JoAnn Wendt (36 page)

“Do you know where Trent is?” he demanded of Mab.

Whisking back her long hair that was flying in the wind, she snorted her contempt for his question.

“Course I do. I sneak off to visit Trent and Sarah Bess, mebbe thrice a week.”

He turned to Harrington.

“Hire a chaise at once. Take Mab. Get the children and bring them home, damn it.”

Leaving Jenkins in charge of the unloading and the deliveries to warehouses, he threw a coin to the boy holding his horse, swung himself up into the saddle and quickly left the port of York behind. He was glad for the few miles that stretched between Yorktown and Williamsburg. The distance helped him cool down. By the time he trotted up to his own front door, he was cool with determination. Eunice ruling the roost?
His
roost? Ha!

He threw the front door open and stomped into the foyer. A cursory glance revealed that his mother’s fine old case clock had been moved. In its place stood a ridiculously fragile table with finger-thin legs. On the table, a vase of flowers. Not real flowers, but ones made of silk with button centers. He eyed them with displeasure. Fancywork done by Eunice, the fat aunt and Mouse, no doubt. He slammed the door, noting with childish satisfaction that one silly flower tumbled to the floor.

The slam of the door brought the immediate swish of silk. “Garth, dear, you’re home!” Eunice rustled down the stairs, shadowed by her excited, twittering companions. “We’ve been expecting you at every moment, ever since word reached us that the
Caroline
had arrived.”

She stopped short when she saw the fallen flower. With a little cry she swooped down upon it, rescued it and tucked it back into its vase. Then she offered him her cheek. Politeness decreed he make the effort to kiss it. Seething, hating her so much he could cheerfully strangle her, he kissed her cheek, then greeted the others with as much civility as he could muster.

“I want to talk with you at once, Eunice.”
He
motioned toward the open drawing room door.

She preceded him in, twittering happily. “Oh, yes, Garth, we’ve so much to plan. Auntie and I have such lovely ideas for the wedding.”

When Auntie and Mouse made to follow them in, he was forced to make it clear that he intended to talk to Eunice alone.

The aunt blinked her dismay. “But—but a chaperone, dear boy?”

He forced himself to be civil. “Lady Wetherby, this is
my
house. I’ve not needed a chaperone in it since I was six years old and fell madly in love with cook.”

She blinked again. Then she gushed, “As you say, dear boy. Naturally you wish to see Eunice alone. So romantic and, of course, the wedding plans and—”

He slammed the door on her gushing. A glance at the drawing room revealed Eunice and Auntie had made their stamp here, too. Annette’s striking peacock blue silk draperies had vanished. Pale, insipid green hung in their place. He pursed his lips in growing anger, went to the sideboard and poured himself a steadying glass of port.

“About the wedding date, Garth,” Eunice bubbled. “Auntie suggests—”

He interrupted her.

“Where in hell are the draperies?”

She caught her breath at the harshness in his voice, and he watched her eyes dart from drapery to drapery.

“I took the liberty of—that is, Auntie and I thought—” She drew a quick breath and began again, this time with confidence, as though she’d been coached. “Since I shall be wife and mistress here very shortly, dearest, I took the liberty of replacing them. The draperies were—how shall I put it? Garish, perhaps. In poor taste.”

“I
liked them.”

It took the wind out of her sails, but not completely. With a surprising show of spirit, she said, “You liked them because
she
picked them out. Oh, yes, Garth, the servants left me in no mystery about
that.”

She reddened at her own daring. Irritably, he took a swallow of port. It proved to be as sour as his feelings for Eunice. He set the wine aside.

It was time to take a stand. That or be forever ruled by a triumvirate of Auntie, Eunice and Mouse.

“Eunice, hear me and hear me well! You may change the window hangings hourly, for all I give a damn, and shuffle the furniture like cards. But there is one thing you will
not
do. You will
not
interfere with the children who live in this house.”

Her small eyes widened in genuine surprise. She drew a trembling breath.

“But—but—they were only servant children. I was only trying to make our home more perfect, Garth. Someday
we’ll
have children. We shan’t want them associating with that saucy little girl or with Trent.”

He could hardly contain his anger.

“And what is wrong with Trent?”

She took a deep breath and plowed in.

“His low-class origin is all too apparent, Garth. He has no manners. His speech is no better than Toad’s.” She shuddered delicately. “I shouldn’t wonder that he harbors some dreadful disease.”

McNeil seethed. Biting back a hot retort, he grabbed the glass of port and downed it without tasting. His breath came in harsh draws. He mustn’t defend Trent. If Eunice thought him low-born, so much the better. Still, it rubbed him raw. Her snipes at Annette had been bad enough. But to criticize his and Flavia’s son? He longed to throttle her. He wrestled with his temper, not speaking until it was under control.

“The children will stay, Eunice.”

Her eyes fell away. Her mouth trembled, then settled into peevish sulky lines. Lifting her skirts, she rustled to the door. She paused, hand on latch.

“As you say. Garth. But as for that
woman,
she’ll trouble us no more.”

He looked up, questioning.

“She has wed the earl of Dunwood. In Baltimore.”

McNeil was stunned. So Annette had gone and done it! Willfully burning her bridges. He drew a quick breath. Damn her headstrong ways!

Eunice went on. “All of Williamsburg gossiped of it, Garth. A woman marrying a man who is young enough to be her son. You may be certain the earl’s mother, Lady Dunwood, put up a fight. Lady Dunwood still opposes the match and privately threatens to have the marriage annulled—if immorality can be proved on the part of the baroness, by testimony other than servant gossip.”

Garth’s eyes narrowed.

“What sort of testimony?” Hating the thought of Annette’s marriage, he hated this even more. Annette boxed in, under threat.

Eunice colored. With a stiff reluctance she said, “Proof that the baroness has given birth to an illegitimate child.”

Garth snorted in relief.

“Annette Vachon has never given birth.”

Relief seemed to surge through the stiff figure facing him, too. “Oh! Oh, I’m so glad,” she cried out in a happy rush, picking up her skirts and rustling across the room to peck his cheek. “I was afraid that Trent might be —” She blushed, retreating toward the door. Seemingly overwhelmed by her own thoughts, she turned, opened the door and bolted.

Garth stared after her, puzzled. It was several moments before daylight broke through. Had Eunice thought that Trent was . . .  that he and Annette had. . . ? Idiot woman!

He shrugged it off. He started for his bedchamber, but halfway up the stairs he heard an Indian raid commence in the distant kitchen. Whoops, cries of welcome and the excited shrieks of children split the air like tomahawks. With a happy grin he descended the stairs, strolled down the long corridor and into the chaos.

Trent was already chasing the kitchen cat. Sarah Bess knelt on the floor, setting up toy soldiers and scolding whenever Trent and the cat leaped through her army, scattering soldiers.

“Cap Mac!” Trent shouted, diving for his arms. McNeil caught him, threw him toward the ceiling, caught him again and hugged him, kissed him. Trent shrieked his delight. The imp chattered in a dozen unrelated directions and then demanded to be put down. McNeil obeyed.

“Does the man like
me,
too, Mama?”

Garth turned. Fair-haired Sarah Bess stood staring at him shyly, one finger lost in her rosy mouth. He laughed, went to her and scooped her up. She was a slight thing, long-limbed and skinny like Mab. No sooner was she up in his arms than she wriggled to be set down.

She scooted across the kitchen to Mab, hiding in Mab’s apron. “Mama, I’m hungry!” Trent ran to Mab, too. “Mama, I’m hungry!” he demanded.

Mama?
Garth was surprised, then pleased. The little monkey was evidently devoted to Sarah Bess, aping everything she said and did. Well and good, he thought cynically. Mab could be “Mama” to Trent. It would keep Eunice and Auntie in a state of royal confusion.

* * * *

A week after he returned, Garth ran into Annette. She was coming out of the milliner’s shop on the Duke of Gloucester Street just as he popped out of The King’s Arms tavern. She was on the arm of her fancy parrot, Lord Dunwood. Marriage seemed to have brought the parrot into full feather.

He’s become a goddamned bird-of-paradise,
McNeil thought as the gaudily dressed Lord Dunwood strolled toward him, automatically extending a hand in greeting.

“Charming to see you again, Captain McNeil,” Dunwood offered, with only a lightning-quick glance to check Garth’s hand for cannon grime before pumping it. McNeil smiled sourly. Had he known, he’d have stopped off at the arsenal.

“Charming,” he agreed.

Annette would not look at him. Her lips were pursed tightly. When politeness required that she return his own terse greeting, she did so without wasting a syllable. And rather than look into his eyes, she fastened her gaze on his chin. Irritated, he stooped slightly, trying to intercept her line of vision. She jerked her head away.

“May I offer my congratulations on your marriage, Lord Dunwood.”

The parrot’s hat feather bounced.

“Indeed you may!” he said, his chest puffing in pride. “And I thank you, Captain McNeil. My
wife
and I are here for the spring horse racing.” He sent Annette a fond, doting look, and Annette smiled charmingly back at Dunwood. “My
wife
and I brought two horses down from Baltimore. I daresay our Maryland filly will give Virginia fillies a run for the money, haw, haw.”

McNeil made the expected reply. Dunwood rambled on, wearing out the expression “My
wife
and I.” The phrase grated on Garth’s ears. When Dunwood paused for breath. Garth swung angry eyes to Annette.

“I trust you are exceedingly happy, Lady Dunwood?”

The parrot preened, proudly awaiting her answer.

Annette’s dark eyes flashed with fury.

“Yes! Exceedingly.”

Immediately, she took Dunwood’s arm.

“Darling, I’ve a silly little headache,” she said. “Could we return to North England Street?”

Dunwood nearly swooned with concern over her headache, and McNeil bit back a malicious offer to run for leeches and bleed her immediately. Dunwood ushered Annette into the waiting chaise as though she were made of porcelain. The chaise creaked as Dunwood got in after her. Wheels squealed a single complaint, then began to roll. Annette rode off without a backward glance.

McNeil strode home in a vile mood, blaming the hollow niggling feeling in his gut on the oyster pie he’d downed; that tavernkeeper had always been one to pass off yesterday’s oysters as today’s.

His mood suffered no improvement when he reached home and found himself met at the door by cook, who had an irritating request.

Cook’s daughter and son-in-law were ill with the ague. Cook’s grandsons needed tending. Could cook bring the little boys here to live for a few weeks?

“Why not,” Garth snarled. “The more the merrier! There’s nothing I relish more, after a night’s drinking, than little screaming devils running up and down the house!”

Cook looked at him calmly, absolutely unruffled. Service to two generations of McNeils had left her immune to McNeil tempers.

“It’s settled, then, sir,” she said. “The little ones can sleep with me in my bed. Thank you very much, Captain.”

Garth glared at her. “Perhaps, cook, after you’ve settled them in, you’d like to take a staff and lantern, and go hawking the streets of Williamsburg shouting, ‘Come one, come all. A free living is to be had at Captain McNeil’s!”

Calmly, she pursed her lips. The look he got from her was the same look he’d got often from her when he was a schoolboy.

“Master Garth,” she said firmly, “your attitude wants mending.”

* * * *

Garth avoided being pinned down to a wedding date with all the nimbleness of a seasoned sailor scrambling in and out of a ship’s rigging. His excuses were beginning to sound feeble even to himself. He dodged prods from Auntie and Mouse. And his own brother was no help in his nimble dance to postpone matrimony. There was blood in Raven’s eye; Raven was out for revenge. Raven had been outraged at Garth’s effort to rid Maryland of a certain bondwoman and was extracting his revenge in small pieces, as though to prolong his malicious pleasure.

Settled in his Williamsburg house with Maryann, Raven and Maryann came often to tea or dinner. He took special delight in setting off the ladies with his vicious: “Well, well, well. And have we set the wedding date, Eunice? Garth?”

Raven would sit there, wickedly savoring Garth’s discomfort as female voices fluttered to the subject like a flock of birds to a piece of suet in winter.

“Thank you very much, Raven,” Garth would mutter, “and go to hell.”

Raven’s handsome grin—not quite friendly— would flash.

“You’re welcome, Garth. And age before beauty.”

Wisdom decreed he should marry Eunice. The pack of women—Auntie, Eunice, Mouse— lent an air of respectability to his house, which in turn protected Trent.

He worried about Trent. He longed to officially adopt him. But if he adopted Trent now, in his bachelor status, he would draw unwanted attention. The evil-minded would whisper that Captain McNeil had spent too long at sea; he’d developed a taste for “boys.” Even decent folk would find such an adoption odd and would look at Trent with new eyes, speculating on his origin. If such trivial news should reach the ears of the duke of Tewksbury? He shrugged away a shudder. The duke was a shrewd, calculating son-of-a-bitch.