A Lady by Midnight (6 page)

Chapter Seven

“O
h, Miss Taylor! I was so hoping you’d come in this morning.”

Kate froze in the entryway of the All Things shop.

Sally Bright, the village shopgirl and gossip, looked up from her ledger and cast her a sly smile. “I can’t wait to hear
everything
.”

Oh, please. Please, don’t let word have gotten around.

Kate herself could scarcely believe last night’s interview with the Gramercys, much less be pressed to explain it. “Hear everything about what?”

“Everything about you and Thorne, of course. Miss Taylor, you must tell me. I’ll forgive your entire line of credit, but I want to hear every detail. I heard you’re betrothed.” The girl hopped for emphasis. “
Betrothed!”

Kate closed her eyes. Oh.
That.
The girl wanted to hear about her and Thorne. She was having a hard time crediting those events, too.

“Did you say
betrothed
?” In her peripheral vision she saw a lace cap swivel.

Kate adjusted the heavy basket on her arm. Mrs. Highwood, a matron in her middle years, stood at the far corner of the shop, accompanied by the eldest of her three daughters, Diana.

“Who is betrothed?” the older woman demanded.

Mrs. Highwood was a woman of advancing age—but when it came to the subject of matrimony, her hearing was positively canine in its acuity. Between her voracious interest in all things nuptial and Sally’s love of gossip . . .

Well, at least this would be over quickly.

“It’s Miss Taylor and Corporal Thorne,” Sally jumped to inform her. “It happened just yesterday, on their way home from Hastings.”

“How do you even know all this?” Kate asked, marveling.

“Your new music pupil came in the shop. Lady Lark, is it? She popped in first thing this morning for tooth powder and told me everything.”

Mrs. Highwood crossed to the counter. “Miss
Taylor
? Betrothed to Corporal
Thorne
? I cannot believe it.”

“Is this true, Kate?” Diana asked. “I must admit, that’s . . . rather a surprise.”

Of course it would be a surprise. She and Diana were friends, and not only had she never said a thing to the eldest Miss Highwood about liking Corporal Thorne—she’d given every indication of despising the man.

Because she
did
despise him. He was horrid and cold and unfeeling and now . . .

“It’s true,” Kate said, inwardly cringing. “We’re engaged.”

It’s all right,
she reminded herself.
It’s only temporary.

“But how did this happen?” Diana asked.

“Very suddenly.” Kate swallowed. “I’d gone into Hastings for new music, and I missed the last stagecoach home. I chanced across Corporal Thorne in the street, and he offered me a ride home.”

“And then . . . ?”

“And then we stopped to rest the horse near a turnpike. We . . . discussed the past and the future. By the time I settled in for the night at the Queen’s Ruby, we were engaged.” There, all of that was the truth.

Sally pouted. “That is the worst recounting I’ve ever heard! You owe us more than that. Did he go down on one knee, declare mad love for you? Was there a kiss?”

Kate didn’t know how to answer. Yes, there had been a kiss. And her first kiss
should
have been an occasion to bubble over with excitement and regale all her friends with breathless details. Instead, she just wanted to conceal her humiliation.

“Look at your face,” Sally said. “Red as sealing wax. It must have been a very good kiss indeed. The man’s no kind of monk. You’ll be a lucky bride, Miss Taylor. I’ve heard such tales . . .” She scribbled in her ledger.

Mrs. Highwood snapped open a fan and worked it vigorously. “Insupportable. My Diana’s poor health has us confined to this seaside hamlet, while all England celebrates the allied victory. Here we stay, doomed to watch her chances of marriage sail by, like so many ships viewed from the shore. And now Miss
Taylor
is engaged?”

Diana gave Kate an apologetic smile. “Mama, I believe what you mean to say is that we are thrilled for Kate, and we wish her much joy.”

“Much joy,” the older lady muttered. “Yes, Miss Taylor may have much joy, but what of us? I ask you, Diana, where is our joy? Where?” She drew the last word into a wavering lament. “Everyone who is anyone is in Town this summer. Including your sister, who—I remind you—has recently married a viscount.”

“Yes, Mama. I do recall.” Diana coughed pitifully into a handkerchief. “It’s so unfortunate my health has taken a sudden turn.”

“You do look very pale today,” Kate said.

Diana and Kate exchanged knowing looks. Minerva Highwood’s recent marriage to Lord Payne was the entire reason for this subterfuge. Left to her own devices, Mrs. Highwood would have descended on the newlyweds within a day of their arrival in Town, demanding introductions be made and balls be held. Diana wanted her sister to have a quiet honeymoon—hence the mysterious and sudden “decline” in her health.

“I tell you,” the older woman muttered, “in
my
youth, I should not have let consumption, malaria, and typhoid put together keep me from the celebrations of the Glorious Peace.”

“But you would not have been much fun at parties,” Kate couldn’t help but say. “All that hacking and shivering with fever.”

Mrs. Highwood sent her a sharp look.

Just then Sally Bright slammed her ledger shut. “There, that’s done. Now, Miss Taylor, spill everything.”

What Kate spilled were the contents of her hamper. Inside it, Badger startled at the crack of the ledger closing. The pup leapt from the wicker basket, then darted about the shop, rocketing from one corner to another.

“It’s a rat!” Mrs. Highwood cried, displaying the spryness of a woman ten years her junior as she climbed a nearby stepladder.

“It’s not a rat, Mrs. Highwood.”

The puppy scampered under a bank of shelves.

Kate ducked and scouted under the cupboards. “Badger! Badger, do come out.”

“Even worse,” the matron moaned. “It’s a badger. What sort of young woman carries a badger in a handbasket? It’s like a harbinger of the End of Days.”

“I believe it’s a puppy, Mama,” Diana said. Crouching, she joined Kate in the search. “Now where’s the dear thing gone?”

Down on hands and knees, Kate peered under the cupboard. Badger was there, wedged far at the back. She stuck her hand into the gap and groped for a handful of scruff. Drat. Just out of her reach.

Diana knelt beside her. “Poor dear. He must be frightened.”

“Here. Try this.” Sally joined them, holding out a bit of salted bacon she’d taken from a barrel in the storeroom. “Before he leaves a puddle under there.”

Kate blew out a swift breath, lifting a lock of hair that had fallen over her brow. The puppy had already left two puddles in her room at the Queen’s Ruby. One on the floorboards, and another in her bed. By the time she’d returned from breakfast with a slice of ham and a roll tucked in her pocket, the little beast had chewed up the handle of her good fan and one half of her most comfortable pair of slippers.

“Come now, Badger. That’s a good boy.” Kate pursed her lips and made encouraging noises. The pup sniffed and advanced a little, but not quite far enough.

Recalling Corporal Thorne whistling for the dog yesterday, she pressed her lips together and gave a short, chirping whistle. That did the trick. The pup came darting out—a furry bullet shooting straight into her lap.

Kate fell back on her backside with an
oof.
She laughed as Badger devoured the bacon from her hand, then set about licking every trace of salt from her palm and fingertips.

“You will get me into so much trouble,” she whispered. “And I’ve no strength to chide you.”

Badger knew it, too. He cocked his head. Then his ear. Twitched his nose. Wagged his tail. As if to say,
Look upon my arsenal of adorable behaviors . . . and tremble
.

“This naughty little dear is Badger,” she said. “He’s the reason I came in today, Sally. I was hoping you’d have something I can use as a leash. Carrying him in the basket obviously won’t do. And perhaps you’d have some stray bits of something for him to chew? Last night, I let him destroy a copy of
Mrs. Worthington’s Wisdom.
”

Sally crossed her arms. “I might have a dog lead in back. As for things to gnaw . . .” She considered a moment, then snapped her fingers. “I know. What about Finn’s old leather foot? He’s been fitted with a nicer prosthetic now.”

Kate shuddered at the thought of Badger gnawing away at a human limb, even a false one. How macabre. “That’s a . . . creative . . . thought, but perhaps we’ll just stick with
Mrs. Worthington’s Wisdom.
It is a very useful book.”

Mrs. Highwood came down from the stepladder and examined the dog. “Wherever did you acquire such a mongrel, anyhow?”

She gave Badger a brisk rub. “Corporal Thorne picked up the little urchin from a farmer.”

Sally perked up. “That’s Thorne’s dog?”

“Well, he’s my dog now.” She covered Badger’s ears, lest he hear himself being disparaged. “It’s only a mongrel pup he took in on a whim.”

Kate knew she couldn’t offer a growing puppy the most suitable of homes. But she could give Badger love, and that was what he needed most.

Sally shook her head. “Are you certain? Rufus told me Corporal Thorne’s been wanting a coursing hound. He’s had one on special order from a breeder. The pups come quite dear, I understand.”

Kate stared at the dog in her arms. Valuable? Badger? Such a funny-looking thing, all long, thin limbs and patched fur that was not quite straight, not quite curly. He was like an animated heap of cowlicks.

And if Thorne prized him, surely he would have told her so.

“Sally, I think you must have your puppies confused.”

“For the love of St. Ursula!” Mrs. Highwood cried. She’d moved to the window. “This, I’ll have you know, is why this place is called ‘Spinster Cove.’ While you featherbrained girls carry on about mongrel dogs, there is a gentleman walking down the lane. A tall, marvelous-looking one, carrying an expensive walking stick. I detect no hint of marriage in his demeanor.”

Diana laughed. “Mama, you cannot determine a man is single just by viewing him from across the lane.”

“But I can. My intuition has never failed me.”

“His name is Lord Drewe,” Kate said. “He’s here on holiday with his two sisters and an aunt.” She prolonged the suspense another moment. “And he’s a marquess.”

“A marq—” Mrs. Highwood swayed on her feet. “An unmarried
marquess.
Oh, my nerves. I will faint.”

T
he men of the Spindle Cove militia were
not
particularly interested in a visiting marquess. And the addition of a few more female oddities to the Queen’s Ruby coterie was simply the normal course.

But it wasn’t every day they had a chance to needle their commander.

“Engaged to Miss Taylor?” Aaron Dawes exclaimed, once drill was finished for the morning.

Thorne ignored the question. He stretched his neck to one side until it cracked.

“Thought you went to Hastings for a hunting dog,” Dawes said, “not a wife.” The blacksmith shook his head. “I must say, never saw that coming.”

“None of us saw this coming,” said Fosbury. “Exactly how did you woo her, Corporal?”

“This is Thorne we’re discussing,” Dawes said. “He doesn’t woo. He commands.”

“But that wouldn’t work on Miss Taylor. She’s got spirit.”

“And humor,” said the vicar. “And good sense.”

Yes, Thorne silently agreed. All that, plus distracting beauty and a mouth so lush and sweet, he’d spent the whole night dreaming about it and woken with a rod of forged steel between his legs.

“Yes, Miss Taylor’s a very sweet girl,” Fosbury said. He eyed Thorne with good-humored curiosity. “Makes a man wonder . . . What’s she see in you?”

Nothing. Nor should she.

“Enough,” he said. “We have a great deal to make ready before the ladies have their fair. My personal affairs are none of your concern.”

“Don’t think we’re concerned for
you
,” Dawes said. “We’re concerned for her. Miss Taylor has a great many friends in Spindle Cove. None of us want to see her hurt. That’s all.”

Thorne cursed silently. If all Miss Taylor’s friends knew the truth, they’d thank him. He was only trying to protect her from a far more dangerous threat.

The Gramercys.

It made no sense that the family would so eagerly take up residence in Spindle Cove, and even less sense that Lord Drewe himself would remain. Thorne could only conclude the marquess was reluctant to let Miss Taylor out of his sight. Why would he feel so protective of an illegitimate second cousin?

Higher mathematics might not be his strength, but he knew when something didn’t add up.

“Corporal Thorne!” Rufus Bright called down from the turret. “Miss Taylor’s climbing up the path.”

Thorne dismissed the men with a curt nod. “That will be all. Go assist Sir Lewis with the trebuchet.”

The men groaned. But they obeyed, crossing through an arch and wandering out to the bluffs where Sir Lewis Finch had his monstrosity erected.

Spindle Cove denizens whispered a prayer whenever the aging, eccentric Sir Lewis approached a trigger, a fuse, a powder charge—or in this case, a medieval catapult designed to lay whole cities to waste. However, instead of launching flaming balls of pitch over fortified walls, this trebuchet’s sole purpose was lobbing melons out to sea. Just a bit of show for the midsummer fair.

The mechanics of the ancient weapon were apparently more sensitive and twitchy than a virgin’s inner thigh. A great many test runs were needed before it would be ready.

Sir Lewis’s sonorous baritone carried over the castle ruins. “Ready, men! Three . . . two . . .”

A great whomping and whooshing noise coincided with the count of one, as the men released the trebuchet’s counterweight. The sling made its groaning orbit upward, then lurched to a halt and sent its missile soaring in the direction of the sea.