Amanda Scott (6 page)

“I shall depend upon you, my lord,” she said then, quietly. “I hope such dependence does not prove to be overly burdensome.”

Abberley grimaced. “You’ve a barbed tongue, my girl, but your point is well taken. Did you ride over alone? You must not do so again.”

“Trimby came with me,” she informed him, “but if you prefer, I shall bring Aunt Celeste along next time.”

His sardonic smile acknowledged the hit. “Thank you for sparing me that much.” The accompanying shudder was only half mocking. “I daresay she would have dealt with me more harshly than you did.”

“She would have combed your hair with a joint stool, cousin dear. You’d be well advised never to allow her to see you in such a condition as I was privileged to see.”

“I believe I directed Pudd to tell visitors I was not at home,” he replied, looking down his nose.

“Put a sock in it, Adam,” she retorted rudely, “and don’t you dare to blame poor Puddephatt for admitting me. You’d have been well served if I
had
allowed Aunt Celeste to come with me.”

He smiled then, ruefully. “I shan’t blame Pudd. I just wish you had not seen me in such a state, and I hope you never do so again.”

“There is a way guaranteed to prevent such an occurrence, my lord.”

He nodded soberly. “Next time I shall forbid Pudd to
open
the door.”

She gasped, then realized he was waiting for her to rise to the bait. Her lips twitched, but she shook her head at him and turned toward the door. “I have accepted your apology, sir, but I don’t think you ought to press the advantage. I am still not altogether pleased with you.”

He yanked the bellrope, then held the bookroom door open for her. “You’re entirely justified, Marget. I shall have to mend my ways.”

Outside a few moments later, with Puddephatt watching benevolently from the open doorway and Trimby holding both his own horse and the little black mare, Abberley tossed her into the saddle. In clear daylight he looked worse than ever, Margaret thought, but a decided twinkle leapt to his eye when she complimented him upon his great strength. It faded a moment later, however, when she began to upbraid him for the condition of his lawns and borders.

“And the drive is a disgrace, Adam. There are weeds everywhere. Moreover, there are fences down in the eastern fields, and the fields themselves—”

“Enough, brat,” he said with a warning look that told her more sternly than his words that he had heard all he wanted to hear in front of Trimby. “You attend to matters at the manor and leave the hall to me. I’ll bring whatever information I receive from Jensen directly to you. You may look for me at the end of the week.” He smiled wryly. “And please convey my regards to Aunt Celeste. You may tell her I was sorry not to see her today.”

Her own eyes danced then. “I shall tell her no such plumper as that, sir. I shan’t betray you, but neither will I protect you from her wrath if you persist in your foolish behavior. You are strictly forbidden to touch so much as a drop of brandy until you return from London, do you hear?”

He glanced quickly at Trimby, but the groom had moved tactfully forward to adjust his stirrup and was paying them no heed. “You mind that tongue of yours, my girl,” Abberley said in an undertone, “or you and I will have a falling-out.”

She bent toward him, unintimidated by his scowl. “I meant what I said, my lord. I am perfectly willing to fall out with you if it becomes necessary. One look at your condition tells me I shall win any such encounter easily enough.”

He glared more savagely than before, but she met his look without a blink, and a moment later he stepped away. “Till the end of the week, Margaret,” he said stiffly.

“Indeed, sir. Have a safe journey.”

As she urged her mare to a canter in the weed-choked drive, she was conscious of feeling let down. Abberley rarely called her Margaret, only Marget, the name she had called herself as a child, so when he called her Margaret, she knew he was seriously annoyed with her. Perhaps she ought not to have favored him with the rough edge of her tongue with Trimby and Puddephatt as an audience. That had not been well done of her. Still, Abberley had deserved to hear the words from someone, and the condition of the property was scarcely a secret. He was, furthermore, accustomed to her bursts of temperament and had always tolerated them well enough in the past. He would get over his annoyance.

No doubt he saw her now as he had always seen her, no more than a pesky younger cousin who spoke her mind more often than was comfortable for the peace of his. She was no more than that to him, certainly, despite the fact that, in his arms, she had felt protected and comforted, more so than she had ever felt anywhere else. Even Michael had never been able to make her feel as safe as Abberley did. Probably, she told herself, it had something to do with the size of the man. Surely, there was nothing romantic about it. His gesture had come merely from habit. All her life he had rescued her from scrapes of one sort or another, generally of her own making, and had protected her from the dangers of the world around her. Of course, Michael had done so, too. Tears welled into her eyes again at the thought of Michael, and she brushed them away, resolutely turning her thoughts homeward, not wishing at the moment to think of either her brother or his best friend.

Abberley was away for a full week, but Margaret scarcely had a moment free during that time to wonder what was keeping him. What with taking up the responsibilities of running a large household (for despite Lady Annis’s oft-mentioned sense of duty, she seemed quite content to leave everything to Margaret) and renewing her acquaintance with her young nephew, Margaret had little time for anything else. Then, too, as soon as word got around the neighborhood that Lady Celeste and Miss Caldecourt had returned to Caldecourt Manor, they began to receive callers. Among the first were the vicar and his daughter, who were received in the blue-and-white drawing room by Margaret and Lady Celeste, Lady Annis having gone out for her daily drive and Jordan being occupied elsewhere on private business of his own.

The Reverend Mr. Maitland was a spare gentleman in his fifties, with thinning gray hair. A pair of wire-rimmed spectacles perched upon his bony nose, and through these he surveyed the world with a birdlike alertness. The air of alertness, however, as both Margaret and Lady Celeste were well aware, was misleading. More likely than not, Mr. Maitland, rather than attending to what was being said to him, was thinking of something altogether different, such as an interesting passage he had read in one of the classics the previous evening. At the moment, he was faithfully doing his duty.

“A dreadful business,” he said as he accepted a cup of India tea from Margaret’s hand, “that even men as young as Sir Michael should so utterly fall. But,” he added more cheerfully, “they that wait upon the Lord shall renew their strength and shall mount up with wings of eagles and not be weary. They shall—”

“Papa, you are not in the pulpit now,” said Miss Pamela Maitland softly from her chair near Lady Celeste. He blinked at her, and she smiled back at him, a singularly sweet smile. Blonde and blue-eyed but long of face and lacking much in the way of a figure, Pamela Maitland was not a beauty. She was, however, one of the most popular young ladies in northern Hertfordshire, for her sweet nature and her many kindnesses had long since made her welcome everywhere, from tenants’ cottages to the great houses. She was Margaret’s age and one of her dearest friends. When the vicar, quite unoffended, began to sip his tea, she turned to Lady Celeste. “We are truly pleased to see you home again, ma’am.”

“Can’t deny it’s good to be back in Hertfordshire,” acknowledged her ladyship with a bright smile. “There’s much to be said for the gaiety of Vienna, but there’s naught amiss with a bit of peace and quiet, either.”

Pamela smiled again. “I believe we can promise you quite as much peace and quiet as you can tolerate, ma’am. Nothing untoward ever happens hereabouts, unless it’s young Timothy up to mischief.”

“Sir Timothy,” corrected her father gently, proving that, upon occasion, he did listen to what others said.

“Indeed,” Pamela said with a laugh, “though he is rather small to suit one’s notion of a baronet. How is he faring, Margaret?”

“Well enough for the most part,” Margaret told her. “You’re right about the mischief, though. He’s already had more than one turn-up with Jordan just since our arrival, and I’m given to understand that such incidents are by no means unusual. His nanny seems to have taken a pet over something Jordan said to her about her methods of raising children, and she left a day or two before we arrived. I haven’t really thought about what to do with Timothy now. He’s too young to send to school, but I don’t know if a new nanny is the answer or not.” She didn’t want to mention that, until she had word from Abberley, she dared not take the initiative herself where her nephew was concerned, but Pamela seemed to understand her predicament well enough.

“Have you thought about sending him to Papa for lessons?” she asked. “No one could object to such a scheme, surely.”

“The very thing,” agreed Lady Celeste before Margaret could speak. “What do you say, Mr. Maitland?”

The vicar looked at her blankly. “Say? What do you wish me to say, my lady? A fool’s voice is known by a multitude of words; thus, I should not wish to speak without knowing the subject upon which I am to discourse.”

“I expect that means you weren’t listening,” said her ladyship sagely, “but ’tis deeds, not words, we want from you, sir. Can you undertake to tutor my great grandnephew?”

“Sir Timothy?”

“Of course, Sir Timothy. He should be well-grounded in Latin and numerous other subjects before he goes off to Eton next year, after all.”

“Indeed, yes,” agreed the vicar, much struck. “Does he not have a governess?”

“No,” replied Margaret. “Could you do it, sir? We should be much obliged.”

“We must all do that which it is our duty to do,” replied the vicar, from which Margaret was rightly given to understand that he would be pleased to have Timothy as his pupil.

The relief she felt over having that particular problem solved was tempered, however, by a more immediate difficulty. When she went in search of Timothy to inform him of his good fortune, the boy was nowhere to be found. That situation, in and of itself, was not distressing, for she had quickly discovered that Timothy saw no reason to disclose his intended whereabouts to any of the adults with whom he lived. He had been friendly enough to both Margaret and Lady Celeste. Indeed, he seemed to regard her ladyship with something approaching awe, making Margaret wonder what tales his father might have told him about their grandaunt. But Timothy recognized no one’s authority, least of all Jordan’s or that of Lady Annis. His attitude toward both was little short of contempt. During one contretemps between Jordan and the boy, when Timothy had flatly refused to obey some arbitrary command and Jordan had threatened to thrash the boy soundly, Margaret had intervened without so much as a thought. To her astonishment, Jordan had agreed, albeit sullenly, to let him off. It had not astonished her a jot afterward, however, when Lady Annis had a good deal to say—and none of it to Margaret’s credit—on the subject of spoiling young boys.

When she had looked in the nursery, questioned the maids and Archer, the taciturn footman, and had searched most of the rooms on the upper floors, Margaret turned toward the stairs, intending to walk as far as the stables to see if any of the grooms might have seen him. She knew his dearest wish was for a pony of his own and that his father had for one reason or another not yet provided him with one, but there were animals he was allowed to ride, and Margaret had already learned that young Timothy had little difficulty persuading one or another of the stable lads to take him out whenever he wished to go.

She was halfway down the main stairs leading to the hall when the front door was flung open and Jordan strode in, looking furious.

“Where the devil is that young scamp?” he demanded. His airs and affectations for the moment deserting him, he sounded only like an angry man.

“You are looking for Timothy?”

“You’re dam—dashed right I’m looking for Timothy, and this time, sweet coz, there’s not a thing you can say that will save that lad from the hiding of his young life.”

“You haven’t the right to thrash him, Jordan. Not yet.” She hadn’t told him about Abberley’s quest, nor did she intend to tell him. She knew perfectly well that if she did, their relationship would become more strained than it was already. If Abberley discovered that Sir Michael actually had not drawn up a will, then Jordan and Lady Annis would gloat. If, on the other hand, he discovered a will …Well, there was time enough to consider the ramifications of such a discovery if, indeed, it ever took place. She held her ground now as Jordan approached her, taking the stairs in angry strides.

“You won’t stop me, Margaret, not when you see what that brat did to my new Wellingtons.”

“Your boots?”

“Aye, not that they’re worth a split farthing now. Your sweet Timothy filled them with mud and set them near the fireplace to bake. My man didn’t find them until the mud had hardened inside. When I lay my hands—”

“Oh, Jordan,” Margaret said, stifling laughter, “how dreadful. Were they very expensive?”

“They aren’t even paid for yet,” he muttered, glaring at her. “You may well laugh, but I daresay you wouldn’t if they were your boots.”

“No, I wouldn’t,” she admitted, frowning, “but I don’t think he would do such a thing to my boots. Why does he dislike you so, cousin?”

J
ORDAN MADE NO REPLY
. With a near growl of anger he passed her, continuing his way up the stairs.

Assuming that further search would prove useless, Margaret made her way to the kitchen to request that the cook inform her when the upstairs maid who was looking after Sir Timothy until other arrangements could be made had sent for his supper.

“Really, Aunt Celeste,” she said some moments later when she encountered that lady in a small upstairs sitting room, “that child could disappear for days with no one the wiser, I believe.”