The Savage Miss Saxon (11 page)

While the valet finished his work, first asking his lordship to kindly raise his leg so that he could have his boot slipped on—then begging his lordship’s pardon, but would his lordship prefer the aquamarine or the plain gold signet ring with this jacket?—the Earl concentrated on just precisely what would be his best approach to the dilemma now awaiting him downstairs in the morning room in the shape of three encroaching Anselms.

Contrary to what his brother believed, Nicholas had been far from heartbroken when Helene ended their engagement. Indeed, he was only halfway to Brussels when he had first begun to regret his precipitate proposal, brought on, he was sure, by a combination of heady perfume, a starlit night, and rather too much vintage brandy after dinner. Helene Anselm was a pretty piece, there was no doubt of that, but he no more loved her than he loved the opera dancer he’d had under protection that last twelvemonth or more—that fact was brought home to him by the realization that he was able to part from both of them with nary a bit of regret as he went off to deliver the Ministry message that had given him the excuse to travel to Brussels in the first place.

Not that it was worth the loss of his eye, and the resultant headaches that, thank goodness, were at long last showing signs of fading, but if Helene had not called off the engagement he would have found some way to call a halt to the marriage—if it meant he’d have had to ship out to India under an assumed name.

Just then another thought struck him and he jumped up from his chair, knocking Bates off balance just as he was about to carefully wipe a small smudge off his lordship’s shining Hessians, and exclaimed, “My God—
Alix
! I’ve got to get shed of these Anselms before she catches wind of them, or there’ll be the devil to pay for sure.”

He slammed out of the dressing room while Bates watched him go, wringing his hands as he spied out a three inch-long string hanging from his lordship’s coattails. The Earl bounded down the long curving staircase, passing by his grinning brother and cutting short his sibling’s sarcastic remarks with an abrupt “Stow it, brat,” before crossing the foyer on determined feet and throwing open the doors of the morning room.

“Ladies, Rupert old man,” he began as he walked into the room, “how nice it is of you to stop by for a visit on your way to—um—it seems I am in ignorance of your final destination. Where is it you are bound for?”

Miss Anselm, a vision in robin’s egg blue muslin, just now seated in Nicholas’s favorite chair as if it were her right, giggled delightfully at his lordship’s
faux pas
. “We are bound for Linton Hall, silly,” she trilled in her light (and, the Earl now noticed for the first time, rather gratingly high) voice. “We were at loose ends after Brighton became thin of company, and since our estate is in the midst of redecoration, so tedious you know, we were at a loss as to where we might situate ourselves for a space. That is, we were until Mama remembered your many kind invitations for us to come to Linton Hall any time we pleased.”

Those invitations were extended while Helene and Nicholas were engaged, which the Earl opened his mouth to point out, but before he could utter a word Mrs. Anselm piped up, “Now, Helene, sweetums, you must remember that an unfortunate misunderstanding between the Earl and yourself might have altered that invitation.” While “sweetums” busied herself trying to pout and look pretty at the same time, Mrs. Anselm turned to Nicholas and went on smoothly, “Not that the hysterical words of a lovesick young girl can be taken with any degree of credulity. So overset, so racked with grief was she when first she saw your sad, sad wound. Ah, my lord, you must understand how overcome my little lamb was at the time and disregard that unfortunate scene. She,” here she spared a loving glance in her daughter’s direction, “has had a multitude of time to reflect on her folly and realize that True Love overcomes all obstacles. And that,” the woman sighed dramatically, “is the bald truth and the real reason we are here, even if my daughter cannot yet find it in herself to unburden her heart to you while her mother and brother are present.”

Well done, his lordship acknowledged to himself. The woman is a real master both at lying through her teeth and improvising on that lie as she goes along. And she was up-front about things—at least, she was as up-front as she was capable. Nicholas could almost find it in himself to be amused if it weren’t for the fact that should Alix catch wind of the Anselms being under his roof she would cry off from their engagement quicker than the cat could lick her ear.

If Alix were not on the scene, if the boredom he had been feeling as winter came on and there were so few activities either socially or on the estate to engage his mind had not been totally dissipated by Alix’s arrival, perhaps he might have found it enjoyable to play along with Mrs. Anselm’s little game for a while, if only to see exactly what rig the old dragon was up to this time.

But Alix
was
on the scene and he would have to forgo this little bit of sport and then shove their carcasses out the door posthaste. He was just about to deflate Mrs. Anselm’s pretensions with a few well chosen home truths when Poole entered the room and announced rather distractedly, “Sir Alexander Saxon and Miss Alexandra Saxon have arrived, my lord, and wish to have speech with you.” More quietly, he added so only the Earl could hear, “The young miss seems to be in quite a state, sir. Perhaps you’ll be wanting me to put them in the library away from—well, you know who?”

Actually, his lordship would rather Poole could put his latest visitors elsewhere—preferably in some distant county—until he had settled things with the Anselms, but he knew that to be impossible. Oh well, he thought, shrugging his broad shoulders, in for a penny in for a pound, and he asked Poole to please show his visitors into the morning room and told him tea and refreshments would be required in half an hour.

Poole withdrew, slowly shaking his head at his master’s folly, returning shortly with the Saxons in tow. Sir Alexander had taken no more than two steps into the room when he stopped in his tracks and exclaimed in his gruff voice, “Well, sink me if it ain’t Matilda Anselm. And who are these two with her? The chit looks passable. But the boy? An effeminate twiddlepoop if ever I’ve seen one. Do you have the dressing of him, Matilda? Looks like a Gunther ice all tricked out for dessert. Just goes to show the folly of petticoat power when there’s no man about to keep her in check. By Jupiter, woman, it’s really too bad of you, you know. Husband’s probably twirling in his grave iffen he knows of this piece of work.”

While Alexandra and Nicholas avoided each other’s eyes for fear they would set each other off in paroxysms of laughter, the lad called Rupert flushed so deeply pink as to exactly match his satin waistcoat, while Helene—not known for her brain power—gifted Sir Alexander with an inane smile. It was left to Mrs. Anselm to rescue the moment, which she did rather well, by saying, “Ah, Sir Alexander, we meet again. Tell me sir, how long has it been? Twenty years, I wager, and you’re still an abominable tease. Pray sit down here next to me and I’ll call for some refreshment more suitable than tea. Was it canary you favored? No, I don’t think so. It was gin, wasn’t it? Of course it was. No wonder you are so out of sorts. Here it is almost noon and I’ll wager you’ve had nary a drop to sustain you. Well, never fear, Matilda will remedy that oversight forthwith!”

Sir Alexander was immediately mollified. He still believed Matilda to be the most totty-headed female he’d ever met, but there was one thing about her he’d always liked—she always remembered just what a man favored by way of liquid refreshment. Within the space of a minute he was sitting beside the woman on the sofa happily sipping from the crystal goblet Poole had placed before him—still not knowing why he was at Linton Hall, but suddenly in no great hurry to find out.

Alexandra wasn’t so easily settled. Nicholas watched her closely as he effected the introductions, his toes curling in his boots as he realized she was under no misapprehension as to the identity of Miss Anselm.

“I could not help but notice a large amount of baggage in the entrance hall, Miss Anselm,” Alix remarked conversationally as she sat down near Helene. “You have come for a visit, I suppose? Tell me, are you related to the Mannerings?”

Helene blushed prettily beneath her auburn curls and replied coquettishly, “You might say that, Miss Saxon. Nicholas and I were once engaged to be married, and if it were not for an unfortunate misunderstanding, I would already be mistress of this household.”

Oh, I doubt that, Alix thought to herself. You might have been in residence, my dear, but it’s your mama who would have the running of things unless I miss my guess. Aloud she only offered sweetly, “And now this misunderstanding is all cleared up and you are once again betrothed?”

“If Mama has anything to say on the subject, it is,” came a voice from the corner of the room. Rupert Anselm had made his presence known.

“Rupert,
darling
, I do believe I saw young Jeremy pass by the doorway. You were once school chums, were you not? Why don’t you run along and see if you can find him, hmm?” Mrs. Anselm’s smiling face hardened a fraction. “
Now, Rupert!
”

Rupert, his small burst of independent thought neatly scotched, bowed his head, mumbled, “Yes, Ma’am,” and slipped swiftly from the room just as Sir Alexander exploded, “By Jupiter, Mannering, did you hear what that lad said? Said this chit here is your betrothed. What wild work is this?”

Alexandra turned twinkling eyes on his lordship, tilted her head to one side—making herself look for all the world like a puppy just given an undeserved swat on the behind—and asked, “I do not understand, Nicholas. Have you had second thoughts?”

Yes! the Earl wished to shout, I’ve had second thoughts—thoughts that tell me I would have been better served to have lost my neck at Waterloo, seeming now to have saved it only to have it thoroughly wrung by Sir Alexander! But he refrained from airing his feelings. Instead he just smiled, shook his head, and told his audience, “It seems we have a bit of a muddle here, ladies and gentlemen.”

Hmm, thought Alexandra nastily, it would seem our friend Nicholas is a master of understatement. A muddle, indeed. One cannot help but wonder how he would describe the war of 1812—as a “slight skirmish” perhaps? Her own mission shelved for the moment in the light of this newest development, she was content to sit back and watch the fun from the sidelines—throwing in little comments from time to time to keep things lively.

“It is true,” Mannering began, nodding in Mrs. Anselm’s direction, “that I was once engaged to wed your daughter. But is it not also true that it was Helene who called off the wedding?”

Mrs. Anselm waved away such nonsense with a dismissing sweep of one hand. “A momentary overset of sensibilities, not to be taken seriously,” she sniffed.

The Earl allowed one eloquent eyebrow to raise in astonishment. “Momentary, madam? More than five months have passed—surely more than a fair amount of time.”

“Time be damned!” Sir Alexander interrupted angrily. “It’s my granddaughter you’re to wed, Linton. I’ve had your word on it.”

The fair Helene, beginning to feel something just might be amiss, looked nervously in the Earl’s direction. “Is this true, Nicholas, dearest?” she lisped nervously.

Sir Alexander, not remarkable for his tact, answered Helene’s question by baldly announcing, “It’s fact all right. Compromised her, that’s what he did.”

Mrs. Anselm turned narrowed eyes on Alexandra. “How very
enterprising
of you, dear,” she cooed.

“Enterprising, my foot!” Alexandra burst out, jumping to her feet. “A case of damned bad luck is more like it. Besides, I have never given my agreement to the match.”

“
Aha!
” breathed Mrs. Anselm, her smile growing wide once more.

While most men would have been brought to a standstill by the formidable problem now facing Nicholas, he was somehow beginning to see a bit of ironic humor in the situation. Here he was, with one woman—who had earlier spurned him—trying to renew their engagement, and another woman—whom he had compromised not once but twice—fighting hammer and tongs to be shed of him. He didn’t know whether he should be flattered or insulted. Either way, he found it was not all that unenjoyable being fought over by two beautiful females (not to mention one matchmaking mama and one outraged grandfather). After a few moments of thought, Nicholas chose to be neither flattered nor insulted—he chose, rather, to just sit back and wait for further developments.

These were not long in coming. While in one corner of the room grandfather and granddaughter exchanged bitter words concerning just exactly who was in charge of that granddaughter’s future, Mama and offspring were conversing furiously in another, Mama doing the majority of the talking.

The more Mrs. Anselm talked, the smaller Helene appeared to grow, until finally she seemed almost to disappear entirely—which she did in fact presently do when she fainted dead away behind the brocade sofa.

“Oh my poor baby!” Mrs. Anselm shrieked theatrically, putting a quick period to the whispered argument at the opposite end of the room. Helene’s mother dropped to her knees beside her stricken daughter, chaffing at one limp hand while telling all who would listen that her daughter must be put to bed immediately as her tender constitution had been dealt a severe, if not a near mortal, blow.

Alexandra, from her position standing just behind Helene’s head, could not help noticing that the girl’s eyelids fluttered once or twice before Nicholas bent down to ungently hoist her slight form into his arms. She’s bamming, Alexandra deduced quickly—most probably on orders from her mother.

Unknown to Alexandra, Nicholas was thinking the same thing, but there was precious little he could do about it other than pinching Helene into giving herself away (which he owned he had given a bit of thought). As he trod up the staircase, the limp Helene dangling gracefully in his arms, Mrs. Anselm followed close behind on his heels, barking orders to Poole to have all their luggage sent upstairs as she was sure her poor baby would not be able to travel any more that day.