Dedicated Villain (20 page)

“Do you really think there might be a hope for me in—” she blinked up at him, “—in that direction?”

“
Hope
for you? Why the devil should there
not
be hope for you? Only say the word and I'll—”

“Force him to the altar at sword's point?”

“Scarcely. Could you—er, like Heywood in—in that particular way?”

She tilted her head in the grave fashion she sometimes affected. “I think he is the dearest gentleman, though I'd not perhaps considered him as a husband. How very good of you to point out to me that he would make a nice one. Perhaps you would be so kind as to discover from him if—”

Good Gad, did she expect him to arrange the match for her? His temper flared. He snapped, “Lord, I scarce know the man!”

“But—you just said—”

“I was making a suggestion, merely. If you fancy the fellow, desire your father to—ah, look into matters a trifle.”

“What matters?” She asked anxiously, “You never think there is something—unsavoury about Thaddeus?”

“
Mon Dieu!
Have I said it? I merely—Madam, I'm not your papa!”

She trilled a laugh. “Don't be silly! Of course you're not. But how can I ask Papa to speak to the gentleman if I don't even know that he is interested in me?”

“He is.” Mathieson scowled at a passing ladybird. “I've chatted with him about you, and—”

Fiona squeaked with excitement. “Oooh! How good you are! How
very
kind and good! But still—if there is that about his character which disturbs you … I have no objection to his lisp, you know. After all, a girl who dwells in a caravan cannot have the expectations of a diamond of the first water.” She raised limpid eyes to his. “But of course, you know all about that.”

She looked so guileless, so innocent. But—was she? Or was she laughing at him? He decided that this was unlikely. Women might smile at Roland Fairleigh Mathieson, but they did not laugh at him. “Faith, but you cannot expect me to say that you are not a diamond of the first water,” he said silkily.

“No, for you are much too well bred to say something so unkind. But you know all about such creatures, and—and high flyers and opera dancers too, I daresay.”

Disconcerted by this candid response, he clapped a hand to his brow and groaned, “You should not even speak of such matters, much less accuse a gentleman of knowing all about 'em, you impossible child.”

“Why not? You do. Grandmama said you do.”

He stiffened and said icily, “Did she indeed! 'Tis surprising that Lady Ericson would address such a remark to a brat who has not been much about the world.”

“Why are you getting all starched up? Besides, I
have
been about the world! I've been to France and Portugal and Spain and been chased by brigands and I shot one though I don't think I hurt him very much because he came that night and serenaded me under my window. Most dreadfully off-key,” she added, her brow wrinkling critically.

Mathieson's ire was banished. His eyes alight with amusement, he suggested, “Perhaps he was taking his revenge.”

“Perhaps he was. Poor man. Papa emptied the water pitcher over him.” Her musical little laugh blended with his deep one. “Enough of my singing brigands,” she persisted. “Tell me of the dark secret in Mr. Heywood's past that renders him ineligible.”

“Wretched Mite,” he said, still chuckling. “I know nothing of the gentleman save that I rather doubt Heywood is his true name. And I'm sorry to have to advise that your crumpets are all breaking into holes!”

“Just as they should, sir. But I must hurry. Would you please spread that linen towel on the table and bring the slice? Quickly!” She turned back to dole out more spoonfuls and asked, “What did you mean about Mr. Heywood's name?”

“Only that he sometimes forgets to answer to it.” He sought about on the table. “Not that 'tis any of my affair. Likely he seeks to protect himself, which is understandable, heaven knows. I cannot find your confounded article! Slice of what?”

“Good gracious, how could you not know? A slice is a flat, thin-bladed kitchen tool.”

“Alas for my ignorance,” sneered Mathieson.

“Don't pout.”

He checked, glancing up at her with brows elevated.

The bored look on the handsome face was a challenge. She twinkled at him. “Tit for tat. You correct my naughty ways, so you must allow me the same privilege.”

He grinned at that and murmured seductively, “I will allow you any privilege you desire, lovely Mite.”

“Aha, the rake is come back. What fun!”

Shaking his head at her, he took up the slice. “This,
Madame la chef?”

“Yes, that's it! Now hurry and turn over the crumpet on the end, if you please.”

He drew back. “What? Me? Roland O—Mathieson, dedicated villain, man of fashion, and et cetera.”

“O'Mathieson?” she echoed, curious.

“A slip of the tongue, merely.”

“You're quite sure?” Her quivering little grin quizzed him. “You
do
know your own name?”

“Very well, ma'am. Depending upon which one I chance to affect at the time.”

For an instant her eyes searched his face. It was tranquil now and unreadable. She scoffed, “Prankster! Come now, dedicated villain, man of fashion, and kitchen maid's helper. Turn over the end crumpet if you please!
Vite, monsieur! Vite!
”

Wielding the slice, he approached the crumpet gingerly, almost dropped it but succeeded in turning it and was at once inordinately proud. “Excelsior! Is there no end to my talents?”

Fiona put down the bowl and clapped her hands, amused by
the boyish enthusiasm of this man who usually seemed the epitome of poise and sophistication. “Well done! Oh, well done!”

He offered a flourishing bow.

“I shall give your grandfather an accounting of your progress,” said my lady, who had come up unobserved to watch this domestic little scene. “I see Fiona has you in training, Roland. But she must do without you. I need some ink. You shall have to ride into the village for me.”

“Madam! Would you deprive me of this invaluable course in crumpeting?” And, demonstrating his newly acquired technique for her, he went on gaily, “Seriously, my lady, may I not finish here, and then ride with Miss Fiona into the village?”

Lady Clorinda looked for a long moment into his smiling countenance and unreadable eyes. “By all means,” she said.

Mathieson was jubilant and Fiona gave a little jump of delight.

But, walking away, my lady was frowning.

“You don't think they will spoil, sitting there on that towel?” asked Mathieson, his thoughts still with the neatly spread crumpets that waited at the campsite. “I did not slave over a hot fire all day only to have my culinary masterpieces ruined!”

Fiona guided her little bay mare closer to the tall chestnut. “In all my experience with crumpets, I have never known a failure.”

“How many times have you made them?”

“We were discussing Thaddeus, I believe,” she evaded mischievously. “You may be right about his using an assumed name. I wonder if that is why he is so sad.”

He shook his head at her. “Pish! You imagine it, romantic child.”

“And you only say that to keep me from worrying.”

“Now why in the name of creation should you worry about
him? You'd not considered him as a matrimonial prospect until I suggested it.”

“I worry about the people I like, even if I do not mean to marry them. And don't pretend to be hard and cold, sirrah, for you cannot deceive me. He is your friend, and you worry about him too, because, being the type of man you are, you could not do otherwise.”

He thought, ‘Could I not?' And said with the sneer she so disliked, “I cannot afford friends, ma'am. And if 'tis because of
your
friends that you are involved in this particular mess, you'd be better off without 'em.”

Briefly, she was silent. Then, she said slowly, “'Tis because of Francis.”

“Your brother? Ah! He was a reb, then?”

She did not answer, but regarded him with unwonted gravity.

“Gad,” he exclaimed. “What a clod! Forgive.
Vraiment
, I never said it!”

She smiled faintly. “Are you French, Roly?”

“My mother was. Do I speak the language often? Deplorable habit.”

“I find it not at all deplorable; and you seldom speak it, but when you do, your accent is
sans reproche.
She was beautiful, no?”

The hard look in the dark eyes eased. He said in a low voice quite different from his customary drawl, “She was exquisite.”

“And you loved her very much. Then that would explain it.”

“What would it explain?”

“Why, that you are always so very gallant to ladies.”

Mathieson thought of Penelope Montgomery. He looked away quickly, and because guilt was an unfamiliar emotion, squirmed uneasily in the saddle, and spurred with unaccustomed force.

Rumpelstiltskin gave a surprised snort, reared, and was off like a thunderbolt, charging up and over the brow of the hill even as Fiona, also surprised, brought the mare to a gallop.

Vaguely, Mathieson had been aware of a distant turmoil. He was aghast however, to find himself plunging full tilt into an angry crowd, sending people scattering right and left. “What—the devil!” he cried, belatedly trying to quiet the nervously rearing stallion.

“Don't ye go for to interfere now, drat 'ee!” shouted a fierce little old man in smock and gaiters, brandishing a walking cane threateningly.

“Nay, we doan't need no furriners stickin' of their noses into our business,” cried a burly villager.

Mathieson saw then the ducking stool at the side of the pond, and the wretched woman who sagged, half-drowned, against the iron band that held her in that cruel instrument of torment.

“Get ye gone!” shrilled a fat woman, shaking her apron at him.

Several men seized the see-saw-like beam to which the sturdy wooden chair was attached and began to tilt it so that “stool” and victim sank into the pond.

The old woman screamed piteously for mercy but none was given and her head came ever closer to the murky water.

“Now, see here,” began Mathieson, indignantly, as the crowd reformed about him.

Another thunder of hooves and they scattered once more as Fiona rode towards them. “How splendid of you,” she said, turning a look of glowing admiration upon Mathieson. “I wondered what you heard to send you away at such a rate.”

She was at it again! “I did not—” he began.

“Stop,” she cried furiously, riding into the throng. “Pull her up at once!”

The villagers were in an angry mood and showed no inclination to stop, continuing to force their sobbing victim down until the dark waters closed over her head, while they shouted defiance at the girl.

‘This,' thought Mathieson, ‘could be ugly.' He guided Rumpelstiltskin
forward. With loud cursing and desperate scramblings the crowd retreated before the big horse.

“Miss Bradford!” shouted Mathieson. “We must get—”

“She do be a witch!” A burly villager who wore a wig that made Mathieson shudder tugged at the pole and the stool surfaced, water streaming from it, the woman choking frenziedly. “Ye doesn't hold wi' witches, does ye, me fine gent?”

“Fiona,” said Mathieson, eyeing the old creature uneasily. “We would do well to—”

“Yes, and we will,” she declared, her voice ringing with zeal. “How dare you so abuse the poor soul?” She slid from the saddle, and ran to release the bar which confined the hapless victim. “Come, ma'am, and—”

Momentarily awed by such high-handedness, the crowd had fallen silent. Now, the fat woman shrilled, “Oo be she to come a'telling of us what us mayn't do? That old hag overlooked me prize sow, and the whole litter was stillborn! Ducking's too good fer the likes o' Jane Shadwell! Don't ye listen to these fancy folk wi' their long noses! Jane be possessed, I tell ye, and must be ducked till the evil spirits leave her!”

Roaring endorsement for these proper sentiments, the crowd surged forward.

There is a well-known maxim that a man would do better to stand alone against the might of a Roman legion than to face a crowd of enraged British rustics. Well aware of this, Mathieson dismounted in a leap, and took Fiona's arm. “Dear Mite, really we cannot—”

“I agree,” she said grimly, and jabbed her little gold-handled knife at the burly man who grabbed for the failing woman she supported. The burly one yowled and swung up a clenched fist. “Ye stabbed me! Ye danged little bitch!”

Mathieson froze and his lips tightened into a thin line. One hand whipped Fiona aside; with the other he struck hard and true. The deplorable wig sailed from the head of the burly man, and drifted into the pond after him.