Amanda Scott (13 page)

Chuff clearly enjoyed London’s social life, and had made a number of friends, not least among which was Terence Coombs. Mr. Coombs was among the first of the after-dinner guests to arrive that evening, and Chuff received him with a grin. Later, when the orchestra began to tune its instruments for dancing, and while Pinkie waited for Rothwell to claim her hand for the first dance, she watched the two young men chatting. She wished Chuff were standing beside her, and felt brief displeasure with Mr. Coombs for keeping him from her side. At least, with Chuff, she could talk without worrying that she might say the wrong thing.

“Good evening, Miss MacCrichton.”

Pinkie jumped at the sound of the familiar voice, then turned with a quick, involuntary smile of welcome. “Good evening, sir. Have you only just arrived?”

“Aye,” Kintyre said. “My sister forgot her reticule and insisted that we return to fetch it.”

“I believe that must be quite the longest sentence you have spoken in my presence,” she said.

“Is it?”

Feeling unaccustomed heat in her cheeks, she said ruefully, “I spoke without thinking. I have been trying to keep a guard on my tongue, and I thought I was succeeding, but now I see that it is no such thing. Pray forgive me.”

“There is nothing to forgive,” he said. “You merely said what you were thinking, after all, and doubtless spoke no more than the truth.”

She could feel the energy radiating from him. He appeared to be composed and calm, but when she looked into his eyes, she encountered an intensity that made it hard to look away again. It was as if he were studying her, but she thought she was probably being egotistical even to think such a thing.

Abruptly he said, “Will you dance with me?”

“Now? I mean, they haven’t begun playing yet, and moreover, I am engaged to dance the first minuet with Rothwell, because he is giving the ball for me, you see. Chuff—my brother, that is—is to open the dancing with Lady Rothwell. The orchestra will play minuets for the first two hours and then country dances.”

“Aye, I know that, but unless you’ve made yourself a list and promised all your dances, there must be one that you can save for me.”

Her lacing suddenly seemed unnaturally tight. “You may have the second minuet, sir, if you want it. I have made no one any promises.”

“Then the others are slackers,” he said. “I will see you anon, lass.”

He walked away, leaving her with strangely mixed emotions. On the one hand, he had seemed so sure of her that she would have liked very much to have told him she had no dances left, but on the other, she would have been disappointed to have had to turn him down. Still, it was arrogant simply to have asked his question and walked off when he’d got his answer. A more civilized man would have stood with her and chatted politely until her partner arrived to claim her hand.

As she watched him, the sense of familiarity twitched again. Since that first day, when she had nearly knocked him down in her haste to know if she had seen Roddy going into Hyde Park, she had spent a good deal of time thinking about Kintyre. That she could know him and not remember him was patently absurd, so she had quickly decided that she did not know him.

When the notion struck her that he bore a slight resemblance to her ghost, she blamed her overactive imagination and Sir Horace Walpole, because soon after that first dinner at Rothwell House she had acquired a copy of Sir Horace’s book,
The Castle of Otranto,
and she had been reading it in spare moments ever since. The absorbing tale, full of ghosts and supernatural occurrences, as it was, had doubtless stirred her imagination to see a slight resemblance between Kintyre and her ghost.

Still, she thought, he did have the same craggy features, the same deep-set dark eyes, and beneath all the powder—if his dark eyebrows did not lie—he had the same dark hair. Even so, he was not the same, for her ghost was kind and protective, while Kintyre was arrogant, even rude. If he felt compassion for anything or anyone, she had not seen it. He did keep an eye on his bewitching sister, but that did not count, for it was no more than his duty to look after her.

Rothwell’s approach put an end to her musing. He was dressed in the finest French fashion, his black frock coat, white and silver waistcoat, and black velvet knee breeches all laced with gold. In one hand he carried a small filigreed enamel snuffbox. As he took Pinkie’s hand to lead her onto the rapidly clearing floor, he tucked the little box into the fob pocket of his waistcoat.

“Are you enjoying your party, my dear?” he asked with a smile.

“Oh, yes, sir. Everyone has been so kind, and it is all quite grand, is it not?”

“It is, indeed,” he said, smiling, “but not so grand, Maggie assures me, as your presentation on Tuesday will be, or the ball at Almack’s the following night.”

“It is kind of her to present me to the queen,” Pinkie said.

“You will enjoy it, I expect. Court life can be most amusing.”

“Aye, perhaps,” she said, thinking how much nicer a day in the Highlands would be, with the sun shining brightly and scores of birds twittering from the trees.

“Do you miss Scotland a great deal?” His tone was sympathetic.

She started. “H-how did you know what I was thinking, sir?”

Rothwell smiled. “Maggie used to look just that way from time to time—her faraway look, I always called it. She would be dreaming of the Highlands.”

“But her home is here in London!”

“It is now, but it was not always so, you know.” The orchestra began to play music for the first minuet, and Chuff and Maggie joined them in that stately dance.

The pattern of the dance made further conversation difficult, and after the first few steps, others joined them, adding to their set and forming two others.

When the music stopped, as Pinkie and Rothwell turned toward the side of the room where she had last seen Duncan and Mary, Kintyre suddenly appeared right in front of them.

“My dance, I believe, lass.”

“Aye, it is,” she replied, feeling suddenly shy. Swiftly collecting her wits, she said politely to Rothwell, “Do you know Kintyre, sir?”

“Aye, we’ve met. His hostess is a friend of my wife’s. Are you enjoying the evening, lad?”

“Aye, thank you, sir. Shall we join our set, Miss MacCrichton?”

He danced competently, without trying to make conversation, but again she was conscious of that repressed energy. When the music stopped, and he escorted her toward Mary and Lady Agnes, she said impulsively, “Who is your hostess, sir?”

“Her name is Arabella Thatcher. My aunt, Lady Marsali, and my sister and I are all living with her in her house for the Season.”

“I think I have met Mrs. Thatcher,” Pinkie said thoughtfully. “A sprightly lady who wears rather amazing wigs, is she not?”

“Aye, that’s her,” he said. “She has silver hair, and when first I met her, she had arranged it in a glorious mass of curls, but when she goes out, she does wear immense, imposing wigs.”

Pinkie smiled. “She seems like a kindly woman.”

“Aye,” he said.

They had reached Mary and Lady Agnes, so Pinkie presented him to them, and as she did, she realized that he and she had still not been properly introduced to each other. He did not seem to mind—if he had noticed—and the lack did not much disturb her either. She hoped, however, that neither Mary nor Duncan would ask her who had presented Kintyre to her. They might not accept such informal behavior as willingly as she did.

He did not approach her again that evening, and she tried to put him out of her mind. Chuff had disappeared with Terence Coombs and one or two others, and she suspected that they had gone in search of the card room. She hoped they had not left the house altogether in search of more lively entertainment.

Sunday passed quietly, but Monday afternoon, while Pinkie and her maid were deciding what articles of jewelry would best complement the dress Pinkie intended to wear that evening to a rout ball at Sefton House, Lucy burst into the bedchamber without so much as a rap on the door.

“Miss Pinkie,” she exclaimed, “is he here?”

“Is who here?” Pinkie demanded, but her stomach tightened, for she knew who Lucy meant even before the nursery maid replied.

“Master Roddy’s gone,” Lucy said. “Mr. Coombs didna come today at ten o’clock, which is his usual time; and, an hour ago, Master Roddy said he would go to the schoolroom to wait. We’ve just learned that Mr. Coombs still hasna come, though, so Nurse asked me to see that the laddie had not got…that is…”

“To see if he’d got into mischief,” Pinkie said, supplying the words the nursery maid was so clearly reluctant to speak.

“Aye, miss, that’s it.”

“It does no good to wrap up the words, Lucy. Does anyone know where he might have gone, or when he left?”

“Nay, then, miss, for no one’s seen him this past hour. Dugald looked in the back garden, and now he’s gone across to the park, but if the laddie went there, he’s for it when Himself finds out, for he did tell him he was no to go there without someone older, and there’s none who might ha’ gone with him.”

Turning at once to her maid, Pinkie said, “Doreen, fetch my cloak and one for yourself. We must search for him. And, Lucy,” she added sternly, “tell no one else about this until we return. There is no cause yet to alarm the entire household.”

“But what if Mr. Coombs comes?”

“Tell him we are displeased with him for being so late.”

“But what if Himself asks about Master Roddy?”

“He won’t unless Mr. Coombs arrives and tells him he’s missing.”

“But what if—”

“Lucy, just go back to the nursery. No one is going to ask about Master Roddy, because everyone who matters will assume that he is with his tutor. If Mr. Coombs should arrive, tell him that I have gone to fetch Master Roddy and to await us in the schoolroom. That way no one will fly into the boughs—at least, not until Doreen and I return. If we cannot find him, then we can all begin to worry. I daresay he has only gone for a walk round the neighborhood. He is not stupid, and he knows perfectly well how much trouble he will be in, so he will not do anything too foolhardy—I hope.” She added the last two words in an undertone, but Lucy and Doreen heard her, because both nodded fervent agreement.

Leaving the house, Pinkie and Doreen walked briskly down Tyburn Lane to Dean Street, and on past Caldwell’s Assembly Rooms, where two years before—or so several people had told Pinkie—the seven-year-old prodigy, Wolfgang Mozart, had performed a concert accompanied by his four-year-old sister. Pinkie and Doreen saw no sign of the un-prodigal Master Roderick, however, and so they continued into South Audley Street till they came to its end.

Crossing Curzon Street, they entered the area known as Shepherd’s Market, where long had been held the annual May Fair that gave the area its name. Few coaches ventured into the area, but there were many horses with riders, even more chairs, and a vast number of bustling pedestrians. As Pinkie and Doreen passed the old two-story market house, Pinkie spied their quarry at last.

“There he is!” Without a thought for propriety, she shouted, “Roddy!”

The boy glanced over his shoulder and grimaced with annoyance.

Pinkie put her hands on her hips and glared back at him as best she could through the teeming crowd.

With a resigned shrug, Roddy turned toward them.

Just then a horseman reined his mount near the boy, leaned from the saddle, and grabbed his coat, heaving him from the pavement.

Pinkie screamed.

“S
TOP HIM!” PINKIE SHRIEKED
. “Oh, pray, stop that man!”

Although she knew that she could never reach Roddy in time, she dashed forward, pushing people out of her way and continuing to shout, hoping that someone would heed her cries. It looked certain, however, that she would be too late. The rider was far ahead, and too many people stood in her way.

Heads turned when she shouted, of course, but no one took a step toward the rider still trying to hoist the boy up and over his saddle.

Roddy was doing his part to free himself, squirming and struggling, all the while yelling, “Let go, you villain, let go!” Indeed, the lad seemed to have wriggled half out of his tight-fitting jacket when the horseman, realizing that he was about to lose him, reached down with his free hand and grabbed one flailing arm.

At that moment, seeming to materialize out of the air, a huge dark gray dog streaked through the crowd, its angry snarl terrorizing all nearby into scrambling out of its way. The horseman looked up, startled by the snarl. He still clutched the back of Roddy’s jacket with one hand and an arm with the other. With a look of horror, he tried to kick his horse to action, but the animal also seemed awestruck and pawed the ground instead, teeth bared and eyes growing round and wild.

The dog, looking at least half as large as the horse, leapt then with another snarl, whereupon the would-be kidnapper released Roddy, snatched up the reins, and kicked his horse much harder, making it leap forward at last.

Roddy dropped like a stone and would have fallen hard on the pavement had not the dog twisted with amazing agility to land beside him, allowing him to grab the shaggy fur at its withers to steady himself and land standing.

Pinkie had stopped involuntarily at the first sight of the huge creature, but her surge of relief at Roddy’s narrow escape evaporated when the dog twisted from the villain apparently to attack the boy instead. Crying out again, she rushed forward, raising her arms and waving them, hoping to frighten the beast away.

“Dinna fright him,” Roddy called to her. “He’s gey friendly. See?”

She did see, clearly, for when the lad reached to put his arms around the huge creature’s neck, and hugged him, the dog’s long pink tongue lapped his cheek.

The dog stood nearly a yard high at the shoulder, the top of its head only inches below Roddy’s, its dark eyes wary and watchful. Its head was rather flat on top, its black muzzle long and pointed. Its ears stood erect, but their folded tips and the boy’s arm draped across its shoulders softened its otherwise fierce appearance.

Reassured, Pinkie slowed to a more decorous pace. Glancing back to look for Doreen, she saw the maid moving steadily in her wake through the crowd.