The Wagered Widow (17 page)

“Oh, yes. They are everywhere just now, hunting down these hapless Jacobite fugitives. But I referred to the cardinal—the bird in the painting to your right, ma'am. A splendid fellow, eh? Whilst we picnic today, I hope to be able to point out many of my feathered friends, for Ward Marching abounds with the little rascals. I'll not have 'em harmed, you know. In fact”—he shot an uneasy glance at her—“I allow no cats on the premises. You—ah, have a cat, I believe?”

With a strong feeling of guilt, she admitted this. “Our Whisky is a lazy old ruffian, I do assure you. I doubt he could catch a bird, if he wished. Not that he
would
wish it, since he is much too fat to contemplate violent exercise.” Sir Peter smiled and, anxious to change the subject, she went on, “You feel strongly about the Jacobites, I collect. How tragic it all is. And how dreadful for families of divided loyalties. Whatever must people do in such a situation, I wonder?”

“Another evil of their alleged Cause! So you think on such weighty matters, do you, dear lady? One never knows what goes on in those pretty feminine heads, I vow. For myself, I have sometimes puzzled over what to do if some dear relation or friend who had harboured sympathies for Prince Charles should come here imploring sanctuary.” He shook his head and ushered her to the second pair of stairs. “What a frightfully difficult decision to contemplate.”

She agreed, but asked, “And what
would
you do, sir?”

“One's first loyalty must be to King and country,” he said frowningly. “But yet I fear … however great the risk, I should feel bound to give the poor wretch aid and sustenance and speed him quietly on his way. The conflict, after all, is over now. And so long as the miscreant left our dear island, I cannot think any great harm would be done.” He gave her a whimsical smile. “Have I shocked you beyond reason?”

“Indeed no,” she said, warming to him. “I agree. Though such gallantry could well cost you your head, sir.”

He replied without bravado, “One has to accept whatever the cards may hold in life. Ah—here we are, and as well to turn us from so grim a discourse. This, ma'am, is my gallery. Very many ancestors, I fear, but I'll not take too much of your time.”

A flunkey hurried to open one of the large double doors, and a long, low room was revealed, the walls lined with portraits. Rebecca thought it would be easy to spend an entire day in here, but as it turned out they did not linger above half an hour. Sir Peter had a few interesting anecdotes to relate concerning his more illustrious antecedents, and introduced Rebecca to his great-great-grandmother, whose portrait hung in a small bay on the east wall. The lady was depicted in early middle age. She was plump and not unattractive, being blessed with a splendid bosom that she thrust out, while smiling fixedly from the canvas as though defying any other lady to compete with her charms. Amused, Rebecca remarked that there was no denying Lady Ward Marching had possessed a pronounced and determined chin. Moving along, she looked with mild curiosity at a clerical gentleman next to my lady, the frame of his portrait obviously too small for the faded outline of some former occupant of the wall.

“You are looking at my late Uncle Nathaniel,” said Ward. “He is quite out of place here. I really should put him back where he belongs, and likely will one of these days.” He smiled when she gave him a questioning look, and explained, “It was de Villars's doing. My great-great-grandfather's portrait belongs in this space, of course. Trevelyan took it into his head that the old gentleman was miserable residing next to the lady he had avoided during his lifetime. He kept at me about it until, much against my better judgement, I gave in, and Sir Montague is now at the far end of the gallery.”

Rebecca laughed and clapped her hands. “Oh, excellent! I quite agree. The poor man must be much happier there.”

Ward said whimsically, “Do you know, ma'am, I rather suspect you and Trevelyan are kindred spirits.”

She sobered at once and said a rather stiff, “You are very wrong, sir.”

He begged her pardon most humbly and assured her he had intended no offence. She had the impression, in fact, that he was excessively pleased by her reaction.

CHAPTER
7

The Home Farm proved to be a model of neatly laid out fields, well-kept gardens of herbs and flowers, and a charming old whitewashed house with thatched roof and mullioned windows. Anthony and Patience explored every inch of the barn and stables, exclaiming delightedly over the various farm animals, as intrigued by a hen's new brood as by the fine Hereford bull-calf that was the farmer's pride and joy. The day continued fine, and it was pleasantly warm by the time the inspection tour was finished and the picnic lunch was served. The food was plain, yet having that extra deliciousness that is always to be noted in al fresco meals, and they washed it down with chilled home brewed ale and cowslip wine, lemonade being provided for the children.

The combination of warmth, food, and wine soon set Mrs. Boothe's head nodding. Rebecca and Sir Peter left her dozing comfortably under the tree, and went off for a walk with Anthony and Patience.

Sir Peter needed no urging to expound upon the various birds they saw fluttering about, and Rebecca listened attentively. His knowledge of the subject soon palled on his younger listeners, however. Anthony had brought along a ball and begged that Rebecca play with them. She agreed willingly. Ward joined in for a while, but became diverted by what he thought to be a kestrel and was soon absorbed in the possibilities of an old jackdaw nest high in the branches of an elm tree that he thought the kestrel may have appropriated.

Not for nothing had Rebecca grown up with two older brothers. She enjoyed sports, and the sight of Anthony's bright cheeks, the sound of his happy laughter, warmed her heart. It was a joy also to watch Patience's clumsy toddling after the ball and complete, worshipful acceptance of the boy's good-natured teasing. Rebecca quite forgot that she had determined to be serene and gracious and even forgot Sir Peter until she chanced to look up some time later and discovered him sitting on the root of a tree, watching them. In the act of blowing a wayward lock of hair from her eyes, she was horrified by the awareness that she was hot and dishevelled and, turning quickly away, made a frantic attempt to tidy her hair.

“Mama!” Anthony ran to look up at her appealingly. “You're never going to stop so soon?”

“I am rather warm, love. Do you teach Patience how to catch now, like a dear.”

“Like a deer! She cannot even catch like a boy!” But he went off without further protest.

Catching her breath, praying that she looked not blowsily flushed, Rebecca turned about and began to wander gracefully up the slight rise to where Sir Peter stood to greet her. As always, her heart quickened when she looked at him. So tall and fair, and with that eager smile in his fine eyes. Her concentration on the man of her heart proved disastrous, alas, for her attention wandered from the placement of her feet. The sense that she had stepped into something other than the meadow grasses was followed by the unhappy realization that the little bull-calf's kindred had lately occupied this meadow. Even as that unpleasant fact was brought home to her, she heard a hail from the farmhouse and all but groaned her chagrin.

Trevelyan de Villars, carelessly elegant in buckskins and boots, a broadcloth coat of brown, and with his powdered hair neatly tied in at the neck, sauntered across the meadow to them. It was, Rebecca thought bitterly, typical of him to arrive at the very instant of her unhappy predicament. Her attempts to cleanse her little sandal on a tuft of grass without being too obvious in the matter did not appear to be altogether successful. She summoned her most dazzling smile and bestowed it on Sir Peter. “I had not known you expected other guests, sir.”

He glanced rather ruefully at de Villars. “No more had I, to say truth, ma'am.” And then, in a louder tone, “Welcome, Treve. Are you en route, or remaining?”

De Villars came up, shook his outstretched hand, and bowed to Rebecca. “Could I do anything but remain, when you've such fascinating company?” His nose wrinkled. “Gad, Peter! How do you endure this pastoral scene? It smells so dashed—countrified!”

Her cheeks hot, Rebecca said, “Yet how lovely it is after London's heat and noise, and the endless pursuit of pleasure.”

The Intruder raised a topaz-encrusted quizzing glass to view her and drawled, “One might suppose you to have been engaging in that very same pursuit, Mrs. Pe—er, Parrish. I saw you catch that last ball. How—lustily you play.” His lips quirked, and the narrowed grey eyes glinted at her wickedly.

Her cheeks hotter than ever, she indulged a scorching disposition of his future, but said with a wry smile, “No, was I being juvenile? I expect you could entertain the children far better than I, Mr. de Villars, for I believe you already know Sir Peter's cousin.”

All innocence, he answered, “Patience? A lovely mite, is she not? Will your aunt guide her to her come-out, do you suppose, ma'am?”

“Of course not,” she said haughtily. “You knew perfectly well that she was a child! Why did you not tell me?”

“What—and ruin so many well-laid plans?” That revoltingly mocking eyebrow twitched upward, and he went on, “You would not have come, and only think of our poor Peter.”

“Indeed, yes,” said Ward. “I own myself grateful you did
not
warn Mrs. Parrish and her aunt away. I shall have to—”

“Mr. de Villars! Mr. de Villars!” Anthony came puffing up, Patience wobbling some distance behind.

De Villars had recourse to his quizzing glass. “Who,” he said with abhorrence, “is this revolting urchin?”

Rebecca gave a gasp of rage. To her surprise, Anthony showed no resentment of such a greeting, but sprang to grip de Villars' hand and tug at it urgently. “Come and play ball with us,” he beamed.

“I shall do no such thing. Begone, brat, lest I toss you in the nearest pond.”

Stunned, Rebecca gawked at him. Anthony, however, uttered a squeal of delight and only tugged harder. Patience, toddling up, breathless and flushed, promptly seized de Villars by one muscular and immaculate leg, and tugged also.

“Good Gad!” he moaned. “Will no one rescue me from these fiendish creatures?” He flung out one hand and gripped Rebecca's wrist, declaring, “I am a shockingly poor sport, but I'll play any game
you
choose … lovely one.”

“Let go!” she said indignantly, struggling to free herself.

“Gladly, if you will desire your son to release his clutch! Tony! Desist, you little varmint!”

“No,” chortled Anthony, dragging his prize toward level ground. “You're captured, sir!”

“Cat-erred,” echoed Patience, happily.

Rebecca made a bid for some vestige of independence and remarked, as she was borne helplessly along, that she did not like the nickname “Tony.”

“Then you should never use it,” said de Villars pontifically.

She scowled at him, and only then did it occur to her that although Anthony had spoken of de Villars several times, to the best of her knowledge they had never met. “Good gracious!” she exclaimed. “How are you acquainted with my son, sir?”

“I refuse to reply on grounds of self-defence,” he declared solemnly.

“He is my friend from the park, Mama.” Anthony tossed a sparkling glance over his shoulder. “The man who helped me to sail my boat and 'lowed me to sail his.”

“And allowed you to be nigh drowned.” She nodded. “I should have guessed!”

“Never mind,” de Villars said kindly. “Not everyone can be quick-witted. Prepare for a throw, halflings! Here—” He shrugged out of his jacket and thrust it at the seething Rebecca. “Hang this up somewhere, will you? Hey! Peter! Never stand there counting leaves! You'll get a crick in your neck. Go and get the bat. I left it on your picnic table. Hurry up, there's a good fellow!” He caught the ball Anthony sent whizzing at him, and threw it far off, proclaiming, “First one to find it wins a shilling!”

The children squealed across the meadow in hot pursuit of the bouncing ball.

De Villars turned and said breezily, “What? Haven't you got that thing hung up yet?” He retrieved the jacket and tossed it onto a convenient bush. “Must I do
everything
myself?”

Rebecca's comprehension was much too slow, and even as she started to retreat, his arms whipped around her, the grey eyes twinkling down at her in a most disconcerting way as he bent closer.

“Devil!” she gasped, struggling wildly. “Oh, how evilly you contrive!”

He kissed her brow. “I appreciate your appreciation.”

“No! Horrid,
horrid
man! You will ruin everything!”

He chuckled, but straightened, still holding her. “With our Peter, do you mean? You've not a chance there, my delicious dear. Were you a bird's nest, now…”

“You planned this entire thing,” she hissed, vainly trying to force his arm away. Faith, but the man was made of iron! “You influenced Sir Peter to bring my aunt and me down here, purely so that you could force your attentions on me!”

“Not ‘purely,'” he admitted with an unrepentant grin. “There is much less competition in this pastoral solitude. And besides”—he succeeded in planting a quick kiss on the tip of her nose—“your perfume is so—earthy. What is it, love? Musk? Or musk ox, perhaps?”

“Odious!” wailed the mortified Rebecca. “Sir Peter will see us! Oh, please! Please! If you spoil this for me, I shall
never
forgive you!”

“Foolish child.” But with a glance to the picnic area, he let her go and stepped away. “He
would
come back at once. I was hoping a vulture might captivate him. You really have set your heart on becoming Lady Ward, have you?”