by Mary Balogh
It was fortunate that his wits had reassembled themselves in time for him to realize that hers were scrambled. “All afternoon?” he remarked sympathetically. He hoped he could make her trust him. She would have to tell him where she lived if he were to take her home, and he did not want to use force on the rather fragile-looking child.
“Rob Roy!” Better prepared, he managed not to leap as she yelled once more. He was clever enough not to betray himself by glancing around them again.
She gave a rueful smile. “I know. You will say that I would have done better to go out in the morning, but Mama wanted me to repair the torn fringe on the drawing-room curtain, although I think it was unjust of her to blame me for it. I am sure that I never let Rob Roy inside the house and… but that is beside the point. Ah, Rob Roy, there you are!”
A small, rough-coated terrier of the Scottish type had trotted soundlessly up to her side. Now he flopped down beside her, tongue lolling from his exertions. He lifted his face to survey the startled Hunsdon and wagged his tail once or twice by way of an introduction.
“My gun dog. Most people would use a spaniel, I know, but Mama has ruined the spaniels, which makes it all the more unjust of her to blame poor Rob Roy for everything, as if those little wretches weren’t willing to cause some mischief, but actually it is fortunate since he’s much better at flushing birds than any of them ever were, and goodness knows it is hard enough to find even one for him to flush since we had to let the gamekeeper go after Papa died.” She paused to draw breath. The horse gave an impatient tug at the reins.
Hunsdon was relieved to know that at least she had not been expecting a fictional character to appear in their midst. He tried to make his expression convey that he thought there was nothing unusual in keeping a terrier for a bird dog and that he was able to follow everything that she had to say. Her mention of a mama confirmed his supposition. The family preferred keeping her at home to admitting the child to a public hospital. She probably was usually confined in the attics. At least there was nothing about her to suggest that she was dangerous. He hoped that both barrels of her firearm had already been discharged. “Hadn’t you better be returning home?” he inquired kindly.
She looked doubtfully at her dog. “Perhaps you are right. I am certain that we shan’t see another bird today, though I hate to think of what Mama will say when I don’t return with a pheasant. I myself thought that a brace or two of woodcocks would do nicely, but she insists that it will take at least a pair of pheasants to impress the London swell, though if he is so used to grand dinners I would think he’d not notice them.” She grimaced without interrupting the flow of her words. “I can just hear her, too, ‘Barbara, all my dependence was upon you!‘ “
He had been about to say in a soothing tone of voice that he was certain that her mama would be relieved to have her back, with or without the pheasant, but the cant phrase caught his attention. “The London swell?” he asked. The horse tugged again, more emphatically this time.
“Mama says I must not call him that, but that is what Alfred calls him, and Alfred is Mariabella’s brother, after all.” She saw his puzzlement and continued by way of explanation, “I am speaking of the London lord who is arriving tomorrow to stay with the Blakemores. He is coming here to ask Mariabella Fostwick for her hand, but Mama means to have him marry me instead.”
The reins fell from his nerveless hands, which the horse took as permission to partake of more refreshment and so proceeded, but Hunsdon hardly noticed. His mouth dropped open in astonishment, which Barbara apparently took as a request for further elucidation.
“That is what the pheasant’s for, you see. It is part of Mama’s grand strategy. She means to have a dinner for him here so that he may meet me without Mariabella around.” Her eyebrows drew together in a frown. “Mariabella is a beauty, as you may know. Mama thinks that she would prove too great a distraction.”
The first of many objections that had come to mind now escaped his lips. “But you’re a child!”
She drew herself up haughtily. “I am seventeen, and will be eighteen in August!”
He had thought her fourteen at most. He stopped himself just in time from raising another obstacle, that of her mental condition. She misunderstood his silence. Her tone was troubled.
“I know it might seem somewhat underhanded to you, but Mama says that since Mariabella has so many suitors she will not miss just one. And since we cannot afford to hire a house in London, or servants, or gowns, or any of the rest, I will not be presented, so there is no other way for me to meet an eligible gentleman.” She sighed unconsciously. “Sometimes it is hard to be a baroness, for Alfred told me that he would marry me when he became twenty-one—not that I should want to really, but if I must marry someone I suppose it would be easier to marry someone that I know—but Mama says that none of the young gentlemen hereabouts are my equals in station.”
Was this another fantasy of a deranged mind? Somehow it had the ring of truth instead. Could he have been wrong about her mental condition? He had heard that there were occasional examples among ancient families where the barony was not entailed away from the female line, but it was quite rare. Was it possible that this eccentric little waif was one? And Carol Proctor even given that she was the sane member of her family, could it be true that anyone would honestly wish to marry her?
Barbara suddenly brightened. “There is always that other London lord, after all. Alfred told me that she was about to be engaged to him, but he lacked a fortune. This swell is said to be as rich as Golden Ball, so naturally when he appeared, she rid herself of the first suitor.”
It was an unattractive picture of his soon-to-be-fiancee. He had never heard of a serious rival for her hand, and for a moment he wondered if there were any truth in it. In another moment he came to himself. Barbara was undoubtedly mistaken. He was still not certain that her wits were entirely intact, after all. His duty was clear. He must disabuse this child of her chimeric notions as gently as possible.
“My dear,” he said quietly, as she paused for air again, “had it occurred to you that this London lord would not… might not wish to…”
She was regarding him with a frank, wide-eyed gaze that made it even harder for him to speak.
“I mean… that you might not suit?” he finally finished.
She gave an unhappy little laugh. “Might not suit? Yes, I am certain that we won’t, if what Mariabella says of him is true.”
“What Mariabella says… ?”
“Yes, well, I know that he’s tall and handsome and distinguished-looking—”
Hunsdon blinked. Although powerfully built, he was only of medium height. His features were too marked to be considered handsome, though it was considered that his disarming lack of pretentiousness, as well as his amiability, rendered him attractive.
“And from everything she has said, he must be the greatest dandy on earth. She’s always swooning over his exquisite manners and dress. I expect that he wears four pocket watches and has a ring on every finger and uses a walking stick and probably wears pomade in his hair and drenches himself in scent.” She had closed her eyes in distaste at the picture. “And I cannot doubt that he has never gone hunting, and probably rides a slug and refuses to live anywhere but London. Yes, I am quite certain that we will not suit. Fortunately, I am not romantic.”
He wasn’t certain whether to be insulted or amused. He had never formed one of the dandy set. With all modesty, he knew himself to be a sportsman of some renown. It was irritating. Mariabella might have boasted of his proficiencies as a shot, or a whip, or a rider to hounds, but then, such abilities might seem less impressive in Leicestershire, after all. They were scarce twenty miles from Melton Mowbray.
In the end, amusement won out, as much from Barbara’s dramatic manner of speaking as from the picture of the idle fop she imagined him to be. He was tired and ready to go home. First he meant to confess the whole truth to her, but he had no chance for she misinterpreted the reason for hi
s laughter and quickly took offense.
“So, you find all this diverting, do you? Is it just that my problems seem so trivial, or is it”—her eyes narrowed once again—”that you think that this London lord would not be interested in marrying me?”
It was exactly what he thought, actually what he knew, and he supposed that his answer must have shown in his face, for now she gave a sniff of outrage. “That shows your ignorance. I have told you already that I am a De Neresford. I am also the last of my line!”
He tried to look suitably impressed, but apparently failed, for now she sniffed again even more forcefully. “Well, I suppose I have to explain such things to an outsider. Our title was created in 1312, making it one of the oldest in the country.”
It was an ancient family, then. He did not know what that had to do with the matter at hand.
She looked at him for his reaction, then shook her head pityingly. “You still do not understand. Very well, this London swell does not come from an old family. Mama made inquiries, and his title, even the oldest of his inferior ones, is but fifty years old,”
He must have looked blank, for she shook her head again. “Mama explained it all to me, you see. My great-grandfather was an earl. His was probably a cheesemonger or some such thing. By his marriage to me, his child some day would inherit one of the oldest baronies in the country. Mama said that he would leap at the chance to marry me.” She looked a little uncertain. “Of course, Mariabella is a great beauty, and wealthy, which I am not, but Mama says that is not of the slightest consideration beside the fact that I am a De Neresford.” She pressed her lips together, then glanced at him from under an unusually thick pair of reddish-brown lashes. “Do… do you think that Mama is wrong?”
———
“My dear Hunsdon, you had us quite worried.” Roger’s tone was light, but there was sincerity in his words. “Anne was ready to send the servants to look for you.” Hunsdon had lost all track of the time and now his conscience smote him as he realized that the two were dressed for dinner and had likely been waiting for him this past half hour or more.
Anne pinkened, but retorted, “I was simply afraid for your life if you had let anything happen to Aghadoe.”
“We took a fall, but fortunately we’re both unharmed.”
“A fall! You? I have known love to have an adverse effect before, but this is certainly—”
“Roger,” said Anne seriously, “it is hardly the time to be teasing Lord Hunsdon.” She turned to address him. “You are limping! Are you quite sure that you have suffered no ill effects from your accident? Would you care to take dinner in your room tonight?”
“Thank you, no to each of your questions. I am sorry for being so deucedly late. If you will permit me, I will go and change out of my leathers and return in a trice.” His leg was still smarting, but not as grievously as before.
It was devilish odd. He had been meaning to regale them with an amusing account of the eccentric little chit who was setting her cap for “the London swell.” He was certain that Roger would find the situation as exquisitely entertaining as he himself did. Somehow, when he had entered the room, the humor of the situation had vanished. As he tied his starched white cravat with only a modicum of care, he frowned in thought. He would have to inform them of the meeting, of course, but there was no need to discuss her pretensions. She was only a child, after all. It would be sheer cruelty to make sport of her.
At dinner, he apologized for causing them any anxiety and mentioned that he had been detained in conversation with their neighbor, young Lady De Neresford. Neither Roger nor Anne seemed particularly surprised. The former gave a snort and said, “That explains it. I’ve no doubt she was happy to bend your ear for hours. It’s your own fault, Hunsdon, for having such a confounded sympathetic face.”
It was all too true. Handsome he might not be, but there was something about him that inspired others to pour out their confidences to him. He had no time to make any sort of reply, for now Anne commented, “Poor little thing. I suppose I should not speak of her ladyship so, but truly, I cannot help but feel for her, as alone and friendless as she is. It is little wonder that she unburdened herself at the sight of an amicable face.”
“Nonsense,” said Roger roughly. “She has her mother and the friendship of all the families in the neighborhood.”
“I know, but…” Anne sighed. “Of course, I should not wish to criticize her mother or the late baron, but it has often seemed to me that Barbara’s education was sadly neglected, particularly for a young lady of title. Even given their regrettable circumstances, something more might have been managed.”
“Balderdash. I daresay you would have to chain her to a pianoforte in order to make her learn the notes, and as for painting screens, or netting, or…” He shook his head. “I’ve heard her mother, despair over her a thousand times. Barbara would rather be out shooting, or riding, or engaged in deviltry with Alfred Fostwick or some other buffle-headed clod.”
“Sir Roger!” Anne looked unusually stern. “You will give Lord Hunsdon a false impression of our neighbor.” She shook her head. “I was not speaking of feminine accomplishments, but rather of her conduct. She cannot fail to please with her openness and her sincerity, but if she had been permitted to go about more in society, she might find herself more at ease—”
“A hoyden. You might as well say it.” Roger met his wife’s glare and sighed. “Well, I pity the chit myself, my dear. I don’t know how they manage with scarcely two farthings to rub together, particularly since they are as proud as the day is long. Why, do you remember how insulted they were when I brought them that haunch of venison last fall—as if it weren’t a thing I might have given to any of my neighbors? There’s not an ounce of harm in Barbara, that I will say, and I do not envy anyone with that mother. I misdoubt whether she is worth your concern, however, and I am certain that she would not thank you for it, so let us find a more agreeable topic of conversation.”
Obediently, Anne began a discussion of the guests they expected on the morrow. Hunsdon’s crony, Lord Brandville, was one, and there were a few other acquaintances, but the rest were strangers to him. That seemed odd, as did the fact that Brandville was the only other bachelor. Well, it was all for the best, as far as his courtship of Mariabella went.
He had intended at least to confess his deception to them, that when Barbara had shyly (and most improperly) asked his name, he had replied without mentioning his title. He still was puzzled by the question of why he had done it. It would have been the perfect opportunity to put a period to her misconceptions. He was not a naturally dishonest person.
Of course, since Roger had closed the topic of the baroness, it would seem rude to reopen it. Perhaps, upon consideration, it was not necessary for them to know. He could easily visit her tomorrow and explain matters to her. With such a resolution, he banished Barbara from his mind and entered into his hostess’s discussion of entertainments that might amuse the company. It did not occur to him that he had forgotten to send a missive to Mariabella, nor did he remember that she was the one he had intended to call upon that day.
———
He suffered some indecision upon awakening, for he shrank from calling upon Barbara in formal morning attire, given that they had not even been properly introduced, and yet he feared that to call upon her in his leathers might seem an insult. Remembering her own eccentricity of costume, it seemed preferable not to dazzle her with the elegance of town dress, and so he dressed simply in his driving clothes and called for his curricle to be harnessed.
Roger might have suffered under a misapprehension about his destination, for he murmured something about the “impatience of young love” as Hunsdon departed, but the latter chose not to enlighten him. Instead, he inquired the direction to Sherbrook of the young groom who held his horses. The groom appeared surprised, but after recovering, gave him concise and clear directions.
It was an easy distance, but as Hunsdon prepared to turn his curricl
e down the drive, he wondered if he had not made a mistake. The drive was sadly overgrown, barely permitting the passage of his curricle, and he nervously hoped that the paint might not be scraped from it. As bad as it was, the way must be almost impassable in the summer. If this indeed was the drive to Sherbrook, it did not appear—that even tradesmen’s carts were in the habit of visiting it regularly.
When he reached the grounds of the house, however, he was certain that he had hit upon the correct destination. Sherbrook obviously had originally consisted of an ancient manor house, strongly constructed of clunch and rubble. It had been added to in a haphazard fashion in the centuries since its erection. Here was the half-timbered Tudor wing, there a red brick Jacobean one, and at one end an uncompleted project in the Palladian mode.
Glancing about the grounds, he surmised that some ancestor of Barbara’s had undertaken a great landscaping plan, perhaps a century before. Whether he had accomplished what he had intended was an unanswerable question, for neglect had ruled during the intervening years. The De Neresford family might be one of the oldest in England, but apparently it had not been prosperous for some time.
Perhaps he had been wrong to bring his curricle, and to leave his groom at home. He had not wished to arouse Ned’s curiosity. The stables here looked dilapidated, but they must house animals of some sort. He prayed that there was a groom.
He needn’t have worried, for as he approached the house a lad burst from the stables and ran to the carriage with an alacrity that might have been admired in a ducal household. By the time Hunsdon had pulled the carriage in front of the house, the groom was already at the horses’ heads. The youth took hold of the near horse by the reins, his eyes shining with awed admiration for the animals. He was obviously unused to being in such proximity to blood cattle, and Hunsdon suspected it might have been the reason for his haste. The lad nodded respectfully, clearly awaiting further orders.
“Walk them.” Hunsdon tied up the reins and leaped down from the carriage. Now that he was here, his crime seemed even more heinous. To this proud, impoverished, country-bred young girl, it would probably seem that he had been making cruel sport of her. He resolved to make his confession quickly. It would not be easy to do.
