Bridal Favors (19 page)

“By falling out of the tree?” Evelyn asked.

He turned an injured expression on her. “By
leaping
from the tree. And scaring poor little
Bubo
in the process, I might add. You should have seen her ruffled feathers.”

“You mean to say that you’d been up that tree since before our arrival?” she asked.

“No,” he rejoined sarcastically. “I crawled on my stomach through the grass and then scaled the tree, all without your noticing.”

She began to feel a tad foolish, and perhaps a shade embarrassed. “Hm.”

“I am afraid, Lady Evelyn,” Justin turned a cursory glance toward Ernst, “and Mr. Blumfield, that it is
you
who impinged upon
my
solitude. Not vice versa.”

“I am most sorry, Mr. Powell,” Ernst apologized.

Justin inclined his head graciously. “You didn’t know.”

“Oh!”
When
Justin went up that tree was beside the point. A gentleman would have made his presence known at once. And even though she understood that the proximity of his bird might have made him wish he could ignore that social edict, he still shouldn’t have done so.

And Ernst shouldn’t be standing there in stalwart misery, wringing his hands. He should be demanding an apology. Yes, she knew she should make allowances for him as a foreigner, but she wasn’t in a very charitable frame of mind. In fact, she was
damn
irritated.

Her gown was glued to her with perspiration. It itched. Her face was sunburned, and she’d a bruise on her thigh from where that blasted basket had banged it. And
The Kiss, The First Kiss,
the focal point of years of fantasies and conjecture, had been nothing more than a . . . a
canapé
. Not even a delicious canapé. It had been more like a carrot stick. Deplorably wholesome.

In his heyday as a skirt-chasing scoundrel, Justin had probably doled out the caviar of kisses. The good Russian beluga stuff, too, not shad roe.

The more Evelyn thought about it—the interminable hike, her sweat-stained dress and sunburned cheeks, making sandwiches like a farmhand while Ernst snoozed, and then having her first kiss not only be so anticlimactic, but having the anticlimax witnessed! By him . . . ! —the more enraged she grew.

“Ah!” the high, tight cry escaped from deep in her throat.

Both men immediately stopped making conciliatory sounds at one another and stared at her in alarm.

“Ah!” She flounced around and stalked off down the hill.

“Miss Whyte?”

“I say, Blumfield,” Justin said, “it looks to me like she’s decamping.”

“Miss Whyte! Please, Miss Whyte! Come back! There are so many things to carry!”

“Ah!” The cry escaped again before she could strangle it. She stomped down the hill, crossed the foully idyllic creek, and clambered up the ditch to where the pony grazed. By the time she’d caught him, Ernst arrived breathless and red-faced, his bicycle buried under blankets and hampers.

“Here! You sit, Miss Whyte. I will attach the pony.”

He then threw the paraphernalia into the back of the wagon, hitched the pony, and climbed in beside her. “I am so sorry, Lady Evelyn. Only what is wrong? Please, you must tell me!”

“What is
wrong
?”

He flinched. At once her outrage shrank. He smiled weakly, his expression so filled with apprehension and contrition that the rest of her anger withered and died. He honestly hadn’t any notion of what was wrong.

It wasn’t his fault she hadn’t dressed for an overland expedition. Nor was it his fault that Justin had been in that tree. And it certainly wasn’t Ernst’s fault that his kiss had been a carrot stick. She liked carrot sticks. She’d just been expecting caviar. She owed him an apology.

“What is wrong is that I was embarrassed Mr. Powell witnessed a private moment. Unfortunately, when I’m embarrassed I sometimes act childishly. I am sorry.”

He blew out a sigh so replete with relief that she couldn’t help smile. “I thought perhaps it was something I had done.”

“No,” she assured him. “Can you forgive me for acting like a spoiled brat?”

“You? Spoiled? Never,” he said. “You are a very special lady. It was unfortunate, the occurrence with Mr. Powell.”

She glanced at the trees, expecting to see Justin climbing back up one of them, and was surprised to see him leap lightly across the creek and saunter toward them. Accusingly, Evelyn turned to Ernst.

“He says his little bird is gone now and there is no reason for him to stay,” Ernst explained. “So, I thought it neighborly to offer him a ride.”

Justin arrived wreathed in smiles and vaulted into the wagon bed. He sat down, threw his arm over the back of the front seat, and looked at her. “Damned good sport Blumfield is, eh, Evie?”

“Very.”

Justin was the picture of bland aristocratic camaraderie, all “good-chap” and hearty “heigh-ho’s” when only a short while before he’d been filled with stuffy indignation. Her expression smoothed as she turned around, her thoughts in a whirl.

Justin rode all the way to North Cross Abbey studying the back of Evie’s head. Just as well.

He had the uncomfortable suspicion that Evie had uncomfortable suspicions and that, in and of itself, rattled him a bit. He was very good at being a chameleon. His life had often depended on his ability to slip seamlessly into one of a half-dozen guises. The one he most oft wore was that of the harmless, thin-blooded dilettante. But she wasn’t buying it.

Fascinating. He wondered why.

He was sure he’d convinced both Evie and Blumfield that he’d been sitting up that tree hours before their arrival. The truth was that he’d gone round to Blumfield’s rented cottage earlier. When his knocks went unanswered, he decided to go aloft.

A handy trellis allowed Justin to silently hoist himself eye level with the bottom of the upstairs window’s sill. Sure enough, a young man lay abed facing Justin. His eyes were closed and the side of his face not pressed into the pillow was completely unmarred. And the other?

Letting go of the sill with one hand, Justin had dug in his pocket for a tuppence piece. He found one and tossed it through the open window, hearing it skitter across the floor. Then he’d lifted himself back up and looked in. The young man had raised himself up and was looking in the direction of the penny, giving Justin a clear view of his other profile. Flawless.

Disappointed, Justin climbed down. So, it hadn’t been Gregory Blumfield. It could still be Ernst. The thought perked him up considerably and, not wanting to waste time waiting for Blumfield to return Evie to find out if he sported a bruise, Justin had decided to go in pursuit of them.

With that in mind, he cut across the field and went toward the part of the forest where earlier he’d seen Blumfield unhitching his wagon. He looked around until he spotted Evie and Blumfield trudging up a distant hill, heading for the huge old oak atop it.

Now, he hadn’t actually crawled through the grass on his hands and knees. At least, not much of the way. Most of the distance, he simply crouched.

Once to the wood, it was easy going. A quick scramble up an obliging tree and he’d settled his binoculars against his eyes and peered at Ernst Blumfield’s face. Unfortunately, with all his flushing and blushing, it was nearly impossible to tell if there was any discoloration on his jaw. And when the Prussian bounder had the temerity to put his hands on Evie’s shoulders . . .

Justin sat back, forcing his jaw muscles to relax. It had been a pitiful kiss. Instead of acting as if he’d insulted her, Evie should thank him for falling—er, leaping—out of that tree.

So, he’d spied. He was a spy. It was what he did. And he’d achieved his goal. Close but surreptitious scrutiny revealed that Ernst Blumfield had no bruises on his face. Not that he wouldn’t look damn good ornamented with a few manly lumps.

Justin’s mouth twisted sourly. Besides, he wasn’t ready to cross Ernst off his list of suspicious characters quite yet. Blumfield could have hired someone to raid the abbey. Just as he could be pretending to be an anxious, lovelorn ass.

Justin was enjoying imagining a scenario in which he personally obliged Ernst in the acquisition of a more manly patina—specifically, one that encircled both eyes—when they reached North Cross Abbey. Evie, who hadn’t said a word to him since they’d started out, allowed Blumfield to help her from the carriage. The young man made way too much of it. Fussing and beaming and . . . Disgusting.

Justin jumped out, landing beside Evie. “Say thank you to the nice gentleman, Evie.”

She ignored him, giving her hand to Ernst. “Thank you for the picnic, Mr. Blumfield. I enjoyed it.”

“It has been my great pleasure,” Ernst said, bowing over her hand and kissing the back of it warmly.

Justin yawned and, catching Ernst’s eye, waved him on. “Sorry. All that sunshine has made me positively inert. Please, don’t mind me. You two go on.”

“You might consider that,” Evelyn said sweetly. “
Going,
I mean.”

“Oh? Am I de trop?” Justin asked, wide-eyed. “Sorry. Frightfully dull of me, what? Just want to slide in my own spot of thanks, don’tcha know? Thanks so awfully, Ernst, old boy. You’re a corker!”

Evie closed her eyes briefly. Her lips trembled. When she opened her eyes, she looked firmly away from Justin.

Justin smiled vacuously at Blumfield. “Well. Ta, old bean! Oh! That’s right,
I
was going. Ha!”

Evie’s cheeks dished in and Justin would have bet ten pounds she was biting them, holding back laughter. He clapped Blumfield on the shoulder and walked to the front door of the abbey, turned as though he were about to wave good-bye, and froze. He let his mouth drop open, staring at the bushes beyond the wagon. With every indication of excitement, he raised his binoculars to his eyes.

Blumfield cleared his throat and regained Evie’s hand. “Lady Evelyn. I am so pleased we have had this chance to get to know one another—”

“Please!” Justin whispered frantically, snatching the binoculars from his eyes and glowering at them. “It’s
Bubo
! Right here! Now!”

“Oh!” Ernst answered. He glanced at the bushes, swallowed, and drew nearer to Evie. “Lady Evelyn,” he whispered, “if I might have the honor of calling again—”

“I beg you,
please be quiet!
” Justin whispered urgently, keeping the binoculars glued to his eyes, one hand clasped to his heart in supplication. “She is getting
agitated
!”

With a harassed and unhappy air, Blumfield bobbed his head, crept on tiptoe past Evie, and eased himself into the wagon. Carefully, he gathered the reins.

“Thank you!” Justin mouthed.

Blumfield nodded, quickly whispering, “I bring the bicycle another day for you to ride!” to Evie, and set off down the drive.

Evie watched him go until he disappeared before turning. Her gaze found Justin with targetlike precision. He spat out the blade of grass he’d stuck between his teeth as soon as Blumfield had left, and smiled.

“You ought to be ashamed of yourself,” she said, coming toward him.

“Oh, I am,” he assured her. “Most of the time. But today,” he paused, considering, “no, I don’t think so.”

She mounted the two steps. She was so small she had to angle her head to look him in the eye, exposing the graceful length of her throat. It was most lovely. “You owe Mr. Blumfield an apology.”

“Forget it.”

She didn’t reply but reached for the doorknob. He got there before her, opening the door for her.

“Okay, why do I need to apologize?” he asked.

She preceded him into the front hall. He followed her.

“Why?” he insisted.

She didn’t even bother looking around. “If there was a bird,
Bubo
or otherwise, in those bushes, I’m the Queen of Siam.”

Beverly chose that moment to emerge from a door midway down the hall. He saw Evelyn and started to beat a hasty retreat, but she’d spied him. “Beverly! A moment, please.”

“Only a moment, madame? Usually your forays into these employer-servant exchanges last a good deal longer.”

“I’m going down into the wine cellar, Beverly,” Evelyn said. “Kindly give me the keys.”

“The cellar is not locked, madame,” Beverly answered. “There is nothing in the cellar worth stealing. Perhaps some barrels of antique cider. The Brigadier General’s palate was not highly developed. Indeed, I believe he considered his Indian cook’s curry the highest form of culinary art.”

Beverly looked at Justin as if he suspected him of sharing likewise low tastes and sniffed.

“Fine,” she said to Beverly, ignoring Justin, which he disliked. “You won’t mind if I check myself?”

“On the contrary, miss. It would seriously undermine my belief in the natural order of things if you didn’t.”

Evelyn didn’t bother replying. She cut around the butler and entered the drawing room, Justin hard on her heels. “Evie, do you really want to go creeping about in a musty old dungeon?”

“Yes,” she replied, heading for a small, low door tucked beside the cavernous fireplace.

The door was, indeed, unlocked and easily swung open. A little ledge affixed at the top of a flight of stairs held a small brass lantern. Deftly, Evelyn lit it and started down stone steps so ancient they dished in at their centers. Justin started after her.

“You needn’t come with me,” she said in that infuriatingly cool voice, a voice that only made him more determined to discover what was going on behind those tinted lenses and that thoughtful expression.

“I daresay, you won’t mind if I indulge myself, will you? I have a pash for cider.” He grinned. Charmingly. Winningly even. She only eyed him coolly.

“Suit yourself.”

As wine cellars went, it was a bust. A rickety network of shelves held a scant few dozen bottles of indifferent Italian wines, a cask or two of undistinguished brandy, and a moldy old bottle of Madeira. And, true to Beverly’s predictions, a half-dozen barrels lined one crumbling wall.

“Guess old Beverly was right.”

“No, he wasn’t,” Evelyn replied, holding the lantern aloft and looking about. The stark, golden light limned her features and gilded the lenses of her spectacles. An errant curl had escaped and cast a capricious shadow on her cheek.