Patrica Rice (21 page)

He wasn't certain if he imagined it or not, but a bleak shadow seemed to cross Cecily's face. A moment later she was rising from the seat and picking up her duster. "There is little more to see. You must rest for now. Uncle Quincy's pleurisy got worse when he tried to rise from bed too soon."

He wasn't any feeble Uncle Quincy, but he was in no hurry to be thrown from this extremely pleasant situation, either. Peter nodded obediently. "Might I have something to occupy my mind if you will not linger to talk with me? The book that was here earlier, perhaps?"

"Lady Honora must have dropped it," Cecily stated flatly. "I cannot imagine why else it would have been here; it's extremely dull reading. I'll see if there isn't something more to a man's tastes."

Peter could think of any number of things more to a man's tastes than a book, but he rather thought it might be impolitic to mention them. That wouldn't stop him thinking about them, though, and planning some means to put them into action.

Once Cecily had returned with a tome on the hunting activities of Sussex and left again with a busy air, Peter swung from the bed and sought his land legs again. After months at sea it had felt much like this to walk on land. He hadn't realized a meager knot on the head and a fever could drain a man's stamina so.

His breathing was still ragged, but whatever miracle brew the little maid had been feeding him seemed to be working. He could manage to stand without collapsing, and with a little effort, he could reach the window and look out.

There was little to be seen from this viewpoint. The sun had disappeared behind a cloud bank, and the children had evidently disappeared with it. The stretch of grassy lawn before the dense wilderness of trees seemed rather brown and neglected, but it was October, and he supposed by October lawns must don a wintry appearance. He had little experience of nature save for the sea, and it had been a long time since he had been in England in the fall. Still, the signs of neglect caused him to wonder along another angle.

Quite often noble houses had few funds to support them. Running a half-dozen estates and a high lifestyle depleted cash reserves rapidly. Could it be that the earl had died leaving his widow without the funds necessary to support their children and various households? That could explain the seeming lack of other servants besides Cecily and Hodges, the lawn's neglect, and even the parsimony of meals.

That might even explain to some extent Cecily's inexplicable tirade on men and wars. Perhaps the earl's heir had gone off to war and died and his estates had been left to a distant relative. Only this cottage might not have been entailed. It was an intriguing possibility, one he would like to explore.

He returned to bed with dreams of wooing and winning the Lady Honora, his mind circling the multitude of means to accomplish his heart's desire. He was a determined man, one who seldom let go of a goal without accomplishing it. A little lack of experience didn't deter him any.

Before he could open the pages of the book that Cecily had brought to him, Peter closed his eyes and fell asleep with a myriad of ideas dancing though his head.

When next he woke, Peter had the distinct impression that it was late afternoon. The room had grown dimmer with the winter light fading into the west, but it was still light enough to discern the shapes of furniture and the presence of a shadow flitting about the far side of the bed.

He felt groggy from the nap, but any presence at all was of interest to him, and he turned eagerly in hopes of meeting the lady of his dreams again.

She didn't disappoint. She was always lovelier than he remembered, her smile soft and welcoming, her face a portrait of moonlight as she leaned forward and caressed his hair. He didn't feel the same sense of home as he had when Cecily touched him, only a mere ruffling of his hair, but it was enough to satisfy him for the moment.

"Lady Honora, I've been eager to meet you." Peter struggled to right himself in the bed while still preserving some sense of modesty. He remembered he hadn't taken advantage of his shaving kit, and he cursed himself vividly.

She held a finger to her lips and gave him a wickedly mischievous smile.

Peter glanced toward the doorway, half expecting Cecily and Hodges to appear, but he didn't hear a sound in the hall. Still, he understood her warning. Whatever was going on in this household, the Lady Honora wasn't supposed to be here.

"I'd like to thank you more properly for my care than I can from a bed. May I call on you once I am up and about?" he whispered.

She clasped her hands in evident delight, then blew him a kiss. Picking up her skirts, she glided toward the doorway. Reluctant to let her go, Peter called after her, "Can't you stay a little longer?"

The forlorn smile she offered when she turned back to him nearly broke his heart, and then she was gone, and he was alone again.

Punching his pillows into place and reaching for a candle, Peter cursed his own inadequacy in dealing with ladies and the unfairness of life to keep this one from his quarters. He knew that she was all a man could ask for in a woman. Somehow, he would have to set his sights on acquiring her.

And that meant getting up from this bed. It was all very well and good to lie about and pretend to be an invalid just for the pleasure of being pampered, but he obviously wasn't going to accomplish anything more by it. He needed to find out all he could about the Chelmsbys and Rosebud Cottage and Lady Honora. With the right information, he could set his course.

When Cecily next entered their patient's chambers, Peter was sitting in the chair by the window wearing garments retrieved from his bags and fully shaved for the first time in days.

She gasped at his appearance when he turned at her entrance. She had not imagined him quite so
...
She was at a loss for words as she met the steady glow of gray eyes and noted the chin set with determination. He was a large man, dwarfing the delicate chintz chair in which he rested. She was used to Hodges, but this was somehow different, and she feared to approach him.

"You should not be out of bed yet," she scolded, setting his tea tray on the table by the bed, carefully avoiding any physical contact. Just the overt masculinity of his presence was disturbing to an unfathomable degree.

Peter glanced at Cecily and felt this painting-world he inhabited slip to a different angle. He had never tried to imagine the inhabitants of the stone cottage in the oil. He supposed he would never have tried to picture the servants if he had. And he definitely would never have pictured one like this. He would have imagined them all to be a jolly, healthy lot, laughing and carefree, perhaps. Lady Honora had much to explain when he finally had a chance to pin her down. He had the insane urge to pull Cecily into his lap and cradle her in his arms and promise her everything would be all right.

"I would like to see the house, if you would not mind," was all he said.

Cecily wiped her hands on the apron she had donned before carrying the tray up the stairs. "I don't think you're strong enough yet. Perhaps tomorrow."

Peter's gaze was deliberately devoid of all emotion as he met hers. "I will need to leave on the morrow. Are my horses in good repair?''

Did he mistake, or did disappointment flicker somewhere behind the shadowed blue of her eyes? If so, she hid it in her nervous fussing with her apron.

"They are quite well, and Hodges has had your wheel fixed, but you will find you are not strong enough to manage a rig. You will damage your health and possibly the animals if you try to take them out on the morrow. Is there some pressing engagement that you must leave so abruptly?"

"I believe I have something that belongs here. I would like to fetch it and return it."

Startled, Cecily dropped the apron and turned her full attention on him. "Something that belongs here? How is that possible?"

"I cannot say. Perhaps you can tell me." That seemed almost an accusation, and Peter was surprised by his own words. He hadn't meant to say any of that at all. To mention the painting was to give it up, and he was strangely reluctant to do so. But matters had come to a standstill, and he was desperate for some means to shake himself free from this dream world and progress on with the real one.

"If I go outside, shall I find a griffin on the lintel and a rose on the shutters? It is too late in the season for roses on the south wall, I suppose, and it would be too much to ask to find toys in the window. ..."

Cecily dropped to the bed and stared at him as if he had taken leave of his senses. "The painting. You have the painting. How can you?"

"By walking into an art gallery and purchasing it."

"But we never sold it."

Her words sounded as much an accusation as his. Her incredulity was almost an insult. Peter wished he had the strength to rise and shake the truth from her, but his best weapon now was surprise. He had certainly accomplished that much, but her defenses were excellent. Accusing blue eyes focused on him, and he felt compelled to defend himself.

"Nevertheless, I bought it. If you do not care to give me a tour before I go, I shall request it of Lady Honora when I return. I can't say why, but the house fascinates me. I came out this way just to find it."

Cecily rose with an almost frightened expression as she stared at him. "The lady. Oh, no, that can't be. It's not possible. There is a very sensible explanation for all this. I'm certain it was the appraiser. It had to be the appraiser. He saw the painting and found some way to steal it. That's all there is to it. We must go to the magistrate and report him. I'll find Hodges. He'll ride into town ..."

Peter stood up and tried to halt her as she walked toward the doorway in a daze, but he merely succeeded in causing her to turn to him with eyes like bruised violets that made him flinch at his audacity. He wanted to gather her into his arms and reassure her that everything was all right, but he couldn't see that anything was wrong. If the painting had been stolen, he meant to return it. What was there in that to cause fear?

"If the painting was stolen, I shall report it when I return to town. If you are concerned that I'll not return it, I shall give you my direction. You may send the law after me if I do not return immediately. There is no need to trouble Hodges,"

Cecily stared at him as if he were a total stranger. "I cannot believe you have the painting," she murmured before hurrying from the room.

* * * *

She repeated those words to Hodges when he rushed to her side to inquire if something were wrong when she came down the stairs in a state of shock. It took a moment before her words sank in, but though he looked equally stunned, he recovered with a happy grin.

"The lady came through, she did. A wealthy nob he must be. I'll go up and get his direction. We can't sit about idle and wait for the lady to do all the work. You might ought to find one of those pretty frocks of yours. The lady means him for you, no doubt."

Cecily's horror widened her eyes until she saw the humor in it, and her eyes crinkled with laughter. "Oh, Hodges, you cannot mean it! Wouldn't poor Mr. Denning be terrified if he knew your plans! You said yourself he must be rich as Croesus to own thoroughbreds like those. Why would he saddle himself with a disintegrating cottage in the country and a sickly invalid when he could have his choice of any home or lady in the world?"

Hodges frowned his disapproval. "This is not just any cottage and you're not just any lady. He should be honored to be chosen. Perhaps I ought to break one of his legs so he has to stay long enough to appreciate what he will be gaining."

Cecily broke into gales of mirth, steadying herself against the kitchen table and finally collapsing into a chair when she took another look at the fearsome frown on Hodges' rugged visage.

"Oh, you dear man, whatever would I do without you? I cannot remember laughing so in ages." She wiped her eyes on the corner of her apron. "Break his leg, indeed! I doubt that even Lady Honora would consider that. Although if it was indeed she who caused the accident, she came quite close. Ahhh, Hodges, if only fairy tales came true, I could kiss him and he would turn into a prince and carry me away to his palace, or he would wake me and I'd find I was living in one.

"But I'm all grown up now, sir, and I know fairy tales are for children. So if you'll forgive me, I'll make his royal majesty his supper and we will hope that he does have the painting and is honest enough to return it. If the appraiser is correct, it should bring enough to mend the roof and still leave enough to live on for a little while longer."

Hodges puffed up into an irate caricature of himself as he heard this heresy. "That's just exactly the kind of thinking that brought all this down on us. The lady don't want us to sell the painting. Don't you see that? She brought you a rich nabob so you won't have to. He's a right enough fellow. It wouldn't hurt you none to turn him up sweet."

Still laughing, Cecily rose and bobbed a simple curtsy. "Yes, sir, right away, sir. The way to a man's heart is through his stomach, is it not? Let me fetch him one of my fabulous stews, and all will be well."

Hodges frowned as he heard her chuckles floating through the hall as she headed toward the cellar. He supposed it was a good sign that she was laughing again, but he wasn't one to sit and wait for something to happen. Somehow, he had to take matters into his own hands.

***

Peter was pleasantly surprised by the differences in the maid's appearance when she returned with his evening meal. She was smiling, and the laughter lit her eyes to a glorious blue as she set his tray beside the chair. She had changed into a simple frock of striped challis with traces of lace about the bodice and hem that he heartily approved of. He didn't know much about women's fashions, but this gown was feminine enough to catch his eye and hold it long enough to discover that the little maid had a handsome figure.

But he wasn't one for dallying with the servants, and he kept his hands to himself as she lingered for a while in his presence, questioning him about London and his family. Her voice was soft and cultured and somehow soothing, and he was quite certain he would be content to listen to it all day were he not impatient to get on with his plans.