The Kidnapped Bride (22 page)

Lady Packwood asserted that she, for one, was glad she would soon be in Paris where English manners and customs were thought to be mildly amusing and where no one would expect her to mourn her first husband’s grandson. Declaring that she would rig herself out in the first style of elegance, she drifted easily from that topic to details of the honeymoon itinerary and the latest letter from the Lady Honoria, whom she was planning to meet either in Brussels or Rome—she could not recall precisely which.

“How she will stare when she sees Percy!” her ladyship chuckled. “I merely wrote that I should be going over, never a word about him. Do you think your mama will be surprised?” she asked Colin.

“I should say!” the boy exclaimed. He had been staring, awestricken, as Sir Percival methodically devoured the contents of one plateful after another.

When they left the gentlemen to their port, Sarah thought privately that Nicholas looked a bit harassed, but whether it was a result of his mother’s forthright speech or the prospect of sharing his excellent port with Sir Percival and Lionel, she could not tell.

In the library, she was able to sit back and relax, while Lady Packwood exerted herself to become better acquainted with Miss Penistone. The conversation was more restrained, and there was little in it to put anyone to the blush, but Sarah was not at all amazed by this phenomenon, for there was something about Penny’s placid, ladylike demeanor that usually put others on their best behavior.

They had been speaking for some ten minutes or so when the library door opened and Colin slipped inside. “Is it all right, Gram?” he asked in an undertone. “May I come in?”

“Of course, dear boy. Come in and tell us how you have been amusing yourself since you left school.” She patted the cushion beside her invitingly, but Colin looked toward Sarah instead.

“If you like,” he said absently, “but I didn’t come for that. That is … well, I came to find out what happened this morning. I didn’t want to go to bed.”

“I’m sure that’s not to be wondered at,” observed his grandmother, giving him a curious look. “Your uncle never wanted to go to bed directly after dinner either. But then, he was rarely allowed to dine with the grown-ups. What about this morning?” Sarah flushed, and Colin looked conscious of having spoken out of turn. Miss Penistone’s expression did not change. “Come, come, children, what’s toward here? I thought Nicky had told me everything, but he said nothing about this morning. Cut line—as old Moreland used to say.”

Sarah glanced at Colin and then at Penny. She had intended to tell Colin exactly how outrageously his uncle had behaved, but somehow with both Penny and Lady Packwood watching her, she could not do it. She knew suddenly that Penny had been right, that he had been angry because she had sidestepped his arrangements for her safety. She had been foolish. As for the other thing that had happened in the wood, she would say nothing about it.

Briefly, she described her plan and Nicholas’s reaction; including his prohibition of her riding without his express permission, but she recited the facts calmly and without any comment as to her own feelings. There was a small silence when she had finished. Colin broke it.

“I suppose it wasn’t a very good idea,” he said quietly.

“No, it was not,” agreed Lady Packwood, “but it shows you’ve got spunk, my dear, and so I shall tell Nicky. He needn’t have been so harsh.”

“Oh, please,” Sarah begged, aghast that the incident might be revived and, with it, his lordship’s temper. “Please, my lady, I was wrong to go out by myself, and I feel dreadfully that Jem got into trouble through following my orders. Please, say nothing.”

Lady Packwood smiled at her but would not promise to keep silent; therefore, Sarah greeted the entrance of the gentlemen with some trepidation. After a nod from Dasher, moments before, Colin had slipped quietly out the French doors onto the terrace. She supposed he would get in again through the kitchen door.

Nicholas did not seem restored to his normal self but, instead, was nearly sullen. Lady Packwood greeted him cheerfully, saying he looked exactly like an undertaker’s mute. “And that puts me in mind of something I meant to ask you, dear boy,” she added thoughtfully, “whom did you get to build the deplorable Darcy’s coffin?”

Nicholas raised an eyebrow. “One of the tenants,” he replied. “You probably remember him. A man named Randolph.”

“Of course, and I’m glad to hear it. An excellent man. Sure to have done a proper job of it. We had our own carpenter when your father died, you know, and he was buried in solid oak, polished to perfection and lined with silk pillows. But when William and Maria went—Darcy’s parents, you know,” she added for Sarah’s benefit, “that Tom did up two pine boxes that were little more than crates. Leaky, I’m sure, and certainly none too comfortable. I am certain Mr. Randolph did better by the deplor—well, for Darcy. Not that he deserved better,” she added with a challenging look at her son.

But he had relaxed at last, amused, and let the comment pass. The conversation drifted after that, until her ladyship proposed a game of lottery tickets, saying she hadn’t played since Nicholas’s last holiday from school. But her notion was squashed flat by both her spouse and stepson, before anyone else had an opportunity to comment.

Lionel said, “Lottery tickets!” in tones of deep loathing, while Sir Percival merely observed that such a game was not his style, adding that he wouldn’t mind taking a hand at whist. Lionel seemed to feel the same about whist as he did about lottery tickets, but he allowed as how he would very much like to teach Sarah—Lady Moreland, that was—how to play piquet.

Sarah, who already played better-than-average piquet, thanks to Penny’s having a fondness for it, declined politely, whereupon Lady Packwood advised her stepson not to be a ninny.

“If your papa wishes to play whist, then you should be graceful about it, Lionel—not that you possess much grace, of course, but one never knows what a little practice may achieve.”

“But I don’t
wish
to play whist,” complained Lionel.

“Then don’t! Take a turn in the garden instead. I daresay Miss Penistone plays an excellent hand and will oblige. I do not wish to do so myself, for I wish to pursue my acquaintance with Sarah.”

But Lionel, who had clearly hoped to do that very thing himself, pointed out that it was dark outside and very likely damp as well, which wouldn’t suit his constitution. At that point, Lady Packwood lost her patience with him and recommended that he cease his nattering and decide for himself what to do, since she could not be bothered racking her brain for his amusement.

Miss Penistone, after a glance at Nicholas, promptly agreed to take a hand, and a card table was soon set up for the three of them near the fireplace. Rather sulkily, Lionel stood watching the play, first over one shoulder, then over another, until ordered sharply by his father to busy himself elsewhere or take himself off to bed. He had been gazing at Sarah even more avidly than at the cards, much to that young lady’s discomfort, and now shot her a look of helpless frustration that made her long to smack him. Evidently, Lady Packwood was similarly affected.

“Yes, do go away, Lionel. You are making your papa nervous, which is a thing he don’t like when he’s trying to concentrate, and the way you have been making sheep’s eyes at poor Sarah is enough to give anyone a blue megrim. Go to bed.”

Lionel might have protested had Nicholas not suddenly raised his eyes, but something in that look caused him to shrug his shoulders and slump off. Lady Packwood turned back to Sarah.

They were seated away from the others, toward the back of the room in a cozy little corner, and Sarah was ruthlessly being made to tell her ladyship all about herself. Surprisingly, it was not difficult, for Lady Packwood proved to be a very good listener. She sympathized over the death of Sarah’s parents, nodded understanding when told about Lord and Lady Hartley’s sense of duty, and exclaimed indignantly over the eccentricities of Sir Malcolm Lennox-Matthews. Sarah even found herself relating the tale of one of the few times during her upbringing that she had come to her aunt’s attention.

“I was eleven, I think,” she confided. “At any rate, it was not so very long after I went to live with them. There was a child next door who looked to be near my own age. I saw him over the garden wall, but I didn’t wish to call out for I had been forbidden to climb the trees next to the wall. I tried whispering. You know—psst, psst!—but it did no good, for he was facing away from me. Finally, I pulled a walnut from the tree and launched it at him. Unfortunately, I missed and broke a window instead. I don’t think I ever scrambled down from a tree so fast in all my life.”

Lady Packwood laughed heartily, drawing brief notice from the cardplayers. “I daresay the attention you received was not in compliment to your aim.”

“No,” Sarah agreed with a twinkle, “and it was no laughing matter then, I assure you. The woman next door complained to Aunt Aurelia that I had been throwing
rocks
at her nephew, and I was promptly summoned to Aunt’s dressing room. I was not even granted an opportunity to explain, for Aunt Aurelia was absolutely livid!”

Her ladyship chuckled again. “Well, you seem to have survived your childhood well enough, though I don’t envy you such encounters with your aunt. I was always turned over to my governess when I misbehaved.”

“Oh, well, Penny would never have been so severe,” Sarah said, casting a fond glance at that placid lady. “Did you love your governess, too?”

“Dear me, no! She was a dried up prune of a woman with a face like a split cod. Her favorite pastime was building card castles, and she was very strict. My father got her because he thought all girls of the first circles had them. I would much rather have gone to school, but he was determined to do things properly. He was in trade then, you know.”

“In trade!” Sarah couldn’t help it. She simply couldn’t believe Lady Packwood came from a family with its roots in trade.

“Indeed,” replied her ladyship with a grin. “Though he became nearly respectable later on through having made pots of money at it. When he sold out he owned thirteen textile mills in Yorkshire. Nicky inherited his money, and it served as the foundation of his own fortune. He is as rich as Golden Ball, you know.”

“He is! That is, no, I didn’t know. Is he really?”

“Certainly, though he doesn’t puff off his consequence, so I daresay very few people realize it. If the deplorable Darcy had known, it’s likely Nicky would have been the murder victim. It was on account of Waterloo, you see.”

“Waterloo!”

Her ladyship nodded, glancing at the card table as though to be certain they were not being overheard. “Yes, you see when Nicky went with the Duke, he left all his money invested in the Funds. He had a man of affairs, of course—same one as my Papa always had in London—but Nicky went off without leaving Mr. Thompson any real authorization to handle the money. When the Funds started slipping I went myself to see him—Mr. Thompson, that is. He was nearly frantic, and I must admit, so was I. Both of us saw poor Nicky coming home a pauper. But there was nothing to do. Mr. Thompson wrote him, of course, but received nothing in reply, and without proper authorization he simply couldn’t sell out. Nearly everyone else did, you know, thinking Napoleon would win the war at last. But when Wellington held the day at Waterloo, the Funds soared, and the few who were left in made what old Moreland was used to call a real killing. Nicky came out of it worth five or six times what he had been worth going in.”

“Merciful heavens!” Sarah tried to imagine what the proceeds from the sale of thirteen textile mills multiplied by five or six times might amount to in current terms and failed miserably. “I can tell you one thing, ma’am,” she confided in an undertone. “My aunt and uncle knew nothing of it, or they would never have encouraged me to set my cap for Darcy instead of his lordship. The title would have meant nothing compared to wealth like that!”

“Good gracious!” exclaimed her ladyship. “Did they encourage you to pursue the deplo—no, I must stop that,” she scolded herself. “Nicky is perfectly right. But did they?”

“Well, only until Uncle Barnabas discovered that he hadn’t a feather to fly with. I must say, though, that no one else guessed it, for he always looked to be rather plump in the pockets. But I suppose, if his lordship was franking him, as you indicated earlier, that would account for it.”

Lady Packwood looked at Sarah rather oddly, but Dasher entered just then with a footman and the tea tray, so she made no comment. The cards were put away, and the discussion became general again when her ladyship began to pour out.

“What do you do for amusement in the daytime, Nicky?” she asked. “’Tis hardly the season for hunting, nor warm enough for picnics.”

“I hadn’t thought about providing entertainment for you,” he replied smiling. “I was under the impression that you were on your honeymoon and could scarcely wait to reach the Continent. Do you plan an extended visit?”

She raised her brow and looked down her nose at him. “Don’t be impertinent, young man. I daresay we shall stay a few days. No doubt, dear Percy can put off his business that long. Can you not, my love?”

“Certainly, my sweet,” came the reply, muffled though it was by a mouthful of cheese tart.

“So there we are. What shall we do to amuse ourselves? Sarah informs me that you have stabled her horse more or less permanently, or I should suggest riding. ’Tis excellent exercise.”

Intercepting his heavy frown, Sarah flushed deeply and turned away again. She tried to maintain her composure, but her teacup rattled in its saucer, and for one crazy moment she felt perilously near to tears. How ridiculous, she scolded herself, to feel like a limp weed whenever Nicholas seemed disapproving. His mother was right. He was positively fusty, and she ought not to let his moods trouble her.

“I did not mean for her to think I was forbidding the
exercise
entirely,” he said, watching her. “For that matter, I doubt she did think it. I merely wish to know where she is going and to be certain she is adequately protected. I’ve no objection to her riding with you or Sir Percival, though if you and she go alone, I will insist upon your taking a groom or two. I will also beg that you not ride out across the Common itself, since there have been nearly daily reports of highwaymen accosting travelers there. Only a week or so ago, a man was killed for the sake of his watch and ring.”