Patricia Rice (3 page)

The pounding of the door knocker resounded so loudly
in the hall, she jumped and almost dropped the book. No one in the
village knocked so forcefully.

Fear clenched her insides as she waited for the
servants to answer the door. A bill collector? She should have
instructed the servants to say she wasn’t at home.

James was in the privy. Mary was helping Jemmie
chase the escaped hounds. Had the dogs caused some dire accident in the
lane that had caused an emergency?

The knocker rapped again, with a slamming authority that would not be denied.

Shelving the book with a shaking hand, Beatrice smoothed her skirts again. Just the angry sound of the knocker immobilized her.

She had to grow a backbone.

When it became obvious that no one would answer, she
clenched her teeth and swept out of the study as if she were master of
all she surveyed.

She
was
master of all she surveyed. That was the problem. She was an incompetent master.

After fumbling with the massive door bolt, she
cautiously swung the huge door open on the gloomy, threatening day.
Amazingly, a dark green waistcoat and rumpled white neckcloth blocked
her usual view of the lawn.

Being as large as she was, she didn’t think she’d
ever looked a man in the waistcoat before. Gaping, she tilted her head
back. Green eyes narrowing in grim resignation studied her as if she
were the last thing on this earth that the visitor wanted to see. A lock
of golden brown hair fell appealingly over a wide, furrowed brow, and,
without thinking, Beatrice took a step backward.

A whimper extracted her from a survey of clenched
lips and square jaw, and her gaze dropped to the bundle the man held. A
growing wet spot on the green waistcoat and a glimpse of wispy golden
curls wrapped in a man’s short box coat so startled her, she almost
closed the door in their faces. Rain began to pour.

With a whoop and a burst of energy, a small muddy
form bolted past her skirts, skidded on the Oriental rug, and raced for
the stairs. Tousled curls above a blue velvet coat disappeared around
the landing.

“Excuse me, madam.” The stunning giant dumped his
burden into Bea’s arms, shoved the door open, and, taking the steps two
at a time, raced up the stairs after his small charge, leaving damp
footsteps in his path.

Utterly distracted, Beatrice gazed down at the
bundle she held, into beatific blue eyes in a cherub’s face, and almost
forgot the savages invading her upper story.

She’d never held a baby before.

They stared at each other raptly. The infant popped a
thumb into her rosebud mouth, but her gaze never left Bea’s. Caught in
the study of tiny fingers and chubby cheeks above a lace-bedecked smock,
Bea didn’t register the dampness spreading across her bodice until
shouts overhead intruded upon her reverie.

A man’s roar followed by a childish scream of
outrage abruptly brought her head up, and she grimaced as moisture sank
through the fabric of her bodice and her chemise and chilled her skin.
Heavy boots pounded down the stairs, coming into view first, followed by
dirt-streaked trousers over massive...thighs. Bea gulped, flushed, and
tried to look away.

It had never occurred to her to look at a man’s… limbs... before.

Narrow hips, a wide chest beneath an unfastened
waistcoat and twisted neckcloth, and a squirming, shrieking toddler
clasped under one masculine arm appeared next. The look of mixed
resignation and rage on broad, chiseled features should have sent her
fleeing. Instead, curiosity compelled her to remain, clinging to the
smelly, sopping child in her arms.

If she did not mistake, a stranger and two children
had just arrived on her doorstep on the brink of a rainstorm. In novels,
did it not tend to be an abandoned mistress arriving with babes in arms
during a howling snowstorm?

“I’m here to speak with Miss Cavendish,” the man
said peremptorily, heaving the toddler over his shoulder. The boy loosed
his bandaged arm from its sling and tried to climb down the man’s back,
but his captor’s big hands firmly wrapped around small ankles,
preventing escape.

Dressed as she was, he probably thought she was the
housekeeper. She could say Miss Cavendish wasn’t at home and send this
terrifying apparition away.

She could tell from his stance that he was entirely
too certain of himself. His restless energy permeated the room and would
stampede right over her if she admitted to her existence. His massive
size reduced her elegant foyer to the size of the closet. But he had the
most fascinating green eyes, and a bronzed, windswept look that no
gentleman crossing these portals had ever possessed....

She could almost feel the hurricane winds of change sweeping through her cloistered walls.

She didn’t have a clue as to who he could be.

“My lady!” an effeminate male voice squeaked from the depths of the interior. “Shall I show this motley lot to the door?”

Bea closed her eyes and sighed as James finally appeared.

The stranger’s eyes narrowed again as her bewigged
cousin, in a scarlet coat and gold buttons, hovered behind her. A
growling terrier would offer more protection.

Donning her haughtiest demeanor, Beatrice raised her
eyebrows in the stranger’s direction. “I am Miss Cavendish, sir. I
believe you have mistaken me for someone else.”

Expressively, she held out the child for him to retrieve.

He glowered at her, glowered at her cousin, and
holding the squirming boy firmly beneath one muscular arm, refused to
take the babe. “I’ve been told you can tell me of Nanny Marrow.”

The bottom dropped out of Beatrice’s heart at this mention of her lifelong friend.

“Nanny Marrow passed away last week.” To hide a fresh spurt of tears, she swung on her heels and marched into the formal parlor.

Mac stared after the supercilious Englishwoman and
tried to comprehend her devastating announcement. Nanny Marrow could not
possibly be dead. Fate couldn’t be so cruel.

How in the
devil
would he return to London without someone reliable to hide Marilee’s children?

He stalked after Miss Cavendish, disregarding the
bewigged footman who was holding out his hands in a useless effort to
stay him.

“What do you mean, Nanny Marrow has
passed
away
?” he roared.

He shouldn’t roar. He should conquer his temper, his
impatience, his frustration. He should grovel politely, and question
carefully.

But dealing with two holy terrors beyond his
experience had compounded the shock of Marilee’s death and his fury at
her husband. He desperately needed answers, right now.

In his haste to follow Miss Cavendish, he nearly tripped over an embroidered ottoman.

The parlor was stuffed with man-sized sofas covered
in delicately tatted doilies, massive tables overflowing with fragile
figurines, feathery ferns in heavy brass containers, and other rackety
contradictions that would have spun his head off had he not fixed his
gaze on the tall, curvaceous female maneuvering the maze with ease,
apparently retreating to the support of an enormous piano.

The woman was a target he could sight without
complaint. As she swung around, his gaze dropped appreciatively to the
splendid bosom against which his niece rested. A man could fill his
hands gladly with a woman like that.

He should have had a damned wench before absconding
from London. In another minute, he’d be salivating over a haughty
aristocrat like a green lad.

“Nanny Marrow is dead?” he clarified. He didn’t dare
let loose the squirming tot beneath his arm, despite a string of
epithets spilling from the brat’s dirty mouth. Fortunately, the boy’s
pronunciation was poor and the words muffled.

“She was... quite old,” the lady said stiffly, looking longingly at the piano.

Was he so far beneath her damned dignity that she couldn’t
look
at him? Mac drove his free hand through his rumpled hair. “Why the hell
didn’t that pompous excuse for an innkeeper tell me that?”

She shot him an accusing look for his language,
smothered a quiet exclamation, and, balancing the babe in one arm,
caught a kitten in midleap before it tumbled an army of porcelain
shepherdesses. With expertise, she flipped the kitten onto an afghan
draped over a sofa, where the animal began contentedly shredding the
wool.

Beneath Mac’s arm, Percy quit cursing and watched
the maneuver in apparent awe. Taking advantage of his new interest, Mac
flung the boy onto the sofa with the cat.

“Mr. Digby?” the woman asked in dismay. “Mr. Digby sent you?”

He had to concentrate on priorities. Figuring the
suspicious footman was still within earshot, he turned and caught him in
the doorway. “The babe needs dry cloths. See if the maids can find
some.”

The fop’s look of interest froze. “Miss Cavendish?”

“I’m sure Mary can help,” she answered absently, looking down at the growing stain on her black bodice.

“My lady,” the man insisted, “it would not be proper—”

The woman shot the red-coated dandy a look that was
nearly as impatient and frustrated as Mac’s own, and Mac hid a grin of
appreciation.

“If Mr. Digby sent him, he can’t be too dangerous, and the child is
wet.
Send Mary in here with the cloths. And has Dolly polished the silverware yet?”

The insolent footman drew himself up with hauteur.
“Polishing silver is a senseless task. Who could possibly notice?” With
that pointed dig, he sashayed out.

“If he wasn’t always right, I’d hide him in a closet.”

Diverted by the lady’s sigh of exasperation, Mac
swung back in time to stop Percy from climbing over the sofa back in
search of the cat.

“
My
kitty!” the boy screamed, fighting for release as Mac lifted him by his coat and removed him from the upholstery.

“Miss Cavendish’s kitty,” Mac informed him firmly. “You may have one once we’re on our way home.”

“Don’ wanna go home,” the boy whined.

Miss Cavendish raised her lovely cinnamon eyebrows,
forcing Mac to look past the hideous onyx brooch on her delectable bosom
and acknowledge the intelligence in her clear, almond-shaped eyes.
She’d braided her reddish brown hair in polished rope circles over her
ears, but stray wisps escaped to shiver about her slender throat.

He wondered if her skin tasted as creamy as it
looked, and coughed to clear his throat. He couldn’t remember ever
having such a thought about a proper lady. Normally, their stiff manners
were as off-putting as their overabundance of petticoats.

How the devil would he explain his predicament
without revealing who the children were? Once his drunken brother-in-law
recovered from his stupor, he would have men roaring across the
countryside in pursuit of his stolen children.

“Umm, the children’s mother died, and they were a
trifle... unhappy... until I arrived,” Mac contrived uneasily. “I’d
hoped to hire Nanny Marrow to look after them. When I found her house
boarded up, I inquired at the inn, but they said the rooms were under
renovation, and I should inquire here.”

A maid appeared carrying a stack of dry cloths,
followed by the bewigged footman. The tight-lipped lady surrendered
Pamela to the maid. Judging by the lady’s smile lines, and a glimpse of
dimple when she handed over the chirruping baby, Mac decided her rosy
lips didn’t normally frown. It was just
him
that she disapproved of.

“Do you and the children have a name?” she wondered
aloud as she delicately covered her damp bodice with a shawl the footman
handed her.

“Mac,” he improvised instantly. “Mac Warwick. These
two are Bitsy and Bud.” He’d have to hide their identities until he
developed a clearer plan of action.

“Bitsy?” She wrinkled her patrician nose in
distaste. “Bud? Well, then, perhaps Bud would like a biscuit and some
milk in the kitchen. Excuse my manners.” She gestured toward the
glowering footman. “This is James, my cousin. Perhaps you could take the
children to the kitchen, James?”

A cousin as footman? Mac had heard of ladies
acquiring cicisbeos, but disguising them as servants was a new twist.
This bewigged young fop didn’t appear masculine enough to interest a
woman. “Bud won’t go without Bitsy. If your maid would be so kind as to
go with them...”

Miss Cavendish nodded uncertainly. “Of course. Mary?”

The maid bobbed a curtsy, the footman scowled, and
Mac released his grip on Percy. The boy took off like a cannon shot,
and, cursing like a seaman under his breath, the bewigged footman loped
in pursuit.

As Mary departed in their wake, Beatrice wished she
could follow. She’d much rather watch the antics of the children than
confront this massive man who vibrated with more energy than she thought
the walls could hold.

Now that the children had departed, her tongue twisted in knots. She had a dozen questions she didn’t dare ask.

“You wouldn’t know of any available nursemaids in the area, would you?” he demanded.

“Those with any sense have left for more populous
areas.” Nervousness made her angry, and the words were blurted out. “The
only babies around here are those of servants. I suppose you might ask
at Landingham or the Carstairs estate, but the earl is elderly and never
in residence, and the Carstairses visit only during hunting season.”

He looked frustrated as he ran his hand through his
hair and tumbled it more thoroughly than his son’s. She could see the
resemblance in the golden brown locks, though the children had blue eyes
and not their father’s green. His accent was odd and vaguely uncouth,
despite his excellent grammar. And his wrinkled attire was a disgrace.

“I need to take the children to my parents in
Virginia. I’ve a ship leaving in a few weeks.” He ground out the words
from between clenched teeth.

Virginia. An American. That explained the accent, if
nothing else. She had no idea what she was supposed to say, so she
stood there like a great lump, nervously twitching her fingers against
the piano. Was she supposed to make some hospitable offer?