Reckless Angel (7 page)

“Then you may bear Henrietta company in the morning,” Daniel said easily. “Once she has decided to smile upon the day.”

“I shall frown until at least ten of the clock,” declared Henrietta, entering the spirit of the discussion.

“To ensure that it is no later, I suggest you stand not upon the order of your retiring.” Daniel rose and lit a small candle waiting on the oak sideboard. “Y'are weary, child. Sleep well.”

She took the candle, waited for a second for a salute that seemed appropriate, but when it did not come and she received only a smile, she bade them both good night and left the parlor.

 

The damned animal wasn't up to his weight, Sir Gerald Ashby reflected for the tenth time in the last hour. He should never have bought from Wetherby. The man was no judge of horseflesh. Sir Gerald's spurs dug cruelly into his mount's lathered, heaving flanks and saliva frothed around the curb bit as the horse struggled to respond.

Sir Gerald cast his choleric eye around the London streets. He couldn't abide the city. Oxford was bad enough, but the capital was a foul-smelling den of thieves. And who the devil was this Daniel Drummond, Baronet, who had the disgraced Henrietta in charge? The letter had been civil enough, well penned, but uninformative as to the circumstances. If Sir Gerald had had his way, he would have consigned his whore of a daughter to outer darkness. But Lady Mary would have it that the girl could be corrected, and if she did not breed a bastard in nine months' time, mayhap Sir Reginald could be persuaded of her innocence. A tale could be told of a visit to relatives, and if the little harlot could be brought to a dutiful manner, all need not be lost. A spoiled maidenhead could be disguised on the wedding night…as long as there was no bastard. The Osberts would have it that Will had no part in Henrietta's disappearance, but Sir Gerald and Lady Mary knew better. Henrietta had been set on wedding with the lad these last two years and neither words nor whipping had had the least effect on her resolve. But if they'd been fools enough to elope, that could be easily dealt with. No court in the land would uphold a marriage between two minors against the wishes of the parents. Nay, 'twas only a bastard they need worry about.

A small boy ran into the lane in front of him and his horse shied, abruptly shattering these reflections. Sir Gerald cursed vilely and lashed the animal's underbelly with his whip. The horse screamed, reared, and one hoof caught the lad on the arm. The child went down to the cobbles amidst a great sound and fury as passersby surrounded him, yelling abuse at the rider
who was too busy trying to control his now frantic mount to take any notice.

Laying about him with his heavy whip, Sir Gerald Ashby managed to extricate himself from the tumult and set his horse to the gallop over the uneven cobbles. The wretched animal stumbled but by some miracle managed to keep his footing as they passed through Alder's Gate.

“Hey, you…you!” Sir Gerald bellowed at a woman standing in a doorway, a child in her arms, two others clinging to her skirts. “Where lies the Red Lion in these parts?”

“My lad'll show ye, sir,” the woman said, pushing one of the children, a mite no more than four years old. “Sam 'ere'll show ye, yer honor.”

The child ventured forth into the lane, then scampered ahead of the horse, turning down a narrow alley, coming to a halt outside the thatched inn. He pointed but said not a word. As Sir Gerald dismounted, the lad mutely held out his hand, his eyes dull in the dirty face. Sir Gerald cursed him, but tossed a farthing to the mired cobbles before striding into the inn, leaving his horse to the attentions of an ostler, who muttered in disgust at the animal's condition and the bloody weal on its belly.

Henrietta was in the privy parlor with Will, playing backgammon while they waited for Sir Daniel's return. They both heard the unmistakable tones bellowing from the hall. The board fell to the floor, the draughtsmen scattered, as Henrietta leaped to her feet. Her face was gray as she turned to face the door, one hand to her mouth. How could he have discovered her? Only one person could have betrayed her, and it was the knowledge of that betrayal as much as fear of her father that brought black spots dancing before her eyes and set her heart to pounding so violently she thought she would swoon.

The door crashed back against the wall. Sir Gerald Ashby filled the doorway, every corpulent inch of him expressive of a venomous rage that the two within both
knew he would make no attempt to control. “Whore!” The one word blistered in the sun-filled chamber. The door shivered on its hinges as he kicked it shut. “And your whoreson lover! Ye pair of fornicators.”

“Nay, 'tis not so,” Will stammered. “There has been no dishonor—”

“Don't ye lie to me, you young blackguard! I'll give you a drubbing ye'll never forget!”

“Sir, you cannot fault Will.” Henrietta found her voice, taking an agitated step toward her father.

“Ye'll have your share, make no mistake,” he said viciously. “But I'll deal with this whoreson first.”

“Sir, I'll not be called so.” Will, white-faced with outrage at the insult, drew himself upright. The next minute he fell to the floor beneath a hammer blow from Sir Gerald's fist. Will's chin cracked against the corner of the fender and he lay still before the cheerful crackling of the fire on the hearth.

“You have killed him!” Henrietta dropped to her knees beside the fallen figure.

“I've not begun yet. A taste of this will soon bring him to his senses!” Sir Gerald raised his heavy whip. “Move aside, girl.”

“Nay.” She looked up at him, appalled at the brutality that would horsewhip an unconscious man. “Ye'll not touch him. He's done you no injury.”

“You'd prefer to be driven away, would ye?” The long thong of the whip cracked. Henrietta's breath whistled through her teeth as the pain bit deep into her shoulders, but she remained where she was, shielding Will with her body. At the next blow she cried out, but the innate obstinacy her father knew only too well kept her still, gritting her teeth, her will to resist only strengthened by the means used to break it.

Daniel Drummond heard the whip crack and the cry from abovestairs as he strolled into the inn. The innkeeper stood at the foot of the stairs, his expression both indignant and fearful. “This is a respectable 'ouse, sir,” he blustered as Daniel strode past him. “'Tis the young lady's father 'as come fer 'er. I don't want no
goings-on, sir. Either the wench is yer niece or she ain't. I would never 'ave given ye room if 'n I'd known.”

“Known what?” Daniel snapped over his shoulder, cursing himself for not having expected this so soon. He had thought to have time to prepare Henrietta and explain his actions. “There's nothing to know!” He mounted the stairs two at a time and burst into the parlor.

“God's grace, man! Leave her be!” He covered the distance between the door and the tableau by the fire in two strides.

“And just who d'ye think you are?” demanded Sir Gerald, although he stayed his arm. “'Tis no business of yours to come between a man and his child.”

“Daniel Drummond,” Daniel said shortly. “And in this instance, Sir Gerald, I claim that right. Get up, Henrietta.” He held out his hand to her, but she recoiled as if he offered something noxious.

“You betrayed me,” she said without expression. “You broke your promise and you betrayed me.”

He shook his head. “It may look like that, but 'tis not so. Is Will hurt?”

“Now just a minute,” broke in Sir Gerald. “I'll accept that I owe ye some gratitude, sir, but I've a mind to know how ye became involved with this pair of fornicators, much as it grieves me to use such a word of my own daughter.”

“Then it is fortunate such a word is misapplied,” Daniel said dryly. “I can assure you, Sir Gerald, that to my certain knowledge, there has been no dishonor and your daughter is still in possession of her maidenhead.”

Will groaned and stirred. Henrietta bent over him again, her own pain forgotten in her anxiety. “Will, are ye all right?”

His eyes opened. “My head! What happened?” Then the face of Sir Gerald Ashby swam into focus and memory returned. “Sir, I'll not stand for your in
sults.” He struggled to sit up, his face contorted with effort to form the words of dignified outrage.

“Y'are not in a state to stand for anything at present.” It was Daniel who spoke. “Come, let me help you up. Sit yourself down and take a mouthful of brandy. Henrietta, fetch the decanter from the sideboard.”

“I do not think we require your assistance, Sir Daniel,” Henrietta said bitterly, getting to her feet, wincing at the smarting in her shoulders. “Or your instructions. 'Tis your interference that has led to this.”

“You mind your tongue, girl!” Sir Gerald decided that he had been off center stage for long enough. “Y'are coming with me. Lady Mary will know how best to bring you to a sense of duty.” He seized her arm, pushing her toward the door.

“One minute, Sir Gerald.” Daniel moved swiftly to stand before the door. He had no choice and had known it since he walked into the room. A man who would take a horsewhip to his daughter while she was attending to an unconscious lad was not a man to listen with a sympathetic ear to the idea that Henrietta should be established in the childless household of Sir Daniel Drummond's sister. Frances would have welcomed her companionship, and Daniel had assumed that Sir Gerald and his lady would be only too glad to be rid of their troublesome daughter in respectable and economical fashion once such a solution was presented to them. It was commonly done, after all. When disagreement or disgrace made family harmony impossible, the cuckoo would be sent to another nest.

Now there was but one way out of this tangle. It was a tangle he had woven for himself when all was said and done, and the solution, while it had elements to alarm, for some reason did not throw him into despondency. With a calm resignation that a few weeks ago would have amazed him, he heard his voice above the gentle hiss and crackle of the fire. “There are some matters I would discuss with you before you leave.”

“If 'tis a matter of what I owe ye for taking charge of this—”

“Nay, 'tis not that,” Daniel interrupted. “I would ask your daughter's hand in marriage, Sir Gerald.”

The silence in the room was profound. Will gawped, his jaw dropping slackly. Henrietta stared. Sir Gerald's bloodshot eyes popped in his suffused countenance.

“Why ever would you wish to wed me?” Henrietta said finally, just when it seemed as if the silence would continue forever, the figures remain forever graven in the attitudes they held.

“Why should I not?” He looked at her with quiet eyes.

Henrietta shook her head slowly. “I think perhaps this is the way you would make amends.”

“You do not think that perhaps I could not in honor wed you without your father's permission?”

“And that is why you told him I was here?” Her eyes became even larger in the heart-shaped face. “Why would you not say something of this to me first?”

“Make amends?” broke in Sir Gerald, recovering from his astonishment and thus sparing Daniel the need to reply. “If ye'd make amends for a maidenhead ye've spoiled, sir, I'll tell ye now—”

“I am not Master Osbert, Sir Gerald. Ye'll cast no aspersions on my honor as if I were some young puppy!” For the first time anger flashed in Daniel's eyes. “I have said that your daughter is as chaste as my own child. Do not doubt my word.”

“My daughter is promised,” Sir Gerald said, a sullen note in his voice—the note of a bully obliged to back down.

“I'll not marry Sir Reginald!” cried Henrietta.

“Ye'll marry where I bid ye!” He still held her by the arm, and now he raised his other hand in threat.

She turned her head aside in a quick ducking movement that told Daniel more than anything could have done how accustomed she was to both threats and their fulfillment.

“Ye've a debt due on staple-statute as I understand it,” Daniel said. “Let us see if we can come to some arrangement.”

Sir Gerald looked uncertain. “What mean ye?”

“I think 'twould be best to discuss this alone,” Daniel said evenly. “Henrietta, take Will to his chamber and see what you can do for him. 'Tis a monstrous bruise appearing on his chin.”

“I do not understand,” she said. “And I wish to.”

“'Tis not your place to take part in marriage discussions,” he reminded her. “This is between your father and myself.”

“But am I not to say whether I am willing or no?” She would not dispute his statement, and she would not ask
this
question of her father—his answer she knew all too well. But she would ask it of the man who seemed to be assuming control of all their lives.

“When I have talked with your father, you and I will talk,” he promised. “You may say what you will then.”

“Come, Harry.” Will stood up groggily. “My head aches as if the drums of an entire regiment were beating a tattoo upon it.”

Henrietta still stood looking uncertainly at Daniel. Her father's hand dropped from her arm. “Do as y'are bid,” he said harshly. “If 'tis possible to salvage something from this escapade, then ye can be grateful.”

It was clear to Henrietta that Sir Gerald had rapidly calculated that the possibility of the bird in hand was worth exploring. Sir Reginald was presumably very much in the bush at the moment. She thought of returning home, of her vindictive stepmother, of what awaited her with or without Sir Reginald at the end of it. She turned and opened the door. “I'll see if the landlord can produce some witch hazel, Will. Ye should lie upon your bed for a while.”

The door closed behind them and Sir Daniel walked over to the sideboard. “Wine, Sir Gerald, or do you prefer brandy?”