Candice Hern (14 page)

“Never could understand it,” Malcolm said. “Don’t know what could possibly be more satisfying than a good mill or a horse race.”

“I suspect your bother has other sources of amusement,” Eleanor said.

Malcolm looked up from his plate, wiped his mouth, and laughed. “Don’t he, though. Ain’t much in the petticoat line myself, but old Simon here is a pistol where women are concerned.”

“Is he indeed?” She cast a speculative glance in Simon’s direction and saw the familiar blush. She ought to have known the arms that had felt so right around her had had a lot of practice.

“I should say so,” Malcolm said. “Adores women. Can’t look at a pretty woman that he don’t fall top over tail in love with her. Old Simon’s been in and out of love more times than I can count, making calf’s eyes and spewing out poetry the like of which you never heard.”

“Oh?” Her eyes never left Simon, whose blush had deepened to bright scarlet while he pretended to busy himself with a roasted guinea hen.

“Pages of pages of the flowery stuff,” Malcolm
said, gesturing wildly with his fork. “Likes to pen sonnets on the delicate arch of an eyebrow or the shell-like curve of an ear. You wouldn’t credit how long he can expound on a single insignificant body part.”

“Malcolm—”

“And the ladies…well, I’m told his poetic offerings can make a woman melt into a puddle at his feet. Don’t know how he does it. Never could string words together like that myself. But Simon’s been scribbling that stuff since we was boys.”

“Malcolm—”

“Ha! I recollect Squire Elliot’s daughter—what was her name? Pretty little blond thing. Must’ve been about ten years old. Simon used to write little love poems and hide them for her to find. Only once, the squire found one of ’em and—”

“That’s enough, Malcolm. Mrs. Tennant does not wish to hear of all my youthful follies.”

“She don’t mind, do you, Mrs. Tennant?”

“Not at all.” Malcolm could yammer on as long as he wanted, as far as Eleanor was concerned. She needed to learn what sort of man his brother was. A libertine, apparently, though she would never have guessed it at first. Who would ever imagine such a man as a rake? A foolish question, when she had herself already become susceptible to his charm. She must strengthen her resolve to maintain her guard around him. What irony if she were to fall into the same trap she had been warning Belinda against.

“Well, I do mind,” Simon said.

“Oh, don’t be such an old poop,” Malcolm said and turned to address Eleanor. “Just trying to make the point that Simon’s been spouting verse practically since he could talk.”

“I am not surprised to hear it,” Eleanor said.

“No? Oh, I say, has he presented one to you already? Simon, you devil. I thought you said—”

“Malcolm!”

“No, I’m happy to say I have not received a poem from your brother,” Eleanor said. “Nor have I had the…the pleasure of reading one.” And frankly never hoped to be so honored. Judging from the florid prose of the Busybody, she imagined his poems would be as awful as those often printed in
The Ladies’ Fashionable Cabinet
. Treacly things penned by poets with names like Crescenza and Alonzo and Zenobia and Fortunatus.

She did recollect that odd little speech when he was about to kiss her, something about a plump, ripe confection. Good Lord, was that his attempt to wax poetic? And if so, what body part—to use Malcolm’s unpoetic turn of phrase—was he describing? Eleanor wanted to groan aloud.

“Oh, don’t you worry, Mrs. Tennant,” Malcolm said. “You’ll get your poem. He’s probably composing one about you this very minute.”

“Malcolm!”

“Sorry, old chap,” Malcolm said. He seemed finally to comprehend that his brother had gone be
yond mortification to anger. “Never could keep my mouth shut after a few glasses of claret.”

“I think you’ve had quite enough for tonight,” Simon said, a bit stiff-lipped. He stood and put his hands on the back of his brother’s chair. “Let us go round up your cronies and send you off to Tandy Hill before I am forced to exercise my fists again.”

“But I ain’t finished my dinner yet.”

“Yes, you have. Come along, Malcolm. Thank you for your hospitality, Eleanor. I am sorry to have introduced such a boor into your company.”

“I am not at all sorry. It has been a very enlightening evening. I thank you both for your company.”

“I’ll send someone up to clear away the plates,” Simon said. “And I will look for you downstairs early tomorrow. We should have heard from the Runners by then.” With that, he bundled up his large brother and ushered him out the door without a backward glance.

When they had gone, Eleanor poured herself a glass of wine and took it with her into the adjacent bedchamber. She checked the clothes airing before the fire and found the beery smell less strong, thank goodness. She quickly changed out of her dinner dress into a nightgown, curled up on the plump mattress, and sipped the wine while she pondered what she had learned about her traveling companion from his loose-lipped brother.

She was beginning to understand how Simon
came to be the Busybody. It made a foolish kind of sense that a man who adored women, who fell in love easily, and wrote flowery poetry to the objects of his affection would be just the sort who would advise a young girl to follow her heart. Apparently, he had been doing so himself for years, though he could not have been terribly successful since he was still unmarried. If he had fallen in love as many times as his brother implied, then he must surely have suffered a broken heart or two. Or three. Any ordinary man who’d experienced multiple failures in love would be more sanguine about the pitfalls of romance, and would not be so quick to advise an impressionable young girl to risk all for love.

But Simon was not an ordinary man. He was a true Romantic. Eleanor suspected he would never give up searching for that one perfect love, regardless of the number of times his heart was broken. In some ways, she admired such resiliency. But for the most part she still found the whole notion impractical and illogical, and his Busybody advice reckless and ill-considered.

She must keep that thought uppermost in her mind as far as Simon Westover was concerned: he was a dispenser of irresponsible advice to innocent young girls. If she concentrated on his foolhardy role as the Busybody, it would be easier not to think of him as a man of considerable strength of body and character, as a generous man willing to fund a
madcap chase with a perfect stranger, as an attractive man with a romantic nature whose arms had felt decidedly warm and comfortable, and whose kiss had singed her to the tips of her toes. If she kept in mind Simon’s contribution to Belinda’s current situation and future unhappiness, perhaps she would not be bothered so much by the idea of him involved with countless women.

Yes, anger was the best solution. Anger and contempt. She must not allow other emotions to confuse the situation. Until Belinda’s fate was settled, Eleanor would keep her thoughts on the red ribbon talisman that symbolized her duty to her niece. She would think of nothing else.

At least she would try.

A message from Hackett had arrived during the night reporting that the runaways had been seen in Manchester. Simon and Eleanor got an early start, before any of the sporting set had risen, so there was nothing to slow them in leaving Buxton.

Simon had not slept well due to the raucous reveling into the wee hours of dawn. He suspected Eleanor was equally exhausted. She barely spoke, and her jaw was set in a tense angle, the full lips thinned in a tight line.

Simon had spent his waking hours reliving those brief moments when he’d held her in his arms and kissed her. Lord, what a kiss it had been. The need of the moment had stripped away all his
control. It had been a ruthless plundering of her mouth, a blistering moment of pure animal lust. But it was the kiss that had almost happened he regretted the most. By then, he had regained his wits and was ready to do a proper job of it, with tenderness and finesse. The look in her eyes told him she knew this time would be different.

Even after that pregnant moment had been interrupted by Malcolm, Simon had felt a change in her. Before, when he had sensed her admiration after pulling the carriage from the mud, she had regained her composure, her damnable control, rather quickly. She had not allowed admiration or attraction to discomfit her. This time, she had not been so quick to throw out her hedgehog spines. She had sent him admiring glances all evening. He had even sensed something more. Interest? Desire?

His poet’s heart soared at the very idea. Or was he simply so smitten that he only imagined it?

In frustration, and despite the memory of his brother’s teasing voice, Simon had worked during the night on his ode to Eleanor’s upper lip.

Because of Malcolm’s jibes, he would probably never have the courage now ever to present it to Eleanor. It would not be his first undelivered trib
ute, to be sure. As he had once told Eleanor, he had often worshipped from afar.

But this time the object of his affection sat close at his side, their legs and arms frequently touching with the bouncing and jostling of the carriage.

Eleanor kept her thoughts to herself during most of the day, offering only the occasional comment or brief response to a question as they followed the trail of messages from Hackett and Mumby. She did not mention their kiss. It seemed she was going to pretend it had not happened. Simon wasn’t quite sure how to broach the subject, or even if it would be wise to do so, and so he, too, kept his thoughts to himself.

Eleanor remained mostly silent as they passed through the hilly countryside with its sinuous network of drystone enclosure walls, shining brilliant white in the morning sun; through craggy dales and rolling pastures dotted with herds of black-faced sheep; over Whaley Bridge, through to Disley, Hoo Lane, Bullock Smithy, and Stockport; and into the large manufacturing town of Manchester.

It was a sprawling, noisy, ugly town. Like the most crowded sections of London, it was a labyrinth of tiny lanes, alleys, and courts, here packed with squalid row houses alongside warehouses and factories of every kind. It reminded Simon of Spital-fields and was equally offensive to his aesthetic sensibilities—gloomy, smelly, and dirty. It pained him to watch the changes in his beloved countryside: land deforested and en
closed, country air fouled by the smoke of factories, villages pulled down to build towns, and towns swollen to unnatural numbers. It was enough to make an Englishman weep.

As they wound their way through Manchester, an astonishing amount of new construction was in progress at every turn. It was a wonder the Runners had been able to track anyone in such a busy, populous town.

The dour Francis Mumby met them at the Saracen’s Head. “They know we’re onto ’em,” he said. “’Stead of stickin’ to the main road, they been crisscrossin’ it since Ashbourne, tryin’ to throw us off the scent. They came though Manchester to try and lose us. But we’re keepin’ on ’em, and they’re still heading due north.”

“Do we have any chance of running them to ground?” Simon asked.

“Depends on what they do. If they zigzag all the way to Scotland,” the Runner said as he stroked the air with his long, thin fingers, “we just might catch ’em by goin’ straight. But we won’t waste your time reportin’ every byway they take. Hackett and me’ll try to keep you on the main road. From here, go on to Bolton. We’ll leave word at the George.”

When Mumby had taken his abrupt leave, Simon suggested they take time for a meal, but Eleanor was not hungry. The kitchen offered meat pies, however, and she suggested he buy one to take along.

“Capital idea,” he said. “By God, I’m ravenous.”

“Of course you are,” she said. There seemed to be a hint of sarcasm in her remark, though Simon could not think why. A man had to eat, did he not?

The pies were not quite ready and so there would be a short wait. Eleanor paced about the inn yard restlessly, and Simon felt a bit guilty about making her wait. But he happened to glimpse through the taproom window something that might amuse her, that would help to pass the time. He popped inside to make sure he had correctly judged what he’d seen, made an arrangement with the gentleman at the corner table, and went back outside to fetch Eleanor.

“Come inside a moment,” he said. “There is someone I’d like you to meet.”

She looked wary, but followed him inside.

“This is Mr. Jackson,” Simon said when they reached the corner table. “He is a profile painter. And this is Mrs. Tennant.”

Eleanor lifted a brow. “How do you do, sir?”

“Can’t complain,” the man said. “Forgive me for not rising, but as you see, I’m short a leg. Left it in New York some years back. Make my living now as a profilist. Exact likenesses in miniature profile. This gentleman says he’d like me to make one of you.”

Eleanor darted a look at Simon, then turned her attention to the artist. “That’s a lovely idea, Mr. Jackson, but I’m afraid we haven’t the time to
spare. We are only waiting for Mr. Westover’s meat pie, and then we must be back on the road. I’m terribly sorry.”

Mr. Jackson cackled like an old hen. “Don’t take but a minute. Well, it takes about three minutes, to be precise. And you can have it done on card or on plaster with a frame, or on ivory to be set in a locket or ring. If you don’t believe it, here are some samples.”

He opened a case from which an assortment of profile portraits spilled out onto the table. They were set in square papier-mâché frames, gilt oval frames, small red leather cases, lockets, bracelets, rings, snuffboxes, and toothpick holders. The profiles were delicately painted in black, with fine detail of hair and clothing.

“Oh, but these are lovely,” Eleanor said, and picked up a locket to admire. “I used to cut them out as a child, but have always preferred the painted ones. These are exquisite, Mr. Jackson.”