Gray Hawk's Lady: Blackfoot Warriors, Book 1 (2 page)

She cleared her throat. “Yes, I know all about it, Mr. Toddman. But what I do not understand is, if you felt so deeply about the manner in which we were going about this, why did you not just talk to my father and let him be done with it?”

The assistant paused. He opened his lips to speak, but when no words came, he closed his mouth. Several minutes ticked by before he tried again. At last he said, “I have had other matters that required my attention.”

Genevieve looked away. “Yes,” she said. “I know. Solicitors have brought me notice that there are many gambling debts that you owe. I had to pay one just last week.” She sighed. “Please understand, Mr. Toddman, that while I know my father has condoned such behavior from you, I cannot. Not when our funds are so low.”

The young man twisted around to confront the lady. It took him a moment before he could utter, “What are you saying?”

Genevieve looked up toward the ceiling. “It is not the bank that has made the error, Mr. Toddman.” She drew a deep breath. “It is I who put a stop to your drawing funds from the account. I know it will be an inconvenience to you, but until we complete our studies here, we can no longer afford the luxury of the gaming tables. I would have told you earlier; it’s only that—”

“How dare you!” The assistant started forward, stopped; then, in a flurry of agitated pacing, he threw up his hands. “You have no right!” he snarled. “Why, my father is helping to finance this project, too.”

“Yes, I know, but—”

“He did not give you leave to stop my financing, I am certain.”

“Mr. Toddman, I—”

“The money is not yours.”

“Yes, I know, Mr. Toddman, but my father—”

“This has nothing to do with your father, and you know it. This is
your
decision, isn’t it?”

“Yes,” she said. “It is. And until my father recovers and is able to deal with these matters himself, you will have to settle them with me.”

“Oh, you think so?” he asked, his words almost a sneer. All at once he stopped his striding and, almost too quietly, said, “I will send word to my own father in England about this, and then we will see with whom I will deal.”

Genevieve lifted her chin. “That will make little difference to our situation.”

“We shall see.”

“Mr. Toddman, both your father and mine are enamored with this project, and you know it. Neither of them wants this study sabotaged, and that is exactly what you are doing by continuing to visit the gaming tables. At the rate you are losing money, there would soon be no further funds available to finish this project.”

It was here that Mr. Toddman, sixth son of the Earl of Tygate, drew himself to his full height. One would have thought that the man had been physically injured, so great was the air of his distress. At length, however, he deigned to look down his nose at the lady before him, and in a haughty voice he said, “You dare to criticize me, Lady Genevieve, and yet look at you. You, who must always look the height of fashion. You, who must always appear the proper English lady.”

“Mr. Toddman, I fail to see what—”

“Expense, Lady Genevieve. Expense. You take me to task, yet you reserve for yourself only the best that this godforsaken town has to offer.”

“Mr. Toddman, you are talking about clothes, a necessary expenditure. I am speaking of gambling, a habit in which only the very rich or the extremely lucky can indulge. I fail to see—”

“Only for yourself or your father.” The assistant carried on as though she hadn’t spoken. “Nary a thing for me.”

“Mr. Toddman, you go too far. We are speaking of twenty thousand American dollars, spent by you, for you and nothing to show—”

“That is not true. Why, only yesterday I found another couple of trappers who are not only willing, but who are able to go and capture for us your precious Blackfoot Indian.”

Lady Genevieve paused. There was no denying the lady’s quick look of relief. But it was short-lived. There was something else easily espied in her glance: some emotion, a distrustfulness, perhaps. Or mayhap she was only wary.

Letting out a sigh, she said, “I am so glad to hear this. Did you say you did this only yesterday?”

“Yes.”

“And what were the names of these men, that I might go and tell my father?”

The young man hesitated, his face drawn in and his cheeks filling with color. “What difference does that make, Lady Genevieve? Isn’t it enough that I have done it? We will find out more about the two men when they return with your Indian.”

Genevieve hesitated. Clearly, she wanted to believe the man, but still she delayed in speaking for several moments. “Mr. Toddman,” she said, her voice unable to disguise her apprehension. “How much did you have to pay these trappers this time?”

The man shrugged, his hand again coming up to reach for his collar. “Now, Lady Genevieve,” he said, “is that something you should be worrying about?”

“I believe so. As I have already said, since my father has become ill and I have of necessity taken control of the financial matters of the family, I think I should be apprised of exactly how much you paid these men, if only so I can make an adjustment to the account.”

Toddman hesitated, but at her continued regard of him, he uttered, “Five thousand American dollars.”

“Five thousand—” Genevieve stopped, unable to restrain a show of emotion, which revealed itself as a quick flush upon her cheeks. She cleared her throat. “Five thousand American dollars, Mr. Toddman? Such is an exorbitant fee, of which I’m sure you are aware. Were the men you paid surprised that you were willing to part with such a price?”

“Hardly.”

She tilted back her head. “And of course you paid it all in advance.”

“Of course.”

“And you pledge me your word that none of the money went toward the gaming tables?”

“Milady! How dare you!”

She didn’t respond; she just looked at him. “Mr. Toddman,” she said at last, “might I remind you that my father is allowing you to draw on his account only those sums of money that he approves?”

“And you think he did not approve this expenditure?”

“I am fairly certain of it.”

From across the room, the assistant surveyed her for innumerable seconds while Lady Genevieve held his gaze. At length, the young man said, “My father will hear of this at the utmost possible speed, believe me. And when he does…you might find, Lady Genevieve, that you will be in need of revising your opinion of me and my work. You might find,” he said, smirking, “that you will need to come and beg me to help you. And, milady, how I look forward to that day. Until then,” he started forward, “unless you give me further funds, I will stop all my work for you.” He laughed. “And won’t your precious project be in jeopardy then? Go try to engage a trapper or trader without my help, and see for yourself how easy it is.”

“But you said that you had just hired—”

“So I did, Lady Genevieve, so I did. But that was before our little talk. Did you really think I would help you when you refuse to finance me—”

“Mr. Toddman, you go too far! I am not refusing to pay you any wages you are due, only the money that you spend—”

“Without complete financial support, Lady Genevieve,” the assistant straightened his shoulders, “I somehow find myself in the position of being unwilling and perhaps unable to offer any further assistance to this project.” He smiled. “Might I suggest that you go and find your own Indian?”

Genevieve coughed. “Mr. Toddman!”

“Or perhaps,” the young man said as he paused, leering, “mayhap if the trappers do come back with your Blackfoot Indian, I might be the one to interview the savage, and then it will be I who will have the pleasure of finishing this much-needed book.”

“Mr. Toddman,” she said, presenting to the man a demeanor that looked, to all appearances, quite calm. “You cannot do that. You are under contract with my father, and—”

“A contract that you have broken, not I. Can I help it if you choose to let me go?”

“I—”

“Our meeting is at an end, Lady Genevieve…unless you are willing to renegotiate the bank notice.”

Genevieve looked away. She stared at the wall for innumerable seconds before finally, as though defeated, she uttered, “I cannot.”

The young assistant drew his lips together until they looked more a thin, painted line than mere lips, rife with outright hatred. He said, “Then we have nothing further to discuss, do we, Lady Genevieve? No,” he continued as she made to rise. “I will show myself out.”

And with these parting words, Mr. Toddman propelled himself forward and quickly left the room.

“Excuse me.”

Genevieve glanced over toward the door, her gaze troubled. “Yes?”
she asked abstractedly. “What is it, Robert?”

“It’s your father, milady. He—”

“My father?”

“Yes, milady. He’s had a fall. He tried to get up from bed, and—”

“Where is he now?”

“He is back in his bedroom, milady, and I—”

“Summon a doctor at once, Robert.”

“It has been done, milady.”

Genevieve had already risen and was most of the way across the parlor room when she paused mid-stride, looking up toward the domestic who stood beside the entryway. “Thank you, Robert. Bring the doctor upstairs as soon as he arrives.”

“Yes,
milady. Will you require anything else?”

“No, Robert, except…” Genevieve took a few more steps toward the hall. She gave the man a shy smile. “Thank you again, Robert. I don’t know what my father and I would do without you. You’re probably the best friend we’ve ever had. I hope you know that we will always appreciate your loyalty to us.”

And to Robert’s “Yes, milady,” Lady Genevieve fled from the room.

“Father, what have you done this time?” Genevieve practically flew across her father’s bedroom to Viscount Rohan’s side. “You know the doctor told you to stay in bed until you are fully healed of this gout.”

She stopped and bent down to place a kiss on the man’s forehead. “If you will only heed the doctor’s advice, it will not be that much longer before you can be up and about, and doing all the things you need to.” She stopped when she noticed that her father had barely even heard her. She glanced downward to find a letter in his hands.

“Blackfeet” was the only word she caught in the letter before her father’s hand fell toward the floor, the paper dropping at the same time.

“What is it this time, Father?” she asked, kneeling down to pick up the letter.

“Blackfeet,” was all he muttered.

Genevieve spared a quick glance upward. Not again. First Mr. Toddman, and now her father. Was there to be no end to the problems this tribe presented them?

“The Blackfeet again, Father? What has happened now?”

Her father didn’t answer, and Genevieve darted a quick look at the viscount.

He made no response.

She sighed. How could one ignorant and savage tribe cause them such havoc?

“Father,” she said, “I know the Blackfoot Indians have caused us some problems, and believe me, I am aware of the difficulty you face. I, too, have heard the legends of these people. I’ve listened to the stories the trappers tell of them; I’ve heard of how no one can go into Blackfoot country and live to tell of it, of how this tribe guards their territory so well that only the foolhardy will venture into their realm. How could I not? It’s all anyone ever talks of, if I so much as even hint at their name. But really, Father, we have to come to terms with them if ever we are to finish this project.”

Her father hadn’t heard a word. He just stared away from her, the paleness of his face, the dejection in his manner, a testimony to his distress.

She frowned. “Father?”

Still, he didn’t answer.

What
were
they going to do about the Blackfeet? They needed a study of them, and yet…

“Is it possible that we could finish your manuscript without an account of this tribe?” she asked. “Especially since the Blackfeet appear to be more savage than the rest? Oh, I’ve heard the whole story, of course: that the trouble with the Blackfeet originally started when the Lewis and Clark expedition ventured into their territory, killing two tribe members. But the killings had all been done in self-defense. Everyone knows that. Surely the Blackfeet wouldn’t hold a man guilty for defending himself, would they?”

Or would they? It was a common fact that from that incident forward, the Blackfeet had vowed to kill any further intruders into their land.

Genevieve glanced at her father. He still stared straight ahead of him.

She grimaced. “It’s hard to believe,” she spoke to her father quietly, taking his hand in her own. “The incident with Lewis and Clark took place almost thirty years ago. What sort of people would harbor a grudge for thirty long years?

“Is it possible, Father, that your publishers might extend your deadline? There has been a fort close by to their country now for three years. Why, even last week I read something about a steamship that will be sailing soon on a voyage up the Missouri River to that outpost. I think it’s called Fort Union. Surely no land will remain savage for long, or a people continue to be so antagonistic when there are a great many civilizing influences coming into it. If we could only have more time.”