This Rake of Mine (9 page)

"That would be well and good," Miss Porter said. "
If
we were leaving."

Not leaving?
Jack felt that flare of panic rising anew in his chest, but he did his best to hold it in check. "Is there a problem with your carriage, your horses?" he asked, willing to offer them the best of his stables to see these meddlesome girls and their redheaded chaperone gone.

"Not quite," she said as she stepped aside and pointed at the main gate.

To his horror, the storm the night before had lent more damage to his life than these unwanted houseguests and the missing Dash.

The mighty oak that had stood sentinel at the gates of Thistleton Park for centuries lay across the drive.

Billingsworth had been right; the carved wall around the manor house was a unique sight, a defensive curtain from a time long past. But who would have thought that the wall designed to keep out invaders was now going to prevent the invaders in his house from making their retreat?

Miss Porter apparently shared his horror at the sight. "Lord John, your man says that this"—she pointed at the blocked gate—"is the only way out of the yard. Surely this can't be so?"

There was an edge of panic to her voice. What the devil was she panicked about? She wasn't the one with the weight of the world on her shoulders.

"This can't be," Jack muttered, sparing the ladies the curse he would have liked to use. Taking the steps two at a time, he bounded across the yard.

There was a gathering of men from the estate, as well as some of the villagers from the nearby hamlet, who'd obviously heard that the infamous oak had fallen.

They parted at his arrival.

"A sorry sight, milord," Jonas, his stable master, said. " 'T'was a fine tree."

"Yes, a fine tree and now a fine hindrance." Jack paced up and down the breadth of the gate, trying to determine how they were going to get the mammoth trunk out of the way.

And his guests and their carriage out. As quickly as possible.

He turned to Jonas and said, "Hire as many men as you need. Get axes, saws, rope, block and tackle, whatever you need to cut it up and get it out of the way."

"Oh, you mustn't do that, my lord," came a feminine protest.

He turned around and stared at the proponent of this unlikely objection—Miss Porter.

She stood behind him, her hands knotted into fists at her sides. "That tree doesn't belong to you. It isn't yours to cut up willy-nilly."

"I beg to differ," he told her. Not his tree? Why, that was ridiculous. "In case you've forgotten, Miss Porter, this is my house, my land, and
my tree
." He turned to Jonas. "Offer double wages to any man willing to help."

The lady was not so easily deterred. She caught him by the elbow and steered him closer. "Do you see that plaque?" She pointed at a small metal plate nailed to the trunk.

"Yes," he said, having never paid the medallion much heed. He assumed it had been placed there by one of his previous errant relations. Hadn't Thistleton Park always been the last bastion for the wayward and outlandish members of the all-too-proper Tremont clan? Marking a tree wouldn't be that far a stretch for one of his ramshackle forebears.

'That's the King's crest," Miss Porter was saying. "That means this tree belongs to the crown."

"The wha-a-at?" he stammered. Now she was starting to sound as dicked in the nob as Aunt Josephine. Yet, even as he drew closer to study the plaque, if only to humor the woman, he realized it was indeed the King's seal upon the tree.

What the devil did the king of England want with the Thistleton oak?

"Ships," Miss Porter told him, as if she had read his mind. "The tree was most likely consigned"—she glanced around the weed-filled garden and ill-kept grounds—"or sold to the crown for the construction of naval ships. It is a common practice, since oak, good oak of this size, is in high demand."

"She's got the right of it, milord," Bruno said, coming up alongside them. "I came across the papers some time back."

"And you didn't think to mention it?" Jack asked him.

"Didn't think it was important. It wasn't like this tree was about to go anywhere. At least not 'til last night," Bruno said. "Now that it's gone and toppled over, it is subject to the bill of sale, which says the oak can't be moved or cut until the king's man or some bloke from the navy yard approves it."

Not cut? Not moved?
Impossible
. He needed it gone. Now.

He turned from the tree and shook his head, well considering the treasonous act of chopping the damned thing up into kindling and pleading innocence if anyone ever came to claim it.

Then Jack glanced back at the sea behind them—the channel that separated England from her enemies—and knew that it was ships that guarded them well. Ships made sturdy because of the solid English oak that kept them afloat.

His tree could make the difference between England and tyranny. A lofty, impressive notion, but hardly one of comfort given the circumstances.

He had enemies of his own, right in his very camp. Though one might be hard-pressed to put a schoolteacher and three slips of girls on the same pedestal as a hostile nation, Jack knew only too well what curious, inquisitive creatures ladies could be, especially young misses. Nosing about, peering into his life, asking questions…

"Demmit," he cursed.

Miss Porter didn't look as shocked as he thought she should be. In fact, he suspected she shared his sentiment.

She wanted no more of his company than he desired her… her company, that is. Yes, that was it. Her company.

"There must be some way out of here?" she asked, an edge of panic underlining her words.

So she wanted to be gone as much as he wanted the same. That was good news indeed.

"If we cannot remove our carriage," she was saying, "then can you loan us yours?"

Bruno snorted at such a request.

"I haven't a carriage," Jack told her. "And if I did, it would be like our wagons, trapped inside the yard as well."

"Then we'll hire one," she told him. She turned to Jonas. "Perhaps there is someone in the village willing to lend their carriage…" Looking around at the poor company gathered, she amended her request. "Or a wagon we could use for a few days until we can find a more suitable conveyance."

The stableman rubbed his chin. "Not likely to find something like that, miss. Everyone is out clearing the roads. Ain't a wagon to be had between here and Hastings. What the lads from the Henry say is that the entire shire is a bloody mess. Pardon me, for saying, ma'am." He shrugged. "I don't see that anyone is going to get very far for the next few days. Trees down blocking the roads, why, even the bridge at the crossroads is washed out. Terrible storm, that."

"You could ride," Jack suggested to her. "I'll be more than happy to send along the earl's carriage once the tree is removed."

"Oh, no," the driver protested, "the earl wouldn't like that in the least. Doesn't like his carriage horses rode."

"Oh, yes," Pippin chimed in. "That would never do. Papa is quite particular about his cattle. Besides, Miss Porter doesn't ride." The girl shook her head woefully, as if this was a terrible shortcoming, but it just couldn't be helped.

"You don't ride, Miss Porter?" Jack asked.

"No, I don't," she said, straightening her shawl again. "But that won't keep us at your doorstep, let me assure you. There must be an inn nearby we could remove ourselves to, so as not to impose upon your hospitality any longer."

An inn? He had to admire her determination. "An excellent idea," he told her. "There is a small public house down in the village, the Good Henry. They have a couple of rooms that I've been told are quite—"

"My lord!" came the shocked explosion from Birdwell.

Jack cringed. That had been the only problem with having Birdwell follow him into this remote exile. The man had retained all of his proper London sensibilities. And of course felt the need to impose them at the most inopportune moments.

Birdwell drew himself up into a regal state. "You cannot mean to suggest that Miss Porter and the young ladies stay at the Henry?" He lowered his voice. "You know very well that the company there is highly improper and that those rooms are used for—"

Miss Porter glanced from the butler back to Jack, her brow arched, apparently awaiting his confirmation of this bit of news.

"Yes, yes, Birdwell," Jack said. "You are right—the Henry probably isn't the best place."

Birdwell sniffed.
Probably?
his look reproached.

"If the inn is unavailable," Miss Porter said diplomatically, "then perhaps a neighbor or the vicar can take us in?"

Her true point was that she wanted to find someplace, any place that was a respectable distance from Thistleton Park.

There was a part of Jack that admired her tenacity, but he also felt a slight prick of conscience. Certainly he'd been a mite rude, and perhaps a little overbearing, but that really didn't require quite so much haste on her part.

It wasn't like he'd made good on his reputation and tried to ravish anyone… lately. And their encounter at Miss Emery's had been but a brief lapse on his part.

Too brief, by his way of thinking, but he wasn't going to tell Miss Porter that.

Still, if she wanted to leave, he could hardly stand in her way. And she'd sprung on an excellent notion.

"Yes, yes, Miss Porter. The manse is quite roomy, and Mr. Waters is—"

"My lord!" Birdwell interjected with the same vehemence that the Good Henry suggestion had elicited.

Jack glanced over his shoulder at the man. "What is wrong now?"

"Mr. Waters?" Birdwell shook his head with a woeful wag.

"Is there a problem with the vicar?" Miss Porter asked.

"The vicar is… well, shall we say," Birdwell stammered.

"What my very observant and only-too-helpful butler is trying to say is that the vicar is a drunk. He's fine enough on Sunday mornings, but the rest of the time, well, I don't think you'd find him the best of influences."

Miss Porter shook her head. "A neighbor?"

"Miss Porter, there is no need for you to think about leaving Thistleton Park," Birdwell asserted. "Lord John is honored with your presence, despite his earlier greeting. You and your young ladies will lend the house a feminine touch that it has been sorely lacking. You must stay." Birdwell shot Jack a pointed glance,

"Stay??!" Miss Porter and Jack both protested.

"Oh, say we can, Miss Porter," Felicity pleaded.

"Oh, yes, please may we stay?" Thalia enthused like a happy chorus.

"Impossible," Miss Porter said, tugging her blue shawl around her shoulders. "We may be delayed, but we are not deterred." She turned and took a few steps over to where their driver was standing. "Mr. Stillings, I am afraid we cannot remove the earl's carriage at present. Would you please find the means to continue on to Hastings and hire a carriage and proper horses and return for us with all due haste. We are going to keep to our schedule as planned. We will not impose on his lordship's hospitality for another night."

"Yes, miss," the man said, slanting a disapproving glance at Jack. "But from what these lads have been saying, miss, I might not be back afore sundown. Possibly not until tomorrow, with the roads the way they are." He leaned forward and lowered his voice, though it carried for all to hear like a warning. "Something not proper about this place. Doesn't seem right, leaving you and the young ladies here—let alone leaving his lordship's horses and carriage unattended. The earl is right particular about his horses."

"Be assured," Jack offered, "the earl's horses and carriage will be ready and waiting for you."

Miss Porter nodded. "Mr. Stillings, I don't see that we have any other choice. Just make haste and I'll see to the girls… and the earl's horses… until you return." Then she turned to Jack. "Since Mr. Stillings is going to Hastings, I would suggest having him take your documents to the shipyard there. If I recall correctly, it is a small one, but they have had navy consignments in the past and should be able to fulfill His Majesty's contract quite ably."

Jack stared openmouthed at her, as did Bruno and Birdwell. Much to his chagrin, she took this as a form of acquiescence. So she turned to Stillings and finished giving her orders. With Jack's business.

"Ask for Mr. Norman," she told her driver. "Explain that this is an emergency of sorts. Tell him the oak is"—she turned and eyed the tree—"about thirty feet in circumference, give or take. That ought to ensure that he sends adequate workmen for the job."

Stillings nodded, as if it were perfectly normal to take such instructions from, of all people, a decorum teacher.

Jack recovered enough to ask, "And how is it that you know all this, Miss Porter?"

She shrugged. "My father was in the trade. Naval matters and such. I suppose I learned a bit of it over supper."

Over supper? She sounded more like a master shipwright.

"Lord John, do stop gaping. A woman can possess a mind. If men gave more countenance to what ladies thought, the world would be a much more prosperous place." She glanced over at the workmen and villagers lolling about and frowned. "With that in mind, I would suggest putting your men to work removing the small limbs and leaves. It will make the cutting of the trunk that much quicker when the shipwright gets here." Her hands were on her hips. "Better than having the lot of them standing about gaping like jackanapes when there is work to be done."

Jack did his best to ignore the way Birdwell was smirking. "Thank you, Miss Porter," he said. "Your suggestions are quite helpful."
Rather like plague
. "In the meantime, feel free to remain at Thistleton Park as long as necessary."
Or until I throttle you
. He tried to smile, but the words had been forced from his lips to begin with, and a real look of delight was more than even he could muster.

"I wonder then," Pippin said to a delighted Birdwell, "if breakfast has been put away yet?"

From the nearby hill, shadowed by another great oak, a tall, angular man held a looking glass to his eye. He wasn't so much interested in the Thistleton oak as he was in the party in front of the fallen tree. "Who is that with Tremont?"