Love Alters Not (19 page)

Lifting Dimity from the saddle, Farrar beckoned an eager street urchin and commissioned him to take the horses to the livery stable and see them watered and rubbed down. Then he offered Dimity his arm and led her along the busy street. “There is a popular emporium a little way—” He stopped, his face lighting up. “Hilary!” His hand went out. “Jove, but I've not seen you—”

The young officer, dashing in his military scarlet, came up with an answering grin. Then, consternation dawned in the fine face. He flushed darkly, dropped his outstretched hand, and deliberately turned on his heel and crossed the street. Farrar drew back with an odd, shrinking movement, then stood motionless. Several passers-by stopped, gawking, and a youth giggled audibly. Dimity's emotions ran the gamut from shock, to horror, to a painful and overwhelming pity. Scarcely daring to look at Farrar, she saw his face dead white and a stricken helplessness in his eyes that, though swiftly banished, made her toes curl. She took his arm again and began to move on. She felt him start, then he was keeping pace with her. She ignored the mocking laughter that followed them, managed somehow to find her voice, and chattered about something, heaven knows what, until he began to offer polite monosyllabic answers and she recovered her wits sufficiently to urge that he let her shop whilst he went to his surgeon.

“I can scarce blame you for that, ma'am,” he muttered.

She shot another glance at him. His eyes devoid of expression now, he said with his usual calm assurance, “But I could not permit you to go about unescorted.”

Relieved by the return to normality, she argued, “Nor I permit you to suffer so. I know how gentlemen dislike to shop and I am no schoolroom miss, after all.”

“I'll own that.”

“Wretch!”

He smiled. “Still, it will not do.”

“Why ever not? One might think I was not to be trusted!” She could have bitten her tongue the instant the words were said. It was the sort of flippant remark she might have thrown at her brothers without a second thought, but to have said it to Farrar in view of their unhappy relationship was absurd. She was not usually foolish, and realized her slip might well be attributed to the overwrought state of her nerves, but she was mortified and prayed he would overlook it.

For a moment he was silent. Then he drawled, “I wonder why I should not do so? You seek to dispossess me of my home, fortune, and estates and, perhaps more dastardly, are attempting to foist off on me an obnoxious little hellion for my nephew.”

She may have brought that on herself, but she had tried to help him over some very rocky ground, and this was the thanks she got! Vexed and hurt, she attempted to jerk her hand away, but it was seized and held in a grip that she knew better than to fight.

“You charm my aunt,” he went on in that low, grim voice, “even as you provoke and perplex me. You appear a wanton jade at one moment, a lady of Quality the next.” They had come to the emporium, and he drew her to a halt and held her facing him in the curve of the bow window. “You came very bravely to my aid when I was confronted by savage dogs who would have reduced most ladies to hysterics and swooning. With shocking impropriety you crept out at night and I found you being made love to by that worthless cousin of—”

“He—”

Farrar put up a hand to stifle her indignant utterance, ignoring a large lady and two fat small girls who were staring at them through the emporium window. “You seek to poison a child's mind, by telling him the bitter truth about me, yet defend me to a justifiably irate captain of dragoon guards. You make it clear that I am the most repellent of men one minute, and in the next stand by me through—through a confrontation that must have been a most ghastly and shameful embarrassment for you.”

The trio in the window had been augmented by a sales clerk who was markedly disapproving. Her cheeks very pink, Dimity asked, “Are you quite finished, sir?”

“Almost. Mrs. Deene—if you seek to confuse me—by God, but you've succeeded! And I do not trust that which confuses me!”

“No,” she said, “but you kiss it willingly enough!” And she put her nose in the air and swept into the bustling interior.

Farrar drew level with the fat lady and her two goggling children and, removing his tricorne, bowed deeply.

“Luvaduck!” gasped the fat lady, drawing her children closer.

“A commendable sentiment, ma'am,” drawled Farrar, and followed Dimity.

She was inspecting a shelf of slippers. She took up a quite fashionable pair made of cream kid, with tortoiseshell buckles, high heels, and pointed toes. Farrar's hand closed over hers. She glanced up at him questioningly. His eyes grave, he shook his head. “Those will never do.”

A shop assistant, a short, rather timid individual, had made his way to them and looked at the tall gentleman curiously. A nob, beyond all doubt, but why was he interfering? The young lady had made a wise choice.

Farrar selected a pair of scarlet satin slippers with very high Spanish heels and a quantity of jet beadwork set off by glittering paste buckles. “Now these,” he murmured, “would look so well with that lovely blue gown.”

Dimity had to bite her lip, but managed to preserve her countenance and with dignity tell the astonished clerk that she would like to try on the cream pair.

She was led to a curtained alcove at the far side of the emporium. Directing a scolding glance at Farrar, she saw him talking to a young woman with bright yellow curls who looked up at him with undisguised admiration. ‘Shameless hussy,' thought Dimity in disgust, and told the assistant to kindly be quick with the fitting because her “brother” had an appointment with his doctor.

“A fine looking gentleman, if you'll forgive me saying so, miss,” remarked the clerk, kneeling and removing her riding boots with discretion. “I trust he is not ill?”

Dimity stared at the top of his balding head. “Hallucinations,” she said.

“Good gracious me! Does he suffer seizures, then?”

She wondered if the brassy-haired baggage was also managing to confuse the captain, and snapped, “Violent seizures. And one never knows when they may take him. The last time he was afflicted was during Holy Communion in the Cathedral. He fancied himself King Henry the Eighth, and stood up and commanded that the bishop and all the choir be taken out and burned at the stake.” She gave a smug little smile, picturing such a scene, and then became aware that the kneeling clerk was staring at her, open-mouthed. Recovering herself, she added, “So you'd best hasten. He's not been feeling just the thing this morning.”

The clerk's hands fairly flew. The shoes were judged a perfect fit. Dimity bent forward and whispered, “Have you any fichus?”

Replacing her boots, he nodded, his eyes very round.

“Could you please slip two of your best white ones, lace trimmed if possible, in with the shoes? Don't let my brother see, though. He does not approve.”

“Of—of fichus?” he whispered.

She nodded solemnly. “Says they are works of the devil.”

He gulped and shot from the alcove, clutching the shoes. Unwilling to miss ensuing developments, Dimity hurried in his wake.

The yellow-haired girl and Farrar were deep in discussion, apparently over the merits of a bolt of pink cloth. The assistant fairly tiptoed past, his apprehensive gaze glued to Farrar. Dimity came up and coughed slightly.

Farrar turned, raising a surprised eyebrow. “Can I believe it? Finished, so soon?”

The yellow-haired girl cast a glance of loathing at Dimity, who smiled sweetly at her and laid a hand on Farrar's sleeve. “I could not bear to think of you being bored,” she cooed.

The yellow curls tossed and the girl flounced off.

Farrar's eyes narrowed. “What are you about now? I vow you look so saintly we could put a surplice on you and you might sing with the choirboys!”

The clerk dropped the parcel he had hurriedly assembled, and had to start all over again. Dimity vanished into her handkerchief. Farrar suddenly cried, “Hey!” and struck his riding crop smartly on the counter.

The unfortunate clerk leapt into the air with a yelp of fright.

“The lady purchased shoes only,” cried Farrar, indignant. “What's all that other stuff you're slipping in there?”

Shaking in every limb, the clerk replied, “N-nothing, sir. Mi-mistake, do assure you. I'll—make all right…”

Under Farrar's stern gaze, he began to re-wrap the parcel.

Wiping tears from her eyes, Dimity asked a stifled, “Is there … some problem?”

“One might think you'd bought the whole store,” grunted Farrar. “The gall of the fellow! And he's slow as treacle. They should light a fire under— Egad! Down it goes again!”

Dimity was obliged to “blow her nose” and was occupied by this endeavour until Farrar had paid for the shoes, accepted his change, and ushered her out of the store.

Repentant, she sighed, “Oh, dear. I must have dropped my handkerchief. No, do not bother to go back. I know just where I left it.”

She made her way to the clerk, who was mopping his pale and sweating brow, and pressed a generous
douceur
into his shaking hand. “I do apologize,” she murmured, bestowing her most winning smile on him. “You tried.”

When she rejoined Farrar, he eyed her with marked suspicion. “Why have I the feeling there was more to that little transaction than I observed?”

“Probably because you were so entranced by some tinted curls that you suffered a lapse in your powers of observation,” she said primly, and irritated him by vouchsafing no further information, but chuckling to herself as they proceeded to the solicitor's chambers.

Mr. Norris, it developed, was in court, but if they cared to wait, he should be back in about an hour for the luncheon recess. Farrar left the documents with the clerk and conducted Dimity outside again and along the flagway towards the High Street, where was his surgeon's establishment. This was a pleasant white-stuccoed and half-timbered house, the smells inside, when the porter admitted them, reminding Dimity of Peregrine's long ordeal.

Watching her covertly, Farrar saw the merriment in her eyes replaced by the sadness he had glimpsed there once or twice. The porter showed them to a tiny waiting room, and they sat side by side on a rubbed leather sofa.

Dimity said, “I apologize for teasing you. This will be nasty, I expect.”

“I do not believe you were teasing me, madam. I think you were up to mischief again, and I'd give a deal to know what it was.”

She hesitated a moment, then, with a dimple, told him.

His jaw dropped. He stared at her aghast. “Why—you little vixen! If ever I—” He was interrupted by a slim, rather untidy gentleman of late middle age, with a kind mouth and gentle brown eyes, who came from an inner room and called him. He went off, slanting a glance of indignation at Dimity, but with a grin lurking about his mouth.

The minutes drifted past. No one else came in and the time began to drag. Dimity had once watched their surgeon sew up a gash in Piers' arm when the twins' reenactment of the Siege of Acre had become too realistic, and the memory of that scene was beginning to worry her when the doctor wandered in again. He peered around the empty room myopically.

“Which one of you is with Sir Anthony?” he asked.

‘Good heavens!' thought Dimity, and stood.

“Oh, dear. Did he not bring his man?”

“I'm afraid not. Is something wrong?”

“No, but—did you come by carriage, ma'am?”

“We rode.” She glanced at the riding crop Farrar had left on the chair and wondered if the man was blind.

“Very unwise,” he muttered, but apparently detecting her troubled look, gave a sudden huge smile and said with great jollity that there was nothing to worry about. “Might've been better had Tony had the sense to have brought a manservant and his carriage. Dog bites, y'know. Had to sear. Unpleasant business.”

She winced. “Yes. I shall go and hire a carriage at—”

“Devil you will!” Farrar stood in the doorway, straightening the ruffles at his wrist and frowning at the physician. He was pale, but said steadily, “Roger, you old gloom-monger, what are you at now? The lady already holds a poor opinion of me without your adding to it by making me out too weak-kneed to bear your clumsy stitchery. I am perfectly fit.”

Dr. Steel extracted a pair of bent spectacles from his waistcoat pocket, and affixed them to his nose. One lens drooped, and he tilted his head to accommodate that lapse, clapped a hand to his sliding wig, and surveyed his patient anxiously. “Yes, but you're not, you know,” he sighed.

“Stuff!” Farrar cuffed him gently and strode past to take up his tricorne and whip. “If you are ready, ma'am?”

Dimity said, “I was hoping you would be longer. My feet are—”

He gripped her arm. “Mrs. Deene, do not add to your deceptions,” he said,
sotto voce,
“I am a much-tried man.”

“As well as a conceited one,” she murmured as he rushed her through the door.

He maintained a brisk pace as they made their way along the bustling street, and rejected offers to buy a broom, to have his palm read, to have the pretty lady's palm read, to attend an auction of some prize pigs, or to eat two for the price of one at the new ordinary on the Winchester Road. They were almost to the livery stable when he was hailed by name and turned about, pushing Dimity rather roughly away from him, his jaw set, and the colour that had returned to his face, draining away again.

A tall, elegant gentleman, somewhere in the early thirties Dimity judged, stood leaning on an amber cane and fanning himself with his gold-laced tricorne. He had a strong, rather gaunt face with high cheekbones and a Roman nose. His complexion was dark, as were the thick brows that rose to sharp peaks over unusually beautiful grey eyes. The way in which he flourished his cane, and the excellence of his dark gold coat, primrose satin small clothes, and Mechlin lace cravat suggested the dandy; a suggestion the apprehensive Dimity thought belied by the determined jut of the chin and the firm mouth.