Lady Elinor's Wicked Adventures (2 page)

London, four years later

What first caught her eye was the way he was striding along Oxford Street, so unlike the languid stroll of most gentlemen, even in the chill of late January. He was turned away, of course, and it was already starting to get dark, so she couldn't be sure. After all, for years now her eye had been caught by glimpses of men who might be him. It had surprised her, the number of tall, broad-shouldered, brown-haired men in the world.

At the corner he stopped and looked to the side, and Lady Elinor caught sight of the high cheekbone, the angle of the jaw. She grasped her mother's arm. “Mama, isn't that…” She couldn't finish.

Lady Penworth looked at the young man her daughter was staring at. “Good heavens, it is!” She stepped forward and called out, “Lord Tunbury!”

He had to stop and turn, of course. Even if he hadn't wanted to, her mother's call—her shout, to be blunt—had drawn attention to him. At first he just stared at them, almost as if he were afraid. As if Harry had ever been afraid of anything. Harry, who had always been the first to race down a cliff or dive into the water or send his horse flying over the hedge. Didn't he recognize them? But he had to know that he couldn't just stand there staring. He finally did move toward them, even if not quite as quickly as she and her mother were moving to him.

He looked the same. Well, no, he didn't. He had the same square, solid face, so familiar, so…reliable, that was it. But different, somehow. The set of his wide mouth was firmer, harder, and there were slight creases at the corners of his eyes, as if he had been squinting a lot. His shoulders seemed broader—was that possible? And he looked older.

He was older, of course. After all, it had been almost four years. Still, he seemed to have matured more than Pip had in the same time. But after that first moment of surprise when he just looked blank, he smiled, and she had to smile back. That was Harry, who had been her friend since childhood. She would know that smile anywhere. How she had missed it.

Beaming joyfully, Lady Penworth put out her hands to greet him and he took them in his.

“Lady Penworth, Lady Elinor, what a wonderful surprise.”

His voice was deep, deeper than she remembered. A rich, man's voice. Elinor could almost feel it vibrate in her but couldn't manage to say anything herself. She just stood there, feeling foolishly glad that she was wearing her new blue velvet capelet with the fur lining and the matching bonnet.

Her mother, of course, had no trouble finding her tongue. “Harry, look at you, so brown and handsome! You look like sunshine in this gray London drizzle. When did you get back?”

“Just yesterday, as a matter of fact. I'm putting up at Mivart's Hotel.”

Lady Penworth frowned slightly. “At a hotel? You are not staying with your family?”

Harry seemed to freeze up at that, and his smile vanished. What was the matter? And he spoke almost roughly. “No, no, I am not.”

“Well, in that case, you must come stay with us,” Mama said firmly, ignoring his tone. “No, I insist. We can't have you staying in a hotel. You can come with us now, and we can send someone to collect your things from Mivart's.”

Elinor couldn't hold back any longer. She flung herself at him to give him a hug. “Oh, Harry, I am so very glad to see you.”

Her mother uttered an indulgent “tsk,” but after a moment of hesitation, when Elinor feared he was going to push her away, Harry's arms wrapped around her and he hugged her back. “I missed you too.” His voice seemed a trifle thick, and he held her longer than she had expected.

Lady Penworth took charge, of course. She sent Harry to fetch a hackney, explaining that it would have been ridiculous to bring their own carriage into this traffic, settled them into the cab when it arrived, and had them on their way in no time. Harry seemed to have been struck silent by all of this, and Elinor was struck silent by the amazement of having her friend Harry not just back in England after all his adventures but right here in the carriage, only inches away, so Lady Penworth chattered away, filling Harry in on four years' worth of family doings.

* * *

It was all so familiar. His feet fit automatically into the worn grooves on the steps of Penworth House, and the door swung open before them.

“Lord Tunbury!” Jacobs, who had been the butler here for God only knew how long, beamed at him. “Welcome back.”

“Good to see you again.” Tunbury couldn't help smiling back. Jacobs held himself as straight as ever, though most of his hair seemed to have disappeared. Had that been recent, or was he remembering Jacobs as he had first seen him?

There was no time to ask, or even to wonder. No sooner had his overcoat, gloves, and hat vanished than he was ushered into the sitting room and plied with tea while Lord Penworth and Pip were sent for. Rycote, not Pip. He should remember to call him Rycote now. After all, they were no longer children. The warmth of the fire was nothing compared to the warmth of the welcome. Not a word of reproach about his four-year absence.

Over dinner, the questions about his travels were curious and interested, not reproachful. And all different. Lord Penworth asked about political conditions. Lady Penworth asked about social conditions. Rycote asked about farming conditions.

And Norrie asked about his adventures. She wanted to know about everything. What did places look like? How did people talk? What did they wear or eat? What did they do? What was it like in Brazil?

He laughed at that one. “It was hot. Horribly hot.”

She laughed right back. “Oh, how could it possibly be horrible to be hot. London has been miserably cold and wet for months.”

“Hot and steamy is far worse. You have no escape. The air is so thick and heavy all the time that the moment you move, the sweat pours down until you feel as if you're drowning. All the planters and their families, all the wealthy families in the cities, insist on dressing as if they were in Europe—tight collars and frock coats for the gentlemen, huge skirts for the ladies. Naturally, they can't do anything except sit around and fan themselves while they complain about the heat and order the slaves about. Slaves do everything.”

Pip frowned. “I thought they finally abolished the slave trade.”

That prompted a sour laugh from Harry. “That's no help for the poor devils who are already there.” He caught the look of concern that shadowed Norrie's face. “But the jungles are incredible. Plants, creatures, birds, even butterflies in fantastic colors, the likes of which you've never seen. And the river—it's like nothing in Europe. Sometimes it's hemmed in by jungle, sometimes it spreads out into swamps so broad you don't know where it ends.”

Norrie was looking at him skeptically, as if she knew he had changed the subject deliberately. She might not want to be protected from ugliness, but that wouldn't stop him from trying. There were horrors she should never have to face, not if he could help it. So he grinned at her. “And the most enormous snakes, snakes that could swallow you whole.”

She gasped for a second, then grinned back. “Beast! I don't believe it.”

“I swear. I saw one swallow a pig that was a good deal fatter than you.” He put a hand over his heart, but she just shook her head at him.

When Lady Penworth rose to leave the gentlemen to their port and cigars, he thought Norrie would object. However, one look from her mother was enough to settle the matter. Everyone obeyed Lady Penworth. That was another thing that hadn't changed.

He couldn't restrain a grin as he watched Norrie leave the room. Without doing anything that could earn her a parental reprimand, she managed to display resentment in every line of her body. And while he regretted her departure, there was something he wanted to know, a question he could hardly ask while she was in the room.

There was a companionable silence while they slid the port along and got their cigars drawing properly. Tunbury leaned back, hoping no tension showed in his posture, and asked, “How is it that Norrie is still unwed? Or is there something in the offing?”

Rycote snorted, but Lord Penworth smiled gently and said, “She's very young yet, barely twenty-one. I'm grateful she hasn't wanted to rush into an engagement but is taking her time to look about her.”

Tunbury felt able to breathe again.

“Taking her time is one way to put it,” Rycote said. “They come swarming around her, but as soon as one of them starts to show serious intentions, she sends him off. This one's too boring, that one is a fool, another one is only interested in her fortune. And they keep pestering me, asking how to win her favor. As if I would know.”

“Is she wrong in her judgments?” asked Tunbury.

Rycote gave an irritated sigh. “No, to be fair she's been perfectly right. Hamilton is boring, and Wandsworth is rather a fool. As for Carruthers, probably the less said, the better.”

“Carruthers?” Tunbury sat up in alarm. “But I warned you about him before I left.”

“Yes, well, I don't know exactly what happened, but a week or two after that, he fell into a fishpond in the Coopers' garden. Norrie said he slipped.”

The three gentlemen looked at each other and laughed.

* * *

Later that evening Tunbury sat by the fire in his room, his slippered feet stretched out to the warmth of the blaze. A wood fire, not coal, because Lady Penworth preferred the smell of wood in the bedrooms. The room was as familiar as the smell, the room he always had when he stayed with the Tremaines in London. It had the same big carved mahogany bed with the posts he used to measure himself against. He remembered how proud he had been the year he grew so much that he had topped two whole knobs. There was the same mahogany wardrobe, the same marble-topped dressing table with the brown and white pitcher and basin. It was as if everything had just been waiting for him to return.

There were even some of his old books still on the shelves by the window—
The
Three
Musketeers, Waverly, The Deerslayer
. That last was the one that had made him determined to go to America on his travels, but he hadn't found any Indians in the woods of New England. On the western plains, but that wasn't quite the same. Well, that war had been a long time ago. He didn't suppose there were many Jacobites lurking in the Scottish heather anymore, either.

His clothes had been unpacked and put away, his shaving gear was set out, and the bed was turned down. It was as if he had never been away.

He was back with the Tremaines, in the one place where he had determined never to intrude again. Apparently, he was the only one who realized it was an intrusion, that he did not belong here.

They had all—Lord and Lady Penworth, Pip, and Norrie—welcomed him as if he had just been away at school for a term. The younger children actually were away at school.

It was not that the Tremaines had failed to notice his absence. They were all eager to hear about his travels. But there was no coolness, no resentment at his abrupt departure with no real explanation, no complaints about his failure to write. They had expected him to return, and they were glad he had.

Now he was trying to make sense of the day, trying to make sense of himself. This was precisely why he had fled England four years ago. He hadn't wanted to bring the ugliness of the sordid de Vaux mélange into this house, into this family. He had run away. Cowardly, perhaps, but he never wanted them to know his family secrets. What was common knowledge was bad enough.

He had tried to convince himself that he wanted to be forgotten. He had behaved in ways that were probably best forgotten. But the moment he heard Lady Penworth's familiar voice call his name, the years fell away, and he felt like a schoolboy again, reveling in the warmth of her welcome. When he walked into the drawing room of Penworth House, he felt as if he had come home. How could he cut himself off from all that had been best in his life?

And then there was Norrie.

She had hugged him right there on the street, and this evening she had teased him just the way she teased Pip. She twitted Pip for his new moustache and she twitted him for being still clean-shaven when even her father had grown a small beard. In short, she treated him like a brother.

He had thought that was what he wanted. He had told himself he would be able to think of her as a sister.

He had been a fool.

She was so damn beautiful, even more so than when he left. She had been a lovely girl then. Now she was a beautiful woman. Not one of those simpering little dolls that seemed to be the fashion. She had a luscious mouth that begged to be kissed, and a bosom that promised paradise. And then there were those aquamarine eyes. He could never decide if they actually did tilt up at the edge or if it was just the way her brows slanted. A man could spend hours just staring at her eyes.

She may not have been married, but it was still true that she treated him like a brother, just as she always had. Why wouldn't she? For all those years he had been turning up for school vacations along with Pip, and the three of them had played together, gone fishing together, gone riding together. He and Pip had even taught her to play Rugby football, and she had mastered the tackle very well. He could remember her delight the time—she couldn't have been more than nine—when she knocked him sprawling in the mud. Why wouldn't she think of him as a brother?

All right. He could manage that. One thing he had learned in his travels was a bit of self-discipline. It would not be easy to treat her like a sister, to have her treat him like a brother, but if that was all he could have, so be it. At least he would be able to see her and be part of her family. He would be able to protect her.

It would not be easy, but it was better than nothing.

* * *

Lady Elinor allowed Martha, her nursery maid turned lady's maid, to remove her clothing, hand her the soap and towel to wash, brush and braid her hair, tuck it into a nightcap, and put her into a warm flannel nightgown. But instead of snuggling under the covers as she usually did, once the maid was gone, Elinor wrapped herself in a woolen shawl and curled up on the window seat to look out on the darkness.