Mistletoe and Mischief (5 page)

“Then what do you propose to do about them?”

“You are not making yourself clear.”

“Let me express myself differently, then. I hope you do not mean to turn them off at the shore without a feather to fly with?”

“Of course not,” he said, growing indignant. “They will be given all their back pay.”

“With interest?”

“Certainly not! That would break us! We've had to finance the allies for years as it is.”

Louisa frowned at him. “But what about the wounded, the ones who will be too injured to work again?”

“They shall have their wound-pension--sixpence a day.”

Louisa arched her brows. “And live off strawberries and cream, I daresay.”

“Louisa,” Charles protested, feeling ruffled, “you must leave such things to the men charged with running this country. They are not matters you could easily understand.”

Louisa looked at him wryly. “It takes very little experience or schooling to understand what it will be like to live off sixpence a day, Charles.”

He blustered, “But magnify that cost several hundred times over and you will see what a heavy toll it makes on the government. You could not possibly understand the treasury's limits, Louisa! I refuse to discuss them with you.”

She put her nose in the air and turned to look out her window.

After a moment, Charles addressed her profile stiffly, “Besides ... their families will shelter them.”

“And the ones without families?”

He did not respond to this unanswerable query. Instead, after a pause, he asked, “Why do you concern yourself with such things?”

She gave him a look as if to say the reason should be obvious. “Do not forget that I am an heiress,” she said. “I have been raised to understand my own finances–enough, at least, that I know how much a loaf of bread and a joint of beef cost.
And
how quickly your six pennies shall be spent on beer.”

Charles folded his arms. “They are not
my
six pennies.”

Louisa gave her attention to the outdoors, and after a short while began to make polite conversation about the countryside.

The low stone walls of Yorkshire seemed to delight her, running as they did in all directions, seemingly without end or reason. They varied from grey to black--sometimes both, depending on the rock available--criss-crossing the wild and otherwise empty moors.

As Louisa made comments, Charles maintained a sulky silence, responding only in single syllables to her remarks.

After a few minutes, however, he found himself thinking over what she had said. If the truth be told, he had not given much thought to the demobilization of the army. He and everyone in government had been concentrating on the war for so long that they had not had time to devote to the future. But now that Boney was on the run, defeated in Russia, and with the allies in France, the war would soon be concluded.

Louisa’s chatter, undiminished by his sullenness, made a comfortable background to his thoughts--computations of how much money might be squeezed from the treasury for the wounded men. He might introduce a measure in the Lords, discuss it first with the PM. Something might be managed--ought to be managed, if he were honest.

A bit ashamed to have had his attention brought to the problem by a girl, however, Charles said nothing to her of his thoughts.

The shortness of the winter day made progress difficult, but they managed to draw into Snaithby soon after sunset. Fortunately, they discovered that neither of them had cause to avoid an inn in this village. Snaithby lay off the Great North Road to the west. Louisa had had no reason to stop there on her way north, and Charles hadn't had occasion to visit his friend Ned's estate in several years.

Charles stepped down from the carriage and gave Louisa his hand to assist her. Immediately they were greeted by the proprietors-- Sammy and Nan Spadger–at The Crown and Pear.

This time, Louisa gave a rather glib performance of her story. Perhaps it had worked so successfully in Appleby that she had lost all concern for its credibility, but Charles had the impression that relating it a second time merely bored her. Whatever her reason for doing such a poor job, he ended up wishing she had imbued her tale with more conviction.

At Louisa’s finish, Nan Spadger, the innkeeper's wife, eyed them both with hostility, and Charles found he was no more immune to her suspicion than he had been to his coachman's. As she hesitated over giving them rooms, he felt his face growing warmer and warmer.

“Ta be certain,” Mrs. Spadger said, “seein' as how tha folks be o' t' nobility, I'd not like ta think owt was amiss. But we've no got t' custom o' givin' rooms ta no ladies wit'owt bags.”

“It is a bore, isn't it?” Louisa said, turning her charm on the woman at last. “But my bags are not expected to catch up with us until morning. Fortunately, for my comfort, I did manage to bring away my toothbrush and comb, and perhaps you would be kind enough to press my gown for me.”

Mrs. Spadger seemed to consider this, her arms folded snugly over her apron, while her husband hovered indecisively over Charles's bags. The crest on his carriage impressed them, Charles could see, but they were respectable people and they did not like the notion of their hospitality being abused. He had a notion of how to appease them.

“I shall be calling on my friend Lord Conisbrough this evening,” he said, reasoning that all they needed was a reference. “I gave my servants instructions to stop at his estate, and it is possible they shall be there when I arrive. In that case, of course, I shall be bringing my cousin's bags back to her.”

Mrs. Spadger placed her hand on her hips. The light of battle lit her features. With a sinking stomach, Charles recognized the flaw in his strategy.

“Lord Conisbrough, is't? An' tha art friends wi’
him
! Then, happen it wor better that tha stays wi’ him!”

Charles cursed his own carelessness and tried to find a diplomatic solution to this development. Ned's reputation as a rake was certain to be well known in his home village. He should have thought of that. Now that she knew them to be Ned's friends, Mrs. Spadger seemed more convinced than ever of their wickedness.

But having used Ned as an excuse, Charles could not see his way to backing out of their assumed friendship now.

He started to bluster, but Louisa, flashing him a brilliant smile, began to chuckle. Then her chuckle turned into a bubbling laugh. Nan Spadger and her husband turned surprised eyes upon her.

“That would be like asking my cousin to deliver me to the wolves, as I understand it,” she explained to them. “You must forgive him if he appears offended, but perhaps you are not aware of Lord Conisbrough's reputation. My cousin takes any injury to my good repute quite seriously, and he has refused quite firmly to introduce me to such a rake, even though we might reasonably have begged lodgings from Lord Conisbrough for the night.”

Seeing that Louisa’s words had raised a sympathetic look on the innkeeper's face, Charles reluctantly took her story up. “You should be more discreet, Louisa, “ he said looking at her sternly. “ It is not for us to be telling tales.”

His comment tipped the balance. Nan Spadger relaxed her arms and said, “But, indeed, yor lordship. There's nowt abowt his lordship that don't be known hereabowts. T' lady should stay here wi' us, til tha comes back.” She picked up two bags at last. “I remember seein’ his lordship when he wor just a young lad, fallin' o'er a wall one neet when he wor drunk.” She shook her head and preceded them into the inn. “He had ta wear his arm in a sling for eight weeks. An' that's not all I could tell thee, if I'd a mind. It's a wonder he's not swallow'd his coat an' hat.”

Charles grimaced at the description of Ned, which he knew to be accurate. Louisa suppressed her dimples, but her eyes twinkled. Keeping his lips pressed in a straight line, Charles gave her a wink, for Mrs. Spadger's account, given in her broad Yorkshire dialect, had sparked his sense of humour, too.

The Spadgers agreed to hold two rooms for them, and a private parlour, and to make Louisa comfortable until his return. Charles refused all refreshment except a pint of beer, and only drank a few swallows in his hurry to set off for Lord Conisbrough's residence. He felt certain he could find the way with no more than a set of directions to refresh his memory, for as a younger man he had stayed with Ned on a hunting expedition.

Before he left, he managed a few words in private with Louisa.

“I hope you will be as discreet as possible,” he said with little tact. “These people are not so easily beguiled as our last hosts.”

Louisa arched her brows at him. “Yes, I promise to be quite good, Charles. But you must admit I had something to do with getting us accepted.”

Charles grinned reluctantly. “Yes, I am indebted to you again, it appears. But you mustn't let your successes go to your head. You must stay on guard.”

“You have my word,” she promised, nearly pushing him out the door. “I shall not give us away. Now hurry off, and don't waste another thought on me.”

Charles would have liked to take her up on this suggestion, but he knew, of course, that he would not be making this visit to Ned's if Louisa's welfare did not require it. Somehow, he could not rest easily with the thought of her remaining alone. He decided to leave Timothy and the coach behind him not only to give his coachman a rest from the cold, but also in case Louisa should find some way to disgrace herself and be in immediate need of leaving The Crown and Pear.

With these concerns in mind, he went outside and mounted the hack Sammy Spadger had lent him. Taking the reins from Timothy, Charles described for him the route he would take to Lord Conisbrough's manor, in case he should be needed, and then trotted off in the dark to seek Ned's help.

Ned's manor house lay only a few miles from Snaithby; Charles arrived there within the half hour. The butler, taking his card, informed him that the family was at dinner.

Charles refused to disturb Ned's mother, but informed the butler that his mission was urgent. He directed him to take in his card, but to ask for a word with Lord Conisbrough in private.

Knowing the proper treatment due a marquess and leader of government and not a little surprised for his master to be receiving such a sober visitor, the butler showed Charles into Lord Conisbrough's library and ordered the fire to be rebuilt.

The room was comfortable, but noticeably lacking in books. Charles was just deploring this fact while he warmed his booted feet over the coals, when the door swung open and Ned appeared.

Ned paused in the doorway for a few seconds, his eyes, already blurred by drink, coming to focus slowly on Charles.

Charles was relieved to see that though Ned's vision was not what it should have been, he was not so far gone that his clothes were out of order. His neckcloth was still impeccably tied, and his boots held their shine. Even his black locks retained the style they had been given by his valet.

“Good Lord,” he said dryly. “It is you, Wroxton. Have you come to serve me a warrant?”

Charles laughed. “I am not a magistrate, Ned. I am adviser to His Royal Highness. Or don't you know the difference?”

Ned shrugged and strolled negligently through the door. “I perceive there might be a difference; but what it is doesn't interest me so long as you promise you have not come to curtail my freedoms. I cannot, otherwise, conceive of a single mission that would overcome your repugnance to visit this most unhallowed ground.”

Charles shifted uncomfortably. “Don't be an idiot, Ned.”

Ned raised his brows. “Ah--but have you called here and been refused? Then I must give notice to my butler this instant. I had no idea he was turning my friends away.”

A flush spread across Charles's face. This was going even worse than he had expected.

“No, I haven't come to visit, and I'm sorry. But--confound it, Ned! You know I don't have time for your sort of foolishness! What if we all indulged ourselves the way you do?”

“Then Boney would be in Brighton by now and installed in the Pavilion. Yes, you're quite right.” An idea seemed to strike Ned. “Do you mean to say you've caught him? Is that why you're here?”

Charles began to fume beneath his politeness. “No, I regret to say we have not. I was on business to that effect, however, and on my way home, when something occurred to occasion this visit.”

“Good Lord,” Ned said flatly again. “The call has finally come. Prinny has come to his senses and needs me. Whom am I to replace? Wellington?”

Charles had to snort at this. “Will you shut up, Ned,” he said tiredly, “and offer me a glass of brandy? I could use something to warm me up.”

“I'll do better than that, my boy. I'll invite you to dinner. You should love it. My mother and her companion, Miss Wadsdale–the merriment flows in abundance. I shall give you the pleasure of entertaining them.”

He reached for the bell, but Charles stopped him in time. “No dinner, Ned. Thank you. But I would have a drink. And if your own dinner calls, I can wait until you've finished.”

Ned smiled wryly. “And return to Miss Wadsdale? No, thank you, Wroxton. You may be a bit of a sourpuss, but I had rather an hour of your company any day to a few seconds of that female's.”

Charles screwed up his mouth. “You are too kind.”

The butler was sent for, and he soon brought back a tray with two glasses and a decanter of brandy. While he was setting it down, Ned brought Charles up to date on some of their friends from Eton. The ones he tended to know about were of the same heedless group he ran with, and their fates ranged from total bankruptcy through extravagant gambling to the occasional scandalous marriage to an opera singer.

In turn, Charles informed him of their friends who had died or been wounded in Europe, which topic cast a pall over their conversation. When the butler left, however, Ned roused himself and said, “Very well, then, out with it. You might have come to see me, but you wouldn't be arriving at this hour and interrupting my dinner if you didn't have something to say. What's adrift?”

Charles was grateful for Ned's directness, but still found it hard to explain his difficulty.