A Difficult Disguise (7 page)

He heard a slight shuffling behind him as Billy sat down to begin struggling into her boots. “The chestnut,” she admitted, her tone giving evidence to her disgust.

“Buttercup?” Fletcher exclaimed, turning about just as Billy was shrugging into a three-sizes-too-large jacket. “A lovely mare, I’m sure, but she’s nearly as old as I am.”

Billy sniffed her agreement. “Probably older. Hedge says I’m to ride Buttercup or nothing. But you’re right, sir. I wouldn’t be able to keep up with you if I rode Buttercup, and you wouldn’t like that. It will be a terrible disappointment, sir, but I am probably needed here anyway,” she added sorrowfully, “what with all the horseflesh you brought with you and Hedge complaining about his rheumatism. He asked me what he might do for it.”

“Why do I know, do you suppose, that you had a solution handy to offer to him?”

Billy grinned in spite of herself, for once feeling in charity with her employer. “You’re right. I told Hedge to try a clean shirt.”

Fletcher’s lips twitched appreciatively at Billy’s wit. “An admirable suggestion.” He stepped outside the stall before turning to face his groom. “And how noble you are, Master Smith, and self-sacrificing as well, to be thinking of my comfort. I swear, your unselfishness fair bids to unman me. If nothing else, it makes me want to gift you with something that is worthy of your devotion. I know,” he said, snapping his fingers. “I shall reward you by allowing you to ride She-Devil, the other horse I brought with me from London.”

Fletcher saw the groom’s green eyes brighten with sudden anticipation and delight, only to narrow assessingly and shift warily away from his gaze. “She-Devil, sir? Are you sure?”

“Oh, of course. How silly of me,” Fletcher said, sighing. “I should have realized. She-Devil’s far too much horse for a small lad like you.”

“Too much horse? Too much horse! I can ride as well as you—better than you,” Billy exclaimed, her hands bunching into fists as she readied to do battle with this odious, condescending man. She had sat her first pony before she could walk, and had been riding anything with four legs and a mane ever since. Who did Fletcher Belden think he was to stand there, grinning like an ape, and tell her she couldn’t ride that sweet-going filly he had probably paid a small fortune for at Tatt’s? Did he think she’d jump her over a cliff or some such foolishness?

“That remains to be seen,” Master Smith,” Fletcher pointed out dryly, moving toward Pagan’s stall. “Perhaps I shall give you a chance to prove your horsemanship once we are on the road. That is, if you think you can be ready in ten minutes, for I am leaving then, with you or without you, as I am beginning to believe you are more trouble than you are worth.”

Billy stood stock-still, biting her full bottom lip. This was her chance. He was giving her a way out, if she chose to take it. If she chose to take it? What was she thinking of? Of course she would take it; she would grab at it with both hands. Hadn’t she spent nearly the entire night worrying and wondering how she could possibly conceal her identity if the two of them were to spend every minute together for the next several days?

She reached up to brush her fingers through her hair, angrily yanking at the bits of straw that clung to her curls. She’d need to cut her hair again soon or give the game away, she thought randomly. The game! Why on earth had she referred to what she was doing as a game? It was a lot of things, but a game it most certainly was not. This was serious. This was life-and-death, for pity’s sake!

And now she had an opportunity—and a golden opportunity at that—to learn all about the real Fletcher Belden. After all, she was not about to have escaped from the pot only to launch herself headfirst into the fire.

Besides, he had challenged her. Her eyelids narrowed as she weighed the chance of being unmasked against the thrill of showing Fletcher Belden up in a race across country. She had already exercised She-Devil for a short while the previous afternoon, and knew the mare to have strong legs and a good heart. With a reasonable head start—and with a smidgeon of manufactured luck—she just might be able to beat Fletcher Belden, in more ways than one.

Giving herself no more time to think, a devilish smile lighting her freckled face, Billy slammed a worn brown hat down over her ears, gathered up her small store of clothing, and headed for She-Devil’s stall.

They were in a clean-smelling grassy meadow beneath an old thorn tree, its lower trunk wearing a blanket of wool left behind by the sheep that rubbed against it. The remnants of the meal Fletcher had solicited at a nearby inn were spread in front of them on the blanket Billy had unearthed from her tied bundle. Their horses were tied up to branches and munching on some tender new leaves on a nearby bush.

It was a lovely spot, surrounded by green hills dotted with wildflowers, with the snow-topped Langdale Pikes behind them. From somewhere high in the tree a black-and-white pied wagtail called to its mate in a constantly repeated chirp that sounded, to Billy, as if the bird was saying “tee-up, tee-up.” In the distance, a small flock of sheep was being guarded by a vigilant border collie, and the only note of melancholy in the entire scene was the constant lowing of dairy cows for the calves that had been taken from them shortly after birth for the good of the milk.

The morning, which had gotten off to such a shaky if not sodden start, had improved considerably once they were on their way. The sun had come out to dry the land and lift the smell of wildflowers into the air.

Billy, her stomach full and her body comfortably lazy, lay on her side, her head propped on one hand, staring at a busy honeybee that was buzzing from flower to flower gathering pollen. She was feeling more in charity with Fletcher Belden than she had since their first meeting.

He was, all things considered, she had decided, a fairly likable if frippery fellow, for he was lying on his side on the other edge of the blanket at that moment, wearing a self-made daisy chain around his blond head and a self-satisfied grin on his handsome face. He was also a good traveling companion, if her small experience of one half-day spent riding alongside him was to be any indication of the tone that would prevail for the remainder of their time together.

They had ridden across country whenever possible, Fletcher speaking nostalgically and humorously about his rake-helly youth spent in these hills and valleys, which Billy considered to be the most beautiful in England. He had told her of some of his youthful exploits with Beck before that man had injured his leg, recounting carefree days spent bird-nesting, rowing, hunting for wood pigeons and rabbits, rock-climbing, fishing—even skating in the winter time.

It sounded idyllic and much like her own childhood, a childhood that had been radically altered five years previously, before being totally destroyed three months ago. Billy shook her head, purposely banishing her unhappy thoughts, and did her best to concentrate once more on the buzzing bee.

“Billy?” Her head jerked upward, her attention caught by Fletcher’s voice. Hastening to get to her knees, she bent to gather up the scraps on the blanket, only to stop abruptly as he continued, “Do you think we can cry friends?”

Averting her eyes, Billy shrugged, answering, “I don’t know if that is proper, sir. After all, you are the master and I am but a lowly groom.”

Fletcher tugged at the whimsical daisy chain, dislodging it so that it hung down over one eye. “If you are a groom, Master Smith, I am Old Swellfoot.”

Recognizing the hint of sarcasm in his voice, Billy continued her housekeeping efforts with a vengeance, hoping her lack of an answer would put an end to the discussion.

This, of course, was a vain hope, as Beck or Vincent Mayhew or any of Fletcher’s various acquaintances could have told her. “Forgive me for pestering you when you obviously don’t wish to discuss it, but I sense a certain want of openness in our association that I wish to breach. I’ll try to say this as kindly as possible—and please remember that my questions are without malice and are concerned with your well-being rather than simple curiosity.”

“Yes, sir,” Billy grumbled, inwardly steeling herself for what was to come next.

“Thank you for your kind indulgence. Now, tell me, was it very terrible at home, Master Smith?” Fletcher pursued doggedly, the daisy chain now dangling from his left forefinger. “Perhaps your Latin master caned you—or was it perhaps the advent of a wicked stepmother that set you out on the road?”

Billy considered these options, weighing them silently in her head as possible explanations, for obviously she was going to have to offer Fletcher some reason for her appearance at Lakeview. She’d have to be careful, for it was obvious that Belden wasn’t a stupid man—not that it would have taken anyone with a halfpenny’s more intelligence than the drunken Hedge to see through her thin disguise, and well she knew it. But wait. Fletcher had only seen through part of her disguise. He still believed himself to be dealing with a runaway boy.

A small smile tickled the corners of Billy’s mouth for a moment before she brought her ill-timed humor under control. He wanted a story, did he, this maddeningly inquisitive man? Well, then, a story was just what he would get.

“It—it’s my brother, sir,” she improvised wildly, the corners of her mouth now deliberately drooping. “We’re orphans, you understand, with our father dying last summer. George is off at Oxford taking orders, leaving me behind with a paid companion we cannot afford. I—I decided it would be better for George if I struck out on my own, to make a decent wage, until he can support us—”

“Is that right?” Fletcher interrupted. “It’s a good thing Aunt Belleville isn’t here, for your story would surely tug most painfully at her tender heartstrings.”

Caught up in her lie, she added bravely, “Yes, sir. I even send George some money when I can, for I love him that dearly. George is so happy now, and his last letter—the one I received a few months ago—told me that he has met a wonderful young lady, the daughter of a local shopkeeper, and very genteel. They shall probably marry, which would be above all things wonderful, because then I should be able to live with them until George gets a position. But, until then, I knew that I had to do something to help George—for he is the best of brothers—so I ran away. That’s all there is to it,” she ended, proud of herself, and popped a crust of bread into her mouth.

Fletcher hadn’t moved more than one expressive eyebrow throughout the entire dissertation, his gray eyes continuing to search her green ones as if to gauge the veracity of the story. “George is a very lucky man. Very fortunate, indeed. I’m proud of you, Master Smith, for your unselfish love and devotion. You even send him money?”

“Yes, sir,” Billy answered carefully, knowing she was blushing and hoping her pink cheeks would strike Fletcher as being the result of her modesty and his praise rather than the flush of guilt. She took another bite of crust, deliberately filling her mouth so that she wouldn’t give herself away by saying too much. She may have already gone too far with the bit about sending the fictitious George money.

“Tell me, what’s her name?” Fletcher questioned silkily, the daisy chain now rotating around his lazily swinging finger, so that Billy inhaled sharply, nearly choking on the bread.

“Her—her name?” she gulped out between betraying coughs. “Whose name?”

“George’s fiancée, of course, Master Smith,” Fletcher pursued, causing Billy to wish there was another crust of bread so that she could stuff it down his grinning throat. He knew, curse him! He had done it again—found her out—and with the same elementary tactic.

It wouldn’t be any great feat for her to come up with a name; heaven knew she had been accused more than once of having the devil’s own affinity for manufactured truths, but she was also no fool. The story—a spur-of-the-moment affair—had been offered and summarily rejected. She would fall back and advance on another front.

The tears brought on by her fit of coughing standing her in good stead, she squeezed her eyes shut tightly and willed herself to produce a few more. “I—I’m so sorry, Mr. Belden. There is no woman,” she admitted quietly, adding a short sob for good measure as she sniffed and swiped at her eyes with the back of her hand.

“How you amaze me, Master Smith. Tell me—is there a George, or is the so lucky brother also nonexistent?”

Throwing herself face front on the blanket just as she hoped any thwarted young boy would, Billy shook her head in answer to the question while she cudgeled her brains for inspiration; then she sat back on her haunches, pulled a large red handkerchief from her breeches pocket, and noisily blew her nose.

“There’s no George, or at least not for me,” she said brokenly. “He ran away to sea when our father died, saying he wanted to kill Boney. He really wanted to get away from our father’s creditors, who came and took everything—even my favorite top, which could be of no good to anyone but me, could it? It was red and green and I truly loved it. I was supposed to go to some dead-old distant aunt—in Tunbridge Wells of all places! I—I couldn’t do it, so I ran away. You won’t send me back, Mr. Belden, sir, will you? She’ll make me eat gruel and—and read sermons!”