Read Mrs. Drew Plays Her Hand Online

Authors: Carla Kelly

Tags: #Fiction, #Romance, #Historical, #Regency

Mrs. Drew Plays Her Hand (6 page)

BOOK: Mrs. Drew Plays Her Hand
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lie followed her up obediently, ducking where he was bid, and breathing in the pleasant odor of lavender that trailed behind her. She hurried up the stairs, her bare feet quiet on the treads. At the top, she held up the lamp for the rest of his ascent.

"This way, my lord," she said, and motioned him into the first room.

There was only the paltriest fire in the grating, but it glowed a welcome at him as he went straight to it to strip off his gloves and warm his hands. While he stood there, she gathered together some clothing from the tiny dressing room off the bedroom, then joined him at the fireplace.

"Good night, my lord," she said softly. "You should sleep very well here. Tibbie arrives around nine al the manor house, so you will have time to breakfast with us before you go, providing you like porridge."

"I love it," he lied, perjuring his soul without a whimper. "Thank you for your kindness, Mrs. Drew. This is such a shocking intrusion."

She gave him that wide-eyed look. "Not in a vicar's household," she said. "We've sheltered many orphans of the storm who looked more weary than you. Good night then, my lord. If you need anything, why, you'll probably find it about where you would find it in your own house."

She closed the door behind her, and he smiled at her ingenuous reply. Still smiling, he looked under the bed, and laughed out loud. Sure enough, there was the chamber pot. You are a diplomat, madam, he decided as he shed his clothes and crawled gratefully between Mrs. Drew's warm sheets. They smelled wonderfully of lavender, too, and he relaxed and felt the tension leave his shoulders. You cannot imagine how weary this orphan is, he thought as he closed his eyes in sleep.

Chapter 5

He slept soundly and well, stirring only once when he dreamed that someone was pounding on his back. "Stop it, Threlkeld," he muttered, dreaming of his aide-de-camp, dead now this year and more at Waterloo, who used to wake him up for urgent messages with a thump to the kidneys. "Stop it," he murmured again, and dropped back into dreamless sleep. The bed was firm in all the right places, and he was warm for the first time since he had laid eyes on Northumberland in October.

When he woke finally, the sun was streaming in the window as though yesterday's snowstorm had been a bad dream. He lay comfortably on his side, drowsily gazing at the bare branches
that
tapped on the window glass, and imagining them full-leafed and green in summer. His back was deliriously warm and he started to close his eyes again.

They snapped open and he sucked in his breath. Who
was
that
cuddled so close to him? He pulled the sheet up higher across his bare chest, looked over his shoulder, and found himself staring into a second pair of lovely brown eyes, round and wide open.

"Where did you put my mother?" she asked, sitting up and tucking her flannel nightgown down over her feet like a proper little lady.

She couldn't have been much over four, but as he smiled into her charming face, Lord Winn was delighted with her calm air of competency, so like her mother. You were certainly fashioned from the same mold, he thought as he tucked the blankets about his bare body and sat up in bed, propping the pillow behind him. I wouldn't have thought it possible.

But she was obviously waiting for an answer. In fact, she was getting a little impatient. She pursed her lips in wondrous imitation of her mother, then to his delight, sighed and laid her head on his blanketed thigh. "I wish you would tell me," she muttered, then closed her eyes again.

She was irresistible. I must remind myself that I do not care for children, he thought as he touched her curly hair tentatively, then rested his hand on her small shoulder. She sighed again and snuggled closer.

"No wonder I was so warm last night," he said softly. "My dear, I did not put your mother anywhere. In fact, do you wager?"

She looked at him with those big eyes and frowned. "I don't know what that is," she asked, her voice full of suspicion.

He grinned. "Of course you do not. You are a clergyman's daughter," he said quite matter-of-fact. "Well, I would be willing to lay down good money that your mother is going to come running in here any minute, looking for you. Can you reach my watch there on the night table?"

She sat up again and found his watch next to his reading spectacles, which she put on. He laughed out loud at the sight, and she peered at him over the top of the glasses. She held out the watch to him, but he shook his head.

"You open it, my dear. Can you tell the time?"

After a moment of concentration, with his glasses dangling on the end of her short nose, and her tongue between her teeth, she snapped open the watch, and held it up in triumph.

"Excellent! Now, do you know your numbers?"

She nodded. "The little hand is by the seven, and the big hand is on the six."

He winced. "Seven-thirty! You certainly keep army hours here."

She put the watch to her ear and kept time with the ticking. He took his spectacles from her. "I will give your mother another five minutes to come bursting in here. What do you think?"

She grimaced and snapped the watch shut, dangling it in front of her face by the long gold chain. "She will be here sooner."

"Well, I say five minutes. This is a wager, my dear, a bet. If she comes in after five minutes, I win. If she comes in before, you win."

"What do I win?" the little one asked, flopping onto her back and resting her head on his thigh again.

"What do you want?"

She thought a moment, still dangling the watch from its chain. "I would like a pony for Helen."

Her answer moved him beyond words. He thought suddenly of Amabel and Lettice, and their constant bickering. He touched her hair again, winding a curl around his Finger.

"It's too much, isn't it?" she said, more to herself than to him. "Then I would like a skein of yarn, instead."

"For what?" he asked, marveling at the size of the lump in his throat.

"So Mama can make me some mittens. It snowed last night." She handed back the watch, and then her eyes opened wide. "But suppose you win?"

He couldn't think of anything he wanted more than just to stay where he was, but was spared the necessity of an answer. He heard a door open, and someone calling, "Felicity? Felicity?" in a low voice.

"I lost," he said. "Here she comes. You are Felicity?"

She nodded. "I could hide under the covers."

He clutched his blankets. "Not a good idea, Felicity! It's too late to duck from the wrath. By the way, my name is Fletcher Rand. Perhaps we should shake hands."

"That is a strange name," she said as she solemnly shook his hand and Mrs. Drew knocked softly on the door.

"So I have always thought," he agreed. "Call me Winn. Come in, madam. I think I have what you are looking for."

The original pair of round, brown eyes peeked into the room. Mrs. Drew, still in robe and nightgown, opened the door, her marvelous complexion a deeper pink at the sight of his bare chest.

"I am so sorry, Lord Winn .. ." she began, then let her gaze go to the window. “I never thought. . . Felicity does that. . . Oh, I hope she didn't push on your back with her feet! She nearly tumbled me out of bed once."

He laughed out loud and slid down under the covers again to spare the widow his hairy chest. "So that's what it was! I had an aide-de-camp who used to wake me up with a chop to the kidneys. I'm a heavy sleeper, ma'am, or so he used to tell me. Felicity and I have already introduced ourselves, and I have taught her to wager."

"Such dissipation!" Mrs. Drew exclaimed. "I suppose you were wagering how soon I would miss her?"

He nodded. Felicity, still resting against his thigh, nodded too. "I won, Mama."

"Of course you did, you scamp! You know me a little better than our sorely tried guest." She held out her hand to her daughter. "Come, my dear. Let us leave this gentleman in peace."

Felicity sat up and looked back at him, her eyes merry. "Yarn and a pony, or just yarn?"

To his intense amusement, Mrs. Drew put her hands on her hips and pursed her lips. "Felicity! Next you will tell me you wagered for a castle in Spain!"

"Mama, I would never. What good is that?"

Mrs. Drew turned away for a moment to hide her smile. "Spoken like a true Yorkwoman!" she murmured, then shook her finger at him. "Lord Winn, if you have set Felicity on a life of dissipation and crime, I will lay the blame entirely at your door."

"I think it will not come to that," he protested. "And truly, I have been marvelously entertained. "Don't be too hard on her."

"She is a scamp!"

Felicity stood up on the bed and opened her arms wide for her mother, who came into the room, picked her up, and whirled around with her, nuzzling her neck until she shrieked. She carried her to the door, set her down, swatted her lightly on the bottom, and pointed her in the direction of her own room.

"Lord Winn, really, forgive us."

"Nothing to forgive, Mrs. Drew," he assured her. "She's better than a hot-water bottle."

Mrs. Drew smiled then, and went to the door. "Lord Winn, in a few minutes I will have a can of hot water for you. I'll knock on the door when it is ready. There will be some coal, too. Not much, I fear, because it is so dear this season." She turned to leave, then looked back, hesitating. "If you wish, you can find Anthony's shaving gear in the dressing room. I... I left it there."

"Thank you, Mrs. Drew," he replied, rubbing his chin. "I must have left my saddlebags in the shed last night."

"Well then, please use what you can find here. We'll eat when you are ready."

She closed the door, and in another moment, Lord Winn heard her admonishing Felicity in firm but quiet tones. He lay still another moment, considering his early-morning bed partner. I wonder if Felicity would like red mittens or green ones? Red, I think. And where can I find a pony? He got up and pulled on his smallclothes and breeches. Soon there was a knock at the door. After waiting a modest moment for her to retreat, he opened the door and brought in the hot water and a very little coal.

"So coal is dear," he said as he dumped the hot water in the washbasin. "I think I shall save this, then."

He washed his face, but couldn't bring himself to use the razor belonging to the late vicar. He stood a moment in the dressing room, breathing in the lavender fragrance from Mrs. Drew's clothing, then pulled on his shirt.

Still tying his neckcloth, Lord Winn came downstairs and followed his nose to the kitchen, where Mrs. Drew, dressed in black with her hair pulled back tidily under a lace cap, was stirring the porridge. Felicity counted spoons, while a tall, thin woman brewed the tea and eyed him with vast suspicion.

"Lord Winn, this is Meggie Watson. She was Anthony's nursemaid, and came to help us out when ... things were difficult. Now I do not know what I would do without her. Meggie, Lord Winn."

He nodded to her, then ruffled Felicity's hair. "And you are in charge of spoons? Did you count out an extra one for me?"

She nodded, intent upon her work as she gathered up spoons and napkins. "I am to behave myself, Lord Winn, if you do not make it difficult."

Mrs. Drew laughed out loud, then covered her mouth with her hand. "Felicity! Be a little kinder to our landlord!" she insisted, and gave her daughter another gentle swat. She looked at him then. "Couldn't you find Anthony's razor? I was sure it was in the dressing room."

"As to that, Mrs. Drew, a man would always rather use his own blade," he said as he finished tucking in his shirt and pulled on his riding coat, which someone had thoughtfully draped in front of the fireplace. "I'll retrieve my gear from the shed and shave after breakfast, if the sight of a day's growth doesn't upset anyone's appetite."

"I think we can manage," Mrs. Drew allowed as she removed the pot from the stove.

"My lord, perhaps you could hurry along Helen," Miss Watson suggested. "I sent her outside with a bucket of water for your horse."

"She still isn't back?" Mrs. Drew said. "I don't wonder. She gets dreamy-eyed around horses."

"So do I, madam," he said as he opened the back door.

The back steps were deep in snow, except where Helen had walked, so his first task of the morning was to clear them off.

When he finished, the air was moving briskly through his lungs and he looked about in appreciation. There was no wind, and not a branch or bush rustled. The diamonds of snow and ice still jeweled the trees and the ground, and the silence was almost as intense as the blue sky. I wonder why people live in cities? he asked himself as he followed much smaller tracks to the shed.

There he found Helen, nose to nose with his horse, saying something to the big gelding that was generating a wicker of appreciation. He paused in the doorway, unwilling to intrude on the formation of a friendship, and content to admire this other daughter of the lovely Widow Drew.

You must be the image of your father, he thought as he leaned against the door frame and regarded the young girl before him. Her hair was blond and free around her shoulders. She had pulled up a box to sit upon and her posture was impeccable. He could almost imagine her in a riding habit and seated sidesaddle upon a fine horse of her own. She was slim and elegant, with a profile almost regal.

She turned then, and her blue eyes were nearly the color of the sky outside. "I like your horse," she said, then got down off the box, suddenly shy. She remained beside his horse, but Lord Winn had the feeling that had he not been standing in the door, she would have bolted.

He stayed where he was, unwilling to see her disappear. "I like him, too. Are you Helen?"

She nodded, her eyes on his face. He regarded her calm beauty, and found himself irrationally jealous of her dead father. Mr. Drew, you must have been a handsome man, he thought as he smiled at the vicar's elder daughter.

"Thank you for watering my horse," he said, moving closer slowly, as he would approach a skittish colt. "I hope Tibbie has some corn in the stables behind the estate."

"He does, because he puts his own horse there when he comes," she offered. "There are no horses now, my lord." Her voice was wistful, but he did not remark on it.

She couldn't have been more than six or seven, but there was a maturity in her voice that saddened him, somehow. Perhaps I have seen too many children in Spain growing up faster than their years, he thought. I recognize that voice, no matter what the language. Helen, you hide your loss with dignity.

He joined her beside his horse, rubbing the animal's nose as Helen stroked his shoulder with a sure hand, standing on tiptoe to reach him. He slowly moved the box closer to the horse, and to his delight, she allowed him to give her a hand up onto it.

"What do you call him?" she asked as she ran her fingers through the horse's mane, straightening the tangles.

BOOK: Mrs. Drew Plays Her Hand
13.1Mb size Format: txt, pdf, ePub
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