The Sinister Spinster (3 page)

Elizabeth was surprised to feel her heart pounding in her chest. Disconcerted, she blurted out the first thing to pop into her mind.

"I am not under your care."

He raised an elegant eyebrow. "Are you not?" he asked softly. "I shouldn't be so certain of that if I were you." While she continued gaping at him, he smiled again, offering his arm with a low bow. "If you are ready to join the others in the drawing room, Miss Mattingale, it would be my honor to escort you."

Two

Adam awoke the following morning to bright skies and birdsong. After two days of pouring rains, the sight was enough to have him leaping out of bed and ringing for his valet. With his host's permission he'd had his latest purchase from Tattersall's sent down, and he was itching to take the full-blooded Arab gelding for a proper gallop. By rushing through his breakfast and morning ablutions he was soon on his way, whistling beneath his breath as he started down the main staircase. His good mood vanished at the sight of the three men making their way up the stairs toward him.

"Lord Falconer." Geoffrey Derwent gave him one of his annoying smirks. "Off for a ride, are you?" he added, indicating Adam's green jacket and doeskin breeches with a sweeping gesture of his hand. "How ambitious you are. 'Tis scarce twelve of the clock."

"I thought to ride out to the ruins," Adam replied, eyeing the three warily. He'd come to think of them as the enemy, and he'd learned from St. Jerome never to trust an enemy.

"Heavens, the thought of such industry quite fatigues me," Derwent sighed in his die-away fashion. "I must now repair to my rooms and rest, lest I show the ladies a haggard countenance. Come, Charles." And he minced away, leaving Colburt to trail in his wake. To Adam's annoyance
William remained behind, shuffling his weight from one foot to another as he stood blocking Adam's way.

"Is there something you wish, Mr. Carling?" Adam asked, taking care to show no emotion as he tugged on his riding gloves. The lad was up to something; all that remained was discovering what that something might be.

William's face reddened. "No," he began, and cleared his throat. "That is to say," he continued, his gaze fixed on his feet, "a moment of your time, my lord, if you would. There is something I should like to discuss with you."

Adam kept his surprise hidden behind a mask of indifference. "As you wish," he said coolly. If the lad was about to stammer an apology, he would take great delight in reminding him that it wasn't he who was owed an apology

He followed the earl's younger son down the stairs and into the elegant drawing room the countess had set aside for her guest's use. A bouquet of lilacs and tulips in a crystal vase was set on the polished mantel, and he wondered if Miss Mattingale was responsible for the charming arrangement. He doubted his flighty hostess possessed the wits to do something so original.

William stood in front of the fireplace, his hands clasped behind him. "I was wondering, sir, if you've spoken with m'father this morning," William asked, still not meeting Adam's gaze.

So that was it, Adam realized, his lips twisting in well-bred scorn. The young whelp was terrified he had tattled to his papa. He needn't have worried. Adam wasn't one to carry tales, although he had no intention of letting William know that.

"No, I've not yet had the pleasure," he drawled, deliberately infusing a note of unspoken menace in his voice. "Why? Is there anything you wish me to say?"

William jerked, his gaze flying up to meet Adam's before he lowered it again. "No, no such thing," he said,
shuffling. "I was only wondering if you'd seen him, and how he seemed to you."

The question took Adam aback. "How should he seem?" he asked, frowning in thought. The earl wasn't the most loquacious of men, but as he himself had often been accused of being as closemouthed as a clam, he didn't consider that to be a failing.

"I don't know," William admitted. "I'm almost certain it's all a hum, but one never knows." He lifted his head to send Adam a strained smile. "Sorry to have bothered you, my lord," he said, bobbing his head in apology. "Enjoy your ride."

The odd conversation was much on Adam's mind as he rode over the hills and down to the sea. Had it been anyone else, he would have suspected them of deliberately planting the uneasy doubts in his mind, but he didn't think William possessed the cunning. Derwent did, most assuredly, and he didn't trust Colburt so much as an inch. Perhaps there was nothing wrong with the earl, perhaps there was. In any case, it would do no harm to ask. With the Czar's ambassadors due to arrive in London within a week, it was best not to leave even the smallest detail to chance.

Relieved he'd decided upon a course of action, Adam threw himself into the ride. He spent the next hour riding hell-for-leather across the countryside, taking Shalimar over hedgerows and fences as he raced away from the house. Along the way he lost his hat and the veneer of smooth sophistication he wore as easily as other men wore their fine lawn shirts and elegant velvet jackets. With his black hair tumbling about his forehead and his cheeks flushed from wind and the sheer pleasure of riding, he looked little like the man who had set out from the Hall. The knowledge pleased him on same basic level, and feeling quite satisfied, he turned Shalimar around and started for the stables.

On impulse he decided to ride through the village instead of the fields, with the idea of stopping for a pint of
ale at the tiny inn. He had just dismounted and was about to toss the reins to a linkboy who'd run up to greet him when the door to the milliner's shop across the lane opened, and Miss Mattingale stepped out. The hatbox swinging from her arm explained her presence, and he wondered if she had come in one of the estate's many carriages. When she turned and began walking in the direction of the Hall, he had his answer. His lips thinning in fury, he remounted his horse and set out after her.

"Miss Mattingale," he called out, urging his horse into a trot. "Hold there!"

He thought she hesitated for a moment, but when she turned to face him a smile of cautious welcome was pinned to her lips.

"Good day, Lord Falconer," she said, dropping a graceful curtsy. "You are up and about at an early hour this morning. Did you enjoy your ride?"

"Very much so," he replied, taking in her maroon cloak and gown of cream-and-gold-striped cambric in disapproval. Although the sun was quite bright the wind was sharp, and the thin cloak looked inadequate to the task of keeping her warm.

"How did you get into the village, if I may ask? Surely you didn't walk?" he queried, thinking that when he spoke with the earl he would also drop a flea in his ear about the shabby way his wife was treating her companion. As master, it was his responsibility to make certain those under his roof lacked for nothing.

"No, my lord," she replied, a spark of annoyance shimmering in her silvery blue eyes. "I rode in the gig with Mrs. Keys, the cook. But she is visiting her sister, who is the vicar's housekeeper, and rather than wait for her, I decided to walk back to the manor. It's such a lovely day, even though I fear it may rain again."

Adam was in no mood to discuss the vagaries of the weather. "It is over four miles to the house," he reminded her, angered at the thought of her walking that distance on what was certain to be muddy and slippery roads. He
recalled his journey from London, when the horses had struggled through deep ruts.

"Only if one keeps to the road," she answered coolly. "If you cut through the meadows, it is less than half that. And I don't mind walking. Indeed, I quite like it." This last was added with a defiant lift of her pointed chin.

Adam's lips twitched as he resisted the sudden urge to laugh. The companion's recalcitrant nature put him strongly in mind of his friend's new wife, and he didn't doubt but that Lady St. Jerome would heartily applaud Miss Mattingale's attempts to put him in his place. But however much he might enjoy her spirited defiance, that didn't mean he intended letting her go blithely on her way. Reaching out, he cupped her chin in his gloved hand and tilted her face up to his.

"Miss Mattingale," he began, his lips curving in a wry smile, "you must know I won't let you walk back on your own. It would be a violation of all that I believe in, and I cannot allow it."

There was no mistaking the fury sparkling in her jewel eyes as she glared up at him. "Your pardon, Lord Falconer," she said, freeing herself from his grip and taking a deliberate step backward, "but I don't believe it is within your province to
allow
me to do anything. You are not my employer."

"No," he agreed, unaffected by her temper, "I'm not. But I still have no intention of letting you do as you propose. And you needn't bother casting daggers at me," he added, as her eyes narrowed even further. "Didn't I tell you I considered you to be under my care?"

For a moment he didn't think she would answer; then she gave a muttered exclamation. "Oh, for heaven's sake, you wretched tyrant! Have it your own way if you must." And with that, she turned and walked back toward the village.

Intrigued as much as he was amused, he trailed after her. "Where are you going?" he asked, easily matching his longer strides to hers.

"Back to the parsonage to wait for Mrs. Keys," she muttered, delicately lifting her skirts as she navigated the muddy lanes. "Although given the way she and her sister were gossiping, I shall be fortunate to see the Hall before next Sunday!"

Adam bit his lip to keep from chuckling at the acerbic observation. "You might take the gig now and send it back for Mrs. Keys in an hour or so," he suggested.

"Yes, as if I should put poor Dobbin and the groom to such bother," she grumbled, clearly unimpressed with his stratagems.

Adam slid her a thoughtful glance, considering several alternatives. Had he come upon her on the road or in the meadow, he could probably have taken her up behind him without risking too great of a scandal. Unfortunately he knew enough of village life not to suggest such a thing now. Pity, he thought with a rueful sigh. He would rather have enjoyed a few more minutes in the tart-tongued lady's company.

That was too close!
The moment she reached the sanctuary of her room, Elizabeth flattened herself against the door, her eyes squeezing shut in relief. If she lived to be as old as Granny Dithers, she didn't think she would ever be half so frightened as she'd been when the marquess had surprised her coming out of the milliner's shop. Perhaps it was true what the Bible said about the guilty fleeing where no man pursued, she decided, moving away from the door and removing her cloak. But for herself, she'd never known five more uncomfortable minutes in her life. It seemed she would need to take even greater care if his lordship was going to be popping up when least expected.

After making certain her door was securely locked, she hurried over to her narrow bed and laid the hatbox upon the embroidered cover. The countess's newest bonnet, a hideous concoction of chipstraw and ceramic cherries, lay
inside, but it was the box itself that concerned Elizabeth. Employing the greatest care, she ran her fingertips along the papered sides, stopping when she found the seam holding the pasted edges together. Slowly and skillfully, she peeled the paper apart, holding back a soft cry of delight at the letter she found secreted inside. One could say what one wished of the Gentlemen, she thought, lifting out the letter and smiling at the familiar handwriting. They were every bit as reliable as the post when it came to delivering the mail, and a dashed sight faster. She set the box on the floor, taking time to reseal the sides before sitting down on her bed to read the latest missive from her papa.

Dearest Daughter
,

      
Outrage upon outrage has been visited upon my adopted land. Only wait until I tell you of the foul crime our fine Army has committed against an innocent and unarmed populace . . .

Elizabeth continued reading, her high spirits growing somber at what she read. From her father's last letter she'd known the war in America was going badly for the newly formed nation, but now it seemed matters were even more desperate than she'd believed. The letter listed a litany of atrocities and horrors committed by the British troops, and from the scratchy quality of the handwriting Elizabeth could tell her father was shaking with fury. He concluded the missive with the request Elizabeth had been expecting since he had announced his decision to move to America.

      
I know it was your mother's dying wish that you return to England, and I would never want you to act in a manner not in accordance with your conscience. But I must ask, Elizabeth, nay, I must insist that you leave a country which possesses so little in the way of honor, and join me here in Virginia. I am settled quite comfortably in Richmond, and can
now afford to keep you in some comfort and style. Join me, Elizabeth, but before you do, there is something I would ask of you . . .

"Miss Mattingale? Miss Mattingale?"

The timid knock on her door had Elizabeth biting back a shriek of alarm. She folded the letter quickly, tucking it underneath her spread before hurrying over to open the door. One of the maids stood there, her plain face breaking into a smile of relief when she saw Elizabeth.

"Oh, good, miss, you're here. Her ladyship is calling for you. She's in a rare taking and asks that you come at once."

"Very good, Ceila, thank you," Elizabeth managed a weak smile. "Only give me a moment to retrieve her lady-ship's bonnet, and I shall be right with you."

"Not o'nother one!" the young maid exclaimed with a pert roll of her eyes. "Is it ugly as all the rest?"

"Heavens no!" Elizabeth, equally pert, assured her. "It's even worse."

Elizabeth found her employer in the front hallway, barking out a final set of orders and consulting her lists.

"No, no, no, we cannot move the viscountess to the Red Room, Jerrell," she said to the unflappable individual who acted as her majordomo. "The woman has a dreadful fear of flowers, and the suite overlooks my rose gardens. We shall have to put her in the Chinese Suite, and hope to heavens she doesn't break something."