Patricia Rice (10 page)

Her redoubtable aunt must be nearly sixty, but
Constance refused to admit the weaknesses of age. Beatrice almost wished
her aunt would so she might send her off to rest while she ran out to
question Mr. Warwick about the sheep. He had seemed decidedly grim when
he’d walked out earlier. She didn’t think it boded well.

“There is little enough to tell,” Bea admitted,
taking her place at the tea table and giving up any hope of speaking
with Mr. Warwick soon. “Papa died quickly. I don’t think he was in much
pain, as I told you in my letter.”

Lady Taubee waved away that explanation. “Your
father has gone to his just reward, I’m certain. It’s the living who
concern me. You cannot manage all alone, dear. We must find you a good
husband.”

“I don’t believe that’s the solution, Aunt
Constance,” Bea said tentatively, not yet possessing the knack for
argument. “I would rather have someone teach me how to run an estate.”

Lady Taubee laughed. “Don’t be foolish. Your tenants
would take advantage of your soft heart and you would be bankrupt in
six months.” Her head rose as she noticed Beatrice’s silence. “You
aren’t bankrupt, are you? Your father always seemed well-to-do, but he’s
spent quite a bit refurbishing, I see.”

Beatrice couldn’t prevent the color rising to her
cheeks. Heaven forbid that her aunt should learn of her dire straits.
Constance would haul her off to London and parade her about like a
circus elephant until she found someone desperate enough to take Bea off
her hands. “I’ve not learned how to manage yet. You needn’t worry. I’m
certain there’s more than enough to tide me over until I learn.”

“Oh, most certainly not!” Lady Taubee said in tones
of horror. “I’ll not have you lose everything your father worked so hard
to gain. We must find you a husband.” She brushed away Beatrice’s
protests. “You were meant for having babies.” She cocked her head with
interest. “Explain again why you are taking care of that man’s
children.”

“I’m not. Mary is. In return for room and board,
he’s helping me learn to manage while he waits for his ship to be
readied for the journey home.”

“Hmmm.” Lady Taubee did not seem appeased. “He dresses his children well. He must be a gentleman if he reads account books.”

“I did not ask what he does. He said he could help, and I accepted the offer.”

An undermaid scratched at the parlor door, and Lady
Taubee called for her to enter. Beatrice had learned long ago that her
aunt tended to take command wherever she went. It had never bothered her
before, but she was becoming a little resentful that no one thought her
capable of handling her own life.

“There’s a gentleman to call, miss.” Darting their
redoubtable guest an anxious glance, the maid bobbed a curtsy and held
out a tray containing a calling card.

Beatrice didn’t bother looking at it. It would be
impolite to weary her aunt with villagers so soon after her arrival.
“Tell him I’m not at home.”

“Don’t be ridiculous, Bea.” Lady Taubee picked up
the card and nodded approvingly. “Show Mr. Carstairs in, please, and
bring us more tea. Tell Cook we’d like some more of those jam tarts.”

Escaping as if happy she hadn’t been ordered to fill
the vases with flower arrangements and invite the village to dinner—as
had happened in past visits—the maid scampered away.

Resentment didn’t begin to describe Beatrice’s
feelings at this high-handed rearranging of her preferences as well as
her household. Cook didn’t have enough help to make more jam tarts at
this hour, and Molly had better things to do than run back and forth all
day.

“Dav is a useless bit of work,” Bea protested. “Why ever would you wish to see him?”

“I’m certain he does not call on
me,
dear,” Lady Taubee replied placidly, sipping her tea. “I would like to
examine your potential suitors to see which one we should bring up to
snuff.”

“Suitors?” At that astounding assessment of her
caller, Beatrice could only sink back in her chair and stare. Dav was
three years her junior and hadn’t a sensible brain in his pretty head.
He came here a few months out of the year for foxhunting mostly, and
she’d seen him in church, but a suitor? Never. She’d barely even spoken
to the man.

Sweeping into the room and gallantly doffing his hat
and bowing, Mr. Carstairs freshened the closed parlor with the scent of
outdoors and sunlight. His merry smile alighted on Beatrice, then
danced to her visitor. Uncovered, his glossy black curls gleamed like
polished ebony.

“My ladies, this is a treat! Miss Cavendish, you are
looking as charming as ever. And might I have the pleasure...?” His
voice trailed off suggestively as he turned to Lady Taubee.

Awkwardly, Bea performed the introductions.

“I was afraid Bea was cooped up and lonely in this
rural outpost,” her aunt declared, patting the cushion of the love seat
beside her. “But I see I shouldn’t have worried if she has the company
of young gentlemen such as yourself.”

Bea scowled as Dav threw her an impudent grin. The
man had the attention span of a butterfly. He must truly be bored to
call here. Bea was sorely tempted to escape screaming out the front
door. She doubted he knew any more about estate management than she did.

“Miss Cavendish hoards her charms,” Dav declared
lightly. “But I could not let her hoard you as well, Lady Taubee. You
are a rare treasure meant to be shared.”

As they exchanged annoying flattery, Beatrice caught
a movement at the door. Thinking it was the maid, she gestured for her
to enter, only to discover Mr. Warwick standing there, a scowl to match
her own on his face.

“I didn’t mean to intrude.”

Next to Dav’s lean, elegant sophistication, Mr.
Warwick seemed like a bull in a china shop. He filled the doorway with
his old woolen coat and tall, muddy boots. No fancy hat covered his
tousled hair, and his neckcloth looked as if he’d torn it apart in a fit
of frustration. He wore the same plain green waistcoat he’d worn the
other day, and he hadn’t bothered fastening it before he’d come in. He
looked ready to ride a horse or sail a ship, not enter a lady’s parlor.

Her heart pounded a little harder as she fully realized how much more masculine Mr. Warwick was than a dandy like Dav.

“It’s not an intrusion, Mr. Warwick.” And it wasn’t.
She’d far rather wrangle with him over sheep than listen to Dav’s
silliness. “Would you like some tea?”

“I’ve just come to take the children out for a
while. Thought they might like to ride in your pony cart, if you don’t
mind the imposition.”

He seemed exceedingly nervous. Odd. He’d never struck her as being the sort to be uncertain about anything.

“Mary asked permission to take them to visit her
mother in the village,” she replied. “She has a little brother about
Buddy’s age. I didn’t think you’d mind.” Beatrice watched with curiosity
as his face turned expressionless. He started backing from the room the
instant her aunt gestured for him to enter.

“Do come in, Mr. Warwick, and tell us more of
yourself. My niece isn’t such a taskmistress that she won’t allow you
time for a sip of tea.”

Beatrice saw the flash of alarm in his eyes, but if
she was saddled with the tedium of Dav, Warwick could endure a little
tea. “Molly’s returning with a fresh pot. Have a seat, sir.”

He obeyed. Reluctantly, perhaps, with a look that
warned of retribution, but he did not ignore her request as others did.
Feeling oddly triumphant, Beatrice offered him the plate of cakes.
Gingerly, he took one between his thumb and forefinger.

“I could ask Molly to bring you something more substantial....”

“This is fine,” he snarled, disposing of the treat in a single bite while perched on the edge of his seat.

“Ask Miss Cavendish about the hounds,” Dav said eagerly. “She’ll only bite off my head if I try.”

“Don’t be absurd, dear boy!” Lady Taubee chuckled. “Bea couldn’t snap at a turtle.”

“Bea has never seen a turtle to snap at,” Beatrice muttered under her breath.

A corner of Mr. Warwick’s mouth quirked upward as if
he’d heard her, but he nodded politely at Dav’s request. “Miss
Cavendish, Mr. Carstairs is interested in acquiring several of your
foxhounds, if you can spare them.”

Spare them? She’d give the lot away just to save the
expense of their care, not to mention the relief of freeing the air
from their howls. But her father had doted on those dogs. She couldn’t
give them to just anyone. And Lord Knowles would be furious. He’d been
after her for them since her father had died.

“I’ve had other requests,” she said hesitantly. “I must see they have a good home....”

“Knowles,” Dav said with disgust. “Don’t let him
browbeat you. You’re quite right to be careful with fine animals like
those. Why, you have three bitches out of Foxy Lady that will...” He
launched into an avid monologue on dog breeding that left even Aunt
Constance stupefied.

As Molly returned with fresh tea and cups, Mr.
Warwick took one and settled back in his chair with what actually
appeared to be a gleam of pleasure, while Dav rhapsodized over past
hounds and breeds.

“You haven’t told me where you’ll put the sheep,” Beatrice whispered as she leaned over to offer Mr. Warwick more cakes.

“Shall I give you a lesson on sheep breeding practices?” he murmured, his attention still seemingly on Dav.

“It would be more practical than hounds,” she muttered. Seeing her aunt throw her an admonishing look, she sat back.

“Well.” Lady Taubee interrupted Dav’s discourse. “It
certainly seems as Mr. Daventry should take up the squire’s avocation.
Beatrice, dear, do you think you could be persuaded to part with those
dear dogs?”

“Dav and I will work out the details later,” Mr.
Warwick said smoothly. “I’m sure you ladies wouldn’t wish to be bored
with the negotiations.”

“I say, old boy, that’s splendid. Let us retire to the study and work out—”

Mr. Warwick halted his boyish eagerness. “In good time, Dav. Give Miss Cavendish a chance to adjust to the idea.”

“Excellent thought, Mr. Warwick. Where in America
are you from, sir?” Lady Taubee diverted her intense concentration to
the newcomer.

Beatrice thought he looked startled and wary at the question.

“From Virginia.”

Lady Taubee beamed. “I have a good friend there.
She’s begged me to visit, and perhaps I shall once I see dear Beatrice
happily settled. Are you a sailor, sir?”

“I have sailed,” he replied evasively.

“Excellent! I do enjoy a good adventure now and
again. I’ve always wished to own my own clipper so I might pursue the
waves on my own schedule rather than at someone else’s command. I’ve
just returned from Sicily and met the most fascinating people there.
There’s a hotel with food like...” She waved her hand dismissively. “But
Beatrice is a homebody and refuses to accompany me. Do you believe a
woman’s place is in the home, Mr. Warwick?”

He squirmed uncomfortably, and Beatrice felt a
twinge of sympathy. Aunt Constance had a way of trapping people into
saying things they would not admit otherwise. It didn’t seem quite fair
to practice on someone who obviously had as little skill at social
discourse as Mr. Warwick.

“Aunt Constance, you know perfectly well he must
insult one or the other of us if he answers that honestly. Pick on Mr.
Carstairs, if you must. He is quite capable of giving you a polite
two-faced reply.”

Mr. Warwick choked on his tea.

Dav grinned. “Why, Miss Cavendish, I hadn’t thought you’d noticed me or my talents. I must have made an impression after all.”

“You’re a rogue, sir,” Lady Taubee said pertly.
“Now, I wish to question Mr. Warwick. Why don’t you toddle along and
admire your new acquisitions.”

Warwick was out of his chair faster than Dav. “He
hasn’t acquired them yet, my lady. If you’ll excuse us, we’ll leave you
ladies to more civil discourse.”

He stalked out, practically dragging a blustering Dav—who, unlike Warwick, at least managed a polite bow and farewell.

“Well,” Aunt Constance said after the men left. “That was enlightening. Have you more suitors I should interview?”

“They’re not suitors, Aunt Constance,” Bea said
wearily, relaxing with her tea now that the invaders had departed. “Mr.
Warwick will be gone within a week or so, and Dav will be gone as soon
as he has his hounds.”

“Don’t be too sure of that. You’re an available
female with land. Every single male in the shire is bound to be sniffing
around. Who is the Lord Knowles they mentioned? Is he married?”

“He’s Papa’s age and his only interest is in
hunting. Don’t matchmake, please. The curate has tried for years,
without success. I’m quite content as I am.”

“Nonsense.” Lady Taubee firmly set her teacup down.
“All the world can see you’re unhappy. You’re just too isolated to know
better. Now, I think I’ll visit with Mary’s mother. It should be
entertaining to meet Mr. Warwick’s children.”

Beatrice definitely did not like the way her aunt
said that, but she had no means of telling her not to interfere. Aunt
Constance was a force of her own, akin to whirlwinds and tidal waves.
One was swept helplessly along.

He had to leave. The old lady was far too sharp, and
she was already suspicious. Mac fretted the whole time he discussed the
damned dogs with Carstairs. He should never have forgotten how small an
island England was. Lady Taubee could probably trace his ancestral tree
back to Adam and Eve if she knew his full name. She only needed to
trace it to Viscount Simmons.

He had to escape. Now.

“My brother is at the blacksmith’s. He can give you a
bank note for the balance,” Carstairs said as he handed over the coins
in his purse. “Are you staying on with Miss Cavendish? You should talk
with Hugo. He’s been trying to persuade the squire to enclose his fields
for eons.”