Madrigals And Mistletoe (16 page)

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Authors: Hayley A. Solomon

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She would have been unsettled to know
quite
how distinctly her younger daughter's thoughts mirrored her own. Frederick gently removed the violin from Seraphina's arrested grasp and began to play. He started with Boyce, then moved on to a fascinating medley of the themes of Beethoven, Salieri and the more modern Haydn. Seraphina understood them all, but none seemed as poignant to her as the unknown themes that the captain tentatively began to play when Ancilla's concentration was waning and Lord Winthrop's snores could all but be detected.
The notes were at once so haunting and so sweet that tears stung the back of Seraphina's eyes. Frederick was playing for her, heart and soul, and as he improvised, the music acted as a secret bond between them, a means of communicating all the yearning, unrequited utterances and longing of the soul that was possible in the circumstance of a penniless suitor and a bride destined for another.
When he finally stopped, it seemed time had stood still, though darkness was now falling in earnest and the horses were stamping their feet restively upon the ground. Winthrop, long startled awake by the urgent neighing of a chestnut, was beginning to bluster about the time help was taking. He was not to know that, even as he complained, two pristine chaises were making their stately way towards him. Even before they arrived, however, the familiar sound of a cantering Arabian stopped him dead in his tracks.
“Good Lord!
Someone
is an excellent horseman! Cantering at breakneck speed and never a stumble over these elderberries and hawthorn bushes! Can it be the duke returned?”
His question was not long without an answer, for almost before the words were out the rider was upon them. Winthrop's jaw fell quite ludicrously when the most salient and astonishing aspect of this spectacle was revealed to him. The Arabian, as magnificent a beast as he had anticipated, was saddled not, as he would have suspected, for a man of the duke's stature. Instead, he was furnished firmly but becomingly with a sidesaddle. As he gaped his amazement, a woman slid down from her perch and glared at him.
SIXTEEN
“Begging your pardon, sirs, have neither of you thought to rub down the teams? I warrant they need the attention after the shock they have just had! And have any of you thought to have a bottle of lint and codseed oil handy? No? I thought not.” She lifted her nose rather disdainfully in the air and turned her plump, rather well-rounded form to the tethered chestnuts and bays.
Frederick was caught between amusement and indignation at her high-handed, contemptuous stance. Ancilla was merely bemused, wondering, sotto voice,
who
they had the honour of addressing. Seraphina was ready to fall about into spasms of laughter—the afternoon's passions and excitements were taking their toll on her—and Lord Winthrop merely stared. A more
magnificent
woman he had never set eyes upon.
The lady was still scolding when he sheepishly cast a glance at Miss Camfrey and her mother, shrugged his shoulders significantly and trailed off after her. She was inspecting the livestock in much the same manner as
he
had done and pronounced the bays to be remarkably well, given the circumstances, but the second chestnut to be ailing. She
tut-tutted
over his fetlocks and drew from her capacious pocket the indispensable lint and codseed oil she had inquired about previously.
Treating Lord Winthrop in much the same manner that she would a street urchin, she demanded that he furnish her with a handkerchief and stand back so she might attend to the stallion in her own particular manner. Lord Winthrop drew from his pocket a very fine cambric handkerchief, entwined majestically with his initials threading through each other in gilded thread. Above the initials, the heraldic crest of the baronetcy was clearly visible. The lady did not blink. She merely stretched out her hand and applied the murky substance to the cloth. Then, speaking in the gentlest, most sublime tones Winthrop thought he had ever heard, she cajoled the horse to stand still. Lovingly, she applied the ointment, then bandaged the fetlock with the damp, greasy cloth.
“When he is safely stabled I shall apply a warm posset. How long, do you think, has he been left standing?”
“An hour?” Lord Winthrop made to consult his fob, then realised that he could not. The wretched highwayman had made off with all his seals. Speaking of which . . . He looked towards the spot where the accomplice was now bound and well and truly trussed up. He was beginning to moan and Winthrop wondered whether this angelic vision would feel intimidated. If she did, he was quite prepared to catch her in his strong, manly arms. . . .
“Are you certain he cannot escape his bonds?”
“Have no fear, madame! I attended to the matter myself. You are safe and I shall see to it that you come to no harm!”
“Indeed?” She was noncommittal as she ventured near to the prisoner.
“I always favour a half hitch to a reef myself. Mind you, you appear to have done a good job.” A glimmer of a smile crossed her features as she nodded at Winthrop in approval.
His lordship felt as if he was back at Harrow under her close scrutiny and condescending praise. It was a long time since he had found himself at a loss for words. Fortunately, however, Captain Argyll stepped into the breach and delicately inquired whether the lady would like to take a seat beside them upon the overlarge carriage blanket. She blinked and pinkened slightly, for despite her gruff ways—especially when it came to matters of horseflesh—she was as prone as any young lady to fascinating gentlemen with excellent manners.
Lord Winthrop hastily pushed himself forward, begging the lady to take up his own vacated space. The lady positively preened at the novel situation of having two young men pay attention to her. She was in a quandary over which polite offer to take up when Lord Winthrop suddenly begged her for the recipe for the lint and codseed oil, for as he said, he'd heard it worked wonders with sprains, though its efficacy with relation to a loose shoe was still, to his mind, in question.
The lady gazed at him with sudden respect. “Sir,” she said, “I have long been of the opinion that a loose shoe can always be averted with a little care. In the rare instances of a horse stumbling and loosening the shoe himself, I find that a decoction of apple blossom and thyme has very efficacious effects.
Not,
of course, sufficient to
cure
the condition, but certainly enough to sooth the animal before a smith can be found.”
Winthrop nodded seriously. “Very true, very true. What exact proportions do you use? My estate yields a quite nice little crop of apple blossom, but I've never thought to use it in such a way.”
The animation on the stranger's face was quite palpable. There was now no question of where or with whom she would sit. She was so lost in the exchange of various equine potions and recipes that the other three members of the ditched party were quite forgotten, or at least assigned to the periphery of her attention.
Lord Winthrop appeared to be held in a similar thrall. Seeing this, Ancilla felt a stab of discomfort. If his attentions were so fickle, his interest so all absorbing and alien to Cordelia, what possible happiness could arise from a betrothal of that nature? If only she had heeded Cordelia's urging to economise! If she had, Cordelia might not have so readily accepted this . . . this . . . Oh! She had no ladylike description word for the addlepated, bottle-brained gentleman.
Lord Winthrop was happily oblivious to all these musings, his attentions wholly wrapped up in the loquacious opinions of the strange personage that had descended upon them.
He
didn't think her dull brown hair sadly lustreless—he thought the shade resembled
exactly
one of his prize mares.
The captain glanced at Seraphina and winked. Suppressing a slight giggle, she basked in the glory of their mutual amused comprehension. Both still wondered who the unknown virago was, but since they were perfectly certain the mystery would shortly unfold, they were content to enjoy each other's silent company. If truth be told, Frederick was
not
content—he rather wished the duo and even his dear Ancilla, of whom he was fast growing fond, to the devil. Seraphina's soft lips were far too inviting to require an audience. Still, as the spectre of Rhaz's proposal still loomed over them, he could only still his quickened senses and try to assign his sudden desires to the devil.
Fortunately, it was not long that this silent tension was allowed to interplay between them. Seraphina, too, had felt a breathlessness that threatened to envelop her entirely. Before the interesting situation was allowed to develop, however, the new conveyances were heard to be rattling on the horizon, and it was not long before the rattling of wheels and the whinnying of horses were upon them. The duke had wisely sent along three under grooms and his head groom himself to take care of the remaining animals, unharness them from the useless carriages and await the arrival of the local magistrate to take the felon into custody. Lord Winthrop was eager to announce that he was a magistrate and therefore particularly qualified to take these duties on board, but Frederick mildly reminded him Huntingdon was beyond his jurisdiction.
Lord Winthrop took issue with this, declaring himself perfectly capable of assuming his duties anywhere, and he was just beginning to glare balefully at the presumptuous music master, who appeared to have ideas far above his station, when Mr. Cording, the local magistrate, made his appearance. Beyond an overheard glare at Frederick, Lord Winthrop conceded defeat and handed the prisoner over with exemplary speed, only annoying Mr. Cording a smidgen by offering several voluminous and unwanted words of sage advice.
The new beasts were fresh and eager for exercise. Consequently, when the party
did
arrange themselves on the mint squabs, it was not long at all before the chimneys of Huntingdon could be spied unfurling welcoming smoke. A few minutes beyond that and Miss Camfrey, her mama, Captain Argyll, Lord Winthrop and the fussy little woman with the oversharp tongue were alighting to the welcome of several footmen, the housekeeper and sundry maids awaiting instruction.
This was given by the stranger so confidently and efficiently that none had qualms that the baggage would be forgotten or the rooms unaired or the dinner too meagre for their needs. The arrival of the chaise had been accompanied by the clanging of a yard of tin, so the lord of the manor, his grace the noble duke, was down the front steps in a twinkling to welcome the guests and set their minds at rest about Cordelia's health.
“She has lost blood, but the bullet was not lodged, so it is a flesh wound merely. A few day's rest and Miss Camfrey should, I hope, be fully recovered. I have taken the liberty of sending a missive to Dr. Siddons of Marlborough Street. He does not usually make country calls, but he owes me a favour and I fancy I shall be able to persuade him.”
Ancilla looked at him anxiously. “You are certain she should not be seen by a village doctor?”
The duke smiled. “Absolutely, ma'am! I am convinced Miss Cordelia, though badly shocked, will convalesce excellently. The Huntingdon doctor, though very pleasant, is, I fear, rather prone to quackery and leeching. I believe we ought to spare Miss Cordelia from his ministrations if we possibly can.”
Seraphina lifted her hands to her face in horror. “Indeed, yes, your grace! I cannot
bear
to think of Cordelia being blooded. It is beyond the question!”
He threw her a friendly glance that was not missed by the oversensitive Frederick. In that moment, his jealously loomed so large that he was very inclined to throttle his dearest and most noble friend. Rhaz, catching the caustic glance sent his way, was surprised and somewhat confused. In a private moment he meant to tease Frederick about his comical charade. Now, he was not so certain he
wanted
a private moment with his excellent friend.
He wondered, for a moment, whether Frederick had tumbled to the fact that he had written to Mr. Beckett, offering to stand patron for the composer. If Lord Argyll had, he might well have a
reason
to be furious, for such an act would have gone badly with his insufferable pride.
Still, Mr. Beckett's polite rejection of the offer on the grounds that Frederick was a rapidly rising star in his own right had meant that Rhaz had not had a hand in his startling success among the ton. Every ball his grace now attended appeared to have Frederick's soulful, fashionable themes strummed out or fluted with touching eloquence.
“Your grace, I hope you are not such a gudgeon as to leave your guests standing outside in the chill night? They have had a fair dose of the outdoors, I assure you. Invite them in and have done! I hope the wax candles have been lit as I ordered?”
His duke cast Frederick a look of mock dismay. Instantly, the stiff distance that had risen up between them vanished.
This,
Frederick inferred, must be the famed Miss Moresby. He had heard his softhearted friend grumble too much about her chatelainage of Huntingdon to guess anything else. She was lucky. If he were the duke and she his cousin, he would have booted her out a long time since. But that was Rhaz. Too softhearted under his firm exterior for his own peace of mind.
His grace shrugged almost imperceptibly, as if reading Frederick's dire thoughts. Suppressing a wink, he solemnly ushered the party in and asked whether they had all been introduced. In the sparkling candlelight, Miss Moresby appeared to more advantage than usual, her brown hair acquiring some of the light's lustre and her unfortunate plumpness appearing less obvious in the dimmer lit space.
“Indeed, no! I am most anxious for an introduction. Most anxious!” Lord Winthrop had removed his beaver and was staring at Miss Moresby as if one transfixed. His words, however, held a pompous condescension that made both Ancilla and Seraphina exchange secret glances of mirth.
Rhaz saw immediately how the wind blew with Winthrop. Perversely, he was torn between delight at the cunningness of his plan and ire that Lord Henry could be so faithless to the fair Cordelia. Delight won out. After all, the baron's meeting with Miss Moresby had been the whole ridiculous purpose of this suddenly enlarged excursion.
His manner was smooth and graceful as he took his cousin's hand and presented her to the group, whose interest in her varied from mild curiosity to burning regard.
Miss Helena Moresby, belatedly remembering the manners she had sadly forgotten on first formulating her acquaintance with the group, dropped a slightly off-centre curtsy and announced that she was delighted.
If
she
wasn't, Lord Winthrop very clearly
was
, and as Rhaz slipped away with Mrs. Camfrey to check on the condition of their patient, he buzzed about Helena as if he were a man awakened from a very long slumber. It would not be long, the duke thought, before he would be wishful of crying off from his betrothal. Quite how this was to be achieved was a matter still puzzling the duke, for it would be unthinkable in Winthrop to do such an ungentlemanly thing. Still, something would have to occur. . . .
 
 
“Miss Camfrey, I have brought your mother! Show her, my dear, that she need have no qualms on your behalf.” The duke's tone was light, but his
own
heart held fears.

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