Miss Farrow's Feathers (15 page)

No, Mis
s Farrow had a conscience, she cared for what was right. Perhaps some tender feelings for Nigel still lingered in her, but he was certain it had not been Nigel she was thinking of when he kissed her. When she kissed
him
.

By God, she
had
kissed him—had kissed him quite well. He was not likely to forget it any time soon, either. He only wished he could forget that she'd likely kissed Nigel in similar manner sometime in the past. It was entirely possible the ruddy fool expected the same from her today, too.

Well, surely she'd not succumb to any advances Nigel might make. Miss Farrow cared for propriety. She was well aware Nigel's wife was barely cold in the grave
—surely she'd rebuff any overtures he might make. The man ought to be in full mourning, not out touring the countryside with an unchaperoned lady.

While Max... well, he ought to be figuring out the bloody mystery he had at hand instead of worrying over a woman who saw him as nothing more than a parrot trainer with a penchant for unseemly poetry.
He dragged himself away from the window and went back to the papers he had strewn over his bed. Bartholomew squawked from his perch and stretched his wings as if he might fly.

"No, I don't need you on my head, or mucking about with my papers," Max informed him. "You just stay there in your spot."

"Dear Dot marks the spot," Bartholomew responded.

No less than four times.

Max ran his hands through his hair and bit back some unholy words. "Stop it! What the hell does that mean, anyway, 'Dear Dot marks the spot?'"

As if in sensible reply, the bird simply said, "
You'll want what she's got
."

Max was about to give in to
some unholy words but suddenly the bird's phrase linked with some little memory inside his brain.
Dot
. A woman's name... short for Dorothy, as he recalled. Why should that seem suddenly familiar to him?

He didn't know anyone named Dorothy, as far as he knew. He kept getting a fuzzy image in his mind, a distant memory of someone, though. A woman... yes, a woman with red hair. How did he know her?

He couldn't picture her face, no matter how hard he tried. All he could recall was long, waving red hair and, well, a rather remarkable bosom. Yes, that part was not so very fuzzy in his recollection.

But how on earth could he have a memory like that? Surely he'd not been on such intimate terms with a woman and then completely forg
et her face or anything else about her? Indeed, he'd not lived the life of a monk, but still... he was a gentleman. Surely he was not cad enough to play so fast with a woman and then entirely forget her.

For the lif
e of him he could not place her. She was nothing more than a vague, red-headed, big bosomed figure in his murky memory. It was almost as if she had not been real; yet not a fantasy, either. For certain any fantasy woman of his invention would be shaped in a manner more closely resembling reality. She'd be shaped like Miss Farrow, for instance. This Dorothy person... well, she was almost grotesque in his mind. He could see her quite plainly now: weathered skin, clumsy, bulbous, breasts barely hidden behind indecently clinging fabric, a vacant stare from a face he couldn't quite place... By God, what on earth could he have done with the woman to be so well acquainted with her?

Bartholomew ruffled his feathers, croaking and cackling insensibly as he preened on his perch. And then suddenly the image in Max's memory became clear. He remembered the woman.

"
Dorothy Rose
."

He breathed the name slowly, allowing the sound of it to hang in the air and his mind's eye to see her completely.

Yes, he did know her well. He'd admired her for years, gazed in awe-struck wonder at her. More than once he'd even climbed up onto his grandfather's desk in order to touch her. That had seemed forbidden fruit to a young lad of ten and after all these years such foolishness had been nearly forgotten.

Not entirely, though. Dorothy Rose sti
ll held a place in his heart. He could hardly believe he didn't recall her at once. He had no doubt Bartholomew recalled her. His separation from her, actually, might be some part of an explanation for his unpleasant attitude of late. In all of Max's memories, Bartholomew and Dorothy Rose had been together. She had been the bird's security, his foundation, his place of refuge.

Literally.
Max had been more than a little relieved to remember that Dorothy Rose was not, in fact, a real woman. She was the decrepit wooden figurehead from one of Max's less-than-noble ancestor's ships. Bartholomew insisted on using the bawdy thing as his perch as she hung year after year over the desk in Grandfather's office. Over time, Bartholomew had left so many claw marks and refuse on her head that at least once a year Grandfather had been forced to repaint the old girl.

And he had called her Dot.
She'd been part of the family for years, proudly displayed as if there was no shame at all in the scandalous rumors of a Glenwick who'd gone to sea, devoting himself for a time to all the depravity of piracy before bringing home a stolen bride and forever tainting the Glenwick name. Max had found her entrancing and exotic. His parents had been appalled at the very thought of her existence. Neither of them shared his grandfather's fascination with the old figurehead, or for the secret family history. If not for the gossip of servants, Max may have never heard of the terrible things his great-grandfather had supposedly done, roving the seas on a mission to pillage and plunder.

What coincidence, then, that the subject of
one of Grandfather's vulgar rhymes should share the same name. Or was it? Perhaps he should take another look at that book. He went to the bed, brushing papers aside until he found it. He flipped pages to the first handwritten sheet bound there.

A lovely young lass named Dear Dot
Likes to boast of her grand treasure spot.

Rub her down, twist your pole,
Find her sweet hidey-hole,
And make free with whatever she's got.

It did indeed mention Dot, but the rhyme was nothing but pure rubbish. Catchy and titillating, but rubbish. Why should this be the sort of thing Bartholomew heard often enough to build his vocabulary around? Clearly Grandfather had become obsessed with these rhymes in his later years. Max supposed that, at least, made sense. It was only natural for a lonely widower to find his thoughts drifting in a certain direction.

Which of course reminded him just where Nigel might be drifting even now as he carted Miss Farrow off along some secluded country lane surrounded by rustic beauty and no one to offer interruption.
Damn that ruddy blackguard! Max should never have allowed Miss Farrow to go off with him. He should have found some way to disrupt her plans.

Hell, he could still disrupt them. At this point, perhaps the woman would welcome any distraction that might call off Nigel's obviously intended onslaught. Max would be a fool to trust the rogue to behave himself with such a tempting companion as Miss Farrow.
The least Max could do was to keep an eye on things, make sure Miss Farrow was safe. He might not have to reveal himself just yet.

But he would if it meant rescuing her. Bartholomew's training and all studies of the rhymes in his book could wait. Miss Farrow was his utmost priority now and he was already kicking himself for letting her walk out the door.

He bundled his papers and hid them with the book. Bartholomew had a big pile of seed and a fresh dish of water at hand, so there was no reason on earth not to leave him to squawk and to preen on his own. Max grabbed up his coat and headed out.

On foot he would have very little hope of catching up to Nigel's smart rig, but fortunately he would not be on foot. He would not be alone, either. It was time to pay a visit to the local inn and call on a friend.

The warm, fresh air felt good on Meg's face, but she wished Nigel... er, Lord Glenwick... wouldn't drive so fast. It was taking both hands to hang onto the bench for dear life, leaving no hands to hang onto her bonnet for dear life and she feared she was getting a bit too much warm, fresh air. She'd likely be blotchy and freckled by the time they returned home.
If
they returned home, which was beginning to feel doubtful.

"Please, my lord, I'm afraid you didn't hear me when I asked you to drive a bit more slowly," she said, practically yelling over the clattering hooves of the horses and the carriage jouncing over the rutted lane.

"And I'm afraid you didn't hear me when I asked you to dispense with the ruddy formality, Meg. Surely we have been more to each other than 'my lord' and 'Miss Farrow'."

"You know I have always valued our friendship, but... Gracious! The road takes quite a curve ahead."

"The best Corinthians in Town have declared this carriage a prime goer. Fear not, my dear Meg. Just sit closer and hold onto me, if you're afraid."

Heavens, but she was sure she'd much rather take her chances tumbling out of the carriage. What had gotten into the earl? He was suddenly behaving as if what passed between them those many years ago had been everything his grandfather seemed to suspect. She was beginning to think it had been stupendously unwise of her to come riding alone with him like this. Whatever did the man have on his mind?

"Ah, here it is, just up around the bend."

If they didn't topple completely over as he took the bend at reckless speed, perhaps she would find out what he was referring to. She gave up on protecting her face and saved her person, clinging to the bench and holding her breath until
—miraculously—they did not overturn and die. She whispered a silent prayer and glanced around. There was nothing to signify what he had been talking about.

"What is here, my lord?"

"Our picnic spot. See? That lovely old oak tree standing alone, just near that picturesque stream."

"Ah. Yes. I see a tree. And a good number of sheep. I'm not sure this is a good place for a picnic..."

"It's perfect. Don't you remember? We've been here before."

No, she was positive they had not. If she recalled, he had talked of taking her off on a picnic, and of course her girlish infatuation had assumed that could only mean he had meant to propose, but her memory was quite clear. The picnic had never happened, and neither had the proposal.

"I'm sure I would remember if we'd picnicked here before."

"Of course we did. It was right there, in the soft grass beside that old tree. I remember it clearly, although... perhaps
the day did not mean quite as much to you as it did to me."

What could he be talking about? There had been no day
—meaningful or otherwise. Was he teasing her, or were his memories truly this faulty? She could not feel at all comfortable when he pulled the Phaeton to a halt and turned a glowing smile her way.

"Picnic with me, Meg. The weather is perfect and I can see you are eager to get your feet back on solid ground."

Indeed, she was at that. But somehow sitting in the grass for a private picnic with Nigel did not seem quite the same things as getting her feet onto solid ground. Was her heart racing? It was. Did she have those same, silly butterflies she'd felt around him as a much younger woman?

No, she did not. Her nerves today were of a very different sort, something
far less pleasant. Certainly she'd encountered those butterflies earlier when Mr. Shirley had taken her into his arms and... yes, there had been butterflies, indeed. And they were most enjoyable. This sensation she felt now... it was nothing like that. It was much more along the lines of panic.

"You hesitate, Meg," he said when he hop
ped out of his seat and came round to hers. "What is it? Does my new title change things between us?"

"Change things? Your title?
Of course I am pleased for you, my lord, and—"

"Nigel. You must call me Nigel. I insist on it, Meg."

"Very well, Nigel. It's been over seven years since we've seen one another. I cannot think it is your new title that has changed things between us."

He drew in a deep breath and nodded, as if some great light was suddenly dawning for him. Then he put out his hand to offer assistance and smiled adoringly up at her.
Years ago she would have been quite taken by the look on his face and the honeyed words on his lips.

Today she simply found him ridiculous. His flattery was trite, his posturing was vain, and what she assumed he meant to show deep feeling in his eyes simply made him look as if he'd eaten something not quite right. Compared to the image of masculine perfection that was Mr. Shirley, even Nigel's new title could not bolster
Meg's opinion of him.

Compared to the parrot trainer, Nigel appeared lacking in every way.
He did not have the fine cut of his jaw that Mr. Shirley had, and his shoulders were considerably less broad than his, and even though the color of his eyes was somehow similar to Mr. Shirley's, something was lacking there, too. Mr. Shirley's eyes pulled her into them, inviting her to share in some great adventure, to walk through a gateway for which only he held the keys. They were deep and endless and full of hidden mystery she longed to understand.

Nigel's eyes... well,
there was little mystery there. She had no doubt she fully understood what she saw behind them. The man's shallowness gave it all away. He'd toyed with her until his heiress had come along, and now that he was free again he was hoping to toy with her some more. Much of Nigel Webberly was an enigma to her, but certainly not that part. What she did not understand, however, was how she could have ever thought him worthy of her fondness in the first place.

Well, she supposed youth was filled with foolishness and he had been hers. Not any more, though. If Nigel thought her still a simpleton to be played with at his
leisure, he would end up disappointed.

But not before she bartered for Bartholomew's life. Indeed, she might just find a way to make use of this man's vanity after all. She took in her own deep breath and smiled back
at him.

"Very well, Nigel, I will accept your offer to dine
al fresco
today."

He had the good sense to appear grateful, bowing slightly then taking her hand to help her alight. She would have to be on her highest guard with him, she knew, but the man was, after all, a gentleman.
He might think to play fast with her, but she was too well connected for him to attempt anything truly imprudent. He thought he could lure her into caring for him again, but he would never stoop to attempting to force any affection. She could handle this man.

She hoped.

Max found his way to the local inn quickly. He was unexpected and was half worried when he rapped at the door to the private room that his man might not be there. His fears were relieved, though, when Hugh Baxter opened the door.

"
Webberly! I had no idea you'd be coming today," the man said in his slow, American accent.

Max hushed him immediately. A quick glance assured him no one was about in the corridor to have heard, but he ushered himself into the room and shut the door securely, just to be safe. If there was any way he could yet salvage their plan...

"Although since we're on this side of the pond, I suppose I ought to start calling you Lord Glenwick now," Hugh mused, his American sensibilities dreadfully unimpressed with Max's pedigree.

"
No time for that. I've had rather an emergency come up," Max explained quickly. "I need your help, Hugh."

"Of course,
man. What can I do?"

"
We'll have to go after Nigel now."

"Now? But I thought you wanted to wait until we were sure there was enough proof?"

"He's planning to take possession of Bartholomew. Obviously he knows the bird is the key to all this."

"
Which obviously means he still doesn't have his hands on that treasure."

Max wished that was all he needed to worry about Nigel getting his hands on. He wasn't sure just how desperate he wanted Hugh to know he was right now, though. In his last correspondence with Hugh, he still held Miss Farrow under suspicion. To deny all that now might lead Hugh to question just what had altered Max's impressions of her.

It would be dashed embarrassing to admit he'd gone soft for her brown eyes and the pretty way she stood on her tiptoes when Max kissed her. He wasn't sure, actually, how he would explain to Hugh he'd been convinced the Farrow's were allies in this battle. No doubt whatever he said, Hugh would see through his words and make some snide remark about Max turning into a sap.

Hugh was sharp. Max appreciated that about him.
They'd met years ago when Max's mother had taken him to live in Boston with his brand new step-father. Hugh was the son of his step-father's business partner; a rough and tumble kid who didn't care the first thing about Max being the heir to some fancy English lord. They'd been like brothers ever since.

To remain close to his mother, Max had gone to school in America.
A dozen years now he'd lived a full ocean away from his homeland. At first when he began noticing strangers following him, prowlers darting about outside his windows at night, and other mysterious happenings, he ignored it. He wrote to his Grandfather faithfully and never mentioned any of it.

When he was nearly run down in the street by a carriage that appeared and then disappeared without explanation, he began to get a bit suspicious. When
someone he barely knew started asking after the legend of the so-called Glenwick Pirate Treasure, he became more than a bit suspicious. The acquaintance disappeared, but the odd occurrences did not.

Max
enlisted Hugh at that point. Hugh was not like the friends Max had had growing up in England. Hugh was well-educated and intelligent, but his father was a self-made man. Hugh had grown up in the seedier parts of Boston. A heart, Hugh was a thug.

He knew how to get information, and he did
. Hugh was able to warn Max that his cousin Nigel had been making interesting inquiries into Max's life: what his patterns were, who his friends were, where he went on a daily basis. Max scheduled a journey home to England to investigate, and that was when someone attacked him aboard ship.

Hugh had been close at hand, though. Together they over-powered the attacker and when the man tried to escape, he
went overboard. By the time he was fished out, the body was unrecognizable and Hugh suggested Max take advantage of the situation. Word of his death began circulating.

Only a select few knew the truth. It had taken months for Max to get word to his grandfather, and he would always regret that the poor man mourned him as long as he had
. For two years now he'd been playing dead, secretly collecting tips and clues that would tie his cousin to his attempted murder—and now to the successful demise of their Grandfather. He should have known that anyone who would be low enough to try murdering him would surely not stop before getting that dear old man out of the way.

Nigel wanted the title.
He wanted the treasure, too. He thought he'd removed Max from inheriting, so of course Grandfather had been the next stumbling block for his goal. Max should have seen that coming. He just never imagined Nigel could be truly capable of....

And now he'd allowed Miss Farrow to go off
driving with him. He ought to have his head examined.

"
So what is the move now?" Hugh asked, pouring them both a good stiff whiskey.

"I still don't have all the proof that we'll need
, but we've got to do something. He's gone driving today. With
her
."

"
Her
?"

"Miss Farrow."

"The pretty young vicar's daughter? She's one of your top suspects."

"I was wrong."

"Oh? But she's got her cap for Nigel, doesn't she?"

"
No! She can't stand the blackguard."

"Then why is she driving with him?"

"For Bartholomew. She says she's going to convince Nigel to save the bird's life, but I'm afraid she's got no idea what my cousin is fully capable of."

Hugh
chuckled, downing his drink. "Or maybe she's got more than an idea. Word in town says she and the new earl were once awfully chummy. Maybe she sees this as her chance to finally get a title for herself."

"She isn't like that!
"

Hugh paused over pouring a second drink and his eyebrows went up.

"You know she isn't like that because you've been living in her house for a week, or because you
want
her not to be like that?"

"She
isn't
like that, and have a care what you are implying, Hugh. The important thing now is to find her and make sure my ruddy cousin doesn't enjoy his afternoon."

"Without tipping him off to your presence, I suppose."