Barbara Metzger (12 page)

Servants were still moving around, thank goodness, making a great deal of noise. Nigel would never go beyond the line when a scream could bring a roomful of curious spectators—unless that was what Uncle Alfred wanted, enough people to witness her disgrace.

She couldn’t stay up here because someone was sure to come looking. She couldn’t go to her room, for Uncle held the key to her door from when he used to lock her in. The furniture was too heavy to make into a barricade, and what was she supposed to do, hold off her cousin with the fireplace poker? For how long?

The pins were bundled into a beaded reticule from one of the trunks, the embroidered nightgown and undergarments carefully folded into the matching robe. In her dusty old gown and scuffed half boots, with cobwebs in her hair and the scent of camphor on her skin, Lisanne crept down the servants’ stairway. She tiptoed past the family’s bedroom level and then the public rooms, descending one level farther toward the kitchens without seeing anyone. The kitchens were blessedly empty, too. Lisanne unlatched the back door and let herself out into the night, whistling for Becka.

There was only one place she could go, one place she could be safe, and it wasn’t Sevrin Woods.

We
really have to stop meeting like this, sweetings.” St. Sevrin was in that small back parlor again, the one with the working fireplace. He had been making inventories and estimates, lists of loans and mortgages, debts and past-due bills. He had no way of figuring how much it would cost to restore the estate to solvency or where to start. He was making great headway, however, with the new bottle of brandy on his desk.

Then he’d heard a dog barking and a tapping at the window. His fiancée, it seemed, did not care much for doors. Or propriety.

“Confound it, Baroness,” he chided as he helped her over the windowsill, “what the devil are you doing prowling about the countryside in the middle of the night?”

Instead of answering, Lisanne turned to make sure
the dog was inside, the window closed and latched. She was as messy as ever, but also seemed stiff and cold, which was no wonder, with the nights still chilly so early in the spring. Sloane drew her over to the fire, then pried her fingers away from the basket she carried. A cloth fell away to reveal a mound of raspberry tarts and a shank of ham.

“Well, at least you brought the wedding breakfast. Kelly will be thrilled. His culinary efforts don’t extend to pastries, and we’re growing tired of eggs and poultry. I daresay the chickens will be glad for the reprieve also.”

“They’re for Becka.”

“What, all?” Sloane eyed the raspberry tarts with disappointment, but he eyed his bride-to-be with concern. She’d hardly said a word or moved an inch. He decided she needed a bit of internal warming, so he brought over his glass of brandy. “Here, sip this. You may as well be hung for a sheep as a lamb, alone in a bachelor’s rooms, awash in Demon Rum. Dash it, don’t you care anything about your reputation, my lady? My rep is bad enough for both of us.”

“I care,” she said in a toneless voice, staring at the fire. Sloane stared at the tarts. Becka stared at him, showing teeth that would have made a wolf envious. The duke forced his mind away from his stomach and onto his betrothed. She hadn’t touched the brandy. She hadn’t moved. “What if someone had seen you?” he prodded.

“I care,” she repeated. “That’s why I came. They…Uncle told Nigel to…”

“Findley and Nigel were going to do what?” His hands were on her arms. He didn’t notice how tightly until she winced. “Sorry. But you were saying?”

“I was in the attics. I could hear his voice, telling my aunt. Nigel was going to…going to make certain I was ruined.”

“Are you sure that’s what he said? Maybe you misunderstood his meaning.”

“You mean maybe my imagination ran away with me, and I invented the whole thing? Or maybe I was hearing voices? Maybe you don’t believe me because you think I don’t know the difference between truth and fantasy.”

“No, no, I didn’t mean anything of the kind. I was just surprised. Your own relatives, by Jupiter.” He was stroking her shoulders now. “I shouldn’t have doubted you, sweetheart. I’m sorry.”

She finally seemed to relax under his soothing caress. “You do believe me, that I wouldn’t be safe there?”

“I believe you. It’s the scurvy kind of trick that slimy bastard would try. I should have figured he’d pull something like this. You tried to tell me, didn’t you? Thank goodness you had the sense to come to me.”

“What shall we do?”

“Do? We shall get married, that’s what.” He strode to the hallway and shouted, “Kelly, on the double.”

Kelly rushed into the room, then stopped short when he saw the disheveled female and the very large dog. He’d heard about the female, naturally, since he’d been the one trying to get this house in order for her while His Grace was chasing all over London after special licenses and such. No one had mentioned the dog. He bowed and uttered, “My lady,” all the while eyeing the huge slobbering canine. Kelly didn’t like dogs. The bigger they were, the more he didn’t like them.

“My dear,” said St. Sevrin, making the introductions, “this is the estimable Kelly. I couldn’t manage without him. And Kelly, may I present your future mistress and duchess, Baroness Lisanne Neville. And her dog, Becka, who might be convinced to trade her raspberry tarts for some of your chicken stew.”

Kelly’s eyes lit up when he saw the tarts, all golden and dripping fruit. He took one step toward the basket, though, and Becka growled. The windows rattled with the force of it.

“Or perhaps not. We’ll work on it later. For now I need you to take the curricle and go fetch us the vicar.”

“But, Major, that is, Yer Grace, the vicar’s due here in the morning.”

Lisanne added her objection. “You can’t just go awaken the poor man in the middle of the night.”

St. Sevrin motioned Kelly to get going. “Tell him it’s a matter of life and death.” When the batman left, Sloane turned to Lisanne. “I wouldn’t mind putting a bullet through your uncle, but I would mind having to flee the country at this point. The vicar is the only one who can eliminate the necessity.”

“I don’t see how. Uncle Alfred never listened to the vicar before.”

“It’s not a question of listening. Findley will be coming after you, I have no doubt of that. Until we are married, he is your legal guardian, so I have no rights but the power of my pistol to keep you from him. Therefore it’s either shoot him or let him take you back with him, for whatever evil plan he has in mind.”

“I wouldn’t go.”

He shrugged. “Then it’s definitely pistols. Of course, if we were already married by the time he got here, he could just go shoot himself. Now
that
would be a fine wedding gift.”

“You still want to marry me, even though there’s bound to be an awful row?”

Even if he wasn’t drowning in an ocean of bills, Sloane wouldn’t send her back to that spawning ground of slugs. He was finding he had more of a sense of responsibility for Lisanne by the day. It wasn’t an altogether uncomfortable discovery. “It’s the only way, sweetings. How much time do you think we have? Kelly should be back within the hour with the vicar.”

“The household was still awake when I left, so I doubt Nigel would come looking for me for yet a while.”

“From what I saw of him, he’ll spend half the night drinking his courage up. I’ve seen enough raw recruits to recognize a coward at first glance.”

Lisanne couldn’t deny Nigel’s lack of bravery, and saw less reason to defend his honor. “They’ll have to search through the house first. Maybe they’ll just think I’m in the woods.”

“No, Findley won’t chance it. He has too much at stake, too little time. He knows the wedding is on for tomorrow.”

“Well, they’ll never come through the woods. Nigel is terrified of the place, even if Uncle could find the right path. If they ride around to the gate of the Hall, then down the road to the gate of the Priory and up the drive, the trip will add almost an hour in the dark, after they saddle the horses.”

“That’s cutting it close, but you do have a little time to rest. Kelly always has hot water on the boil. Perhaps you’d like to have some tea, or to wash up?”

Shyly, Lisanne pointed toward the basket. “I found a gown. It was my mother’s.”

And it was now under a ham. “Let’s shake it out, shall we?” St. Sevrin took a step toward the basket. Becka growled, but Lisanne jumped to clutch the basket to her. “You mustn’t see it. Not before the wedding. That would be bad luck.”

Bad luck? Why not, this farce of a marriage had everything else going for it. Sloane shrugged. “You can change upstairs in my room—it’s the only one uncovered yet—but the fire hasn’t been started. The kitchen would be warmer, and there’s a copper tub by the stove that we’ve been using for bathing. I can fill it for you.”

“The kitchen will be lovely.” She called the dog to follow them.

As he led his odd band down the corridor, St. Sevrin apologized. “I’m sorry this won’t be any picture-perfect wedding. I was going to have Kelly scour the countryside for some flowers for you. Squire used to have a fine conservatory.”

“There are flowers on my gown.”

He had to laugh at her practicality. “Well, that’s all right, then. I’m sure it’s lovely, and you’ll be a beautiful bride. Your mother would be proud.”

* * *

The duke must think she was going to wear her mother’s wedding dress, not her nightgown, Lisanne thought as she nearly scrubbed her skin raw in the tub.

The bath was placed behind a screen for warmth, not modesty, and Lisanne stayed there as she dried herself and dressed, hoping that the heat from the water would steam out some of the gown’s wrinkles. She sorely doubted that her mother would be proud. More likely Mama would be turning over in her grave to see her only daughter getting married in a creased nightgown that smelled of camphor and smoked ham, with its skirt pinned up. There was no time to sew the hem, and with every movement she made, the pins jabbed into Lisanne’s legs and snagged her stockings. Besides, Lisanne refused to wear the heavy, muddy boots she’d run through the forest in, not with this gossamer flower-garden gown. So she was going to go barefoot at her wedding. No, she didn’t think Mama would be proud.

Lisanne took baby steps toward the back door, where ivy was growing over the walls, and pulled down enough to make a wreath of sorts for her hair. As she was sitting at the table, trying to weave the vines with fingers that insisted on trembling, Kelly scratched on the kitchen entry.

“Vicar said we needed another witness, ma’am, so I brung his housekeeper’s daughter Mary. His Grace said as how you might need help.”

“Yes, please. Come in, Mary.”

Mary was a sturdy country girl a few years older than Lisanne with work-roughened hands and a smile that showed overlapping front teeth. She had a little snub of a nose. “Oh, don’t you look a treat, miss. My lady, I mean. Won’t me mum be that sorry she missed seeing a real duchess get hitched.”

Mary pulled a comb out of her pocket and got to work on Lisanne’s hair. She didn’t pull much more than she would plucking a chicken, but she chattered the while, so Lisanne didn’t have to think about what was waiting for her outside this room.

“Feeling poorly, she was,” Mary explained. Lisanne knew very well that the vicar’s housekeeper felt poorly about the Nevilles’ attics-to-let orphan who ran around like a heathen savage. Mary’s mother crossed to the other side of the street when she saw Lisanne coming, the hypocrite. There was no father to Mary that anyone had ever heard of, which was why Mary was still unwed and likely to remain so. Her mother was fierce in her piety now, though. Lisanne could just imagine what the housekeeper had said about being woken to attend Addled Annie’s wedding—to a gazetted rake.

“I didn’t bring no hairpins, Miss Annie. That is, my lady. That nice Mr. Kelly says as how we’re to call you Lady Neville today, and Your Grace tomorrow.”

“Lisanne is fine, Mary, and don’t worry about the pins. At least you’ve taken out the snarls and debris. I’ll just plait my hair as usual.”

“Oh, that would be a sore shame, miss.” Mary fluffed out the long blond locks till they fell halfway down Lisanne’s back, with the slightest ripple left over from the braid. “And isn’t a bride supposed to wed with her hair down? I heard that somewhere.”

“In medieval times, I believe. But it will have to do. I’ve lost the ribbon, and could only tie the braid with this old piece of string from my pocket.”

So they placed the ivy circlet atop Lisanne’s head and declared her ready, which was a good thing, for His Grace was wearing a hole in the threadbare carpet in the little parlor and the vicar was developing mal de mer just watching.

While Lisanne bathed, St. Sevrin had gone upstairs and changed into formal dress. When he returned to the parlor, he was relieved to see that his bride’s dog was still gone. Too bad the tarts were, too. He then primed and loaded his pistols and made sure his sword was ready to hand. He felt the same hum of excitement he used to feel on the eve of a battle. Too bad he was getting married instead.

My God, you’re beautiful.” St. Sevrin didn’t see the bare toes or the pins. That is, he saw them, but they didn’t matter. He would have been surprised if his duchess—as he was already thinking of this Pocket Venus at Kelly’s side—had appeared in normal garb. No wonder the rustics thought her fey. If ever there was a female who could pass for a fairy princess, it was Lisanne Neville in a gown of flowers with her sun-lightened gold hair trailing down her back.

Kelly escorted Lisanne farther into the room, Mary following behind. Becka had elected to remain in the kitchen with the ham. St. Sevrin approached Lisanne and took her small, trembling hand in his to lead her closer to where the vicar stood by the mantel.

“I count myself the most fortunate of men,” he told her, softly pressing his lips to her palm. “But are you still sure you want to go through with this? Zeus, you could take London by storm and have any man you chose, even if you didn’t have a shilling. I’d find a way to keep you out of Findley’s clutches, I swear. You don’t have to settle for a rackety old warhorse like me.”