A Rogue in Sheep’s Clothing (13 page)

He gripped her with frigid fingers.

“Come on shore,” she said, slipping from his grasp. “You’ll catch your death.” She got up and led him to a grassy spot where the sun shone bright through the sycamore leaves.

“I’m sorry for pulling off your hat,” he said. “You’re so pretty, I wasn’t thinking.”

“All’s forgiven, as long as you promise it won’t happen again,” she said, spreading her coat on the ground for him to lie down.

“And what shall I call you?” he asked.

Ellie’s heart skipped. “How did you find out I’m a woman?”

“Lank,” Hugh replied, lying on his belly.

She sat next to him on the grass and held the cravat to the cut. A sickening feeling washed through her at the mention of the steward’s name.

“So, who are you?” Hugh asked.

“Lank didn’t tell you?”

“Just that you’re female. It’s obvious you’re Sebastian Albright’s daughter, but who’s your mother? A scullery maid? A cook?”

“No, nothing like that.” Relief flooded her. Somehow Lank had failed to reveal her true identity.

“Please don’t tell me you’re the daughter of a countess or something. I couldn’t bear it.”

“Why couldn’t I be the daughter of a countess?” she said, laying on the cockney accent a bit thicker. “It’d be romantic.”

Hugh rolled on his side to look at her. “God, no. No frail little snobs for me.”

“Must the daughter of every countess be a frail little snob? Lie back down.”

“All
ladies
are frail little snobs. Every natural bone is bred from their bodies. They can gossip, they can cheat, and they can lie, but they cannot love.”

Taken aback, Ellie said, “What a dim view.”

“You, however, are deserving of respect. I shall court you like the highest born lady from this day forward.”

She laughed. “That’d be nice when we’re alone, but in company you treat me like a stable hand.”

“Ah, well that’s a rough life. I’d rather treat you considerably better.” He rolled to his side again and gave her a sly look.

“No!” Ellie said. “I’m not going back as a woman. They’ll stop me riding astride. You must treat me as a man.”

“Ah yes. Good point. In public then, you’re Toby. When I have you alone, what shall I call you?”

“First of all, you shan’t ’av me ‘alone,’ as you say.”

“Fine,” he agreed in a way that made Ellie doubt he meant it. “Now, what is your name?”

She sucked in her breath. “It’s still Toby Coopersmith,” she said, too panicked to think of another name.

“That’s a funny name for a girl.”

“A daughter only has so much control over her mum,” she said, unable to look him in the eye.

“All right, ‘Toby,’” Hugh said, “but someday I’m going to find out your true identity.”

• • •

At the stables, Hugh left Ellie alone with Manifesto. She whipped off the horse’s bridle and saddle, put him in his pasture, and left the barn. Darting from tree to bush to potted plant, she made her way to the small garden shed where she’d stashed her dress. Stripping off her Toby outfit of pants, shirt, vest, coat, and floppy hat, Ellie thought about the change she’d witnessed in Hugh’s personality. He was a cold piece of horror around the Devon ton. Put him next to a bastard girl in pants, and he was as delightful as a cat on a windowsill.

She stepped into her dress and tried to reach the buttons. After a series of odd gyrations, a few buttons submitted but the rest remained stubbornly open. She threw a long shawl over her shoulders and left the woods as if she’d been on a jaunty walk all morning. She prayed no one would see her dress flapping open in the back.

At the sound of shoes on the pebbled path of the formal garden Ellie hid behind a water nymph fountain. Claire rounded a shrubbery with Sport on a leash.

“Any luck?” Ellie asked, stepping from behind the fountain.

Claire started. “Ooph! You scared me. I’m afraid if this dog has got something to offer, he’s not revealing it today.”

“Oh, too bad,” said Ellie. “I wonder what would happen if we gave him a bit of castor oil?”

“Let’s not try to force him too soon,” Claire said, patting the dog’s head. “Go in to breakfast and save me some kippers.”

“I will the moment you button me up.”

“Oh la, get behind a bush, quick.”

• • •

The afternoon activity would be fan flirting lessons offered to the female guests by Lady Davenport.

They met in the rose parlor, and for reasons only Claire and Ellie knew, Chase Hart lingered to watch the display.

“You see, my dears,” their hostess explained, “you hold the fan in the left hand. With a slow wave, you indicate, ‘No darling, I already have a lover.’ A fast wave with the right hand means, ‘Married. Stop your attentions or my husband will cause you regret.’”

Mincing across the drawing room toward Chase, the older woman stroked her fan down her cheek and tucked it becomingly beneath her generous mammaries. “Amoré, girls,” she said, turning to address them. “This gesture means, ‘I love you.’”

“Ellie, would you like to try?”

“What, me?” squeaked Ellie. “I’ll give it a go, but I can’t imagine men really understand these signals.”

At that moment Hugh wandered into the room. “Sorry to disturb you, ladies,” he said, “I’ll just grab my pipe and be gone.”

“Ellie,” Lady Davenport directed, “show us the gesture for ‘I love you.’ Watch this, Hugh.”

The man stood frozen as a rabbit in a hound house. Embarrassed, Ellie swept the fan rapidly down her cheek, jostling her spectacles. Hugh looked annoyed.

“No, dear,” Lady Davenport said, “lean into your right hip, dip your head, flutter your eyelashes, and brush gently down the cheek. Hugh, stand still a minute and let her practice. Go ahead, dear.”

Feeling as if the dusty world between the floorboards would be preferable, Ellie followed Lady Davenport’s orders.

“Oh my, you can do better than that,” the older woman scolded. “Put a little purpose into it.”

Ellie pushed her glasses tight to her nose. Clearly, Lady Davenport was not going to set her free. She would just have to make the most of Hugh’s undivided, if hostile, attention. Executing a few hip-swinging, seductive steps toward her prey, Ellie stopped, thrust her right hip out, batted her blue eyes, and stroked her cheek with the sensuality of a rose on a hot day.

Hugh backed away and folded his arms across his chest. “Exemplary work, Mother.” His voice grated nastily. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, sirens of the sophisticated set, I’ve some labor to accomplish.” He quit the room, leaving a shadow of disapproval in his wake.

“He seems to have forgotten his pipe,” Lady Davenport said, a smile playing across her lips.

Hugh’s receding footsteps echoed down the hall.

Peggity sidled up to Ellie and whispered, “I’m not certain ‘enchanted’ would describe his reaction.”

“We don’t want to give a little muscle strain a chance to grow into a problem,” Ellie told Hugh as she saddled Manifesto in the barn early the next day. “I’d like to take it easy on him this morning, and I’m sure Valaire could benefit from light exercise.”

Hugh brushed a small bit of dust from her cheek with his thumb. “Whatever you say,” he told her.

“Are there any interesting places to ride nearby?”

He tucked a strand of white hair under her floppy hat. “A trail or park, perhaps?” she asked, suppressing laughter as he straightened her cravat.

“Shall I take you around Cowick Hill?”

“That would be perfect.” Ellie led Manifesto from the barn, put her foot in the stirrup and swung aboard.

• • •

“Master Hugh!” cried a florid little woman who raced into the lane from the yard of her cottage. “Come look at me cabbages, they’s spotted.”

“Mrs. Tippet,” he said, dismounting from Valaire, “I’d like you to meet a friend of mine, “
Mr.
Toby Coopersmith.”

“It’s a pleasure, sir.” Mrs. Tippet shook Ellie’s hand. “You’re a wee bit of a thing, aren’t ye?”

Ellie drew a startled breath. “He’s a jockey,” Hugh explained.

“Aye, a jockey with a girl’s touch on the reins,” Mrs. Tippet declared.

“He’s strong as any man and twice as good on a horse,” said Hugh, laughing nervously. “Now, what’s that business about your cabbages, Mrs. Tippet?”

A snaggletooth grin filled her face. She took Hugh by the arm and hurried him into her overgrown garden. “Now come, Master Hugh. Take a look at them spots. I’m afraid me whole crop’s ruined, and I got a terrible feeling it’ll be a rough winter for a widow like meself.” The little lady plucked a cabbage off its root and held it under Hugh’s nose. “Spots, Master Hugh. You see ’em?”

Hugh took the cabbage from her unsteady hand and rotated it, observing every leaf. The vegetable had one tiny round mark on its side. “Mrs. Tippet,” he said with mock seriousness, “I’m afraid you’ve been lying.”

The tiny woman puffed like an adder. “Never in me born days … ”

“ … because this is the finest vegetable I’ve laid eyes on this season. Just give a little weeding around the base. You’ll take first at the Exeter Fair this year, so help me.”

Mrs. Tippet giggled like a schoolgirl. The look of worry melted from her face as she gave Hugh a playful smack on the arm. “Aw, Master Hugh, you’re a cunning devil, you are. Could have felt the hard side of me rolling pin with that ‘lying’ business.”

“And your rolling pin, I’ve heard, is an experience devoutly to be missed.”

“Ay, that’s true,” the little woman said, head high. “I can still whack the best of ’em.”

Hugh patted her arm and swung back onto Valaire. “Now don’t forget that weeding. We can’t have our Cowick Hill widows showing rotten cabbages and making a mess of our reputation.”

Mrs. Tippet rocked back and forth with laughter. “Nay, Master Hugh, I’ll not shame ye. These cabbages don’t straighten out with your advice I’ll be at your doorstep faster than a miner to the ale house.”

When they were out of earshot, Ellie turned to Hugh. “You were very nice to her.”

“Whatever do you mean?”

“I saw the gold coins you dropped into the weeds. She’ll have a warm winter because of them.”

At that moment, a young, clear-eyed farmer threw down his pitchfork and ran to the fence bordering the lane. “My lord, can I have your ear a minute?”

Hugh stopped Valaire. “What is it, Mr. Smythe?”

“Got a bit of a legal allercation, my lord, with a certain perpetrator by the name of farmer Fergus, who’s me neighbor.”

“An ‘allercation,’ eh?” Hugh said, suppressing a smile.

“Aye, my lord. It’s concerning a pup which goes by the name of Tracker, on account of his nose is so good.”

“And what is the ‘allercation’ concerning the pup?”

“Are ye talking Tracker?” barked an angry voice from the other side of the lane.

“I am, Mr. Fergus,” Smythe replied. “I’m beggin’ Lord Davenport for the herewith decision as to who is the right and legal owner of that pup.”

Fergus’s fierce eyes flashed. He jammed the points of his pitchfork into the ground and nimbly vaulted the wood fence on his side of the lane.

Squeezing through the rails of his own fence, Smythe met tiny Fergus in the center of the dirt road. The younger man towered over the little farmer, yet Ellie didn’t doubt who would win in hand-to-hand combat. Fergus radiated a prickly energy that warned all comers to beware.

Hugh dismounted and stood between the farmers. Ellie swung down from Manifesto and held the horses.

“Here’s ’ow it is, Master Hugh,” Fergus explained, fixing a steely-eyed glare on Smythe. “This one left his cow Bissey in the field three days lame and nothing done for it. I’ll not have a man treating my Tracker that way.”

“And I’ve told ye again and again, Mr. Fergus, ’twas an accident only! Bissey was with calf. I thought she was hiding with the wee thing ’til she felt right to bring it home.”

The young farmer appealed to Hugh. “The facts is these, your Lordship. Mr. Fergus promised me a pup from Queenie’s litter, and Tracker be the one I choose. I promised him good cash money for the privilege.”

Fergus spat in the dirt. “My Queenie’s a champion herd dog. I’ll not see her pup neglected for any money.” The farmers took a threatening step toward one another.

“Hold, gentlemen. Hold,” Hugh said, putting himself in their path. “Mr. Fergus, could you bring me the pup?”

Without moving an inch or taking his eyes off Smythe, Fergus let out a piercing whistle. A minute later a small black and white sheep dog escorted by a gangly, flop-eared puppy came running over the hill. Queenie dashed to Fergus’s side and licked his hand. “Good girl,” he said, keeping his fist clenched, ready to sock Smythe.

Tracker wandered among them all, sniffing and hitting everyone’s legs with his wagging tail. He tried to lick the horse’s noses. Manifesto snorted.

“I’m going to draw a circle,” Hugh said, picking up a stick and dragging it through the dirt on the road. “Mr. Smythe, you stand here. Mr. Fergus, here,” he said, positioning the farmers on opposite sides.

“Come here, Tracker.” The puppy bounded to Hugh. “Now Mr. Smythe, you take hold of the puppy’s ears, and Mr. Fergus, you grab his tail. The one who pulls Tracker out of the circle gets the pup.”

Horror filled Smythe’s eyes. “If I do that, I’ll hurt the dog.”

“I’ll not be roughing my beasts,” cried Fergus. “His tail would snap like a twig.”

“So neither of you is willing to pull on the pup?”

Smythe petted Tracker’s head. “I couldna’ do it, your lordship. I’d rather not have ’em as hurt ’em.”

“What do you say?” Hugh said, addressing the feisty little Fergus. “In my judgment, a man who wouldn’t hurt a dog to have him is kind enough for your pup.”

A furrow appeared in Fergus’s brow. His eyes searched the ground as if he’d find an answer in the rutted lane. Finally, he spat, and looked up with merry eyes. “I’m thinkin’ he’s yours,” the farmer said, holding out a hand to Smythe.

Ellie wanted to applaud. She and Hugh smiled at one another as the farmers patted Tracker and clapped each other on the back.

“You were splendid,” she whispered as she and Hugh mounted again.

He laughed and winked as they headed back to the barn.