Barbara Metzger (13 page)

Lisanne looked up at him. In his black swallow-tailed coat and white satin knee breeches, Sloane St. Sevrin had to be the most elegant gentleman she’d ever seen. His auburn hair was still damp from a recent combing, just now beginning to fall forward onto his forehead. He was willing to defend her, and every inch of his well-muscled frame bespoke the ability to do just that. More important, his brown eyes looked kind, and he held her hand gently. He needed her money and perhaps her understanding. “I’m sure.”

The duke was sure. Lisanne was sure. The vicar was not sure. All that time watching St. Sevrin pace had not convinced him that this was a suitable match. He was tired and irritable and couldn’t see what all the fuss was about. “If you’re both so determined to marry, I don’t see why you cannot have the banns read.” That would take three weeks, during which time cooler heads might prevail. “And you could hold the ceremony in the church, with a proper wedding.” And he could go back to bed.

“Oh, this is much more romantic,” cooed Mary, but no one listened.

“It’s entirely legal, sir, so what’s the difference if we wed tonight or tomorrow?” Lisanne asked.

“But without your guardian’s approval, child, I cannot be comfortable.”

Kelly muttered, “What, is that bounder such a big contributor to the church poor box?”

The vicar prepared to get even more annoyed that his honor was being impugned. “My judgment is not based on financial considerations, sirrah.”

“Of course it is,” St. Sevrin answered for Kelly, “else you would have written to Lady Lisanne’s London solicitor ages ago about her treatment at Findley’s hands.”

When the vicar started to bluster about rendering unto Caesar what was Caesar’s, and leaving him to God’s work, the duke held up his hand. “I am sure the baroness—the duchess—and I shall be most generous to the community. For a start, we intend to rehire as many of the dismissed Neville Hall staff who are still in the neighborhood and might be convinced to work here at the Priory. If any of the old Priory retainers are still alive, they might apply, too.”

“Now, that would be good for the village,” the vicar had to admit.

Mary wanted to know if His Grace meant they wouldn’t hire any new people. “All those maids and footmen is old folks by now. You need some younger hands to get this job done.” She waved her arms around the decrepit surroundings.

“You can be my personal maid,” Lisanne told her. “I shouldn’t like strangers around.”

“Coo, and won’t those uppity servants choke on that! A’course, I never been a maid, my lady.”

“That’s fine. I’ve never had one.”

It was St. Sevrin who called them back to order by clearing his throat. “The wedding? Nothing goes forward without the ceremony and the reverend’s signature on the license.”

The vicar still hesitated. Money was one thing, but the man’s reputation…

The duke was out of patience. “My lady is spending the night here under my roof. Would you prefer she do so under the protection of my name, or under the cloud of other, even less reputable names? Make no mistake, I do intend to make this woman my wife, with or without benefit of clergy.”

The vicar started reading, and faster when St. Sevrin started tapping his foot on the floor.

At last he was almost done. Out of breath, he was gasping, “…Let no man put asunder,” when they heard a furious rapping on the front door.

“Go on,” Lisanne urged. “Finish.”

St. Sevrin nodded, so the vicar repeated, “What God has joined together, let no man put asunder. I now pronounce—”

Footsteps were pounding down the hall.

Lisanne looked at the duke in disbelief. “Didn’t you lock the door?”

“What, and deny Sir Alfred his grand entrance?”

“—You man and wife. You may kiss the bride.”

“Like hell he can,” roared the baronet from the doorway. He and Nigel came charging into the room along with the local sheriff, whose pistol was drawn.

Without thought, St. Sevrin stepped in front of Lisanne, protecting her. She peered around him to see a smile on his face. “Why, you’re enjoying this!” she accused in a harsh whisper.

“Haven’t had as much fun since Coruna,” he admitted, pushing her back behind him, out of the line of fire in case he had to draw his own weapon. He was pleased he had Findley’s measure: Like most bullies, the man was too cowardly to take him on by himself, so he’d brought an armed reinforcement. Of course, Findley hadn’t counted on finding the matrimonial deed done, so was now having apoplexy.

“Unhand my niece, you scoundrel!” he was shouting. “This ceremony is a travesty. The marriage is illegal!”

The vicar was holding his pen above the papers, signing the license and the marriage certificate. “Oh, no, I made sure everything was in order. It’s a proper marriage, Sir Alfred, all right and tight, so we can all go home and get a good night’s sleep. There’s no law I know of that says a bride and groom have to kiss at the end of the ceremony to make it legal.”

“Oh, but I’m willing,” St. Sevrin drawled for Findley’s benefit.

“Don’t you dare! Sheriff, shoot him if he tries! This marriage is illegal, I say! If you won’t rip up those papers now, Vicar, I’ll just have to go to the trouble of an annulment. Breach of promise. Foresworn vows. The jade was already promised to my son.”

“Never!” Lisanne shouted, stepping out from St. Sevrin’s shadow. She did allow him to keep her hand in his. “I wouldn’t marry that toad if he were the last man on earth.”

“Well, it ain’t as though I’m in any great hurry to marry a great gaby like you, neither, Annie,” Nigel was heard to respond before his father’s elbow landed in his midsection, halting his disclaimer.

The vicar was shaking his balding head. “Oh, I don’t approve of first cousins marrying. Too many children born with too little wit, don’t you know.”

“Like my niece, you mean,” Sir Alfred said, but everyone was looking at Nigel, wondering at the proximity of his parents’ relation. “I say she was promised to my son and that promise invalidates this farcical ceremony.”

“It’s a farce, all right,” St. Sevrin muttered. “If Lady Lisanne was affianced to your son, Findley, why didn’t her London trustee know anything about it? Here’s his letter of permission. His name is on the license, too.”

“They were too young,” Sir Alfred blustered. “There was no reason to involve the solicitors yet. It was an understanding between my deceased brother-in-law and myself.”

“An understanding that the baron didn’t happen to mention in his will? Gammon. I saw his will, and he planned for every eventuality of his daughter’s future. None mentioned your son. In fact, if you’ll recall, he didn’t even name you as full guardian. It won’t wash, Findley. Give it up as a bad hand. The marriage is done. Fact. History.”

“No! I’ll have it annulled, I swear! I can do it, too. You won’t like having your name spread through the mud.”

St. Sevrin just laughed. It was not a pretty sound. “My name? You’d have to invent a new shade of black before you could darken my reputation any.”

“Well, you won’t like what I’ll be forced to do to hers.” Findley pointed at Lisanne and sneered. “Look at her, all decked out like a bird of paradise.”

Not understanding, Lisanne thought it a rather nice compliment until she saw the darker frown on St. Sevrin’s face. Mary came closer and whispered an explanation in her ear that made Lisanne gasp. “A trollop? Me?”

Sir Alfred hadn’t paused. “I can have it annulled because the doxy’s not in her right mind. Lunatics cannot enter legal contracts; everyone knows that. That London trustee had no business giving his permission. Only her guardian can.”

“I am no doxy, Uncle, although you tried to make me one. And I am no lunatic.”

He curled his lip. “I can have five doctors prove you are, and a houseful of servants, an army of witnesses, to swear to your freakish behavior.”

The sheriff felt it was his duty to speak up. First he wiped his dripping nose on his sleeve. “I seen it myself, her going off in those woods, staring into space.”

The vicar had to admit there had been a deal of talk that Miss Neville was short a sheet. Even his own housekeeper, this very evening, had called her by that old nickname, Addled Annie. “There may be some grounds here for deliberation, gentlemen.”

“No,” St. Sevrin thundered. “The lady has had an irregular upbringing, which can be laid at your doorstep, Findley. That’s all. Ignorant country folk have always seen hobgoblins behind every turnip patch. They don’t understand anyone different, and fear what they don’t understand.”

“Here now, who are you calling ignorant?” the sheriff demanded.

“Anyone stupid enough to mistake a lonely child for a moonling, that’s who.”

Sir Alfred returned to the fray. “The sheriff is right, St.
Sevrin, Annie is crackbrained. Everyone knows it but you. If you persist in this idiocy, we’ll take it to a court of law and they’ll overturn the marriage. Meantime the sheriff’s duty is to see that you release the girl to her loving family.”

“So loving that you’d have your son rape her?”

The vicar choked. Even the sheriff was taken aback. “Here, here, what’s this, then?”

“You’re as totty-headed as she is, Duke, to even suggest Nigel is capable of such a heinous act. No, I have my duty and the sheriff has his, to bring Annie away with us. I’m not leaving her here where you can force yourself upon her so that the marriage has to stand as consummated.”

“Now, why does that have a familiar ring to it?” the duke wondered, crossing his arms.

Sir Alfred ignored St. Sevrin’s facetious remark. “Take her, Sheriff.”

“But what if he’s already had her, Pa? She’s been here for hours, and who knows when they met. And you said he’s the devil with the females.”

St. Sevrin didn’t even bother taking aim. He just swung around and landed Nigel a facer. The clunch went down, blood spurting from his nose. “It’s bad enough,” the duke told Findley, “that you denied your niece the ladylike upbringing her birth deserved. It’s worse that you didn’t teach your son to be a gentleman.”

Mary went over to the fallen youth and bent down to see if Nigel was still alive. When she saw his chest rise and fall, she kicked him in the ribs. “And that’s for trying to get a feel of all the girls in town, you swine.”

The sheriff sniffed. “I gots to take her.” He took a step toward Lisanne, but now Becka was at her right side, the duke at her left, his own pistol drawn. The minion of the law wasn’t sure which was the more formidable opponent. A distinctive click behind him said that Kelly had drawn the hammer on his gun, too. “I gots my duty.”

“What you’ve got is a head cold, Sheriff. That’s about all you can manage at one time.” St. Sevrin was deadly serious now. “And no, you are not going to take Lady Lisanne—my wife—anywhere. We’ll settle this tonight.”

That sounded too much like a duel to Findley, and he was certain a rogue of St. Sevrin’s caliber wouldn’t challenge a runny-nosed bumpkin of a sheriff. He’d be the one looking down the barrel of that deadly pistol next. “It’s not for you to settle anything, Duke. I demand a London tribunal to hear the case.”

“Where you can hire a hundred so-called experts to tell any story you feed them? I’ve seen proceedings like that. The side with the most money and the most convincing quacks wins. No, Findley, you’re trying a bluff because I wouldn’t want
my wife
to have to face such an ordeal. Nor would anyone who truly cared for her welfare.”

“I’ll do it, I swear, to keep her out of your evil clutches. You rip up those papers or I’ll challenge the marriage in every court in the land.”

St. Sevrin turned to Lisanne. “Is Squire Pemberton still magistrate for the shire?” When she nodded yes, he asked, “And is he still regarded as an honest man? A fair man?”

“I think so,” the vicar agreed. Mary bobbed her head when the duke looked at her questioningly.

“Then go get him, Sheriff. That’s a job you ought to be able to accomplish. Kelly, you go with the officer to make sure he doesn’t fill Pemberton’s head with fustian before he even gets here. None of us is budging until this is settled.”

The vicar groaned. So did Nigel. St. Sevrin ignored them both. He led Lisanne away from her fuming uncle to a chair at the other end of the room, and sent Mary to the kitchen for some tea.

Lisanne clutched his arm. “But what if he…?”

Sloane patted her hand. “Don’t worry, sweetings, you’re not the one crazy enough to get between me and what I want. Your uncle is.”

Squire Pemberton had his own system of justice: murderers were hanged, thieves were transported. That kept the criminal element out of his shire one way or the other. Any other miscreant coming before him, vandal, pickpocket, or public nuisance, was put to work. The poor-house was kept in firewood, the church was repainted yearly, the roads were in good repair—and all at no expense to the worthy taxpayers. Everything neat, efficient, and equitable, that’s how Pemberton liked to administer the law. He was good at it, he was fair at it, and he was fast at it.

This current mess of potage, however, fit into none of his guidelines. Getting up in the middle of the night to adjudicate an ugly situation didn’t fit into any of his notions of justice, either. Pemberton was old, he was tired, and he’d earned every right to be cranky. Not even the glass of excellent brandy the duke offered was going to reconcile the squire to a night’s disturbed slumber. Not even the sight of that jackanapes Nigel Findley with a wet cloth over his nose and claret down his shirtfront could make up for a cold, uncomfortable ride. The only high point that Pemberton could see was his old friend Neville’s daughter finally turned out like a lady for once.

“All grown up, eh, missy?” he said, pinching her cheek on his way to the seat Kelly held out for him. “And pretty as a picture, besides.”

“Here, here.” Sir Alfred jumped up. “You can’t go taking the chit’s side without hearing all the evidence.”

Pemberton settled his bulk in the chair and looked over his spectacles at the baronet. “Her side, is it? I thought we were here to decide what was best for the gel’s future. I deuced well will take her side, with her welfare at the heart of any consideration. I’ll just assume that’s what
every
concerned party here wants, shall I?”