The Audacious Miss

by Joan Vincent

  “Would it be more suitable if I closed my eyes?” Roland offered, irritated by the woman’s hesitancy.

  “Aye, milord, and see that there’s no peekin’,” she answered with relief at the solution to her quandary.

  Closing his eyes, Greydon lifted Audacia’s shoulders from the hearth’s surface. Between them they managed to get her into the gown. Then the earl gave Audacia another dose of spirits. A couch and flutter of eyelids rewarded him.

  “Rub her feet—get some colour back into them,” he commanded the gamekeeper’s wife. Putting his arm beneath Audacia’s shoulders as she coughed again, he leaned her against his chest. Her wet hair soaked through his jacket and shirt immediately. With a curse he grabbed a coarse towel that was within arm’s reach and began rubbing her head vigorously.

  “I’m not . . . to . . . be . . . shaken . . . to death,” Audacia weakly protested of his ministrations.

  “I should have known no thanks would come from you,” the earl scoffed but eased the roughness of his motion.

  With a shaking hand, Audacia raised the corner of the towel that hung over her eyes. “Mrs. Stollard! How did I come to be here?” she asked through clacking teeth.

  “Ye ought to be askin’ the gentleman that, Miss Audacia. ‘Tis he who brought ye here.”

  Tilting her head back, Audacia’s eyes, now pale grey in her unusually pallid face, encountered the dark, half-concerned, half-angry eyes of her rescuer. For a long moment an invisible bond held them. Then recognition dawned on her.

  “You—y—you,” she stuttered, her words and actions slowed by the numbness of her body. “Leave . . . go . . . of . . . me,” she demanded haltingly.

  Instantly he rose. Audacia fell back against the hearth with a dull thud.

  “Why . . . you . . . oaf.” Audacia wrenched herself to a sitting position and drew the blankets about her and edged closer to the fire.

  “The next time I find you drowning in mid-winter, please remind me only to bid you the time of day as I pass by,” Greydon told her with a slight bow.

  “Oh, you—”

  “I do think the lady will recover,” he told Mrs. Stollard. “Since I am no longer needed I shall take my leave.” Greydon gracefully bowed to the gamekeeper’s wife.

  “Ye don’t mean it milord,” she protested. “Sir Aderly—what be I to tell him? He’ll be certain to want to speak with ye.”

  “Tell him nothing. I am a stranger here and little likely to meet him. His ‘lad’ came to no harm with me.” The earl turned to Audacia.

  “I beg pardon ‘miss,’ for my rough treatment of you on our previous encounter. I hope the saddle bow was not too unpleasant—uncomfortable on our ride here but, then, I did not realize that you were a ‘lad’ of such delicate persuasions.” His tone altered as he swung back to Mrs. Stollard.

  “Have her finish what is in the flask.”

  “I’ll take nothing of yours,” Audacia retorted, angered by his superior manner and the fact that she could neither halt the clattering of her teeth nor the shivering tremors running through her limbs.

  “But I insist,” he bowed and half smiled at the attempted wrathful look his action drew from the young woman. It merely brought out the womanly lines of her features. Roland exited hastily when he saw Audacia grab for the flask and raise it in her hand.

  It thudded against the door as he closed it. “Fine thanks,” he muttered. “A cold ride this shall be,” he continued as he mounted. Greydon took one last look at the cottage. “A sickening chill wouldn’t dare lay hold of that wench,” he assured himself.

  Her parents will be coming soon, he rationalized. If I don’t want to be held accountable for compromising the creature, I had best be gone, he added as an after thought.

  As he kicked his mount to a run, a pair of pale grey eyes appeared in Roland’s mind’s eye—one moment full of innocence, the next full of as much spirit as he’d ever seen.

  Chapter 4

  “Are you bloody well gone daft,” Squire Webster greeted his slightly frozen friend. “Riding on a day like this without proper clothing. “What is that?” he pointed to the darkened area of Greydon’s jacket. “Why it is wet—frozen stiff. You’ll take a death of a chill for certain. Whatever have you been doing?”

  “Stop clucking like a nanny,” Roland threw at him, his usual concern for his friend’s feelings put aside. “You’re a fine one to carry on when it is your fault.

  “Is there a fire in the library?” he asked, reaching the stairs on which Geoffrey stood.

  “Yes. You don’t mean to go there,” the squire added when Greydon turned and began walking in that direction. “Surely you shall change first.”

  “If my attire displeases you, you—no. Come with me, Geoff. There are a few answers I would have from you.”

  “Answers? Have you emptied that flask you always carry with you? Let me see it.” Geoffrey strode after his silent friend, concern mounting.

  In the library Roland poured a liberal dose of port from the decanter on a side table and carried the glass to the fireplace. Quaffing a good half of it, he set the glass on the mantel and held his hands out to the fire to warm them.

  “Are you going to tell me what you have been about?” Webster asked.

  “I was just about to ask you the same,” the other noted with the wisp of sarcasm usually directed at himself. He took his glass and finished the port. Coughing as the dark liquid raced down his throat, Greydon recovered then sneezed. A shivering tremor ran through his body. Damme, I’m as bloody cold now as I was on those mountains in Spain.

  “There, you have taken a chill.” Geoffrey pulled the bell cord and the butler came immediately. “Have coal added to the fire in his lordship’s chamber and have the bed warmed. Tell his man to lay out night clothing,” he ordered and turned back to his friend.

  “Now, Roland, off to your bedchamber.”

  “First I shall have answers. That ‘lad’ we encountered—so to speak—last month. Did you know who ‘he’ was?”

  “The lad? What lad?” Webster asked with contrived seriousness.

  “Doing it a bit too brown for my tastes, Geoff, seeing as that situation gave you such good humour. Achoo!” Greydon sneezed violently.

  “You had a perfectly good—no, I must say—stylish-caped coat when you arrived here, my friend. Why would you not wear it on such a cold day?” Geoffrey remarked, hoping to change the course of the conversation.

  “That will not do. Achoo . . . Geoff, I will have my answer.”

  “Not until you are abed,” the squire amended, starting toward the doors. “When you have gotten yourself to bed I will answer all of your questions about the ‘lad.’ It wouldn’t be that he is the cause of this chill, would it?” Geoffrey asked with a raised eyebrow and hurried from the room at the thunderous expression upon his friend’s face.

  * * * *

  “Miss Strowne! Miss Strowne, open the door, quickly now,” called Sir Aderly as he and Mr. Ballin struggled up the flagstone walk to the front door with their awkward burden.

  “Father, put me down this instant,” Audacia’s muffled voice commanded angrily, her spirit of sportliness nonexistent after being rolled in a woollen blanket and carried like a carpet taken out to be dusted. “I told you I can walk. Now put me down.”

  “Remember your manners, miss,” Sir Maurice snapped, his usual humour gone under the strain of finding that his only daughter had nearly drowned. And that a stranger may have compromised her reputation. With the door properly closed behind then, Sir Aderly let go of his end of the wriggling bundle, dropping Audacia none too gently to the oak floor.

  “Sir Aderly . . . what is this?” Miss Strowne asked, taken aback by his look and manner. “Is that Miss Audacia’s voice I hear inside that—But the lad said someone had almost drowned?” She looked to Sir Maurice, who nodded at the unspoken question.

  “Oh, Lord, is she safe?”

  “In as fine a voice as the lass has ever been,” Mr. Ballin threw out wi
th a broad smile as he untied the rope about his end of the blanket.

  “Whatever were you thinking of, wrapping her like a cod,” Miss Strowne scolded, reaching down to untie the other end as the young woman within kicked wildly.

  “Ah, I knew you had it in you, if ever you’d find it,” Ballin quipped with a wink at Miss Bea. “Ain’t humour grand?”

  “Father,” Audacia spluttered, preventing the housekeeper from venting her spleen upon the butler. “What is the reason for this treatment?” she ended, her head freed at last. “Surely you don’t believe the ramblings of Mrs. Stollard? She is far afield with her wild thoughts.”

  “Get yourself to your chamber immediately, young woman,” Sir Maurice roared, “and garb yourself in clothes befitting your sex. Mrs. Stollard is absolutely correct in her assumptions. If it had not been for her quick-wittedness, her lad, Ned, would have seen it was you the man rescued and the entire countryside would be a gaggle with the gossip.”

  “But, Father,” she protested.

  “To your chamber,” Sir Aderly commanded, his deep tone and outstretched arm brooking no rebuttal.

  Angrily kicking her feet free from the blanket, Audacia rose haughtily, insult plainly written across her features. Wrapped in the many-caped cloak with the dangling sleeves that concealed her hands she struck a comical pose.

  At the sight the harshness eased in Sir Aderly’s face. “I shall speak with you later on this and at some length,” he told her as she turned to go.

  Audacia tossed her head but her bottom lip trembled. A look towards Miss Bea, who stood wondering what ghastly thing had occurred, and then one toward Mr. Ballin, who stood with his hands clasped behind his back. His bowed head failed to conceal a broad grin. It was all that was needed. She ran up the stairs toward her chamber, ready to burst into tears.

  “Sir Aderly, what has happened?” Miss Strowne asked as she watched the retreating figure out of sight. Nodding to her to wait, Aderly gruffly turned to his valet. “Mr. Ballin, see to the team and carriage and then come to the workshop.”

  “Aye, sir, in the bloomin’ of a flower’s time,” Ballin answered, winking wickedly at the housekeeper.

  “Now, Miss Strowne, would you please come to the parlour with me?” Sir Maurice asked. He nervously ran his finger around his neck to loosen his cravat.

  “Of course, Sir Aderly,” Miss Bea replied, completely mystified by this turn. She followed him into the parlour and sat when he motioned her to do so. Arranging the folds of her full grey skirt, she awaited his words.

  Sir Aderly, however, strode nervously back and forth before her. “Miss Bea, it is not my habit to discuss matters concerning the family with servants.”

  “Assuredly,” she murmured.

  “But one could say that you are in a sense a family member. After all you’ve been with us from the beginning of my marriage,” he continued. “Lady Aderly respected your judgment on all matters.”

  “The housekeeper straightened proudly. Why, thank you, sir.”

  “Ahem,” Sir Aderly cleared his throat and halted before her, giving her a stern look. Slowly, his large frame slumped; a bewildered look came over him. “A man is not fit to raise a daughter alone,” he sighed and sat heavily in a chair across from Miss Strowne. “You must realize,” his eyes met hers, “that you have warned me this could happen. Not this but something similar.”

  “I, sir? But . . . I”

  “Hear my words before you speak. When I have finished I will listen to your thoughts,” Sir Maurice instructed her. “What transpired today, hopefully, will have no ill effects, but it has given me ample proof of the truth of your words.

  “Fortunately, Mrs. Stollard, the gamekeeper’s wife, was wise enough to keep her lad from recognizing Audacia. Wrapped her as she was, no one could see whom it was that we brought home with us.

  “Mr. Ballin suggested we tell those who asked that a nephew of his was visiting and went out alone. But we’ll think on that later. For now all Ned knows is that a gentleman, a stranger who must be visiting someone in the area, rescued a lad from the river. From the look of the coat she wore . . . yes, it must have belonged to the stranger.” Sir Aderly answered Miss Bea’s gasp at mention of the coat.

  “Under ordinary conditions I would have Ballin out scouring the countryside to learn my daughter’s rescuer’s name but circumstances prevent that.”

  “Oh, my,” breathed Miss Bea, her alarm growing.

  “Yes, I cannot even thank the man who saved my daughter’s life for fear the consequences of it becoming common knowledge would prove worse than her drowning. He bloody well had better be an honourable man,” Aderly added as if saying a prayer. After a brief pause, he continued.

  “Evidently the man pulled Audacia from the river not far from the gamekeeper’s cottage on Squire Webster’s land. Mrs. Stollard said that he thought my daughter was a lad until he undid her shirt.”

  “Oh, my, no,” exclaimed Miss Bea, aghast.

  “I am sorry to be this indelicate, Miss Strowne, and I must add that Mrs. Stollard stepped in at that point and nothing untoward occurred. But you can imagine what will happen if word of this reaches the local gentry. Those fal-lal, snippety women will take hold of it with a passion. Audacia will be shunned,” he ended coldly. Sir Aderly rubbed his eyes.

  “If only she had not been in those confounded breeches!” Rising agitatedly, he spoke harshly, “You warned me, but I could not see the harm.”

  “But surely this man will not speak to others of this? Surely he will know the effect it would have on Miss Audacia if he does? Perhaps he does not know who she is and will think it matters not?” Miss Bea offered hopefully.

  “Much will depend on the kind of man he is. So many of the London dandies I have been acquainted with would banter such a happening at every chance, to anyone willing to listen. We can but pray he is not one of these.

  “Meanwhile, I must take action to lessen the damage if it proves the man is a babbler. It is your opinion on an idea that has come to me that I must now have.”

  “You know I would do anything for Miss Audacia, sir. Tell me what you would do,” Miss Bea assured him.

  “Do you recall Lady Darby?” Sir Maurice asked.

  “Yes, but what has her ladyship to do with—” The housekeeper ended her words at the look of annoyance on the baronet’s face and nodded.

  “As you know, Lady Darby was a very close friend of my dear wife’s. After Lady Aderly’s death she told me that she would gladly take on the task of presenting Audacia to society. I am not up to the ‘ton,’ as I hear society is now referred to, but Lady Darby has always travelled in the best circles.

  “It is my thought to send Audacia, under the proper escort of an abigail, to her ladyship. She and her husband should be returning to London soon for the season—an event Lady Darby would never miss. Their country home is in Worcester, not too long a drive from here for this time of year.

  “The journey would take Audacia away for a time and perhaps even result in a match for her. I believe the Darbys have a son near her age. I fear I have been very neglectful of my daughter.” Sir Maurice shook his head sadly.

  “I can only hope it is not too late to make amends.” He looked hopefully at the housekeeper. “What do you think of the scheme? Speak the truth now.”

  An all-encompassing smile wreathed Miss Bea’s face. “It is all I dreamed of for Miss Audacia,” she responded. “The perfect answer. It suits very well, indeed, sir.”

  “Good to hear you agree, Miss Strowne, for I have decided you should be abigail to Audacia,” Sir Maurice told her confidently and rose from his chair.

  “Abigail!” squeaked Miss Bea. “But I am a housekeeper,” she protested. “I know I was abigail to Lady Aderly before you married, sir, but really now, all I’ve done for years is tend to the needs of your home.”

  “And managed very well,” Sir Aderly praised her. “And you shall be my housekeeper again when you and Audacia return home, never fear.”


  “But, Sir Aderly, I know nothing about being an abigail in this day. And what would happen to you and Mr. Ballin if I should go? Oh, no, sir—I cannot,” she ended, rising in her turmoil.

  “Miss Strowne, don’t you see that it can be no one else? You know Audacia, her whims and all her behaviour. Only you could handle her, keep her from innocent but harmful mischief,” Sir Maurice attempted to persuade her.

  Blanching, Miss Bea thought of the results of Miss Audacia being set loose upon London.

  Pressing his advantage, Aderly continued. “Think of the result if I was to get an abigail of Audacia’s own age, or even one more mature who did not realize her caprices. You, Miss Strowne, now you could be masterful with her. What has she not attempted with you?

  “You are wise beyond your years when it comes to her ways.” He grinned sheepishly. “Perhaps I should have listened to you long ago. Come, will you not help me now?”

  “I—I cannot think it suits, sir. Why, I cannot imagine you and Mr. Ballin on your own,” she objected, but weakly.

  “Ballin assures me he is handy with the pots, and surely you could arrange for one of the local girls to come in and straighten things, as it were.”

  Still Miss Bea shook her head.

  “If you will not, there is no answer. Audacia must remain here. We can only hope for the best,” Sir Aderly said with sad resignation.

  “You—you think this man will boast of having seen—-”

  “Mrs. Stollard told me that even when the man realized that the lad he rescued was my daughter he still was very sharp and ‘uppity,’ to use her words. What greater on-dit could he have to please his host or to share with his drinking chums at the nearest inn? The little knowledge I have of such gentry is not reassuring.”

  “Then . . . then I shall consent to your plan. But Miss Audacia? Have you told her of it?” the housekeeper asked with concern.

  “I shall do that this eve after we sup. For the moment take her some strong tea. She was soaked dreadfully in that cold river.