Anne Barbour (5 page)

However, it was not Chloe, but their hostess, who entered his chamber an hour or so later.

“Ah,” she said, approaching the bed, “I see you made a good repast.”

“Indeed, I did,” replied Thorne, proffering the tray. “I rarely have a chance to enjoy good country food, and this was excellent. My compliments to the chef—or am I addressing that personage.”

Hester laughed. “It was rather a combined effort, my lord. Chloe—

“Chloe produced the beans,” finished Thorne. “And basted the chicken.”

“To say nothing of preparing the salad vegetables. She was most eager to help.”

“I daresay,” replied Thorne dryly, “if you were to ask her, she would no doubt carry ashes from the hearth and scrub the floors.”

“Mm, I think perhaps that would be pushing her desire for independence rather past the limits.” She took the tray in her hands and turned to go, but Thorne put out his hand.

“No—please. Could you sit with me for a moment?” He assumed the most charming smile at his disposal.

Hester’s returning smile was one of mild apprehension, but she set the tray down and perched on the edge of a small chair near the bed.

“Since you are awake, my lord,” she said somewhat distractedly, “we should resume the cold compresses ordered by the doctor. Does the swelling seem to be going down?”

In reply, Thorne thrust his foot from beneath the covers for her inspection. She started at his sudden movement.

Good Lord, she thought irritably. Granted, the man is a little intimidating, but there’s no need to jump like a startled rabbit at the sight of his bare foot. She bestowed a look of what she hoped was cool appraisal on the foot and its accompanying muscular calf resting almost in her lap. “Yes, it looks much better. After a good night’s rest, I’m sure you’ll be fit to travel in the morning.”

“Much to your relief, I’m sure,” murmured the earl.

“Oh, no—” replied Hester, flustered. “That is—”

“It cannot be comfortable for you—or for your companion—to house a strange man. I know my own aunt would be quite uneasy at the thought.”

Hester detected a spark of unholy amusement in the depths of his dark eyes, and she stiffened.

“Not at all, my lord. There is nothing about you to make one uneasy, after all.”

Thorne threw up his hand in a fencer’s gesture. “Touché, Miss Blayne.” He drew his foot back under the coverlet and gazed at her for a moment. “Tel! me, why have you chosen to live virtually alone in this remote village. Have you no family?”

“I have several brothers and sisters, my lord. My oldest brother is Sir Barnaby Blayne, and he resides in our family home near Shrewsbury. As for living by myself, I simply prefer it that way.”

“And Sir Barnaby does not begrudge the extra expense of maintaining a separate household for one lone female?”

Hester stiffened even more rigidly. How dare this insufferable man ask her questions that were so blatantly rude? “My brother has nothing to say about this household. I maintain it at my own expense.”

The earl’s brows shot up. “Your own expense? You must have a most comfortable competence.”

“I cannot see that this is any of your concern, my lord,” Hester retorted. “But I received a small inheritance on the death of my father, some four years ago. With it I purchased this cottage. However, I provide for myself and Miss Larkin from my own earnings.”

She almost laughed aloud at the earl’s expression of blank surprise. “But, you’re a female—a gently born female. What money could you possibly earn?”

“I realize,” replied Hester sweetly, “that the concept of one of the so-called upper class earning his or her own way in the world must be utterly foreign to you, but, as you are aware, I write books. There is a very nice man in London who pays me to write books, and who pays me even more from the sale of those books. There are people, my lord, who pay to come and hear me speak. My earnings are not large, but, as you can see, Miss Larkin and I live in reasonable comfort—which even stretches to the hiring of a maidservant or two when one turns up on our doorstep.”

The Earl of Bythorne Hushed to the roots of his hair, and for a long moment did not speak. “I suppose I deserved that,” he said at last. “It’s just that—that—”

Hester took pity on him. “I know,” she said, her voice kind. “The idea of a ‘gently bred’ female providing for herself without benefit of masculine protection is unsettling. I think you ought to get used to it, though, for in the not-too-distant future more and more women are going to wish to strike out on their own.”

“At least,” said Thorne with a smile, “if you have anything to say about it.”

“Precisely, my lord. I take it,” she continued, searching for a change of subject, “that you and your ward are once more on speaking terms.”

Thorne grinned, and Hester was struck by the manner in which his harsh, rather jaded features lightened suddenly. “Yes, the little minx was all affability when she brought in my tray. I think it would be too much to hope that she regrets her precipitous action in fleeing to you, but at least she did not throw a tantrum when I mentioned returning home—together—tomorrow

“She seems like a nice child,” said Hester hesitantly.

“She is. Very nice. However, the operative word there is ‘child.’ She is flighty and totally undisciplined, and, frankly, I am at my wits’ end with her.”

“Have you ever tried really listening to her?”

Thorne laughed shortly. “My dear Miss Blayne, it seems to me that I do little else but listen to her, for she is always treating me to a tirade about one or another of her hobbyhorses.”

“Did it ever occur to you, my lord, that she is trying to talk to you about something in which she believes very passionately?”

Thorne’s only answer was a derisive snort.

“Have you never believed passionately in anything?” asked Hester curiously.

Thorne laughed. “I believe that life’s pleasures are transitory and should be enjoyed to the fullest while one is capable of doing so.”

“A laudable goal, to be sure,” Hester replied, unsmiling. “It is fortunate that there are those whose goals are bred from what you, I suppose, would call a social conscience.”

“You, for example.”

“I do try to raise the country’s awareness of those who desperately need help.” Hester found that her fingers clenching the arms of her chair had whitened, and she forced herself to relax.

“Poor, unfortunate wretches such as my ward, for example.” Thorne, too, had lost his smile, and he eyed her with unconcealed hostility.

Hester, unintimidated, nodded. “Yes—and all the other women in this country who are treated, at best, like cherished pets and at worst, like beasts of the fields. And I try to speak for the children whose childhoods are wrenched from them in factories and chimneys—and, for those who are hanged for stealing bread to feed their starving families, and—”

Thorne, despite himself, found himself stirred by the passion in her words, but he raised a hand in a plaintive gesture. “You have made your point. Miss Blayne. I suppose one might say that gadflies such as yourself are fundamental to a progressive society, hut they are a bit overpowering in one’s bedchamber.”

Hester rose with a snap of her skirts. Snatching up the tray again, she whirled and moved to the door, where she paused.

“In that case, I shall bid you good night, my lord. Miss Larkin will see to your needs for the rest of the evening, and I sincerely hope you will be recovered enough by morning to set out for the City.”

She did not wait for a reply, but whisked herself from the room, and once outside, leaned against the door panel, exhausting her indignation in great, gulping breaths. Odious man! Lying at his ease, expecting to be waited on hand and foot—the very embodiment of all she detested in the male sex.

At any rate, she thought as her breathing slowed and a measure of equanimity returned, he would be gone in the morning, and she would never have to set eyes on the Earl of Bythorne again.

Chapter Four

Lord Bythorne and his wayward ward departed the next morning, and after the alarums and excursions pursuant to their intrusion into the routine of Rosemere Cottage, life returned to its usual sedate pace. Miss Larkin resumed the inventory of household linen in which she had been involved for some days, and a new serving maid was hired—one with the unquestioned ability to peel potatoes.

Hester returned to her manuscript in progress. She had, after a great deal of soul-searching, decided to shelve the philosophical work for the time being and bowing to the demands of her publisher and her purse, had begun a new novel. Even so, she admitted, she would be skating on extremely thin financial ice during the months between the present and the time the book would appear on the country’s bookshelves.

Thus, she sat daily, penning a sprightly, if highly colored tale of a moral miss beset with the most immoral of villains whom she defeated handily with her own ingenuity and daring. The book featured a hero, but Hester was forced to admit he was rather pallid and not a little timid, possessing only a fraction of the fortitude displayed by her intrepid heroine. Her villain was proving to be much more interesting. Late one morning, she nibbled on the end of her pen, searching for just the right adjectives to describe Maximillian Fordyce, evil rake and despoiler of women.

She found her thoughts drifting, perhaps inevitably, to Lord Bythorne. This she put to the rarity of visitors in their quiet little corner of the realm. She chose not to delve into the reasons she persisted in running their conversations over and over in her mind. She was loath to admit that she found them unsettling and oddly exhilarating. Goodness, she was not so starved for company that a day and a half spent in the company of an arrogant peer could so discommode her—was she?

Agreed, the man possessed a certain degree of charm and his face, while not precisely handsome, was certainly arresting, but then what successful rake did not possess these attributes?

As she worked at the desk that occupied one corner of her bedchamber, her concentration was disrupted by the sound of a vehicle clattering to a halt outside. She rose and moved to the window to behold an all-too-familiar racing curricle, black with red markings. She hurried downstairs, something within her fluttering in trepidation, tinged with an unexpected stir of anticipation. She opened the door to confront the Earl of Bythorne, his fist upraised to rap peremptorily on the panel.

“Is she here?”

His shoulders sagged at her expression of blank surprise.

“Oh dear,” said Hester. “Has Miss Venable, er, gone missing again?”

“Yes,” replied the earl shortly.

“Oh dear,” said Hester again. “Well, you’d better come in.”

With a dismaying sense of
deja vu
, she turned and led him into the little parlor. Gesturing him to a small settee, she rang for tea and look a chair nearby.

“Did you and Chloe have another quarrel?” she asked diffidently.

“You could say that. Sir George and Lady Wery, the parents of the young man I have selected for Chloe, invited us—Chloe and my Aunt Lavinia and I—to a small dinner party. All very proper and unexceptionable.”  He grinned, and Hester was once more struck by the surprising warmth that flooded his harsh features. “It is normally the sort of function I would avoid at all costs, but I am prepared to undergo almost any sacrifice to get Chloe safely bundled into the bonds of matrimony. Chloe, of course, would have none of it. She ranted at some length when I told her of the invitation, even when I made it plain that she had no choice in the matter. The next morning, she was gone, this time without so much as a note.”

“I suppose you inquired among her friends—again?” asked Hester, more out of courtesy than from any desire to involve herself once more with the earl and his tiresome ward.

“Yes. I made the rounds. Or, rather, Aunt Lavinia did. She’s better at directing discreet questions than I. She achieved no better results, though. At least, this time Chloe took her maid with her.”

Hester’s face lightened. “Well, that’s good news. Perhaps she’s gone to visit a friend out of—”

She was interrupted by the appearance of the new serving girl bearing a tray containing a teapot and the usual appurtenances. Thorne jerked to attention at her entrance and bent such a hard stare on her that the girl nearly dropped her burden midstride.

“Thank you, Clara,” said Hester, hurrying to take the tray from her. “Would you find Miss Larkin and tell her we have a visitor?” She smiled encouragingly at the maid, who was obviously unused to dealing with the gentry, particularly large, powerful members of that class who looked as though they might erupt all over the parlor at any moment.

“Yes, mum,” she stammered, and hurried from the room as though pursued by demons.

Hester poured a cup of tea and gestured toward the milk and cream with lifted brows. Shaking his head, Thorne accepted the cup from her abstractedly.

“As I was about to say,” continued Hester, “perhaps she is visiting someone in the country. I suppose you inquired at the various posting inns.”

“Yes, but none of the ticket agents remembered a young girl accompanied by a maid.” He shook his head in annoyance. “Those places are so chaotic, I doubt they’d recall an elephant traveling with a giraffe.” He ran his fingers through dark hair already tousled into disorder. “I don’t suppose you’d have any idea where she might be, do you?”

“I?” Hester found the earl’s dark stare singularly unnerving and she shifted defensively. “I trust you do not think I have been conducting a clandestine correspondence with her.”

“Of course not,” replied Thorne hastily. Good God, the woman was as prickly as her absurd philosophy of female enslavement. “I just thought—that is, you seem to have established a certain rapport with her, and—”

“Possibly because I did not attempt to ride roughshod over her sensibilities,” interposed Hester sharply.

The earl stiffened. “That’s true, but, of course, you do not have to deal with Chloe’s sensibilities on a daily basis.”

Hester flushed. What on earth had possessed her to snap at the man in such a fashion?