Vixen (8 page)

Hugo could hear the mockery in the question even if the others couldn’t. He couldn’t restrain his grin. “You’ve a milky mustache for a start,” he said.

“I haven’t!” she exclaimed, wiping her mouth with the back of her hand.

“And you have little crusts of sleep in the corners of your eyes,” he continued relentlessly. “And mud and straw on the bottom of your skirt. However, nothing that requires a sister-in-law to remedy. We can manage perfectly well ourselves.”

“You throw down the gauntlet, Lattimer,” Jasper declared softly.

A chill seemed to invade the courtyard. Hugo offered another mock bow of agreement. Chloe realized that the laughing banter about her own disarray had been merely a cover for whatever issue stood between her half-brother and her guardian. And it wasn’t just a matter of her mother’s will.

“Come, Crispin.” Jasper remounted, his face black. Crispin did the same. “This isn’t the end of it, Lattimer.”

“No, Jasper, I don’t imagine it is,” Hugo said.

“Somehow, I don’t believe I’ll meet my match in a drunken sot,” the other man said viciously.

Hugo whitened, but he said only, “I give you good day, Jasper … Crispin.”

The two men rode out of the courtyard without a backward glance.

Chloe looked up at Hugo. “What was that about?”.

He didn’t seem to have heard her. His mouth was a taut line, the green eyes distant. Absently, he passed a hand over his unshaven chin. “What did you say?”

“Nothing,” she said, sensing that the mystery of what lay between her guardian and her brother would not be solved this morning.

He looked down at her and shook his head. “You really are a disreputable sight, lass. No credit to my guardianship at all.”

“Well, you’re not particularly smart yourself,” Chloe retorted. “Did you sleep in your clothes?”

“I didn’t sleep,” he replied.

“Oh, was your leg hurting?”

“Not excessively.” He wasn’t going to explain about the tormenting effects of unfulfilled arousal. “I sleep little at the best of times.”

“Why?”

He frowned, quoting almost to himself, “‘The innocent sleep.’”

“ ‘Sleep that knits up the ravell’d sleeve of care,’” Chloe continued promptly. “But Macbeth was guilty of mass murder … it’s not surprising he couldn’t sleep. What could you be guilty of?”

I killed your father.
But it wasn’t just that. It was all the other things. How many of those women hadn’t been willing partners in their violation? It was the one question that haunted him. Stephen had been capable of blackmail. He had abused his wife, coerced her with brutality. He’d have given little consideration to the defenseless women of the streets…. There’d been a virgin….
No!
He wouldn’t think about it.

Chloe touched his arm, alarmed by the bleakness of his expression. “What is it?”

“Painted devils,” he said with an effort. That’s what he called them—those hideous images dancing on the walls of his mind. “I need my breakfast. I see you’ve already had yours.”

Chloe wondered whether to press the matter, but decided she didn’t have the right. She barely knew him. “Only bread and ham,” she said cheerfully. “If Samuel’s going to cook eggs for you, I’d like some too.”

There was something about the girl that banished the devils, Hugo realized, suddenly lighthearted. “Where do you put it all, lass?”

“I don’t know, but I’m always hungry,” she confided, accompanying him to the kitchen, Dante at her heels. “I wonder if Jasper will come back?”

“He’ll get short shrift if he does.” Hugo glanced down at the dog, then gave a mental shrug. He seemed to have been routed in that battle. “Hot water, Samuel, I’m going to shave.” He pulled his shirt out of his britches, unbuttoned it, and tossed it over a chair.

Samuel placed a bowl of hot water on the table and propped a small mirror against an empty wine bottle. “Soap’s in the pantry.”

Chloe perched on the edge of the table, watching as Hugo sharpened the long razor on a leather strop and lathered his face. His hands fascinated her. They were beautiful, elegant, and slender with long, sensitive fingers. For some reason, they produced a strange flutter in the pit of her stomach.

“What’s that on your chest?” she asked suddenly. She’d seen the strange little design yesterday, when he’d been in bed. “Is it a snake?”

Hugo’s movements stilled, and then he said carelessly, “Yes, it’s a snake.”

“Why do you have it?”

“Didn’t they teach you in that seminary about vulgar curiosity?” he demanded. “Or about the impropriety of making personal remarks?”

“I’m sorry.” She looked crestfallen. “I was just interested because I’ve never seen anything like it before.”

“But then, I don’t imagine you’ve seen a man without his shirt before,” he said with some asperity, drawing a long swath through the soap.

“No,” she agreed. “Did you get it in the navy?”

Hugo sighed and seized the easy way out. “Tattoos are common in the navy. Now, do you have a riding habit?”

To his relief, she accepted the close of the uncomfortable topic without demur. “Of course, but it’s another bushel.” She licked her finger and picked up crumbs from the tabletop.

“Well, I think it’s time to do something about that. We’ll ride into Manchester and see if we can’t improve your wardrobe.” He wiped the soap off his face with a towel and passed a checking hand over his chin. “That’s better.”

He subjected Chloe, still perched on the table, to a frowning inspection. “But you certainly won’t do. Samuel, give the lass a jug of hot water to take upstairs. She needs a good wash.”

Samuel filled a copper jug from the kettle on the fire. He surveyed Chloe appraisingly. “I’d best take it up for ye. A puff of wind w’d blow ye away, seems to me.”

“I’m a lot stronger than I look,” Chloe said, holding out her hand for the jug. “I can dig canker out of a horse’s hoof, and they’re very heavy to hold.”

“Good God,” Hugo muttered. “How the hell did you become a veterinarian?”

“The head groom in the livery stables in Bolton taught me a lot. I used to sneak out Of the seminary on Sundays
and spend the day with him. It wasn’t very popular,” she added.

“No, I don’t suppose it was.”

“But there wasn’t anything they could do to stop me,” she continued blithely. “And then there’s a poacher who lives in the village at Shipton. He taught me how to handle birds and small animals.”

“I’m amazed the long-suffering Misses Trent kept you as long as they did,” Hugo observed.

“I’m sure they were well paid,” Chloe said, an edge to her voice. “I spent most of the year there, after all.” She hefted the jug and went to the door. “Are we going to Manchester this morning?”

“Unless you have other plans,” he said.

“No, I don’t believe I do,” Chloe responded with his own mock solemnity.

Hugo chuckled, wondering where she’d acquired her sense of humor. Elizabeth had been painfully serious, and Stephen had derived amusement only in extremity. “I have to talk to your bankers. How much allowance do you have at the moment?”

“Allowance?” Chloe blinked at this novel concept. “I’ve never had any money. If I wanted pin money, Miss Emily would give it to me. But they supplied the bushels … and there wasn’t much else to spend money on.”

Hugo scratched his head. “I haven’t the faintest idea what would be appropriate for you.” It would depend, of course, on where she lived. After the morning’s visit, he no longer considered the possibility of setting her up in a private establishment with a respectable female companion. At least, not within striking distance of Shipton. She’d find it impossible to avoid her half-brother and Crispin in such circumstances.

She was still standing by the door, carrying the jug of water, and he waved her away. “Go and change your dress, lass. I’ll sort something out.”

“So, what’re ye plannin’ on doin’ with ’er?” Samuel asked as the door closed behind her.

“God knows.” Hugo sighed. “You read my thoughts.”

“Ye reckon on keepin’ ’er here?”

“For the moment, I don’t see much choice.” But there must be
some
family she could live with other than the Greshams, he thought. It wasn’t possible at such a tender age to have no one who cared for her.

It
shouldn’t be
possible. But he suspected it was the case. Her life had been shaped so far by a debauched and bloodstained past in which he’d played a defining part. And now it seemed his chickens had come home to roost with a vengeance.

“H
OW FINE YOU LOOK
,” Chloe said admiringly, coming into the courtyard half an hour later.

Her guardian had changed his farmer’s garb for cravat, buckskins, and top boots.

Hugo regarded her riding habit of brown serge with a grimace. “I wish I could say the same for you, lass. Are all your clothes that ghastly color?”

“Yes,” she said casually, examining with a somewhat critical frown the dapple-gray pony Billy was holding. “Am I to ride the pony?”

“I’m not putting you on one of my hunters,” he said. “And Dapple’s the only alternative.”

“Oh.” Chloe walked all around the small, fat pony. “The mare I rode at the livery stable was fourteen hands.”

“The smallest hunter I have stands at seventeen hands,” Hugo said. “This is what you’re riding.” He caught her around the waist and lifted her into the saddle. “Once you’re established somewhere, we’ll buy you a decent horse.”

“Ah,” Chloe said, gathering up the reins. “Well, on that subject, let me tell you my plan.”

Hugo swung astride a rawboned gelding, casting her a sideways glance. She offered him a sunny smile. Her hair was back in its plaits, but not scraped away from her forehead as before and a few guinea-gold tendrils wisped beneath a hideous felt hat. Hugo began to wonder if he was losing his mind as a host of completely improper images filled his head.

He pressed his heels into his mount’s flanks with abrupt speed and rode ahead of her through the arched gateway to the drive outside.

Chloe’s pony followed with a rolling gait that promised a slow ride. Dante, securely held back by Billy, raised his head in a mournful howl as his mistress disappeared from view.

“My plan,” Chloe said from behind Hugo. “Don’t you want to hear it?”

He slackened speed so that she could catch up with him. Her plans so far hadn’t impressed him with their practicality. “Not particularly, if it’s anything like your previous suggestions,” he said. “But I’m sure I’m going to hear it whether I want to or not.”

Chloe was undaunted by this less-than-enthusiastic response. “Do you have a house in London?”

“An uninhabitable one,” he replied.

“But money would make it habitable, wouldn’t it?”

“What the devil are you getting at?” He turned to look at her again. The sunny smile was still in place.

“Well, it’s simple,” she said. “You need to have a wife—”

“I need
what?”
he exclaimed. His horse skittered on the gravel.

“I’ve decided that that’s what you need,” she said. “You need someone to take care of you properly. I always know when people need looking after,” she added seriously.

Vaguely, he wondered if she distinguished between people and animals.

When his dumbfounded silence continued, she went on. “If you had a wife, perhaps you’d be able to sleep properly again, and you’d have someone to manage your household, and make sure you were comfortable. And if she had a fortune, of course, it would be perfect … since you don’t seem to have much money.” She
regarded him, her head on one side, assessing his reaction to her diagnosis and prescription.

“And just where am I going to find this paragon?” He didn’t know whether to laugh or scold her for impertinence.

“In London,” Chloe said as if it were self-evident. “Where I shall find a husband, so that I can have my freedom. I’ve decided that I’m going to keep control of my fortune myself when I marry. Can that be done?”

The sudden switch of topic was so confusing, Hugo found himself responding as if the question were a sensible one, which it most certainly was not. “Under the law, your husband has control of your fortune,” he said. “But exceptions are made.”

“And as my guardian, you could make sure that happened?”

Where did she get these quaint notions from? He replied with some amusement, “Yes, I could. Always assuming this putative husband was still willing to marry you.”

“Oh, I expect he will be,” she said airily. “I’ll share my fortune with him. And if he’s anything like the curate or the butcher’s boy or Miss Anne’s nephew, nothing will put him off.”

Hugo’s lip quivered at this matter-of-fact statement. If her previous swains had lost their heads over her when she was camouflaged in ill-fitting brown serge, it required little imagination to guess the effect she would have when properly presented. It seemed that Miss Gresham was not quite as naive as he’d thought her … or as she had chosen to present herself hitherto.

Now, that was an interesting thought.

“Anyway, my plan is that we shall both go to London, and I can have my come-out, and you shall find a wife and I shall find a convenient husband,” she finished.