The Random Gentleman (14 page)
“But you think Belinda is pretty?” probed Freya, after the immemorial manner of sisters.
“She is beautiful,” admitted Dane, in the time-hallowed manner of lovers.
Freya took a new tack. “I am inclined to agree with you, however, that she’s too young, a little silly, a spoiled rustic miss who isn’t suitable for a man of your age and experience. Not up to your weight—as Goncourt would have said,” she ended hastily, blushing under his shocked glance.
“Goncourt would never in all his aristocratic life have given utterance to such a crudity,” Dane advised her sternly. “I must caution you to mind your tongue, Freya, if that’s any example of your usual style of discourse.” Then he grinned. “You were trying to manipulate me again, madam! You’ll catch cold at that. I beg you will permit me to know my own business and my own mind—”
“And heart?” the woman asked softly.
“And heart,” agreed the Duke. “It’s too early to say what will come of this, but I find that I have made up my mine—with your help, dear Freya!—to stay in the field for another few days to see what parley and negotiation can do.”
“Spoken like a diplomat,” applauded Freya, laughing. After a moment the Duke joined her, wryly.
At this same time, Belinda was approaching the gypsy encampment. To her dismay, there was not a single man visible, and most of the horses were gone. The women and children were busy about their affairs, aware of the girl hovering at the edge of the clearing, but taking no overt notice of her. At length Belinda walked toward the fire and greeted the older woman who was stirring something in a great iron kettle.
“I am Prudence Oliphant,” she began with a pleasant smile.
A sharp voice spoke out behind her. “Oh, yes, the elephant,” sneered Lara. Belinda turned to face her.
“I have come,” she said, keeping her voice steady and calm with an effort, “to find out if any one of the young men would care to earn some money.”
“Doing what?” asked Lara unpleasantly.
“I think I shall wait to ask them in person.”
“You’ll have a long wait,” retorted the gypsy girl with satisfaction. “The men are all off running brandy.”
There was a concerted gasp from the women. The oldest one came quickly over to Lara and caught her by the shoulder, muttering a command in the Romany
jib
. Lara shook the old woman away angrily.
“Don’t tell me what to say!” she snapped. “I am The Whip’s chosen wife, remember? I will speak to this Gorgio mort as I please. What can she do? Who would listen to such as her?”
There was a quiet-voiced interruption. “Can I do something to help you, Mistress Oliphant?” inquired Quebracho, stepping down from his caravan and walking toward her. His wrinkled face bore a smile of welcome.
Belinda turned to the old man with relief. “I have a very special task I should like one of your young men to do for me,” she began. “If I might explain to you—?”
Courteously Quebracho led her to his van. All the women returned to their tasks except Lara, who flounced over toward the big, brightly painted wagon of the chief. Belinda accepted Quebracho’s help in climbing into his home-on-wheels. The old man offered her a chair. Belinda looked around her. Everything was clean and neatly ordered. There was a faint, spicy odor in the air, and fairly good light from two windows and the open door. The girl sat down with a smile for her host.
“I must tell you that I wish two things, for which I am willing to pay—this.” She opened her reticule and held out the neat roll of bills.
Quebracho bowed slightly but made no move to take the money. “I think you want three things,” he commented.
“Three?”
“Your two tasks—and silence.”
Belinda nodded. “Yes, that is chiefly why I came to your people rather than trying to get a boy from the village. First, I need to have a letter delivered tomorrow afternoon to The Climbing Man. Second, I would like to have the help of one of your young men to lead me to the old fisherman’s shanty at Spaniard’s Cove tomorrow at dusk.”
“I am afraid—” began Quebracho, frowning.
“Oh, I know it’s used to store the run brandy and other things,” she told him. “Everyone in the county knows that! You can tell your people that my plan has nothing to do with any of those—activities.”
Quebracho was looking so worried that the girl hesitated. Then her face cleared. “Oh! I think I have it! Is the hut full of kegs at this time? Well, that is awkward!” She paused, trying to read the dark, wrinkled face. “I am expecting to meet someone, late in the evening, and I wished to appoint some place where we might be sure of privacy for a few minutes.”
By Dadrus and Dai
, thought Quebracho,
what is the Earl’s grandchild wanting with a secret place of assignation?
It seemed to him that he should not assist such a lunatic plan in any way, for the relationship between the irascible peer and the gypsies had been a long and for the most part amicable one, and he had no desire to betray such trust as the Earl had given the tribe. Taking a searching look at the lovely, determined face before him, the old man realized that there was little he could say to change the chavi’s mind. She did not know him, but he had watched her grow from a laughing, spirited child to this beautiful, willful young woman. He must try to protect her in whatever way he could. He stood a moment in anxious thought.
Belinda became conscious of his concern. The look he had on his face could have adorned her grandfather’s countenance at a moment when he was viewing her conduct with disapprobation, preparatory to giving her a piteous appeal or a sharp setdown—whichever he thought would influence her most. She smiled at him.
“I’m really not going to do anything my grandfather would disapprove of,” she said, hoping she was right.
His stern expression did not alter. “If you say so, Miss Belinda,” he murmured, unconvinced.
Her brown eyes opened wide. “You
know
—?”
“Yes. And I am thinking what the Earl will say when he learns of this escapade.”
“The person I am sending the note to is my affianced husband,” the girl confessed. “He is very angry with me now. Oh, he has cause! I am just trying to—to . . .”
Quebracho’s frown vanished. Even before he had discovered the real identity of Peregrine Random in the village last night, the gypsy had valued him as a true man and worthy companion of the road. From the style Romsdale had displayed, Quebracho knew he could handle himself well in a tight spot. Had he not dealt so smoothly with Lara as to prevent an open break with Anton?
“If it is the Duke you are to meet, I will help you,” he said.
Belinda exhaled. Was there anything this gypsy did not know? Still, he was willing to help. “Thank you.”
“Write the note you wish to have delivered. Then come here at dusk tomorrow evening. You will be riding?”
Rapidly the girl reviewed her plan. If there was far to go, it would be important to have her own mount. And the Duke was sure to ride to the appointment. “Yes.”
“When you come, I shall have a boy to guide you,” he told her.
“But where am I to go, if not to Spaniard’s Cove?”
Quebracho grinned slyly. “In quite the other direction, Mistress! You would not wish to be taken for a Preventive, I expect.”
Belinda smiled back at the old rogue. “No more than you would, Old One,” she said saucily.
Quebracho laughed.
“But I must know my destination, so I can name it in my letter,” she persisted.
It was her intention to wait alone for the Duke at the rendezvous, some coils of rope artistically displayed, a single candle burning, and to inform him that her captors had just left on an unknown errand, that she had managed to untie herself, and that she was everlastingly grateful for his daring rescue of her person—after which she fully expected he would enfold her in his arms for another of those embraces she found so delightful. She sighed with pleasure at the thought.
“The place?” she repeated.
“There is an old farm a few miles west along the coast. At one time the Earl’s bailiff used the barn as a storage for hay from the western fields. It has been abandoned for several years. I think no one would be likely to disturb you there.” His expression became somber. “The boy will not wait with you, for I fear your man may come fighting, and I would not have anyone hurt. Are you sure you wish to wait alone in such a ramshackle old building? There may be rats!”
Belinda was uncertain whether or not he was teasing her. She said with spirit, “Pooh! I am not afraid of rats—much! I shall light a candle.”
“Be sure you don’t burn down the barn,” Bracho chuckled. He had decided to follow the girl at a distance, and wait until the Duke arrived to be sure she came to no harm.
Then Belinda was thanking him gravely. He helped her down from his caravan and escorted her back to the edge of the Home Woods.
Neither of them noticed Lara lurking at the rear of the old man’s wagon.
The Random Gentleman and his sister spent the next day resting and conversing, catching up most agreeably on the great events and petty happenings of the last few years. They liked each other very well, for siblings, and found much pleasure in each other’s sharp wits. To add to their comfort, the cuisine at The Climbing Man was unexpectedly toothsome. It transpired, upon inquiry, that Mrs. Appledore had a cousin staying with her, an émigré, who was a truly remarkable chef, in spite of a temperamental disposition to fly up in the boughs at the slightest failure of his assistants to anticipate his needs and intentions. This evidence of foreign instability was regarded with tolerance, since the training he had had before his parents left France had made him something quite out of the ordinary for a small Cornish inn. Both Freya and Dane reveled in his skill, and he quite outdid himself with such knowledgeable and appreciative guests.
It was while reclining very much at their ease in the orchard behind the inn, blissfully dozing after a delicious luncheon, that a message arrived for His Grace the Duke of Romsdale. It was scrawled upon a scrap of rather grubby paper, and the hand was far from elegant. The spelling also left much to be desired. (Belinda had felt herself quite artistic at representing the style of the lower orders.) The note read:
Milord duk—. We have Mis Olyfant. If you ar wisfull to see her agen, you mus cum to the hom wood tonyt at moonrise with a hundred pounds for a ransum. Put it in the holo oke neer the old Farm wher you will find a note tellin you where Miss O is hid.
A friend
Dane passed the note to his sister without comment. She read it and turned to him with an inquiring lift of one slender eyebrow.
“An obvious ploy of Belinda’s,” suggested the Duke. A small grin tugged at his lips. “Romantic little wretch!”
“Well, you must admit it is a romantic ploy,” Freya said mischievously. “To bring you out in the moonlight, all aquake with fear for her safety, yet full of determination to rout her abductors!”
“Pure melodrama,” agreed the Duke. “I’m far from sure I should indulge the little rogue. If her grandfather catches us at such a romp, he’ll call me out on the spot. A very irascible old gent, the Earl!” He chuckled. “Still, it might be amusing. . . ‘tonyt at moonrise’—” A look of such tenderness shaped his lips that his sister stared with pleased surprise.
“You do love the little minx, don’t you, Osric? I had truly hoped that you might! She’s a darling, divinely pretty, and full of sparkle! She’ll never bore you, and with the proper guidance, which you can give her in the next few years, will make a most acceptable Duchess.”
“In spite of her deplorable spelling?” teased the Duke. “How can you have the barefaced effrontery to make such a statement after scanning this wretched missive? She’s more like to ruin my credit in every capital in Europe! Little hoyden!” But the expression in his eyes was more tender than Freya had ever seen there.
Being a wise woman, she made no further remark, not even to ask what he intended to do, although she was agog to know every detail. Instead she went to her room to let her maid prepare her for dinner.
The Duke repaired to his own bedroom. In spite of his initial amusement, he felt he should consider the proposed escapade carefully. He was less sanguine about the adventure that he had permitted Freya to assume. For one thing, there was no knowing how many, and what sort of persons his difficult little love had enlisted in her playacting. Also to be considered were the alarm and inevitable anger of the Earl when he learned of the charade. The Duke was not amused by
that
prospect.
“Little fool! She’s bound and determined to bring me into a confrontation with the old tyrant! And there will be The Whip to contend with, if, as I suspect, she’s recruited some of his people to aid her in this absurd game.”
The gypsy chief could prove a more formidable opponent than the romantic little ninnyhammer could ever imagine. She did not know of the severe lack of accord which had created a tension between Peregrine Random and The Whip—a deep-seated, natural antipathy which could never be peaceably resolved.