Mary Blayney - [Pennistan 03] (16 page)

Garrett shook his head and Meryon could see his upset, but did not comment.

“I told the boy and his mother, as you instructed, that when he comes tomorrow there will be work for him in the stable. He seemed pleased, so pleased that he came back with me to talk to the head groom. He rode on the top with the coachman, but John Coachman reports the boy did not say a word.”

“Afraid of a cuff on the cheek, I expect.”

“Yes, I think his mother is a bully.”

“And that bothers you most of all.”

“Meryon, I can think of few things worse than being under the control of someone who takes pleasure in showing their power.” Garrett ran his hand through his hair and let out a huff of breath. “I think Mrs. Wilson’s husband ran away. He may be looking for work up north, but I do not think she will ever see him again.”

“I hope that what the boy earns here keeps him honest.” Meryon stood up. What Garrett told him confirmed his decision. “I want him to be my tiger. I will take the cabriolet out today and use one of the other grooms as tiger, but as soon as he is vetted by the head groom and the coachman I want him to serve me there. I’ll speak with the head groom myself.”

“I would not swear him honest, Meryon. If his mother tells him to steal he will, though I think it’s Magda the boy covets most of all.”

“He is welcome to take her to the park when his work schedule permits. Rexton often takes Magda with him when he and his tutor go out, but I cannot imagine the dog complaining about too much rolling about on the grass.”

Garrett agreed and excused himself as he had several
errands to perform if he wished to remain in his wife’s good graces.

Meryon sat at the desk and rearranged every piece of paper on it, wondering if the maid who cleaned might have misplaced the response he waited for. When every piece of paper had been scrutinized, organized, and carefully stacked, and still no reply appeared, Meryon decided that he would call on her personally. He sent for the coach and found Alan Wilson riding in the box with the coachman.

John Coachman insisted that the boy needed to learn the city from his vantage point. It was such a weak explanation that Meryon had no doubt that Wilson had somehow nagged John Coachman into letting him come along.

The coach wound its way to Bloomsbury without mishap, though it seemed to take longer than usual.

“Somebody is talking up the crowds, Your Grace,” John Coachman explained. The old man did not have to add,
And no good will come of that
.

Meryon put down the papers he had been reading and watched the groups spill by. Men and women, a surprising number of young men and boys. He wished he knew someone who would fit in, who could listen and report back whatever it was that would attract such a sizeable number of people in the middle of the day. The ragtag end of the group passed by, laughing and taunting one another, ready to break into a fight at the first temptation.

They kept to the side of the road, more interested in themselves than in the conveyances passing them, but no sooner had they gone by when some way behind Meryon
a firecracker exploded, then another, closer. The carriage rocked and a third exploded, closer still.

Too close for comfort, he thought, just as the carriage lurched forward. He braced himself with a hand on the wall, annoyed he did not have the reins, but the carriage steadied quickly. Thank God Signora Verano was not with him. The first good thing to come from her refusal.

The boy, John Coachman, the horses. Any one of them could be injured. The idiot troublemakers would pay for their prank if there was so much as a splinter. Meryon kicked open the door and jumped out before the two grooms who rode at the back reached the front of the carriage.

The footmen calmed the horses while John Coachman held the reins. Alan Wilson stood in the well with the coachman, looking nonplussed at all the commotion.

“You could have lost a hand,” Coachman shouted. “Then you’d be no good to the duke.”

“Better to lose a hand than have the horses bolt and break a leg,” the boy answered, with such calm one would have thought he tossed firecrackers every day.

When Coachman saw the duke he bowed. “Someone threw a firecracker and the wind blew it up here. Wilson caught it and tossed it up into the air.” Coachman shuddered at the near disaster.

“Heroic, Mr. Wilson.” Meryon climbed up so he was eye level with the two on the seat, though he did not climb into the box. So Wilson was his guardian angel after all. “Did you see who threw it?”

“No, sir, Your Grace. I smelled it and knew it for trouble.” The boy’s calm disappeared as he realized he was the
center of attention. “It was easy enough to catch and toss it up so it wouldn’t bedevil the horses.”

“The horses.” Meryon bit back a smile. “I think you like animals more than people, Wilson.”

“Most times I do,” he admitted without apology.

“Which is why you started work a day early. Coachman, be sure he has some supper before he goes home.” Meryon jumped down easily and went forward to see to the horses. The grooms were well trained and he stood to the side, arms folded, and let them do their work.

It took another few minutes before the horses were calm enough to move on. The other conveyances moved around them, their horses not at all upset, but then as Wilson pointed out, they were so old they were all probably deaf.

So much the better, Meryon thought, or someone would surely have been killed in the melee.

Meryon sat deep inside the carriage where he could not be seen as he considered the ramifications of what had occurred. Disaster avoided, yes, but it appeared that the crowds grew bolder or attracted toublemakers.

Their presence reminded him of the prizefights he’d attended with David. You could always find a group of scalawags mixed in with the gentlemen and country gentry. Those good-for-nothings only cared about fighting with each other or, at worst, picking pockets. If the city crowd attracted the same sort, worry was misplaced. But if they were the extreme of the political sort, then he would have to report it. He needed to know.

A few houses down from the Signora’s he knocked on the roof and called for Alan Wilson. “In the coach.”

Wilson climbed up and in with some hesitation and Meryon wondered how long it would take the boy to trust him. He did not seem any more impressed with his ducal rank than Signora Verano, and as it was with her, he would have to earn the trust. How odd that the two, so different, should see him the same way. Well, almost the same way.

“That crowd that went by before.”

“Close to a mob, they were,” the boy corrected.

“I want you to follow that mob and tell me what they are talking about. Mix in the front, the middle, and the last stragglers.”

“Why?” Narrow-eyed suspicion demanded the truth. It would take this one a while to learn not to question orders.

“I need to know if those firecrackers were a lark or something one step up from a riot.”

The boy nodded as if that explanation made sense.

“Taking me from the horses will cost you, Your Grace. I’m in training and time away will earn me a beating.”

“Not from anyone in my stable. We had a problem with that last year and I dismissed them all. This head groom knows how to treat the lads.”

“Not from him.” Wilson spoke as though the duke was no more than a stupid girl. “From my mum.”

“Do not tell her, Wilson,” Meryon said, stating the obvious.

“I told you, she can smell a lie.”

“Yes, you did.” His words were thoughtful. “In that case I think you should live in for this first week. You will learn the details of life in the mews and how I want work done. Tell your mother it is one less mouth to feed.”

“Yes, sir, Your Grace.” The boy’s smile welcomed him to the world of subterfuge.

Meryon pulled out a coin. “Report to me after the session tomorrow, and take this to your mother tonight. Tell her that I gave it to you for preventing an accident. That’s the God’s honest truth.”

“Yes, sir, Your Grace.”

The boy popped open the door, climbed up to speak to John Coachman, and leapt back to the ground, moving off at a slow run, heading toward Russell Square.

Meryon watched him go, confident that Alan Wilson could handle the situation better than anyone else he knew, except perhaps his brother-in-law. Now if only he was as sure that the boy would bring back the truth.

T
HE KNOCKER WAS OUT
on Signora Verano’s door. With a word to his coachman, Meryon climbed out of his carriage and raised the brass harp and let it fall with a satisfying thunk.

As the servant showed him into the blue salon Meryon realized that the last time he had come here he had been in a significantly different frame of mind. If he recalled the event, certainly Elena did too.

If he had any understanding of female sensibilities, an apology would have to come before anything else. He would think that the waltz had resolved any such disagreement, but she already thought his rank equaled arrogance and an apology could not possibly make things worse.

Signora Verano wore a round gown, its leaf green color accentuated by the leaves embroidered around the neckline. Even though her attire was informal she still
looked every bit as appealing as she had when dressed for the Regent. Meryon most definitely wanted her company, and not only in the park.

He bowed to her with dignity and then took one step closer. “This morning I sent a note inviting you to ride with me in the park today. Shortly after I had it delivered, however, I realized that it was presumptuous of me to think that our chance meeting at the draper’s and our brief time together last night, dancing the waltz, provided sufficient apology for my churlish ill manners the last time we were in this room.”

Her long silence made him feel like a fool. He thought that a well-crafted apology, despite the fact he had made it up on the spot.

Finally she pursed her lips and then spoke. “Thank you for the invitation, Your Grace. I am sorry that I am not free for a ride in the park until next Wednesday, but I would be delighted to accept for that date if you are free?”

“Next Wednesday. Yes, that would suit me, except that it is almost a week and too long to be without your company.” He waited to see if she would explain why her acceptance sounded so reluctant. Why she showed no pleasure at the invitation.

She walked over to the same painting by Canaletto that had bemused her before.

“I should have brought flowers.” He announced it deliberately to distract her from the painting. “Flowers are an essential part of any expression of regret.”

“Do you think so?” Elena abandoned the painting
and her indecision had disappeared. “I think sincerity is the most important part of an apology, which I might add I have not heard from you yet. You acknowledged the need for one but have yet to say the words.”

He stilled, then inclined his head, more irritated than contrite. Schooling his voice, he tried for the tone he used when he had had to apologize to his tutor, a tone he had not used for twenty years. “Please accept my apologies for the disgraceful way I spoke to you at our meeting in this room. I do regret it most sincerely.” He paused. “Are you satisfied with that?”

“No,” she said, laughing as if she enjoyed his discomfiture. “If you were truly sorry, Your Grace, you would have sent me a letter of apology, waited a day or so, and then invited me to go for a drive with you. This apology seems to be born of necessity and nothing more.”

“You look for insults where none are intended, signora.” Now he recalled that he had also been very annoyed the other night. He had forgotten. “Listen to me.”

Meryon crossed the room so that she could feel as much as hear what he had to say. “Last night, after we danced together, I admitted to myself that I wanted to see you again as soon as possible.”

The laughter in Elena’s eyes disappeared, but the softness was even more endearing.

“Signora, attraction is too tame a word for what I feel when I am near you.”

“Oh, thank you.” She put her hands together, her smile one of pure joy. “For a moment I regretted accepting your invitation, but when I catch a glimpse of your heart
I know there is nothing I want more than to know you better.”

Instead of coming even closer to him, of inviting his kiss, a look of regret replaced the smile and she stepped back, as though two steps would make her less a temptation.

“I look forward to seeing you next week, Your Grace, but I am to have a music lesson and do not wish to keep Signor Ponto waiting any longer. If you will excuse me.”

“Of course.” He bowed once again.

She escorted him to the door and waved to him as his carriage drew away. Halfway to Penn House Meryon recalled one of Garrett’s oft-repeated beliefs. “The brain and the body are too often in conflict. It is man’s greatest burden.” How could he have been married to someone as accommodating as Rowena and find this mercurial woman so attractive?

Elena Verano liked to argue. What he could not decide was whether that added to her appeal or not.

M
ERYON FOUND HIMSELF
too easily distracted by even the most inane reminder of Elena Verano. The odd accent of one of Garrett’s callers, the tune that one of the maids hummed as she wiped down the marble in the hall. By the time he arrived at the House of Lords he longed for a spirited debate even on the same tired subjects. He hoped today would be the final discussion and reading on the indemnity bill. Once passed, the bill would put to rest any liability for arrests made during the suspension of habeas corpus.