by Bliss Bennet
No, no time for her own distractions, not with so much still to do here. Including herding this rowdy group of actors, who, if they did not stop mock-wrestling in the middle of the aisle between the show booths and those selling goods, would be in imminent in danger of oversetting poor Mrs. Hawley and her tasty gingerbread wares.
Harry answered hundreds of questions and averted more than a dozen potential catastrophes before the bells of the church rang out to sound the official opening of the fete. She took a deep breath as she watched familiar villagers and country dwellers she barely recognized stream into the village, all in search of respite and revelry. How satisfying, to know she had in small part made such a day possible.
After the sun reached its meridian, many of Saybrook’s tenants began to trickle into the village, the ceremonies to greet their new lord concluded. And by early afternoon, she had caught sight of each member of the Saybrook family out of the corner of her eye—Sir Peregrine and his lady greeting potential voters; Benedict sketching the children screaming with excitement as they twirled on the round-about; even Lord Dulcie, swaggering about in clothing more appropriate to Byron’s Corsair than to a sober English nobleman, eyeing all and sundry through the prism of his quizzing glass. But of the man she most wished to see, there was not the least sign.
“What is this, Miss Atherton?” Reverend Strickland, his voice as pinched as his lips, shook his head as contestants in the three-legged race began to skip and tumble down the course. “Men and women yoked together as if they were animals in harness? Highly unseemly.”
She had thought so, herself, when Theo had first suggested changing the traditional race to allow pairs of mixed sex to take part. But with Stickler Strickland’s disdain throwing a pall over the festivities, she could not help but wish to defend the new practice.
“Highly diverting, you must admit,” Lord Dulcie said as he stepped up beside her, forcing Mr. Strickland to take a step back.
The clergyman’s narrowed eyes had cowed many a weaker soul. But Dulcie only offered an unconcerned smile. “Not as diverting, though, as the young swain cavorting with his lady love behind the conjuror’s tent. Parishioners of yours, are they?”
Strickland’s handsome face reddened. “Certainly not! We do not tolerate lewd public behavior in Oldfield. But what more should we expect, inviting all sorts of vagabonds and riff-raff to our quiet village? I shall put a stop to it immediately.”
Harry sighed as Strickland set off, abustle in self-righteous importance.
“No need to thank me, I assure you,” Dulcie said as he took her arm and pulled her away from the racers. “I find yon clergyman almost as irritating as Saybrook’s brother, and not half so handsome.”
“Lord Dulcie.” She put her hands on her hips. “Did you just tell Mr. Strickland a falsehood?”
“A falsehood?” A sly smile limned the viscount’s lips. “Only if the fact that the swain and lady in question are of the canine persuasion can be considered a lie.”
She shook her head as the crowd behind them began to cheer. One of the three-legged couples must have crossed the finish line. “Were not you supposed to be helping Lady Sayre and her husband in the canvassing?”
“Not until after my fencing match. Two of the clock, you told me.” Dulcie clicked his pocket watch open and handed it to her. “And it is nearly that now.”
“Yes, but where is your opponent?”
“Oh, I’m sure Saybrook be here any moment. He promised to meet me on the field of combat.”
“Saybrook?” Had he, the ridiculous man? How did Dulcie do it, make everyone dance and jig to his tune, as tethered to his will as the puppets in the Punch show were to their strings?
Before the crowd around the racers could disperse, Lord Dulcie began to shout like a barker, advertising the upcoming fencing match. But rather than casting it as a simple display of aristocratic skill, he bellowed as if the Saybrook family had done him some actual wrong, and he, like a knight of old, felt compelled to challenge the dastards to trial by combat to prove his innocence.
“One of the actors from the troupe, drumming up attendance for the show this afternoon,” a woman in the crowd opined as Dulcie pulled a sword from the scabbard by his side and began to wave it through the air.
“Yes, but to call for the lord to take part? Overbold, that is,” a graybeard offered.
“Oh, our Saybrook’s a prime ‘un,” a local lad—one of Laban’s older brothers?—insisted. “Won’t rub him the wrong way.”
But as the hand on Dulcie’s watch ticked the top of the hour, then passed it, without any sign of their lord, the crowd began to grow restless.
Rather than tempering his display when his opponent failed to appear, though, Dulcie only escalated his insults, until the local villagers seemed in danger of setting upon him themselves to prove the honor of their missing lord.
Harry searched the crowds, certain that Theo would not break his promise. But the only Pennington she could see was Benedict, his expression even more stern than usual as he tracked Dulcie’s movements between the booths and tents.
Nudging through the throng, she pushed her way toward Theo’s brother. “Where is he?”
“I’ve no idea. And he’s without his foil, too,” Benedict said, snapping the weapon in question against his calf.
“Could something have happened to him?”
Benedict shook his head in frustration. “No. He just loses track of the time.”
“You’d think he might be punctual at least once in his life,” Sibilla Sayre huffed as she and her husband joined them. “But he refuses to carry father’s watch.”
“A watch,” Harry whispered. “Of course.” How could a man be expected to be on time when reading the numbers on a clock—or a watch—was near impossible?
And how could she help him if he insisted on keeping the extent of his incapacity hidden from her?
Before her rational brain thought think better of it, her hands rose to Benedict’s back and gave him a sharp shove into the empty circle around Lord Dulcie.
“Noble Sir Benedict will defend the honor of the Saybrook name from this scurrilous attack,” she yelled before the unsuspecting man could protest.
She set off in search of Theo as the first clash of a sword rang through the air.
Here’s to the good old beer,
Mop it down, mop it down.
Here’s to the good old beer,
Mop it down!
Here’s to the good old beer,
That never leaves you queer,
Here’s to the good old beer,
Mop it down!
Theo raised his tankard and crashed it against those of his nearest neighbors, the shock of pewter against pewter shivering along his arm. Many of them men had been “mopping it down” in the taproom of Oldfield village’s only inn for the better part of the afternoon, but Theo remained surprisingly sober. No need to drown bad feelings in spirits when he’d survived the formalities of his official introduction to his tenants without committing any major faux pas. And persuaded Norton and his son to step out of the Parliamentary race, this time for good.
“Give us another verse! Yes, you, Saybrook!” cried Billy Amcotts from across the crowded taproom. Blacksmith Tom Parsons, father of Saybrook’s footman, grinned, then echoed Billy’s call. And before long, the entire company took up the chant, banging their tankards down upon the wooden tables until the room fair shook with the sound.
“Enough, good gentlemen, enough!” Theo shouted. “We are like to drain Mr. Dodd’s kegs dry.”
When the crowd groaned in protest, he held up a hand. “But I have heard a rumor that someone may have supplemented his stores with a stock of the finest wine. And I know just the song to toast such happy news.”
He put foot up on a nearby chair, then raised both his glass and his voice.
Bacchus must his power resign,
I am the only god of wine.
It is not fit the wretch should be
&
nbsp; In competition with me,
Who can drink ten times more than he.
Make a new world, ye powers divine,
Stock it with nothing else but wine;
Let wine—
The door to the taproom crashed open to reveal one of the Dawber boys, his eyes wide with excitement. “A fight! Between two nobs with swords! Come quick, before the big one plants the little one a gooser!”
The cheering grew louder and tankards tumbled to the table as the celebrants pushed toward the exit. Damnation, had Dulcie challenged some other poor fool after Theo refused to take part in his ridiculous display?
He would have followed the rest of the men but for the figure who peeked her head around the doorframe in the wake of the exodus, her nose wrinkling in the most charmingly disgusted expression he had ever seen on womankind.
“Harry, sweetheart.” He strode over to her side and pulled her warm body into his arms. “Come to celebrate with me?”
He lowered his head for a kiss, but she, the slippery thing, wriggled free of his hold.
“Theo, please. Have you forgotten?”
“Forgotten? Forgotten my lady love? Never say it!”
“Theo, really! In front of Mr. Dodd?”
What a charming clucking hen she was, all fluff and feathers and embarrassed ferocity. Who could resist such a sight?
He feinted left, then moved right, trying to catch her off guard. But she ducked around him, then behind a table, keeping him frustratingly at bay.
“Oh, ho, it’s to be a chase, is it? Well, never let it be said that Theo Pennington ever turned down a challenge.”
“Have you not turned down Lord Dulcie’s? Or at least forgotten it?” She folded her arms tight across her chest in disapproval.
He frowned, distracted by the sight of her tantalizing breasts straining at the fabric of her gown. It had been far too long since he’d held them in his hands. Now that Per would be running unopposed, he would convince Harry to announce their betrothal, and then he would indulge to his heart’s content.
“You were to conduct a demonstration of fencing skill with him at two of the clock. And it is now gone half past.”
“No, did he not inform y—
“Theo, please.” She shot a glance toward the innkeeper, who chose that moment to carry an armful of tankards into the kitchens. Once the door swung shut behind him, Harry stepped closer, lowering her voice. “You should have told me reading a clock is as difficult for you as totaling a column of sums. I would have found you beforehand and made sure you were on time.”
Theo felt his face flush, and not from the liquor. His enchantingly ruffled hen had taken on a scolding air, as if she thought him a wayward chick gone disappointingly astray. Well, he needn’t put up with such ridiculous clucking. He was Saybrook now.
“What, so you could drag me around on leading strings as if I were an ignorant babe?” He drew his body up straight in his chair. “I may have certain incapacities, Miss Atherton, but I am not a child.”
“Of course you aren’t,” she said with a light pat on his arm.
Her placating tone set his teeth on edge. “I am perfectly capable of fighting my own battles.”
“To be sure. But there is no need today.” She sat down in the chair opposite him. “Happily, I was able to persuade your brother to take your place before your absence was marked.”
Benedict fighting Dulcie? Damn it all to hell. “Covering up my misstep? How kind of you.”
“Think nothing of it,” Harry answered, completely missing the irony in his voice. She leaned over the table and placed a hand atop his clenching fist. “Now, please, tell me what other difficulties your incapacity causes you, so I can be of help in the future.”
His jaw clenched, so tight he thought his teeth might well crack. “You ask me that, today of all days?”
“I’m sorry, but how am I to help you if you hide things from me?” Harry said, the reasonableness of her voice making his anger flare all the higher. “I cannot help you disguise your difficulties from others if I don’t even know what they are.”
Disguise his difficulties? He shook his head. Of course, she would hide his difficulties; is that not just what she had done for her father? That’s who Harry was, after all—someone who hid the weaknesses of the people she loved, and who tried to fix them all on her own.
Why did the prospect of a wife offering a lifetime of excuses for his inabilities send his stomach plummeting? Hadn’t he always wanted his father to recognize his shortcomings and make exceptions for them? Why, then, should the thought of Harry doing so cause him to feel so bloody sick?
He jerked to his feet, heat flushing through his entire body. “Help, is that what you call it? Or perhaps it’s just that you enjoy being the one in charge. Would you like write to Child and Co. to inquire about a mortgage? Or jaunt up to London to meet with Mr. Dent in person?”
“Theo, you haven’t taken out a mortgage, have you? When I advised you against it—”
“And you know best, don’t you, Harry? Does it make you feel superior, seeing everyone else’s mistakes and stepping in to correct them yourself.”
Harry’s face paled. “No, of course it doesn’t.”
“Are you certain?” He leaned across the table with a scowl. “Perhaps you pay Haviland’s attentions so little heed because he, unlike my bumbling self, is perfectly capable of surviving without your officious help.”
“Haviland’s attentions? Whatever do you mean?”
He snorted. “Haviland’s in love with you, Harry. But you’re so determined to rescue me, you can’t even see it.”
“No.” Harry backed away, shaking her head. “You’re wrong, Theo. Why are you being so cruel?”
“Because I can’t trust you, Harry,” he said, the words suddenly making sense of his unexpected ire. “If you’ll lie to others on my behalf, how can I ever trust you’ll tell me the truth?”
It was not only the beer that left such a bitter taste in his mouth. With a hard swallow, he turned on his heel and strode from the room.
CHAPTER TWENTY
Theo groaned as a blinding ray of sun hit him full in the face. But pinching his eyes shut did nothing to stop the sudden thundering chorus of blacksmiths, all pounding on the anvils they’d somehow dragged inside the cramped confines of his head. Nor to calm his gut, roiling in the most alarming fashion. Dash it, he’d forgotten how ghastly the morning after a debauch could be. And the state of his body did not make him feel one whit better about the way he’d lost his temper so vilely with Harry yesterday, either. Why, why had he tried to drown his sorrows in drink?
“Arise, shine, for thy light is come,” a deep baritone rumbled from beside the bed.
Theo muttered a curse, then grabbed a pillow to protect himself from any further incursions. “Go ‘way, Ben,” he said, pressing the feathers down against his face.
“I may not be the Lord come to shine glory upon you, but shine light upon you I will.” With a quick yank, the pillow jerked from his arms, exposing him again to the blinding sun. With a moan, Theo rolled to his side and pulled the bedclothes over his head.
“Come, brother”—the blankets and sheets disappeared as unceremoniously as had the pillow—“I know you’ve been plagued by bluer devils in your day.”
With slitted eyes, Theo glared at his stern-faced brother. “You’re enjoying this, aren’t you, you swine?”
“Stop name calling. You should be grateful I’ve saved your skin.” Benedict pushed down hard against the mattress until Theo began to roll towards the edge of the bed.
He groaned as he caught himself before he tumbled to the floor. “Saved my skin from what?”
“From the tongue-lashing Dulcie planned to give you.”
“Why should he care if I’m three sheets to the wind?”
“He doesn’t give a tuppence if you drink yourself under the very carpet. But he does care that Sir Peregrine is in financial straits, especially if the responsibility for said
straits lies at your feet. Which he was determined to tell Sibilla until I persuaded him otherwise.”
“Hell and damnation.” He pulled himself up until his back was flush against the headboard, then rubbed a hand through his no-doubt tousled hair. He’d promised to speak with Sibilla last evening, hadn’t he? Damn him for falling too far into his cups to make good on said promise.
Benedict crossed his arms, his expression forbidding. “Is it true?”
If his head hadn’t been throbbing, or if it had been anyone other than Ben who had asked, he’d have laughed the question off and changed the subject. But his brother would not be distracted, not when he got the bit between his teeth.
And Theo was tired of covering up his faults.
He set his jaw and forced his eyes not to look away from his brother’s. “Yes. It’s true. I’ve lost part of Sibilla’s damned dowry.”
Strong emotions flickered over Benedict’s usually impassive countenance—surprise, frustration, anger. But then, most shocking of all, doubt. “You lost it? Or did Atherton?”
Before he could close his gaping mouth to answer, Benedict waved a hand. “Oh, I’ve had my fair share of confusing conversations with the fellow. Ailing with la démence, is he not?”
“La démence?”
“Insanity. Oh, not the kind one is born with. The kind that comes on gradually, most often in the very old. Atherton’s rather young for it, but I saw a few cases of men his age when I visited the Salpêtrière in Paris.”
He rubbed a hand against his forehead. “Do I want to know what you were doing in the Salpêtrière?”
His brother raised an eyebrow.
“No, forget I even asked.”
But Benedict would not let him wriggle away on a joke. “Wasn’t certain until you brought Atherton into the house, but then, it was hard to miss the shouting, and the broken crockery, and the servants taken from their usual duties to keep him in check. Poor Harriot.”
