Amanda Scott (11 page)

“More’s the pity,” said her ladyship with a dignified sniff. “I suppose you will do as you please, whether your behavior offends me or not. I shall say no more.”

“Let joy be unconfined,” said his lordship sourly once they were safely on the other side of the door. “How do you tolerate that woman?”

“I don’t tolerate her particularly well,” Margaret told him, “but fortunately her uncertain health prevents her from interfering much with the household. She would have been less offended if you had inquired after her palpitations, you know.”

“Good Lord, has she
got
palpitations?” he asked, disgusted.

“Well, of course she has,” Margaret said, allowing him to take her elbow and guide her toward the stairs. “She has got every disease or disorder she has ever heard about. Just ask her. Or don’t, she’ll tell you anyway, given half a chance, and she’ll tell you as well how the Fates have decreed that she suffer all these ills without benefit of the slightest sympathy from anyone else.”

He was betrayed into a chuckle, and Margaret was glad to hear it, although their progress toward the front parlor was undelayed. “Thank you for the warning,” he said as he pushed the door open and waited for her to precede him into the room. “I shall bear it in mind.” He shut the door.

“Adam,” she said, turning, “I hope—”

“I know perfectly well what you hope,” he retorted. “Just answer one question. Was it your idea or Aunt Celeste’s?”

“You ought to know the answer to that without asking,” she said with a smile.

He nodded. “Aunt Celeste. I had hoped her tour of foreign capitals might have cured her of her more outrageous starts, but I see it has done nothing of the kind.”

“During the Congress, she told Count Talleyrand that he ought to take passage to London at once in order to consult with Sir William Knighton about his clubfoot,” said Margaret demurely.

“She didn’t!”

Margaret nodded. “She sets great store by Sir William’s wisdom, you know.”

“Good job she didn’t recommend Sir Richard Croft,” he said dryly. “Poor man killed himself last month, you know.”

“I know. They say he blamed himself for Princess Charlotte’s death in childbed,” Margaret said, “but even Aunt Celeste would scarcely recommend an accoucheur to Count Talleyrand.”

“’Tis a wonder to me she didn’t set the whole Congress by the ears.”

“Well, I daresay she very nearly did upon occasion. I know Grandpapa was most annoyed with her when she told Prince Metternich to his face that he would get a deal farther in diplomacy if one could but trust his word.”

“Good Lord!”

“I know. He was furious, but she didn’t let his wrath deter her in the least. Just said he ought to have been taught from the cradle that it didn’t behoove a man to blow hot and cold in the same breath.”

“Why did Sir Harold put up with it? He ought to have sent her home.”

Margaret shook her head, grinning. “He didn’t dare. They liked her.”

“Liked her?” He sounded disbelieving.

“Very much. Even Metternich. He said she was a woman in a thousand. Not most original statement, by any means, but I think he was a bit in love with her, which would account for a lack of creativity, don’t you think?”

Abberley made a sound perilously like a snort. “Rubbish. The woman is a menace. Do you know she has ordered farming tools from London, not to mention seed from Royston, flint and plaster from God knows where, and that she’s had the nerve to order a number of my tenants to rethatch their cottages?”

“If she’s ordered flint and plaster, it sounds to me as though she has plans beyond a bit of thatch, sir.”

“Well, you needn’t look so damned pleased about it. It’s my estate, not hers.”

“If I were you, sir,” Margaret told him roundly, “I shouldn’t puff that fact off to anyone who’s had a look at the place lately.”

“I know things are not in prime twig at present, but that scarcely gives her the right to make free with my purse strings. In case you are unaware of the fact, there has been an agricultural depression in England since the end of the war,” he added defensively. “The state of affairs at Abberley cannot be set entirely at my door.”

“Fiddlesticks,” Margaret retorted, unimpressed. “If you have suffered such financial reverses as all that, this is the first I’ve heard of it, and I cannot see that penury has curtailed your raking. You’ve neglected the estate shamefully, and you know it. Furthermore, if you wish to give your head to Aunt Celeste for washing, just try telling her she hasn’t any right to give orders at Abberley. She thinks of it as her own home, and justifiably so. No one else has questioned her authority to set things right.”

“And you believe I would be a fool to do so now,” he said with a grimace, looking first down at the carpet then up at her from beneath his brows. “Well, you’re very likely in the right of it, but I don’t like it.”

“Your liking it hasn’t got much to do with anything,” she said flatly, not missing the fact that he had made no further effort to protest a lack of funds. “Either you’ve got to take matters in hand yourself or let Aunt Celeste have her head. I believe she’s found you a bailiff.”

“The devil she has!”

“Mr. Farley has a cousin, you see,” Margaret began, but she got no farther.

His eyes flashed. “I’ll choose my own bailiff, damn her! If I’m expected to work with the man, she can at least allow me to have a say in who he will be.”

“I don’t think she trusts you, Adam,” Margaret said calmly, watching for signs of further fireworks. When he smoldered but remained silent, she added, “You haven’t exactly expressed an interest in your people before now, you know.”

“My people are fine,” he said stubbornly.

“Mary Muston told us the three of them would have starved if Jake hadn’t managed to find odd jobs in Mayfield,” she replied, her voice quiet now and gentle because she was certain he had known nothing about the Muston’s plight.

“Starved?” There was sudden pain in his eyes. “I never thought … For God’s sake, why didn’t they tell me?”

“Mary said you were never around to tell, that you were mostly in London or visiting friends. After your last bailiff left—”

“I see,” he said, not letting her finish. He straightened, pushing his hand through his hair, then turned away from her. “Tell Aunt Celeste to do as she pleases. I won’t interfere.”

“Adam, that’s not—”

“Well, here you are,” said Lady Celeste, pushing the door open with a bang. “I heard you were here, Abberley, and I’ve been searching high and low. Farley has a cousin named Will Clayton, whom I’d like you to meet. Capable man. I like him. Sure to make you a fine bailiff. You need a bailiff, you know. Too much to be done to try to handle matters yourself. Come along and meet him. He’s down at the estate office with Farley now. I told them I’d bring you straight along.”

Abberley shot an enigmatic look at Margaret. “Tell Clayton to visit me first thing in the morning, Aunt Celeste,” he said, his voice carefully even.

“But he is here now, dear boy.”

“Then you will know precisely where to find him to deliver my message.” He turned toward her, his dark eyes meeting hers in a direct gaze. “I’ll see him in the morning, ma’am. Right now, I have other business to attend to.”

Lady Celeste moved as though to protest, but after a look from one to the other, she seemed to think better of the notion. “I’ll tell him you are looking forward to making his acquaintance,” she said confidently.

“As you will, ma’am.” When the door had shut behind her, he turned back to Margaret, but instead of the anger she had expected to see in them, his eyes were filled with laughter. “Was that an example of attack being the best defense?”

Relieved, she chuckled. “I believe it must have been something of the kind. She must have heard that you were in a temper and decided to bluster it out. She certainly blew in like a dervish.”

“She used to be a devil to go in the hunting field, you know. Learned at a tender age to get over rough ground as quickly as possible. Now I suppose I shall have to hire the damned fellow.”

“If Farley vouches for him—”

“He’s his cousin, didn’t she say? He’ll vouch for him. I only hope Clayton is half as good as Farley is, so he won’t let her down.”

“Don’t you mean to take hold yourself, Adam? Surely, it’s time and more for you to do so.”

“I hadn’t meant to,” he replied, moving toward her, his gaze locking with hers, “but I begin to think I may have more reason to do so than I had believed.”

Margaret’s breath caught in her throat when he reached for her. His hands were gentle upon her shoulders. Her lips parted slightly, and she felt as though her body had suddenly come awake after a long sleep. When his right hand moved along her shoulder in a small caress, tiny chills raced away from it in every direction, only to be replaced immediately by a radiating warmth. She reached to touch the moving hand.

He bent toward her, his expression gentler than she had seen it in a long time. “Perhaps I might indeed find reason now to put my affairs in better order,” he said quietly.

“Might you, sir?” she whispered.

His lips were only inches from hers now. Margaret waited, every nerve focused upon the slow movement of his head toward hers.

Again the parlor door opened with a bang. This time the intruder was not Lady Celeste but Moffatt.

“My lord,” he said quickly, “Miss Margaret, you must come at once. There’s been an accident.”

As they whirled to face him, Margaret felt warmth rushing to her cheeks, but any thought of embarrassment at being found in such a position with Abberley faded at once in the face of Moffatt’s clear distress.

“Aunt Celeste?” Margaret demanded tensely.

“No, miss, it’s Master Timmy. Mr. Farley’s already sent one of the lads for Doctor Fennaday, but I think you should come at once.”

“Farley? Then, the accident occurred outside somewhere!” All color drained from her face, and she turned in near panic to Abberley.

He was curt. “What the devil happened?”

“The pony, m’lord. Master Tim jumped into the saddle like he always does, and Mr. Farley says the pony near leapt over the stableyard fence, kicking and carrying on like he was demented. Master Tim never had a chance to get his seat, I’m told.”

“How badly is he hurt?”

“I wouldn’t like to say, sir. I haven’t seen him, and you know how those lads are prone to exaggerate. I came for you and miss at once.”

“Well, don’t worry anyone else until we know the worst,” Abberley ordered, striding toward the door with Margaret right behind him.

“Begging your pardon, m’lord, but the only one who don’t know is Lady Celeste.”

Abberley stopped short. “You told Lady Annis before coming to us?”

“No, m’lord. Her ladyship was just leaving the yard in her carriage when the accident occurred. Mr. Caldecourt was with her, and Archer, of course.”

“Jordan’s accompanying her must be a first,” muttered Margaret, already pushing past the earl in her haste to discover how badly Timothy had been hurt.

Abberley followed her without another word to the butler, and they reached the stableyard several moments later to discover that quite a crowd had gathered around poor Timothy.

At an order from Abberley, the group divided, letting them pass, and Margaret soon saw the boy lying in a crumpled heap, with Mr. Farley, a thick-chested man of middle height, kneeling beside him. Timothy’s face was scraped and bruised as though he had slid along the ground, and his right arm was bent at an odd angle. She hurried forward to kneel beside him just as his eyelids flickered. Farley let out a breath of relief.

“’E’s cooming round, miss.”

“Heaven be thanked,” said Lady Annis, behind them. She turned to her footman. “Archer, I shall return to the carriage. Jordan, you must lend me your arm. I must sit down. My nerves. That wicked boy, to give me such a dreadful jolt.”

“Mother, don’t you think we might wait at least to see if Timothy is all right?”

“Do as you please,” she snapped. “Archer, your arm!”

“Why haven’t you done something to make him more comfortable?” Margaret demanded, ignoring everyone behind her.

“Didn’t ken ’ow bad off ’e be,” the bailiff answered brusquely. “Happen ’e didn’t ought ter be moved.”

“He’s right,” Abberley said, squatting down beside her. “Wait until the boy moves for himself or Fennaday arrives. Otherwise we could do further damage.” As he spoke, he reached toward Timothy, then pulled his hand back uncertainly.

Hearing an unfamiliar note in his voice, she glanced at him. The earl’s face was dead-white, lined with anxiety. Margaret wanted to touch his arm, to tell him Timothy would be all right, but she wasn’t by any means certain that was true. Just then Timothy groaned, and everyone’s attention riveted upon him.

His eyes opened, and he looked up in bewilderment. “Where’s Theodore?” he asked, then closed his eyes again with a moan.

Abberley looked at Margaret with the same bewildered air.

“The pony,” she reminded him, realizing he must have forgotten what Timothy had said he would name his new pet.

“’E’s gorn,” said Farley. “Bolted, ’e did. We’ll fetch ’im along later.”

“Lie still, Timothy,” Margaret said. “Where does it hurt?”

“My arm,” the boy said, his voice little more than a whisper, his brow now wrinkled in pain.

“Happen it’s broken, Miss Margaret,” said the stableman. “If that’s all that’s wrong, I can help him, but I didn’t want to move him without I was sure.”

“Does anything else hurt, darling?” she asked.

“I hurt all over, he said weakly, “but nothing else hurts so bad. I’m cold,” he added, prompting Farley to bellow at Trimby to fetch a blanket along double-quick.

“Straighten your legs, boy,” Abberley said, “but do it slowly and stop if anything hurts.”

Timothy obeyed, grimacing but game. Moments later he was laid out straight upon the ground with a blanket tucked up to his chin, and the bailiff had rigged a splint to keep his arm steady until the doctor could look at it.

Dr. Fennaday, a young, redheaded gentleman with wiry curls and bushy side-whiskers, arrived fifteen minutes later in his gig. By that time Lady Annis had had recourse several times to her salts bottle, her whining demands carrying easily across the otherwise nearly silent yard. When the doctor jumped down from his gig, she hailed him with relief.