A Scandalous Connection, page 16
Since beggars could not be choosers, he bundled up what he could, snatched several macaroons cooling on the table, and the basket Caro had provided. That, at least, was heavy enough to be regarded as ample. The skies were certainly darkening and the winds were up again. Thomas’s only worry was that he would not make the cottage. The weather could turn foul in seconds.
He loaded up the trap, eyed the donkey sternly and bade it go. It wouldn’t. He tried again, but the wretched animal refused to budge, despite having walked down from the dower house quite reasonably. Thomas wished to kick it, but instead, pleaded a little, removed a precautionary carrot and pushed a lump of sugar into the lazy beast’s mouth. Both offerings were accepted, but made singularly little in the way of difference. It then dawned on Thomas that today was not his day. Cursing, he removed the basket from the trap, gasped at its weight, scowled at the ass, cursed it, muttered dire and unlawful threats and proceeded to walk. The cottage seemed a great deal farther than he remembered, he could not see a trace of it on the horizon and night was now decidedly falling. Only the thought of the Lady Raquel, alone, frightened and cold, made him walk on. It would have been an easy matter, after all, to bade Demian do his own dirty work. But there was the crux of it: He did not want Demian anywhere near his own betrothed. And for the life of him, he could not admit why.
He ignored the pain in his chest and the terrible difficulty he had gasping for breath in the frigid air. None of it mattered, at that moment, for the vision of glorious golden ringlets and sapphire eyes and bow-shaped lips spurred him on. Not in lust, either, for what kind of man, laden with a deadweight basket, shivering in snow and almost numb with cold could be driven by such a delightfully warm tormentor? No, lust—though decidedly it had been his companion the greater part of the day—was now, sadly, extinguished. So what was left? A drumming in Mr. Endicott’s head and a dull determination to beat the cold, the dark, the teasing moon.
Inside the castle, Lady Caroline peered past her dinner guests. What she saw outside the frosted window did not cheer her. The flurries were definitely imminent, and though the castle was cold, they were all undoubtedly safe from the elements. Thomas, she knew, was not. Neither was the detestable Lady Raquel Fortesque-Benton, though now she was removed from her brother’s immediate sphere, possibly not that detestable. But what of her reputation? A night alone with Thomas would ruin all vestiges of it, she was certain. Guilt crept over her miserably, for if she had not meddled, it would have been perfectly acceptable to bring her ladyship up to the castle. Even now, surely, she should do something to prevent that lady’s ruin. She did not, however top lofty, deserve to be compromised. But Thomas was with her. Thomas could be relied upon to preserve her honor. Or could he? Assailed with doubt, Lady Caroline nearly made the fatal error of chewing on her fingernails.
Then she thought of Thomas’s bold challenge to Demian and stopped her woolgathering. Mr. Endicott, she knew, had never yet been at a loss. If the matter could not be elegantly hushed up, he would marry her himself. The thought made her brighten considerably, but when she nodded augustly to Miss Kirby and murmured something about “squeezes and crushes and fatiguing presentations,” the gloom returned. More likely Thomas would force Demian to marry the chit. Then all her hard contriving would be for naught.
“I can’t help but feel that the weather is worsening. My dear, dear, dear Lady Caroline. What can I say? How gracious of you to house us in this splendid manner. Perhaps you would like to call on . . . what was his name . . . Masterton or Pemberton or whoever, my dear, to stoke up the fire. But of course, you await the under butler. Perhaps he can perform the trifling task. I am only dropping a delicate hint, you see, for I have been mistress of a great establishment for many more years than your youthful self, though I am sure you would not guess it, for what with Mrs. Moorleigh’s wonder lotion . . . frightfully expensive you know, but Mr. Corey is always saying as how I must needs get the best of everything, and really, the poor dear spoils me sometimes. Anyway, I am perfectly certain you don’t at all mind my pointing out a few little errors, for though you are noble born, you have never actually had the means that some of us are blessed with. And I, too, am nobly born, my dear, being the relative, twice removed, of Rear Admiral—”
But no one was to hear of the rear admiral, for Miss Daphne Murgatroyd, asserting her rights now that her dear mama had departed, interjected that she was sure Lady Caroline did not need to hear about distant relations so far removed. “Some people,” she added, “are far richer than the Coreys, being directly connected to Murgatroyd, Murgatroyd and Parsons Inc, which everyone knows to be—”
Here she was interrupted when a lively skirmish erupted between two vehement and one lisping young heiress. In the end, it was reluctantly agreed that the Coreys had much more of a right to point out matters of etiquette to dear Lady Caroline, though the younger Miss Murgatroyd was sure she would never be so brazen as to point out that the servants were slovenly and that the butler looked far too comely. Indeed, she pointed out, “That was His Grace’s task, and no doubt one that he would undertake directly when he returned. . . ?” Now there was a definite question mark lingering genteelly about the end of the sentence.
Caroline did not have to bite back her scathing reply to these little impertinences, for Miss Fletcherson immediately took it upon herself to make some few comments herself, rather coyly remarking that she expected His Grace would return at once to Darris Castle to assure himself of his sister’s safety in the inclement and unkind weather.
Caro could not resist. She shook her head innocently. “Oh, no, my brother has several engagements in town. I doubt we will see him for a fortnight at least.”
“Oh, you are funning Lady Caro! You don’t mind me calling you that, do you? I feel we have become such friends! Surely he is not so unnatural a sibling as to leave you in this . . . this . . . ”
But she subsided under a slight lofty tilting of the brows. Lady Caroline could never tolerate any criticism of her brother, and was anyway fast losing her patience.
Fortunately, Miss Bancroft appeared to smooth things out, acting the role of upper house servant to perfection and fussing over the company as if she actually cared whether their feet ached and whether mustard baths could be prepared for one and all immediately after the repast. She curtsied respectfully to Mrs. Corey, who had returned and taken up her ample seat, and Miss Amelia Corey, and Miss Oliver, and . . . well, the list went on.
The cottage was now clean. Raquel, fearful of catching her death in the miserable cold, decided that some exertion was required. For a young lady who had never done anything more physical than snap her fingers for a housemaid, her efforts had been remarkable. She had also shown singular presence of mind, for certainly, had she huddled next to the fire in nothing but her horse blanket, her fingers might have numbed along with her nose. Then, if she had drifted into uneasy slumber. . . . But she would not dwell on unhappy might have beens.
The embers did not catch on her horse blanket, nor the fire extinguish itself entirely. Raquel was diligent in stoking it, and when there was no more wood, she sacrificed half of her best linen petticoat to the blaze. The other half she tore into rags, the better to restore order to this haven for spiders. She tried not to think of mice, though her heart beat painfully. She did not use the well, for it was iced up, but she melted snow, and the resulting water was put to good use, though it soon became patently clear that more than one petticoat was required. When neither His Grace nor his staff, nor even, dared she think it, Thomas returned, she refused to entertain the thought that Mr. Endicott had deserted her, but rather dwelt on the magnetic effect of his eyes, such a handsome blue, so akin to her own . . . then she allowed her thoughts to take a rather more immodest path as she balefully wiped at the windows and forced grime from the sills.
She had never wanted a bar of lavender-scented soap so much in her life. But there, she was not really thinking of soaps, but rather of a certain Mr. Endicott, who looked so shocking in nothing but his unmentionable breeches and a faint, mocking smile upon his infuriating lips. She scrubbed harder, and searched about for candles. She thought she had worked an age, and indeed, for a young lady unused to such burdens, it must have seemed like a lifetime instead of the rather mundane hour that it was. When Lady Raquel was satisfied with the results—but not with her soiled gown and tattered undergarments—she sat down by the hearth. There was not much more to stoke and she began to become seriously worried. It was too late to head for the castle herself, for the dreaded snow was now falling too hard for such calculated madness.
She wished she knew what time it was, for if dark fell, frankly she would rather have her reputation ruined then spend the night alone. Which just went to show, she scolded herself crossly, how her wits were scattered and she was losing her mind. And what Lord Fortesque-Benton would say when he heard of this! Raquel had been treated like a delicate porcelain doll all her life. She was not reared to dance about the room merely to shrug off the cold, which she was sorely tempted to do, or to wrap herself convulsively in a motheaten horse blanket, which was precisely what she was doing.
There was an old grandfather clock in the humble bedchamber, but since this had not been wound for three years at least, it was hardly much good. After about a half hour of patient, concerted waiting, Raquel conceived the notion of winding it anyway, so that even if it was inaccurate, it would at least give her an idea of how fast time was passing.
Or how slowly. She concentrated on the task, for this, like everything else that had fallen to her lot that day, was new to her. When she heard the familiar ticking, she was so relieved she actually chuckled. That she was reduced to thinking of a clock as a companion! She would regale with future dukes of Darris for years to come.
The notion depressed her spirits a little, for when she thought of these little dukes, she could not help thinking of them as diminutive Thomases, and for the life of her she could not imagine dark-eyed Darrises at all. She wished Demian would arrive to brush away all her doubts. Perhaps, if she let him kiss her . . . but he had kissed her! Over the table in an odiously confident manner. She had permitted it, but his kisses were nothing like what she imagined mocking Mr. Endicott’s might be. He would not kiss her chastely on her cheek—Raquel conveniently forgot that it was she who had turned her face at the crucial moment. Mr. Endicott, she was sure, would explore her lips delightfully, slowly, teasingly. . . . Well, if nothing else, reflections down that wayward path were keeping her from freezing, which must be considered a plus.
But thoughts, however intriguing, however much they brought a flush and a smile to her beautiful face, were not enough. The fire demanded more, and there was precious little left in the way of petticoats. The chairs would be good, but there was no convenient ax. Raquel searched about thoroughly, but life seemed to be conspiring against her. So she picked up the smallest—and finest—of the seating arrangements and dumped the entire thing onto the miserable flames. They appeared to enjoy this treatment, for they perked up at once and offered a little more light for her ladyship’s entertainment. Sadly, after drumming her fingers on the windowsill and staring fruitlessly out the darkening misted window, she realized she was not entertained at all.
Then her new friend, the dear, ticking clock, her only companion, chimed the hour. Of course, if was probably not the hour at all. Nevertheless, Raquel decided it was proof that time was actually moving on. Not that she needed proof, for it was almost dark and her eyes were beginning to strain to see the shadows. Heartily sick of this enforced inactivity, she took herself and her horse blanket off to the bedchamber and lay down. No sheets, but there was a musty old pillow. She removed her bonnet—something she should have done hours ago—pulled out her pins so that her hair fell luxuriously to her shoulders, and found that her curls had vanished completely.
They had disappeared entirely—without the help of an expert dresser and curling pins. For once, Lady Raquel did not mind. She huddled in her blanket, closed her eyes and tried to sleep. She would have been surprised to know how quickly she achieved this blissful state, or, indeed, how foolishly she dreamed.
Thomas coughed. It seemed many hours since he had left the castle. There was not a man about to offer him a ride, or at least relieve him of his burden. This he obstinately clung to, for there was no purpose served in returning to the cottage empty-handed. Lady Raquel would probably place a curse on him, the little witch, and they would both starve. Not a particularly pleasing prospect, but then neither was the dead weight of the basket. He wondered what in the world Caro had stuffed it with. But then, of course, she had been reckoning with Charlie. Job horse indeed! If he ever saw the brute again he would kick it. But Thomas knew only too well that he would probably pat it and empty his pockets for him. He sighed, and pulled his beaver down over his face.
Squinting into the blue-white dark, he could just make out the cottage. Far, yet, but with long tendrils of black smoke to set it against the landscape. Welcoming. Raquel had done well to keep the fire going. Quite redoubtable, in the face of adversity. Something to remember. Unconsciously, his pace quickened as he imagined her wide-eyed greeting and her barely concealed relief at his arrival. Oh, undoubtedly the minx would try to conceal it from him, but he was not a fool. She would be relieved. And hungry. Suddenly, the snow did not seem so thick or so cold. He took the last mile or so at a glide, falling twice into the snow and oversetting some inviting little jam pies. Some he left, some he gathered up in a quick gesture of impatience. Then he was running again, out of the snowflakes and in through the sentry door.
The Lady Raquel was nowhere to be seen, but the hearth was ablaze, and so, too, were the remains of an oak chair. It crept from the grate and heated the stone tiles of the floor. Close to it, a second chair smoldered black. Mr. Endicott had barely time to register this fact before it finally ignited, dry to a bone, and lighted the room in an eerie orange. There was a crackle and a quick lick of flame. A third chair began to smoke from the legs.
“Raquel!” But there was no answer.
Fifteen
The south wing smelled as musty as Martha had feared it would. Though the servants had hastily removed the holland covers, they were still stacked in calico piles by the walls and added nothing to the decor. Not that there was much decor—the fourth duke Darris had sold the Egyptian hangings and the Chinese silks long before Demian succeeded him. Still, there were several very fine examples of eighteenth-century samplers and a collection of porcelain dogs that must be considered remarkable, if not exactly inspiring, to houseguests of the gentler sex.
The sheets, Miss Bancroft noted with anxiety, were yellowing with age, and all, except for His Grace’s own crested ones, were darned in too many places for comfort. She deliberated over using these, but then quailed at the thought of tucking Demian into the dank, motheaten ones. Not that she would tuck him in, of course—she pinkened at the very thought—but sooner or later His Grace would need to sleep. She might be an old fussbudget but it was not fitting that he should have to recline on unaired sheets whilst the spiteful Miss Amelia Corey slept on the ducal bedding. The notion appalled Miss Bancroft’s rather proper senses, which left the deplorable linen she was now confronting as her only choice. At least Caro had had the good sense to spend some of the deposit on those delightful feathered quilts which she wished they could have saved for Christmas . . . but there was no point wishing when there was work to be done.
If they covered the beds with the counterpanes, the deficiencies of the sheets might not be noticed. She was just directing this dubious operation when the duke himself made his handsome appearance. Mrs. Murgatroyd was in tow, so he frowned warningly at Martha and sailed past two of his faithful retainers, who did their level best not to giggle, but unfortunately did not succeed as admirably as they may have wished.
Mrs. Murgatroyd’s cheeks seemed even thinner and bonier, if that were possible. Her nose was being born high in the air, which was just as well, for she missed seeing several meaningful glances being cast and a cobweb being squashed underfoot.
The butler seemed not to notice anything amiss, for he went blithely over to the drapes and pulled them open. Moonlight crept into the gallery area, which did not bode well, for any defects that were suspected in the gloom were now confirmed in the snowy half-light.
“My good man, are you demented? I did not seek a tour of the servants’ quarters! I am freezing! Is there no fire in here? Come, come, make haste, if you please.”
“We have arrived, madam. You will find the bedchambers to the left, and I have instructed your maids—”
Mrs. Murgatroyd stared at His Grace as if he were a Bedlamite. She did not wait for him to complete his sentence, but tittered in outrage.
“What in the world do you mean? This is worse than the scullery at my own home! Not, I might add, that I have ever visited the scullery, but Mr. Murgatroyd never purchases anything but the very best. Which is more, I can see, than His Noble Grace, who apparently has not a feather to fly with and who has brazenly—brazenly I tell you—misled us! Or is it just you, Pinkerton? Or Pemberton, or whatever your name is?”
Demian lazily wondered what to reply, for in truth he had forgotten what he’d called himself. He rather thought it was Pemberton, but he did not like to wager on the matter. Fortunately, the question appeared to be rhetorical, for Mrs. Murgatroyd then began a studied denunciation of his talents, his manners and his address. She then announced that she was duty-bound to report his abominable conduct to the duke, and since he had not chosen to grace them with his presence, Lady Caroline.
This threat, understandably, did not cow the butler as much as Mrs. Murgatroyd had wished. Rather, His Grace apparently had difficulty retaining his strictly poker face. He only actually succeeded by dint of bowing low. This brought him to the sad realization that his topboots were no longer satisfactorily gleaming and that his valet would treat him to a rare scold. He sobered up completely when he realized that the self same valet had not been paid for a week. Mrs. Murgatroyd was still ranting, but he did not think he had missed much.
