Raven's Ransom (2 page)

“Ha! She could do with a smidgen of your common sense.”

“Very likely, but . . .”

“And you, young lady, could do with a bit of her vanity! Go buy
yourself
a few gowns for a change! Do I not supply you with enough pin money?”

“Oh, a quite shocking amount!”

“Well, then? Is it necessary to look like such an old maid? I warn you, the house is very soon going to be flocking with suitors. I shall expect at least a dozen to be buzzing about you.”

Primrose looked at the old man sharply.

“Grandfather, I shall assume you are not yet deranged. Your sharp wit attests to the contrary and relieves my most immediate fears. Which leaves me to surmise that you are up to something
quite
preposterous. A dozen suitors indeed! The suspicion quite
sinks
my spirits!”

For an answer, Lord Raven cackled quite uproariously, his yellowing teeth offering no comfort to the most sensible of his granddaughters.

She wiped some dust off his bedstead. “I shall not press you, sir, for I do believe you
mean
to infuriate me!”

The earl wiped his eyes with his handkerchief and though his hands trembled, his gaze was quite steady.

“My dear Primrose, you must allow me my small diversions. Beneath your calm exterior you are such a
spirited
thing. You can not, I hope, wish to deny me the pleasure of raising your ire? You are so much like your papa when your eyes flash.”

“Grandfather, you are a wicked old man!” Primrose frowned ominously but her light, laughing tone removed the sting from her words.

Lord Raven settled back on his pillows and closed an eye. He entwined his bony fingers together and contrived to look inordinately pleased with himself despite a worrying degree of breathlessness. He sat up, coughed a little hoarsely, then returned to the pillows.

“These cushions are as hard as rocks. And my hot brick is cold.”

Primrose did not stir from her seat. Bricks were heated at the coal fire and pillow feathers were always plucked from the finest of estate geese. Lord Raven was merely being quarrelsome

“Oh, get along with you! Wake me when Mr. Anchorage finally appears.”

“Very well, Grandfather. And you will drink your broth when it arrives?”

“That puky stuff? I shall pour it over the housemaid if she has the temerity to bring it up.”

Primrose suppressed a small smile and stood up, relieved. Grandfather, she was sure, would live another day yet.

 

 

The Marchioness of Rochester clipped her fan shut loudly. Her reprehensible son did not so much as
look
up from his detestable book. Some dry old verbiage about steam engines, as if horse-drawn carriages were not quite sensible enough! She was of two minds to write to Olivia Darcy at once. Her eyes twinkled for a moment. Olivia’s loathsome brats with their fluttering eyelashes and insipid little simpers would be a suitable punishment for him. The young Marquis of Rochester, like his father before him, did not suffer fools gladly,

“Do
pay attention, Gareth! If you do not make some attempt to pick yourself a bride this Season I shall have to do it for you. I thought the Darcy sisters might . . .”

“Aha!” The marchioness pounced on his book and unrepentantly lost his page. “I
knew
that would capture your attention! ”

“More likely to give me indigestion. Stop teasing, Mama. When I meet someone who is sensible, intelligent, bright, and beautiful, you shall be the first to felicitate me.”

“And how do you expect to meet such a paragon if you refuse every suitable invitation? Lady Castlereigh is much put out that you did not attend her soiree. Emily Cowper is barely speaking to me, and as for Lady Turlington . . . She has three daughters to dispatch and she was
relying
upon your handsome nature to give them a good sendoff.”

“And why was that? I believe I have never so much as clapped
eyes
on the chits.”

Lady Rochester had the grace to blush. “Well, I fancy I might have led them to believe . . .”

“Oh, Mama! Can you not stop promising my attentions to the whole world? Last Season with the ladies Delia, Eugenie, Clarissa, and Harriet was quite enough!”

“Well, their mothers were my particular friends!”

“Mother, you are too popular by far! If I were to dance with the daughters of all your particular friends I would be frequenting Lobb’s every day!”

“The bootmakers? Don’t gammon me—it would take more than a couple of quadrilles to wear a hole in your elegant hessians!”

“I shouldn’t like to put it to the test, though. The results might prove expensive.”

“Tch! As if you care a soux for expense! You would not have paid off your latest ladybird with a handsome carriage and four snow white horses if money was the smallest consideration.”

“Mama!” Lord Gareth Rochester’s tone was shocked, but his eyes twinkled with exasperated affection. “Is there
nothing
that gets past you? And how thoroughly disreputable to mention such matters!”

“Mmm the pot calling the kettle black. Gareth,
when
do you mean to settle? I quite
yearn
for grandchildren and there is the title to consider. I would turn in my grave if it ever passed to Cedric.”

Something in his mother’s tone stopped Rochester from making the flippant retort that immediately sprang to mind.

“Mama! I shall make a deal with you!”

Lady Rochester did not quite like the quizzical sparkle in her son’s eye. She knew, for a certainty, that it meant trouble was brewing. Lord Rochester, whilst charming perfection personified and the very best of sons, nevertheless had an occasional wild streak that had caused both his parents a fair bit of flutter in the past. She was thus cautious as she mildly raised her noble brows and asked for elucidation.

“I shall marry the precise maiden you select for me. No doubt she shall have
all
the credentials you require. My only specification is that she be neither cross-eyed, cross-grained, nor a shrew.”

“Gareth! You cannot mean such a nonsensical thing!”

“I most certainly do!
You
want an heir and
I
want some peacel”

“But to be so cold-blooded . . .”

“The marriage mart is cold-blooded. You are the first to admit it.”

“Yes, but . . .”

“If you have qualms, forget the whole thing and let me live in peace.”

Lady Rochester looked at the stubborn set of her son’s jaw. She sighed. So much like his father, he was! There would be no making him see reason.

“Very well. I shall present you with my choice at the end of the Season.”

Gareth grinned. “Excellent.
That
should keep you out of mischief And now, I shall bid you farewell.”

“Where are you going?’ Lady Rochester’s tone was sharp. ”You are not forgetting Almack’s tonight?”

Gareth shuddered. “Mama, I shall do everything in my power to do precisely that! Those rooms are overrated, they serve the vilest of drinks, the food is more often stale than not, their master of ceremonies is the greatest jackanapes I have ever come across, and the ladies are insipid.”

“Gareth! You shock me!”

“Very well, Mama, you shall have to be shocked.
You
go. No doubt you will have an edifying time finding me a bride. I, however, shall not.”

“Your uncle is in Bath, Gareth. He cannot escort me and I
despise
going with Jaspers. He fills me with misgiving.”

Her son’s deep sapphire eyes softened a little. “I can’t blame you, Mama. He is a surly creature. Shall I give him his notice?”

“No, for I know that he is excellent with your cattle.”

“Indeed he is. He has an unerring eye for detail.” Gareth sighed loudly. “I suppose, then, you shall have it your way. I shall take you.”

Lady Rochester smiled gently. She rang for a fresh brew of tea. Years of practice had taught her, she knew, how to tame her man.

 

 

True to his reliable self, Mr. Anchorage wasted no time in expediting Lord Raven’s wishes. If he thought them strange and rather crackpot, he had the wisdom to hold his peace, commenting only
very
mildly that the proceeding was “unusual.” For which trouble he received an acid retort from the old man, wheezing himself into fits from the comfort of his great twelfth-century four-poster bed.

“You are certain this is your wish, my lord? It would be more practicable, perhaps, to split the estate into three equal shares. Alternately . . .”

“A pox on your musings, man! Hand the paper up that I may sign!”

“You shall need witnesses, my lord.”

“Well find them, then!”

“Richmond?”

The valet stepped out from the shadows. “Ha, I
thought
the walls had ears! No doubt you find my last will and testament very edifying!”

“Certainly I do, sir.” Richmond’s answer was as smooth as silk. He did not blink at the aspersions cast upon his character. He was used to them and inclined to feel that a thousand of Lord Raven’s curses were worth a hundred of any
other
employer’s praises. Besides, he
had
been eavesdropping. He would be an extremely unnatural sort of fellow had he
not
been.

“Excellent. Then you shall stand as witness and call that other lazy good-for-nothing in to do the same.”

“Betty, sir?”

“Who else?”

The valet bowed. “Very good, sir. I believe she is sweeping out the upper chambers. I shall find her at once. And may I say, sir ...”

“Yes?”
Beady eyes snapped in his direction.

“For the purposes you have in mind, I would suggest the jewelled tricorne rather than one of your beavers. It has a sense of occasion, I feel.”

“By Jupiter, Richmond, I believe you are right. Did you hear that, Anchorage? Write it in, write it in.”

The long-suffering lawyer looked daggers at both master and servant. They were both, in his opinion, as mad as hatters. The tricorne indeed! Still, if my lord wished to play ducks and drakes with his fortune, it was not his concern. All he needed to do was write. And so he did.

“Lord Holden, Lord Witherspoon, Captain Stanley, and Sir Lancelot Danvers have all left cards. The blue receiving room is filled to the brim with flowers and I have left Mr. Harold Stanridge below stairs. He is this very moment rehearsing a piece of poetry to your glorious eyes, Miss Lily.”

“Is he? How delightful! They are not as round as Daisy’s, nor as fashionable a color, but I do believe they are worthy of a sonnet or two! I shall go down at once!”

The housekeeper pressed her hands together nervously. “I do wish Miss Daisy and Miss Primrose were home! These are strange goings-on. I am quite at my wit’s end.

“Stuff and nonsense!” Lily bounced off the chaise longue and patted down her second-best walking dress of azure lawn. “It is perfectly obvious that we have ‘taken.’ Perhaps we shall be as famous as the Gunning sisters!”

Mrs. Bartlett looked bemused. Faint rumors were circulating in the kitchens but she hadn’t the heart to depress Lily’s irrepressible spirits. Still, she would be hopelessly remiss if she permitted her to have a tête-à-tête with one of the most gazetted fortune hunters of the Season.

“I should send him away, Miss Lily. It is not fitting that he should meet with you unchaperoned. Wait for Miss Primrose to return.
She
shall know what to do!”

“But she will be an age! If she went to Hookhams she will be there forever! You
know
how long she takes to select a book! I
never
have that problem, for there is always a juicy Gothic at hand, or at the very least a second volume of something.”

This logic may have been incomprehensible to the housekeeper, but it made perfectly good sense to Lily, who never,
never
got beyond a first volume of anything.

Mrs. Bartlett stood firm. “She will not be long, for she only ordered up the curricle and the skies are darkening. She would not risk Daisy catching cold in a passing shower. Mr. Stanridge can wait. If your eyes are
indeed
like gem pools—whatever
they
may be—they will undoubtedly be worth kicking his heels for.”

Lily at once saw the sense in this, remarking that it was very romantic indeed that poor Mr. Stanridge had to suffer so. Mrs. Bartlett declined the tart rejoinder that more likely Mr. Stanridge was suffering from indigestion. The manner in which he had wolfed down her cream tarts had been reprehensible bordering on rude. Still, it was what one could expect from a fortune hunter with not a farthing to fly with. No doubt he had missed his dinner.

“What
else
was he saying?”

“About your eyes?”

“Oh, about anything! Did he mention my cheekbones? I put a dash of color on them yesterday . . .”

“Miss Lily!” The housekeeper was shocked. Nevertheless, she was kindhearted enough to mention that Mr. Stanridge had spouted at length about “crimson lips with the hallowed sheen of overripe berries,” a dubious metaphor that appeared to send Lily into transports. Mrs. Bartlett sighed as she looked at the ormolu clock on the mantel. It was fine time Miss Primrose was home.

 

 

Lord Armand Valmont glanced skyward and frowned. Undoubtedly it would rain, and whilst he did not in the least mind getting soaked to the skin, the sky was darkening and the paths he intended to cross were misting up so that he could see almost nothing of the rolling green hills and sandy paths that guided his way.

He would have to stop at the White Dragon and seek shelter, for it was useless getting lost upon the Westenbury moors. His arrival home would simply have to wait. He tugged soothingly at the reigns and coaxed his midnight stallion round. The sky was flashing ominously and he feared a sudden lightning storm. Dancer was already beginning to whinny softly, her nostrils flaring for danger.

White mists seemed to descend from nowhere, almost—but not quite-obscuring an oncoming carriage in the distance. Lord Valmont very quick-mindedly stepped onto the turf. He had had the advantage of seeing the curricle, but he was not certain, by its speed, that the reverse was true. Moments later, his misgivings were justified as the little tilbury sped out of control and lost a front wheel.

“Bother!”

The sound was as clear as a bell and, rather surprisingly for this area, feminine.

My lord was just contemplating making his presence known when a second, equally delightful—and
just
as feminine—tone was heard to reply.

“Do you think we have lost him?”

“Oh, undoubtedly! What a churlish fellow! I wonder which one of us he meant to abduct?”

“Oh, undoubtedly both! Poor man—he must have his flowers confused. He kept calling you Violet.”

“And you Daffodil!”

Something seemed to be amusing the pair, for though their little tilbury was rendered useless, the first was chuckling rather throatily and the second was giggling in a manner that Lord Valmont
should
have found irritating, but instead found singularly intriguing.

“Ahem!” He stepped out onto the road and startled the pair, who were engaged in a rather indecorous descent. Even with the mists swirling about them, Lord Valmont was able to appreciate a very pretty turned ankle coupled with a quite delectable . . . but no, this was not the time to reflect upon such matters.

“On guard, sir!” The tone was ferocious and he found himself contemplating the taller of the two, who was brandishing a parasol with an alarming metal point in his direction. He could not quite be certain, but he could swear her eyes flashed fiercely.

Suppressing a smile, he dropped his hands at once and announced that he was entirely at their mercy, for he never as a point of principle, crossed either sword or parasol with the gentler sex.

Whereupon he elicited a rather rewarding smile from his aggressor and an aggrieved “Oh!” from the more delectable of the duo.

“You would prefer it were otherwise?” He looked at her in surprise.

“Well, we were having such a tremendous adventure, sir! It seems a trifle tame that you are now to rescue us. It would be a lot more fitting if you were an accomplice or a highwayman or some such thing.”

“You may thank the Lord he is not! We may have outwitted our abductor, but
he
was mounted on such a pa thetic, mangy little nag it would be a strange thing had we not!
This
gentleman, on the contrary, is mounted on an Arab. If he wanted to pursue us, he would have no difficulty at all.”

As if on cue, the gentleman, by now quite enthralled, cleared his throat and commented that strictly speaking the beast was only
sired
by an Arab, but of course, if pursuit were a question, he should have no difficulty.

Whereupon the elder of the two glanced at him steadily, then smiled in sudden amusement.

The sister, however—for he surmised she was such—looked quite mulish. Then she effected such an
adorable
pout that the gentleman was inclined either to laugh outrageously or to lift her off her feet and kiss her thoroughly. That, of course, would have been even
more
outrageous, but my lord, with restraint, desisted in both.

Instead, he told her with a
great
show of earnestness that he was the fabled Barnacle Jack, but because she was so pretty, youthful, and intoxicatingly innocent, he was going to spare her her life.

Whereupon the young lady cast a suspicious eye upon him. Oh, they were heavenly, those eyes! As deep as cornflowers and round, so round! Round, rimmed with lashes as honeyed as the silk-soft ringlets that crept delightfully over her cheeks and caused her to brush them away with impatient white-gloved fingers.

“Barnacle Jack? You are not gammoning me?”

“I? Good heavens, no! I am the terror of these parts, though I beg you will not betray me.”

The lady blushed. She actually blushed! Valmont raised triumphant eyes to the more sensible of the sisters. She furrowed her brows reprovingly, but he was not deceived. He had caught her answering dimple in the mist light.

“May I steal a kiss before I ride off into the mists forever?”

“No!” The copper-colored miss’s head shook decisively. Unfortunately, her words were not echoed by her sister, who appeared mesmerized by the tall, infinitely handsome stranger. She stared at him with saucerlike eyes and pressed her hands up to her chest, for the dull thudding of her heart ached quite dreadfully.

Then, casting a saucy glance at the sister, who looked like a thunder cloud, Lord Valmont put his arms about the little one’s waist and kissed her far, far more gently than his inclination demanded. When her hands crept shyly up to his neck, he emitted a strangled oath, for his inclinations very much interfered with his consummate good sense.

Fortunately, he was not left in this sublime state of chivalrous indecision long, for a dull thud and a mild to moderate pain caused him to drop his arms at once.

“Primrose! How
could
you!” His sweet defender looked mortified.
He
, of course, looked merely sheepish. The wench was brandishing the parasol again. He supposed he should be grateful she’d not poked him with the sharp end.

“Daisy, you are behaving no better than Lily! I had credited you with some sense! You cannot go about the countryside kissing every stranger you see!”

“Pardon me, ma’am, if I might interject at this point?” The Honorable Lord Valmont ceased rubbing his distinguished temple and looked at the sky.

“On a point of issue, I am not a stranger, I am Barnacle Jack. On a further point, I am certain Miss—Daisy, is it?”

“Chartley—
Miss Chartley.” Primrose’s tone was repressive. The cutpurse seemed not to notice, and continued blithely with his argument. “Miss, ah, Chartley does not go about kissing every
cutpurse
she encounters upon the common road, however much she may treat strangers in general. I am right, am I not?”

He smiled engagingly at the one and challengingly at the other.

“You are absurd, sir!” Primrose’s response held the faintest trace of a smile. Lord Valmont was encouraged and turned his dark, penetrating eyes upon the delectable Daisy. She blushed, but held his gaze with such sweet simplicity that he was inclined to repeat his earlier offense. Still, he realized with a slight inward sigh, however much he may proclaim to the contrary, he was a gentleman. Gentlemen did not take advantage of sweet innocents, however tantalizing the temptation. With a steadying breath, he pointed to the sky and continued his conversational tone.

“Also, though I am, of course, loath to point it out, the rain shall be pouring in seconds. I hesitate to mention this, for a thorough drenching is no doubt highly commendable by adventurous standards. However, I am an
amazingly
obnoxious fellow, quite hell-bent on throwing a rub in the way and I
cannot
—cannot—see my way clear to allowing you to catch your deaths. Therefore I propose we walk at once to the nearest inn. It is called the White Dragon, but to all of its intimates, it is known as”—he leaned close to Daisy—“the ‘Devil’s door.’ ”

Her eyes widened as he hoped they would. Primrose’s lips twitched a little, then she settled them into stern lines once more.

“Very well, sir! You shall rescue us. We shall abandon the tilbury and walk alongside the horses, for we have no riding clothes and no sidesaddles. Do you know if the mail coach passes in this direction? I should like to pen a letter to my sister to set her mind at ease.”

His lordship smiled, glad that despite an aching forehead, there was no hard feelings to mar this unusual encounter.

“I believe so, though if you use that method you shall wait all day. The mail coach only arrives from Tollingsbrook at some time past four. Leave the matter to me. I shall see that a message arrives at your home without delay.”

Daisy sighed in bliss. No doubt the cutpurse knew of several secret shortcuts and had a
crew
of villains ready to fly like the wind. Primrose was cannier. She judged that several shining coins would soon be passing hands. If anyone was “flying” to London, it was most like to be the taproom boy.

The letters, penned in haste, arrived sometime around eleven. By this time, Lily was in a passion of impatience and had gone so far as to disobey Mrs. Bartlett in the matter of entertaining the various suitors who seemed to hang about Raven Place in droves. Sadly, she had missed the edifying spectacle of Mr. Harold Stanridge’s poetic recital, but she was more than compensated by Captain Knightley’s abundant charm and the Baron of Dawcett’s fulsome compliments. If he made the mistake, now and again, of referring to her as “Miss Primrose” or “Miss Daisy,” she did not appear to mind, but rather, flirtatiously slapped him on the wrist with her fan and corrected him. Mrs. Bartlett, finding herself in the position of chaperone, chortled a little when she realized the sensible man was now taking no chances. By the end of his requisite fifteen minutes, he was very properly referring to Lily as “Miss Chartley” a safe and blanket term that was bound to give no offense.

Lily was just curtsying to Mr. Campion when the letters arrived. Abstracted, she agreed to give him the first waltz at Almack’s that evening, though she had not yet procured the necessary permission. Mr. Campion seemed as pleased as punch, doffed his stylish beaver in Mrs. Bartlett’s direction, and was gone before the housekeeper could make any objections.

“Oh, Mrs. Bartlett,
look!
Of all the rotten luck!”

“What is it?” Mrs. Bartlett looked alarmed. She had been serving in Lord Raven’s household for thirty years or more and loved the Chartleys dearly, though they were her social superiors and quite above her mild-mannered touch.

“The letters are from Primrose and Daisy. Oh, it is dreadful, dreadful, dreadful!”

Mrs. Bartlett looked grave. “Are they ill? Have they met with an accident?”