The Toplofty Lord Thorpe (6 page)

For she did not like to see him brought so low. It was one thing to picture herself as his savior, but it was another to feel that, to triumph in her mission, she would have to keep taking two steps forward and then going back to drag him along with her for one. Yes, she had seen bouts of righteous anger light his features and stir him into some semblance of action, but these moments were still too few and far apart. He was somehow going to have to be made to take a more active part in his own defense.

“Here,” she said, drawing her mount up beside his and handing him her lace-trimmed handkerchief. “As long as you're going to turn into a watering pot on me, you might as well have something with which to wipe your tears away. Really, Julian,” she said, daringly addressing him by name, “anyone would think your backbone has turned to jelly.”

His blond head snapped erect and cold shards of gray ice glittered in his narrowed eyes. “You go too far, brat,” he hissed menacingly. “But then, what else can I expect from someone who has such a long history of impertinence?”

“What else indeed, my lord?” Lucy answered artlessly. “But at least no one could accuse me of being fainthearted, daring to bait the dangerous Lord Thorpe so openly.”

Julian looked at her for a long time, thankfully not able to see past her impish expression and into her fluttering heart, then finally shook his head. “This is a serious business, brat,” he tried to warn most se
verely, although his twitching lips betrayed him more than a little.

“It most certainly is, Julian,” Lucy agreed, winking. “But then, I find being serious such a terrible bore—don't you?”

The earl cocked his head to one side as if to consider her question. As he looked about him, noticing the wildflowers that grew along the edges of the road and hearing the birds that were singing overhead, his slight smile widened and eventually spread to crinkle the skin beside his eyes. Reaching out his hand, he lifted Lucy's gloved fingers and placed a light kiss on her bare wrist. “Far be it from me to bore a lady, Miss Gladwin.” Releasing her hand, he waved his arm, indicating the scenery. “Isn't it a beautiful morning, Lucy?” he asked, borrowing her words.

Blinking rapidly to keep her tears at bay, Lucy responded breathlessly, “Oh, yes indeed, Julian. It is a most beautiful,
beautiful
morning!”

 

T
HE SUN WAS HIGH
in the sky when the two riders, now very much in harmony with one another, crested a hill to look down into a small valley where a traveling circus and menagerie had set up its brightly colored tents.

“Oh, look, Julian!” Lucy cried, clearly delighted. “Please say we can stop there for awhile. We can have a picnic under the trees.”

Julian looked at his companion, seeing her childish excitement, and knew he could only be considered the meanest of men if he denied her this little treat.
“I guess it would be easier than having to suffer the cold shoulder from some other bumpkin innkeeper,” he temporized, turning his horse to inform his coachman of their change in plans. “Don't ride off without me, however, as one never knows what sort of low-life frequents places such as this.”

“Snob!” Lucy called after him playfully, urging her mount forward. “I'll meet you under the big trees beside the first wagon.”

By the time Thorpe had assisted Rachel to the ground, and the rest of his small party had stretched a bit to alleviate the stiffness felt after four hours of riding in the coaches, he had lost Lucy's small figure in the crush of people standing around a rather rickety-looking cage containing an ancient, moth-eaten lion.

“I told her she shouldn't go on without me,” he complained to Rachel, standing on tiptoe to try to spy out his errant charge.

“A word of advice, my lord,” Rachel said, unperturbed. “
Never
say ‘cannot' to my niece. Besides serving to encourage her to mutiny, it is, I have found, a sad waste of breath. Never mind me now, Deirdre will stand me company. Just go and find Lucy before she decides to try her hand at bareback riding or some such ridiculousness. I spied out a pieman and will content myself with feeding my face while you young ones play.”

As Rachel was only about a dozen years his senior, Julian was surprised to be dismissed as a contemporary of Lucy's, but he was not about to debate his
maturity with the woman. He hadn't needed her warnings to know that the younger Miss Gladwin, once set loose in a place such as this, was liable to get up to all sorts of mischief.

“Yes, go ahead, coz,” Dexter seconded, running his eyes appreciatively over Deidre's slender form. “I'll do the pretty here.”

“Well, I never did!” Deirdre gasped, blushing to the roots of her fiery red hair. “Away with you now, sir. It's a good girl I am, don't you know.”

“And just how good would that be, hmm?” Dex said silkily, taking the maid's arm and leading her toward the pieman's table. “Not
too
good, I hope? No—” he smiled, seeing Deirdre's saucy smile “—I didn't think so.”

That left Parker Rutherford still engaged in brushing down his drab brown suit, to partner Rachel, who stood placidly waiting for him to notice her. Her short acquaintance with the man had not left any lasting impression other than that of an offhand comment to Lucy that the man “seemed rather Methodist in his manners,” but she was willing to spend an hour in his company if it would mean Lucy could continue her interlude with Lord Thorpe undisturbed.

“Mr. Rutherford!” Rachel prompted now, holding out her arm to the secretary. “Isn't your mouth fairly watering for one of those lovely pies over there?”

Parker looked over at the pieman, seeing the flies that seemed to hang in a cloud above the man's head. “I don't believe my constitution allows such indul
gence, madam,” he said, shuddering dramatically. “But if you insist…”

Rachel smiled sweetly and slipped her hand around his elbow. “Ah, Mr. Rutherford. But I
do
insist.”

“Then that's all settled,” the earl said quickly, bowing slightly before turning on his heel and bounding off to the spot where he had last seen Lucy. “Lord Thorpe cavorting at a circus,” he muttered under his breath. “The mind boggles!”

“D
ID YOU KNOW
that one of these traveling circus lions broke loose not too long ago?” Lord Thorpe asked, whispering into Lucy's ear as he walked up behind her.

Lucy, who had somehow pushed her way to the front of the crowd that was busy either pulling faces or poking sticks at the woebegone king of the jungle, turned to him eagerly. “Really? What happened?”

Thorpe shrugged negligently. “I heard the thing ate up one of the guards on the Exeter coach. It could all be a hum, though.”

“Indeed,” Lucy agreed, eyeing the caged animal once more. “Unless, of course, the lion
gummed
the man to death. But come away with me now,” she pleaded, grinning up at him, “for that lad over there told me this circus also sports a rhinoceros and a pair of alligators. I had half-hoped for a unicorn, but they lost theirs last month—to colic, I believe the lad said.”

“Either that or a lack of ready virgins with laps for resting his head,” Julian suggested, feeling Lucy's hand slip into his and deciding that he would leave it there. “The rest of our party is sampling some meat pies. Aren't you hungry after our ride?”

Lucy wrinkled her pert little nose. “Piffle! We can
always eat later. First I want to see everything that's here. Do you think they have a rope dancer? I'm particularly fond of rope dancers.”

Happily or unhappily for Lord Thorpe's stomach, depending on just how well his aristocratic constitution reacted to greasy meat pies, there was a rope dancer. There were also a gigantic fat lady, a dancing bear, a trio of performing dogs, and several peep shows, games of chance, and an every-hour-on-the-hour performance by a daring man who walked the high wire.

Lucy wanted to see them all, and see them she did—with the earl tagging along beside her, supplying her with coins as she needed them and holding her winnings tucked under his arm. It wasn't until they came at last to the faded red-and-green striped tent at the back of the circus that he balked.

“I refuse to lay down good money for a fortune-teller,” he declared, shaking his head as Lucy held out her hand for sixpence. “Only fools believe in such nonsense.”

“Of course it's nonsense, Julian,” Lucy concurred readily. “That doesn't mean it isn't the grandest good fun. Please, Julian? Maybe the old Gypsy woman will tell me a prince is coming to carry me off to his castle. Oh, please, don't be stuffy.”

Julian was insulted. Stuffy? How could she call him stuffy? He, who was standing in the middle of a soggy field holding a belled jester on a stick and a stuffed animal that was supposed to be a dog but looked (and smelled) more like a hedgehog. Certainly
he didn't believe he deserved her censure—although he might privately think the events of the last few days had unhinged his mind just a trifle, else why would he be here at all?

“All right, you silly child,” he relented, handing her the ready. “Go along inside and cross the old crone's palm with gold. But don't say I didn't warn you.”

Once Lucy had disappeared beneath the tent flap, Lord Thorpe stood alone in the sunshine, trying not to feel ridiculous as the belled jester doll waved in the breeze from the string tied at the end of its stick. He felt as conspicuous as a harlot in a roomful of holy sisters, and was determined to call a halt to the whole proceedings the minute Lucy returned. A little bit of cutting loose had served him well, but he still did not feel comfortable enough in this new role to indulge in it for any great length of time.

Already the smell of the place, only mildly off-putting at first, was beginning to oppress him, as were the crush of sweating bodies and general air of abandon that prevailed. But at least here nobody snubbed him or questioned his power to pay. Just imagine, he could loosen his cravat, unbutton his coat, or even slouch a bit, without every eye watching and every tongue wagging. Why is it, he wondered idly, absently twirling the stick in his hand, that it is only now that I have relaxed a bit that I mind the strictures and confinements of my accepted way of life?

But he did not have time to ponder this question overlong, as Lucy fairly blasted from the tent, her
cheeks as pale as parchment. “I'm ready to leave, my lord,” she told him, grabbing his arm at the elbow and fairly dragging him away from the tent. “I believe you mentioned something about some pies?”

But Julian dug in his heels and refused to move. “Hold hard a minute, Miss Gladwin. Something's amiss here.”

“That's very astute of you, my lord,” Lucy bit back sharply, “but as I have only myself to blame, I suggest we just push on and join the others. It's just as you said—fortune-tellers are nonsense.”

Lucy may have been putting a brave face on things, but Julian could tell she was only holding back the tears with a great deal of effort. Something the fortune-teller had said had hurt her badly, and suddenly the Earl of Thorpe discovered himself to be angry—very angry indeed!

“There's Dexter lazying about over there by himself,” he said, pointing at the young exquisite, who was idly watching a dwarf balancing atop a huge ball. “Dexter! Come escort Miss Gladwin back to her aunt,” he ordered as that young man skipped over to them. “I will join you shortly.”

“But I—” Lucy began, angry with herself for allowing her distress to be so obvious.

“Do not contradict me,” the earl ordered starchily, and Dexter, who had heard that tone of voice in the past, pulled Lucy away, leaving his cousin to bend himself nearly in half in order to enter the fortune-teller's tent.

It took a moment or two for his eyes to adjust to
the dimness before he saw the pile of colorful rags that slowly reorganized itself into a small crone of a toothless Gypsy. “What did you say to that young woman who was just in here?” he demanded without preamble.

The Gypsy ran her gaze from Thorpe's head to his toes and then hastily made the sign against the evil eye. “It's
you!
” she accused in her gravelly voice. “The blond god of eternal slumber.”

A pained expression crossed his lordship's handsome face. “That's me, all right, old woman. So tell me what you told the young lady or be prepared to suffer the consequences.” Julian could have been more tactful, but he had always found the direct approach to be the easiest in the long run.

The old crone had a belated attack of scruples. “It's the young lady's fortune. It be her secret.” But then, weighing her ethics against the gold guinea piece the “blond god” had produced, she changed her tune. “I saw you in my crystal ball. Then I saw the young miss asleep—
dead
asleep.”

“And from that you deduced…” the earl said, feeling much like a Drury Lane prompter.

The Gypsy shrugged inside her rags. “You're going to be the death of that young lady, and so I told her.”

“You stupid old bitch!” Thorpe exploded, turning to follow after Lucy and shake some sense into the impressionable chit.

“I could read your palm, m'lord,” the Gypsy
called after him. “Everyone wants to know his future.”

“Not me, you meddling besom. I'm having more than enough trouble with my
present,
” he snorted, pushing his way out into the warm sunshine, which did little to ease the chill that had enveloped him while inside the damp tent.

 

L
UCY FELT SIMPLY WRETCHED
. How could she have been so silly as to allow the Gypsy's ridiculous prophecy to upset her so? And even worse, how could she have been so transparent as to allow Lord Thorpe to see her agitation?

Of course she didn't
believe
what the Gypsy had said—only a complete ninnyhammer would swallow such drivel whole. It was just that she had described Lord Thorpe so accurately—right down to his arrogance. Why hadn't she immediately realized that the woman must have seen him as they approached the tent?

But, a niggling little voice taunted, why had the woman chosen such a terrible fortune for her? Gypsies were supposed to say that romance was about to come into the persons's life—not foretell of disaster. Lucy couldn't decide which was worse—being told she was to die, or hearing that her beloved was to be the instrument of her death.

“Want to go back to the coach now, Lucy?” Dexter asked, breaking into her thoughts and making her realize that she had been standing lost in thought, totally ignoring her companion. “I should certainly like
to conk out a little while before we arrive at Hillcrest. Didn't sleep a wink last night in that dratted inn. The sheets were damp, you know.”

“Deirdre always packs our own linen when we travel,” Lucy supplied, lacking anything brighter to say. “Very thorough is our Deirdre. I can't imagine what we'd do without her.”

“I know what I'd like to do
with
her,” Dexter murmured under his breath, looking across to where Rachel Gladwin and her maid were reclining at their ease upon a blanket spread beneath a handy shade tree. Lucy, lost in her own thoughts, did not hear him, which may have been a good thing for Dexter, who was known far and wide for his indiscriminate amorous advances.

Lord Thorpe, too far away to hear his cousin's words, but certainly close enough to see the leer on Dexter's face, immediately jumped to the conclusion that the younger Rutherford was taking dead aim at Lucy as his next flirt. Tumbling smack on top of this thought was the stunning realization that this possibility did not suit him even a little bit.

Wasn't it bad enough that the girl had embroiled herself in his affairs—opening herself up to the scandal of being associated with such a social outcast as himself—and then been frightened out of her wits by some charlatan fortune-teller who warned that the man she had championed was about to murder her? Adding an amorous cousin set on seduction was piling entirely too much on the child's plate.

There wasn't much he could do about either the
fortune-teller or Dexter now, he decided as he joined the two of them and urged them to begin thinking about reentering the coaches for the longish last leg of their journey. But Lucy, who knew she still needed a little time by herself before facing her aunt—who was so tiresomely astute when it came to ferreting out anything Lucy didn't wish to tell her—said that she was curious to see what had caused such a crowd to be gathered in front of a nearby wagon.

Taking off before anyone could gainsay her, Lucy led the way over to the wagon, the two gentlemen lagging behind, sour expressions on their faces. As Dexter was bemoaning the fact that he must linger in this boring spot and Julian was damping down an urge to give the young Romeo a poke in the chops to warn him off his latest prey, it took some time before either of them realized that Lucy was engaged in a deep conversation with a wizened old organ grinder whose monkey had decided to hide himself amid the folds of her riding dress.

Lucy seemed to be listening intently to what the old man had to say, nodding excitedly a time or two, and then looking most sympathetic when the man seemed to be about to burst into tears.

“Come over here,” she called to the two gentlemen once the old Gypsy had finished his tale of woe. “It's just the most exciting thing,” she declared, smiling at Julian almost as if she hadn't taken a severe shock to her system not ten minutes earlier. “Oh, not that it isn't a sad thing—which to all events it is, for
poor Mr. Romano here—but it is exciting nevertheless, for me.”

“Perhaps if you could begin at the beginning, Lucille,” Lord Thorpe prodded, trying hard not to concentrate on the delightful picture Lucy made when she was enthusiastic about something.

“Oh, of course,” she agreed, smiling apologetically. “This is Mr. Romano,” she said, indicating the old man, who doffed his cap and bobbed up and down several times. “And this,” she continued, pulling on the lead that led to the small brown monkey's red leather collar so that the animal could better be admired by his audience, “
this
is Bartholomew!”

“I make you my compliments,” Lord Thorpe intoned solemnly, exaggeratingly bowing to each of them in turn.

“Yecch!”
Dexter added, never caring very much for such creatures. His opinion of old Gypsy men who smelled curiously like pressed garlic was not much higher.

But Lucy was not to be sidetracked by either his lordship's sarcasm or his cousin's expression of distaste. “Mr. Romano has just told me the most terrible story. It seems he is quite too ill to continue working and must find a new home for Bartholomew.”

“There being a war on, they cannot retire together to the south of France,” Dex whispered to his cousin
sotto voce,
getting himself somewhat back in Julian's good books.

“How much money do you want this time?” Thorpe asked, not very severely. After all, it would
be a small price to pay if it served to take Lucy's mind off the fortune-teller's words.

“Oh no, Julian, that's not it at all,” she corrected, leaning down to chuck the little monkey under his hairy chin. “I said that Mr. Romano cannot keep Bartholomew anymore. I had thought to offer him some money, but it wouldn't really do the thing properly at all. It's a new home that the poor animal needs. Mr. Romano says he's never seen Bartholomew take to anyone the way he has to me. He wishes to make me a gift of him. Isn't that above anything marvelous?” she ended, smiling up at Thorpe, her big blue eyes bright with excitement.

“Absolutely not!” Dexter decreed emphatically before his cousin had a chance to open his mouth. “The damned thing probably has fleas.”

At Dexter's words, Mr. Romano's lined, weathered face crumpled itself up like a piece of knotted wood and a huge tear squeezed out of the corner of one eye. “Oh, look what you have done, you horrid boy!” Lucy exclaimed, pointing a finger at the old Gypsy. “That is just too bad of you Julian,” she pleaded, rounding on Lord Thorpe, “surely you cannot be so hardhearted? Just think of the pitiable fate of this poor creature if we do not agree to help.”