A Scandalous Connection, page 14
Slowly, she handed him the coat that had proved so warm, so comforting, so masculine, even. The horse blanket seemed a poor swap, but she was comforted by the knowledge that Thomas would be a little warmer. And he would be covered. She blushed at her missish reaction to his near nakedness. He probably thought it was nothing to flaunt himself in front of young females. He shrugged himself into the coat in a single second’s movement that would have astonished any self-respecting valet, and moved to the door.
“There is wood enough for hours yet, my lady. If I don’t see you again before your betrothal, I wish you adieu.”
“Won’t you be staying? I am sure Demian would wish it.”
“Would he?” The lips twisted a little. “Well, I won’t. And I think I have already exceeded myself in pleasing my lord Demian. You are meek and untouched. Both miracles.”
He left before she could hurl the pail at him.
It was several moments before Raquel’s gaze left the open door. He did not look back, though she willed him to. Feeling flat and defeated, Raquel shut the door and settled to await the carriage Demian would probably send down. It would not be a team of six, she knew, but one or two horses could probably brave the distance. She wondered how she would feel when she saw her betrothed again. Certainly, they would make a handsome couple, for he was dark where she was fair, and though she could not quite recall his classical features, she knew them to be tolerably handsome, though not devastatingly so, like Thomas’s.
Oh! She must not think of him as Thomas, it was not proper. Mr. Endicott. Mr. Endicott, she repeated firmly to herself, then again and again, until the name buzzed annoyingly in her head and she had to sweep the cottage of every cobweb vigorously with an old broom before she could think of anything else. What she thought of then was that while the cobwebs were gone—along with a dark, long-legged spider that had caused her to gasp—the dust was not. She coughed a little and opened the door cautiously. The sun was just setting, lemon-pink against the blue-white shadows creeping up with dusk. Though the flakes were not falling nearly so wildly as she had feared, the snow was thick around her. Thomas’s tracks were almost frozen into the landscape, but they were disappearing fast. Raquel had never felt so forlorn. She stepped outside and bent to trace her finger over one. Foolish girl, for all she achieved were wet gloves.
There was nothing for it but to return indoors and wait.
Mr. Endicott’s progress was neither swift nor easy. Many times he had to stop himself from breaking into a run, for that would be foolhardy beyond permission. If he were to break a leg, it would not just be he who waited for help in the wintry shadows, but Raquel, too. No one would think to look for her in Carlew’s sentry cottage. Indeed, he was perfectly certain Demian would be astonished to learn he had undertaken the trip at all. In this weather, he would have been forgiven for bowing out of their previous arrangement.
Not that there had been much of a previous arrangement—just him acting more the coxcomb than usual. Thomas grimaced. He had blithely undertaken to teach Lady Raquel Fortesque-Benton a few manners. He had not anticipated wanting to run Demian through with his sword merely because His Grace had the dubious felicity of being her betrothed. He had not expected his heart to hammer like a schoolboy when her soft, infinitely feminine scent assaulted his nostrils and made a mockery of his breathing. No, indeed, he had not bargained for any of these things. Lady Raquel was sharp-tongued, but she was also witty and vulnerable. Anyone thinking her aloof and cold was seeing only the outermost layer. Thomas imagined he had glimpsed more than the outermost in his short acquaintance with her.
And bother! It was not just that! It was the blatant attraction he felt for her, the sort of physical yearning that made him want to throw her to the floor in her hideous horse blanket and play out the piece that seemed to tremble between both of them. Yes, she felt it too, he had no doubt about it. Again, his arrogance reasserted itself in a somewhat livelier tread. A faint half-smile still hovered about his mouth as he reached the castle stairs.
He would nip round the back. Hedgewig—he knew the sour-faced old creature—would probably slam the door in his face if he made his appearance in soiled Hessians, muddy unmentionables and nothing more than a greatcoat between him and near nakedness. Probably quite correct, too, for he would make a most unedifying spectacle for Lady Caroline Darris—though she was a hoyden herself—or, more pertinently, dear old Martha. Martha, he was certain, would be shocked.
He would try the servant’s entrance, for Cook had a certain fondness for him. The corners of his wide lips twitched. All cooks had a certain fondness for him! He could wheedle his way round housekeepers and cooks with the crook of his little finger. As for maids . . . well, he would not digress down that idle but decidedly pleasant path.
He rapped loudly on the stout oak door. Unlike the main castle door, it was not blessed with a shining brass knocker, but the leaden one, green with age, served its purpose more than suitably. Thomas did not wait for an invitation to enter, but strode in purposefully, slamming the door shut with his back.
There was no one about, but the aromas coming from the larder were irresistible, so, heedless of his dripping boots, he ambled across and helped himself to a partridge pie. Demian must be less under the hatches than he had thought, because there was evidence everywhere of a banquet. Huge platters of cheeses sat on a board waiting, he presumed, to be served. He was just toying with the idea of ditching the pie in favor of some Stilton, when some footsteps behind him made him jump.
“Don’t you dare touch that!”
Thomas whirled round. What he saw made him nearly whoop with laughter, but as a gentleman, he did not. Possibly the events of the day were causing him to hallucinate. He decided to humor this apparition of his.
“May I eat the pie, then?”
“Oh, yes. There are piles of them. I fear, in fact, that I made too many. But the Stilton was appallingly expensive. I wish I had had the management of it, not Cook. I am certain I could have driven a better bargain.”
“Oh, undoubtedly, a seventeen-year-old robed like a dowager and wearing . . . is that a coronet? You must excuse my stupidity in these matters, but I find your headpiece quite fascinating.”
Lady Caro’s eyes danced. “Yes, hideous, isn’t it? I rummaged through the ducal jewels but everything was so austere. This seemed just perfect.”
“Pardon my sublime ignorance, also my shocking state of undress—though I suspect, you scamp, that you have not even noticed—but perfect for what?” Thomas bit into his pie and eyed her thoughtfully.
“Oh, I am masquerading as the lady of the manor as in some Minerva Press novel and Demian is the butler and . . . ”
A chunk of partridge pie hovered precariously at the back of Thomas’s throat. It was only by dint of very careful swallowing that he did not actually choke.
“What did you say?”
Lady Caroline chuckled. “Oh, I know, isn’t it the greatest jest? Demian dismissed Hedgewig just when we needed him most vitally, so the role just somehow got assigned to him, and, oh, he should be down any moment to take in the first remove. I hope he hurries, for we are hopelessly short-staffed and Martha is busy chaperoning him . . . ”
Now the pie was put down altogether.
“What did you say?” His voice thundered in Caro’s ears.
“Hush! Have you an ear complaint, Mr. Endicott? You seem to be quite deaf today.”
“And you seem to be hovering perilously close to lunacy. Explain yourself fast, young lady, or I’ll not answer for the consequences.”
“I am seventeen. Way too old to threaten. Go away, Thomas, unless you want to be an under butler or a second footman?” For the first time, she eyed his greatcoat doubtfully.
“If you are seventeen, you can no longer take liberties with my name. You will shock London with your scapegrace ways, Lady Caroline. And, yes, I can.”
“What?”
“Threaten.” He advanced toward her from round a long, heavy beechwood table. Caroline squealed and darted away, but most unfortunately tripped over her regal hem. Mr. Endicott caught her, then shook her, then set her down upon a bench and hovered over her menacingly.
“Now, talk!”
“The cheeses . . .”
“I shall put a cloth over them.”
“Very well, but when Demian arrives—”
“When Demian arrives I shall shake him. In the meanwhile, talk.”
And so, much beset, but still with an irrepressible smile playing about her lips, Lady Caroline did.
Thirteen
Caroline had stopped sitting as soon as she could see by Mr. Endicott’s thoughtful frown that he was not likely to bite her bejeweled head off. Instead, she made herself useful by putting a great copper cauldron onto the fire. It smelled heavenly to Thomas, but he was thinking of a great deal more than his stomach at that moment.
“Are you certain Demian was taken with this chit?”
“Smitten! I tell you, Thomas, it is a godsend! She looks to be the nicest creature and you have no idea the set down she gave that vulgar collection of chits!”
“Is she beautiful?”
Caroline regarded him scornfully. “Of course! When has Demian shown the smallest interest in anyone who is not a diamond? She might not be so in his usual way, for she has cropped hair and is less . . . less . . . ”
Thomas was amused to note the flush appear on Caroline’s cheeks. The little minx was growing up, then.
“Voluptuous?” He supplied the word with bland amusement.
Caro eyed him suspiciously, then nodded. “Yes, though indeed I do not think she is actually lacking . . .”
Thomas chuckled. “Caro, if you were my sister I would spank you! Has no one yet taught you what is and what is not a suitable topic of discourse for young ladies of quality?”
Caro waved her hand impatiently. “Of course! And really, it is the stupidest thing, for gentlemen talk all day long on such matters and no one berates them.”
“Yes, very unfair. Now tell me quickly. Has Demian said nothing about his betrothal?”
“Betrothal?” Caro stared at him blankly.
Thomas sighed and took a large ladle down from its hook. “Yes. I assume he told you he has offered for Lady Raquel Fortesque-Benton?”
“Yes . . . no! I knew it was his intention, but not that he had actually done it! Oh, Thomas, this is dreadful!” Great, round eyes looked up at him. He stirred the pot, then tasted some of the liquid with a serving spoon. It was heavenly, as he had suspected. Caro was too distracted to scold him as she would have, if she’d noticed.
“Is it gazetted? I cannot believe it! I could swear he was smitten with Miss Mayhew! So much so that I had to send Martha off to fetch him, for when he escorted her up to her chamber . . . ”
Thomas burned his tongue.
“He did what?”
“Well, he is the butler.” Caro looked defensive. “Besides, when I sent them off—”
“Ah, so it was your little scheme, was it?”
“Yes, but only because Miss Mayhew looked faint and I took pity on her with those old tabbies staring daggers and—”
“Demian making moon eyes.”
“Well yes, but—”
“Lady Caroline Darris, I take leave to inform you, you are a meddler! I also take leave to inform you that when next I lay eyes on your brother, I shall personally strangle him!”
“But why? No one wants him to wed some spoiled creature who cares more for her rank than for his person! But if he has already offered . . .”
“Precisely. And I take leave to inform you, Mistress Caro, that that spoiled young lady is at this moment shivering in the sentry house.”
Now it was Caro’s turn to echo Mr. Endicott. “Shivering in the—”
“Yes. shivering.” Mr. Endicott’s words were suddenly curt. “And she is not spoiled, merely proud. She has the courage of a man and the beauty of . . . but no, I will not discuss such matters with a little slip of a schoolgirl not yet out! Get Demian!”
“I can’t! The ladies will just be returning from the gallery—I got two of the housemaids to escort them—and will be expecting dinner shortly. They will think it passing strange if I am not there to greet them.”
“Caro, I could not care two straws for what a dowdy parcel of chits think when—”
“Oh, they are not dowdy, Thomas! Did I say they were dowdy?” Caroline’s eyes twinkled again. “They are as fine as peacocks and more brilliant! I swear I need my parasol inside for I can’t see for the glitter of gems.”
“Very charming, I am sure,” came the dry retort. “But my point remains. Get me Demian. And a trap. I am going to throw a few provisions in this sack and take them down to her. Is there firewood anywhere?”
“Yes, Williams chopped some the other day. It is stacked in the scuttle outside. But you cannot be thinking of—”
“I cannot bring her up to the castle. It is bedlam here.”
“Lord, yes! You definitely can’t bring her up here! Good Lord, what in the world would she think? If she is truly Demian’s betrothed . . .” She regarded him narrowly.
“Cut line, Caro! Why would I lie about a thing like that? Though you may as well tell Demian with my compliments that if he continues dangling after this Miss Mayhew, then my bond is no longer in effect.”
“What bond?”
But Mr. Endicott did not think it necessary to go into details. Keeping Raquel pure in the snowiest of senses had proven a harder task than he had blithely imagined. If he was set to spend a night of snowbound bliss with the creature, it was well he had matters straight with Demian. Lord Darris had every facility to arrive forthwith and demand his betrothed. If he did, Thomas would no doubt have to offer her up meekly. But if he did not. . . . Mr. Endicott closed his eyes for a brief second. He would not dwell on this last matter. All he knew for certain was that the lovely Lady Fortesque-Benton did not deserve to have her honor compromised. A night alone with him would accomplish precisely that. Already, if rumors filtered out about their unchaperoned trip . . . but no, between Darris and himself they could scotch that.
Thomas prayed, in a half second, that the unknown Miss Mayhew was captivating, enticing, and lovely beyond imagination. He could not bear it, he thought, if she was not. Yet Demian could not simply cry off. It was a coil. But not one he could blithely ponder whilst a lady relied on him to return.
“Thomas?”
Caro was still regarding him intently. “A man’s business, Caro. Just tell him. Can you stock this up? I am going to negotiate the trap and stack it with firewood. I presume there are no servants about?”
“None. They are all engaged in removing holland covers and such. It looks like they are going to have to stay here overnight, after all.”
“Overnight? Probably a week. You were mad, Caro.”
“I know, but it did seem a good idea . . . ”
“Godsend I am never the recipient of one of your ‘good ideas!’ You are going to be hell to marry off, Caro.”
For the first time, Lady Caroline looked hurt. Thomas raised his hands helplessly. “Oh, hang my vile tongue! Come, don’t cry. Doubtless there is someone out there mad enough to want a scapegrace wife! Why, I would marry you myself if—”
“Fustian, Thomas!” But the tears had stopped welling up in her bright eyes. She was laughing again. “I will get a hamper sorted for you. Leave that filthy sack—I will find something better and include a tinderbox and some flint . . .”
“Good girl!”
“Is a trap enough? There is Demian’s barouche, but it is probably hemmed in by all the other carriages. The party came in three at least.”
“Not a problem. Can I get to the trap easily?”
“Oh, yes, for it is stabled for the dower house. Easier for the servants—such that there are left.” This, a little gloomily, so Thomas understood something of the reasons why Demian had been in such agonies to shackle himself.
Mr. Endicott nodded briefly. “I will organize it, then. Has Demian any fresh shirts handy? Mine is ruined, this greatcoat is hideously scratchy and I’ve sent the chaise off to the Lion and the Anvil.”
“Lady Raquel’s things too?”
Thomas grimaced. “Indeed, we are a sorry pair, for she has sacrificed this greatcoat for a horse blanket.”
“Good Lord, Thomas. How could you! I don’t care if she is a poker-faced icicle, the wretch must be miserable!”
“The ‘wretch,’ as you inaccurately put it, is admirable. She has actually managed to fling an earthenware pot at me, melt . . .”
Thomas stopped. He had nearly said “melt my heart,” which would not be a felicitous thing to say to the sister of her betrothed. Besides, the thought amazed him as much as it would have her. He said nothing, therefore, but Caroline was no fool.
“By Jericho, Mr. Endicott, I detect a romance!”
“Save detection for your betters, Caro.” There was a subtle warning in his voice. It was going to be hard enough to scotch scandal as it was.
“Very well, but if she threw an earthenware pot at you she must have some redeeming qualities. Mind you, Demian said she was a shrew.”
“Your brother Demian has a lot to answer for. I hope it does not come to pistols at dawn, for I am a very good shot.”
“So is he. But you intrigue me, sir.”
“I am only ‘sir’ when you wish to wheedle something from me, Caro. I would stop and indulge you, but there is a lady who deserves and needs some attention. If it cannot be from Demian, than it shall be from me.”
Caroline sighed. “Very well. Go on, then, I shall nip upstairs, smile at the tartars, fob them off—though heaven knows, they must all be simpletons if they haven’ t smelled a rat by now—grab some laundry and scuttle down again. By then you should have Charlie the job horse trotting around nicely.”
