Anita Mills (11 page)

“I think I should like that excessively,” Lavinia tittered as she contemplated a reunion with an old friend who no longer had any claim to beauty.

“I believe I shall go with you,” Eleanor added, “for there is dear Lady Dillworth with her.”

“Egad, ma’am!” Brockhaven turned to Augusta after they left. “I wonder how you can tolerate such a prattlebox! Leffingwell must have been glad for the peace when they laid him in the ground.”

“Oh, I shouldn’t think so,” Augusta answered coolly. “He was much older than Vinnie and he fairly doted on her—left her with an enormous fortune. She may rattle on, sir, but underneath her prattle, she is a very sharp female. I daresay she has improved on the inheritance in the years since he has been gone.”

“You don’t say! Then why did she not take a second husband to help her manage?”

“Why should she? She had the money, the houses, the land, and her children.”

“She has children?”

“Two—Clarence is at Eton and Horace is at boarding school.”

“Well, they will get the bulk of Leffingwell’s estate, of course.”

“No,” Augusta mused slowly, “I should not think so. I believe she had their money arranged in trust. Of course, Clearence has the title, and I know she expects to purchase Horace a commission in his majesty’s dragoons now that this unpleasantness with Boney’s over once and for all.”

“Dear me! And to think that I have not heard of Lady Leffingwell since her Season.”

“Of course you have not. She is a veritable pattern card of propriety, my lord, and not given to squandering her fortune.” Augusta was warming to an idea just forming in her mind as she added, “She’s a perfect paragon, if you must know.”

“Egad! I had no idea! But she looks too thin,” Sir Basil decided as he looked at her across the loges. “She is most likely a chronic complainer—you know, one of those females with every conceivable megrim. I cannot say I envy you, dear lady, if you have lived with her these several years.”

“Vinnie? Good heavens, no! she is never ill—never.”

“Really?” He looked again with new interest.

Later, Augusta sat back in Sir Basil’s opera box and watched as he conversed pleasantly with Lavinia. And for once in her life, Vinnie ceased her incessant chatter and listened. In fact, it was not until the third act that she actually focused her attention of the diva singing the lead and pinched at Sir Basil’s coat for attention.

“What an incredibly beautiful woman!” she breathed. “And what a voice!”

“Sophia Mantini.” Brockhaven nodded authoritatively. “She is the Marquess of Trent’s latest flirt.”

“La, what a pair they must make—if even half of what I have heard of him is true!”

“Shhhh!” Augusta hissed as she reached to tap Vinnie on the shoulder. “And
twice
what you have heard of him is fact.”

“Very true,” Brockhaven confided in spite of the quelling looks he and Lavinia were receiving from the adjoining boxes. “He is a cold and wild man, I can tell you—a devil when crossed, as he bears no slight. Excellent with pistol
and
sword, he was used to duel quite often, but now there’s none to try him.”

“Shhhhh!”

“Damme, Brockhaven, be quiet!”

The complaints from around him did not deter him as he continued to expound on the marquess. “He’s a Deveraux, ma’am, and they are a wild and arrogant bunch—he’s the worst, of course.”

“Well, I am glad I have never met the gentleman,” Vinnie murmured in shocked accents.

“Pooh.” Augusta shook her head in disgust. “I have met him, and he makes me sorry that I am not fifteen or twenty years younger. Wild he is, but give me a rake any day.”

“Madam!” Brockhaven drew back in shock.

“Gussie!”

“I stand by what I said:” Augusta folded her hands in her lap and turned back to listen to the rest of the Mantini’s performance.

Much later, after Brockhaven had returned the ladies to the Marling house and Lady Leffingwell had retired, Eleanor Marling faced her sister-in-law over a glass of wine. She lifted her glass and swirled it aimlessly.

“I do not know what you are about, Gussie, but I suppose you must know what you hope to achieve. Myself—I cannot stand Sir Basil.”

“Repulsive as a toad,” Augusta agreed.

“Then, what?”

“Leave it to me, my dear, and do not try to stick your oar in the water. I may just have found a way to solve both our problems.”

“But I cannot quite like having him around here,” Eleanor confessed, “because of Amy. Did you not note that he attempted to draw her. into our little outing?”

“I noticed, and I supported you in your determination to keep her out of his way. Do but give me a week or two, Nora, to try my mad scheme, and then I’ve a mind to broaden Amy’s education with a trip abroad. I have always favored Paris myself.”

L
ORD
T
RENT’S RECOVERY
from pneumonia was not without its problems. He continued to run a fever for several days after the crisis had passed, and he was a less-than-pleasant patient. Ellen continued to lose much sleep nursing him as she forced herself to rise several times each night to see that he remained covered. She feared a backset that would keep them’ from ever reaching Yorkshire, and she despaired of ever being found by Dobbs.

Maggie Bratcher assisted whenever she could, bringing food, gruel, and clean clothes to them. And being a short, ample woman, Maggie brought things that did not fit Ellen at all. Still, they were clean and Ellen was grateful to escape the Mantini’s dresses.

“Egad, but you look a fright in that thing,” Trent commented when she ventured into his room with a bowl of gruel on his tray. “If you gained ten stone, you could not fill it out.”

“I am well aware of its lack of fit or style, my lord, but at least it is clean.”

“Style? ’Twould have more if it were made out of a flour sack, my dear.” He reached for the bowl and inspected its contents. “And what is this?”

She sat on the side of his bed and spread a napkin over his chest. “I would not mention the dress or the gruel around Mrs. Bratcher if I were you, Alex. You know we are quite dependent on her kindness.”

“Gruel?” He sniffed with distaste. “I think I preferred the barley broth, for I at least had a notion of what was in it.”

“Would you like a spoon, or would you prefer to drink it?”

He took a tentative taste and sat the bowl on the table by the bed. “I would have something with more substance, if you really want my opinion on the subject— something like roast beef, potatoes, carrots, peas, bread, and a bottle of wine—and I would finish it off with a peach or apricot tart.”

“Dr. Cookson says it must be sustaining broths only, Alex.”

“And he is a foot or more shorter than I. I warrant he could not sustain himself on this,” he grumbled. “Oh, never mind!” He reached for the bowl and downed it in a several quick gulps. “Now, my dear, what else is there? I do not care for a second serving of this.”

“I’ll see if I can find something,” she relented.

“Good girl! I know they have been feeding you something other than this pap. I am to the point where I would be grateful even for your crumbs.”

She rummaged around the kitchen and pantry and returned with a dish of brownish gel and a clean spoon. “Here,” she ordered, “open your mouth.”

“Dash it! I can feed myself.”

“I know, but ’tis merely a precaution to keep you from throwing it back at me. Now, open up and enjoy the luxury of having someone take care of your every need. It is not a circumstance that is likely to last long.”

“If you think you are taking care of my every need, you are sadly mistaken,” he told her wickedly. And then to prevent her from giving him a sharp set-down, he opened his mouth obediently for the spoon. She dumped it in and waited for him to swallow. Instead, he choked and grabbed for the napkin on his chest. Spitting into it, he managed to sputter, “Aagh! If you were my wife, I’d suspect you of attempting to kill me for my money. Taste that stuff before you give it.”

She began to giggle in spite of her best efforts to keep a straight face. “Oh, Alex! You should see your expression—definitely not a recommendation for pork jelly.”

“Pork jelly?”

“Panghurst’s Restorative Pork Jelly, I believe it is called. And you do look as though you could use a restorative.”

“I am not at all amused,” he told her in disgust. I thought you sharp-witted enough to know that it is in your best interests to keep me alive. But, no, you would poison me with some damned stuff you have chanced to find on a shelf.”

“Gentlemen do not swear,” she told him primly.

“I am a nobleman, my dear. Sometimes there is a difference,” he reminded her. “And do not be changing the subject. If you would ever have me recover, you will change your ways. Unless you wish to be stranded here, Miss Marling, you will find me something to support this body of mine.” He glanced down at the outline of his body beneath the covers. “As it is, I’ll warrant I have lost nearly a stone.”

“I have done the best I could under the circumstances, my lord. A lady is not expected to be a cook, companion, nurse, and friend to an unmarried gentleman, or nobleman, or any man, for that matter.”

“And don’t be giving me that put-upon look, Ellie. You know I am damned grateful for your assistance. I would not be alive if it were not for you, but now you have to feed me,” he coaxed, “if you would have me take you to York.” He caught her hand and squeezed it.

“I’ll see what I can find,” she sighed.

She retrieved her hand and reluctantly went to get the remains of her own supper. Within the space of a few minutes, she was back with some cold meat, spiced apples, and soft buns. Behind her back, she held one of Chudleigh’s bottles of red wine.

He grinned boyishly as he reached for the plate. “I might have known that mention of Yorkshire would be enough to get what I wanted. Say, what are you hiding?”

“Well, since we have stolen everything else from Mr. Chudleigh, I thought we might as well take his last bottle of wine.”

“Ah, you darling girl! Nothing revives my spirits like wine.”

He wolfed the contents of the plate and drank a couple of glasses of the purloined wine. When he was finished, he pushed the remains aside and lay back with his eyes closed. Ellen picked up the plate and started to leave.

“No, don’t go, my dear. I am tired, but not so tired that I do not want your company. Sit here and tell me what you will do when you reach your aunt’s.”

“I am not certain,” she answered truthfully. “I suppose everything depends on how I am received. If she is bent on returning me to Brockhaven, I will run away again.” She looked away and twisted the material of the skirt across her lap. “I guess I will invent some credentials and apply for a position somewhere. I should prefer to be a musician because I have some ability there, but if it will not do at all, then I suppose I will have to be a companion or governess. Surely they do not wind up as rich men’s mistresses, my lord.”

“Ellen—”

“Perhaps I could even open up some sort of a shop if you would but lend me a little money to start with. I have a good eye for color in spite of what you have seen, and I might try the millinery business. I would pay you back, of course.”

“You are a very resourceful girl, my dear, but it wouldn’t work. No, we will have to think of something else. If worse comes to worst—”

His words were cut off in midsentence as they heard the sound of an approaching carriage. She jumped up and ran to the window to see an elegant black equippage roll up the lane.

“Oh, no! Alex, I hope we are not about to face Mr. Chudleigh. Oh, how can we ever explain?”

She dashed madly from room to room, setting as much to rights as she could while Trent struggled into some clothes. Ellen came back and grabbed the dishes and the wine bottle and stashed them beneath a cupboard as someone began pounding on the door. She squared her shoulders and prepared to be evicted and disgraced in front of the Bratchers.

“Milord! Milord! “ ’Tis me, Dobbs! And if ye be there, I’ve brought yer valet and yer things.”

“Dobbs!” She threw open the door and fell into the arms of the astonished coachman. “Oh, thank heavens you are here! Lord Trent has been so ill that I have feared for his life.”

“‘Ere, missy, no need fer that,” he told her gruffly. “Bad time o’ it, eh? “ ’Ere, ’ere, don’t be in such o’ takin’—old Dobbs is ‘ere,” he tried to comfort as she gave in to long-pent-up tears.

“I don’t believe it.” Trent shook his head from the doorway where he leaned for support. “In all this time, I have not been treated to one single feminine weakness. Yet you arrive, and within two minutes, you have her weeping like a watering pot.” He saw his valet standing behind the coachey, and he shook his head, “Behold, Crawfurd, what I have been reduced to enduring. As soon as you can manage it, I shall require a bath, a shave, and clean clothes that fit.”

The valet took in his master’s appearance and winced at the too-tight breeches and the open shirt. “Milord, cover yourself.”

“You have obviously not inspected the drawers and closets of this place if you think that possible, my dear fellow. I cannot cough in anything we have found without splitting a seam.”

Crawfurd turned disapprovingly to where Dobbs was handing Ellen his handkerchief. “And I might have known that there would be one of them here, but did you have to stoop to consorting with a local doxy?”

Ellen stared, but Trent’s face went cold and his voice was like ice. “You will apologize to Lady Brockhaven this instant, Crawfurd. You may have been with my family since I was in short coats, but you can be turned off as soon as the next one. I will not tolerate any disrespect where she is concerned.”

“Lady Brockhaven!” Dobbs and Crawfurd gasped in unison.

“Eh, yer went to ’is weddin’. Aye, there’s where yer started this,” Dobbs remembered.

“Surely you have not eloped with Brockhaven’s bride, milord! Not even you can recover from this!”

“I am sorry, my dear,” Trent apologized to Ellen, “but I tried to tell you how it would be. If my own people think the worst, you can well imagine what the rest of the world will say.”

“But it is not true.”

“I know.” He turned back to Crawfurd and his voice lost its warmth again. “I have not eloped with Lady Brockhaven, chucklehead. I am—or I was—taking her to her Aunt Sandbridge’s when that accident occurred. And if you have ever seen Basil Brockhaven, you will know that it was an act of compassion to do so.”

“But—”

“But nothing,” Trent snapped. “I repeat,” he bit off the words with an icy precision that left little doubt as to his meaning, “I repeat, I will not tolerate any disrespect to the lady.”

Crawfurd looked at the floor and mumbled an apology of sorts, but it did not satisfy the marquess. “Louder,” he ordered. When Crawfurd finally looked Ellen in the eye and begged her pardon, Trent relaxed against the doorjamb. “That’s better. Not even if you are in your cups will I allow you to say one word against her, do you hear? And you will not discuss her with any other servants if you wish to remain in my employ.”

“Yes, milord.”

“Now that you have understood me, you may see to my bath and bring in some decent clothes.” He caught at the door for support and smiled weakly at Dobbs. “Do you think you could get me back to bed? I am still deuced weak from the fever.”

Once he was again surrounded by his servants, Trent began to improve dramatically, and that improvement both cheered and disheartened Ellen. On the one hand, she was glad to see his lordship gaining strength, but on the other, she felt suddenly useless. She found herself taking a lesser role than the arrogant valet, Dobbs, or even the replacement driver, Mr. Leach. It was dispiriting to go from being so totally necessary to being merely an accessory to the situation.

Mrs. Bratcher came to call after Trent had had his bath and was elegantly dressed in silk shirt, buff kerseymere pantaloons, and mirror-perfect Hessians. She stared, stunned for a moment, at the transformation. “Why, Mr. Trent! Ye look ter be in a fair way o’ recoverin’, don’t yer?”

When Crawfurd opened his mouth to set her straight, he received a swift warning kick from his lordship. Dobbs grinned at the valet’s discomfiture, caught his master’s expression, and quickly schooled his own face into impassivity.

“But where’s Mrs. Trent? Poor thing’s fair hagged out with tendin’ ter ye. She ain’t sick ’erself?”

“She is fine, thank you, but she is resting just now, ma’am,” Trent replied before turning to his own servants. “Allow me to present Mr. Crawfurd, my valet, Mr. Dobbs, my coachman, and Mr. Leach, my driver.”

The woman bobbed a hasty little curtsy to the obviously stiff-necked valet, and the man snorted derisively at her lack of knowledge about how to greet servants.

“Well, sir, no doubt yer got all th’ ’elp yer need now, so I’ll be goin’. Tell the missus I called.”

“I assure you, Maggie, that you are still quite necessary to us. None of these fellows can cook any better than Mrs. Trent.” He picked up the leather purse that had been refilled with coins brought by Crawfurd. “Here—with five of us to feed, you will be put to considerable expense.”

“Oh, I couldn’t sir.” She shook her head. “Like I told yer missus, there might come a time as we didn’t ’ave the crops fer the rent.”

“No, I insist, Maggie. We can talk about the rent later.”

They appeared at a standoff until Crawfurd could stand it no longer and snapped irritably, “You’d best take anything Trent offers, woman. I can assure you his generosity is seldom noted.”

“No. We’d be poor tenants if we could not share with the landlord, especially as kind as Mr. Trent ’as been. And what with ’im so sick and ’is wife so worrit, I just couldn’t.” She looked up at Trent. “Yer understand, don’t ye, sir?”

“Yes, Maggie, I do.”

“I ’spect I’ll ’ave ter ’ave ’elp, so’s Jimmy’ll carry. Now, if yer was ter want ter give ’im a mite, I’d understand.”

She had no more than left when Leach smirked knowingly to Crawfurd. “I knew it was a hum.
Mrs.
Trent, she says! Yer had th’ right o’ it!”

Exhausted from being up so long, Trent leaned heavily on a chair back and fixed his new driver with an icy Deveraux stare. “Mr. Leach, you are discharged,” he told him, “And you will leave this house immediately.”

“Naw—yer wouldn’t—not fer a bit o’ muslin,” Leach scoffed m disbelief until he met the cold blue eyes. Then, as it sank in that his lordship was indeed quite serious, Leach paled. “But—my lord—,” he wavered uneasily, “ ’tis mistaken yer are—I—I—”

“No,” Trent bit off precisely, “ ’tis you who are mistaken, Mr. Leach. Despite my express warning to Mr. Crawfurd, you have chosen to slander a lady under my protection.”

“Alex—” Ellen interrupted from the doorway of her chamber.

“And you will stay out of this, Ellie,” Trent ordered brusquely. “ ’Tis between Leach and myself.”