Fancy Pants (Only In Gooding Book #1) (19 page)

“Wipe that smirk off of your face and act like nothing’s amiss,” Sydney growled. “If you don’t, they’ll go get fancied up and we’ll have to offer to take them on those walks for all of their trouble.”

“Tim! Tim Creighton and Lord Hathwell!” Mr. Richardson strode forward and grinned. “What brings you here?”

Sydney dismounted and sketched a comical bow. “Ah, Mr. Richardson, I do hope we’ve timed our arrival appropriately. I didn’t know which day your daughters conduct their at-homes.”

“At-homes?” Mrs. Richardson echoed in a bewildered tone.

“Oh, but of course you Americans must have another name for the days upon which your daughters accept callers. I’m certain with such a bevy of eligible daughters, your farm is overrun with eager young swains on that day. But this is a business trip.” He nodded his head quite adamantly. “Yes, business.”

“Oh,” Sulynn gasped softly.

“Business?” Richardson inquired, “What business?”

“Hens,” Tim rasped. “I need laying hens.”

Linette nearly squealed with delight. “I’m taking care of the chickens today! I’ll be so happy to help you. If you’ll accompany me, Big Tim, I’ll help you select fine hens. Just come with me! The henhouse is full, so you can take plenty of time to select whatever your heart desires.”

“Steady now, old man,” Syd rumbled softly behind a gritted smile, then raised his voice. “Oh, so we get to select the fowl! I hadn’t anticipated such an event!”

“Yes,” Mrs. Richardson beamed. “Tim should help Linette choose them.”

“Capital! I’ll come along. We’ll have a jolly time, won’t we? I’m afraid I’m not countrified enough to know much about fowl, other than I adore eating a good squab or duck every now and then. However does one select a decent laying hen?”

“I owe you one, kid,” Tim growled under his breath.

Marcella raced over. “I’ll have to help you!”

“Jolly!” Sydney waved his arms. “Why don’t all of you girls come? Mr. Creighton was telling me that he wanted to purchase ten hens. He’s so very kind to Velma, you know. He’s a dashing good man. A fine man.”

“Yes, he is.” The Richardson parents’ unison forced Tim to twitch them an obligatory, albeit sick, smile.

Sydney kept matters well in hand. The kid shepherded the girls to the coop. “After you, after you. Ladies first.”

Tim balked at being confined with the girls. He rumbled under his breath, “What happened to your voice?”

Sydney cocked a brow.

“You sound even more British.”

Fastidiously plucking a speck from the sleeve of his shirt, Syd whispered, “I’m adhering to our agreement. I’ll handle the lasses by providing them with something a bit foreign to intrigue them—namely, my voice and stories. You handle the rest—unless you wish to renegotiate.”

Tim scowled.

Syd made a sweeping gesture toward the door. “After you.”

With all the enthusiasm of a man digging his own grave, Tim ducked his head and went inside the coop.

All four of the girls grabbed for the nearest thing with wings. “I’m afraid I simply cannot be a decent judge of chicken flesh. Big Tim will have to determine which ones.”

“Isn’t this a lovely one, Tim?” Linette simpered as she backed him into a corner and produced a Rhode Island Red. “She’s a terrific laying hen.”

“No!” He pointed to the hen in the farthest corner of the coup. “I want that one.”

Sydney stepped beside him. “I don’t much care for her either. Those feathers are such an odd shade.” He deftly pushed Linette away. “You’ll simply have to find a better one.”

“What about this one?” Linette produced the healthy-looking specimen Tim had indicated.

“Capital, I say! Now stand here and hold her. Oh! And hold this one that Miss Sulynn found, too. You can handle these cackling creatures. Busy hands and all, you know . . . I don’t truly remember that saying.”

“Idle hands are the devil’s playground,” Katherine quoted.

“Ah! Then no deviltry here!”

After Tim approved all ten hens and they were safely put into a crate, Sydney clapped his hands. “Oh, now wasn’t that a corker! I do believe it was every bit as fun as the day we went rowing on the pond back home at the Huberts’ summer estate.”

Linette stepped closer and tried to clamp hold of Tim’s arm again.

The kid stepped in her way and continued to speak as if he hadn’t executed that strategic maneuver. “The ladies weren’t nearly as sweet tempered when the ducks flapped their wings at us.” He sighed. “I confess, it probably had something to do with the fact that the ducks were swimming right beside our little boat, and the ladies did end up the slightest bit wet.”

The girls burst out laughing.

“Okay. That’s taken care of.” Tim sensed freedom. “I need to get back to Forsaken. Now.”

Mr. Richardson called over, “Not yet, Tim. We need to talk about studs. I’m interested in one of your bulls—”

Tim figured it was his turn to get the kid away from the girls. “C’mon, Syd.” He strode toward the farmer. The girls followed along.

“Perhaps it would be best for me to accompany the young ladies inside whilst you speak with their papa about the bulls.”

“Nope. Stick around. You’ve got to learn. Pay attention.”

“Oh, I’ll pay close attention,” Linette declared.

“Now, you girls shouldn’t let such an indelicate discussion singe your pristine ears. Shoo! Along to the house with you.”

“We’re farmer’s daughters, Lord Hathwell,” Linette stated as she scooted closer to Tim.

Sydney deftly reached over, grabbed hold of the hand Linette tried to thread through Tim’s arm, and gave it a reasonably strong tug. “Miss Richardson, I’m more than impressed that you’re so very diligent about helping your father tend to business, but we men certainly wouldn’t want to offend your maidenly sensibilities. No woman of decency would be caught discussing such base subjects back home. I’m most positive that the same strictures for decent women hold true here, too.”

“I guess I ought to go help Mama with dinner,” she pouted. “You men are staying, aren’t you?”

“Of course they are,” her father broke in.

Tim opened his mouth to offer his regrets, but Linette leaned forward and blurted out, “I made apple tarts!”

“Apple tarts?” Tim echoed in a strangled tone. He held a decided weakness for apple tarts, but he couldn’t decide whether the treat was worth enduring the present company.

“Yup. Apple tarts. Now you girls get.” As soon as all of his daughters flocked off, Mr. Richardson scratched his side. “I’m aching just to hear a voice that ain’t soprano. I love ’em, but I sometimes wonder what in thunder I did to offend the Almighty so much that I got six daughters and not a single son!”

Tim sucked in a deep breath and forced it out of his lungs very slowly. “I don’t know, but if you ever recollect whatever it was, do me the great kindness of letting me know. That way I won’t do it!”

“He meant no offense, of course, Mr. Richardson.”

Tim looked down at Syd. “Kid, I don’t need you to do my talking for me. I speak my own mind.”

“Everyone knows I love my daughters, but God sure pulled a fast one on me, saddling me with a whole blessed gaggle of ’em,” Richardson said. “Not a man in the county hasn’t teased me about it.”

Syd cleared his throat. “The teasing is simply because folks are aware of how difficult it must be without sons to assist you with the heavy labor on such a grand and sizable farm.”

Richardson gave Sydney a good once-over. “I’m looking forward to having son-in-laws.”

For the first time, Syd looked suitably horrified about the whole situation. “I wish you the best of luck finding them!”

“We all know you’re too young to gallop to the altar, kid.” Tim let out a throaty chuckle and slapped him on the back.

The men milled about and conversed about the weather and some of the civic matters. Sydney kept fairly quiet, since he didn’t know the persons and situations under discussion. It wasn’t long before the youngest daughter dashed out, her pigtails flying behind her. “Papa! Papa! Mama sent me to fetch you and our guests. Chow’s on!”

“Such an enchanting young lady!” Sydney smiled at the girl. “What is your name, child?”

“Bethany!”

“Well, then, Bethany, thank you for summoning us. I confess, I’m quite famished. Back home in Londontown, we reward those who bring good tidings. I fear I haven’t a treat in my pocket to give you. Whatever shall I do? I know.” He leaned forward. “I’ll sit beside you!”

Bethany’s eyes shone brightly. “Would you, please? The girls are fighting about you. They said that I’m too little to count.”

“I find youth extremely refreshing. I’d love to be your meal companion. That settles it. You must sit at my side.”

“Can I really?”

“But of course. And you called Mr. Creighton, too. I do believe it is only just that he should have the privilege of sitting on your other side, too.”

“Really?” Bethany squealed in delight.

Syd tweaked the little girl’s braid. “Really and truly. Your sisters will be pea green with envy.”

“Holy cats!”

“You go save our places. Mr. Creighton and I must go to the pump so we don’t offend your mother by appearing at her fine table with soiled hands.”

As they washed off at the pump, Tim chuckled. “That was brilliant. I have to hand it to you, Syd. You’ve got it down. I’m enduring this meal only because of the tarts for dessert!”

“Steady, old man.” Sydney’s voice was rich with amusement. “I can see the girl’s mama over your shoulder. The woman could have led Napoleon to victory.”

Tim let out a crack of a laugh. Syd thinking in military terms—that was manly. Witty too. “Just tell me one thing now, kid. We have little Bethany between us. How do I cover my other flank?”

“Elementary, my dear man. You insist upon honoring Mrs. Richardson with that place. Of course, sliding her chair out for her would make that possible. I’m snagging the other youngster, so don’t get in my path.”

“It’s a sound plan. The other kid’s name is Charlotte.”

“Thanks. Come now. Dallying any longer would be unforgivably rude.”

Later, as they rode home, Tim started to chortle. “Did you see the looks on the older girls’ faces when you arranged those little squirts beside you?”

“I’ve spent more than my fair share of time with young girls of fine families who are in training for the marriage market. I could tell you tales that would raise your brows.”

“When Mrs. Richardson wanted me to take Linette for a walk, I about died. What was that you said?”

“I declared—quite emphatically, mind you—that Miss Linette’s delicate constitution and fair complexion precluded such exertion in the heat of the midsummer day.”

“How did you cook that one up?”

“Simple logic. Linette would have to proclaim that she was hale as a draft horse and weathered as a fence post to get you to walk out, and no girl is desirable if she is of such constitution and complexion.”

“Kid, you did good. Can I count on you tomorrow? Mr. Richardson said they’re showing up at the Smiths’.”

“I recall hearing something about that at church.”

“Yeah. Smith’s first wife died. He remarried and has a passel of kids. His mother-in-law from the first marriage showed up, destitute and with three of her grandchildren. A bunch of us are putting up a cottage so she doesn’t upset his household any more than necessary.”

Syd frowned. “How will they manage to feed and clothe that many more?”

“It’ll be a strain. It’s going to be a mighty bitter pill for Smith to swallow, accepting charity for them.”

“So tomorrow you want me to concoct some method of keeping the Richardson maids from your doorstep, so to speak?”

“Absolutely!” He shot Syd a grim smile. “Gotta hand it to you, kid. We all have our strong points, and yours certainly goes toward coping with vexatious women.”

The kid gave him a cocky grin and drawled, “You ain’t seen nuthin’ yet.”

Chapter Twelve

Trip unfruitful
.

Rex Hume stared at the telegram. He’d hypothesized a woman unfamiliar with anyone in the States would likely return to England. Ethan Tyler had agreed. The next day, Tyler had examined passenger lists for ships departing for England on the day Lady Hathwell disappeared. He’d located her name and jumped aboard the next voyage.

Hume’s hand clenched. The telegram crackled into a ball. He stared down at it as his mind started tallying up the lost time. Six days before he knew she’d slipped off. Two days when he’d engaged Tyler and he’d researched passenger lists. Five days’ voyage to England, and six more spent scouring Britain for the girl. Now, another five days lost on Tyler’s return voyage. Twenty-four days.

Twenty-four days was an eternity.

Where was she?

And what had she been doing?

Not that he’d ever let on that where she’d been or whatever she’d done mattered in the least to him. He’d still marry her. He needed to. Had to. Couldn’t afford another year of searching for a different prospective wife. Even more, he couldn’t very well “lose” a fiancée. The aristocracy with whom he wished to deal would shun him if harm befell one of their own while in his care.

Never once had it occurred to him that his fiancée would behave in such an irresponsible way. Aristocracy understood the importance of image. They cut their teeth on propriety. Upholding the family name mattered above all. Honor. Duty. Even self-sacrifice.

Self-sacrifice. A rueful bark of a laugh left his lips. What could she possibly claim as a reason to object to being his wife? A quick glance in the diamond dust mirror confirmed he was a handsome man. Though not especially tall, he measured a good five inches taller than Lady Hathwell—and that was plenty. As would any conscientious man in his position, he engaged a decent tailor who saw to it his attire reflected the Hume family’s success. That financial stability would surround a woman with capable servants and afford her whatever trinkets that struck her fancy. Indeed, many were the women who would gladly wed him—yet he’d held out for something more.

But as of yet, he’d gotten nothing.

It galled him. He’d reasoned that he would be able to mold a young, aristocratic bride into the kind of wife he desired— pretty, sociable, an asset who knew her place. Young and pretty—yes, Sydney Hathwell was both. But once he found her, things would go his way. He’d see to it.