Raven's Ransom (16 page)

“Come with me, missy, I must ’ave words with yer!”

Barrymore restrained Lily’s step. His expression hardened. “The viscountess is going nowhere. If you have something to say, say it now and then begone.”

The woman stopped midsentence. Viscountess? Laws a mercy, were they married, then? Then she looked at Lily’s flushed cheeks and knew that it was more likely she was flinging herself into clandestine company with a rake. Her resolve hardened.

“Bein’ it be private business about Missy’s sisters . . .” She stressed the word “missy” defiantly above Lily’s head. Barrymore was about to protest, but Lily had darted to the woman without warning.

“My sisters?”

“Aye, they be hurt, miss, and no thanks to ye! Thinkin’ you bein’ ravished an all, they gave chase and ’ave now come to a sad and ’orrible end.”

The innkeeper meant in a ditch, but Lily went as white as a sheet, hearing her last words and putting the worst possible construction on them.

“Oh! Take me at once!”

“Don’t be ridiculous, little featherhead!”

Lily’s eyes flashed dangerously, but her immaculate bridegroom failed to notice. In truth, he was about to tell her about the note he had left Lord Raven. This was designed to set the aging earl’s mind at rest
entirely
regarding Miss Chartley’s wedded state—for which Barrymore already very properly had tacit permission. Sad to say, though, it was penned a might saucily, for Barrymore took pleasure in being one step ahead of the earl. He had no fancy to be Raven’s puppet and the note, a declaration of tacit war, was designed to declare it. His eyes creased a little as he remembered the wording. Raven’s notorious feathers would be ruffled, no doubt about it. But as to sending Daisy and Primrose scampering over the countryside after him? Not likely.

He wondered how to explain this to Lily, but he was too late. In a heedless dash, she had followed the innkeeper’s wife to the kitchens, and was gone. Shrugging, Lord Barrymore snatched up his beaver and was about to follow, when he was waylaid by a little urchin carrying the best bottle of burgundy he had laid eyes on since the war.

“Pleasin’ your honor, the innkeeper sent this up wiv his best compliments, me lord.”

“Did he, by God? Then he knows that I am not a lascivious rake, but a beleaguered bridegroom instead!”

The boy did not understand a word of the well-modulated tones, but bethought him of his penny and bobbed an “Aye.”

“Then he has told his lady wife the same?”

Again, the bob.

Lord Barrymore laughed. “And
was
there a carriage accident, little varmint, or was that all my lady’s fancy?”

Now this the boy understood. Not the bit about lady’s fancies, but the plain English part about carriage accidents.

“Pleasin’ yer honor, there be no carriage accident from ’ere to Fairfields.”

“No? And how can you be so certain, little sprig?”

“A cause of what if there was, I would be sent scampering to the smith and the wheelwright and old Dr. Farley wot is a dab hand with the leeches and all.”

“Mmm ... and has none of these pleasant tasks been assigned to you?” My lord’s eyes crinkled with sudden amusement.

“No, pleasin’ yer ’onor. I ’ave only to scrub the basement floors and melt the candle wax back into tapers.” The boy sounded gloomy at the prospect.

“How dull!” Lord Barrymore stretched his hand out for the burgundy. Lily, no doubt, would be back in a few moments. Her sisters were safe. The innkeeper’s wife had merely been overzealous in her efforts to save the inn from disreputable goings-on. He hoped the innkeeper would give her a regular scold for her sanctimonious interference. She ought to be
whipped
for interrupting such a promising interlude. Still, it was afternoon yet. There was time enough later for a
multitude
of disreputable goings-on.

Lord Barrymore smiled as he dismissed the boy with a penny. The child gasped, for he could not believe his good luck. Then, thrusting it into his grubby pocket, he ran, before the fine gentleman could think better of his charity.

“You!” Lily looked at Sir Rory Aldershot with undisguised loathing. She was not permitted to say more, for Sir Rory pulled her into the chaise and sprung the horses without so much as a backward glance. Lily screamed, but the pounding of the hooves muffled her voice and the pace they set was such a spanking rate that there was no chance of anyone within hearing her. A cloud of dust was behind them, so there was no looking back. Sir Rory did not seemed perturbed by the volume of her yells, but rather settled back into the hard seats with a satisfied smile.

“So! I have plucked myself a bloom. And which one are you? Rose, Hawthorne, Daffodil? No, too exotic a countenance, I fear. Perhaps I shall call you Passion. There is a flower in the east that bears that name. You suit it well, little Passion. And you may stop pummeling me. It shall not do you the smallest token of good and may yet anger me.
That,
I fear, shall bode no good for you.”

There was sudden menace in the voice of the slim, nondescript man beside her. He was wearing cream breeches and a tan jacket that, though modish, was slightly too large for his frame. His cravat was tied
à la mathematique,
but somehow it lacked the elan with which Barrymore carried the selfsame style. Perhaps because the shade was buttercup yellow and rather unflattering to the pale features.

Blue eyes protruded not unpleasantly from a lean, masculine face, but Lily noticed that they slanted slyly and she shivered. She would have held him for no account but for the fact that his wrists were sinewy and held hers in an unpleasant vice. She noticed, too, the flash of steel as they were jolted in their seats. He carried a weapon, then.

He noticed the direction of her glance and released his grip on her hands.

“Yes, it would be foolish to flee. Sit down, rather, and see if we can finish this.”

Lily gasped at his implication, for his intent was unmistakable.

“You cur!”

“Yes, I have been called that by some.” The man’s tone was complacent rather than annoyed.

“I shall be missed.”

“Shall you? Then they shall call
Barrymore
out, I fear. It is he, after all, who abducted you first. In the full sight of witnesses. I might add there were
several
. I was but one.”

“Yes, but . . .”

“Ah, I see. Your tastes run to that type, do they? Your blood runs hot for him, does it? Well, it can be so with me. Indeed, you may count yourself fortunate. And do not
glare
at me so. If you behave, I shall wed you. Let me not repeat myself too often. It is no small thing being the wife of Sir Rory Aldershot. I have estates in Quimby. You shall reign there supreme, my little passion flower.”

 

 

Raven Place was in an uproar. My lord had received a note from Lord Barrymore, and it had left him with a spasm such that Richmond could do nothing for him and was forced to hold up his hands in righteous despair. The earl seemed to veer from outrage—wherein could be heard a series of very lusty oaths—and amusement, for he would bang the counterpane with his fist and chortle intermittently. By and large, his valet was satisfied that no lasting harm would come to him, for his demeanor, though volatile, seemed generally in keeping with a good humor, though only those who knew him well would guess it.

“The rascal!” he would say, crushing the heavy brocade within his fingers. Then he would take out his spectacles and read the missive again, such that Richmond was tempted to prise it from his hands and read it himself, so great was his curiosity. Still, despite his desire to account for the earl’s latest start, he remembered his station and resisted the temptation. The note lay crumpled beside the earl’s bed, ready to be reread in a sudden fit of anger and amusement yet again.

“Impudent dog!” my lord chortled yet again then frowned when he saw the long-suffering Richmond hovering nearby.

“Well, don’t just stand there! Fetch me a glass of my best porter. And the French stuff, mind. I don’t doubt that there will be excise men after my head for it, but there is nothing better, you know, than the smuggled ware, and it will be the best today, Richmond, or I will have your explanation!”

Richmond toyed with the idea of mentioning that the doctor had not prescribed so heady a draft then thought better of it. The earl was glaring at him sternly, though an odd twinkle of pleasure lurked behind his bushy, gray brows.

“I am a trial, am I not, Richmond? Well, I shall make it up to you by offering you a glass of the same. Good for the digestion, mind, and will take those silly furrows off your forehead. Go to it!”

Richmond, more than honored by this offhanded gesture, made no further complaint. He was confirmed in his opinion that the Earl of Raven, though mad, was nonetheless an exemplary employer if you could overlook his bluff manners. And Richmond could.

Below stairs, the Misses Chartleys were removing their pelisses and sensible gloves. Both were dreaming unmaidenly thoughts, but neither revealed as much to the other, for such maundering was unfitting and quite unlike their usual, cheerful selves. Daisy was wondering, with a quiver of her heart, whether Armand—her heart fluttered as she thought of that seductive, all-intrusive name—would truly be back for her that night. Primrose, rather less dramatic, felt a faint wistfulness as she imagined Lord Rochester’s bold dark eyes raking her over. She wondered if she could possibly maintain her composure when next they encountered one another. She thought not.

“Good morning, Mistress Bartlett! Has Lily arrived back, yet?”

“Miss Lily? No, dear! Was she not with you girls? I feel certain I laid out her walking boots same as you, like.”

“Yes, you did, but she was taken up in Lord Barrymore’s chaise. She should have returned by now.” A frown creased Primrose’s brow, and a copper curl fell across her brow, only to be pushed back by an impatient hand.

Daisy frowned. “Should we have let her go, I wonder? Lord Barrymore is a fortune hunter. I had it off Meg.”

“And Meg talks too much! I find Lord Barrymore’s manners impeccable. Besides, there is Standish.” Primrose spoke almost to reassure herself, for in truth, though she would not own it, she was worried.

“Perhaps Lily has twisted the poor man’s arm and forced him to take her to Astley’s! She has been pining to see the circus.”

“Very likely.” Primrose did not allow doubt to creep into her tone. Daisy, though a dear, was easily alarmed. She turned to the housekeeper. “We shall be in the cellars when she returns. I have a mind to still some of that cherry wine. The sediment, I hear, is excellent for a fever. If it is so, I shall have a great quantity of it made up and sent on to the estates. It will be a chill winter, I fear.”

Mrs. Bartlett murmured assent. “What if Miss Lily does not return?”

“Oh, she will. If she does not within the hour, however, best call me. How is Grandfather today?”

“Swearing ten to the dozen and calling for porter.” Mrs. Bartlett could not hide a wry smile.

“Excellent. Then he is recovering! Water down the porter, will you? It is not good for him.”

“Mercy me! Water it down? That I shall not, miss, for I value my life!”

Daisy chuckled. “She is not wrong, Primmy! If you water it down, take it in yourself and make very certain you are not wearing your best gown! As a matter of fact, wear that hideous emerald, for he is sure to throw it at you and the muslin could bear discarding.”

“Nonsense, it is still perfectly good. All I have to do is remove Lily’s tiresome rosettes and the thing will be quite wearable. Very well, Mrs. Bartlett, have it your way. Give him the porter if it will please him so! Perhaps I shall go up and talk to him myself. Daisy, you go down to the cellars. I shall be with you directly.”

“No! I shall withdraw to my chamber, if you have no objection.” Daisy blushed, for how could she say she wished to choose out a wedding gown for herself? Primrose would doubtless laugh at her pretension, for who was to say that her romantic hero would in truth return to whisk her away as promised? It was all too much like a work of fiction to be real or true. She sighed with relief as Primrose nodded, her mind too filled with misgiving for Lily and concern for the earl to be at all suspicious.

As Daisy crossed the long gallery that led to the west wing, Primrose checked the hall clock absently and ascended the great stairs. If she was anxious about either of the Miss Chartley siblings, she made no further comment.

An unsettling five minutes with Raven made her startlingly aware that something was amiss. He was brandishing a paper in her face then snatching it away as she tried to read it.

“Go away, miss, and leave a gentleman to enjoy his porter in peace!”

“Sir, you are being mysterious. What is that piece of parchment you flutter in my face?”

“Ha, would you not like to know!” He wagged his finger in her face and chortled. “Your sister, brazen hussy, is to wed this day.”

Primrose at once thought of Daisy and wondered however the earl had come to divine her secret. Ever since her midnight tryst with the mysterious gentleman, she had come to suspect as much. Daisy was in high fidgets today, forever touching her luxurious bright curls in front of the glass and showing, by her curious lack of interest in the offerings of Hookhams, an abstracted air that had left the quick-witted Primrose wondering. Still, since she felt a liking for Barnacle Jack—or whoever else he happened to be when he was not masquerading as such—she did not react to the news with the requisite hysterics. Instead, she calmly filled the earl’s tumbler with water and remarked that she guessed as much.

Of course, Lord Raven was referring to
Lily,
who had just scampishly defied him—as he knew she would—and eloped with Barrymore. My lord was not a fool. He knew that though the viscount had impudently termed it an abduction, his adorable scamp of a granddaughter would have been a
most
willing participant in the matter.

“Did
you, by God!” The earl’s eyes gleamed with amusement, but Primrose made no comment. Rather, she drew back his curtains a little, allowing soft sunlight to stream into the ill-lit room. My lord made no comment, so she took courage into her hands and handed him the drink. He eyed her with scowling dislike and there was a moment when Primrose wished she had changed into the emerald. Then Lord Raven stared at her hard, laughed a little, and tossed it down without a murmur. Primrose was so surprised she could have fallen over backward.

“Ah, little Miss Prim and Proper! You are a dark horse, I swear, for a strange little bird tells me that it shall be
you
who is next.”

Miss Chartley, unaware that Lord Raven had the advantage over her, and had recently engaged in an extremely profitable interview with a certain eligible marquis, disclaimed a little hotly and muttered that the earl was raving.

“Ha! Raving indeed! You see if wedding bells are not in the air, ere long, my little Miss Marchioness! You see!”

To placate him, Primrose nodded and allowed that she would do just that. The earl regarded her from under his brows and muttered that he would give a ransom to know the sum total of Primrose’s activities. Primmy blushed, for Raven was the last person in the world she cared to confide her secrets to. Heavens, mistaking a peer of the realm for her own coachman! She could scarce credit it herself; she certainly was not going to lay the matter open to the
earl’s
lusty speculation. She colored just
thinking
on the circumstance, for certainly for a young lady of her sensible, orderly, and unimpeachable virtue, the night at Almack’s had been a strange diversion indeed. A telltale smile hovered on her lips at the very memory and the earl settled back with grim satisfaction. He loved his granddaughter dearly, but could never resist the impulse to tease the life out of her. “So!” he said. “Daisy and Lily are not the
only
naughty pusses in my household.”

“Lily?” Primrose was diverted for a moment, for she could have sworn the earl knew nothing of Lily. They had talked only of Daisy.

“Aye. But I am sore beset by the lot of you! Leave me now, that I may brood my misfortunes in peace.” Primrose wisely chose not to push him further, for the old man was looking suddenly tired, despite the excited lights gleaming behind his sagging eyelids.

“Very well, Grandfather. I shall not disturb you further.” Raven grunted, so Primrose stole closer to him and placed a light, butterfly kiss upon his forehead. At this, he glared, but the eldest Miss Chartley did not allow this to concern her. She would have been more perturbed by far had he smiled.

 

 

“Lily back yet?”

“Not a sign of her, Miss Primrose! I took the liberty of sending a footman round to Lord Barrymore’s residence. She will be ruined if he took her there, but perhaps the groom will know what my lord’s intentions were.”

Primrose’s heart stood still, for a moment. Mrs. Bartlett was right. Lily
would
be ruined if Barrymore was careless of her honor. What if she had misjudged him? If he was nothing but an unscrupulous adventurer who sought to abduct her for the ransom? Lord knows, they were fair game to half the world now that the whole of London knew the extent of the fortune Raven had placed on their heads.

She shivered and determined to go at once to Upper Grosvenor Square herself. If Lily needed help, she was duty-bound to provide it, however difficult the venture. It was she, after all, who had permitted Lily to be taken up by the viscount. If she had been mistaken in his intentions... she thought hurriedly. Night must not be permitted to fall without Lily safe back home. The consequences would be dire and very hard to quash, since London had taken them up as their pets. Bother, bother, and botheration! She thought, for an instant, of seeking out Lord Rochester then realized there would be no time to await an answer.