Winter Wonderland (21 page)

He turned to look at her, making his whole face rigid with disapproval. “Where I'm going,
Mrs. Velacott
, is none of your affair,” he said with chilling finality. He shifted the boy to his shoulder and climbed down. Then he walked round to her side and, with formal propriety, offered his hand to help her down.

She could only gape at him, aghast. He'd done it
again
! Without rhyme or reason, he'd switched his mood from warmth to ice. One moment he was reminiscing about how lovely she'd once been, and the next he was calling her “Mrs. Velacott” in that disparaging way, a clear set-down to retaliate for her calling him by his given name! And telling her without roundaboutation to mind her own business! If she lived a thousand years, she'd never learn to understand him.

Angrily thrusting his hand aside, she climbed down from the sleigh without his help. “I'll take the boy,” she said, making her voice as cold as his. “You're evidently in a hurry.”

She took the boy in her arms, turned on her heel and stalked into the house without a backward look.
The man really is a churl!
she said to herself furiously. She'd tried to apologize. She'd tried her very best. If he chose to spurn her attempt at reconciliation, too bad for him. As far as she was concerned, he was not worth another thought. Or another tear.

Twenty-three

That afternoon was as good a time as any, Barnaby decided, to take care of the unfinished business of the highwaymen. His state of mind would benefit more from engaging in the perilous but straightforward adventure of tracking down the thieves than from remaining safely in an easy chair in the library brooding over this latest emotional upheaval. To solve the riddle of his confused feelings about Miranda would require maturity, mental clarity and serenity. To solve the problem of the highwaymen would require nothing more than a pistol.

Of course, he didn't have a pistol. But Terence surely had some weapons in this house. And Lawrence often brought a gun with him when he traveled. Barnaby, after a moment's thought, decided to ask Lawrence first. If he asked Terence, he'd lose precious time convincing the fellow not to come along. This was one adventure Barnaby was determined to engage in alone.

He found the Earl napping in his room. He shook the poor man heartlessly. “Wake up, Lawrence. Do you hear me? I need a pistol. Did you bring one?”

The Earl blinked. “Pistol?” he asked sleepily. “Yes, but … what for?”

“Where have you hidden it?” Barnaby persisted.

“In the second drawer of the dressing table. But why—?”

Barnaby strode across the room and found it. “Thank you, Lawrence. I shall restore it to you shortly.”

“Wait just a moment!” the Earl ordered, now fully awake. “You can't have it till you tell me what it's for.”

“I'll tell you all about it when I return, I promise.”

Lawrence sat up and peered at his brother nervously. “It's those deuced highwaymen, isn't it? You're determined to wreak your revenge. Barnaby, I won't have it.”

“It's not revenge,” Barnaby assured him, his manner affably casual. “It's a purely materialistic act. I'm after the watch fob. I must have it back.” He threw his brother a wide grin. “I'm sentimentally attached to it, since it was a gift from a beloved relative.”

“Rubbish. I'll order another from my jeweler as soon as I return to Shallcross.”

“I don't want another. It won't be the same.” With a cheery wave, he started to the door.

Before reaching it, however, it flew open, and Honoria fluttered in, the wide skirt and sleeves of her dressing gown wafting on the air in her wake. “Lawrence, dearest, have you taken my wide-toothed comb? I can't seem to—Oh,
Barnaby
!
Here
you are!”

Barnaby surreptitiously hid the pistol behind him, out of Honoria's view. “Yes, here I am.”

“Yes,” Lawrence muttered irritably, “here he is, indeed. Perhaps you can talk sense to him.”

“I always talk sense to him,” Honoria retorted, completely missing her husband's point. “Barnaby, you are a rudesby. Why did you skip luncheon without a word to anyone? We all missed you. Livy didn't know what to do with herself. Where have you been hiding?”

“Nowhere in particular. I was out riding. But I can't stay here chatting. I must be off, so if you'll excuse me …”

“But Barnaby, you mustn't take off again,” his sister-in-law cried in loud objection. “You
can't
.”

“That's just what I've been telling him,” the Earl growled.

Barnaby edged toward the door. “Why can't I?”

“You can't offer for a girl and then leave her constantly to her own devices,” Honoria scolded. “It's rude and unkind.”

Barnaby shrugged. “Can't be helped, my dear.” He kissed her cheek and whisked himself out the door. But after taking a step down the corridor and hiding the pistol in an inner pocket of his coat, he turned back. “By the way, Honoria,” he said from the doorway, “there's something I must ask you. Why on earth did you remind Mrs. Velacott about the Lydell ball?”

Honoria's eyebrows rose. “I
never
did! What makes you think—?”

“She suddenly indicated that she remembers what happened between us that evening. She actually apologized to me for it.”

“
Did
she, indeed!” Honoria muttered tartly, not at all impressed. “Good of her, I must say.”

“It
was
rather good of her, actually. She seemed truly to be ashamed of her younger self. I was quite … touched.”

“Were you really?” Honoria peered at him through narrowed eyes. She had not forgotten Delia's comments about the governess. Could Delia be right? Was Miranda Pardew, of all women in the world, the proper partner for her beloved Barnaby? Was it possible that, underneath all the resentment, he actually harbored a
tendre
for the woman who'd spurned him?

“It seems strange, doesn't it,” Barnaby was saying, “that, out of the blue, a woman would suddenly remember an eleven-year-old incident that could not have meant anything to her at the time?”

Honoria gave a troubled sigh. “If the answer to that question is important to you, my love, speak to Delia about it.”

“Delia? Why Delia?”

“Well, you see, she … I … she has more … ah … insight into these matters than I.” Honoria dropped her eyes from her brother-in-law's face and fingered the sleeves of her dressing gown uneasily, expecting him to demand to know why she'd discussed this matter with Delia at all. “You said you were in a hurry, didn't you, Barnaby? So why don't you save your questions for a more propitious time?”

Barnaby started to protest but changed his mind. He merely nodded and accepted the opportunity to take himself off.

After he'd gone, Honoria sank down on the side of her husband's bed, her eyes fixed on the door Barnaby had just closed behind him. “Do you think I made a mistake, Lawrence, pushing little Livy on him?”

“You didn't push,” Lawrence protested. “You merely brought the girl here. Barnaby's the one who made the offer. But you do have a way of confusing me, my dear. I thought you were overjoyed over the boy's betrothal. Why are you suddenly apprehensive about it?”

Honoria eyed him for a moment, reluctant to admit her doubts about the girl she'd thrust under Barnaby's nose. “Something Delia said,” she said at last. “She thinks Livy Ponsonby's a dead bore.”

“Hmmm.” The Earl scratched his nose and lowered his head but said nothing more.

“Lawrence!” Honoria knew him well enough to recognize the full meaning of the gesture. “
You
think so,
too!
Why didn't you
say
something to me?”

“Because, my dear, matchmaking is not in my line. You are the expert in affairs of the heart. When have I ever questioned your judgment in these matters?”

“Perhaps you
should
have questioned it. How shall you feel if I've made a dreadful mistake this time?”

“Naturally, I should be most distressed to see Barnaby unhappy. But, Honoria, it's time we both learned a lesson from all this. Barnaby has asked, time and again, that we permit him to manage his own life. I think, if we truly let him be, he will do very well for himself.”

“Even if he's entangled in a mistaken betrothal?”

“Especially in that regard. For several years now, it's been obvious to me that Barnaby is better able to take care of himself than any of the rest of us. So leave the fellow free to make his own mistakes—and to correct them, too. That, mark my words, is the very best thing you can do for him.”

Twenty-four

The sleigh slid to a quiet stop in the small courtyard of the Deacon's Gate Inn, and Barnaby hopped down from the seat. The inn looked less inviting in the late-afternoon shadows than it had on the night, almost a fortnight ago, when its lights had glimmered out at him through the heavy snow. That night its appearance had signified much-needed warmth and comfort. Now it meant only a challenge.

Barnaby threw open the door, strode into the taproom with the sureness of familiarity, and took a seat at one of the three tables. Only one table was occupied, and that by a lone drinker, an elderly man bent over his tankard. He would not be in the way, Barnaby decided.

Barnaby did not have long to wait before Mrs. Hanlon approached. “Welcome, sir,” she greeted in her cheery brogue, “an' what can I—?”

Barnaby got to his feet and smiled down at her.

The woman's face brightened in pleased surprise. “Why, it's Mr. Traherne, as I live an' breathe! What're ye doin' back 'ere again?”

Barnaby was glad it was Mrs. Hanlon rather than her husband. She would be easier to deal with. “I came to have a word with you, Mrs. Hanlon,” he said quietly. “Will you kindly sit down with me?”

Mrs. Hanlon's face clouded, as if she suspected what was to come, but she slid into a chair opposite him. “Are ye certain it's me ye want an' not me 'usband?”

“Yes, quite certain. Let's get right down to it, shall we? I remember, when we were last here, Mrs. Hanlon, hearing your husband say that the footpads always paid their shot in cash.”

The woman mouth tightened. “Did 'e?”

“He did. One may assume from those words that the footpads have called at this taproom from time to time.”

“I wouldn' assume that a-tall,” she equivocated.

“I would. In fact, I'd wager a small fortune on it.” He took out a handful of gold guineas and stacked them on the table before him. “I'd wager this small fortune that you know their hideaway.”

Mrs. Hanlon eyed the gold pieces longingly. “Knowin' is one thing, an' tellin's another.”

“Knowing without telling won't earn you a farthing, I'm afraid.”

She shook her head. “You know what 'appens to anyone what blabs on 'em. Tellin's too dangerous, even fer a lovely pile o' gold like that.”

“But your name will never pass my lips. My word on it. And they can't connect me with this place, for they have no idea I ever stayed here. They would guess I kept going north.”

“That's true.” She remained silent for a moment, considering the problem, her eyes fixed on the guineas. “There's a little tavern 'bout two miles west, on Deacon's Road, wi' three or four rooms upstairs. The rooms ain't available, 'cause they're permanently spoke fer, if ye take my meanin'”

“You mean they live there.”

She shrugged. “It's a filthy 'ole, called the Blue Fox. Not near a main road, see, so the patrons 're on'y locals.”

“A safe hideway, then.”

She dropped her eyes. “So far.”

He slid the pile of coins toward her, but kept his hand over them. “It's a
pair
we're speaking of, isn't it? One tall and broad, the other small in both height and breadth, named Japhet?”

She looked up at him in fright. “Y' ain't goin' t' ask me fer names, now! It wasn't part o' the bargain.”

“No, no. But I must be certain I'm chasing the right pair. If my description matches what you know, simply nod.”

She nodded.

He released the coins and rose. “Thank you, Mrs. Hanlon. I stand in your debt.”

She was counting out the coins with greedy fingers. “No, I wouldn' say that, sir. This is 'andsome payment, I'd say. Very 'andsome indeed.”

“Then, ma'am, perhaps you'll agree to do one more thing for me. If two brawny fellows come asking questions about my whereabouts—both as tall as I but a good bit broader—I'd be obliged if you'd deny ever having seen me.”

She cocked her head at him suspiciously. “An' who might these brawny fellows be? Bow Street Runners?”

“No, not runners, but just as persistently annoying. They're my deuced brothers.”

Twenty-five

At the Manor house it was not yet time to dress for dinner. Harry and his betrothed sat together in the small sitting room in a comfortable—and for a couple on the brink of matrimony, perfectly respectable—embrace, the man's arm lightly holding her round the waist and the lady's head resting on his broad shoulder. They were passing the time by discussing plans for their wedding, set for the opening of the London Season in spring. Lady Isabel's parents, who were very well to pass, were planning an elaborate affair for their only child, with four hundred invited guests. Harry, not at all shy, had no objection to the plans, but he loved to tease his bride-to-be by pretending to be appalled by the ostentation of large weddings and by constantly urging her to elope. “We could do it tonight,” he was whispering into her ear. “I could wait under your window with the sleigh, you could slide down a rope-ladder made of Delia's best sheets—”

“Oh,
Harry
,” his betrothed objected, laughing and pretending to push him away in punishment, “what a ridiculous notion! If you think I would consider dashing off to Gretna, catching my death in the cold and snow, and ruining my reputation in the bargain, you are much mistaken.”