The Spinster and the Earl (5 page)

“Please, Lady Bea—,” intervened Wise Sarah, placing herself strategically between the attacking hostess and her wounded patient. “Behave yourself! Now what will your da say when he up and learns you tried to attack this wounded gentleman? And this time in pure aggression, if you please. One would think that you truly wished him harm.”

Chastised, Beatrice obediently took a step back. The last thing she desired was to have her father’s wrath fall upon her head. He’d warned her that if another one of her notorious escapades brought any disgrace upon the family name, he’d see to her punishment himself. A dire threat she knew he would follow through with if she were not careful.

She sighed audibly, her hands were tied. She could do nothing to dislodge this ingrate. And once more she regretted her part in acting the Good Samaritan to this English pudding-headed lout. She ought to have left him in the muck and mire where she’d found him, instead of seeing to it that he was brought here and properly tended.

The wise woman prudently stepped in, sensing that she was the only one to bring any calm back into the room. She put forth the question that both she and her irate friend had wished to know since the moment they’d set eyes upon him.

“Pray, sir,” she said smiling, “now do be after telling us of your name and heritage. Are ye, perchance, of noble birth?”

The stranger bowed to the beauty as much as he was able, a handsome smile curving his lips into a welcoming rogue’s grin.

“Fair lady, you have before you a newly named peer of the realm.” He paused dramatically before his title, glancing at the other lady to assure himself she was paying equal attention. “I am your new neighbor, the eleventh Earl of Drennan, Captain James Huntington. And your most obedient servant.”

Unified gasps of shocked surprise were heard. Stunned, Beatrice touched the gold coin she carried in her pocket. It singed her fingertips, and as if struck, she fell slightly forward.

Noticing her ladyship’s distress, Sarah leapt to her aid, leading her to a nearby chair. She felt her friend’s erratic pulse and noted the pale color of her normally rosy cheeks, sure signs of shock.

“I think it’d be best if you lay down, Lady Beatrice. All of this has been too much for you, my lady. ’Tis I who’ll hie to Lord O’Brien and tell him of His Grace’s decision to stay here.”

“Thank you, Mistress Sarah, ’tis kind of you.” Beatrice nodded, weakly rising on shaking limbs. Giving a lopsided curtsy, she quickly left the room, feeling the earl’s blue eyes follow her as she walked out. She dared not look at him lest she betray herself and her secret.

Heart in her throat, she entered her private bedchambers. She vividly recalled the stormy night when she last saw the old earl and the little man, and the trembling fear she felt then came back with full force.

In the beginning, she’d contemplated telling Wise Sarah, but decided that it was too dangerous to involve her curious friend. For although she was a witch, Wise Sarah was an innocent do-gooder whom the whole village fiercely protected as they would any of their own. The beautiful witch was a bit odd to be sure, but a marvel at healing nonetheless. The village people were secretly proud of her renowned lifesaving skills.

As for calling upon her father for help, that was unthinkable. Lord Patrick had enough trouble trying to keep straight the days of the week, let alone be forced to deal with something as strange and queer as a leprechaun’s curse.

Aye, ever since her mother’s death last winter from cholera, Da’s forgetfulness seemed to have grown. And what if the good people, as the fairies were called by the village people, decided to make off with him? None would be the wiser. Her father had become recently very mysterious about his comings and goings, until she knew not where he went.

Nay, she decided, she dare not tell him.

She rolled the coin in her hand, feeling its rough edges and the smooth, flat surface. Her fingers traced the ancient letters forming the words dictated no doubt by the fey themselves. But what to do? Dare she give it back to the new earl? Surely that would be the best way of ridding herself of it? By right of succession, it logically belonged to him. She nodded as she gave it some thought.

But how does one go about giving back a magic coin that’s cursed to its rightful owner? And how would one return it so that the owner did not suspect something was amiss? Aye, she had to think of a plan using great finesse and cunning to accomplish the deed, so that he would never suspect that the coin was cursed.

*    *    *

That evening, having dined alone in her room, she stayed awake and plotted. When at last the candle beside her bed sputtered out, she’d devised an ingenious way to return the coin to the one she decided by hereditary rights was its true owner.

At cock’s first crow, she awoke and set her carefully devised plan into motion. Once dressed, she went down to the kitchens to supervise the cooking of the morning’s first meal. The turf was loaded into the oven fire and the cook, Mistress Sullivan, awakened by her anxious mistress, sleepily aided her. Everything had to be perfection for her plan to work, even serving the right food mattered.

On silver platters, she laid out fried eggs, toast, and rounds of roasted Brobdingnagian beef, poached, red herring, and a dish of turf-fired, spring potatoes. To this, she added strong drink from her father’s cellar. These she carefully set on the large, rolling tea service.

“But, mistress,” protested the cook, as her lady moved the tray towards the door. “It isn’t proper for ye t’ be bringing the tray up yourself, m’lady.”

“Proper or not, ’tis I who’ll be giving His Grace his morning meal this day, Mistress Sullivan,” answered the
vanithee
of the house with a decisive nod. “And I’ll not be hearing any more ridiculous arguments against my doing so.”

The cook gave her the same look she’d given her when Beatrice was a mere slip of a lass caught stealing sweets from her kitchen. It bespoke of her intimate experience of knowing her mistress was up to something not entirely befitting the lady of the manor.

She frowned back at the disapproving cook. “Nay, don’t be getting yourself into a pet, Mistress Sullivan. You’re forgetting His Grace is bedridden and his man has not yet arrived. One can hardly expect him to appear at the table in the state that he’s in. He must, therefore, be waited upon by someone.”

“Aye, your ladyship. But another could easily take the tray up for ye. There be plenty of servants here to do it for ye. It isn’t right ye being up there alone with the ’andsome earl. He’s an unmarried gentleman, don’t be forgettin’. And I’ve heard the gossipmongers say he’s got no lining to his purse.” The older woman shook a serving spoon at her mistress in warning.

“I shall be perfectly safe in my own home, Mistress Sullivan,” Beatrice replied pertly.

The old woman shook her head at that. “And I thought after all your boastful protestations that you’ve had no wish t’ be wed, ye’d want to be more careful . . . indeed, take my word for it, m’lady, a gentleman of his class knows more tricks abed than he does standing aground on his own two feet!” She nodded with a conviction of a woman who knew the ways of the world. “Aye, ye best be careful that he donna trick ye out of your virtue whilst supping on those tender morsels ye fixed for ’im, lest he up and mistakes you as part of the meal you fixed!”

“Now you’re prattling on just like Druscilla,” said the lady of the house, wiping her hands on her apron. She smiled at her cook in a teasing manner, knowing full well the rivalry between the two for her attention.

“That chatterbox ye be comparing me to! What an insult! She was born to be a blatherskite, the flighty pea brain. But meself, I what’s known ye since ye were knee high in short skirts, am warning ye. Be careful, Lady Beatrice O’Brien,” she said removing a bit of batter from her face. “Or I’ll be baking your wedding cake before the day’s through.”

Unheeding of the warning, Beatrice proceeded to roll the tray away.

*    *    *

Standing in front of the door, she met the wise woman. The fair-haired healer also had a tray. It was laden with a far simpler meal of toast, boiled egg, and Indian spiced tea. Stubbornly, she stepped directly into the pretty witch’s path.

“Out of my way,” she commanded, one hand on her hips in an imperious gesture that dared the pretty healer to defy her order.

“But I—”

“Move. The earl will be needing a man’s meal. Not something fit for feeding a wee bairn.”

Her rival glared and folded her arms defiantly. “His Grace asked me to bring it himself, Lady Beatrice.”

“Aye, to be sure he did,” answered the lady of the house with a sharp nod of her head. “But ’tis I who’ll be relieving you of that tempting duty.” She gave the witch a none-too-gentle shove away from the door. “Off with you, now. I’m sure Lord Patrick will only be too pleased to partake of the lovely tray you fixed.”

The beauty protested, tapping her tiny foot. “But he be my patient. ’Tis you who are in the way, my lady!”

Ignoring her friend’s protests, Beatrice placed her own carefully laden tray up against the door. Facing Wise Sarah with well-practiced determination, she said in a voice that brooked no nonsense, “You may be my friend, Mistress Sarah Duncan, but I’m asking you once and for all to move. Or beware . . .” She lifted her eyebrows ominously and paused for effect. “As a lady, I’ll be forced to up and write your betrothed, Master John Maxwell, about your flirting ways.”

Wise Sarah’s light blue eyes darkened with terror. “You wouldna dare,” she whispered, her face paling at the mere idea of her betrothed, who was on a ship somewhere loyally fighting the French, hearing of a harmless flirtation with her handsome patient.

“Aye.” Beatrice nodded knowingly. For if Master John Maxwell suspected the new Earl of Drennan had paid his beloved any attention beyond that of a patient for his physician, he’d likely jump ship and return to Urlingford to tear the poor English lord’s legs off, limb from limb, with his own powerful blacksmith hands.

Not that she’d ever write the fiancé of the witch’s harmless flirtation. Although there were many jealous, green-eyed lasses in the village who might’ve delighted in so doing, attempting to steal the witch’s betrothed away from her at the same time. But she wasn’t one of them. And Beatrice had to play the scene to her advantage or be under the vexing power of the magical coin, quite possibly forever.

“You win.” The wise woman sighed, giving in to the mistress of the house’s demands. She took her tray and backed away from the door.

Head held high, she proudly departed down the hall towards Lord Patrick’s quarters where she passed her tray to the master of the house’s valet.

The victor boldly stepped up to the door and knocked. A deep male voice within gave leave for her to enter.

The Earl of Drennan sat in bed, his back supported by a pile of pillows. He held a pipe between his teeth, seemingly unaware of the confrontation that had just taken place outside his bedchamber door. Despite the jagged scar that ran down his face, his features were not entirely displeasing in the early morning light.

His voice sounded deep and welcoming in the peat-heated room. “Are congratulations in order? I believe you just won the tussle with Mistress Duncan.”

He eyed her and the feast she had prepared with open appreciation. At first he’d been suspicious of her unusual warm greeting, but upon seeing her and the food, he decided the lady was here on a mission of goodwill. They both looked delicious.

“And upon seeing what you’ve prepared for me, I must confess that I’m delighted that you did so.”

She gave a graceful curtsy at his approval. She’d taken extra care that morning with her toilette, carefully choosing a pretty, linen dress that matched the color of her light, mint-green eyes, while daringly letting her usually tightly bound black hair curl down the sides of her face. It was, she’d reasoned, important that he find her in her best looks for her plan to work. The small gold coin in her pocket made her ever mindful of the important task ahead.

The fact that her heart beat a quick staccato when she was near him or that a light of excited interest sparkled in her eyes, she told herself, had nothing to do with it. This adventure must be carried out with the same finesse she used in bartering wool in the market place. She had to get rid of the dreadful object and the dangerous curse it carried as quickly as possible.

She lifted the domed silver lid off the warming dish. “I am at your command, sir,” she said, hovering over the tray with an empty plate in one hand, serving fork in the other. She stood at mock attention, awaiting his orders.

“Let’s see, sergeant,” he said, eyeing the platters. “Everything seems to be in Bristol fashion. Load up all your ammunition, and don’t be too thrifty with the, uh . . . ,” he pointed to the whiskey and winked, “the special ammo. We don’t want to disappoint the troops.”

“No, sir.” She snapped a stiff-armed salute with the tray’s lid. She filled a silver goblet bearing her family’s coat of arms for him then poured a dish of tea for herself.

He raised his goblet in the air. “To the chef and all those who fought bravely to serve it.” She smiled in return, raising her fine porcelain cup hand-painted with pale, pink rosebuds and gold trim.

“To our guest, the Earl of Drennan, may he enjoy a healthy life,” she said, toasting in return, watching him devour his meal.

He chewed the food, savoring the delicious flavors of the prepared fare. He did not bother with the salt and pepper. But he did pause long enough to compliment her on the food.

“Mistress Beatrice, demme if this isn’t the best meal I’ve had the pleasure of enjoying these past six months or more. Far better than the bland gruel I’ve been feeding myself at the castle, which apparently my late uncle had lived on before his death. Not to mention the weevils I obediently consumed as an officer in the service of his majesty’s infantry. But now I must set an example, for the men you know.”

He smiled, taking a bite of the perfectly poached herring as his stomach gurgled with satisfaction, proving his point. Quite clearly it was to his benefit to stay at Brightwood Manor.