Patricia Rice (12 page)

Wearing an exotic dinner gown of what appeared to be
Chinese silk embroidered with dragons, Lady Taubee didn’t look
particularly reasonable now that she held him captive in the parlor. Mac
would have faced real dragons and pirates with less trepidation.

“You kidnapped those children, Mr. MacTavish,” Lady
Taubee said severely, without preliminaries. “Viscount Simmons has men
looking for you. There are rumors all over London.”

“I’m amazed he dares admit he’s lost them,” Mac
replied callously, stretching out his legs from the wing chair he’d
appropriated. “From what he told me, he has no other income but what our
fathers provide for their support. If he admits they’re gone, the money
stops. Hiring men is a dead giveaway to the earl that his grandchildren
have disappeared.”

Lady Taubee frowned. “I haven’t heard Coventry is in
town, but it’s no matter. Those children are not yours. You cannot just
spirit them away.”

“I’m their uncle. I can and I have.” Donning his
boldest demeanor, Mac folded his arms across his chest. “Simmons is a
drunkard who hires nursemaids to drug the children into a stupor.
They’re so careless, they broke Buddy’s arm. You saw with your own eyes
today proof of what the children have endured. I made Simmons sign over
their custody to me, and I have the legal papers to prove it.”

“Which is why you’re hiding here under an assumed
name? I’m too old and too experienced to believe that, sir.” The ostrich
plume in her hair shook with her vehemence. “I may sympathize with your
cause, but not to the extent that I’ll allow you to harm my innocent
niece with your perfidies. Once the earl discovers what has happened,
he’ll hunt you to ground and bury a hatchet in your scalp. And he’ll run
down anyone who stands in his way. Coventry is not always a reasonable
man.”

Mac had hoped the children’s grandfather might be a
little more sympathetic. He should have known better. Stomach sinking,
he rose. “The children and I will be gone by morning.”

“Sit down, young man!” Lady Taubee sternly pointed
at the chair he’d just vacated. “You will take those children nowhere,
or I’ll have every man in the village after you. You can no better care
for those children than their father can.”

After these latest episodes, Mac knew the truth of
that. He knew nothing about raising children, had never thought to
learn. He just knew better than to leave these small bits of Marilee in
careless hands.

With an aggravated sigh, he lowered himself to the chair again. “You have a better suggestion?” he asked bitterly.

“Yes, though I would have preferred to wait and
allow nature to take its course. I am not so blind that I cannot see
interest growing between two people, and I can think of no two who are
better suited. But your circumstances demand immediate action.”

She smiled beatifically at Mac’s blank look. “It’s
the perfect solution. My niece has need of a man to look after her and
her interests. You need someone to look after the children. What better
arrangement could there be?”

Mac narrowed his eyes in suspicion. “That is what
we
thought, but you seemed to find my presence objectionable.”

Lady Taubee laughed. “The
earl
is objectionable. Dear Bea approves of you, and rightly so. You seem to
be a man of intelligence and compassion. I know your parents, know you
come from good family. I think you will suit her very well.”

Squirming uneasily in his chair, wanting to tug at his suddenly tight collar, Mac clung to the chair arm. “Suit her?”

Lady Taubee leaned over and patted his hand. “A fine
young man like you should be wedded by now. That would take care of
your wanderlust.”

“I have no wish to take care of my wanderlust,” Mac
growled. He thought he ought to stalk out, but, captured in the woman’s
odd fantasy, he simply stared.

“Of course you do, dear boy. You would not wish to
end up like me, with no home or family to hold you.” For a brief moment,
loneliness darkened her eyes before they flashed merrily again. “Court
my niece, and I will not mention your name to Coventry and his misguided
son. Hurt her, and I’ll have you spitted and hanged.” She beamed as if
she’d just offered him the gold at the end of the rainbow.

Mac couldn’t believe his ears. He sat there staring
at the dotty old witch, waiting to hear something reasonable. She raised
her eyebrows and outstared him.

“Court your niece?”

“And marry her.” Lady Taubee nodded firmly, plume bouncing.

“Marry her?” He didn’t think it was horror lacing
his voice so much as disbelief. Miss Cavendish was a fine woman, but he
was a traveling man. His home was an ocean away. Perhaps this was some
sort of jest.

“Do not take that tone of voice with me, sir,” she
scolded blithely. “I’m quite right in the head and have far more
experience than you do. Beatrice is a wonderful, loving, obedient,
beautiful woman who deserves a good man and a good life. She’s simply a
little shy. If you’d quit barking at her, she’d overcome her shyness.”

Shy? The haughty lady with her nose stuck in the
air—shy? “You don’t seem to understand,” he said cautiously, searching
for words to explain. “I live in Virginia. I spend most of my time at
sea. I intend to take my niece and nephew home to my parents, where they
belong. Miss Cavendish belongs here.”

“Of course she does, silly! This is her home, and
she loves it. That’s of no matter. You have the ability and knowledge to
run her estate. Sail the sea, if you must. Do what you like with the
children. But marry Beatrice and look after her.”

Mac ran his hand over the back of his neck, tangled
it in his neckcloth, and shook his head. “Ma’am, you are not making
sense,” he said as evenly as possible.

Surely she didn’t want to see Buddy and Bitsy
returned to their filthy nursery, although he thought the crafty old
witch capable of condemning him to a British dungeon if he refused her.
He simply couldn’t see what advantage she saw in marrying her niece to
an American whose circumstances didn’t allow him to stay here and
protect her.

The lustful, impulsive part of his brain conjured up
the image of Beatrice in his bed and almost sank his argument before it
began.

Oblivious to his discomposure, Lady Taubee rose with
a rustle of stiff petticoats and a bob of her colored plume. “I’m
making perfect sense. You and those children are endangered by any
precipitous action you might take if you run from here. My niece is in
danger of losing everything she holds dear without the aid of a
competent man to help her manage. I should think three weeks sufficient
time to court and win her.”

She swept from the room with the authority of a queen.

In disbelief, Mac sat there a little longer, hoping she’d return to tell him she jested.

The only sound he heard was that of Bitsy’s happy gurgles as Miss Cavendish carried her through the house.

He’d been taught to respect and defend women from
adventurers like him, and Lady Taubee had just offered him the
opportunity to possess everything his primitive nature could desire—not
only a lovely woman for wife, but one who tolerated his presence with
equanimity, and who would be happy to pursue her own course while he
followed his.

How the hell could he take the high road of principles and logic when the low road of temptation was so much more appealing?

“Surely you have something prettier than that to wear to dinner!”

Aunt Constance marched into Beatrice’s bedchamber,
gave her black gown a dismissive look, and proceeded to her wardrobe.
“Now that I am here, I see no reason for you to stay in mourning another
day. You’re much too young to look like a widow. You must have
something more festive for a warm spring evening.” She shot Beatrice a
mischievous look. “I’m sure that fine young American would enjoy seeing
you as you really are.”

Alarm raced through Beatrice at her aunt’s impish
demeanor. She knew to distrust that look. Glancing down at her black
gown, she knew it looked frumpy, but who was there to notice? She didn’t
intend to invite Mr. Warwick to dinner.

She’d always loved fine fabrics and stylish gowns,
and her father had indulged her. She hadn’t felt the urge to dress up
lately. She frowned as her aunt produced a girlish gown several seasons
old. Her aunt had been acting oddly all afternoon.

“It’s been only six months, Aunt Constance,” she protested. “I really don’t think—”

“Nonsense, child. Try this on. Such a lovely shade of pink will suit you well.”

Given her aunt’s preference for gaudy colors,
Beatrice didn’t think she should rely on her judgment. “Not pink,
please. Dark purple, perhaps?”

Lady Taubee puckered her nose, then returned the
pink gown to the wardrobe and rummaged for the requested color. “You
have an elegant figure that you should show off more often, my dear. I
do wish you would come to London for a Season. We could have so much fun
together.”

Beatrice smiled fondly at this oft-repeated
admonition. “I’m a trifle old for a coming-out, Aunt Constance, and I’ve
never possessed the vanity to show myself off.” Nor the courage to
visit London society, where she would appear a towering giantess among
the delicate flowers of the ton, but that was an old argument.

Deciding on a purple silk, her aunt laid the gown
over her arm to examine it. “You have the vanity to wear fashionable
gowns, so you must know they look good on you.”

“I wear gowns for people to look at
instead
of me,” Beatrice corrected. “While everyone admires the details of my wardrobe, they do not notice who is wearing it.”

Constance shot her a disapproving look. “For an
intelligent woman, you say the most foolish things. Now here, put this
on, and let’s see how it suits.”

With a sigh, Beatrice submitted to the unfastening
of dozens of tiny buttons, tapes, and hooks, the selection of a
strapless petticoat bodice to go under the lower neckline of the evening
gown, and the fastening of the purple bodice with its gentle layers of
flounces falling below her shoulders in place of sleeves. She wrinkled
her nose at the result. “A trifle dressy for a quiet evening at home,
isn’t it?”

“Don’t be silly. A woman can never look too elegant.
You have such lovely shoulders, you wear this style well. I think we
should have a dinner to show you off. You need jewelry. Where is your
box?” Lady Taubee lowered the off-the-shoulder flounce slightly, then
bustled off to examine the jewelry box Beatrice’s maid produced.

Bea didn’t bother examining her mirror to see the
results. She’d ordered this gown for a dinner her father had given for
some of his hunting companions a year or two ago. The old men had patted
her on the back, called her a fine-looking young woman, and spent the
evening drinking her father’s claret. She’d adorned the table during the
meal as expected and disappeared into her parlor after that.

Acres of purple silk did not transform her into
anything new or interesting, but the silk felt good against her skin,
and now that she was out of black, she appreciated the vibrant color.

Settling on an amethyst-and-crystal necklace and
earbobs, her aunt fastened them around Bea’s throat, admired her
handiwork, patted her niece’s polished curls, and smiled. “You are quite
the loveliest woman I’ve seen in some time.”

Bea gathered up her skirt and strode toward the
door. “Shall I ever need funds, I’ll hire out as a dressmaker’s display
dummy. Cook will be fretting if we don’t hurry.”

With an exasperated sigh, her aunt followed.

As she descended the stairs, Beatrice detected James
standing at attention in the front hall, his gold buttons gleaming and
his scarlet livery immaculate, the wretch. “How could you go to
Cheltenham and not take the silver?” she scolded.

James didn’t lower his gaze from its lofty position
on an ancient portrait well above her head. “I was not instructed to
take the silver, Miss Cavendish.”

“I
told
you to take the silver, James. I’m the one paying your wages, not Mr. Warwick!”

He lifted a wicked eyebrow, reminding her that she
hadn’t
paid the wages.

“James, you are a blessing, and I shall be certain
to tell your mother so.” Constance patted the footman on his liveried
arm and shooed Beatrice toward the parlor.

Stunned by this recognition of her supposedly
distant cousin, wanting to question her aunt in private, Beatrice
hurried toward the formal parlor.

She halted in midstride at the sight of a tall, elegant gentleman rising to his feet as she entered.
Warwick!
Bea stopped abruptly, and her aunt nearly ran into her.

Stunningly handsome in black tails, frilled
shirtfront, and white, low-cut waistcoat, he also looked immensely
uncomfortable. A peacock feather from the Grecian urn brushed his broad
shoulder. He edged away from the gate-legged table adorned with
sea-shells and porcelain shepherdesses, adroitly avoided the
tapestry-embroidered stool, and froze rather than navigate his way
around more clutter. Perhaps she’d feathered her nest a little too
lavishly, but she’d had twenty-eight years in which to do nothing else.

She thought her guest might strangle on his high
neckcloth should he lower his clenched jaw sufficiently to look at her.
Instead, he stared pointedly over her head just as James had done and
murmured something that might have been a greeting.

Beatrice knew a trap when she saw one. Mr. Warwick
would never have invited himself to dinner. She swung on her beaming
aunt. “What have you done?”

“The boy cleans up splendidly, does he not?” Lady Taubee said with admiration as she rustled through the room. “Mr....
Warwick
, does not our Bea look lovely tonight?”

At some undiscerned warning in her aunt’s voice, Mr.
Warwick glanced down at Beatrice, and she thought he might swallow his
tongue before he could speak.