Amanda Scott (6 page)

Melissa, indignant at hearing her behavior described in such an outrageous way, opened her mouth to object, but the words were stopped on her tongue when Vexford said flatly, “He is your father, is he not?”

“Yes, he is,” Melissa said, “but—”

“Then you must obey him.”

“But you don’t understand!”

“Yes, darling, he does understand, more clearly than you do, I think,” Sir Geoffrey said in that maddening, amused tone he had used before. “As your father, I have the legal right to command your obedience to my will in any and all things. That is the law of England, and although I have always exerted myself to consider your wants and desires, I need not ever do so, you know.”

As he spoke the last few words, he looked right into her eyes, giving her to understand that those words, and the fact that the law would support his every move, were the only things that would concern anyone. Looking at Vexford, she saw with dismay that he would not help her.

While she hesitated, her gaze still fixed on Vexford, Sir Geoffrey stepped forward and put an arm around her shoulders, saying gently, “Come along now, darling. You don’t want his lordship to think you ill-behaved. You have taken up quite enough of his time already. We’ll just go inside and have a little talk, the two of us, and I’m sure I’ll convince you that the proper course is the one I’ve laid out, but if you still have some uncertainties, you know you have only to express them to me.” She could smell liquor on his breath now, and the odor increased her fears, though she could not have explained why it did.

“I’ll walk in with you,” Vexford said.

Melissa’s knees felt weak again. Not for a moment did she believe that Sir Geoffrey intended to have reasonable speech with her. She remembered only too clearly how he reacted when his will was crossed, and she had certainly crossed it tonight. But when she did not move instantly to accompany him, he gave her a hard nudge, unseen by Vexford, and she obeyed, believing from what she had seen in the larger man’s eyes that he was completely convinced of Sir Geoffrey’s kindly intent.

Melissa would have been surprised to know, as they walked back into the inn, that Nick was anything but convinced of her father’s amiable character. He had, in fact, taken an instant, albeit apparently illogical, dislike to Sir Geoffrey Seacourt, although he would have agreed with anyone who said the man seemed no more than ordinarily concerned about his daughter. Having discovered her alone in a barn with an unknown and unmarried man, his concern was reasonable. Even the overbluff heartiness in Seacourt’s manner was understandable, since he knew the Earl of Ulcombe wielded considerable influence both in the political world and in the
beau monde.
The attitude was one that Nick had encountered frequently, even in persons who were otherwise perfectly likable. Still, he did not like Seacourt.

Instincts honed by uncountable hours at gaming tables told him that the man’s bluff heartiness was a facade, but what lay beneath the surface remained a mystery. Though it had become clear to him that Seacourt had taken a drink or two over his limit, the man was not ape-drank. In any case, Nick told himself, he was the girl’s father, did not mean real harm to her, and she had earned a scolding. He also decided that, despite his instincts and the way he had felt drawn to help her, he had no good reason to interfere in what was, after all, no business of his.

When they parted company near the taproom door, he caught Miss Seacourt’s frightened gaze once more, and felt again the unusual urge that had stirred him to lend her his protection. She was a disobedient daughter, one clearly accustomed to doing as she pleased. Nothing else could explain the mad attempt to ride to Cambridge on her own. Even if she spoke the truth about Seacourt’s having uprooted her from her rightful home—though what she could have meant by such a statement, he could not imagine—she had no business stealing horses or riding off in the dark of night. He did not doubt that she was a minx or that her frail flaxen beauty hid a spoiled and willful nature. Why then, he wondered, watching her go dejectedly up the narrow stairway ahead of her father, did he feel as if he had abandoned her to a dreadful fate?

Putting his concerns ruthlessly aside, he entered the taproom to find his trainer comfortably seated at a table with his groom, a pint of foamy beer before each of them. Nick said to the latter, “So here you are, Artemus. Go out to the stable, will you, and help them put up my hack and the gelding Drax rides.”

The trainer, a slender but muscular man twenty years Nick’s senior, with grizzled hair and eyebrows so thick they threatened one day to hide his eyes altogether, said, “I never had that bay out after six, my lord. Put him away myself.”

“Nevertheless, Drax, he’s wearing a saddle now, and the lad has three to deal with. Your beer will keep, Artemus. I want a word with Drax now, anyway.”

“Aye, m’ lord.”

When the groom had gone, Nick sat down in his place, called to the tapster to provide him with ale, and turned back to Drax. “How are Quiz and Florrie?”

“At their peak, my lord, just as I promised. They both ought to win their early heats. As to whether Prince will carry the day tomorrow against the Duke of Grafton’s nag, I can’t say till we pair them. I like Wilson’s colt for the Friday race, but His Grace insists that Whizgig will win, and he’s put his blunt down pretty heavy, I’m told.”

“So have I, Drax, not to mention my hundred-pound subscription just to enter, so don’t let me down. His lordship will never let me hear the end of it if you do.”

Drax did not misunderstand him. In his view, there was only one lordship worth mentioning. “’Tis a pity he ain’t here, Master Nick. He’d like to see your horses win, even if he’s teased you something unmerciful for naming the black Prince Florizel.”

Nick chuckled at the memory of his father’s reaction to the name. “I did it in honor of His Majesty’s erstwhile nickname,” he said with a false air of virtue.

Drax smiled and rubbed his bristly chin, watching the tapster serve Nick’s ale.

Nick’s thoughts drifted upstairs, and he was just wondering what might be happening between Miss Seacourt and her father when Drax said, “Do you mean to tell me how you came to find that bay saddled again in the stable, Master Nick? I don’t need to tell you I never left him that way when I got back from the Heath.”

“I know you didn’t,” Nick said. “I did tell someone that the lads out there had saddled the hack up for you, thinking you would return to the racing barn tonight, but I doubt that he believed me. For that matter, it was a stupid gambit,” he added musingly. “Too easy to check. I don’t want to discuss it further, however.”

Drax looked curious but made no more attempt to question him, which did not surprise Nick. Over the years, he had discouraged his retainers from inquiring too carefully into either his actions or the reasons for them.

When he finished his ale, he bade his trainer good-night and, feeling restless, decided to walk back to the Little Hell. He told himself the exercise would do him good. The drinks were excellent there, his friends would still be gathered around the tables, and action would be running high in anticipation of the next day’s heavy betting at the Heath. He would not stake his money at the tables, however, for instinct warned him that his luck had run its course. Still, the activity was bound to take his thoughts off what he was rapidly coming to believe had been a most unfortunate encounter. The sooner he forgot the silly chit, the better it would be.

Entering her bedchamber with her father right behind her, Melissa silently cursed her untimely meeting with Vexford. If only—

“Lawks-a-mussy, miss, I were just beginning to think you musta been carried off by gypsies!” Mag jumped to her feet from the bench in the window embrasure where she had been curled up awaiting the return of her mistress. “I’ll fetch your hot water straightaway, for I don’t doubt you’ll be wanting to get right to bed.”

“Get out,” Seacourt said.

“Well, lawks-a-mussy, sir, didn’t I just say I was going?”

“Don’t come back here tonight unless I send for you.”

“But I sleep here,” Mag protested.

“Not tonight, you don’t. Tell the landlord to find you a pallet in the attic with his own servants. If he cannot, he must provide you with a room of your own near this one. Your mistress will not require your services any longer tonight.” He held the door open and Mag fled without another word. Shutting the door with a bang, he said grimly, “And now, my darling daughter, we will discuss your failure to obey me.”

“Sir, please, you must understand how I feel about this,” Melissa pleaded, stepping toward him with her hands spread.

He slapped her face.

The blow brought tears to her eyes and sent her stumbling back again, but she pressed a hand to her stinging cheek and did not cry out.

He snapped, “I understand that you have somehow come to believe, in the past nine years, that you can set your will against mine with impunity. You will soon learn the error of such misguided thinking, however. Just where the devil did you think you were going?”

Without thinking, she blurted, “Nowhere, I swear! It was just as his lordship said. I-I was taking some air before retiring, and—No, please don’t hit me again!”

He lowered his hand. “Then don’t lie to me. That horse was not saddled in error, Melissa. I heard the stableboy perfectly plainly when he tried to say that no one had left it saddled for Vexford’s man. You saddled it yourself, didn’t you? Tell me the truth now, or I’ll make you wish you had.”

“Very well, then, I did saddle the horse.” she said. “I-I want to go home, Papa. Please, let me go home to Scotland!”

“Home is with me until you are married,” he said, adding on a different note, “I missed seeing Yarborne tonight, but perhaps that’s just as well, because before I turn you over to him, I must teach you to obey those in authority over you. You may consider it my wedding gift to your husband.”

Raising the riding whip he still held, he stepped purposefully toward her.

O
UTSIDE THE ENTRANCE TO
the Little Hell, Nick tossed his reins to a waiting lad. It occurred to him that although Clara, Lady Hawthorne, had known better than to expect him to dine with her that evening, she did expect him to put in at least a brief appearance at the assembly she was attending. She had said as much before leaving the Heath earlier that day when she had also expressed displeasure with his lack of attention to her since their arrival in Newmarket. Her ladyship, he reflected as he mounted the steps, was proving to be more demanding than was consistent with his hedonistic nature, not to mention a bore. No doubt Tommy was right, and he was no more than a selfish trifler, but Clara had understood the game well enough when they first met, so she had little to complain about now. He had been exceedingly generous.

Miss Seacourt had more cause to be provoked with him, because she had asked for help and he had refused it. The truth was, of course, that there had been little he could do for her. Seacourt’s authority over her, as her father, was indisputable. Still, Nick could not forget her fear. Reminding himself that Seacourt had not projected an impression of violent anger did not help, for heaven knew, the Earl of Ulcombe seldom raised his voice, yet he was a terrifying figure when his displeasure was aroused. Furthermore, although Nick could not remember the last time he himself had shouted or employed violence against a fellow man, more than one friend had declared his temper one to be avoided at all cost.

Seacourt simply had not appeared to be infuriated, only exasperated; and considering that his daughter had tried to ride to Cambridge on what could only have been a female’s foolish whim, he had been well within his rights to be annoyed. If he subjected her to a severe tongue-lashing, it was no more than she deserved. So why, Nick wondered as he gave cloak, gloves, hat, and whip to the footman waiting inside the door to receive them, did he continue to feel as if he had shamelessly abandoned a drowning kitten?

Many gentlemen in the card room had dressed more formally for the later hour. They wore the stiff white neckcloths, brass-buttoned coats, embroidered waistcoats, and elegant pantaloons that one might see at any fashionable London club. The noise level had risen since his departure, however, to a point well beyond the decorous low hum one encountered in the august chambers of White’s or Brooks’s. It had, in fact, risen to a din that must preclude any rational conversation.

Men crowded around the hazard and faro tables, while others played whist for high stakes, or macao, or piquet. With the advantage of his superior height, Nick scanned the crowd and soon spotted Lord Thomas, once again at the hazard table. Making his way there, pausing now and again to exchange a greeting, and then to order a bottle of his favorite brandy from a passing servant, he found himself, more than once, pushing the memory of Miss Seacourt out of his mind.

When he stepped to the table beside Lord Thomas, that gentleman’s cheerful round face broke into a broad grin. “Couldn’t stay away, I see,” he said, raising his voice to a near bellow to make himself heard. “Cover my stake, will you, Nick? English rules. Main was five, chance is seven, which is three to two in favor of the caster. Just look at that stake! If I throw the main now, I’ll have to apply to you for a loan to pay off everyone, but if I throw chance, I’ll be rolling in filthy lucre.”

“I’ll watch, thanks. You’re more likely to lose your shirt than to throw in, and it sounds to me as if I’d lose in either event.”

“Doubter.” Carelessly, Lord Thomas gave the cup a shake and spilled the dice onto the green velvet plain.

May the devil fly away with those ivories!” he cried when they came to rest with an ace and four showing. “If I’d wanted five, I could have thrown all night and never got it.”

“I told you, you’d lose your shirt. Do you really need a loan?”

“No, dash it, but it’s low tide with me now.”

“Then come away and play piquet with me instead.”

“Don’t you mean to play hazard?”

“No, something tells me I’m bound to be as out of vein now as you are,” Nick said. “Pass the cup like a good chap, and come along. I saw an unoccupied table near the door to the hall.”