Escapade (7 page)

“Good gracious, no. I read only English, and a tiny bit of French, but I should like to see the others. Russian, for instance, uses quite a different set of letters from English, I believe, and I should like to see it. Shall we start with the Russian?"

Not even a dilettante, but merely a curious child, Clare remarked with a sardonic smile, and was happy he had shifted the load of accommodating her on to Shane. He proceeded at a brisk pace to the stables, from which starting point he enjoyed a pleasant ride with Lady Sara.

Around 3:00 the whole party assembled for a hearty luncheon.

“What have you planned for this afternoon, Clare?” Belle Prentiss asked her host.

“We were to have a picnic at the pavilion, but we are getting such a late start we'll make it tomorrow instead."

“And what shall we do today?” she persisted.

“Why, it is such a fine day, why don't you young ladies take a walk about the grounds and acquaint yourselves with the place?"

“We did that this morning,” Miss Prentiss informed him.

“What, saw all ten thousand acres?” he asked.

Miss Prentiss threw back her copper curls and laughed. “Oh, you know we could not! Miss Sheridan and I merely went for a stroll about the gardens and to the Tower.” She glanced at him with a saucy eye at this remark, for her Mama had discovered the story about Crazy Nellie's Tower being haunted, and warned her not to mention it.

“Ah,” he said with an air of surprise. “I must congratulate you on your luck in being still with us then."

“Is she really locked up in there?” Sherry asked with a shiver.

“Who?” Clare asked.

“Why, your—your aunt, or cousin, or whoever she is."

“Great-great aunt,” he explained. “No, she is no longer there in person, though really so many people report seeing her still that I sometimes wonder..."

“You mean it is haunted?” Belle asked, her topaz eyes sparkling with pleasurable fear.

Miss Sheridan turned pale under her black curls, and said nothing.

“I suppose it must be her ghost they see,” he replied calmly.

“What is she supposed to look like?” Lady Sara enquired.

“Why, rather like Miss Prentiss. Reddish hair..."

“Auburn,” Miss Prentiss corrected him.

“But done in an older style. Not all cut off like yours,” he said to Belle, with a disparaging look at her shorn locks. Miss Sheridan smiled and ran her little white fingers though her own glossy coiffure. “She was a lady-in-waiting to Queen Anne,” he continued, “but got on the wrong side of her somehow—befriended Lady Marlborough, I believe. Her husband was so displeased—ruined his court ambitions, of course—that he had her confined and she was never seen again."

“Good gracious!” Miss Sheridan gasped.

“The beast,” Lady Sara added, helping herself to lobster salad. “And you are a beast too, Clare, to be frightening these young ladies with such a faradiddle. What does your Crazy Nellie wear? I should like to recognize her and say ‘how do you do’ if I should happen to bump into her while I am sketching this afternoon."

“Her hair dressed high—red, like Miss Prentiss's, as I mentioned, and a pink gown with panniers."

“I can't say I much blame her husband for having her locked up if she wore a pink gown with red hair,” Sara commented idly.

“But you must know, there is a streak of color blindness in the family,” Belle teased.

Clare bit back a smile at her sally, and the others breathed a sigh of relief that he hadn't taken a pique.

“And she always carries a basket of red roses,” he finished his description.

“She was clearly deranged,” Sara said.

“We have a ghost at Strayward,” Lady Honor announced.

Clare was sorely tempted to say there was nothing but ghosts at Strayward, for none of the inhabitants seemed to be quite alive, but he asked instead, “What sort of ghost, ma'am?"

“A monk,” she replied and turned her attention to her plate.

No one was so foolhardy as to expect three consecutive remarks from her, so Clare turned again to Sara. “Do you mean to sketch today?"

“Yes, Ella and I mean to, and any of the others who care to join us are welcome.
Ca va sans dire
.” She scanned the table, but with the host's plans unclear, no one else volunteered.

“Would you care to join us, Lady Honor?” she asked.

“I don't sketch,” she said.

“You might enjoy the walk,” Clare prodded. “You do walk?"

“Yes, I walk,” she replied, perceiving no joke, and certainly no insult in the question.

“I shall go with you and show you the view most favored by artists,” Clare volunteered. “It is advised not to get too close."

“Masonry loose, is it?” she asked, during a private conversation a little later.

“Just so. A footman was hit by a falling stone, but till I manage to get it repaired or ripped down, I find a ghost more effective than falling stones in keeping guests at a safe distance."

“You mustn't tear it down. A building in a state of decay is all the go. Sir Herbert speaks of erecting a half-chapel or so."

“We have a ruined chapel at Strayward,” the Marchioness said across the table, having been straining her ears to overhear what was being said.

“And a cloister,” Honor added.

Everyone looked in surprise to hear such unwonted vivacity from the Strayward ladies. There were exclamations of “indeed” and “how interesting,” but they were not so easily lured into expanding.

“As you ladies have already seen my derelict tower, I expect you will want to ride this afternoon,” Clare said to Sherry and Belle.

They both looked to their mothers for instructions as to what they would like to do. None were forthcoming as they hadn't the temerity to contradict a plan of Clare's. When Mr. Peters and Lord Harley began discussing what mounts they would recommend for the ladies, and which path they would take, it was too late to suggest they would prefer sketching, and so Lady Sara made off with Clare again.

Ella was not without an escort, for Bippy joined their party, to station himself at her shoulder and pester her at every line she set to paper. No artist, she performed even worse than usual and was quite ashamed of the childish, blotched sketch Tredwell snatched out of her hands to show Clare before it was even quite finished.

Clare frowned painfully and handed it back. “Very bad. Very bad indeed. In fact, I think it is actually the worst drawing of the tower I have ever seen. I can't recall having seen a worse—unless perhaps that abomination Sara is perpetrating..."

“I was thinking of having it shown at Somerset House,” Sara joked lightly, but Ella began to think Clare was a very rude host. No matter about her own, Sara's picture was very good. She personally hated sketching and was only here because he, as her host, had not bothered his head to arrange any better sport. He ought to be glad they could amuse themselves, instead of belittling their efforts. And he was rude to the others, too, calling Miss Prentiss a redhead twice, and offending Lady Honor by asking her if she could walk. Or she should have been offended, if she had had any sensitivity at all. Half the town of London feared his tongue, but from long practice Miss Prattle felt she could acquit herself well enough, should it come to a verbal battle. He didn't care what he said or did, and Ella took the decision that henceforth she would not care either. She would no longer sink into herself if he asked her a question, raking her with his cold gray eyes.

She said nothing, but in her mind's eye she was envisioning the words that would soon appear in the
Observer
.

While 99% of the
ton
twiddles its thumbs in London awaiting the D—e C—e's return from his palace, his invited guests twiddle their thumbs and try as best they might to get in the tedious days. It is reported a picnic was planned, but did not take place. The Misses S—n and P—s are improving their walking skills, and L—y H—r and her mama are reported to have had a good night's repose.

Her thoughts were broken into. “Did you find what you wanted in the library, Miss Fairmont?” Clare was saying. Perhaps not for the first time, as there was a certain edge to his voice. Ella knew herself to be deaf when she was preparing her column.

“Yes, thank you. You seem to have everything, and Mr. Shane was very patient in explaining it all to me. I shall know just where to find things for myself from now on."

“What sort of literature in particular are you interested in?"

“English literature,” she said, not to be questioned about all those other languages she had seen. His steely eyes continued to regard her fixedly.

“Yes?” It was an invitation, almost a command, to continue, but her reading was so scattered and diffuse that, though she did read a great deal, she was no specialist and could claim no superior knowledge in any field. Her resolve to face up to him vanished under the blast of those mocking eyes.

“I see,” he said, and gave up, turning once again to Sara, who proceeded to regale him successfully with a rather dull tale of Herbert and his gout.

He said not another word to Ella, and when the four returned to the house, it was to Lady Sara that he offered his arm. Miss Fairmont felt she had let herself down, and thought of a dozen witty and amusing replies she might have made to his question. Next time, she determined, she would give him a smart, even a sharp retort. She would see something but mockery in those eyes yet, even if it was anger.

As they strolled along, Clare said to Sara, “Your niece is very gauche. Why do you not take her education in hand and teach her to converse like a lady?"

“What, and set up a competitor under my own roof?” she smiled boldly, with her long-lashed eyes. Very fine eyes, he thought.

“Be serious, Sara. That little brown mouse would be no match for you, if she conversed like de Staël. Besides, you are a married lady and ought to stop hogging all the beaux."

“Oh, Ella is not open with strangers, and there is no point in trying to make a silk purse of a sow's ear."

He laughed heartily at this homely truth. “What an extraordinary experience it is, to have a chaperon admit her charge is a very plain little simpleton."

“I did not say
that
! She is well-read."

“Yes, she reads
English
, she tells me."

“When she takes to someone, she is as lively as even you could wish."

“I am no admirer of pert young ladies, but I do like a girl who has a few words to say for herself."

“I expect she is afraid you would give her one of your infamous set-downs, if she dared to open her mouth."

“I'm more apt to do so if she doesn't,” he admitted. The conversation turned to other topics, and the group reached the palace.

“It wants a few hours to dark,” Clare said. “I have some business to attend to in the village. I'll have a mount saddled up and ride in."

“And Ella and I shall take our abominable sketches in and flatten them under some books, if your Mr. Shane will permit it."

“Miss Fairmont must use her powers of persuasion,” Clare said with a lift of his eyebrow in her direction. “I make no doubt they got on admirably."

This was neither meant for a compliment, nor taken for one. “Yes, I find Mr. Shane more conversable than some of the gentlemen here,” Miss Prattle shot back, before Miss Fairmont had time to consider the wisdom of this jibe.

“Indeed!” Clare said.

There! She had jolted him out of his mockery now. But not for long. “I am happy you have found a fellow bookworm you can talk to,” he said, bowed, and turned his back on them.

“I'll go round to the stables to see how my horses are doing,” Bippy said, unaware that a small skirmish had just taken place.

“What came over you, Ella, to say such a thing?” Sara asked.

“He has been giving me digs all day, Sara, and I will not bear it any longer."

Sara's first reaction was to issue a warning, but upon consideration of Clare's recent words on the subject, she resisted. “Well, serves him right,” she said. “He told me I ought to encourage you to speak up."

“You don't mean he actually complained about me! Oh, he is insufferable. There was no need to mention it. Everyone must know how stupidly mute I have been."

“Yes, and I have a notion everyone will soon see a transformation,” Sara said with a pleased grin. “Come along, and see if you can wrest some heavy tomes from Mr. Shane."

While one party sketched, the other rode about the estate. Sherry was not long happy, cantering through fields and parks with no one to admire her blue riding habit, and by dint of repeated coaxing and sulking, she induced the others to ride with her to the local village. She hoped for no more than an ogling by the locals; a good perusal of the shops would have to await the formal visit to Kitswell. Belle did not set her jaw against the scheme, as one expected her to do, and so the gentlemen went along. When they were stuck with the ladies, riding was no fun anyway, and a road was no worse than a field. They none of them looked forward to much of interest in the trip, and were all surprised at what they discovered, though the surprise was greeted with very different emotions in them.

It was the needle-sharp Belle Prentiss who recognized the long stride of the Duke as he paced along the street. This alone made the trip worth the bother, but he was not alone. He was accompanied by a young person of ravishing beauty, a blonde girl, well-built, with her face trustingly turned towards her protector, adoration in her pretty blue eyes. For this Belle would have ridden a hundred miles. She inadvertently gave a yank on her reins when she saw them, and her mount reared up. She was not aware of the fine scene she made, controlling her frisky animal without the least difficulty. Neither were her friends aware of it; they too had spotted Clare now, and were all staring at him as though turned to stone. They were not sure he had seen them, but as he immediately bolted into the door of the closest shop—Martin's Drapers it was called—and slammed the door after him, they were inclined to think he had.

“So he did not stay with the sketching party,” Sherry said. “Mama made sure he was carrying on a flirtation with Lady Sara."