Cynthia Bailey Pratt (29 page)

“Yes, and the Turks. Then there’s noises of rebellion coming from India. And even . . . perhaps we shall soon be once more at war with the Americans. They’ve been meddling in European waters lately.”

Jocelyn received three letters in the first three weeks of her London visit. Arnold wrote a short letter, badly spelled now that Mr. Fletcher was no longer there to correct him. It consisted largely of complaints against Granville and Miss Hargreaves, details of his speedy trip to London with his parents, and boasting about the events at Oxford. He seemed to feel this was a ripe area for exploitation.

The next letter came from Mrs. Luckem. Uncle Gaius had marched Arnold over to Lord Netherham’s property, and an apology was duly tendered. Arnold had offered, under strong impetus, to perform menial tasks on His Lordship’s property until his new school began in the fall.

Mrs. Luckem also enclosed news of larger doings. Libermore accepted that Mr. Fain died in the fire at the vicarage. General mourning was declared and a committee formed to petition the bishop for a new vicar. Cocker, she reported, was arrested on the charge of setting the fire, but he seemed to have lost his mind. He continually babbled of doing important work for the French government. At the next Assizes he’d undoubtedly be declared insane. The parish had paid for Mr. Hodges’s funeral with the assumption that Cocker had killed him.

The final letter came from Tom, happily on his way to Italy. No others came to her. Though Jocelyn pretended to wait with patience, no word ever came from Hammond. No one seemed to know where he was or what he was doing, not even her grandfather.

On the fourth Wednesday of her visit, Jocelyn found herself alone in the house. Helena went with her Mark to tea at his mother’s, to all appearances entirely happy. Lord Ashspring stopped at his club for his twice weekly afternoon of whist.

Jocelyn felt restless. She tried to stitch, tried to read, tried to look at the household accounts, but nothing occupied her attention for very long. Finally, exasperated, she threw herself into a chair by the window and concentrated hard on a book.

The butler entered, stately and portly. “Sir Erasmus DeReine,” he announced.

Jocelyn looked around her chair wing, about to remind Jamison that her grandfather was not at home. Hammond walked in. For a moment Jocelyn did not even stand up. She simply gaped.

“I’m sorry,” he said, pausing. “I thought I’d find Lord Ashspring ...” Hammond looked around for the butler, but he had gone, shutting the door behind him.

“My grandfather went out,” Jocelyn said, recovering her wits and her manners as she stood. “He has a regular appointment at his club.”

“Odd,” Hammond said, coming farther into the room. “He told me yesterday that this would be a convenient time to call.” He glanced around idly, at the furnishings, the mirror above the mantel, her.

Jocelyn asked, “Won’t you sit down and wait? He shouldn’t be too long.” She knew she spoke utter nonsense. It would be at least two hours before Lord Ashspring returned. Her lips and her brain, however, did not seem to be connected.

“Thank you.” He remained standing, gazing at her as if she were someone whose name he could not quite recall.

He was not the same. It was not only that the tension she had always seen in his face was smoothed away. There were other changes. The old, rusty coat was replaced by a blue one of unimpeachable cut worn, however, with his usual carelessness. She wanted to reach out and tug the lapels into proper order. His shirt and waistcoat could not be improved, she felt sure, but if Granville were to see Hammond’s cravat, he’d die of horror.

Hammond cleared his throat before saying, “You look well. A new dress?”

“Yes, thank you. I’m afraid my grandfather is spoiling me.” She smoothed the pale green lutestring, taking innocent pleasure in the quality of the fabric. She was quite unaware that the color, which Helena had chosen for her, cast a green light into her gray eyes, increasing their size and luster. Jocelyn hoped her hair, which she now wore always in the style her friend invented, was not exploding into its usual untidy mass.

“Spoiling you? He must enjoy that.”

“I don’t know if he does,” Jocelyn said. “He said he’d not have a pair of dowdy women in his house.”

“Miss Fain is still with you then? How do the wedding plans progress?”

“Slowly I’m afraid. Yet, I feel confident that they shall come together in time.” She shook her head. “I wish I could do more for her. Perhaps, in a few weeks, when Grandfather’s business is concluded, we shall travel to his home in Shropshire. Mr. Fletcher and she may need time apart to realize the true depth of their affection.
I, of course, am longing to see it. Grandfather says his home is very beautiful.”

“I’ve never been there. I’ve just . . .”He saw he did not have her attention. “Jocelyn?”

She came back to herself with a start. “I beg your pardon,” she said, a frown of puzzlement between her brows. “What did Jamison say?”

“I don’t know. Who is Jamison?”

“The butler. He announced you under a different name.” She smiled. “Is it another of your subterfuges?”

“I have no subterfuges!” he protested, stepping toward her.

“Oh, no?” She laughed. “ ‘Uncle’? Or is it ‘Mr. Crowley’? Is Sir-whatever-it-is another one?”

“No,” Hammond said, taking her hand and holding it as if he did not quite know where he’d got it. “Rather the other way around.”

“Oh, dear,” Jocelyn said, standing up. Her hand fell from his. Whatever dreams she’d been nursing burst like soap bubbles under a child’s greedy hand.

“Why such a tragic face, Jocelyn?” Why take a hand, he reasoned, when a waist is so much pleasanter?

As his arm encircled her, warm and strong, Jocelyn felt more nervous now than during those frantic minutes in the Radcliffe gallery. She didn’t know where to look or what to do. Then her eyes met his, and she realized there was nothing to fear. He would always be with her as he had been from the first moment they’d met, regardless of his name.

Hammond kissed her so softly and gently that at first she stood passive beneath his embrace. Very soon, however, she slipped her arms about his neck and kissed him back in a method she had never learned, but that he seemed to find satisfactory.

He broke their kiss and chuckled warmly. When he spoke, he seemed to be having trouble with his voice. “There, he’ll have to believe me now.”

Dreamily Jocelyn laid her head against his shoulder and said, “Who will?”

“My father.” He felt her start. “Didn’t you think I had one? I do, you know. We quarreled soon after my mother died. As we are both slightly more stubborn than the devil, we never made it up until now. I went home to make my peace. It was damnably hard, to be honest. He’d grown bitter, like me. He couldn’t believe I’d changed until I told him about you and how I thought you’d civilize me.”

“Civilize you?” Jocelyn asked, shyly meeting his dark eyes.

“Yes, that is the function of a wife.” Hammond let her go just long enough to sit down and draw her onto his knees. After a few more bliss-tilled moments, he continued, “We’re an old family. The Hammonds . . . that
is
one of our name’s, although we’ve got a few titles stashed about the place . . . we’ve always fought for the king, whoever he was and whatever he stood for. When Napoleon started up, I wanted to finish at Cambridge, and the old ruff ... my father didn’t understand why I didn’t throw over the whole business and join our old regiment. We argued and he cut me off. He thought I was a coward, you see.”

Jocelyn nodded. “I suppose he didn’t understand that there are many kinds of bravery.”

Hammond kissed her again. “What have you done to your hair? I liked it the other way.’’

Jocelyn reached up and pulled out the green ribbon, folded it and gave it to him. “Go on,” she said when he allowed her to breathe.

“What? Oh, when I joined up, I went into the navy. I confess I did that to twist the knife, so to speak. We’ve always been army. One incident led to another, and I met your grandfather and entered his service. My father and Lord Ashspring knew each other but had argued. My father will argue with anyone, you see. You heard about him and the prince. I don’t want you to think he’s an ogre, mind. You’ll twine him around your little finger, as you do everyone. One look in your beautiful eyes ... did you know you have beautiful eyes? Soft and gray and loving. And your lashes ... I don’t believe I ever told you about them ...”

The words were sweet to hear, but her curiosity was all on another subject. Still, she treasured his opinions. “You’ve made your peace with him, then?”

“Who? Oh, yes. I had to swallow a good meal of Southern County humble pie, but yes, I have. I think he was glad of it, though he couldn’t admit it.” His voice dropped. “The house and the lands have gone to ruin. I suppose he thought . . . I’m the only child. Between you and me, Jocelyn, we’ll make it right.”

“I know we will,” she said, her voice trembling. “I love you so dreadfully.” After that a long time passed before she could even think to speak again. Finally, lifting her eyes to him, she murmured, “Do you mind if I ask you a question?”

“Whatever you like.”

“What did Jamison say?”

Hammond blushed. He reached inside his coat and brought out a card case. She tilted the piece of pasteboard toward the window. “Erasmus? I suppose I should call you ‘Sir Erasmus’?”

He nodded, a familiar scowl drawing down his lips.

Jocelyn reclined against him in a way that, though unorthodox, was very comfortable. “Hammond, let’s have Arnold as our first guest. He and your father should get on wonderfully well. Don’t you think so?”

Copyright © 1991 by Cynthia Bailey-Pratt

Originally published by Jove  (ISBN 0515107166)

Electronically published in 2010 by Belgrave House/Regency Reads

ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

No portion of this book may be reprinted in whole or in part, by printing, faxing, E-mail, copying electronically or by any other means without permission of the publisher. For more information, contact Belgrave House, 190 Belgrave Avenue, San Francisco, CA 94117-4228

     http://www.RegencyReads.com

     Electronic sales: [email protected]

This is a work of fiction. All names in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to any person living or dead is coincidental.