Anita Mills (16 page)

“But I am not through. Dash it, sir. Is Leach telling the truth?”

“That your wife is at Lady Sandbridge’s? How the devil should I know that?” Trent asked irritably as he heaved himself up to tower over the dumpy baron.

“But have you seen her?” Brockhaven persisted recklessly.

“Lady Brockhaven? I believe I once had the distinction of spilling champagne on her wedding gown.”

“But have you seen her since?”

“Really, Sir Basil, I tire of this ridiculous discussion. You have insinuated yourself into my box with some farradiddle about my having taken your wife somewhere. Now, if I remember the chit, she is rather plain, and I do not consort with plain females, Brockhaven.” There was an edge to the marquess’s voice.

“You have not answered my question, sir,” Brockhaven snapped as he lost his temper.

Trent’s hand snaked out to lift the baron until he dangled in midair by his chin. Brockhaven’s florid face grew redder as he wriggled helplessly. “I choose not to dignify such a sordid story with a reply. If you persist in this nonsense, I shall conclude that you are calling me out. Certainly, I know that if I thought someone had my wife, I should be issuing a challenge rather than asking silly questions.” He set Sir Basil down with deceptive gentleness. “Well?”

“Your pardon, my lord.” Brockhaven’s face paled now to a sickly gray, and his eyes bulged. “Of course, I did not credit the story, my lord. Heh, heh. I did but think to amuse you with the tale. I quite see I was mistaken.”

“I should not repeat it anywhere, if I were you. I believe I should stay with the rumor she has consumption.”

Brockhaven strained to catch another glimpse of the ring on the marquess’s hand, but the light was faint. He was positive that Trent had begged the issue, but he dared not push it. He bowed stiffly and turned to leave.

“Oh, Brockhaven …”

“My lord?”

“You may tell Mr. Leach that he is a dead man when I see him.” Trent inclined his head slightly, and a faint smile played at the corners of his mouth. “Good night, Sir Basil.”

E
LLEN SAT CURLED
up in a chair before the fire in the Meadows’ library with a book open on her lap as she listened to Gerald read Trent’s letter. It was but a brief message telling that he’d posted an anonymous letter to her parents in London assuring them of her well-being, that he expected Gerald to see that she had whatever she needed in clothes and pocket money, and that he’d be home Christmas week.

Gerald finished reading and looked down to where she sat with a faraway expression, in her eyes. There was a wistfulness on her face that touched him, and he felt compelled to drop a consoling hand on her shoulder.

“Do not be pining for him, Ellen,” he advised her gently.

She gave a guilty start. “I am not pining!”

“You would have better luck in getting me into parson’s mousetrap than Alex, my dear—and that’s not saying much.”

“Gerry, please, I am not up to even the mildest flirtation.”

“ ’Twas not my intent, Ellen. I was but telling you that neither of us is husband material, when it comes down to it. And while there have been dozens of women who thought to bring Trent to heel, not a one has even come close to managing the trick.”

“Captain Deveraux,” she sighed, “I was not even thinking of Alex, if you want the truth. His letter did but remind me that I’ve no right to be here hanging on his sleeve and letting him spend his money on me. I am not your poor relation, after all.”

“If neither of us minds, my dear, I cannot see why that should worry you.”

“But it does! Can you not see? I’ve not the least claim to either of you.”

“Ellen, you saved his life—’tis enough. And to tell the truth, I like your company: you make intelligent conversation, you play more than a credible hand of faro, and I could listen to your music all day. Moreover,” he added with feeling, “you ain’t given to megrims and freaks of temper—except when you get this maggot in your brain about being beholden to us. I find myself wishing we were related, my dear, for I’ve no wish to have you leave.” He dropped to his knees beside her chair so that he could reason face to face. “You know what?” he confided. “You remember my friend Allendar who was her yesterday? He’s quite taken with you, too—went so far as to ask if I thought Alex would entertain his suit.”

“What a hum, Gerry. He did no such thing.” A hint of a smile crept to the corners of her mouth.

“He did—said you don’t fan and flirt and preen yourself like a peacock in a man’s presence, that you’ve got some ideas of your own in your head.”

“And what do you think he would say if he knew about Sir Basil?”

“I don’t know,” he admitted, “but I’m telling you that you lighten this place up enough that you earn your bread here. When we have Christmas, the whole neighborhood will admire our lovely cousin.”

“Now I know that is a whisker, Gerry”—she laughed in spite of herself—“for I had it from Trent himself that I was not a beauty and would not even rate a second glance were it not for my ‘unusual eyes.’ ”

“Must’ve been drunk when he said it.”

“No. ’Twas the morning after.”

“Ah! See, that explains it.”

She closed her book and set it down carefully on the table. “I have been thinking, you know, and I am convinced that I could earn my way with my music. I could go to the Continent under a false name and become a musician with an opera house in some place like Milano.”

“No. Worse than being a rich man’s mistress,” he told her positively, “for you’d wind up having to share your favors with a string of men to keep you fed. They don’t pay much in places like that. I mean, look at the Mantini: a prime singer and—” He caught himself at the strange expression that came to Ellen’s face, and then he remembered the gossip about Trent. “Well, what I am saying is that even someone like that has protectors.”

“Thank you, Gerald Deveraux, for your confidence in my moral character,” she muttered with unwarranted sarcasm. “You and Alex would have it that any female who tries to earn a living winds up in the muslin company.”

“Didn’t mean it like that, my dear, but ’tis about true. There ain’t any money in playing the pianoforte.” He stood up and stretched lazily. “Tell you what—let’s not worry about it and take a walk in the village instead. The air’s chilly, but not miserably so, and the sun’s shining for a change. And since I cashed in, I am growing as fat as a toad from sitting.”

“Now, that, Gerry, is a capital idea. Let me get my cloak. I promise not to keep you waiting above five minutes.”

She met him in the vestibule and they walked the half-mile or so to the small village situated on the Meadows land, stopping briefly here and there while he pointed out various spots of childhood sport to her. Just before they reached the row of cotters’ cottages, he stopped at a small wooden bridge. Leaning over, he pointed to the bank beneath them.

“Down there, Alex and I used to play knights. We were awful—challenged poor villagers who would cross the bridge. Alex used to take pride in his ability to knock even the most strapping lads into the water.”

“And you?”

“Oh, I admit I knocked my share off also, but my specialty was the small sword. It was the only weapon I could ever best Alex with, for he was always quicker with the rapier, more accurate with the pistol, and handier with his fives.”

“Poor Gerry,” she sympathized.

“No, we were much like any other brothers, in spite of the title. I actually liked him—still do, as a matter of fact.”

and steered her off the bridge and across the narrow lane to where an elderly woman swept her stoop. “Ah, Mrs. Wallace.” He smiled. “Allow me to present our cousin, Mademoiselle Deveraux, come to stay with us this winter—French, you know.”

“I’d a knowed she was Deveraux anywheres—got the look of ye.” The old woman bobbed respectfully and gave Ellen a toothless grin.

“Thank you, ma’am,” Ellen managed politely, schooling herself to keep a straight face until they were out of the old woman’s hearing. “Gerry,” she murmured as she leaned closer to keep from being overheard, “do they truly not know?”

“Aside from Cousin Dominick, they’ve never seen another of us and can only guess as to the family. You forget that there is still a vast social difference between marquess and tenant.”

They continued along the entire row until he stopped her again, this time to knock at the door of a small cottage much like the hunting box at Little Islip. “Button!”

“Quit your pounding, boy! I do not move so quickly as I once did,” the small sprightly lady with thinning white hair admonished as she opened the door a crack. She threw it wider, -and her old face lit with pleasure at the sight of him. “Gerald!”

He enveloped her in a hug and then stood back to present Ellen. The old nurse beamed at her and, before he could make the introduction, clasped her hand warmly. “So you’ve brought me your betrothed at last, my boy.”

“Not quite.” He grinned. “But I have brought a cousin, Miss Ellen Deveraux, for a visit.”

The old woman looked sharply at Ellen for a moment and then nodded. “Ah—Miss Deveraux it is, then.”

“I have heard about you from both Alex and Gerry,” Ellen told her.

“We told her you were responsible for the ruffians we have become,” he teased.

“Don’t you believe it, miss. ’Twas the blood. I tried to make them behave when I had charge of them.” She cocked her head to look up at Ellen with renewed interest, and her old eyes twinkled. “So you know Alex, do you? I hear the tales, but he never behaved badly as a boy, I promise you. He was always truthful—even when the truth hurt him.”

“He spoke of you with great affection, ma’am.”

“Aye—and one of these days he’ll settle down again just like his father did after he brought Lady Caroline home to the Meadows. Never, was such a change in a man, I can tell you for the truth.” She turned to Gerald. “You know, this one reminds me of your mother. Oh, she don’t look like her, but there’s something.”

“Her highest compliment,” he murmured in an audible aside to Ellen.

“But I forget my manners,” the old woman continued brightly, “and I do go on. You’ll be staying for tea, of course. Naught’s baked today, but there’s jam and bread and the water’s hot.”

“Strawberry jam?” Gerald asked hopefully.

“And what else would I be keeping, Gerry?”

They stayed nearly an hour drinking tea and listening while the nurse rattled on about the exploits of the Deveraux brothers as boys. Finally, Gerald checked his pocket watch and rose to leave. Ellen stood reluctantly and watched as he stooped to brush a kiss on the old wrinkled cheek.

“She’s a fine one, Gerald,” the nurse hissed wickedly. “I hope you mean to come up to scratch soon so I won’t be too old to hold your babes.”

“Alas, Button, but Alex has forbidden the flirtation.”

“Then tell him to make an offer. I cannot be waiting forever.”

Ellen colored uncomfortably and hastily mumbled her good-bye before slipping out the door. Gerald caught up with her in the tiny yard and held out his hand. She clasped it and they began the slow walk back down the lane.

“Button—Mrs. Allison—is the closest Alex and I have to a mother. I suppose that since I could not remember much about Mama, I depended more on Button than he did. She’s a good soul, but she’s blind to our faults.”

“But why is she not still at the Meadows?”

“She left two years ago to care for an invalid sister, and then she refused to come back, saying there was no one at the big house to need her anymore. I think she just wants to see us settled.”

“As though you did not have any time left. How old are you, anyway?”

“Twenty-five.”

“Scarcely into your prime.”

“The problem is, Ellie, that I’ve never found a female I thought I could live with. I took the usual trips to London for the Season and looked over the Marriage Mart, sipping nasty lemonade and eating stale cake at Almack’s, but I never saw anything but empty-headed beauties. I could hear their mamas whispering to them, ’Trent’s brother—he’s got forty thousand at least.’ It was obvious that they expected to take my money in exchange for sitting around looking fashionable at my expense. It’s no wonder men turn to opera dancers and actresses and the like—they only expect part of a man’s purse.”

“You and Alex seem to have met the same young ladies,” Ellen responded dryly. “And I cannot believe that all were like that. I’ll warrant that somewhere in the background there was a papa telling them to keep their tongues and just try to marry money.”

“Well, I never was inspired to look that far.”

“What you need to do is to go to town next Season, Gerry, for my sister Amy is out then. She is
very
beautiful and not the least empty-headed.”

“Is she like you?”

“She is much, much prettier than I ever hoped to be.”

“She could not be.”

“Spanish coin, Gerry,” she dismissed. Suddenly, she gave a start and her fingers tightened in his. Her violet eyes widened and her face lost its color.

“What is it, Ellie? Is something the matter?”

“No, I don’t think so,” she answered slowly as she regained her composure. “But I thought I saw Mr. Leach over there. No, it cannot be.”

He followed her direction and saw nothing. “Probably just a villager that resembles him. Who is he, anyway?”

“He was Trent’s driver when we were at Little Islip and he was discharged. You must be right—I thought Mr. Leach went to London.”

“Well, you look as though you had seen a ghost. Come on—’tis time I got you home, anyway.”

They returned to the Meadows in time for a light nuncheon, and then Gerald left to ride out with Trent’s bailiff to visit tenants and collect the rents. Ellen watched him go and then settled in to give her novel another try. Less than fifteen pages into the story, she was interrupted by Mrs. Biddle, who announced that there was a gentleman to see her. Knowing that none knew her whereabouts except for Trent and Gerald and Gerald’s friend Allendar, who had already departed for London, she decided it must be a mistake. Aside from her brief foray into the village that morning, she’d kept close to the house and none had seen her.

“Pray tell whoever it is that I am not in, Mrs. Biddle, for I know of no one who should be received when Captain Deveraux is not at home.”

“I’ll tell Biddle, miss.”

Ellen turned back to her book thoughtfully and then dismissed her concern as she became absorbed anew in the story, a rather gothic romance Gerald had ordered for her from Hookham’s. But as the heroine of the tale allowed herself to be victimized again and again by her unscrupulous relatives, Ellen finally set it aside in disgust. How very like a male author, she decided, to assume that a woman was a helpless creature. But then her thoughts brought her up short—aside from her daring escape and her care of Trent, what had she herself done to change her own destiny?

With that lowering thought, she rose and stared at the late-afternoon sky. The days were short and the sun was already fading. Her spirits declined further as she turned again to her own dilemma, and she longed to confront the marquess to resolve her situation. She missed him so terribly that sometimes she actually ached in her breast. Stop it, she chided herself severely, you cannot look to him to take care of you no matter what he says. But none of her very limited options was inviting in the least, and both Gerry and Trent had made the life of a musician sound so unappealing that she was almost ready to abandon that idea. Perhaps she would have to invent some credentials and become a governess.

Outside, the wind was coming up and the bare tree branches were rattling against the many-paned windows. There was something about the wildness, the freedom of that wind that drew her as she abandoned yet again the attempt to resolve her problems. She took her cloak from the hall closet and decided to clear her mind with a solitary walk. As she stepped out into the empty garden, now devoid of greenery, the dead leaves and small twigs crunched beneath her soft slippers. The cold air was fragrant with the smoke from the mansion’s many chimneys rather than from summer’s blossoms. She pushed her hood back to let the wind whip her hair, and bent into it.