by Carola Dunn
Hugh backed away from the acrid vapours and tried not to listen as his character was torn to shreds. It was very unjust, he felt, since he had turned over a new leaf. At last, despairing of an end to the peroration, he interrupted.
“I have news for you, Mama, which I hope will please you. I mean to settle down and live respectably. I am engaged to be married.”
Silenced at last, Lady Lavinia gaped at him. Before Miss Sneed could take up cudgels on her behalf, Hugh continued.
“You need not fear that I mean to ask you to remove from the Place. Miss Whitton has her own house and we shall live there and in London.”
“Miss Whitton! I feel a Spasm coming on, Agnes. Who is Miss Whitton?” demanded Lady Lavinia in a failing voice.
“Well really, Mama! She is Gil’s sister-in-law. You remember your son Gilbert and his wife?”
“There’s no call to be sarcastic,” said Miss Sneed sharply.
“Of course I remember Phoebe Whitton. A nobody! Unexceptionable for a younger son, perhaps, even if he was a Carrick of Iver, but you are a viscount, Hugh. It is your duty to the family to make a grand match and I’m sure I do not see any reason why you should not. You were born hosed and shod and have not yet managed to bring an abbey to a grange, thanks to my dear Mr. Ffinch-Smythe. Your lineage is impeccable and your looks passable, and though your character is unstable I do not by any means despair of an eligible connection.”
“I have formed a connection, Mama. I am not informing you of my intentions but of a fait accompli. Miss Whitton and I are betrothed.” Iverbrook crossed his fingers behind his back. “And I want to bring her to see you soon, because I do not care for long engagements.” Not with a volatile lady like my Selena, he added silently.
“You have sent a notice to the Gazette?"
“Not yet.”
“Then Miss Whitton must be persuaded to see that it will not do.” Lady Lavinia regained sufficient strength to sit up straight and push away Miss Sneed’s anxious hands. “No one need know you have cried off. I have the very girl in mind for you: Lady Mary Hodgkiss. Superior breeding, prettily behaved, and thirty thousand pounds if she has a penny."
Iverbrook ignored Lady Mary’s claims; he laughed.
“You might as well resign yourself to it, Mama,” he said, “for Lennox Hastings knows all about it and his tongue has a greater circulation than the Gazette!”
His mother wilted. “Mr. Hastings!” she said with loathing. “As well tell the world. You may write to Miss Whitton and tell her that I will receive her next week.”
“Thank you, Mama. I shall go in person to inform her of the honour. I mean to leave at once."
“But Hugh, you only arrived yesterday. Agnes, the smelling salts! Four months with never a word and then you stay only one night. Your poor, sainted papa must be turning in his grave."
Realising that the interview had returned to its starting point, the viscount dropped a kiss on Lady Lavinia’s hand and slipped out of the room under cover of the fuming sal volatile.
Chapter 20
It rained from Iver to Beaconsfield. It rained from Beaconsfield to High Wycombe, and from High Wycombe to Watlington it rained some more. Between Watlington and Kings Milford darkness fell, but it didn’t stop raining. Watery needles glinted in the light of the carriage lamps, hissed when they hit them, turned the road beneath the horses’ hooves to a quagmire.
Inside the Iverbrook travelling carriage, with its crested doors, his lordship was almost as wet as Tom Arbuckle on the box outside. The roof leaked. For years Lady Lavinia had refused to leave home if there was a cloud in the sky, though in any case she never ventured more than five miles from Iver Place, and no one had thought to investigate whether the aged vehicle was still as waterproof as it was impressive.
His lordship cursed as a drip ran down the back of his neck, and wondered if any woman was worth it. At least Selena could hardly turn him out on a night like this.
They drove past the Royal Oak and turned up the lane towards the Manor. Dry clothes, thought Iverbrook hopefully, and a hot meal. Then he would explain matters to his beloved; he would be patient, kind, and firm, forgiving her flights of fancy, her unreasonable reproaches. He would take her in his arms and she would forget that Hasty had ever spoken.
The carriage crunched to a halt at the front door. Iverbrook sprang down and dashed up the steps. The door opened as he reached it.
“My lord!” exclaimed Bannister in surprise. “I thought . . . My lord, thank heaven you’ve come!”
Lady Whitton hurried into the hall, Delia close behind her.
“Hugh, thank heaven you’ve come!”
“Peter has been abducted by gypsies and Selena has gone after him,” announced Delia. “Alone!”
“Alone? Gypsies? What on earth are you talking about?” Iverbrook handed his soggy hat and coat to the butler and took Lady Whitton's arm. “You are worn to a shadow, ma’am. Come and sit down while Delia explains what is going on.”
He led them back into the drawing room.
“It’s really Cousin Aubrey,” Delia said. “She has to marry him to get Peter back, so she had to go alone or they wouldn’t have met her to take her there. Gypsies sell little boys to chimney sweeps, you know.”
“Take her where? Where is Hasty?” demanded his lordship, utterly confused and hoping for a rational explanation.
“He went up to London because he owes you some money. That was before it all happened. Mama made Cousin Aubrey leave because of Polly only she won’t tell me about that and then Peter was missing again and a letter came for Selena and he is in league with the gypsies."
“A letter? Where is it?”
“Selena left it on the table there,” said Lady Whitton. “Yes, there it is.” Iverbrook picked up the still damp paper and studied it. He looked up grimly.
“Sir Aubrey says he will sell Peter to the gypsies,” he stated, “but I do not believe he is with them now. I recognise the hand. This was written by Amabel Parcott!”
“You think they are at Cowley?” asked Delia eagerly. “That is famous! We can carry out my plan after all, Mama.”
“What is your plan, Dee?” asked the viscount.
“Call out the farmhands and go take Peter back. And Selena too, now."
“It would take too long, I fear. If she leaves the Crown at seven . . . it is near that now. By the time we had gathered everyone together, in the darkness and this weather, she must have been in his hands for several hours. No, I shall go alone as she did.”
“That you won’t, m’lord,” said Tom Arbuckle, dripping in the doorway. “It seems young Jem’s missing and it’s my belief he went after Miss Selena. I’ll be coming with you, m’lord, and if you’ve got your duelling pops, I’ve got me horse pistols.”
The viscount nodded in approval. “Right you are, Tom. Now don’t you worry, ma’am. Tell Cook to keep our dinner hot and we’ll be back with them in time to eat it. Look after your mother, Delia.” He followed his servant into the hall.
Bannister was on his knees unpacking a bag. “Here’s a dry coat, my lord,” he said.
“Good man. Tom, go saddle a pair of horses quickly. We’ll ride.”
“I c’n take the carridge round to the stable, my lord,” volunteered Polly, brushing his hat. “Me and Doris’ll rub the horses down good. I’ll just get me cloak on.”
“Here’s a mug o’ mulled ale, my lord, to put some warmth into you,” offered Cook. “There be one for you in the kitchen, Tom, and dinner’ll be waiting when you come back wi’ Miss Selena and Master Peter.”
It was still pitch dark outside, and though the downpour had slackened rain still fell. Tom held a lantern aloft but the going was slow.
“We must come up with her before she reaches the house,” fretted Iverbrook. “Who knows what that devil has planned for her arrival.”
“Miss Whitton won’t be travelling no faster nor us, m’lord,” Tom pointed out.
“But she is ahead of us. We must go fas
ter.” He urged his unwilling horse to a canter.
As they reached the post road, the rain stopped. A rising wind chilled the riders but it scattered the clouds and a half moon shone intermittently. At a gallop they raced past the turning to Abingdon and flew on towards Oxford.
There was a mile still to go before Cowley when they saw a gig before them in the road. The driver looked nervously over his shoulder, and saw them bearing down upon him out of the night. He whipped up his nag. The single figure huddled in the back did not stir.
“It must be her!” cried Iverbrook, and drew one of his pistols. Tom waved his weapon in reply and they thundered on, parting on each side of the gig to pull up before it, swinging their mounts around. Guns levelled at the driver’s head, they shouted together, “Stand and deliver!”
Whinnying in fright, the nag reared between the shafts. The light carriage tilted and driver and passenger slid gracefully into the mud.
Before the amateur highwaymen could dash to the rescue, another voice was heard. From the shadow of the hedge it came, young, scared, but resolute.
“Hold still an’ drop them pops! I got you all covered!”
“Jem!” Selena sat up. “It’s all right, it’s Lord Iverbrook. Oh Hugh, I’m so glad to see you but what are we going to do now? He won’t take me to the gypsy camp now!” She burst into tears.
Dismounting, the viscount strode to her side and knelt in the road. He gathered her wet, muddy form to his heart. “Don’t cry, love,” he murmured. “Don’t cry. Peter is not with the gypsies, he’s at Amabel’s house. We’ll be there in a few minutes, with or without the rogue’s help.”
Jem emerged from the shadows, leading Pippin. Tom, with the other two horses, met him by the recumbent driver.
“Well done, young feller,” he said. “What are we a-going to do with this ‘un?” He nudged the man with his toe.
Jem cocked his pistol suggestively.
“I ain’t done nothing,” gabbled Amabel’s groom. “Mrs. Parcott said to fetch the lady from the Crown an’ that’s all I done. Honest!”
“That there’s the Royal Oak’s gig,” said Jem. “Where’s young Ted?”
“Still sleeping, fer all I know. Dead tired, he were. I ain’t done nothing to him.”
“Ahem! My lord!” Tom reluctantly interrupted Iverbrook. “What would you wish done with this ‘un?”
Iverbrook looked up. “He’d best drive the gig. We’ll need it to get home.”
“I won’t go in it!” declared Selena.
“Of course not, love. You ride with me.” He helped her to rise.
“We must hurry. Poor Peterkin must be frightened half to death.”
“Selena, if we hurry you will not suppose that I followed you only for Peter’s sake?” There was a laugh in his voice.
“No, oh no, Hugh!”
He kissed her hot cheek and mounted. Tom threw her up before him and they set off. With his arms encircling her, her head on his chest, she asked, “Did you get my letter, Hugh?”
“Yes, love. I decided to ignore it.”
“Oh.” Pause. “Good. It did not make you angry?”
“Not in the least. I have decided to make allowances for your megrims in future.”
She sat up straight. “You are odiously condescending!” she said.
“You must learn to make allowances for me too. If you love me as much as I love you, you will not find it difficult.”
“I shall try,” she said, relaxing against him again. “I do love you, Hugh. If I didn’t, I shouldn’t be so . . .”
“Skittish?”
“Yes, only that sounds like a high-bred horse.”
With Jem leading, they turned off the high road at Cowley and soon rode between ornate stone gateposts, up the short drive to the Gants’ baroque mansion. The moon shone full on the facade, illuminating every scroll and curlicue with pitiless brilliance.
“Good God!” said Iverbrook. “A piece of Florence set down in the middle of the English countryside.” He turned as the gig pulled up behind them. “You there! What were you to do when you arrived?”
“Just show the lady in, my lord. Most of the servants is off for the night.”
“Very well. Go harness a fresh horse and wake the lad from the Royal Oak to drive us back.”
“But my lord . . .”
“Do you wish to make the acquaintance of the local magistrate?” asked his lordship politely.
“No, my lord! I ain’t done nothing, my lord. I’m going, I’m going!”
Iverbrook helped Selena to slide to the ground, and swung down after her.
"Jem, go and keep an eye on that rascal. Tom, come in with us, but I want no interference unless it proves necessary to defend Miss Whitton and Master Peter. Understood?”
“Yes, m’lord,” said Tom grimly as they trod up the steps.
"Hugh, you are not going to challenge Aubrey to a duel?” Selena hung on his sleeve, stopping him.
“As Hasty pointed out, whatever his manners and morals he is a gentleman. I cannot decently horsewhip him.”
“So you will offer to let him try and kill you! I shall never understand men’s idiotish notions of honour. And if instead you kill him, you will have to flee the country. Either way, I am a widow before I am a wife. Hugh, you must not!”
“Indeed I must. I could never hold up my head again, else. I am generally accounted a good shot; I’ll engage not to kill your cousin.”
Tom intervened. “Mr. Dimbury did mention as Sir Aubrey don’t have no firearm to his name. He can’t ride nor drive. Maybe he can’t shoot neither.”
“You see, Selena, I am quite safe.”
She was unconvinced, but followed him into the house. The marble-floored entrance hall, crowded with a bewildering display of statuary in varying degrees of disrepair, had several doors leading off it. Only one was open, the room beyond it well lighted.
“Wait here, Tom,” said the viscount.
Selena ran forward, Iverbrook close behind her.
“Peter!” she cried. “Thank heaven! Are you all right?”
He was sitting cross-legged on the table in an otherwise empty dining room. The table was set with a lavish cold collation. His chin liberally smeared with whipped cream, he was attacking the apple pie in his lap with a large fork.
“This is a good pie,” he said, manoeuvring a chunk towards his mouth. “You want some, Aunt Sena?”
“No, thank you, pet. You are a mess.” Relieved as she was to find him unharmed, Selena hesitated to embrace the sticky brat.
“So are you,” pointed out her nephew. “So’s Uncle Hugh, only he’s not as bad as you.
Selena looked down at herself. The horrid green dress she was still wearing was no longer green but an indescribable brownish black. “Oh dear,” she said, “you’re right. I am more likely to make you dirty than the other way about.”
“Might I enquire as to the present whereabouts of the villain?” Hugh was leaning against the wall, lips twitching at the picture presented by his hovering beloved and the matter-of-fact victim.
“Yes, where’s Uncle Aubrey?”
“Being sick,” said Peter with considerable satisfaction. Abandoning his pie, he swung his legs over the side of the table and explained. “I putted some black mustard seed in his wine and he drinked it and he went sort of green and putted a napkin on his mouth. And then he runned out and Mrs. Parrot runned after him and I ‘spect she’s holding his head like Grandmama does when I be sick.”
“I expect so,” agreed Selena faintly. “Wherever did you come by the black mustard seed?”
“I keep some in my pocket, case I eat some bad berries again by mistake. I gived it to Uncle Aubrey ‘cos I knowed you’d come and get me soon."
“You’re a most ingenious young man!” said his Uncle Hugh. “Tell me, how did Uncle Aubrey manage to make off with you in the first place?”
“Aunt Sena said she may marry Uncle Aubrey so I wanted to go with Mr. Hasty to find you, only it wasn
’t not Mr. Hasty’s carriage it was Uncle Aubrey’s. I hided under the rug."
Iverbrook looked at Selena in dismay. “You actually considered marrying the man?” he asked incredulously.
She coloured. “I don't believe I’d really have done it, but after I wrote that letter I was in such despair, anything seemed better than that emptiness.”
“Poor darling!” In two strides he was at her side, holding her close.
“You’ll get all muddier, Uncle Hugh,” warned Peter.
He released her and looked down at his clothes. “I don’t think that is possible,” he said. “Well, I daresay I had best go and confront the wicked baronet.” He put his finger to Selena's lips, stilling her protest. “You stay here with Peter, my love. You might try what a wet napkin will do for his appearance, though you and I are beyond repair. Do not leave this room until I return, or Tom comes for you.”
“Hugh!”
He took her face between his hands and kissed her very gently, then turned and left the room, his tall, lean figure moving with jaunty insouciance. Cold with fear, Selena watched him go.
“Do you want some bread and butter?” asked Peter.
Declining, she dipped a napkin in the water jug and set about scrubbing his face and hands. He submitted patiently. Whenever it was safe to open his mouth, he told her about his adventures with Uncle Aubrey. She did not hear a word.
She was listening for a shot.
* * * *
It took the viscount several minutes to run Sir Aubrey to earth. The baronet was reclining on a wooden bench in a well-scrubbed scullery, strategically close to the sink. The ghastly hue of his countenance was intensified by the pinkish orange of his coat.
Beside him, a rose velvet angel of mercy, Mrs. Parcott knelt on the stone-flagged floor, wiping his face with a lace handkerchief. She heard Iverbrook’s footsteps and jumped up.
“Hugh!”
“Correct, Amabel.”
“What are you doing here? Aubrey said you were at Iver.”
