The Spinster and the Earl (7 page)

“
Là,
you must show me the newest addition to your garden, Lady O’Brien. ’Tis been bandied about that you’ve added those dear little flowers from the Netherlands. Even my ward has asked if she mightn’t pay a call in order to see them. But knowing that you did not wish to be troubled, I told her firmly no.”

“But you shouldn’t have, Squire Lynch. I’d have been delighted to show them to young Mistress Kathleen. You must tell her when you see her next that she is always the
bienvenue
at Brightwood. Faith, I do find her youthful company to be most pleasant and refreshing.”

She smiled brightly, all the while grimly remembering his young ward’s sad face. Although an heiress, young Mistress Kathleen Dargheen, seemed beggarly as far as familial affections were concerned. The village gossipmongers had long ago noted the sad fact that Squire Lynch had appointed himself the orphaned child’s guardian only so that he might try and squander away his ward’s fortune before she reached her majority. The dreadful unfeeling man was sure to ruin the lass’s future.

She herself had met the child at a soiree held at the squire’s home. She recalled a pretty child with silky, honey-colored hair and a pair of china blue eyes looking sadly out at the world, silently proclaiming to all and sundry her dismal state of neglect. Even the faded silk bonnet tied around her tiny chin bespoke of her greedy uncle’s evident uncaring negligence of her. Immediately, she’d felt a certain kinship with the heiress. She knew herself what it felt like to be only wanted for one’s money and not for one’s self. She tried, therefore, to show kindness to the child as often as possible.

Lynch interrupted her thoughts, audaciously squeezing her captured hand. She took a shallow breath, resisting the more natural urge to slap him. Indeed, men like the squire were becoming increasingly more and more tiresome. Taking up her valuable time with their romantic nonsense, forcing her to listen endlessly to their ridiculous odes to her dark eyebrows and long raven hair.

The most dreaded of all these admirers, however, had to be the overzealous singers who frequently caused her to lose a good night’s sleep. They, unfortunately, appeared regularly beneath her window, rain or shine, to sing in quivering trebled voices, dreadful ballads of undying love. Such untalented amorous screeching, assured to put her in a foul mood the next day, was probably the worst part about being a wealthy spinster. The last troubadour who’d had the audacity to wake her up in the middle of the night, had inspired her father, Lord Patrick, to deal with him himself. So disgusted was he with the grating noise of the singer, he’d thrown the entire contents of his chamber pot down on the hapless head of the screeching gentleman below.

She shook her head with resignation and carefully removed her hand from the Squire’s clammy grasp.

Faith, if only her great aunt had left her very small fortune to her father, instead of her. But nay, the shrewd old bat had bequeathed all her earthly riches to her strong-headed, but nonetheless beloved, niece.

“Undoubtedly foreseeing what a bumble-broth it would create,” she muttered under her breath in an exasperated sigh.

“What did you say, m’dear?”

“The um—flowers are over here.” And she led him to a bed of tulips.

She had sent for the bulbs directly from Amsterdam herself. They were one of the few delights her wealth had brought. The bright petals of red, yellow, and white bobbed in the wind creating a colorful display for all to enjoy.

“These are my favorites. Such cheerful colors, don’t you think, Squire?” she asked, trying to divert his attention away from herself, pointing to the flowers on their right-hand side.

“Yes, lovely, m’dear, lovely . . .’’ He nodded, barely giving them a glance, his weasel-like eyes focusing upon her right ring finger. For blinking in the sun was a large emerald ring of considerable worth.

In rapture, he breathed in deeply the scent of wet spring roses and tulips around him, wrinkling his long white nose as he abruptly let loose a thunderous,
“A-choo-”

“God protect you, Squire,’’ said Beatrice politely, wiping the spray away with a gloved hand. He simpered and gave her what he thought to be one of his most winning smiles, a yellow-toothed grin of favor.

The earl watched in fascination as the thin, choleric dandy led Lady Beatrice around a tall hedge into a more secluded part of the garden. The tall hedge blocked his view from the manor. He could no longer watch the proceedings.

Reaching into his pocket, he thoughtfully rubbed his fingers against the gold surface of the coin, feeling the rounded edges against his fingertips.

He wished the lady would send the spindle-legged macaroni on his way. The sight of the man gave him a headache. Even as these wishes passed through his thoughts, he heard a terrified scream, followed by what sounded like a loud, but very distinctive
ka-splash
of water. He grinned happily. The sound was very reminiscent of his own recent dip in a certain marsh bog.

Seconds later, a thin figure came scurrying out from behind the tall, obstructing hedge. The white blur in a pink-striped coat ran helter-skelter, yelling at the top of his voice. “Shrew! Witch! Hoyden! Bi—” and other various colorful epithets about the lady.

Looking down at his dripping, dirt-sodden coat and stained satin shoes, the shaking squire moaned aloud in deep despair, “They’re completely and utterly ruined! You’ve destroyed m’beauties!”

He fell to his knees and keened at the expensive loss.

Lady Beatrice appeared next. She walked slowly, dragging the wet hem of her walking gown. Her hair dripped water droplets down her face. Upon espying the kneeling Lynch, she mumbled some angry words and charged towards him ready to tear the jackanapes to pieces.

He caught sight of her and let out a squeak of fear, making a frog’s leap safely away from her. With an agility that astonished those who watched, the squire safely landed on the other side of the stone gate surrounding the garden.

Face flushed with rage, the insulted lady shouted over at him from the other side. “Be assured, sir, if I had my firearm, I’d use it and give the crows a pudding! Serving your skinny, white carcass up as an entree!”

She spat at him and wiped her tainted mouth across the sleeve of her dripping gown, vividly recalling the repugnant shock she’d most rudely received.

She had been innocently standing in front of a small, bronze statue of a shooting cupid, looking down at the flowering water lilies she’d most recently had planted in the reflecting pond, when the damned jack-straw had taken advantage of her immobility and pressed himself upon her. He had grabbed her slender shoulders, so that she was forced to face him, and in so doing placed a slobbery wet-dog kiss upon her mouth.

Outraged, and without any thought to the consequences, she gave the scurvy knave a most satisfactory push into the reflecting pond. Unfortunately, she’d received a good drenching at the same time.

Seeing the evil intent on her face, the squire swung up onto his nag. He failed to make it completely over the saddle. Half of him now sat astride Flossy, a plump chestnut brown mare of advanced age, known to be the most sedentary, gentle mount in the parish. The other half dangled in midair, his skinny, striped-clad backside swaying temptingly back and forth.

Noticing the half-mounted gentleman’s predicament, Beatrice calmly and deliberately opened the garden gate.

“Nice, Flossy. Get-EE-up, girl,” urged the frightened Lynch, his Adam’s apple bobbing up and down in quivering fear.

She walked near. Spying a riding crop hanging from a nearby post, she snatched it down. Her emerald eyes reflected her inner thoughts as she approached. They snapped with sweet, dark thoughts of revenge.

From his precarious perch, the coward squeezed his eyes shut. She approached the horse and raised her crop.

“Ohhh—no-o!” squealed the squire.

Smack!
The whip fell squarely upon Flossy’s ample back flank.

The docile mount reared. The squire screamed. And together horse and rider galloped off down the main road towards the village.

It was later reported the lads at The Boar’s Teeth rescued him for a quid each. No real harm done, except to the lining of the gentleman’s purse.

Watching the horse canter down the road, the offended lady was satisfied that the audacious jackanapes would never bother her again. She emitted one last angry huff, and whipping her damp skirts around walked back to the manor house. Her revenge would have been complete, had not she heard a deep, masculine laugh coming from above. The manly laughter forewarned her that the entire debacle had been witnessed by another.

She stopped in mid-twirl and looked up at the second-story window. A pair of twinkling blue eyes met her light-mint green ones. He smiled with piratical amusement down at her.

The deuce! The English earl had obviously been witness to the whole dreadful fiasco. Embarrassed, and feeling strangely discomfited that he should be witness to her loss of temper, she continued towards the house, unable to muster any verbal display of anger. Instead, she hurriedly entered Brightwood Manor, giving the back garden door an indignant slam.

*    *    *

Captain James, the Earl of Drennan, set down his field glasses, a calculating gleam still shining in his shrewd, sapphire eyes. Some of those niggling questions about her shrewish character had been clarified by my lady’s display of unrestrained temper towards the squire. It was evident she needed a firm hand to bring her to heel. Despite the minor character flaw of her evident dislike of gentlemen, her wealth had not gone unnoticed. And he sorely needed a wealthy wife. And as for Lady Beatrice O’Brien, well, one day she would need a husband. So, why not him?

He had a title to offer that was above her own. His nationality as an English subject guaranteed her children would be treated better than had they been born of an Irish father. Aye, it could be a very good match for both of them. He stroked his scar thoughtfully.

Besides, the winning of her cold hand in marriage would prove to be a most interesting campaign, worthy of a seasoned strategist such as himself. That is, if he decided to set himself to the task of wooing her. But to do so would require finesse, planning, and help. The kind of help that he’d had when planning a siege against the crown’s enemies in Spain. He would have to send for his valet, ex-corporal in arms, Edmond Davis, immediately.

Through Davis, the earl cunningly set about vicariously spying upon Brightwood’s household, his manservant bringing back daily reports concerning the running of the manor. Their main focus of interest was Lady Beatrice, herself.

Acting as his intelligence officer, Davis gleaned from the servants that they took their orders not from the master of the household, but from the
vanithee
, the young mistress. It was reported that Lady Beatrice did the accounts, oversaw the welfare of the tenants, and made the estate profitable. The people at the manor both respected and pitied her, having concluded long ago that her ladyship would never find her way to a secure marriage bed.

“The lady was once betrothed to a Viscount Linley,” Davis said handing his master the morning gazette. “’Tis said to have been a suitable match, what with the lady’s dowry and his adequate title.”

He bent over and whispered in confidence to his master. “As it happened, sir, she called the wedding off. It was the night of the ball, when they were to have announced their impending nuptials. They say she suddenly received a letter telling her he’d run off to join the Royal Hussars.”

The valet shook his thinning blond head in disapproval. “Such scandalous behavior, sir. What bad form to break the engagement the night of the ball held in its honor. Dreadful.”

“And very cruel,” added the earl. “Hmm . . . but that might work somehow to my advantage.” He puffed thoughtfully on his pipe, a burning itch beneath his bandages causing him to point to a carved, silver-handled stick nearby shaped to resemble a hand. “Would you be so kind, old chap?” Davis handed him the scratching cane, the irritation serving to remind him of who had brought about his present discomfort.

“Continue, Davis. You were saying?”

“Oh, uh, right, Capt’n. The lady cried off and has ever since been safely on the shelf, so to speak. The nub of it being that she’s taken a certain dislike to any of the gentlemen her father has presented her. Especially detests, they say, the English ones. Her almost-betrothed having been one himself.”

“But what of her family? Are they not distressed by her still unwed state? If she’s as wealthy as you imply, Davis, surely they would wish to see her well settled. And try to create some sort of suitable match for her?”

“Aye, you’d think, sir. But ’tis only the lady’s father, Lord O’Brien, and a widowed aunt, I hear, who wish to see her tie the knot. The rest of the family are praying she remains permanently dressed in virginal white. They’d like to have a share of her vast fortune. Not that she shows any signs of popping off to the nether world, sir.”

“But the lady is still young and fit and surely could be convinced to marry if a suitable husband was found.”

A knock on the chamber door interrupted him. Druscilla, Lady Beatrice’s paid companion, brought in the morning tray. The earl looked the silver platters over. The menu was an exact replica of what he’d eaten the day before, which meant the same hands had prepared it.

The companion glanced unabashedly at ex-corporal Davis. Ever since the solidly built English valet had arrived at Brightwood Manor, she’d found ways to be as much in his company as humanly possible. She’d set her cap on this stiff gentleman’s gentleman since the day she clapped eyes upon him. She always wanted to marry a nice solid man such as he, and there weren’t too many of her own station here for the taking.

She giggled as she accidentally brushed up against him, setting the silver tray on the table next to His Grace. Her smile was genuine and slightly bucktoothed, as she bobbed a curtsy to the two gentlemen and left.

When she’d gone, the earl casually asked, “Is it considered part of a lady’s companion’s duties to bring a gentleman his morning mess, Davis?”