Sattler, Veronica (53 page)

Realizing
Megan had deliberately included a detailed description of where she was to go,
just to show him she recalled everything they'd rehearsed, Patrick grinned.
"No, love, I'd never think
you
a child." He gave her trousers
an arch look. "Not even in those, do you appear anything but a full-grown
woman."

Megan
flushed, then glanced at the seat opposite Patrick where Suzanne Gautier sat
wearing one of Megan's carriage dresses. "'Twas never meant t' fool
anyone," she muttered, "merely t' make it easier fer me t' climb that
tree and throw Ashleigh the— Patrick! Where's the rope?"

"I
believe ze peeg 'as eet," whispered Suzanne while gesturing at the pink
wiggling mass on the floor beside Megan.

Megan
clamped an arm over Lady Dimples, who was pushing her snout above the seat
where Suzanne sat and appeared to be of a mind to join the well-dressed
redhead.

"Megan,
for God's sake, keep that pig out of sight!" Patrick muttered.

"I'm
tryin', Patrick, but she's atop the rope, ye see, and I've got t' get it—out!
Ah, here we be!" she exclaimed, holding aloft the piece of ship's rigging
they'd brought along as a rescue ladder.

"I
see," said Patrick, trying his best to keep his voice down, "but the
damned pig—"

"'Tis
churlish o' ye t' be swearin', Patrick St. Clare," Megan sniffed,
"and besides—" Suddenly her attention veered to Lady Dimples, who,
grown to a goodly size by now, had managed to wriggle her way out of the
Irishwoman's grasp, thrust her bulk onto her lap and, from there, plop both
forelegs on the seat beside Suzanne.

All
at once the floor of the carriage became a tangled mass of arms, legs, rope and
squirming pig.

"Lady
Dimples, no!" Megan hissed. Then, "
Dammit, Finn!
Can't ye keep
yer porker in line?" She glared at the wolfhound who was stuffed into the
floor space on the other side of her, looking miserable about the whole
business.

"Tsk,
tsk, Megan O'Brien," muttered Patrick, "it must be that seaman's
outfit leadin' ye on t' such
churlish
behavior!"

It
was his turn to be the recipient of Megan's glare, but in the next instant he
dropped his mimicking accent, saying, "Oh, no! She's sitting on the
seat!"

And
Lady Dimples was, indeed, sitting on the carriage seat, with one of her
forelegs braced against the squabs, doing her best to peer out the window like
any fellow traveler.

"Pig,
I'm warning you, get down there where you belong, or we'll be having pork
dinner tomorrow!" Patrick threatened in as hushed a voice as he could
assume, given the urgency of the situation, not to mention the state of his
temper.

"Patrick!"
said Megan in an outraged whisper, even as she tried to dislocate the adamant, nonbudging
pig.

But
it was Suzanne who saved the moment from becoming the abortive catastrophe
Patrick was beginning to envision. Reaching into the portmanteau full of
clothes they'd brought for Ashleigh—for Higgins had been forced to explain,
abashedly, the state of affairs, with regard to dress, that kept the duke
satisfied his duchess would not attempt an escape— Suzanne produced a
fashionable bonnet with large blue feathers adorning it and proceeded to tie it
about Lady Dimple's human-size head.

"Voilà!"
exclaimed Suzanne. "Now she may seet by ze weendow!"

At
this, Lady Dimples immediately calmed down. In fact, she almost preened under
the shadow of the gently waving ostrich feathers.

Patrick
took one look at the animal and burst into semi-subdued guffaws of laughter.
Megan looked from him to the pig and did the same, and it was only Abner
Thornton's puzzled voice outside Patrick's window that brought them back to the
seriousness of the situation at hand.

"Begging
your pardon, sir, but are we going through with this or not?" the first
mate asked.

Instantly
sobered, Patrick nodded. "We are, Thornton. To your post." He gave
each of the women a pointed look, bestowed a final, admonishing glance on the
seated pig, and then opened the door on his side. "This is it, then,"
he whispered, "and may we be in Heaven an hour before the divil knows
we're dead!"

Inside
the town house's drawing room, Lady Margaret was pouring Lady Bunbury her third
cup of tea.

"Thank
you, my dear," said Lady Bunbury, "and I'll have another of those
scrumptious tea cakes, too, if you don't mind."

Margaret
watched her guest reach for the last of the dozen or so rich little cakes that
had filled the silver tea platter only an hour before, suppressing a shudder of
disgust at the greedy appetite of the corpulent woman who sat beside her on the
settee. Looking down at her own half-tasted tea cake, she realized Lady Bunbury
had consumed nearly the entire batch and wondered at her own fortitude in
enduring this gluttonous old gossip's visit. If it weren't necessary to make
use of the creature's dependably loose tongue to ensure the proper cast to the
inevitable gossip that would attend the divorce, she would never have
considered inviting the woman.

"Mmm,"
murmured Lady Bunbury around a mouthful of the confection, "delicious...
absolutely delicious. My compliments to your pastry chef, Lady Margaret."

Again,
Margaret stifled a grimace, recalling the scene in which her nearly
insubordinate abigail had wailed incorrigibly at being forced into kitchen duty
to bake the cakes, owing to the absence of the duke's staff. Ah, well, a few
more well-calculated tidbits in the old creature's ear and it would all be
worth it.

"Yes,
my dear," said Margaret, "it is fortunate that His Grace was able to
find the man and reengage him after this new bride of his let him go. And the
pastry chef wasn't the only member of the staff the poor, uneducated girl
dismissed. Why, she had it in her head to replace them all—servants who'd been
in our family's service for years—just to demonstrate the power of her own
newly acquired position!" Margaret shook her head in sympathy. "Poor
Brett... I mean, I realize he was acting nobly in honoring that twenty-year-old
betrothal contract the brother located, but, my dear! The circumstances had
changed since her parents and my dear brother agreed to the alliance when the
girl was born!"

"Yes,"
murmured Lady Bunbury sympathetically, "I'd heard. Orphaned, they say, and
raised in some sort of institution... hardly the proper place for the training
of a future duchess! Tsk, tsk," she added, shaking her head, "and do
you mean to say His Grace took her to wife, knowing how ill fit she was?"

"Precisely,"
Margaret nodded, "and now feels duty bound to put up with the results,
regardless of the consequences. I've tried to reason with him, of
course—especially in light of the latest development..." She allowed her
voice to trail off suggestively.

"The
latest
development?"
questioned Lady Bunbury, setting down her
teacup with an avid look.

"Well..."
mused Margaret, "I'm really not certain I should be repeating this, but...
dear Lady Bunbury, if you promise not to—"

"Oh,
not a
word,
my dear! I shan't breathe a syllable!" Lady Bunbury
exclaimed as she leaned forward eagerly.

"Well,"
said her hostess, lowering her voice to a whisper, "the worst news of all,
and I have it straight from an old, devoted servant, the chambermaid who tended
to their marriage chamber. It seems Brett's new duchess was not a..."
Margaret's hushed whisper imported the damning tidbit into the old lady's ear,
causing her guest to recoil with a predictable show of shock.

"No!"
exclaimed the matron in a loud whisper. "And your poor grandnephew had no
idea?"

"None,"
murmured Margaret, shaking her head with distress.

"Oh,
my dear," muttered her guest, "how terrible for him! But now what can
he do?"

Margaret
eyed her assessingly, trying to gauge the precise manner in which the reply
must be uttered, then proceeded to speak in careful tones. "I'm afraid
it's an ugly situation, my dear Lady Bunbury, but I think, after a while, His
Grace will come to see there is no help for it.
Divorce
is so
distasteful
a subject, I know you'll agree, but as I have already told him, what else
can he do? It's beginning to look as if the girl is, ah, breeding, and, of
course, the child cannot be his... and the dukedom must be protected at all
costs, mustn't it?"

Lady
Bunbury's ears fairly twitched with this latest news. Oh, it was all too
delectable! She glanced at the mahogany tall clock that stood in an alcove
across the room. Slightly past five—too late for another afternoon visit—but if
she hurried, she'd be able to rest and still change in time for dinner at Lord
and Lady Mowbry's. Thank heaven they had returned from Brighton and had the
grace to be entertaining, even in this heat! August was such a difficult time
to be full up with news to tell! There was hardly anyone about worth telling it
to!

"Well,
my dear," said Lady Bunbury as she reached for her reticule, "I am
ever so distressed at your family's unfortunate situation. You have my complete
sympathy, I can assure you. But I really must be on my way, I'm afraid. I had
no idea it was so—"

A
soft knock at the door cut her short.

"Yes?"
called Margaret.

The
drawing room's doors parted, and Higgins stepped between them. "Another
caller, your ladyship... Sir Patrick St. Clare."

A
brief, perplexed frown crossed Margaret's brow before she responded.
"Thank you, Higgins. Lady Bunbury was just leaving. Show her out before
you show Sir Patrick in, please." She bestowed a meaningful look upon
Brett's manservant. It would never serve for the chit's brother to be allowed
to exchange words with Bunbury, and having caught the look of interest on the
old gossip's fat face at the mention of who the caller was, Margaret was taking
no chances that she would change her mind and decide to prolong her visit.

"Yes,
your ladyship," murmured Higgins; he deftly propelled the departing guest
into the entry foyer and past the huge man who stood studying a priceless
Renaissance sculpture on the calling-card table nearby, nodding briefly to
Patrick only after he'd ushered Lady Bunbury to the outer door.

Having
been informed of the manservant's impressment into majordomo duty owing to the
sad state of affairs where the duke's servants were concerned, Lady Bunbury did
her best to accept graciously Higgins's unseemly hurry to rush her past the new
caller, especially as it related to the gossip she'd just gleaned, suppressing
her regret that she wasn't being allowed to exchange a few words with the unfortunate
duke's new brother-in-law. Instead, she contented herself with a thorough
inspection of the large carriage that stood directly behind hers, viewing, with
a gossip's eye for details, the profile of the beautiful redhead at its window.

Then,
just as Higgins was propelling her in the direction of her own vehicle, Lady
Bunbury was treated to a most curious sight. As the redhead's profile withdrew
into the recesses of the closed carriage, another bonneted head came into view.
It had a face that looked for all the world like a—

"Good
Heavens!"
exclaimed
Lady Bunbury. She turned to Higgins. "My good fellow, what—I mean, who—?
That is, do you see...?" The words came out in a sputter.

Higgins
glanced in the direction of Lady Bunbury's line of vision, and nearly
collapsed. It was that
pig,
with a lady's bonnet on her head, no less!

"Ahem,
ah, yes, your ladyship," he murmured, deftly steering the ogling matron
away from the larger carriage. "Right this way, your ladyship. Your
carriage awaits."

Craning
her neck over her shoulder, she could still glimpse the porcine face gazing
serenely at her from beneath a profusion of waving blue ostrich feathers. Lady
Bunbury continued to sputter. "B-but, my good man, that woman looks
exactly
like a—"

"Shh!"
murmured Higgins, raising a finger to his lips. Then, in lowered tones, "I
beg your pardon, your ladyship, but it's such a delicate situation, you
see."

"Delicate?"
Lady Bunbury lowered her tone to match Higgins's, but her eyebrows were arched
almost to her hairline, the look of astonishment on her face absolute.

"Yes,"
murmured Higgins with a sad shake of the head. "You see," he
continued as he engineered the path of the large matron toward her own vehicle,
"Ah, that's Sir Patrick's carriage, and the young lady inside—the one with
the red hair, that is—is his fiancée."

Lady
Bunbury shook her head, disbelief still etched on her features. "Not that
one! I meant—"

"Indeed,
your ladyship," Higgins nodded patiently, "I was just coming to, ah,
that
one."

Lingering
shock warred with impatience on Lady Bunbury's rounded features. "Yes...?
Well, my good man, speak up,
speak up!"

Having
finally stalled for enough time to concoct his story— and with a last,
assessing glance at the matron's well-fed figure—Higgins plunged ahead.
"As I was saying, Lady Bunbury, Sir Patrick is engaged to wed that
other
younger lady in the carriage, but, into the bargain, the poor man's had to
accept the, ah, companionship of the lady's... mother."