Midnight Bride (10 page)

"That is not to happen again. Not even if someone else offers. Do you understand, Hartley?" Charles asked. His voice was stern and harsh.

"Turning Methodist on me, Charles?"
The older man smiled maliciously. "What will our friends say?"

"No, but I do respect my sister's right to live here in peace. We shouldn't have come without her permission."

"But you told me you own the place." Hartley enjoyed nettling him. "Last night you said Elizabeth was trying to take it away from you."

Charles blanched. He cleared his throat. "You especially should know that you should not believe everything I say when I am in my cups."

"Do you mean you don't want her to get married so that you can sell off this place?" Hartley got up and walked closer to the fireplace, where a small fire smoldered. He poked it and turned around, his face carefully unconcerned.

"What are you talking about?" Charles asked, horrified.

"Oh, just a conversation we had last evening." Hartley walked over and looked him in the eye, his pale blue eyes clear and cold. His smile never reached his eyes. Charles's eyes dropped. He turned away from Hartley.

"What exactly did I say?" Charles asked hesitantly, afraid of what Hartley was going to tell him. He reminded himself that what a man said when he was drinking was often discounted. But that did not make him feel better.

"We discussed how unfair it was that your father had not left this estate outright to you. You mentioned it would come to you when your sister married." Realizing his advantage, Hartley went on. "You said if I could arrange a marriage for your sister, you would give me twenty-five percent of what you make when you sell this estate." He pulled out a piece of paper and handed to Charles, whose face blanched as he read his signature under the words.

"And you believed me?" Charles's voice reflected his astonishment.
"After what
Ì
apparently drank?"

"But, dear boy, you gave me your solemn oath on it, word of a
Beckworth
and all that." Hartley moved across the room and leaned casually against the back of the chair. "Do you mean you will not honor your debt of honor?" His tone reflected just the right amount of horrified amazement.

"No, no. But you must have known I was in no state to promise anything . . ." Charles let his voice trail off into nothingness, remembering how many times he had seen a drunken man bet his family's fortune on the roll of dice or a turn of a card. They had paid up; so must he. He gulped and controlled himself with effort. "Besides, Elizabeth never goes anywhere to meet anyone eligible." He breathed a sigh of relief as he realized the truth of his remark.

"So you said." His friend plucked a small piece of lint from his otherwise flawless dove-colored
pantaloons, looked at it coldly, and threw it in the fire. "You leave everything to me." He walked toward the door and then paused, his hand on the latch. "I think it might be best if the two of us remained after the others leave. What do you think?" When he looked at Charles, the faint smile on his face chilled the younger man.

"Of course."
Charles had never intended to leave with the others anyway. "Keep it to yourself, though. We wouldn't want the rest to change their minds." He watched Hartley leave the room and then took his first deep breath since they had begun the conversation as the door clicked closed. "Idiot, that's what I am. Now how can
I
get out of it without my sister finding out?" he asked himself. "I am never going to drink again." Hearing a noise in the hall, he took a deep breath and squared his shoulders.

He yanked the bell pull. "Where are my friends, Jeffries?" he asked when the butler arrived. Before long he had seen off all of them except Dunstan. With only a few complaints they had all agreed with him; the country was dull. With company returning to London, there would be more excitement there.

The person he had had the most trouble convincing was his best friend's brother. Charles had promised David Ashcroft he would keep an eye on his younger brother while the older was away on the Peninsula. Today he wished the brat at Jericho, Stephen insisted on gambling too deeply, drinking too much, and now he wanted to stay and see how Dunstan liked "losing to an innocent." Charles promised to keep him informed. "It won't be the same," Stephen complained. But finally when a friend suggested a little wager on who would reach London in the fastest time, he laughed and dashed out. "Catch me if you can," he told the others, accepting their wagers.

Within a short time the five young men had eaten a meal of bread and cheese, ordered their clothing packed, their horses saddled, and headed out toward London. Charles, who had gotten out of the race by reminding them of his obligations, gave the command to begin. As the five raced down the long road away from the manor, he longed to dash carelessly after them, his responsibilities forgotten. It was a state of mind in which he often lost himself.

A clock chimed somewhere in the background, and Charles looked up, appalled, "it's twelve."

"We've plenty of time for a game before luncheon," Hartley assured him, certain that he would have more of the
Beckworth
money in his pocket before the meal.

"Not now. You go ahead," Charles said quietly. "I have someone I must see immediately." He turned and walked quickly toward the stables. Hartley stood staring after him, an unpleasant look on his face. Then he turned and walked back into the house.

Charles continued on his way until he was out of sight. Then he quickly changed direction, heading for the back entrance to the kitchen.

"Jeffries," he called as he entered the kitchen, frightening the youngest maid so much that she dropped the meat pie she had been carrying. She burst into tears.
"Tell
her to stop immediately," Charles said, his voice harsher than he intended.

"Silly girl, be quiet," an older maid said and cuffed her on her head.

"No! You are not to hit her again," Charles commanded, holding the older girl's arm in a tight grip. She turned pale, fearing that he would hurt her. His grip on her arm was tight.

The younger girl stopped crying and ran to her friend's protection. "Oh, sir, she didn't mean anything by it. Cook will wallop me when she discovers what I have done," she explained.

"Do you mean my servants are beaten?" Charles demanded. Totally ignoring the two girls' protests, he yelled, "Jeffries."

"Yes, Mr.
Beckworth
," Jeffries said quietly, coming up behind him.

"Glad he
don't
look at us that way," the older kitchen maid said to the younger. The other girl nodded.

"Jeffries, that girl said Cook will beat her when she discovers that she dropped a meat pie. Is that true?" Charles drew himself up to his full height, an inch or so above six feet, and looked down at the butler, his face impassive.

"I didn't say she would beat me, sir," the young maid tried to explain to Jeffries. "He"—she pointed to Charles—"wouldn't let me explain. Besides 'twas our meat pie, for our dinner." Her face was mournful.

Jeffries did not say anything for a moment. He simply looked from the maids to his master. "You
girls,
find something to clean up this mess," he said quietly. "We will discuss it later." Hastily they made their escape. "I thought you would be in the library, sir. I sent someone to find you only minutes ago."

"Won't do, Jeffries.
You may have gotten around me for the moment, but I want an answer. Are maids beaten in my household?" From the time he and Elizabeth had been old enough they had made free use of the kitchen and lower regions of the house. As a result they knew of the rules his mother had laid down. No one was to be beaten; their wages could be docked, but no one was to suffer physical harm. Charles blushed as he realized he had allowed one of his guests to violate one of his mother's major edicts. He had allowed one of his servants to be taken advantage of; worse, he had not protected Susan as he should have.

The butler, never afraid of the man whom he had known since before he was in short pants, raised his chin and said proudly, "Miss
Beckworth
and Lady
Ramsburg
follow the same policy, sir. The girls are new; they joined the household when Susan did. I will do my best to inform them that they are not to fear a beating. Losing their favorite dinner will be enough."

"Make sure that Cook knows, too," Charles ordered. "Is my sister still in her morning room?"

"She was a short time ago. Shall I seek her out, sir?" Jeffries looked at his master with more interest. Only yesterday he had declared that the young master was a wastrel and nothing more. Maybe he was wrong. Perhaps Master Charles would mature to become the landholder his father had been.

"No, it will be quicker if I go myself." Charles crossed the room hurriedly. He paused at the doorway. "Tell Cook that we will be five less for dinner, will you, Jeffries?" He dashed up the stairs, taking the narrow steps two at a time.

"And I'm certain she will be as happy to hear that as to hear the meat pie for our luncheon was ruined," Jeffries muttered, knowing that the man had planned an elegant meal. Then the butler's face brightened. "With them gone, we will have our fill of Cook's best dishes."

Well before the appointed hour she had so reluctantly agreed upon, Elizabeth was in her morning room, dressed in the apricot sprigged muslin. She discussed the menus with her housekeeper, checked with Jeffries about Susan's departure, and ordered that the space under her bed be totally dusted.

When her housekeeper asked her about the latter, she stammered something about a shoe she had misplaced. With effort she kept herself under control, but as soon as her two retainers were gone, her face flamed. She drew a sheet of paper from the drawer, planning to write a thank-you note to Amelia and her husband. Staring at the white paper, all she could think about was the white sheets covering those wide shoulders, those long legs poking out of the hangings on her bed. A fierce longing engulfed her. Her hand tightened and she crushed the quill she held. Not even a stern discussion with
herself
could erase those memories.

Dunstan, like Elizabeth, had found that the memory of that morning adventure could not be forgotten. Elizabeth, despite her rounded charms, was not really classically beautiful; even Dunstan had to admit that she would never be acknowledged an
incomparable
by the
ton.
But she had
something that would never fade, an inner fire that delighted him. He could hardly restrain his impatience to see her again. By the time he decided he had waited long enough, he had forgotten her anger and had convinced himself that she would agree to be his.

When they met again, neither was prepared for the shock, the embarrassment. Dunstan had entered quietly, so quietly that Elizabeth, concentrating on her letter, had not heard his footsteps. "Good morning again," he said, his voice low and caressing.