Anne Barbour (2 page)

“You’re forgetting Winifred,” Simon replied balefully, immediately experiencing a twinge of compunction. He could hardly expect Marc to understand his dilemma, for they’d been acquainted for less than a week, despite the fact that they were in-laws of a sort. His brother, Jared, had married Marcus’s sister, Diana. They had only become acquainted after Simon’s recent return home after a three-year absence.

“Ah, yes,” said Marcus with a grin, “your benefactor’s little sister. Your ward.”

“My ward,” echoed Simon gloomily.

“What is she like?”

“Who? Oh—Winifred? I have no idea-—never met her, you know. If she’s anything like her big brother, however, the briefer my dealings with her the better.”

“Come now, Simon. The man left you what was probably his most cherished possession—to say nothing of the guardianship of one who must have been dear to him. Being a little harsh, ain’t you?”

Simon uttered a muffled snort. “If only you’d known the fellow. Just why the Creator saw fit to inflict Wilfred Timburton on an already beleaguered planet is a mystery to me. He was a stupid, pompous, whining ass, and a coward to boot.” Observing Marc’s startled expression, he added, “And I haven’t got started on his really serious flaws.”

“But, how is it you became friends with this—specimen?” asked Marc, chuckling.

“We served together in the Peninsula. I lost my head one day and saved his life.” Simon frowned furiously at the sound of Marc’s ill-contained laughter. “It was during the battle of Vitoria,” he continued. “I merely happened to be near him when he stood up when he shouldn’t have. I pulled him off his feet just as someone was firing on him. After that, the fellow attached himself to me like a snail to a petunia. Somehow, he survived Waterloo, after which I thought he’d retreat to hearth and home and I’d be rid of him. But no. When I was taken on by Lord Symington to work on Castlereagh’s staff in Paris, young Wilf decided that life on the Continent would suit him right down to the ground. There he was my best friend in the world—or so he told everyone—and his intimations that I did not so much as choose my waistcoat without his approval almost ruined my fledgling career in world diplomacy. The fellow was an absolute laughingstock.”

“Why didn’t you simply tell him to go away?” asked Marc carelessly.

Simon shrugged. “I suppose it’s because he would have been devastated. There was no real evil in him, after all. He wanted so desperately to be thought a prime go—top o’the trees, and all that.”

“I see your point. Still, you must have gone out of your way to encourage him, if he made you the beneficiary of his will.”

“I swear to God, Marc, I merely remained civil to him—which many did not. When he told me of his idiotic plan to leave me all his worldly goods—and his blasted sister, to boot—I argued and pleaded till my tongue shriveled, all to no avail.”

“Mmm. I see now what Diana meant when she told me of your, er, pronounced sense of duty. She said Jared told her you were always bringing home strays, and that you could always be depended on to dance with all the wallflowers at the ball.”

“Your sister is too kind,” returned Simon stiffly.

“You told me how Wilfred died—the disgruntled pimp and all that. Lord, did he not know enough to take his pleasures elsewhere than the Palais Royale?” Marcus, who had been born and raised in Paris, grimaced.

“No,” replied Simon. “Wilfred had no sense at all. Which was, perhaps, how he happened to contract the French disease.”

“How fortunate,” said Marcus unsteadily, “that he was knifed to death before parts of him began falling off. But never mind that. Tell me, how did the sister come into it?”

Simon groaned. “Wilfred’s mother died when the children were small. His father remarried about ten years ago and turned up his toes five years after that. When Wilfred went away from Selworth, Winifred was left—”

“My God,” Marc interjected in an awed tone, “Wilfred and Winifred. Timburton pére has a great deal to answer for, doesn’t he?”

“In more ways than one,” was Simon’s heartfelt reply. “As I was saying, Winifred was left on her own with the stepmother, a woman named Millicent. Wilfred warned me about Millicent, who is a former stage actress, and according to Wilf, a wicked, scheming harpy who inveigled their father into marrying her. When the old man died, Wilfred became concerned about his sister. He considered Millicent the last person in the world to be entrusted with the rearing of an innocent young maid. In fact,” added Simon with a visible shudder, “it was Wilf’s dearest wish that I marry Winifred, thus solving his problems.”

“If he was so concerned,” asked Marc, “why did he join the army instead of staying home to protect the damsel’s virtue?”

Simon laughed shortly. “Good question. Apparently, his concern did not extend to inconveniencing himself. You see, our Wilfie quite fancied himself in a uniform.”

Marc threw up his hands. “Good God,” he murmured.

“Quite. In any event, Millicent is no longer a threat to Winifred’s virtue. When I visited the family agent, George Soapes, in London a couple of weeks ago, he informed me that the woman ran off with a raffish baronet from Bath not a month ago, and is currently residing with him in Italy.”

At this, Marc succumbed once more to laughter. “Lord,” he gasped, “this just gets better and better. ‘A raffish baronet from Bath’—it sounds like the first line of a particularly racy limerick.”

“I’m pleased to have provided you with amusement,” Simon returned frigidly.

Marcus, unfazed, flung up his hand. “I don’t understand why you’re in the dismals over all this. It sounds like a marvelous lark. I should think it would be just what you’re looking for after rusticating at Stonefield with Jared and Diana since you returned from Paris. I mean, your brother is a fine fellow as marquesses go, but Lord!” Marc’s blue eyes sparkled. “Don’t you miss the excitement on the Continent?”

“No, I do not,” Simon said wearily. “I have had enough excitement to last me a lifetime, and all I want in the world is to settle into the life of a country squire.”

“Ah, well,” said Marc, “perhaps it will not be as bad as you foresee. In fact, you might enjoy yourself.” He waved a hand toward the view to be seen through the window. “The countryside is beautiful, and you’ll have plenty of time to find a husband for your heiress, and—what?” he asked, as Simon closed his eyes, apparently in pain.

“That’s just it, I have precious little time. I have not told you the worst part. Just before Wilfred died, I—I promised that if I did not get her wed within six months, I would marry her myself.”

“What?” Marc leaned forward in astonishment.

“Either that, or Selworth and all the rest of Wilfred’s estate will go to charity.”

“But—but—” Marc stuttered in puzzlement. “If you don’t want the place yourself, what difference would that make to you?”

“Good God, what kind of a monster do you take me for? It would mean leaving Winifred destitute and without protection.

“She has very little money of her own, you see, her father assuming that Wilfred would take care of her. I may wish to strangle the chit, but I can’t very well throw her out into the snow.”

“Well—you say that her inheritance from Wilfred is sizeable. Surely you can dragoon someone into marrying her within that time.”

“Yes, I suppose I could, but I cannot in all conscience see her wed to someone who is completely unsuitable.”

Marc chuckled. “Wilfred certainly knew his man. He chose the one person among his acquaintances that he knew to be so honorable that he could be suborned with impunity.”

Simon flushed. “That may be,” he said stiffly, “but look where it’s got me.”

“Still,” said Marcus, “you have six months. Surely within that time you should be able to dredge up a suitable parti. Perhaps the fair Winifred is already smitten with one of the local sprigs.”

“I fervently hope so,” replied Simon, “for I haven’t got six months. You see, I thought the period was to start after I took up residence at Selworth, but I was informed by Soapes, the family man of affairs, that the clock started as soon as Wilfred passed on to his dubious reward.” He threw up his hands. “My good fellow, I now have precisely five weeks to get Winifred down the center aisle.”

“Oh, my God,” said Marc, digesting this information. “Does Winifred know of all this?”

“No. She knows that I am her guardian, of course, and that I have control of all the money she will supposedly inherit from Wilfred. But she thinks she will automatically receive that sum in total when she reaches the age of six and twenty—which is as it was originally stipulated, before Wilfred got this maggot in his brain about my taking her on as my life’s work.”

“Do you mean to tell her?” asked Marc, fascinated.

“Good God, no. I plan to keep my relationship with her as businesslike as possible. I don’t want to muddy the waters by introducing myself to her as a possible parti.”

“Lord, yes,” said Marc, with a barely suppressed chuckle, “why would she want to look elsewhere for a lifemate when she has handsome, wealthy Lord Simon Talent on the horizon?”

“You really find this whole situation little more than a three-act farce, don’t you?” exclaimed Simon indignantly.

“I’m sorry, old man.” Marcus chuckled. “It’s just that it all seems so—bizarre.”

“Yes,” Simon said with a despairing sigh, “I suppose that’s precisely the word.” He leaned forward and allowed his head to sink into his hands. “I keep wondering just what it is I’ve done to deserve all this.”

When Marc said nothing, Simon, weary of the subject, straightened. “And how about you, my Lord Stedford? Your decision to join me on my travels was rather sudden—not that your company has not been welcome.”

The laughter fled suddenly from Marc’s face and he flushed. “Oh. Well. That is to say—I have been staying close to home since I acceded to the title—and ... I have an estate north of here that I have never visited. When I learned of your journey in that direction, it seemed like a good opportunity to, uh, to do a little traveling myself.” He shot an oddly speculative glance at Simon.

“Ah,” said Simon noncommittally, “I was wondering if your sudden wanderlust had anything to do with Lissa.”

Marc jerked upright. “Lissa?” The word emerged in a strained squeak. “Why, no, that is . . .” His jaw squared pugnaciously. “If you don’t mind, I’d rather not talk about Lissa.”

Startled, Simon lifted his hand in a gesture of withdrawal. “Certainly, old man—no wish to pry.”

“No-no, of course not,” replied Marc hastily. “It’s just that— Lissa is enough to drive a man to Bedlam—if you don’t mind my saying so. Don’t wish to speak ill of a man’s sister.”

“No, indeed.” Simon laughed. “You’re not telling me anything I don’t already know. I’m fully aware of her shortcomings.”

Curious as to the source of Marc’s displeasure, Simon would have said more, but was forestalled as Marc said hastily, “Look! Up ahead. Those stone pillars must mark the beginning of the Selworth property. If the directions we received at the posting house are accurate, we should be—ah. Here we are,” he finished, as the carriage turned off the road to wheel through a massive stone gate.

“Mmph,” grunted Simon. “Left wide open for just anybody. Not a soul in the lodge house. Soapes told me the estate was in the hands of a competent manager, but it doesn’t look like—”

“Oh, stubble it. Are you going to begin finding fault before we’re even inside the house?”

Disgruntled, Simon leaned back and allowed his gaze to wander over the green manicured parkland that formed a welcoming vista. In the distance, a young boy could be seen racing over the hills on a sleek bay. Simon frowned. Wilfred had not mentioned a boy. Could the youngster be a stablehand? If so, it seemed a talk with the head groom would be in order regarding the manner in which the hands exercised the horses. A full-out gallop was hardly—He caught himself. Marc was right. There was no point in looking for things to criticize. Hopefully Soapes had been correct—the place was well run and could be put up for sale as soon as he could get Winifred off his hands.

There. There was the house at last. Marc must have caught sight of it, too, for he echoed Simon’s, “Good God!” It was an extraordinarily beautiful dwelling, lying in a fold of earth. Like a lovely woman awaiting her lover, it spread arms of glowing Cotswold stone on either side of a serenely graceful portico. Unwillingly, Simon experienced a stir of anticipation as they approached the building.

From atop her massive bay gelding, Jane Burch watched the carriage as it approached the house. Leaning into the wind, she urged her mount to even greater speed, and an unladylike epithet slipped from her generously curved lips.

It had to be him in that carriage—Lord Simon Talent, even though they had not expected him until much later in the day. Hell and damnation!

The carriage disappeared from view, hidden by the spreading wings of the manor house, and Jane wheeled the horse about toward the back of the building. Galloping into the stable yard, she barely waited for the animal to come to a halt before leaping to the ground. Tossing the reins to the groom who hastened to meet her, she said breathlessly, “Please, Musgrove, I’m in a fearful hurry. Will you rub Talivera down for me?” A quick, grateful smile lit her wide gray eyes before she turned away, her fingers working at her shirt buttons as she ran into the house.

“Winifred!” she called, savoring the shadowed coolness inside the house as she raced through the service passageways and into the great hall. “Winifred!”

By the time she had negotiated the wide staircase that rose from the hall, Jane had finished with the shirt buttons, and when she slammed the door of her bed chamber behind her, she had begun on the fastenings of her breeches.

“Oh! Hannah!” she gasped in greeting to the comfortably plump woman who appeared from another chamber. “Where the devil is Winifred?”

“Language, Miss Jane!” replied the woman austerely. “Miss Winifred went to the village this morning with Mrs. Mycombe and Miss Emily. She said she’d be back before luncheon.”

Breathing more unladylike epithets, Jane shrugged from the shirt and breeches and, delving into a nearby wardrobe, emerged some moments later with an odd contraption that resembled a cross between a tailor’s dummy and a full set of horse tack. With the assistance of Hannah, her maid of some fifteen years, she slid into the apparatus and commenced arranging and buckling until by the time she whirled with lifted brows for the older woman’s inspection, she had been transformed from a lithe, slender young woman to a flat-chested, thick-waisted frump. Reaching once more into the wardrobe, she produced a gown of plain, gray muslin, which she hastily slipped over her shoulders.