The Wagered Widow (18 page)

Busied with straightening her gown, she ignored that question and said tartly, “I think it typical in you to poke fun at him, even while you enjoy his hospitality. For shame!”

“Oh, no. I am shameless. And I do not poke fun at our Peter, my adored rustic. I merely point out that he is a slowtop. A lovable fellow. And extreme handsome, I grant you. But decidedly a slowtop. Never fear, I do not say it with malice or on the sly, for Peter knows what I think of him. And he, in turn, thinks me a cynical, graceless, immoral womanizer. You see, we harbour no illusions about one another. Perhaps that is why we are such good friends. Your Peter is all nobility. I”—he bowed with a flourish—“I am all depravity. And shall remain so until I am converted by the love of a good woman, whereupon I shall settle down, breed fourteen fat children, and never look at another lady so long as I do live!”

“Hah!” she snorted, watching rather impatiently as Sir Peter meandered towards them. “You left out one word, my Lord Smirk—‘marriage'! Is the lady to bear you such a brood, you might at least wed her!”

“Well, of course I shall wed her! Good God, woman! Do you fancy me to take after my grandpapa? I would not keep a mistress who presented me with fourteen children! She must be wits to let to land herself in such a bumble broth!”

Despite herself, a gurgle of laughter rose in Rebecca's throat.

Watching her, de Villars said, “So I am quite safe, d'ye see, Little Parrish, for I learned early in life that you ladies may sigh and pine for romance, but there's not one amongst you would wed a gentleman who has neither fortune nor expectations. Thus shall I die a lonely bachelor.”

A different note had come into his voice. Glancing at him sharply, Rebecca was surprised to see that his eyes were bleak.

Anthony pounded up, sank to his knees, and panted, “Here…'tis, sir. I—I win … the prize!”

“Jolly well done!” De Villars made a great show of presenting a shilling to the boy. “But now you must go and help the wee Patience, and give her this groat for a consolation prize. Her little legs did their very best, I think.”

Anthony groaned. “
Must
I, sir? Is a pest!”

De Villars bent to him and imparted in a stage whisper, “All ladies are pests, my lad. Only—we gentlemen could not get along without them, alas. Hurry now, and then we shall have our game.
Come
along, Peter!
Do!
”

*   *   *

It was almost five o'clock before they turned their steps homeward, and they were, as Mrs. Boothe observed, “a sorry looking crew.” Rebecca's gown had a grass stain, acquired when she slipped while catching an elusive ball; Anthony had managed to split his breeches; Patience seemed mud from head to heels and was ensconced upon de Villars' shoulder, one hand fast gripped in his once elegant locks. Sir Peter was the least disreputable amongst them, but even he sported a streak of mud down one cheek, and a lock of golden hair had fallen across his brow. His courtesy was undiminished, his hand ever ready to aid her or Albinia, and Rebecca thought him more handsome than ever, a becoming colour in his cheeks, and a warm glow in his eyes when he smiled down at her.

“What a jolly good time we have had,” he remarked. “I vow I cannot recall when last I played bat and ball.”

Rebecca lied that she would never have guessed it for he had hit the ball so hard she had supposed him to be an excellent cricketer.

De Villars moaned and murmured under his breath, “
What
a rasper!”

Rebecca cast him a look that must have raised blisters on his skin had it not been, she thought to herself, so thick as that on a rhinoceros! Her scorn was wasted, for he was glancing off to the side and following his gaze she saw an officer riding towards them, followed by a small troop.

“Soldiers!” howled Anthony, and raced to meet them.

“Goodness,” Rebecca exclaimed. “You have surely not been practising your treasonable kindnesses already, Sir Peter?”

De Villars said curtly, “Treasonable—what?”

Ward laughed. “Mrs. Parrish and I were deciding what we might do if some wretched Jacobite appeared at the door, begging sanctuary, and I said my conscience would not allow that I render him up for execution, but that I most probably would have to give the poor fellow what aid I might.”

De Villars' mouth twisted. “How very noble,” he said sardonically. “And likely accompany the thimble-wit to the block!”

Albinia said nervously that they should not even speak of such matters, but Rebecca persisted. “I suppose there is no doubt what
you
would do in such a situation, Mr. de Villars?”

“None. Any man so stupid as to embrace a cause that was obviously doomed from the start has no business whining when inevitable retribution catches up with him.”

“Such strong views,” she said with a scornful laugh. “I declare I am impressed—if only by your vehemence. Is it that you are for the House of Hanover, sir? Or do you dislike Rome?”

“I do not relish having a German prince on the throne of England, but even less do I admire impractical dreamers, ma'am! And as for offering up my head to be stuck on a pike on London Bridge, or allowing my limbs to be hacked off before a jeering mob whilst yet I live— Gad! One would have to be an utter gudgeon to invite such a death and thus compound pure folly!”

The soldiers were very close now, with Anthony, tireless, leaping along before them.

“For heaven's sake, do not say anything rash, Becky,” Mrs. Boothe implored.

“Excellent advice, ma'am,” said de Villars. “Let us have no mention of treasonable sentiments in front of these men.” And he called, “Good afternoon, Captain. Lost, are you?”

The young officer reined up and eased his position in the saddle, the men behind him looking with envious eyes at the apparently carefree group. “No, we are not lost. My name is Holt. Have I the honour to address Sir Peter Ward?”

Sir Peter stepped forward. “I am he. Is anything amiss, Captain Holt?”

“I shall let you be the judge, sir. We were obliged to search your house and properties this afternoon. You will find your staff upset. My apologies. Duty is duty.”

“Well!” Rebecca exclaimed, indignantly. “I should think—”

“Just so,” de Villars interposed. “The man is but following orders, m'dear.”

Her angry gaze flashed to him, but his eyes were like shining steel. She felt as though she had been slapped and knew then how dangerous he judged the situation. Her gaze lowered, and she said no more.

De Villars met the captain's hard stare, and he rolled his eyes heavenwards in a long-suffering manner. Holt relaxed slightly and deigned to give him a tight but sympathetic smile.

“We have rebels in the neighbourhood, I take it?” Ward enquired.

“We have been advised several are headed this way, sir. I am sure I need not remind you that they are the King's enemies, thus anyone aiding them becomes as guilty and will be hanged, quartered, and beheaded.”

Mrs. Boothe paled and shrank, trembling against Rebecca.

Ward assured the captain that if any Jacobite fugitives were seen, a message would at once be relayed to the authorities.

De Villars watched the troop ride off and said dryly, “There goes a man fairly slathering for promotion.”

Patience lisped, “Wha doth quarted mean?”

“It—it means,” Mrs. Boothe faltered, “er, put to death, dear. Very cruelly. Oh! Those wretched soldiers have thrown a shadow over our happy day!”

“Never!” argued de Villars. “Nothing could mar this day! Except this great lump that breaks my back! You may become the beast of burden for a while, Ward. She's your kin, after all.”

Rather gingerly Sir Peter took the tired child on his shoulders, and Mrs. Boothe walked ahead with him, asking anxious questions about the possibility of desperate fugitives lurking in the vicinity.

De Villars fell into step with Rebecca. “Well, lovely one,” he murmured, “now you have seen me at my bucolic best, what say you to a tour through Europe? I've a cosy little villa in—”

“Good God!” she exclaimed with repugnance. “Do you never give up, Mr. de Villars?”

“Never!” He ran a hand through his dishevelled locks, succeeding in restoring very little of neatness. “I will win you yet. When you face the fact that poor Peter can elude the keenest hunter—”

“Oh!” she cried. “
Must
you be so—so crude?”

“Crude? Come now, Mrs. Becky. Why dissemble? You want a rich husband—no?”

“A pretty fool I would be to want a poor one!” She reddened, knowing that had sounded hard and grasping, and amended hurriedly, “I've my son's welfare to think of, after all.”

“No, no! Do not soften your candour, beloved. Is what I most admire in you. No gloves, and straight from the shoulder.” He chuckled as her lips tightened, and asked idly, “Have you never loved a man for himself?”

She spun on him, infuriated. “Do you fancy me without a heart? You seem to forget I was wed for nigh six years to a gentleman who was not at all rich.”

“Not when he died, at least,” he amended, cynically.

Rebecca's small jaw sagged. “What…” she gasped. “What do you now imply? That
I
frittered away my husband's fortune?”

“No, I'd not thought of that.” He asked curiously, “Did you?”

“Oh! Of all the— You are the most— You—
Oh!
” And she ran ahead to walk beside her aunt, despising herself for having, just for a little while this afternoon, begun to entertain kinder feelings towards The Lascivious Libertine.

*   *   *

The afternoon sunlight threw a mellowing glow over the rather stark lines of Ward Marching, for it was almost six o'clock before the picnic party climbed with a trace of weariness up the steps. Sir Peter set Patience down and ushered Mrs. Boothe and her niece into the dim coolness of the interior. “You will do us the honour of remaining for dinner, I hope,” he said. “I should have arranged company for you, but—”

“Never mind,” put in de Villars. “I did.”

Ward stared at him. “Did—what?”

“Arranged company for your guests. Forgot to tell you, old fellow. I was commanded to escort your grandmama up here.”

Sir Peter gave a shocked gasp. “You—brought Lady Ward here and
forgot
to tell me?”

“Oh, ecod!” Throwing a hand to his heart, de Villars groaned, “Am I utterly beyond the pale? Never fear, Peter. The old lady was quite fatigued and likely will have enjoyed a peaceful nap.” He added with questionable gravity, “But I really do think you had best seek her out now, and—er, mend your fences.”

Visibly irked, Ward excused himself and beat a hasty retreat, all but running up the stairs. Mrs. Kellstrand, who had been watching this by-play with an air of amused fondness, shook her head chidingly at de Villars. He called the housekeeper to him, slipped an arm about her slender waist, and engaged her in a brief, low-voiced colloquy. She nodded and led Mrs. Boothe and the muddied children towards the kitchen. De Villars bowed Rebecca to the stairs. She hesitated, but he would not dare attempt anything wicked while Lady Ward was in the house, so she went up with him, resolutely keeping her eyes turned away. When they reached the landing, she forgot, and her eyes met his. He looked far less elegant than she had ever seen him, but her satisfaction over that circumstance was tempered by the awareness that she also must be in sorry disarray.

De Villars smiled in a chastened way, but said a provocative, “Back to the bird sanctuary, eh, lovely one?”

Her lips twitched. She turned sharply away and declared with more vehemence than complete honesty that she was and always had been a bird fancier.

“Lud! I'd not have thought it of you,” he said reproachfully. “You and Peter are better matched than I had supposed.” He accompanied her along the hall towards an open door and an apparently petrified lackey. “Only one thing for it, m'dear,” he went on. “You'll have no choice but to take a hatchet to that cat of yours.”

Automatically proceeding as he ushered her across the threshold, Rebecca looked up at him in total indignation. “I shall do no such thing!” she declared angrily. “I'll have you know, sir, I am prodigious fond of Whisky!”

“Oh! My heavens!” exclaimed a horrified female voice. “How very dreadful!”

Stunned, Rebecca jerked her head around. She had supposed she was being taken to a bedchamber so as to refresh herself. Instead, she was entering a lavish saloon all red, white, and gold, occupied by Sir Peter, who looked aghast, and an angular but well-preserved lady of about sixty-five; a modishly gowned lady who was very stiff of manner and patently much shocked.

No less appalled, her cheeks flaming, Rebecca heard a muffled snort from The Monster beside her.

“Never a dull moment,” he chortled,
sotto voce.

Sir Peter had sprung up at their arrival and, faint but ever gallant, said, “M-Mrs. Parrish, I must make you known to my grandmother. Lady Agatha Ward; Mrs. Forbes Parrish.”

Rebecca stumbled forward to make her curtsey, and stammer, “I th-think you may have misunderstood, ma'am, but—”

“Not at all, Mrs. Parrish.” A lorgnette was raised to an eye of brown agate. “Ward, is this the—er, lady who has so kindly volunteered to guide Prudence?”

“Priscilla, dear ma'am,” her grandson corrected gently.

“As you please, but—
Whatever
is that dreadful odour?”

“Patience,” Rebecca put in desperately. “And you see, ma'am, it is my cat who is called—”

“Cat?”
The lorgnette darted about the large room. Unnerved, her ladyship shrilled, “If 'tis not housebroke I shall have no patience whatsoever!”

“Not the cat, ma'am,” de Villars put in, grinning from ear to ear. “The little girl.”