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Authors: Joan Smith

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BOOK: Winter Wedding
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Nel threw off her pelisse and assumed a Stoic attitude. “In that case, I’ll go hungry.” She walked to the door and held it wide for Allingcote to leave.

“That’ll teach me,” he said, chucking her chin, and with an apologetic shrug back at Clara, he left. Nel tried a little more wheedling on Clara, whom she judged to be made of softer stuff. Taking her cue from Allingcote, Clara was adamant and the subject was finally dropped.

Nel next tried her hand at turning Clara into an abigail, and again she was thwarted. Clara limited her services to unfastening the back of the girl’s gown. Even when Nel kicked her good blue silk into a heap on the floor and left it there, Clara quelled the urge to pick it up. She suggested Nel do it, but did not insist.

“If you wish to look as though you had slept in it, there was no point in taking it off” is all she said.

“I am not accustomed to doing servants’ work” was the lofty rejoinder.

“No more am I,” Clara retorted, and went through the curtain before she gave in to the impulse to pick the beautiful gown up. She had noticed that Nel’s lingerie was of the finest, too, all embroidered in silk. It seemed woefully unfair that one lady should have so much, especially when she was so unappreciative.

She peeked once through the curtain at the gown on the floor. Such a beautiful gown! But she would not knuckle under to Nel Muldoon.

Clara was soon in bed with her candle extinguished. Her own gold taffeta hung carefully on a hanger. She was tired, but in a strange room, sleep did not come easily. She had ample time to wonder why Miss Muldoon, a troublesome heiress, traveled without an abigail, and why she was so determined to get downstairs. Escape could not have been her aim. She did not mind if Allingcote went with her. Nor was hunger the reason. She refused food in her room. Was it only one last chance to find someone to flirt with, to make Ben jealous? But he hadn’t seemed so very jealous.

She listened for sounds of escape in the adjoining room, but heard only silence. A little later, she heard the long breaths of sleep. Doubting that Nel was clever enough to simulate sleep so well, she relaxed. Before she slept herself, she indulged in a long recall of that interesting day. Allingcote’s coming and seeming so happy to see her again. His sharp recollection of their former meeting in all its details, his renewed attentions, and Maggie’s strange expression when she asked if it had been at Bellingham’s that she met Ben. Obviously Ben had spoken of that party at home. Finally she thought how remarkably strange it was that she should be sleeping in the same inn as he, with only Nel Muldoon between them. On this symbolic thought, she slept.

 

Chapter Eight

 

When Clara opened her eyes to an unfamiliar set of walls and draperies in the morning, she was momentarily confused. No sense of panic accompanied her confusion. She merely had to lie still a moment and think: where am I staying this week? This was not her room at Branelea—ah yes, the wedding, Allingcote, the inn—Miss Muldoon!

Clara leapt from bed and ducked through the curtained arch to ascertain that Miss Muldoon still slept, as indeed she did.

If only the chit could remain a Sleeping Beauty! In repose, she looked young and vulnerable, with her tousled curls spread over the pillow, and her rosebud lips partly open. She slept deeply, and as a glance at her watch told Clara it was only seven o’clock, she decided she, too, would return to bed for an hour. She didn’t expect to sleep, but to lie and anticipate that in an hour or so, she would be having breakfast with Allingcote.

Before she had mentally had more than a bite of toast, for food figured very sparingly in this imaginary breakfast, she was back to sleep. And before much longer, Miss Muldoon’s blue eyes fluttered open. She lay still a moment listening. When she heard only silence beyond the curtain, she sat up, swung her legs out of bed, snatched her crumpled gown from the floor, and scrambled into it. Unable to fasten the back buttons, she threw a shawl over her shoulders and went tiptoeing down the stairs, peering about to left and right like a spy.

“Good morning, Lady Arabella,” a cheerful voice called from an open doorway, and Lord Allingcote stood quizzing her. “I trust you slept well? Forgot to bring your hairbrush, did you? Never mind, Miss Christopher will be kind enough to lend you hers.”

Nel assumed a dramatic pose and declaimed, “I hate you with all my heart, Benjamin Davenport!”

A passing servant girl stopped to goggle at such interesting goings-on at an inn whose liveliest customer was usually a drunken traveler. “Breakfast for two, miss, if you please,” Allingcote told the servant, and ushered Nel into a private parlor.

“At least let us hide your shameful dishevelment in here if you don’t mean to tidy up,” he said.

When they were alone, her melodramatic manner vanished, and she took a chair, accepted coffee that he poured from the pot on the table, and sipped it calmly.

“He hasn’t arrived yet,” Allingcote said. “You missed your beauty sleep to no avail. Did you sleep in that gown, by the by? He won’t like to see you looking so slovenly.”

“He will be
aux anges t
o see me looking any way at all,” she replied smugly.

In a short while food was brought by the highly interested serving girl. Hard at her heels came Miss Christopher, in the wildest disarray that she had ever appeared in in public. Her usually neat coil of hair had slipped from its hastily arranged roll, and a curl fell over her ear. Like Nel, her gown’s undone buttons were covered by her shawl. She came pelting into the parlor, and upon seeing Allingcote, she cried, “She’s gone, Ben! I have let her escape. Whatever are we to do?” In her state of agitation, she didn’t notice she had called Allingcote, Ben.

The servant dropped a plate of hot buns on to the table in excitement. One fell unobserved into Allingcote’s cup. As the words left Clara’s mouth, she spotted Nel sitting at the other end of the table, beyond her view from the doorway. Clara stopped dead.

“Good morning, Miss Christopher,” Allingcote said, rising and bowing. “Make that breakfast for three, miss,” he added aside to the servant. “And a fresh cup of coffee for me, if you will be so kind. My bread seems to have drunk mine,” he said, peering into his cup. The servant just stood, her curious gaze running from one of the group to the other.

“You must not fear that your kitten has run off, Miss Christopher,” he said to Clara. “You really should have closed the lid of its basket, but no matter. We shall have a look about the roads as soon as we’ve eaten.” He walked toward Clara and held her chair for her, just sliding his eyes in an admonishing way toward the staring servant, to explain this seemingly irrelevant talk of kittens.

“Ye didn’t bring no kitten with yez,” the servant said.

Nel was charmed with this chance for a little play-acting, and joined in, her eyes sparkling with pleasure. “Hush!” she said, looking over her shoulder with awful caution. “It is a very special kitten. It was necessary to conceal it. The French are after it, you see.”

“What would they Frenchies be wanting a cat for?”

“It’s Queen Charlotte’s cat, and they want to hold it for ransom,” the inventive Nel explained.

From her smiles, Allingcote knew she was about to begin a long story. “But not a word of it belowstairs, mind!” he said to the servant who continued regarding them all with the deepest mistrust. “May we have our coffee now, please?” he said, to be rid of her.

She poured the coffee and left, looking over her shoulder as if she expected to receive a knife in the back.

“What fun!” Nel chirped when they were alone. “When she comes back, I shall tell her there is a hundred-guineas reward for the recovery of the kitten. She will have every soul in the place out scouring the roads.”

“What a pleasant idea, with the balmy December breezes blowing,” Clara said, lifting an eyebrow at Miss Muldoon. Noticing Nel’s state of undress, for her gown was beginning to slip from her shoulder, she added, “You look a fright, Miss Muldoon. You should have tidied up before coming downstairs.”

“So should you,” Nel replied triumphantly.

Clara’s hand flew to her hair. She brushed back the loose curl with one hand, clutching her shawl with the other, while her eyes flew to Allingcote. He was regarding her with amusement.

“Now you have placed me in an untenable position, Nel,” he said. “I can hardly praise Miss Christopher’s charming dishabille when I have just been giving you the devil for yours. Might I suggest you both take a moment to tidy up? There is a mirror and a washbasin behind that curtain. You go first, Nel. Do you have a comb?”

“No.”

“I have one in my reticule,” Clara offered, but she had some difficulty extracting it while still trying to hold herself together, so she handed Nel the bag.

Nel, less bashful, pulled off her shawl and demanded Miss Christopher do up her back buttons before she leave. Such a hand-demanding chore as this was beyond Clara, however, and it was Allingcote who struggled with a dozen pea-sized buttons much too small for his fingers.

“My reputation wouldn’t be worth a Birmingham farthing if anyone were to see me at this moment,” he declared ruefully. “Two half-dressed ladies in a private parlor with me at eight o’clock in the morning. I shall think twice before jumping to conclusions another time.”

“I daresay you’d be happy enough to be considered so dashing,” Nel said pertly, and ducked behind the curtain.

“You neglect to mention the ladies’ reputations would suffer even more,” Clara pointed out. She attempted an air of dignity, but her cheeks were flushed with embarrassment.

“There is a tried-and-true way to redeem a lady’s reputation, Miss Christopher,” he said, laughter lurking in his eyes, and a smile that he tried to conceal hovering about his lips.

“I know of no simple way for one gentleman to redeem two ladies’ reputations simultaneously.”

“We could always adopt her,” he said, leaning closer and speaking in a low voice. He made no effort now to conceal his smile.

“I would as lief adopt a panther! And that servant knows perfectly well there is something amiss here, too. Did you see the way she stared?”

“I daresay most ladies dress before coming down to breakfast.”

Clara clutched at her slipping gown.

“You’ll choke yourself, Clara, if you pull that any tighter about your neck.” She gave him a conscious, startled look, at hearing him address her so familiarly. Allingcote didn’t explain or apologize his use of her first name, but continued speaking calmly.

“I promise you I haven’t seen a thing, despite the most strenuous looking. No, I was joking! Do relax. You are not your usual calm self this morning. I intercepted her at the bottom of the stairs. She hasn’t had time to do anything. I assume, by the way, that you managed to get a few winks of sleep? I am happy for it.”

“I was awake at seven. She was sound asleep. I didn’t mean to doze off again...”

“Don’t apologize. I am responsible for Nel.”

“But why did she do it? Is she trying to run away?”

“No, not yet.”

Before more could be said, Nel was back. “How did you think to bring your reticule in all your rush?” she asked Clara.

“I have my money in it. I couldn’t leave it behind.”

“You only have a guinea and a few shillings.”

“Seven, unless you’ve helped yourself to a couple,” Allingcote said. “Nice of you to check and see they were safe, Nel,” he said with a sardonic smile. “Better count them,” he added aside to Clara, who steeled herself not to do just that.

Nel sat down, unoffended, and sipped her coffee. Clara rose and went behind the curtain to view what a disgraceful sight she had presented to Lord Allingcote. She was ready to strangle Nel Muldoon—and to think that bold creature had gone rifling through her reticule, counting her money.

She got her buttons done up with no great difficulty and wore a face worthy of a Methodist spinster when she returned to the table. She was determined to bring some semblance of decorum to this meal that had begun so badly.

“Now that looks more like my Miss Christopher,” Ben said, regarding her. Clara foresaw considerable difficulty in her task, if this was the way he meant to carry on.

“Why do you call her
your
Miss Christopher?” Nel demanded at once. “You hardly know her.”

“We are old friends,” he replied.

“Miss Christopher told me you are hardly even acquaintances,” Nel said, with a suspicious glance at Clara.

“Ah, well one never contradicts a lady, but for the merest of acquaintances, we are fast becoming good friends. Sharing a mutual problem—you, Nel—will often have that effect.”

“You still should not call her your Miss Christopher, Benjie. It sounds so very odd, as though you are sweet on her or something,” Nel persisted, seeing that she was upsetting Clara.

“I stand corrected,” Ben said, with a bow of the head toward Miss Muldoon. “We are fortunate to have such a pillar of propriety to instruct us, Miss Christopher, are we not?”

“I am very sharp about some things,” Nel rattled on. “Especially about romance. You should not be making up to Miss Christopher. Quite apart from the fact that you might inadvertently raise expectations in someone like her, you are supposed to be escorting
me.”

Clara sat, speechless, but Ben, after one angry glare, decided to ignore it. “Escorting you is certainly a full-time job,” he said through thin lips. The servant appeared with their food, and he added, “Might I suggest you limit your sharp wits to eating your breakfast as quickly as possible.”

Nel entered into a monologue on the ransom of the imaginary lost kitten till the servant left. Then she turned her attention to her food and the meal passed without further unpleasantness.

Clara was to return to Branelea immediately after breakfast. She risked letting Nel go abovestairs alone to her room while she gently hinted that Lady Lucker hoped Allingcote would keep Nel busy, preferably away from the house. She was surprised to see that he was actually angry at her hint. He tried to hide it, but the fact was he was hurt and angry that Miss Muldoon should be treated like the interfering, bad-natured, uninvited guest she was.

BOOK: Winter Wedding
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