Love Alters Not (22 page)

Lost in thought, she paced along the brick pathway until her troubled reflections were put to flight by the appearance of a large poster clumsily supported by two sticks stuck in the lawn. Intrigued, she approached this flimsy arrangement and read the message that had been painted in oils, every word a different colour:

A wavering arrow pointed to the east side of the mansion. With growing trepidation, she followed the instructions.

*   *   *

The hot water was relaxing, and Farrar leaned his head against the back of the hip bath and closed his eyes. ‘Had I dreamed
that
would happen, nothing would have kept me from accompanying you.' How white and enraged she had looked. And how regal. She was a larcenous adventuress; a threat to all he held dear. It was utter folly to be thinking about her all the time. To even—Frowning, he tossed his head impatiently, but there was no point in denying her desirability; nor his attraction to her. She was the most brave, infuriating, beautiful, impossible, bewitching female he had ever met. What the
deuce
was it all about? God knows, he was not a fool, nor lacking experience with women. He'd had his share of
affaires de coeur
both in England and abroad. Even fancied himself in love a time or two. But never had he encountered the like of Mrs. Catherine Deene, with those long, slightly slanted hazel eyes that seemed always to hold a dance of mischief, and that yet could be so kind, so very tender and understanding. He reached to the chair nearby and with great care took up the small, stained square of lace-edged cambric that he had stolen from the boy. There was a beautifully embroidered letter “D” in one corner of the handkerchief, and if one sniffed very carefully, one could breathe the lingering essence of a sweet perfume. Carlton had said proudly that his kind aunt had bound a cut on his finger with “her own” handkerchief. Another little proof of the fallacy of it all! The “D” could stand for Deene, of course, but it was unlikely. Ladies usually had the initial of their Christian name embroidered on their personal linen …

He jerked awake just in time to keep his left arm from sagging into the water. Steel had said he must keep the wounds dry for a day or two. He replaced the handkerchief on the chair and applied soap to sponge.

Did she really care for Green? Why would she have kept quiet, had that been the case?—unless theirs was a secret relationship. But if that were so, why mention it at all? Unless she'd been too dazed that first day to know what she was saying … Scowling, he began to apply the soapy sponge to his broad chest.

He heard the door click open and felt the draught of cooler air. This would be Jordan, coming back with the large bath towel that had for some stupid reason been denied him. The man had taken his time about it.

A clear childish voice announced, “An' this is my uncle's bedchamber. You c'n see it's a large an' very nicely 'pointed room. He painted that picture over the desk. He's a very good painter.”

The sponge held motionless, Farrar sat frozen with shock.

“Wazzat?” piped a very young voice.

“Eh? Oh, it's a hip bath. An' you c'n see by the steam my uncle's 'bout to have a—” Carlton's bright face hove around the edge of the tub. “No,” he corrected with his engaging grin, “he's not 'bout to—he
is
having a bath. This is my uncle, Sir Anth'ny Farrar and I'm his nephew Carlton Farrar.”

Six boys, five small and one miniature, pressed in to view the exhibit.

His glazed eyes taking in this audience and the raucous kitten that struggled in his “nephew's” grasp, Farrar found his voice. “Carlton!” he roared. “What the
devil
do you mean by this?”

“You told me to use my 'magination.” Shaken but defensive, Carlton advanced and held out his treasure. “I got traded a kitten for a tour of Palfrey. You said—” But at this point he caught sight of the scar on his uncle's shoulder and gave a gasp. He had never seen a gunshot wound before, much less the horror that could be wrought by a pistol fired at close range, and he was so unnerved that he dropped his prize. Onto Farrar's soapy chest.

The kitten was tiny, soft, and affectionate. It was also possessed of some very sharp claws. When it suddenly discovered itself sliding down a slippery surface towards what smelled horribly like water, it unsheathed those claws—purely for braking purposes. The captain gave another roar, and instinctively sprang to his feet.

Cissie, having just returned from her parents' farm, had not been advised that Sir Anthony was having a bath at such an unusual time of day. She heard the outraged roars, followed by the sudden appearance of a stream of little boys, who scattered, whooping, from Farrar's bedchamber. She was a warm-hearted girl and, afraid that Carlton had done something dreadful, she ran to investigate. On the threshold of the room, she halted, stared, emitted a piercing shriek, and fainted.

“Good …
God!
” howled Farrar.

“My
kitty!
” screeched Carlton.

Farrar scooped the wet and madly swimming little creature from the bath and grabbed for the small towel in the nick of time as Dimity, her fears of some contretemps verified by the uproar, charged to the rescue.

“Oh … my…!” she gasped feebly, halting in the doorway.

Holding the towel before the most vital area, Farrar, scarlet, raged, “Carlton, confound you, get your creature and your tour out of my bedchamber!”

Clutching his kitten, Carlton effected a fast retreat, taking with him the miniature tour member who still stood gaping at the nude in the tub.

Dimity's eyes had found the scar. In a desperate and ill-advised attempt to protect his chastity, Farrar swung around, thereby presenting her with a view of his broad back, slim waist, tapering flanks and long, muscular legs. She noted absently that the bullet had torn right through, but her attention was (disgracefully) fixed on his trim buttocks. She thought, ‘My heaven, his body is beautiful!'

“What a'God's name are
you
doing in here, madam?” gritted Farrar, almost whipping his shield behind him until he realized the mirror would likely complete his exposure.

Dazed, she murmured foolishly, “I—did not pay you for my … shoes.”

“Blast and dammitall! NOT NOW!”

A gasp behind her recalled Dimity to her senses. She whirled to find that Lady Helen, her jaw sagging, had joined the spectators. With considerably belated propriety, Dimity threw her hands over her eyes.

“I—thought you were murdering someone,” said my lady faintly, also mentally approving her nephew's magnificent physique, but wincing at the ugly, puckered scar.

“You are only a
trifle
premature,” snarled Farrar.

Cissie stirred, wailing.

“Will—
everyone
—have the goodness to—depart the public bath…?” requested Farrar between his teeth.

Dimity peeped through her fingers at my lady, and together they bent to aid the sniffling maid from the premises, passing Farrar's goggle-eyed valet, who ran up, a large bathtowel over his arm.

Before they reached the stairs, Dimity was giggling. Lady Helen strove, but was soon joining in, and Cissie was unable to escape the contagion. The three women succumbed and laughed until they wept, and were obliged to sit together all three, wiping their eyes on Cissie's apron.

“But—how charming,” drawled a well-modulated male voice.

They looked up as one, to behold a tall dark gentleman, impressive in black and silver, bowing from the foot of the stairs.

Cissie whispered, “Oh,
my!
And I thought Sir Anthony was handsome!”

Dimity thought, ‘Good heavens! Pity the lady who gives her heart to this one!'

Lady Helen gasped, “
Mathieson!
” and ran down the stairs to fling herself into his ready arms. “After all these years!”

Laughing, he swung her off her feet, his jet eyes gleaming between thick, curling lashes. “Otton, my lady. Otton! Would you give my grandsire a palpitation?”

“Rascal,” she said fondly. “How
lovely
to see you.”

He looked, or so thought Dimity, mildly astonished. “Then I am received? I am more often thrown out than welcomed, you know.”

She regarded him questioningly for a moment, then started as those fine eyes slipped past her. “Good gracious! My apologies—it was such a surprise. Mrs. Deene, I present Captain Roland—Otton. Roly, Mrs. Deene—er, stays with us.”

A flash of white teeth. He bowed. Straightening, he took Dimity's hand, touched it to his lips, and, his eyes widening as they lingered on the diminutive bodice of her gown, murmured, “How excellently well I timed my visit.”

“Do come and sit down,” said Lady Helen, “and tell me that you can stay. Captain Otton and my nephew were at University together, Mrs. Deene, and later they both fought in the Austrian wars.” She told a hovering footman to send refreshments to the withdrawing room, then led the way to that cool and spacious apartment. “You
can
stay, Roland?”

“My deepest thanks, but I must decline. I chanced to be in the neighborhood and somewhat out of temper, so—” a graceful gesture, the fascinating grin lighting the dark, aquiline features “—I came to renew acquaintance and recover my equilibrium. And what could be more soothing to a ruffled male than to discover you lovely ladies so merrily occupied?”

My lady directed an amused glance at Dimity's mischievous face. “Just a small household contretemps,” she explained. “What was it that disturbed your temper, Roland?”

Leonard came in, followed by a footman carrying a well-laden tray. The butler's countenance was without expression, but, quick to sense the moods of others, Dimity thought that he did not approve of the new arrival.

“Oh, it is these confounded dragoons who flood the countryside,” said Otton. “If I've been detained once twixt here and the mighty metropolis, I've been detained a dozen times.” He accepted a glass of wine. “And thrice searched!”

“Dreadful!” said my lady, offering the plate of biscuits to Dimity. “One might suppose we lived in an armed camp. The Palfreys has been searched twice, and yet another troop came only this morning.”

Very conscious of the parchment in her bodice, Dimity echoed, “This morning? Whatever did they want, ma'am?”

“Oh, it seems an unfortunate rebel gentleman is in the locality, and they are convinced some family hereabouts has given him sanctuary. As though any would dare do such a thing.”

His black eyes alert behind their drooping lids, Otton was watching Mrs. Deene's suddenly white face and the hand that trembled as she nibbled her biscuit. “You would be surprised, my lady,” he murmured, as the door closed behind the servants. “This area fairly swarms with sympathizers for the plaid and thistle. Indeed, I was given to understand the military have their quarry cornered, and do but bide their time before hauling him in, together with an even bigger fish.” He thought, ‘Aha!' as the girl's wide hazel eyes shot to him and, with the smile that he knew was hard for any female to resist, he added, “I'll own that for my part, any assistance I could render the poor devil would be willingly given.”

It seemed to Dimity that those velvety dark eyes held a message. But if she erred, heads would roll, her own among them. She looked down and made no comment.

Lady Helen, however, darted a nervous glance to the door. “Let us not speak of such tragic events. Goodness knows, we've had enough of sorrow.”

Otton put his glass on the low table, stood, and crossed to drop to one knee before her and take up her hand. “What an insensitive clod I become. I heard about Harding. My dear, I cannot tell you how sorry I am. He was a splendid fellow.”

“Yes. He was. And you are very far from insensitive. Thank you, Roly. Now,” she managed a bright smile, “we see so little company these days—pray tell me of the news from Town. How is the temper of the king? Are the ministers still fighting to take poor Sir Robert's place? Will there, do you think, be war with France?”

Laughing, he came to his feet and raised a pair of shapely white hands. “
Peccavi,
ma'am, I implore. I shall answer all your questions, but you must first satisfy one or two of mine.”

‘They are old friends,' thought Dimity, ‘and will have much to discuss.' She begged to be excused, adding, “I must find Carlton, for he really has been very naughty.” Escorted to the door by the dashing captain, she received a blinding smile from him and a grateful one from her hostess.

When she was gone, Otton returned to Lady Helen. “Tell me,” he said, patting her hand, “how is Anthony?”

The smile vanished from her eyes. “Quite recovered. Physically, at least. But—I think he will never get over the shame of it, Roly.”

“Poor fellow. Lord knows, we all make mistakes.” He saw her distress and changed the subject at once. “Now, what's this I hear about a fire? Did your lovely old village church burn down? Whatever do you do on Sundays? Stand in the rain?”