After the Abduction (18 page)

Wonderful—she was making the footmen blush again. God knew what she’d said to the poor lad about his “nice muscles.” Winifred never minced her words on any subject, but especially not when it came to handsome, strapping youths.

“But it’s good of your lordship to send the lads.” She smiled at Lady Rosalind and Juliet. “His lordship takes great care of me. Been looking after me since he was thirteen.”

“Thirteen?” Juliet echoed in surprise.

“Winnie exaggerates,” he muttered.

“Bah, don’t listen to him and his modesty,” the wise woman retorted. “Thirteen, he was, when he took over managing the estate. The old baron tried to send him off to Eton, but he’d have none of it. ‘No, sir,’ he said, ‘I’ll stay right here, if you please. You may hire me tutors.’ That’s when he set to putting Charnwood to rights. Read himself all those big books about breeding and crops, learned what he could from farmers hereabouts, and fired the thieving steward. God knows the old baron didn’t give a tuppence for the estate. If his lordship here hadn’t taken it in hand, who knows what would’ve become of us all? And then that Morgan showed up—”

“Winifred!” he said sharply. The wise woman probably didn’t know anything, but just to be safe…“The
ladies aren’t interested in that. We have other matters to discuss.”

A sly smile curved up her thin mouth. “I’m getting to it, m’lord.” She surveyed the two women. “So which of you lovelies is the one that wants a baby?”

Her gaze swept over Juliet, who hastily remarked, “Not me. I’m not even married.”

“But you will be, mark my words.” Winnie shot Sebastian a mysterious look. “And sooner than you think, I warrant.”

When he raised an eyebrow at her, her eyes filled with merriment. If he believed in such things, he’d think the Welshwoman had a touch of the second sight. But more likely she hoped to see him married and had fixed on Juliet as the best prospect. One thing he’d give Winifred—she had excellent taste.

Subjecting Lady Rosalind to her scrutiny, Winifred pursed her shriveled lips. “So you’re the one. You certainly
look
healthy enough for childbearing. What about your husband? Is he young and spry enough to get a child on you? Are your courses regular?”

Sebastian choked back an oath. “Winnie, why don’t you and the ladies go inside to discuss all this? I’ll remain with the sleigh until you’re done.”

“In this cold?” Winnie said. “Wouldn’t you rather come in by the fire?”

And listen to them talk over the intimate details of Lady Rosalind’s female troubles? No thanks. “I’ll be fine out here.”

As if she’d read his mind, she laughed. “You’d best get used to such talk, m’lord, if you intend on taking a wife.”

“When the time comes, I’ll be sure to consult you, but until then I pray you show me some mercy.”

She flapped her hand at him. “Oh, go on with you then—you and your manly squeamishness. Wait until
you’ve had your own six wee ones. Then you’ll have a real reason to beg for mercy.” She opened her cottage door and beckoned to Juliet and Lady Rosalind. “Come along, m’dears. We have a goodly bit to discuss, and we don’t wish to make his lordship uncomfortable.”

“Too late for that,” he muttered under his breath. And what did she mean, “
your own
six wee ones”? As if it were already planned. By thunder, she’d better not have the second sight. He intended to have children, but for God’s sake,
six
?

Still, the thought of Juliet heavy with his child held a surprising appeal. She’d be a wonderful mother, warm and loving, the sort of mother he’d never had himself. If any woman was meant to have six children, it was Juliet.

Then he remembered how small and fragile she was, how her own mother had died in childbirth, and that gave him pause.

To take his mind off the disturbing idea of Juliet suffering through childbirth, he paced the perimeter of Winnie’s cottage, noting whatever repairs might be necessary. He had a certain fondness for the old woman, despite her nonsense. He might never have been born if not for her. So he looked after her when he could, especially now that her husband was dead and buried.

It appeared that the thatch would need replenishing this spring, and a shutter had come loose since his last visit. He’d send Henley over later. Or Tompkins, so Winnie could admire the man’s “nice muscles” some more. God knew the woman had few enough pleasures at her age.

He’d finished his inspection, had circled the cottage half a dozen times more, and was beginning to wonder how much longer all this would take when the cottage door opened and Juliet strolled out. Lady Rosalind followed close behind, cradling a large canvas bag in her hands as she continued her conversation with Winifred.

“Now tell me again so I can make sure you have it
aright.” Winifred took Lady Rosalind’s hand to halt her beside the sleigh.

“I’m to drink red raspberry leaf tea every day for a week. The red clover blossoms are best in an infusion with mint. I can drink that whenever I please and have it with chamomile tea if I want.”

“That’s the way of it. But remember, the herbs will do you no good if you don’t relax, m’lady.” Winifred patted Lady Rosalind’s hand. “Think of yourself as a strawberry blossom opening to the bee. The blossom don’t slap at the bee, nor close its petals in fear of a sting. It lets the bee fly right in and drink its nectar. And that’s the only way to have the sweet strawberries in the spring, ain’t it? So don’t let anxiousness make you fight your destiny. Embrace it, take it into your bosom. And there it will bear fruit.”

It sounded like a lot of twaddle to him, but what did he know of such things?

Lady Rosalind threw her arms about the older woman’s neck and planted a kiss on her papery cheek. “Thank you ever so much!”

“You’re very welcome, m’lady. And you must tell me if it works, d’you hear? Send me a letter from London. His lordship will be happy to bring it to me.”

He stifled a smile. Leave it to Winnie to relegate him to the role of footman. Apparently there was one woman on the estate whom he didn’t terrify.

He helped the two ladies into the sleigh. After he’d climbed in after them, Winifred cried, “Wait! I forgot one more thing, m’lady. Does your husband bathe daily?”

Lady Rosalind gazed over at her, perplexed. “As it happens, he does. And please don’t tell me he shouldn’t or we’ll never have children, because I won’t let him within ten feet of me.”

Sebastian and Juliet both chuckled.

“No, the bathing is fine,” Winnie said, “it’s the heat of
the water he should beware. It mustn’t be too hot, you ken?”

“But Griff loves hot baths!” Lady Rosalind wailed.

“Love it or no,” Winnie remarked with a dire look, “they drain the strength from a man’s seed. ’Tis very bad. You’d best not let him take any more of those.”

Lady Rosalind slumped in her seat. “However am I supposed to prevent it?”

Winnie turned her knowing gaze on Sebastian. “Well, you’re not to home just now. It ought to be easy enough for his lordship to manage sumpthin’ like that. All he need do is command his servants not to bring hot water.”

When Juliet and Lady Rosalind glanced to him imploringly, he groaned. “Oh no, you don’t. Bad enough that I’m sneaking around with you two behind his back. Now you want me to deny the poor man his creature comforts—”

“The ‘poor man’ won’t listen to me.” Lady Rosalind batted her eyelashes at him. “Besides, if I have to explain why he can’t take hot baths, I’ll have to explain where I got the notion. Which means telling him who brought me here to meet Winnie—indeed,
who
told me of her in the first place.”

Blasted blackmailing wench. “How am
I
supposed to explain why my servants won’t give him hot water?”

“Don’t explain anything.” Juliet busily spread the lap rug over his legs and hers. “Have the servants make the baths warm instead of hot. Let him think they don’t know what they’re doing.”

He glowered at her. “After lecturing me yesterday on how to treat my servants, you now want me to subject them to a guest’s complaints for the next few days—”

“Oh, a few days ain’t near long enough,” Winnie put in. “It’ll have to be longer than that—a week at least until her ladyship is fertile. And if she don’t conceive then, she’ll have to keep at it till she does, however many months that takes.”

“Months!” Sebastian cried.

“No, of course not,” Lady Rosalind hastened to put in. “Griff would never stay that long, and I can’t miss the birth of Helena’s baby. After we leave, I’ll take my chances, but if I could have at least a week to try
all
of Winnie’s suggestions…” She flashed Sebastian another of those pleading looks. “Once we leave, Griff will simply demand hot water at the inns and in London, and I won’t be able to stop him. It has to be here. That is, if your lordship will extend your hospitality a little while longer.”

Deuce take it, when he’d volunteered his aid, he hadn’t expected to engage in a thousand subterfuges. This was nearly as bad as engineering the kidnapping of a lady.

On the other hand, having them stay would give him time to court Juliet. “How will you convince your husband not to leave for London as soon as the roads are ready?”

Lady Rosalind frowned. “I don’t know…I suppose I could tell him I’m ill. That all this traveling has unsettled my stomach or something.”

“That won’t work,” Winnie put in, “unless your husband fancies taking a sick woman to his bed. No point in you going to the trouble of staying here if you’re not being bedded often in the meantime, you know.”

When both sisters blushed violently, Sebastian gritted his teeth. Sometimes Winnie could be too much for
anyone.
But she did have a point.

“Then
I’ll
be the one to be sick,” Juliet ventured. “It’ll be easier for me than for Rosalind, anyway. I can just have Rosalind’s maid Polly proclaim me too ill for visitors, and I needn’t show any evidence of illness.”

“Oh, thank you, Juliet!” her sister exclaimed. “That might actually work.”

It might work for Lady Rosalind, but it wouldn’t help Sebastian’s courtship. Blast. “Now that we’ve got that settled,” he grumbled, “we’d best head back, before the unwitting recipient of all your plotting wakes up. Or worse—has a hot bath.”

As his two companions laughed and said their goodbyes to Winnie, he urged the draft horses into a walk. Once they were on their way, he renewed the discussion, trying to make his voice sound casual. “You know, Lady Juliet, if you pretend to be sick, you’ll have to stay cooped up in your bedchamber all the time.”

“I’ll do nothing of the sort. Polly will keep Griff out of the room, and Rosalind can give him regular announcements of how awful I feel.” Her smile was pure mischief. “Then I’ll simply sneak out and do as I please. Charnwood is large enough that I can avoid my pesky brother-in-law with ease. Especially if he’s busy with Rosalind.”

“And you can stay busy with me,” he said, glancing over at her. Beneath the lap robe, he rubbed his calf against hers. “We can play chess. You seem to enjoy that.”

Coloring, she moved her leg away, though it took some doing in close quarters.

Lady Rosalind cast him a sly look. “I’d forgotten Juliet’s fondness for chess. However did you discover it, my lord?”

“Quite by accident. But your sister plays very well. Though she’s a sore loser, prone to decline a challenge.”

Juliet’s gaze was pure ice. “I’ll meet any challenge you propose, my lord, at any time.
Especially
in chess.”

He smiled. She was so easy to bait. “Excellent. Then chess it is.”

“As long as Griff doesn’t know about it,
and
there’s a proper chaperone,” Lady Rosalind warned, “I suppose that would be all right.”

“Oh, of course,” Juliet said sweetly. “We’ll have Polly serve as chaperone, shan’t we, Lord Templemore?”

“Whatever you wish.” His blood quickened at the thought of endless hours of keeping Juliet busy without Knighton’s interference. “A chaperone is a small price to pay for the chance at trouncing you in chess.”

“And what makes you think you’d trounce me?” she snapped.

“I trounced you the last time we played, didn’t I?” Without looking at her, he pressed his thigh against hers and was rewarded by her sharp intake of breath. “I reached checkmate with great speed, as I recall.”

“That won’t happen again.” But her high color and shaky tone said otherwise.

Feeling decidedly cheerier, he concentrated on navigating the treacherous paths with the sleigh. He didn’t even mind when Lady Rosalind began a series of impertinent questions about his family and connections, obviously designed to determine his suitability as a husband for Juliet. Since his plans fell in with hers, he was more than happy to oblige her with answers.

But Juliet seemed to disapprove. She constantly attempted—unsuccessfully—to change the subject. Only when they were halfway back to Charnwood did she seize on a suitable distraction. “Look there, Rosalind,” she cried, “what a quaint little cottage. I wonder that we didn’t notice it when we first came this way.”

“The rock face obscures it from the other direction,” he explained. “You’d have to look back to see it.”

“Does it belong to another of your tenants?” Lady Rosalind asked. “I swear, my lord, you have so many tenants. How many exactly?”

When Juliet rolled her eyes, he chuckled. “Actually, that cottage and its outbuilding are no longer inhabited. It used to be the estate blacksmith’s, but he died in my father’s time. His apprentice preferred to join with the smithy in town, so I bought the forge from him. I come out here to do a little gunsmithing, mostly for the fine, small pieces, like the brass for the cartridges and the silver facings.”

“You forge things?” Juliet said. “Why, you truly are Hephaestus!”

“Hephaestus?”

“The Greek God of Fire and the immortal smithy who
made weapons for the other gods. He has a forge, too.”

He tried to remember his Greek. “Wasn’t he ugly and lame?”

“Was he?” Juliet smirked at him. “At least he was very good at metalworking.”

“I’m not sure I like that comparison,” he grumbled. He’d been called a lot of things, but ugly wasn’t one of them.