. “Jove, that smells good! Stew for lunch? Stew’s common, so Dale says. But to my mind, it’s always good on a rainy day.”
Marietta came to help him out of his coat. “Did you find what you needed in Eastbourne, sir?”
“I did.” He dug an elbow in her rib and winked like a mischievous schoolboy. “And won’t your aunt be surprised!”
Standing at the stove and prodding a reluctant prospective dumpling from the spoon while watching her father expectantly, Fanny asked, “What kind of surprise, Papa?”
“It missed the pot!” exclaimed Marietta. “Shoo! Go away, Friar Tuck!”
Mrs. Cordova hurried into the kitchen, having kicked off her pattens in the scullery but with her voluminous cloak scattering even more raindrops. “Such a dreadful time I had with that wretched Maitland woman,” she wailed. “And I have— Why are we feeding raw dumplings to Friar Tuck?”
“Be dashed if the stupid animal ain’t lapping it up,” said Sir Lionel, intrigued.
“Then he must go out, for he will be sick.” Mrs. Cordova flung off her cloak revealing Madame Olympias’ spangled wrapper beneath it. “Come, puss!”
“Why must Friar Tuck be thrown out in the rain?” protested Arthur, joining the group.
“Because your sister will persist in giving him scraps,” said Mrs. Cordova, ejecting the annoyed Friar. “And I will tell you, Warrington, that your would-be lady is extreme irked, so you may expect her brother to come demanding payment at his first opportunity.”
“Oh, egad!” moaned Sir Lionel, sweeping her discarded cloak from a chair and clutching it as he sat down. “What have you done now?”
“I have done nothing.” She retrieved the cloak and shook it out, drawing a howl from her inundated brother-in-law and another shriek from Fanny. “Madame Olympias, however, has saved you from matrimony. For the moment, at least.”
“Did the widow arrange for a reading?” asked Marietta. “I wonder she did not come here to see you, Papa. Whatever did you tell her, Aunty?”
“Madame Olympias looked into the Mystical Window Through Time—” said Mrs. Cordova with dignity.
“You mean that silly little crystal ball,” scoffed Sir Lionel.
“—And told her that she will never be Lady Lionel Warrington,” she went on, ignoring him. “I quite thought,” she added musingly, “that she was going to strangle me.”
Cheered, he said, “By Jove, now that was well done!”
Arthur tugged at Marietta’s skirt and hissed, “Has you asked him about Major Diccon?”
“What about that—that lying renegade?” demanded Sir Lionel, hi
s eyes sparking.
Arthur looked scared and went outside mumbling that he was going to see if Friar Tuck had gone into the barn.
Following him to the door, Mrs. Cordova called, “Take an umbrella!” then moaned as the boy ran across the side yard carrying a closed umbrella.
“Well? Did our smuggling peer dare show his face at my door?” asked Sir Lionel.
“On his own property?” said Marietta demurely.
“Dash it all, girl,” he snorted. “Why must you defend the rogue? If I thought—”
“Marietta Paisley, Baroness Temple and Cloud,” trilled Mrs. Cordova. “It has a ring, Warrington. You cannot deny it has a ring.”
“Not if he refuses the title,” Fanny pointed out. “Oh, dear! Where ever is my lid?”
“And not the ring of gold,” said Sir Lionel. “Yes, you will say that sounds vulgar, but if he is not pockets-to-let why would he have abducted his mama?”
“I must have the lid, or the dumplings will be ruined,” wailed Fanny, searching.
“He did not abduct the lady,” said Marietta, carrying a jug of milk from the pantry.
“He told you that?” asked her father.
“Yes. I asked him if the rumours speak truth, and he gave me his solemn oath that he has never harmed a lady in his life.”
“Evasion number ninety-three,” muttered Fanny.
Marietta frowned, then said, “Oh—Aunty has your saucepan-lid, Fan.”
“His solemn oath?” Sir Lionel pursed his lips. “Hmm.”
Fanny attempted to appropriate the large iron lid that Mrs. Cordova held and was gazing at dreamily. “Aunty Dova? May I have my lid please?”
“Oh dear, oh dear!” sighed Mrs. Cordova, relinquishing it. “‘Double, double, toil and trouble.’”
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