Anita Mills (14 page)

Anne’s throat was almost sore, her voice husky from reading the poems aloud over and over, but she felt strangely elated. The snow had relieved her of the burden of making any decision about her future. It was out of her hands.

A footman came in to lay a fire in the hearth, and Betty drew the heavy draperies, flooding the room with the white light. Mrs. Deveraux was still relatively out of touch, but she was not precisely comatose. As the night had receded and the day begun, she seemed to be able to respond to light and possibly noise. Morever, she’d curled her fingers. It wasn’t much, Anne admitted, but it was something positive to report to Dominick Deveraux. After all else that had befallen him, ’twas time he heard something good.

She rose and stretched cramped muscles, then crossed the room to the window. And what she saw below made her heart rise into her throat. Emerging from the billowing, swirling snow, half a dozen red-coated men rode down the carriage lane. She did not have to wonder why they’d come.

“Betty,” she said, trying not to betray her alarm, “you must find Mr. Deveraux and warn him.”

“Begging your pardon, miss?”

“There are soldiers coming.”

The girl stared. “Oh, lud! Oh, me!”

“I would you went now. Try not to alarm the household.”

It was futile warning, for as soon as the maid got into the hall, she began to shout, “The soldiers is coming! Mr. Deveraux … Mr. Deveraux! The soldiers is coming!”

Anne all but ran back to her bedchamber and, throwing the borrowed wrapper onto the floor, fairly dived into the green dress. Dragging the comb through her hair, she tried to make herself presentable. Frowning, she pulled the ruffled cap over the disarray. Dominick Deveraux had saved her once, and she would try to stall the soldiers for him. Hopefully, he could either hide or else he could escape. Not that she had much hope of the latter, for the snow would give evidence of any flight.

Her heart pounding in her ears, she made her way downstairs just as the elderly butler was opening the door. A gust of bitter wind blew in, carrying snow across the polished marble floor. An officer, his face ruddy from the cold, stepped inside and stamped his booted feet. Behind him the other soldiers did the same.

“A most dreadful day for traveling, sirs,” she said. She patted the cap, hoping he would take her for a sensible, mature female.

“Mrs. Deveraux?”

“No. She is unable to receive anyone just now, I am afraid.” Anne forced herself to move forward and held out her hand calmly. “I am Miss Anne Morland.”

He assessed the green dress before bowing over her hand. “Miss Morland, I am Gareth Collins—Captain Collins.”

“Wilkins!” she called out clearly. “Do come serve these gentlemen some hot punch in the front saloon.”

“Aye, miss,” he responded promptly.

“I say, but—” Emerging from the dining room, Bertie paled when he saw the officer. “Lud.”

“Mr. Bascombe, may I present…” Anne looked at the fellow expectantly, all the while praying that Bertie would not give Dominick away. “I’m dreadfully sorry, sir, but I did not note the name clearly.”

“Collins—Captain Collins,” he supplied shortly. “And I cannot—”

“Nonsense,” she declared briskly. “We are quite civilized here. Mr. Bascombe is, after all, heir to the Earl of Haverstoke.”

“You don’t say.”

The color returned to Bertie’s face. “Just so,” he managed weakly.

“Do come in, Captain Collins—and your men also. Naught’s to say that they would not enjoy a bit of hot punch also, is that not so, sirs?” Not waiting for an answer, she ordered crisply, “Wilkins, tell Cook to heat the cider, if you please.”

“Really, but there is scarce the time—”

“Cold out,” Bertie maintained. “Deuced cold. Can’t think why a man’d be out in this, if you want my opinion. Bound to be frozen to the marrow.”

“Yes, but I’m afraid—”

“I am certain the captain will apprise us as to why he is here directly—after the punch,” Anne said smoothly.

“Actually, we—”

“In due time, sir.” Noting that Meg had appeared also, she continued to delay. “Mr. Bascombe, perhaps you would wish to present the captain to Miss Mitford?”

“Shouldn’t think she … Oh … uh-huh. Miss Mitford, this is Captain Collins. Look, we ain’t done with breakfast but—”

“Servant, Miss Mitford,” the captain said gallantly.

The girl colored and stammered something utterly incoherent. “Shy girl,” Bertie explained. “Come on, Miss Mitford. Daresay they ain’t going to mind if we was to eat.”

“Breakfast can wait, Mr. Bascombe,” Anne told him meaningfully. “Your pardon, Captain, but you find us at sixes and sevens. Mrs. Deveraux suffered a dreadful seizure last evening, and I’m afraid none of us has had much sleep. Not to mention that Lord Trent was called away in the night most precipitately. His first child, you know, and his marchioness is brought to bed early.”

“Lord Trent was here?”

“But of course he was here!” she retorted a trifle acidly. “His aunt had another stroke earlier and
someone
had to come. I mean, under the
unfortunate
circumstances …” She let her voice trail off, hoping she’d given the impression that there was no one else. Gesturing toward the open door, she directed him, “But go on in, sir, and I shall see to the punch.” Then, realizing that would leave them with Bertie and Meg, she changed her mind. “Actually, Meg, why don’t you go with Wilkins?”

“I don’t—”

“Nonsense, my dear. Do join us, Mr. Bascombe.”

“I … uh … dash it, but I ain’t finished eating!”

“Bertie, dear boy …” Her voice rose slightly in warning.

“Well, daresay I ain’t all that hungry,” he conceded, “though what I am to … well, I am sure I don’t know.” Resigned, he sank into a chair. “So, gentlemen, what brings you here?” he asked in a manner that clearly indicated he didn’t really want to know.

“Not
now.
You’ll have the captain thinking us positively uncivil. Really, but give them time to warm themselves at the fire. In the absence of a proper host, one must do one’s best to accommodate the unforeseen, don’t you think, Mr. Bascombe?”

He was trying to follow her, but it was an effort. His pale brow furrowed for a moment, then lightened. “Oh, collect you mean me, eh?”

“Just so.”

“Are you a relative of Mrs. Deveraux?” Captain Collins asked him.

“Lud no!” Then, realizing how that must sound under the circumstances, Bertie tried to recover: “Actually, m’god-mother,” he invented. “Came when I heard she was sick. With Dominick out of the country, I…” He looked to Anne for help.

“You did just as you ought,” she murmured soothingly.

“And you, ma’am?”

Clearly she was not dressed as an ordinary companion, and he was likely to note it. She smiled brightly and hoped God did not punish her for spinning lies. “Mrs. Deveraux is my godmother also.” She looked to where one of the soldiers was edging closer to the fire. “Do warm yourself, sir. Dreadful out, isn’t it?”

“Snow’s deep,” he muttered, stretching his hands toward the blaze. “And ’tis cold.”

“Think the roads will be passable tomorrow?” Bertie asked hopefully. “I mean, I was thinking of going home, you know. Can’t do anything here, after all. She don’t know us,” he explained.

Seeing the captain’s questioning frown, Anne explained, “I’m afraid Mrs. Deveraux is in a coma, sir. If you have come to see her, ’tis a wasted errand.”

Wilkins returned bearing the steaming punch bowl, and behind him another footman carried cups and a ladle. Anne could see that the captain was torn between duty and the punch. She had to push him toward the latter.

“ ’Tis quite good—an old family recipe of Mrs. Deveraux’s, I believe,” she murmured. “I am told that when he is home, Mr. Deveraux quite favors it over anything else—except his port, of course. That will be all, Wilkins. Meg, pour for the gentlemen, will you?”

“Uh …” The girl cast about for the means to escape. “Miss Morland—Annie—I cannot!”

“ ’Course you can! Just put the punch in the cups,” Bertie insisted. “Ain’t nothing to it.”

“Is she a relative?” Captain Collins asked.

“Aunt Charlotte is my godmother,” Meg answered. Then, as he turned to look at her, she colored deeply, the red of her face in sharp contrast to the paleness of her hair. “Miss Morland …” she said desperately.

“Mr. Bascombe will assist you. Pardon me one moment, gentlemen.” Before the girl could demur further, Anne slipped into the foyer. As she pushed the door nearly closed, she could hear the captain observe, “Mrs. Deveraux appears to be a most generous woman, Miss Mitford. I’d think few could claim the devotion of so many godchildren.”

“Well, I …”

“Woman’s a prince—er, a princess, that is—great affection for her,” Bertie insisted.

“Wilkins,” Anne hissed as she caught the footman, “have you see Dom—Mr. Deveraux?”

“Sent Beckman up, and he found him at his bath,” he whispered back. “Said he was weasel-bit, but he knew what Beckman was telling him.”

“Good. Tell him I am doing the best I can, but I fear Captain Collins grows suspicious. Whatever he means to do, he’d best do now.”

“Yes, miss.”

As she reentered the saloon, the captain asked, “Are you quite certain Dominick Deveraux is out of the country, Mr. Bascombe?”

Bertie strangled on his punch and fell to coughing hard. Both Anne and Margaret hastened to pound him soundly on his narrow back. And after he caught his breath, he looked up reproachfully. “ ’Twas too hot.”

“I didn’t think it hot at all,” one of the soldiers spoke up.

“Mr. Bascombe has a delicate palate—the nobility, you know,” Anne said with a straight face.

“Are you the only gentleman here?” the captain persisted.

“He is definitely the only gentleman in the house—isn’t that so, Miss Mitford?” Anne declared.

“Er … yes. The only gentleman.”

“I believe Mr. Bascombe has a tongue, Miss Morland.”

“Burned it,” Bertie reminded him. “On the punch.”

The captain drained his cup and set it on a small table. Reaching into his coat, he drew out an official-looking document. “As much as I regret the unpleasant task, I’m afraid I have a warrant for Dominick Deveraux’s arrest.” He paused briefly, letting his words sink in. “We believe he is in England, and most probably is either in this house or on his way here.”

Trying very hard to appear shocked, Anne could only manage, “Oh, dear. Are you quite certain, Captain?”

“He came in at Southampton and was nearly taken there.”

“But that does not mean … that is, ’tis a long way from Southampton, sir.” Anne stopped, her mind racing for some means to question the legitimacy of the captain’s authority. “Should not it be the constable who comes, sir? I should not think we are in your jurisdiction.”

“Dominick Deveraux is a dangerous man, Miss Morland. According to the deposition against him, he shot a man who had eloped.”

“Still, ’twas a duel, was it not? You have come after him as though he has committed treason. I am not at all sure—”

“Since you seem to be doing much of the speaking, Miss Morland, I shall address the matter to you.” He handed her the warrant smugly. “Read it.”

“I did not question your word, sir, but merely the irregularity of this.”

“Nonetheless, I am afraid I must insist on a search of the house.”

“Yes, of course. Though I cannot think you will discover Mr. Deveraux here. If you will but excuse me for a moment, I shall get Wilkins to show you about.”

But this time Captain Collins followed her into the foyer, and as she was desperately casting about for the means to give Dominick more time, he looked up. “Miss Morland, I believe you are a liar,” he announced coldly.

“Really, sir, but I find your accusation most offensive. I assure you …” She followed his gaze and her heart nearly stopped. “Oh.”

Coming down the wide staircase was Dominick Deveraux. He was dressed in an open-necked cambric shirt, a patterned silk scarf knotted at the neck, exquisitely tailored buff breeches, and gleaming knee boots. Over his arm he carried a heavy cloak, and in his hand an old-fashioned tricorn hat. Despite the obvious fatigue in his face, he looked like a highwayman ready to ride. Weasel-bit or not, he did not show it.

“Dominick Deveraux?”

“Yes.”

Captain Collins stepped forward. “Mr. Deveraux, I arrest you in the name of the crown. You are hereby charged with—”

“I am well aware of the charge, Captain,” Dominick cut in curtly. Turning Ground, he gestured to a servant who carried a portmanteau behind him. “I shall, of course, require the services of a valet, and Beckman has kindly offered.” His gaze shifted to Anne, and his expression softened perceptibly. “And you must acquit Miss Morland of any intent to deceive.”

“She lied, sir,” Collins retorted.

The Deveraux eyebrow shot up in exaggerated disbelief. “Is that true, my dear? What did he ask that you felt it incumbent to answer falsely?”

“He wished to know if Mr. Bascombe were the only gentleman left in the house.”

“And you of course said he was?”

“Yes.” Despite the terrible circumstances, she could not resist smiling at him. “I had it on good authority, sir, that you are a rogue rather than a gentleman.”

“Exactly.” He turned his attention to Collins. “Well, Captain, you behold that I have come down freely to give myself up. However, I should like a brief word with Miss Morland ere I go.”

“I hardly think it necessary,” Collins responded stiffly. “I have tarried overlong already, and the snow grows deeper even as we speak.”

“I’d give instructions for my mother’s care. Surely you would not deny a man’s concern for a dying parent, Captain?”

The officer hesitated. “How do I know you will not bolt?”

Once again a single black brow rose. “My dear fellow, in this weather? I should leave a blasted trail, don’t you think?”

“Still …”

“You may stand guard outside the door.”

“Very well. Under the circumstances, I do not suppose five minutes will make much difference. But I must ask your word as a gentleman …”He stopped, seeing that Deveraux’s brow had climbed even higher. “… as a rogue, then,” he snapped.