Miss Delacourt Speaks Her Mind (2 page)

She should have stayed with Grandaunt Regina rather then subject herself to Sir Anthony’s company. But no, her grandaunt, the dowager duchess, would insist that she attend the endless balls, routs, and soirees replete with the glib of tongue and faint of heart.

Dejected, Ginny laid her head against Nan’s. She would not have been able to get through the last few weeks of a rather humiliating London season without Nan, not to mention the last three years. She was more companion than servant, despite being four years younger than Ginny, and they had been together since the vicarage days when Ginny’s father had been alive.

Best not to think about home now, she thought. Ginny sighed and checked Nan’s cheek. Goodness, she felt warm, even feverish! Most likely she was overheated from being cooped up in the carriage for the better part of the day. Ginny loosened the ties of Nan’s cloak to let in some air.

“You should be restored to your roses by nightfall, Miss Delacourt,” a deep voice drawled.

Startled, Ginny glanced into the languid gaze of a pair of penetrating blue eyes. She could determine no other sign of Sir Anthony’s wakefulness. His hat still teetered at a jaunty angle along his brow. Against his silver-striped waistcoat his hands were still. Even the steady rise and fall of his chest indicated that he slept.

Flustered, Ginny busied herself with Nan’s cloak fastenings. “I should be glad to get Nan home and into her own bed. I fear she is not feeling well.” She settled Nan against the cushions, then made a point of staring out the window to indicate she was not interested in conversation.

“If I didn’t know better, I would think you were the abigail, Miss Delacourt”

“And why is that, sir? Is it my gown or my lack of gentility that most betrays me?” Her voice held a particle of censure.

Sir Anthony arched a brow. “Why, neither,” he answered, in some surprise. “However, I find your costume charming.” He smiled, a lazy, one-sided affair, then reclaimed his hat and placed it firmly over his eyes.

“I see. As you reserve judgment on my gentility, may I inform you that even amongst the fashionable, there are some who deign to treat their servants as human beings? My mother was one such, and she was the beloved niece of your grandmother, the Dowager Duchess of Marcross.”

“Yes, I believe your mama was a Wembley,” he commented into the curly brim of his hat. “Hers is a very fine name.”

“If what you mean by that remark, sir, is that my name leaves something to be desired, why do you not simply say so?”

The impudent man lifted his hat, regarded her for a moment, and replied, “Clearly, there is not the need” He let the brim of his hat fall once more over his eyes.

Ginny fumed. He had insulted her family name and had insulted her as well. And he had been so polite throughout. The man was a charlatan. Why, even his air of languid repose was an affectation.

“No response, Miss Delacourt?” Sir Anthony drawled.

Ginny was aghast. Why, the man didn’t even have the decency to remove his hat when conversing. Hefting her reticule in her hand, she considered lobbing it at his arrogant head, but owned that even her belief in unrestrained communication could not uphold such a hoydenish act. Ashamed of herself, she moved to place the reticule by her side, when the carriage lurched and the bag was sent flying across the velvet interior, smack into the center of Sir Anthony’s high-crowned hat. There was a crunching noise followed by a loud thunk as the reticule bounced off his hat into the carriage squabs, coming to rest against his shoulder.

Sir Anthony did not move.

Ginny gasped. He was unconscious. No-dead! There was no other explanation. A man simply did not sit still through such an assault, not when the weapon was a reticule containing scissors, a flask of rose water, and a bottle of Denmark lotion.

Her former indignation forgotten, Ginny leaned closer to Sir Anthony and searched for signs of life. The silver threads of his waistcoat still wavered. She trembled with relief. With great care, she put an unsteady hand to his hat and lifted it from his brow.

Sir Anthony regarded her out of one eye. “Would you be so kind as to leave it be?” He reached behind him and restored the reticule to her. “You wouldn’t want to be without that”

Ginny jumped and let the hat drop with a thud. Odious man! He was polite to a fault. If having sophisticated manners meant letting her Nan die of fever, she would have none of it.

“By the way, Miss Delacourt,” Sir Anthony mumbled, “hadn’t you better attend to your girl?”

“Whyever do you ask, Sir Anthony?” Ginny replied, feeling haughty.

“Why, she looks as if she is about to launch her breakfast,” he drawled with a smile.

While Ginny fussed over Nan, Sir Anthony studied Ginny through the hole she had made in his hat. She must have had a loaded cannon in that dratted bag. Nevertheless, he had to admire her spirit. She had bottom, spunk. She was an original. He groaned inwardly. No use wrapping it up in clean linen, she was a hoyden. In point of fact, she was the perfect choice to guard Grandmama’s roses. No doubt she was a whirlwind of destruction. He had a vision of obliterated blight, eradicated black spot, and coshed beetles.

She had been under Grandmama’s thumb far too long. Someone ought to marry the girl and save her from turning into a shrew and then an out-and-out virago like his grandmother. That is, somebody other than himself.

His scrutiny of the girl became more intense. Was she aware of Grandmama’s intentions? Surely Ginny was not so dim-witted to believe the dowager’s prattle about roses. Perhaps she was not only aware of Grandmama’s plans to throw them together, but party to them as well. The thought made him squirm.

Ginny must have noticed how he shifted about, for she regarded him with surprise. “Oh, Sir Anthony,” she said with relief. “You were so silent, I feared you might have been injured after all”

Guilt nudged him out of his negligent sprawl. “Not at all. Truth be told, I was lost in contemplation of roses”

“Truly? Do you admire roses?” She seemed pleased.

“Not especially.”

“Oh”

The lack of pleasure in the chit’s voice had made a hole in his detachment. Exasperated, he turned his gaze out the window with a groan.

“You are hurt!” Ginny settled Nan against the squabs and took up a seat next to him. “Here, turn about and let me see.”

Sir Anthony presented her with his profile. “Miss Delacourt, pray be at ease. I have sustained no injury. Now, would you be so kind as to attend to your abigail?”

There was a tiny pause, then a rustling of skirts as Ginny did as he asked.

“Sir Anthony?”

“Yes, Miss Delacourt?”

“Nan feels a bit feverish. Would it be out of our way to stop at an inn so she may rest?”

Sir Anthony consulted his watch. Past luncheon. “It is getting rather late, but heaven knows it doesn’t matter what time we pull into Dunsmere. I believe the Swan and Flute is just ahead. We will stop for tea and perhaps consult a physician for the unfortunate Nan”

“That is kind of you,” Ginny said, her voice grave and thoughtful.

Kind? What would make her say such a thing? He was merely doing what was necessary. Any gentleman would have done the same. “Not in the least. Your servant, as always, Miss Delacourt”

She cocked her head. “Do you always say just the right thing?”

“I beg your pardon?”

“There. You did it again! I provoke you; you are polite. I compliment you; you are polite. I suppose if I were to drink myself silly at the Swan and Flute and dance on the table with my skirts over my head, you would still have that prim, polite smile plastered to your face”

Sir Anthony broadened his smile. “I shall be sure to bespeak a private parlor in the case you feel such an urge.

She threw up her hands in exasperation. “Does nothing ruffle you?”

Sir Anthony considered. “My personal grievances are not meant for the ears of such as you” However, he could think them. Religious fanatics. Rose fanatics. Fanatics who flung reticules at the heads of unsuspecting gentlemen.

“I suppose it would not be polite to mention them to, perhaps, a vicar’s daughter?”

“That is correct. Even were you not, I would not deem it in good taste”

“To whom could you mention them without risking a scratch on that fashionable veneer of good breeding?” She gave him a glittering smile.

Sir Anthony’s, in return, was freezing. It was the same smile that had his tailor, bootmaker, and hatter on the run. “Have you something against good manners, Miss Delacourt?”

“No. Against hypocritical, self-serving lords who always remember to say `please’ and `thank you’ when passing the butter boat, but who let the poor go cold, hungry, and ill clad, yes”

Sir Anthony was taken aback. Surely she was painting him with the same brush as some of the more selfindulgent nobility littering London. He had every right to feel angry, but one could not scold the gently bred as one would a groom or a tailor. Besides, it was difficult to determine how she would respond to a tonguelashing. The tailor usually fled out the back door and did not benefit from it.

With great effort he curbed his speech. He had learned long ago good breeding made up for many lacks. He would desert his personal code for nothing: not to earn another’s approval, not to save his own life, and certainly not for this slip of a girl who looked at him with such determination.

With a rap of his cane to the roof of the carriage, Sir Anthony found the only safe response. “I shall inform the driver of your wish to stop at the next inn.”

“Have you no reply to my rude words, sir?”

Sir Anthony smiled with amusement. “Could it be you are purposely provoking me?” No answer. The woman could try the most placid man’s patience! Which he was not. Perhaps he should change tack. “Miss Delacourt. It is the duty of a gentleman to remain one, even in the face of his greatest challenge”

Ginny left off her ministering to the sleeping Nan. “And what would you say presents you with the greatest challenge to your code of manners?” she asked with great interest.

“A shrew, Miss Delacourt. I find I cannot abide a shrew.”

Ginny’s eyes grew very wide. “Are you calling me a shrew, Sir Anthony?” She looked as if she would be glad to learn that was precisely his intention.

“I would never do so, madam, for I am never rude.” At least, not out loud.

She dropped her gaze to her lap. “No. I don’t suppose you are. There is something to be said for speaking one’s mind, however”

Sir Anthony could make very little of that response and was glad when the carriage ground to a halt.

“This can’t be the Swan and Flute!” Ginny exclaimed upon alighting. “I daresay Beelzebub himself wouldn’t set foot in the place”

“Then we shan’t invite him in, shall we?”

Ginny looked at him, her eyes rounded with surprise. “Why, that remark skated perilously close to sounding surly, sir.” She smiled, a delicious pink curving of the lips.

“A regrettable oversight,” he said, biting back an answering smile. “Pray, forgive me.”

Leaving the abigail in the care of the driver until a room could be procured, Sir Anthony offered Ginny his arm and they headed into what he suddenly recalled to be the most disreputable establishment in all the county.

It was a good thing the girl had a sense of humor. She was going to need it.

Ginny was wrong. The Swan and Flute was everything Beelzebub could wish. It was dirty, derelict, and dingy with the accumulated dregs of society: regulars who never left, who hadn’t moved in about twenty years, from the looks of them.

Every corner of the room seemed to sport a leering, toothless smile fixed to the pasty faces of ne’er-dowells, knaves, thieves, and murderers. Ill at ease, Ginny picked her way among overturned chairs and puddles awash with something foul. She fixed her gaze to the center of Sir Anthony’s well-dressed back. It was too disconcerting to look into the overbright eyes of the locals.

One of them waved his tankard at her. “Hey, missy, you can do better than that bit o’ blood.” He winked and passed out, spilling his ale in a great puddle on the floor. A filthy dog appeared from nowhere and lapped it up. With an ecstatic wave of his tail, he disappeared into the muck from which he had come.

Ginny shuddered. How could she take tea in such an establishment? Why, the odor of the place was enough to make one gag.

Sir Anthony must have sensed something of her thoughts, for he stopped and subjected her to close scrutiny. “Is something wrong? You look a trifle pale”

“Do I? Sir Anthony, does this place not seem to be all that it should?”

Sir Anthony looked about him with some surprise. “It looks precisely the way such establishments do. Oh, perhaps this one is a bit worse than some, though it is a sight better than others I’ve seen”

“You’ve seen worse? Than this?” Ginny could not believe it was so. She sensed he was once again glossing over the truth.

Perhaps that was why he took her hand. “If you are frightened, we could leave. We should be to Bedford in another few hours or so”

“Oh, no,” she protested. “I am persuaded it would be best to secure the opinion of a physician for Nan first” She felt braver with his strong fingers curling about her own.