“If you think you are taking care of my every need, you are sadly mistaken,” he told her wickedly. And then to prevent her from giving him a sharp set-down, he opened his mouth obediently for the spoon. She dumped it in and waited for him to swallow. Instead, he choked and grabbed for the napkin on his chest. Spitting into it, he managed to sputter, “Aagh! If you were my wife, I’d suspect you of attempting to kill me for my money. Taste that stuff before you give it.”
She began to giggle in spite of her best efforts to keep a straight face. “Oh, Alex! You should see your expression—definitely not a recommendation for pork jelly.”
“Pork jelly?”
“Panghurst’s Restorative Pork Jelly, I believe it is called. And you do look as though you could use a restorative.”
“I am not at all amused,” he told her in disgust. I thought you sharp-witted enough to know that it is in your best interests to keep me alive. But, no, you would poison me with some damned stuff you have chanced to find on a shelf.”
“Gentlemen do not swear,” she told him primly.
“I am a nobleman, my dear. Sometimes there is a difference,” he reminded her. “And do not be changing the subject. If you would ever have me recover, you will change your ways. Unless you wish to be stranded here, Miss Marling, you will find me something to support this body of mine.” He glanced down at the outline of his body beneath the covers. “As it is, I’ll warrant I have lost nearly a stone.”
“I have done the best I could under the circumstances, my lord. A lady is not expected to be a cook, companion, nurse, and friend to an unmarried gentleman, or nobleman, or any man, for that matter.”
“And don’t be giving me that put-upon look, Ellie. You know I am damned grateful for your assistance. I would not be alive if it were not for you, but now you have to feed me,” he coaxed, “if you would have me take you to York.” He caught her hand and squeezed it.
“I’ll see what I can find,” she sighed.
She retrieved her hand and reluctantly went to get the remains of her own supper. Within the space of a few minutes, she was back with some cold meat, spiced apples, and soft buns. Behind her back, she held one of Chudleigh’s bottles of red wine.
He grinned boyishly as he reached for the plate. “I might have known that mention of Yorkshire would be enough to get what I wanted. Say, what are you hiding?”
“Well, since we have stolen everything else from Mr. Chudleigh, I thought we might as well take his last bottle of wine.”
“Ah, you darling girl! Nothing revives my spirits like wine.”
He wolfed the contents of the plate and drank a couple of glasses of the purloined wine. When he was finished, he pushed the remains aside and lay back with his eyes closed. Ellen picked up the plate and started to leave.
“No, don’t go, my dear. I am tired, but not so tired that I do not want your company. Sit here and tell me what you will do when you reach your aunt’s.”
“I am not certain,” she answered truthfully. “I suppose everything depends on how I am received. If she is bent on returning me to Brockhaven, I will run away again.” She looked away and twisted the material of the skirt across her lap. “I guess I will invent some credentials and apply for a position somewhere. I should prefer to be a musician because I have some ability there, but if it will not do at all, then I suppose I will have to be a companion or governess. Surely they do not wind up as rich men’s mistresses, my lord.”
“Ellen—”
“Perhaps I could even open up some sort of a shop if you would but lend me a little money to start with. I have a good eye for color in spite of what you have seen, and I might try the millinery business. I would pay you back, of course.”
“You are a very resourceful girl, my dear, but it wouldn’t work. No, we will have to think of something else. If worse comes to worst—”
His words were cut off in midsentence as they heard the sound of an approaching carriage. She jumped up and ran to the window to see an elegant black equippage roll up the lane.
“Oh, no! Alex, I hope we are not about to face Mr. Chudleigh. Oh, how can we ever explain?”
She dashed madly from room to room, setting as much to rights as she could while Trent struggled into some clothes. Ellen came back and grabbed the dishes and the wine bottle and stashed them beneath a cupboard as someone began pounding on the door. She squared her shoulders and prepared to be evicted and disgraced in front of the Bratchers.
“Milord! Milord! “ ’Tis me, Dobbs! And if ye be there, I’ve brought yer valet and yer things.”
“Dobbs!” She threw open the door and fell into the arms of the astonished coachman. “Oh, thank heavens you are here! Lord Trent has been so ill that I have feared for his life.”
“‘Ere, missy, no need fer that,” he told her gruffly. “Bad time o’ it, eh? “ ’Ere, ’ere, don’t be in such o’ takin’—old Dobbs is ‘ere,” he tried to comfort as she gave in to long-pent-up tears.
“I don’t believe it.” Trent shook his head from the doorway where he leaned for support. “In all this time, I have not been treated to one single feminine weakness. Yet you arrive, and within two minutes, you have her weeping like a watering pot.” He saw his valet standing behind the coachey, and he shook his head, “Behold, Crawfurd, what I have been reduced to enduring. As soon as you can manage it, I shall require a bath, a shave, and clean clothes that fit.”
The valet took in his master’s appearance and winced at the too-tight breeches and the open shirt. “Milord, cover yourself.”
“You have obviously not inspected the drawers and closets of this place if you think that possible, my dear fellow. I cannot cough in anything we have found without splitting a seam.”
Crawfurd turned disapprovingly to where Dobbs was handing Ellen his handkerchief. “And I might have known that there would be one of them here, but did you have to stoop to consorting with a local doxy?”
Ellen stared, but Trent’s face went cold and his voice was like ice. “You will apologize to Lady Brockhaven this instant, Crawfurd. You may have been with my family since I was in short coats, but you can be turned off as soon as the next one. I will not tolerate any disrespect where she is concerned.”
“Lady Brockhaven!” Dobbs and Crawfurd gasped in unison.
“Eh, yer went to ’is weddin’. Aye, there’s where yer started this,” Dobbs remembered.
“Surely you have not eloped with Brockhaven’s bride, milord! Not even you can recover from this!”
“I am sorry, my dear,” Trent apologized to Ellen, “but I tried to tell you how it would be. If my own people think the worst, you can well imagine what the rest of the world will say.”
“But it is not true.”
“I know.” He turned back to Crawfurd and his voice lost its warmth again. “I have not eloped with Lady Brockhaven, chucklehead. I am—or I was—taking her to her Aunt Sandbridge’s when that accident occurred. And if you have ever seen Basil Brockhaven, you will know that it was an act of compassion to do so.”
“But—”
“But nothing,” Trent snapped. “I repeat,” he bit off the words with an icy precision that left little doubt as to his meaning, “I repeat, I will not tolerate any disrespect to the lady.”
Crawfurd looked at the floor and mumbled an apology of sorts, but it did not satisfy the marquess. “Louder,” he ordered. When Crawfurd finally looked Ellen in the eye and begged her pardon, Trent relaxed against the doorjamb. “That’s better. Not even if you are in your cups will I allow you to say one word against her, do you hear? And you will not discuss her with any other servants if you wish to remain in my employ.”
“Yes, milord.”
“Now that you have understood me, you may see to my bath and bring in some decent clothes.” He caught at the door for support and smiled weakly at Dobbs. “Do you think you could get me back to bed? I am still deuced weak from the fever.”
Once he was again surrounded by his servants, Trent began
to improve dramatically, and that improvement both cheered and disheartened Ellen. On the one hand, she was glad to see his lordship gaining strength, but on the other, she felt suddenly useless. She found herself taking a lesser role than the arrogant valet, Dobbs, or even the replacement driver, Mr. Leach. It was dispiriting to go from being so totally necessary to being merely an accessory to the situation.
Mrs. Bratcher came to call after Trent had had his bath and was elegantly dressed in silk shirt, buff kerseymere pantaloons, and mirror-perfect Hessians. She stared, stunned for a moment, at the transformation. “Why, Mr. Trent! Ye look ter be in a fair way o’ recoverin’, don’t yer?”
When Crawfurd opened his mouth to set her straight, he received a swift warning kick from his lordship. Dobbs grinned at the valet’s discomfiture, caught his master’s expression, and quickly schooled his own face into impassivity.
“But where’s Mrs. Trent? Poor thing’s fair hagged out with tendin’ ter ye. She ain’t sick ’erself?”
“She is fine, thank you, but she is resting just now, ma’am,” Trent replied before turning to his own servants. “Allow me to present Mr. Crawfurd, my valet, Mr. Dobbs, my coachman, and Mr. Leach, my driver.”
The woman bobbed a hasty little curtsy to the obviously stiff-necked valet, and the man snorted derisively at her lack of knowledge about how to greet servants.
“Well, sir, no doubt yer got all th’ ’elp yer need now, so I’ll be goin’. Tell the missus I called.”
“I assure you, Maggie, that you are still quite necessary to us. None of these fellows can cook any better than Mrs. Trent.” He picked up the leather purse that had been refilled with coins brought by Crawfurd. “Here—with five of us to feed, you will be put to considerable expense.”
“Oh, I couldn’t sir.” She shook her head. “Like I told yer missus, there might come a time as we didn’t ’ave the crops fer the rent.”
“No, I insist, Maggie. We can talk about the rent later.”
They appeared at a standoff until Crawfurd could stand it no longer and snapped irritably, “You’d best take anything Trent offers, woman. I can assure you his generosity is seldom noted.”
“No. We’d be poor tenants if we could not share with the landlord, especially as kind as Mr. Trent ’as been. And what with ’im so sick and ’is wife so worrit, I just couldn’t.” She looked up at Trent. “Yer understand, don’t ye, sir?”
“Yes, Maggie, I do.”
“I ’spect I’ll ’ave ter ’ave ’elp, so’s Jimmy’ll carry. Now, if yer was ter want ter give ’im a mite, I’d understand.”
She had no more than left when Leach smirked knowingly to Crawfurd. “I knew it was a hum. Mrs. Trent, she says! Yer had th’ right o’ it!”
Exhausted from being up so long, Trent leaned heavily on a chair back and fixed his new driver with an icy Deveraux stare. “Mr. Leach, you are discharged,” he told him, “And you will leave this house immediately.”
“Naw—yer wouldn’t—not fer a bit o’ muslin,” Leach scoffed m disbelief until he met the cold blue eyes. Then, as it sank in that his lordship was indeed quite serious, Leach paled. “But—my lord—,” he wavered uneasily, “ ’tis mistaken yer are—I—I—”
“No,” Trent bit off precisely, “ ’tis you who are mistaken, Mr. Leach. Despite my express warning to Mr. Crawfurd, you have chosen to slander a lady under my protection.”
“Alex—” Ellen interrupted from the doorway of her chamber.
“And you will stay out of this, Ellie,” Trent ordered brusquely. “ ’Tis between Leach and myself.”
“But it concerns me!”
“No, it does not. Go back and lie down, my dear, for you need your rest if we are to press on to your aunt’s on the morrow.” Turning back to the discharged driver, he continued, “You may ride the black horse in the shed, but I am afraid that I cannot accommodate you with either saddle or bridle. When you reach London, you will be pleased to return the animal to my establishment there.”
“But—yer lor’ship—” Leach appealed desperately. “ ’Tis days to Lunnon!” Turning toward Ellen, he sought support. “My lady—”
“You will be pleased to address me, Mr. Leach,” Trent cut in sharply. “It is decided, and I shall brook no interference.”
Ellen looked from the white-faced driver to the cold face of the marquess and realized that Trent’s mind was set. Apparently, Leach came to the same realization, for he suddenly lost his pallor. Impotent rage sent a flush of color to his face as he snarled at her, “Turned off fer a bit o’ muslin—yer can’t do thet to ol’ Leach—naw, yer can’t! Tell yer summat, Miss Fancy Piece—yer ain’t seen th’ last o’ Leach, yer ain’t.”
“Leach!” Trent’s voice was like a knife, and his blue eyes blazed as he released the chair back and stepped toward the driver with raised hand. He swayed slightly, sending Ellen, Dobbs, and Crawfurd forward all at once while Leach backed away.
“Alex, please—you’ll have a backset!” Ellen cried out as she slid a supporting arm around his waist. “You cannot fault Mr. Leach for thinking what anyone would think under the circumstances.”
But Trent was not in the mood to be mollified. In spite of breathing heavily from the sudden move, he managed to grit out a warning sufficient to chill Leach’s anger. “Understand this—if you so much as utter her name to anyone, Mr. Leach, you are a dead man. D’you understand me?” he demanded. “Speak of this at all and there’s not a place in England to hide you.”
“My lord—” Crawfurd laid a placating hand on Trent’s arm only to be shaken off.
“Do you understand me?” Trent repeated.
The driver refused to meet his eyes but muttered, “Aye—ol’ Leach unnerstands all right—been turned off fer ’er.”
“I’d do what he says,” Crawfurd interposed hastily. “If I was you, I’d leave while I still had a whole skin.”
Dobbs, not wanting to chance further demonstration of the famed Deveraux temper, grasped Leach firmly by the elbow and propelled him out the door and into the small yard. “ ’Ere now—’tis empty in th’ loft yer are if yer mean ter cross ’im. Best leave it—I kin tell yer ’e means it.”
“Naw—’e’d niver catch up wi’ me.”
“Dunno ’bout thet—yer can’t be sure. Besides, she ain’t what yer was thinking—she’s a lady.”
Inside, Crawfurd had reached the same conclusion. As he helped his master back to his bed, he unbent to soothe Ellen. “Do not be worrying over Leach, ma’am—I can assure you he’s no loss to any of us.” Leach’s abrupt departure had brought home quite plainly that Trent regarded this girl differently from the others. Besides, Dobbs had maintained all along that she was different, and sometimes it paid one to listen to the lowly coachman. By the time he’d tucked the marquess up for a nap, Crawfurd had convinced himself that Ellen Marling was no high-flyer, after all. As a result, he came out determined to treat her with the deference reserved for true Quality.
When Trent arose, somewhat revived from the rest, he and Ellen dined alone in the small cottage while Dobbs and Crawfurd shared the Bratchers’ table. Her spirits lowered by the impending departure, Ellen was unusually quiet and withdrawn into her own thoughts. Mistaking the reason, Trent finally leaned over and squeezed her hand across the table. “Do not be worrying about what Leach said, my dear—he’ll not tell the story.”
“I don’t know—he certainly took a dislike to me,” she sighed.
The return of the servants precluded any further discussion of the departed driver. As Crawfurd condescended to remove the dishes and covers from the table, Ellen was startled to hear Trent suggest that they all amuse themselves with a game or two of silver loo or whist. She looked up to meet his rueful smile. Dobbs and Crawfurd exchanged confused looks, but Trent shook his head to remind them that they would have to play something suitable for the lady.
“Perhaps we could teach her faro, my lord,” Crawfurd suggested almost timidly. “I am no hand at all at whist.”
“Aye. Who’s to know?” Dobbs brightened. “None o’ us’ll tell.”
“And I do not mind learning in the least, my lord,” she told Trent with a wicked gleam in her eye. “I’ll wager I could learn it quite quickly if I put my mind to it.”
“We could let her try,” Crawfurd urged hopefully. “I daresay she will find it more amusing than whist, and I certainly would never say a word to anyone.”
“Well …”
“You could let me try—and if I cannot master it, we can then play whist,” she argued.
“I have the distinct feeling that you will master it,” Trent murmured in capitulation.
She tried to cover that she had been playing the game with his lordship by asking a variety of idiotish questions while the rules were being explained. And for the first few hands, she made some rather foolish stands. Finally, Trent nodded to Crawfurd.
“Fetch my purse, and we’ll make this more interesting. I shall stake all of you and we will play it the way the game is intended. Crawfurd, you will be the house.”
They played for about an hour and totaled their money. The big winner was the marquess, who managed to nearly beggar the two servants, and the surprise was Ellen, who was the smallest loser. Even Crawfurd conceded in good grace, “You are uncommonly sharp for a female, ma’am.”
Trent rested his head on his elbows. “I am sorry to end this, but I find myself quite tired. Perhaps we can continue this on the morrow.” He tried to rise and the effort made him shake.
“You have overdone it, my lord,” Ellen chided as she lunged to catch him. “Dobbs!”
Between them, they were able to support him until he steadied himself. “I am as weak as an infant,” he muttered in disgust. “Leave me be a minute and I can make it on my own. Crawfurd, if you will but let me lean a little, I think I should like to retire.”
“Aye, my lord.”
Both servants managed to help him back to his room while Ellen cleared the cards off the table and soaked the dishes from the supper. Her spirits were unusually low, given the fact that they had been rescued at last, and she felt an urge to cry. She ought to be glad that help had arrived, she chided herself, for now they could press on to Yorkshire as soon as his lordship mended. But somehow she already missed the close, easy relationship she had established with Trent in those days they had been alone together. It almost seemed as if the arrival of help had changed everything yet again.
Anita Mills Page 12
