Barbara Metzger (22 page)

This time he visited Belinda’s father, Squire Gannon. The squire’s lands appeared well tended and prosperous, at least. The old fool might be a dreadful parent, but he was a decent agriculturist. It remained to be seen if he was a dutiful magistrate.

After asking about the infant’s welfare, Gannon slapped his beefy thigh and laughed. “Give you the guardianship of a slip of a girl? Do not be absurd. Gals have guardians to protect them from such as you.”

At least the man had some scruples, Ty was happy to see, although he had to put a check on his temper at the slur to his integrity. “The young lady is currently here in your territory under the protection of my sister, the Duchess of Illington. I merely wish the formal, legal guardianship.”

“The chit is, what, seventeen to your nine and twenty? And no relationship? Not bloody likely.”

“Very well, then, you become Miss Dunsley’s guardian until she marries my brother.” Ty saw no reason to mention that his brother was also in Kent, and every reason not to, if Gannon were a conscientious upholder of the law.

Gannon scowled. “Why would I want to do a daft thing like that? Young misses are the devil’s own handmaidens. And deuced expensive, to boot.”

“You would have no expenses, I swear, and little enough to do with the girl. You never need meet her, if you wish. Miss Dunsley does, however, need an official guardian. Her current one, her uncle, tried to sell her into prostitution.”

“Hellfire.”

Ty nodded his agreement. “Not hot enough for the dastard.”

“Still, the fellow is her uncle.”

“Who can come back and legally claim her at any moment.” Until Ty shot him, if Finster Dunsley were not already dead. “But come, you lost your own daughter to greed and foolishness. Have you learned nothing from your mistakes?”

“Here now, my gel’s got nothing to do with this.” Gannon took out a large square of linen and wiped at his eyes. “Demme if I don’t miss the chit more every day.”

“No, Belinda has nothing to do with Dunsley, except that now you have the power to rescue some other poor innocent child from so dire a fate.”

A crafty look came over Gannon’s suddenly dry eyes. “Aye, but why should I do you any favors, my lord?”

“Some men set great store in their grandchildren. You did express a wish to see Melinda, did you not?”

“What I want is to bring her here where she belongs, but, yes, I would like to see the chit. See if there is any of my gel in the mite.”

“She is beautiful, like her mother. And Miss Dunsley is helping to care for her. You can visit with both of them at the same time when you put your seal on the papers my man Macurdle is drawing up. Shall I send for you when the documents arrive?”

Gannon took his time answering. “I suppose.”

Ty stood to leave. He waved his arm around, indicating the farms and fields, the house and barns. “You know, you have no one else to leave this to, what you have worked so hard for your entire life long. You leave the land in trust for Melinda, for her sons, and I will match its value in the same account. You won’t be able to touch it, but your blood kin will still work this land when you are gone. That’s something.”

Ty left the man wiping his eyes again, thinking of those great-grandsons he’d likely never see. Ty was thinking of his own lands, his own patrimony, his own sons. He urged Diablo faster.

Chapter 25

He was going to do it. No more agonizing, no more delays, no more worrying about mourning, Miss Croft’s emotions, or his sister’s machinations. Delia had returned his kiss, he knew it, just as he knew she must have felt the joyful chorus singing through his soul. She did not kiss other men that way, by Heaven, or they’d be lined up in her entryway, panting. No man with a dram of blood coursing in his veins would walk away from a woman who kissed him like that.

As for Ann, Anselm had taken the duchess into Canterbury to visit the cathedral today. She’d left her maid behind to chaperone Thea and Nonny, but answered Ty’s raised eyebrow with a laugh. She was a securely married woman, Her Grace had said, and Anselm was her spiritual advisor. Besides, it was an open carriage, and they would be back before nightfall.

As for leaving their brother and his fiancée under such haphazard supervision, Ann had laughed again, citing Aunt Eliza, Nanny. Baby Melinda, and Delia in and out of the sickroom. The duchess added that if the pair were seriously considering marriage, better they get to know each other first. Ty had to agree.

He had to get on with his own courting, too. The viscount thought he knew Miss Croft well enough by now to get the job done right this time. He tried different words out in rehearsal, watching Diablo’s ears for reaction. He was amazed to think how hard he’d struggled to find the correct phrases the other times, when the outcome did not matter. Now, he feared, it was a matter of life and death.

“Dedication?”

“Devotion?”

“Desire?”

The gelding’s ears pricked forward at the last, but that may have been because a creature rustled in the hedgerow alongside the road. No, desire would never do. Miss Croft was a gently bred female. A man did not mention his burning, rampantly lustful yearnings for a lady, not unless he wanted her to run away screaming or, worse, crying. Zeus, she could even faint.

Devotion was a good word, Ty decided, wishing he had a pencil to write it down. Thunderation, he wished he had a ring to give Delia. The one he’d placed by Belinda’s hand was gold, a wedding band. Ty wanted an engagement ring this time, something that sparkled, to remind Delia every time she saw it that he would wait as long as necessary, until a respectable mourning period was over, or until he sold his commission, if she insisted. She ought to have rubies to go with her hair, he considered, or emeralds to match her eyes. Surely there was a jeweler in Dover, or Canterbury, where they must hold a million weddings. Or he could wait until he returned to London and buy her something special.

No, Ty was not going to put the proposal off. Who knew when he could bring his courage to the sticking point again? Diablo snorted. There was no rabbit in the hedgerow this time.

Well, if he had no ring, and deuced few words, he ought to have flowers. Delia seemed to set great store in the things, filling the house with them for Belinda’s wedding, and then her funeral. He was riding right past the gates to Dallsworth’s place, Ty knew, and could beg a nosegay from the baron’s greenhouses, he supposed, right after Hell froze over and the devil put on ice skates.

He slowed the gelding to peer at the weeds at the verge of the road. It was nearly spring; surely something was blooming.

At last Ty’s patience was rewarded with a narrow clump of tiny purple somethings—he knew they were not violets—peeping out of dark green leaves. He dismounted and picked a handful, then the remaining two or three when Diablo ate his first bouquet. A battered soldier, a few measly sprigs, no ring—a fine bargain he was offering his would-be bride.

The deal deteriorated. The person who managed Diablo was not around, Jed Groom told Ty as he backed away from Diablo’s teeth, hooves, and anything else that moved. By the time the viscount was done seeing to his horse, the weeds were limp in his hand and he himself stank of horse and sweat. He’d have to wait, after all.

But there was Delia, out walking her dog in the grass at the front of the house. The yipping mutt was his dog, dash it, and that was another reason for getting married, so he could say the fluffy little mongrel was his wife’s pet, instead of having to admit ownership. His wife. Now there was a good word, Ty thought, forgetting his previous antipathy for the noxious noun.

“My wife?” he mumbled to himself as he walked closer to Delia and the dog.

Delia looked up and smiled.

He was lost. He handed her the flowers, sank onto one knee in front of her—that’s how a fellow did the thing, wasn’t it?—and said, “My wife?”

She laughed at him.

Delia had seen the viscount ride toward the stables, so she drew Angelina in that direction. If he headed back toward the inn without coming into the house, if he gave her the merest nod before walking politely past her to go visit his brother, then she would know once and for all, and could stop hoping.

He strode straight toward her. Delia’s heart sped up and she smiled. He held out a clump of ... dead weeds?
...
and her heart took off and she grinned. Then, with a pained expression on his face, as if he had eaten something rancid, Ty spit out what had to be the briefest proposal in history, and her heart soared, but she giggled. She looked down to gain her composure and, despite her best intentions, laughed outright. Her handsome swain, her knight in white horse hairs, had knelt in the reason she was walking Angelina.

Without a sound other than the dog’s yips and Miss Croft’s chuckles, Ty got up, did an about-face, a scarlet face at that, and marched back to the inn.

Aunt Rosalie arrived before Delia could walk into the village to apologize. “Such tales, my girl,” the dowager Lady Presmacott began as soon as her footman put down the carriage steps. “Clarence always was a talebearer, but the newspapers and scandal sheets are all full of the goings on here, so I had to come see for myself. Duels and dead demi-reps, hurried weddings and who knows what else? Besides, with Clarence and Gwen in town, I thought it best to leave rather than have to claim ‘em as kin. That widgeon Gwen thought I’d spend my time showing her the best shops. And Clarence is growing fat as a flawn. So tell me, what is this about Stivern’s heir courting you, then that peagoose Belinda, then you again? I could make neither heads nor tales from Clarence’s blather. And wipe that silly grin off your face, miss. With your freckles and hair, it makes you look like a clown at Astley’s Amphitheater. And what is that sack you have on? I swear, it’s no wonder the man left if that’s the best you can do. Clarence says you whistled away a fortune here in Hillsdale, besides. Such idiocy must have come from the Linbury side, along with that dreadful hair, and is that watering pot Linbury aunt of yours still battening on your generosity? And why have you not offered tea yet, nor shown me the infant? If it looks like George, we are all sunk. Why ain’t you wearing a bonnet, Dilly? If you are determined to lead apes in Hell, you ought to put on caps. And where is my maid? I need a nap.”

Delia needed a walk, in the direction of Whitaker’s Inn. Now she had the excuse of seeing to rooms for Lady Presmacott when she awakened, and her maid and coachmen. The infant’s cries had convinced Aunt Rosalie to remove there later, where all of Delia’s arguments about crowded conditions at Faircroft House could not. Delia did not know whether it would be better for her aunt to confront the viscount at the inn, or his so-far undiscovered brother, here. She chose her own peace of mind and let Melinda cry for a minute.

“My stars, that brat’s caterwauling is worse than Clarence’s. A body could never get a moment’s rest here, if the mattresses were not lumpy in the first place,” Aunt Rosalie complained, before having her maid place a lavender-soaked cloth over her eyes. She was asleep and snoring in seconds.

Delia set out soon after. Before she had reached the high road, however, yet another coach pulled up Faircroft’s drive, another large, crested coach. This time when the groom put down the stairs, a silver-haired gentleman of impressive height and nose stepped down, curling his lip at the plebeian surroundings. He did not speak, merely took out his quizzing glass to inspect the black-clad female who was standing in his way.

“Tell whomever is in charge here that he has callers, girl.”

“I am in charge, my lord.”

He looked her over again, head to toe and back up. “And who might you be, girl?” He addressed her as if Delia were an upper servant.

Delia curtsied. “I am Delia Croft, Lord Stivern.” She had no doubt whatsoever as to the identity of this autocratic gentleman, even if he did not give her the courtesy of an introduction. The crest on the coach matched Lord Tyverne’s signet, and the gentleman’s brusque air of authority matched his son’s commanding manner. She crossed her arms over her chest and raised her chin. “And this is my home.” Into which she was not inviting this petty despot who had made such a mull of his progeny’s lives, no matter how impolite she appeared. If the earl had been a more sympathetic parent, she believed, Ty would have taken his injured brother to the family seat, not to strangers.

“George Croft’s sister?”

She had to lower her chin some to nod.

“Heard about that. My condolences.”

The way the earl’s lip curled, Delia could not tell if he were expressing sympathy on her loss, or on her having a nodcock like George for a brother in the first place. “Thank you, my lord. I am afraid you have come too far on your journey, however. Your son is staying at the inn in the village. You might have passed him on the road.”

“Tyverne? No, I checked at the inn. He hired a gig and left for London. I missed him by an hour. Fool coachman had us lost on some back road.”

The look he gave the driver did not bode well for the man’s continued employment. Delia gave him a look of commiseration and said “Oh, dear.” Now she would have to wait until Ty returned with news of Thea’s uncle before she could apologize. And now she had to face this large, imperious, eagle-beaked earl on her own. Oh, dear, indeed.

“If you head back to the City immediately, you might still catch up to him on the road, you know,” she suggested.

“What, go back to Town and that parcel of mushrooms taking root in my town house? No.”

“I believe those are my relatives, my lord.”

“My condolences,” he repeated. “I did not come to this godforsaken place to find Tyverne anyway.”

“Oh, then whom did you seek?” She was not about to serve up poor Nonny on a platter to this monster. Thea would undoubtedly faint, and Nonny’s recovery would be set back for weeks. Heaven only knew what Lord Stivern would do about their marriage. Since both parties were underage, she supposed he might be able to prevent it. “Ah, I know. You must have come to see your new granddaughter.”