Hero, Come Back (9 page)

Mr. Holmes colored, as did Amanda. She glanced down at her boots to hide her astonishment. James Reyburn thought her lovely? Though it was probably just more evidence of his legendary skills of exaggeration, a part of her clung to a hope that he was telling the truth.

“That will be quite enough from you, Jemmy,” Lady Finch scolded. “Miss Smythe, attend me in my carriage.” She nodded at Amanda to get down. “Now.”

From the set of the lady’s jaw, Amanda knew she had no choice but to do as the imperious baroness bid.

But to her surprise, Jemmy caught her arm and held her in place.

“Mother, I see no reason why I can’t continue escorting Miss Smythe home while you and Mrs. Radleigh see to your errands in the village. I am sure you have any number of things to—”

“Preposterous!” Lady Finch told him, coming forward in a brisk, no-nonsense manner and taking the situation in hand. She caught up Amanda’s elbow and pulled her down from the cart. “Miss Smythe and I have much to discuss.” Lady Finch led her away, tugging Amanda along when she dragged her heels. “My dear girl, I would like to hear your opinions on the flowers and the dinner menu for your ball. I believe a bride should have some say in the matters, though I’ve already instructed Cook on several points. However, I do think there is some leeway on the salads.”

With the barouche looming before her, Amanda thought a French tumbrel might have been more appropriate.

“Mother!” Jemmy called out, lodging one more protest. “Miss Smythe may not want to be dragged about town. She would probably like a respite from her travels and I could—”

“Jemmy,” Lady Finch said, “I think you’ve seen quite enough of Miss Smythe this morning. You can have the pleasure of her company tonight at dinner.” With that, his mother prodded Amanda into the carriage. And to her shock, she could have sworn she heard the baroness muttering under her breath, “A little time apart ought to have him in a fine fettle.”

She glanced over her shoulder at the baroness, amazed at her astute observation.

Leave it to Lady Finch to know that a little time is all I have left.

J
emmy entered the dining room at precisely quarter after six, expecting quite a fuss over their now infamous guest. But the room was silent and still—with no one about, save his mother. Not even their loyal butler, Addison, who presided over every meal with a fierce attention to detail, was in sight. Only a small collection of trays on the sideboard containing sliced meats and cheeses, breads, and a few dishes of Cook’s best sauces and stewed vegetables awaited him.

“Where is everyone?” he asked, filling a plate and taking his place at the table. What he really wanted to ask was “Where is Miss Smythe?” but decided against such a blatant question.

So much for his discretion. His mother’s first glance, then second more inspecting one, said more than if he’d asked directly as to Miss Smythe’s whereabouts. “If you didn’t insist on living down at the gatehouse, you wouldn’t be late for dinner.”

“I’m fashionable,” he replied. “And it doesn’t appear that I’ve missed all that much.” He glanced around the empty seats. “So where is everyone?”

“Your father is repotting the specimens he got from Lord Bellweather, and Mrs. Radleigh is finishing up a few tasks. She should be down presently.” She gave his appearance another once-over before returning her attention to the papers before her.

Demmit
, he knew he shouldn’t have come up to the house in a clean waistcoat and jacket. She’d most definitely gotten the wrong idea. And of course, she failed to mention Miss Smythe’s whereabouts. Deliberately, if he knew his mother.

He ran his hand over his chin and winced when he came to the nick he’d given himself shaving. Still, in his favor, if his mother had an opinion as to his nattily tied cravat and pressed jacket, she said nothing—for once. He could only imagine the earful he’d be getting if he’d succeeded in convincing his father’s valet, Rogers, to give his hair a trim.

Rather than offer her any further cause for speculation, he dug into his meal and kept his gaze pinned on the food before him.

But it wasn’t long before he broke the silence between them, allowing his curiosity to get the better of him. “Mother?” he asked as nonchalantly as he could muster. “Where is Miss Smythe? Aren’t prospective brides allowed a last supper?” He managed a light smile as if he were just trying to make some pleasant conversation.

After all, it would be odd if he didn’t ask about their houseguest, wouldn’t it?

“She was a bit fatigued from our shopping trip and so I told her not to worry about making herself presentable for supper. Addison is taking her a tray.”

A bit fatigued? He didn’t like the sound of that. “I told you that she shouldn’t be dragged about,” he said, letting his temper get the better of him. “You’ve probably worn her out completely.”

His mother’s brow arched, and once again that knowing gaze fell on him. “I doubt that,” she said with a bemused tone. “She appeared quite fit when I checked on her not a half an hour ago.”

Well, she needn’t smile about it, he thought. His concern had been naught but… Oh, demmit, he could hardly tell his mother that he’d made a promise to take the lady to Brighton. Yet how was he going to do that if his mother insisted on dragging the poor chit about and wearing her to a frazzle?

They ate for a time in silence, Jemmy considering all the ways he could smuggle Miss Smythe out of the shire. If only he had one of the Danvers brothers about. They always seemed to know how to take care of these clandestine matters.

Though if he were truly going to use them as examples, he should well consider that each time one of them had set out to help a lady he’d found himself married to the wily minx.

Jemmy wanted to groan.

Just then, Addison came in. “My lady, Mrs. Radleigh tells me that she found the extra china in the attic, and that along with the plate and silver Lady Kirkwood is sending over, we should have enough to seat all the guests for the midnight supper.” The ever efficient butler noticed Jemmy’s empty glass and immediately filled it.

The man must have known that he was going to need the fortification.

Jemmy shot a wary glance at his mother. “Just how many people do you plan to invite?” He took a sip of the rich burgundy, trying to appear as uninterested as possible.

His mother shuffled through her papers until she found the correct list. “The last count was one hundred and twelve.”

“Wha-a-a-t?” he sputtered.

“Those are only the ones I’m positive will arrive in time. Though I do hope Lord and Lady Worledge can come,” she said, barely sparing him a glance. “It is short notice, but one can always depend on Camilla to bring a crowd along—especially since all five of her sons are currently in Town.” She paused for a moment, a calculating look on her face as she surveyed her list. She glanced up and smiled. “And not a one married.”

Lord Worledge’s rabble?
Oh, this had gone too far. Jemmy tried his best to remain calm as he broached the subject with his mother. He failed utterly.

“That horde of idiots?” he burst out. “Are you mad? The eldest is in his cups every waking moment, while the next one gambles without a care, or the means, I might add.” He threw down his napkin and frowned. “How can you even consider any of that lot for Miss Smythe?”

“And whyever not?” his mother demanded. “The viscount shan’t live too much longer. Lord knows, I have a hard time believing he’s lasted these past few years, what with his gout and heart ailment. That only makes his eldest son all that much more appealing, despite his unfortunate tendencies toward drink. Imagine, your Miss Smythe a viscountess, and quite possibly a widow in short order.”

“She is not ‘my Miss Smythe’!” Jemmy said, a mite too adamantly, uncomfortable with the notion of Miss Smythe being married, let alone a widow free of society’s restraints. “Truly, Mother, this is getting out of hand.”

“How so?” Lady Finch asked, setting her pen down. “If Esme is to find Miss Smythe the perfect groom, she will need a good selection of eligible men from which to choose.”

“But don’t you think this is a bit much?” he asked. “Next thing you know, you’ll tell me you’ve invited Prinny and the unmarried dukes.”

“Oh, go on. Miss Smythe is quality, but she’s certainly not royalty. Besides, Esme was quite specific about the sort of man she is looking to match with the gel. And I happen to agree with her.”

“And you think you can get enough of this ‘sort’ here on such short notice?”

“Of course, or else I wouldn’t be borrowing Lady Kirkwood’s spare china service.”

“But Mother, how do you expect the staff to handle all this? After all, we don’t entertain.” In fact, in his entire life he couldn’t think of his parents ever putting on a ball.

His mother had gone back to surveying her list. “Then it is about time we did.”

“Just like that, you think you can actually fill the house with prospective grooms?”

“Of course.”

He didn’t like the way she said that with such supreme confidence. Especially since his mother was rarely wrong when it came to predicting the whims of the
ton
.

Still, perhaps she was mistaken. There was one very important fact she wasn’t considering. “And who will come? The Season has barely begun. I can’t imagine now that everyone has settled back in Town, they will feel inclined to come back out to the country.”

“Never fear,” Lady Finch said. “When word gets out that your father and I are hosting a matchmaker’s ball, London will empty. Besides, it isn’t all that great of a distance to come here.”

He knew only too well his mother was right— everyone and anyone who could afford a fast carriage would come down to Kent for such an evening. Not just prospective grooms, but marriage-minded mothers and their flocks of daughters as well, for where there were eligible men, mamas and debutantes were never far behind.

He decided to try another tack. “Have you thought that Miss Smythe may be viewed as merely a curiosity in this sideshow? Really, what mother would want to see her daughter bartered off in this fashion. ’Tis unseemly.”

Even as he said the words, he knew he was defeated, for the knowing look on his mother’s face said what Jemmy should have known.

A married daughter is a fine sight better than a spinster, no matter how she finds her way to the altar.

But he wasn’t about to give up. Not yet. He still had a few more arguments to present. After all, it had been a long afternoon pacing about the gatehouse, waiting for his mother and Miss Smythe to return.

“Have you considered that Miss Smythe doesn’t want to be wed?”

His mother’s gaze rolled toward the ceiling, as if she were considering whether he was truly her son. “Jemmy, despite your aversion to matrimony, it is not the same for young ladies. Every girl wants to be married.”

He shook his head. “But I think Miss Smythe may have misunderstood Esme’s intentions, and if that is the case, marrying her off in this fashion would be a terrible miscarriage of justice.”

“Harrumph!” Her snort of disbelief went well beyond her usual derision.

Jemmy persisted, even against his own better sense. “Besides, how will the village’s reputation be served if it gets out that an innocent young lady was carted before the parson against her will? Not only that, her father may have a thing or two to say if his slip of a daughter is married off without his consent.”

There, he had finally found a way out of this for Miss Smythe. Perhaps her innocent age would serve her well.

His mother didn’t look all that defeated. “She is five and twenty and therefore quite able to make a marriage without her father’s consent.”

His mouth fell open. “She’s that old?” It left him a little unnerved that his mother seemed to know his Miss Smythe better than he did.

But she’s not your Miss Smythe, remember?

“Really, Jemmy,” she began, “it matters not how the bargain was wrought, only that it was made. You know that as well as anyone else.”

The finality of her words might have cast a pall over any remaining arguments. But he wasn’t his mother’s progeny for nothing.

“I don’t believe Smythe is her real name,” he said, hoping his conspiratorial tone added to Miss Smythe’s already mysterious background.

“Uh-hum” was all his mother murmured as she continued fussing over her various lists.

“We can’t have Esme pawning her off on some unsuspecting fellow and discover she’s mad as a hatter and poisoned two previous husbands before her arrival here.”

At this, his mother set down her pen and stared at him as if he were the one gone round the bend. She let out a patient breath. “Jemmy, really, I don’t know where you get these notions. Miss Smythe has the Bath manners of a gently bred young lady from a good family. And why she’s left the shelter and protection of her relations is her reason and hers alone, but it is up to us to see her wed quickly and her good reputation secured.” His mother straightened her papers and then looked him squarely in the eye. “If you believe a fraud has taken place, prove it. However, until then—”

“A bargain is a bargain,” he said, repeating the village’s fateful promise.

Jemmy knew it was entirely inappropriate, but after spending an hour dodging the staff and his mother, he made his way up to Miss Smythe’s room and knocked on the door.

There was no answer.

“Miss Smythe?” he said softly. “ ’Tis me, Mr. Reyburn.” He had to keep his voice down for her room was dangerously close to his mother’s chambers. “Miss Smythe? Are you in there? I must speak to you.”

There came no reply. No female admonition to be away from the sanctity of her bedroom, not even an invitation to come in.

Not that he’d been looking for one. He was only worried about keeping his promise to her. And in a timely fashion. It would be a far cry better for everyone if she was well away from Bramley Hollow. His quiet, well-ordered life was being turned upside down by her arrival, and he wanted his solitude back. Egads, the ball his mother intended to throw would have half the
ton
at Finch Manor. Old friends and flirtatious conquests. All here to view the wreckage of his misspent youth.

He clutched his cane more tightly. His leg throbbed from a day spent gadding about. Pacing about the gatehouse, climbing up to the attic to find the trunk with his old dress clothes—for he could hardly come up to dinner in his usual country togs—and then the last hour spent lurking about the backstairs. No wonder his leg hurt like the very devil, for he hadn’t been on it that much since the day he’d fallen in battle.

Tapping on the door again, he whispered a little louder, “Miss Smythe, I need just a moment of your time.”

Nothing but silence greeted him. He stared for a moment at the solid panel. Perhaps she’d fallen asleep or was suffering from one of those megrims that befell ladies. After all, she’d spent the good part of the day with his mother, and that was enough to do in most anyone.

It really would be in bad form to wake her. Yet…

He knocked on the door a little harder. “Miss Smythe, are you well?”

When yet again there was no response, another thought struck him. A premonition of disaster sinking into the pit of his stomach.

She’d left. Fled Finch Manor.
And without him.

But even as he ran through the hundreds of routes she could have taken to the main road, how he would scour the countryside to find her, he heard a clunk of something falling to the floor inside her room, followed by a mild curse. Not much of an ear bender, but enough to make him smile.

Smile that she was still here.

“Miss Smythe, if you do not open this door at once, I am going to come in.”

“Go away.” There was another thump and clunk, and yet another curse.

This time he didn’t wait for an invitation. He opened the door and made his laborious way into the room.

Miss Smythe stood in front of the window, holding it up with one hand. Not only was she dressed in her traveling clothes, but there by her feet sat her valise at the ready.

So she
was
trying to leave. And without his help. Jemmy squared his shoulders and wished his cane to perdition. Did she think him so useless that he was unable to keep his word?