Barbara Metzger (2 page)

“Free to fall prey to every loose screw with a sad story. You know she’s got no more sense about men than a kitten.”

“So what are you saying, that I should teach her not to trust anyone?”

“I’m suggesting that you try—try, mind you—to get her shaped up like a lady instead of a harum-scarum chit, get her launched into Society before she’s blotted her copybook for good and all, and get her a good man to hold the reins when you’re gone. Then we can all rest easy.”

“A husband? But she’s only—”

“Seventeen, I know. And how old was your Elizabeth when you met, hm? Remember, you are not going to make her into a butterfly overnight. Men don’t want a gal with Greek and Latin; they want one with blushes and fluttery eyelashes. I bet my ten-year-old Amanda knows more about it than Jacelyn. And men don’t want a wife their mothers won’t invite to tea.”

Lord Trevaine nodded. “You’ve given me a lot to think about, George, and I will this time, truly. Perhaps if I ask my sister again… Yes, and I’ll speak to Jacelyn too.”

“And what about the hunt party for my house guests?”

Lord Trevaine pulled the bell cord near his desk.

*

If the adage about beauty being in the eye of the beholder needed any reinforcing, proof entered the library ten minutes later, along with Miss Jacelyn Trevaine and a footman carrying the tea tray. While the tea was being placed, Jacelyn gave the Squire her most demure curtsey, then dimpled at her father when she kissed his cheek and straightened a shawl around his shoulders.

What her adoring sire saw was a graceful sprite of a girl, not quite five foot three, with heavy, brown hair falling in graceful waves halfway down her back, held off her face by a yellow ribbon to match the cheerful colour of her dress. Her moves were all that was gentle and gracious, and her face exquisite, with her mother’s dark brown eyes, now twinkling at him in shared humour. He saw a laughing, generous mouth, a serious, straight nose, and a healthy, sun-touched complexion that was all the more beautiful to him after his own indoor pallor.

What the Squire saw, on the other hand, was a skinny little dab of a chit in an outmoded gown, and way past the age not to put her hair up. Thank goodness his own little dumplings fit the mould of blonde, blue-eyed, rounded beauty. Oh, Jacelyn Trevaine was passable enough, he supposed, in an unfashionable way, but his eldest, Samantha, would have cried for weeks over the freckles, and even his youngest knew better than such public displays of affection. Why, if any of his girls gave him such a saucy look, he’d take a birch rod to her. If any of his girls, in fact, ever so much as hinted at causing him as much upset as this one, he’d drown the passel of them, see if he wouldn’t. No amount of brandy was going to improve his opinion of Miss Trevaine. Squire was a firm believer in that other old saying: Pretty is as pretty does.

“Jacey, my dear, Squire and I have been talking,” Lord Trevaine began.

“I’m sure you have,” she agreed with an impish smile.

“Seriously, my dear, I begin to see his point. What would you think if I wrote to my sister in London about arranging a comeout for you?”

“Lady Parkhurst? I’d think you were wasting good paper, Papa. You know she washed her hands of me the last time I visited when I—”

“Yes, yes, but that was two years ago. You are quite the young lady now, and perhaps it is time to consider your future.”

“Do you mean marriage, Papa?” When he muttered something about that being what all girls dreamt of, he supposed, she saluted the Squire with her teacup, but said, “Oh no, Father, it’s just the favoured method of ridding the neighbourhood of plaguey females. I’m quite content right here.” Miss Trevaine then made a very pretty though incomplete apology to the Squire, with no prompting from her father. She apologised, that is, for causing him distress and for any injuries the dogs may have sustained, which she sincerely regretted, not having considered such a possibility. She did not, however, apologise for her behaviour or for disrupting the hunt. “I’ll say the words if you think I should, Papa, but we all know I won’t mean them.”

What a good, honest child she is, thought her father. What a devious minx, thought George Bottwick.

“What about my hunt this Saturday, then? I’ve got a whole house party arriving, m’sister and her family. You remember m’nephew Arthur, don’t you, Elliot? Fine boy, just back from Belgium now that the war’s over. Mentioned in the despatches, don’t you know. He’s bringing some tonish friends, and my niece Priscilla is also. I’ve invited some other London acquaintances up too. Promised them fine sport, and I intend them to have it. Can I have your word on that, missy? If things go well, perhaps we could get up a small dancing party so you could come meet all the young bucks. You’d like that, wouldn’t you, puss, if
all goes well
?”

Jacelyn considered the nature of the offer, bribe actually, and the nature of the implied threat, and her own nature.

“Squire, what you like best about the hunt is the chase, the ride, the jumps, all the noise and excitement, true?” At his nod and the dreamy look that came over his face at the thought, she went on to ask, “Then why, after your glorious chase, don’t you let the poor fox go?”

Bottwick chuckled at Jacelyn’s naïveté. He did not usually have discussions with females, but perhaps he could humour her this time. “What, just tell the dogs good sport, let’s go home? There is no calling them back once they’ve got their fox cornered, my dear.”

“Then, sir, why don’t you shoot the fox, to kill it cleanly and quickly, before the dogs get to it?” Jacelyn asked in what she thought was a reasonable tone of voice.

All the brandy, the tea and macaroons, the quiet talk and apologies, all went for naught as Bottwick thundered to his feet and roared: “Because that bloody well ain’t the sporting way!”

*

It might have been a moral dilemma for Jacelyn, the hunt versus the ball which, she thought wistfully, would have been her first, even if she had no desire to dance with a bunch of London dandies, or to be held up as a rural frump by their feminine counterparts, including Squire’s niece Priscilla, whom she had known—and disliked—for years. Whatever decisions Jacelyn might have made were scrapped when Squire took action of his own.

Failing to secure Miss Trevaine’s cooperation, needless to say, Bottwick rode home in high dudgeon. His temper was not improved when he found his dog Jasper trying to dig a hole under the kennel fence, nor was his digestion aided by his daughters’ prattle about the London guests, over luncheon. He left the table in mid-meal and retired to his study with his port, a cigar, and a grudge. He told himself no little chit was going to make a fool of him—again. Especially not in front of his uppity sister, the Town swells, and soldier-heroes he had coming. After all, he was the Squire; he was the Master of the Hunt; he was the magistrate.

Perhaps it was his solid body filled only with liquid nourishment that day, or perhaps all that fluid had washed away the cobwebs of his mind, but Squire had an idea, a strategy to deal with the troublesome Miss Trevaine and her pet. He was the local magistrate, wasn’t he? He had the authority, the right, nay, the duty, to uphold the law and preserve the peace. The key to his peace of mind was simple: He would arrest the dog as a public nuisance, and hold it in gaol as surety for the girl’s good behaviour. Simple!

*

“It’s simple extortion, Papa,” Miss Trevaine fumed. “Bribery didn’t work, his efforts to get me shipped off would take too long, so he is resorting to blackmail! How could you let him take poor Pen?”

“I am not entirely certain Bottwick isn’t within his rights, my dear, and it is only for three days, after all. You know Penelope is being well cared for; Squire even said you could visit. Just think of her namesake, Ulysses’ wife, waiting patiently all those years. You’ll get through, both of you.” He patted her hand. “Perhaps it is a good time to consider Squire’s suggestion of a London Season, though.”

“You know I would rather stay here with you, Papa, and it won’t fadge anyway. Aunt Amabel vowed she would never have me back… I wonder whatever happened to the monkey.” Father and daughter both laughed. Jacelyn had been fifteen when she was last invited to visit her aunt in London, a good opportunity to widen her horizons, according to Lady Parkhurst, lest she think the whole world was made of Cambridge farmland. All had gone well, shopping, sedate teas with her aunt’s cronies and other girls not yet “out,” and carriage rides in the park. It was at the start of one of these drives, however, that disaster struck. Jacelyn and her aunt were seated in Lady Parkhurst’s pink-satin-lined open coach for the afternoon “strut,” when all the Beau Monde paraded down Hyde Park’s Rotten Row for the daily spectacle. They were right at the entrance to the park when Jacelyn “rescued” an organ-grinder’s monkey from its master’s mistreatment. What a spectacle it turned out to be: grooms, guards, gypsies, high-strung horses and higher-strung ladies—and a monkey who did not like carriage rides! Aunt Amabel retired to Bath for the restorative waters, Jacelyn was banished home, the coach had to be sold.

Now it was time for another rescue, Jacelyn decided as she dressed for bed. It wasn’t only the injustice of innocent Pen’s capture, it was the whole idea of Squire’s trying to dictate her behaviour, when he was the one who was so obviously wrong. Besides, Miss Trevaine simply did not like having her will crossed. As far as she was concerned, the gauntlet had been cast.

The plan she evolved by the next evening had all the derringdo appeal of the Minerva Press romances she read as avidly as the Greek and Latin she studied with her father. It had been an easy matter to find out from the servants that Squire’s precious nephew Arthur was expected long after dinner. She would, therefore, waylay Arthur after her father’s bedtime, stash him away in the old gardener’s cottage with her friend Shoop, who would not be quite as easy to convince, then negotiate for a trade of hostages—and be home before her father missed her at breakfast! The plan wasn’t a perfect drama, of course, for if Squire were the villain, and Penelope the damsel in distress, where did that leave her and Arthur? She remembered Squire’s nephew from a visit at least ten years ago as a pouty, fleshy rudesby who had disdained the company of a mere girl on his country rambles, even though she knew all the fish holes and climbing trees. Since defeating Napoleon single-handedly, if one listened to Squire’s boasts, Lord Arthur Ponsonby must be even more puffed up with his own conceit than ever. No, no tragic figure there. She would just have to portray the avenging hero herself. Jacey giggled as she drew on the old boots, breeches, and coat from the back of her closet, crammed her hair under a widebrimmed, low-crowned hat, and crept down the stairs, shielding her candle. She looked more like a skulking stableboy than any kind of hero, which wasn’t surprising, considering that her outfit’s source was Lem, the apprentice groom. The lingering odour was less than epic too, and she wrinkled her nose as she tiptoed to her father’s desk. His old pistols, even unloaded, made her feel more the part. The cold metal as she tucked them in her waistband sent a delicious shiver down her backbone. Maria Edgeworth and Mrs. Radcliffe would have been proud.

The beat of the horse’s hooves was as steady as a clock, that and the creak of saddle leather the only sounds intruding on the night. The moon was reflected off the hard-packed dirt road, and the hedgerows shut out the rest of the world. The horse was sure-footed and tireless, the road was straight. Riding in the country after dark was a perfect time for thinking, if one’s thoughts were good company. The thoughts of Leigh Merrill, Earl of Claibourne, were not.

Things were not universally gloomy, of course. At age thirty-two the earl still had his health, though the French had done their damnedest to change that during the last seven years. He still had his lands, mortgaged and marginally profitable that they were; he had rugged, fair-haired good looks enough for success in the petticoat line, and luck enough, combined with his army pay, to keep himself in a style his title and acreage could not. He had his brave charger, Baron, under him, and good friends like Arthur Ponsonby, for whose uncle’s house party the earl was already late. What he didn’t have was a future worth a groat.

Born to the land, coming to the title at a tragically early age, he should have been seeing to his estates, but he had managers far more capable than he, and what the land needed was not another mouth to feed, but money, for repairs, equipment, modernisation. Trained for war, rising to the well-decorated rank of major on Wellington’s own staff, Claibourne could have stayed in uniform, but the battles were all fought, and he had lost his taste for vagabond army life. The war years had been hellish, costing him so many good friends, but at least they were full, and the command staff lived every day as if it were their last, which it well could have been. The victory was celebrated in Paris, Vienna, London, with almost enough hell-raising to deaden the pain of memories, or at least satisfy any hunger a soldier could name. Even that palled after a time.

And now? Now he was accepting invitations to provincial parties at strangers’ houses for want of anything better to do. At least he and Baron would get some healthy exercise out of the visit. The earl had kept fit by sparring at Gentleman Jackson’s, but the stallion was restricted to a few tame canters in the park. That was why the earl had come on alone, bringing his horse along in easy stages instead of driving up with Arthur and their baggage as they had originally planned. This way Arthur had not had to kick his heels while the earl kept his appointment with his man of business, which was all to the good, since after hearing Pettigrew’s latest news of the current price of corn, Claibourne did not feel much like company.

Company. There would be plenty of that, besides exercise, at the gathering. The men were no problem; they would accept anyone who could ride hard, drink long, and gamble deep. The women were another…proposition. There would be the young widow or the married cousin whose husband was off in the diplomatic corps, or some such convenient errand. These ladies had an altogether different form of exercise in mind when they invited the tanned, well-muscled, elegantly dressed earl on a private chase. Even the younger ladies made much of a handsome war hero, giggling into their fans and blushing at his compliments, until they were warned off by their mamas.