Carola Dunn (25 page)

“You are a little pale, dear,” said Miss Sophie anxiously.

“I have the headache a little,” Nerissa acknowledged.

“I knew I should not let you come down. I shall send for Dr Firston at once!”

“Pray do not, Cousin Sophie. He said I showed no signs of a concussion but the lump on my head is still tender and brushing my hair did not soothe it! I shall be better directly if I just sit quietly for a while.”

“Then I shall leave you in peace. I believe I shall take a stroll in the shrubbery since the sun is shining. Here is the bell Snodgrass brought--so thoughtful. You must ring if you wish for company and send for me. I shall come at once.”

“Bless you, Cousin Sophie. What should I do without you?” Nerissa closed suddenly tearful eyes. Dear as Miles was, she thought, without Miss Sophie’s support she would have given up and run back to York long ago.

Her headache faded quickly, before the plum turnovers were quite cold. She ate one and was licking her fingers when the door opened. Hurriedly she reached for a napkin.

“Mr Digby, miss,” Ben announced in a voice of deep disapproval. “He would see you, miss.” His tone declared that he had tried in vain to stop the intruder.

Nerissa had no desire whatsoever to see Clive Digby. However, a rapid review of the rules brought to light no excuse to deny a visitor who was already half way across the room. “Thank you, Ben,” she said, swallowing a sigh. “Good day, Mr Digby. How kind of you to call. Will you not sit down?”

Ignoring her invitation, he burst out, “I came yesterday, Miss Wingate, as soon as I heard of your accident, but I was not allowed to see you. So I spoke to your uncle instead.” To her astonishment he dropped to his knees and seized her hand. “Miss Wingate--Nerissa, if I may be so bold--I have Sir Neville’s permission to address you.”

“To address me?” She tried without success to retrieve her hand.

“To beg you to be my wife. I opened my creel--budget to him and he obligingly agreed that...”

“Mr Digby, Sir Neville is my great-uncle, a distant relative and in no respect my guardian.”

“He is not? Surely that fellow Courtenay...”

“Certainly not.”

“Then who must I apply to?” he asked plaintively.

“That is scarcely relevant, sir.” At last she wrenched her

hand from his ardent clasp. “Since I fear I cannot accept your most flattering offer.”

Her rejection rolled off his back like water from a fish’s scales.

“Sir Neville said you would be happy to rise to my fly--I mean, to entertain my suit. At least let me cast my line--spout my speech, that is.”

“It would be most improper in me to listen,” she pointed out, half amused, half flustered by his persistence, “as you have not, in fact, applied to my... guardian.”

“Who is your guardian? I will travel to the farthest end of the country if you will only give me a hint that you regard my lure--er, my offer with favour.”

“But I do not! Pray stand up, sir.”

“Dearest Nerissa!” This time he possessed himself of both her hands, so that she was unable to reach for the bell. “I have taken you by surprise but I must assure you of my undying devotion. Without you I am a fish out of water. You have hooked my heart...”

“Sir, I beg of you...”

Abruptly he let go her hands and lunged at her like a pike at a minnow. Somehow she dodged his arms. His wet lips skimmed her forehead as she slithered past him and off the sofa. Inelegantly and all too slowly she hobbled towards the door, her ankle agony at every step.

And Miles was there.

She stumbled into his arms, gasping, “Miles, pray tell Mr Digby I am not going to marry him!”

A bewildering wave of relief and unreasoning fury deluged through him. How dare the cloddish oaf force his attentions upon her! How dare the brute drive her to escape on her sprained ankle! Miles wanted to take Clive Digby by the collar and the seat of his riding breeches, presently conveniently upraised, and hurl him head-first through the window.

But such vigorous action, while soothing his feelings, would only distress Nerissa.

Instead, he swept her off her feet and said in his driest tone, “Digby, Miss Wingate is not going to marry you. If you will kindly stop floundering upon the sofa, I shall return her to the place she ought never to have left. Perhaps you are unaware that she has an injured limb?”

When a crimson-faced Digby had departed and Nerissa’s ankle was swathed in a hot poultice of bran and comfrey, Miles sat down beside her. She was still a trifle pale and shaken. He felt an overwhelming desire to take her in his arms and comfort her. Only the possibility that she might interpret such a move as something other than brotherly affection and protectiveness deterred him.

“Well?” he said with a quizzing smile. The only thing to do was to turn the whole affair into a joke. “A coarse fisherman indeed.”

“Oh no, Miles, you have it the wrong way round. He said I had hooked his heart, and that without me he is a fish out of water!”

“A pity I hadn’t a gaff handy.”

Her giggle delighted him. “Thank heaven you came, with or without gaff.”

“Ben was uneasy. He told Snodgrass, and Snodgrass came straight for me.” Now he wanted to shake her and demand to be told what she meant by entertaining a gentleman alone. He refrained. She was still not altogether up to snuff. Doubtless she had not known how to deal with the situation. In fact, her best course of action would have been to leave the room, which she was unable to do. It was all Digby’s fault. “What the deuce did the fellow think he was up to, intruding upon you without a chaperon?”

“That, at least, was not his fault. He said Uncle Neville gave him permission to pay his addresses, and I daresay gentlemen do not habitually propose marriage with a chaperon present?”

“I wouldn’t know. I told you, I’m not the marrying sort. So Sir Neville allowed Digby to believe he is your guardian?”

“Yes, and suggested I would favour his suit!” Nerissa said tartly. “I don’t understand why.”

“He must have hoped that one way or another the situation would lead to your downfall. I fear they are beginning to grow desperate. We must beware!”

* * * *

“Matters are desperate!” Euphemia announced. She dropped heavily onto the sofa beside her sister, making Sophie bounce.

Sir Barnabas silently agreed, glad Effie would never know of the infuriating fact that for once his views were in accord with hers.

His attempt to precipitate Nerissa into Miles’s arms by entangling her feet in her hem had been a mortifying failure. He hadn’t meant to hurt her. He was prepared to acknowledge that he regretted the pain he had caused. But he was also disgusted by the way his servants, disloyal to his memory, had rallied around her. And the stream of callers, from as far away as Porchester and even beyond, braving the wintry roads to come and express their sympathy!

That was not what he had intended. Worse, the unexpected result had made him chary of further efforts which might go equally astray. His mind was devoid of promising plans.

So he listened with interest to Euphemia.

“There are only two months left. We must do something.”

“But last time we did something, it all turned out to be a mistake,” Sophie timidly reminded her.

“Because Jane made a mull of it. She made a cake of herself and in the process succeeded in making us all look foolish. Even me! We cannot rely on the others. This time it will be just you and me. I suppose I can trust you, Sophronia?” She glared at Sophie, whose mouth opened to emit an inarticulate squeak.

“Good! Now this is what you are to do. Miles is working in the estate office. You must tell Nerissa he wants to see her. Then you follow her there and lock them in together. The only window is small and high. You will put a ladder against the wall outside and check on them now and then. No one will hear them away down at that end of the house and a few hours confined in that little room...”

“But, Effie, I have no key.”

“Ninny! The office is kept locked when no one is there, and Miles always leaves his key in the outside of the door when he goes in. I checked.”

“Oh. And what will you do, Effie?”

“I shall wait here for you to bring me the key,” said Euphemia majestically, “and then to come and tell me when the naughty business begins.”

“Oh,” said Sophie.

Chapter 17

Nerissa’s ankle was very nearly recovered but she still tended to favour it. She limped down the passage towards the estate room. Behind her sneaked Sophie, with Sir Barnabas close at her heels. Trust Effie to make her sister do the dirty work.

The door to the office was ajar. Nerissa went in.

“Miles, Cousin Sophie said you wish to see me? Oh, good day, Mr Bragg. I hope you do not look for my advice on estate business, for I know nothing of it, I fear.”

Sophie heaved a sigh of relief and scuttled off back down the corridor. Sir Barnabas followed, a sour smile on his face. Effie’s plot had failed before it was well underway. She’d have to think again.

He heard Bragg, the unwitting marplot, say, “Good day, Miss Wingate. I’m sure I don’t know...”

“Miss Sophie told you I need you?” Miles’s voice interrupted, sounding puzzled. “She has muddled something someone else said to her. I have not seen her since breakfast. But since you are here, let me just show you...”

Eager to witness Effie’s discomfiture, Sir Barnabas passed out of earshot.

“You have locked them in?” Euphemia avidly greeted Sophie. “Give me the key.”

“I have not got it, Effie.”

“You haven’t? Why not?”

“I did not lock the door.”

“Dolt, can you never do anything right?”

“Mr Bragg was in the office with them.” Sophie’s delight was barely disguised. “I did not think it would serve to shut them in with him.”

“You should have contrived a pretext to lure him out. Go back and do it at once, before Nerissa leaves.”

“But I cannot think of any pretext, Effie.”

“Must I do everything myself?” Irritably Euphemia surged up from the sofa. “Come, quickly. I shall lure Bragg out. You hide, then as soon as I have him well out of the way, lock the dratted door.”

She stalked off, Sophie scurrying after and Sir Barnabas once more bringing up the rear.

Just before they reached the office, Effie stopped at the door to a storage room on the opposite side of the corridor. “Hide in here,” she ordered her sister in a whisper. “Leave the door open just a crack. The moment you hear my footsteps and Bragg’s go past, nip out silently and turn the key.”

Her face doleful, Sophie disappeared into the storeroom. Euphemia continued to the office. Without knocking, she pushed the door wide open, stepped into the room, and announced peremptorily, “Bragg, I want a word with you.”

“We are just finished,” said Miles cheerfully, “so we shall leave you to it.”

Nerissa slipped through the gap between Effie and the door post. Miles followed as Bragg courteously enquired, “What can I do for you, ma’am?”

Effie moved forward, spluttering, “But I... I did not mean...”

Miles pulled the door closed behind him and he and Nerissa set off along the passage.

“What on earth does she want with your bailiff?” Nerissa asked.

“Who can guess? But Bragg is quite capable of taking care of himself. Here, take my arm.”

“My ankle is perfectly all right, really.” She sounded absurdly guilty. “I only limp because I half expect it to hurt.”

Miles laughed. “Still, you ought not to ride or walk far as yet. Should you like to go for a drive this afternoon?”

“Yes, that will be delightful. My preparations for the dinner party are well underway, and I still have a couple of days for the final arrangements. You and Snodgrass have settled on the wines, have you not?”

“Yes. The old man kept a pretty decent cellar, even if he was a spiteful old surlyboots.”

Sticking out his tongue at their retreating backs in a lamentably childish manner, Sir Barnabas moved up to the door and laid his ear against it. He was dying to know what excuse Effie was offering for her peculiar behaviour but the voices within were muffled, indistinct.

He had to dodge when Sophie suddenly darted out of the storage room, dashed across the corridor, turned the key in the lock, and triumphantly removed it.

“There,” she said to herself, with a look of such mischief as he had never thought to see on her sweet, compliant face, “just as Effie ordered.” And she trotted after Miles and Nerissa.

* * * *

Two days later, the memory of her afternoon in the estate office and the humiliation of her subsequent release still had the power to bring howls of rage from Euphemia. Sir Barnabas listened with pleasure.

“That blockhead Bragg simply announced he could always find work to do,” she stormed, “and then ignored me. Six hours I spent looking at the top of his head. His hair is thinning, and so I told him.”

“That was not kind, Effie,” her sister remonstrated.

“Kind! I was not feeling kind. How even you could be so featherbrained as to lock up the wrong people and not realize it for six hours...”

“I heard footsteps passing, and voices in the room.” Sophie patiently repeated her story. Sir Barnabas thought she was rather proud of her cunning, and certainly Effie did not seem to suspect--or simply could not believe--that the worm had turned. “The door was shut so I could not see who was there. When I could not find you to give you the key, I put it on your dressing table.”

And how finding it there had puzzled one and all! Sir Barnabas chuckled.

“But then you forgot about the ladder and the window and went out for a drive with Miles and Nerissa, without ever realizing that meant someone else was in the estate office! Only you could be such a complete knock-in-the-cradle. You and Sir Barnabas. The clunch was wrong this time. That Will was the biggest blunder of his life, and his rightful heirs are going to be done out of a fortune. Miles and Nerissa are too clever for him by half.”

A clunch was he? Sir Barnabas’s bellow would have shaken the rafters had it been audible. Indeed, had he not been dead for several months, an apoplexy might well have borne him away. A knock-in-the-cradle was he? His Will a blunder? Miles and Nerissa too clever for him?