Anne Barbour (10 page)

“That is an excellent idea, my lord,” replied Winifred. “The scene is quite pivotal to the plot—oh, dear!” she exclaimed with a lift of her hand. “I cannot.” Her smiled remained undiminished. “I promised Jane to go out driving with Lord Stedford this afternoon. She said he has expressed a desire to see the sights of the neighborhood.”

Now, what the devil was the meddlesome chit up to? Simon wondered in exasperation.

“What a splendid idea,” he said, his voice cracking only slightly. “But, I’m afraid that will not be possible. If you will recall,” he continued firmly as Winifred’s mouth set mulishly, “You are supposed to be sick abed with a putrid sore throat. We can’t have you romping about the countryside, the picture of health.”

“What about Winifred’s health?” Simon swung about at the sound of Jane’s voice. She stood in the doorway of the saloon, a quizzical expression on her delicate features.

Simon, with some relish, repeated his words, and was pleased to note the frown that darkened her forehead.

“That’s ridiculous,” she said sharply. “No one is likely to visit this—”

“We cannot afford to take that chance,” interrupted Simon. “May I remind you,” he continued, as Jane’s eyes flashed angrily, “that it is only due to your duplicity that such measures have become necessary.”

Jane’s mouth snapped shut, and Marcus, to whom Winifred had confided Jane’s abortive charade, chuckled. The others present, ignorant of the events that had led to the present contretemps, demanded enlightenment.

“No!” exclaimed Gerard, when all had been explained by a somewhat sheepish Jane. “And you had the nerve to comb my hair for my little rig at Oxford.”

“I wasn’t running a rig,” said Jane stiffly. “At least, not precisely. It was merely a little subterfuge—and it was necessary.”

“Of course, it was,” chimed in Harry. At Simon’s glare, he flushed, but continued stoutly, “Well, she couldn’t leave Miss Timburton in the lurch, could she?”

“By Jove, ‘course she couldn’t,” said Charles, nodding in approval. “Although, must say, Miss Burch, I cannot imagine you looking anything other than your winsome self.”

Simon transferred the glare to his friend, who remained oblivious. Instead, he moved to Jane, bending over her to examine her eyelashes. “They seem to be growing out nicely.”

Jane stepped back hurriedly. “Well,” she began, “if the trip to the village is off, Winifred, why don’t you take Lord Stedford out to the Roman remains this afternoon?”

“Roman remains?” echoed Marcus blankly.

“Oh, yes,” replied Jane. “They were discovered some ten years ago here on the estate, just beyond the bluebell wood.”

“Oh, pooh,” interposed Winifred. “Who wants to go out on a hot afternoon just to look at some old bricks?”

“Nonsense,” said Jane, faint but pursuing. “They are quite extensive. We think it must have been a villa. I’m sure Lord Stedford would enjoy them immensely.”

Before Marcus could make a response, Simon, who was wishing Jane Burch in the lowest circle of hell, spoke again. “But why do we not make a party of it? We can take refreshments, and the ladies can sketch if they wish.”

“Oh, but—” began Jane, but she was drowned out in the general chorus of approval with which Simon’s proposal was greeted.

“That sounds lovely,” Winifred acceded with a graceful smile. “We can take Lord Wye’s phaeton, and Harry’s curricle as well, and the rest of the gentlemen can accompany us on horseback.”

The matter disposed to her satisfaction, she turned away and began directing Gerard and Harry in the placement of chairs and small tables that were to represent rocks and other woodland features necessary for the exchange between Bottom and Titania.

Jane opened her mouth to speak once more, but Simon drew her aside. “I thought you said,” he hissed, “that you wished Winifred to marry.”

“I do. And please stop gripping me in that fashion. You’re going to leave a bruise. What are you talking about?” she continued, as Simon released her with a muttered apology, only to grasp her again almost immediately to haul her bodily from the Crimson Saloon and into his study, several doors down the corridor. Here he thrust her into a leather wing chair and stood above her.

“Why are you constantly throwing Winifred in Marc’s company, when I am trying to get her interested in Charles?”

“Charles?” asked Jane in some surprise. “You mean the earl?”

“No,” growled Simon, “Charles the First of England! Of course, I mean the earl.”

Jane stared at him in uneasy surmise. Her only conversation with Charles had occurred the evening before, when she had descended from her room a few minutes early to join family and guests in the Gold Saloon before dinner. The earl had been the room’s only occupant, and he had responded to her courteous greeting by sidling over to stand very close to her.

“How fortuitous,” he had said, with a fatuous leer, “that we have this little opportunity to become better acquainted.”

She backed away, but he followed her, step for step.

“I really do not think—” Jane said in some indignation, but the earl continued as though she had not spoken.

“Yes, indeed, I look forward to rehearsing Miss Timburton’s play with you.”

“Since we have only one, very brief scene together,” she snapped, “the time spent in each other’s presence will be negligible.” She felt she had managed to infuse in her tone the impression that she was grateful for this dearth, but to her shocked surprise, he moved even closer, twining one of her curls about his finger. Backing away again, she found herself pressed against a sofa table.

She jerked her head away from his questing fingers, and Charles reached for his quizzing glass, surveying her with insulting familiarity.

“Still...” His breath was hot on her cheek and Jane thought she would choke from the odor of stale brandy and the overpowering scent of the cologne liberally sprinkled on his weedy person. “Still, I look forward to seeing you, er, perform. It is seldom once sees Puck portrayed by one so well-endowed”—He allowed his suggestive gaze to rove over the swell of her breasts, modestly covered by her high-necked, muslin gown—”with talent.”

“Really, my lord,” gasped Jane. “You go beyond what is pleasing.” She placed her hands on his chest preparatory to thrusting him away from her, but she was stayed by the noisy entrance of Gerard and Harry, who were engrossed in yet another of their friendly brangles. Charles stepped back at once, but not before he had slid a hand around Jane’s bottom, cupping it in a lascivious caress. Before she was quite aware of what he was doing, he closed his fingers in a gentle squeeze before withdrawing his hand.

Jane fairly flew to Gerard, but by the time she had crossed the room, she realized that relating the earl’s perfidy to her brother would result in an extremely unpleasant scene. Gerard, she supposed would be forced to call Charles out, or would take a horsewhip to him, or something equally disastrous. Therefore, when she reached Gerard’s side, she merely held out both hands in welcome to her brother and his friend.

“I hope you two are hungry,” she said, and if the words emerged a little breathlessly, no one seemed to notice. The others drifted in soon afterward, and Jane, after an indignant dialogue with herself, and a resolution not to be caught alone with the earl again, managed to put the incident out of her mind.

Now, recalling the contretemps, she gazed up at Simon from the depths of the wing chair. Briefly, she considered what her reaction would have been if it were he who had taken such liberties, but in the next moment, quelling the odd little flutter the image provoked, she upbraided herself for such a ludicrous fancy. Lord Simon was certainly not among that despicable breed, the pinchers of feminine derrieres. He was a model of masculine moral rectitude, she thought with the merest hint of regret.

She shook herself to attention. No, indeed. While, on the face of it, the Earl of Wye would certainly be a far superior parti than the Viscount Stedford, a match between Winifred and the lecherous peer was unthinkable. Jane thought not only of Winifred, but of Patience and Jessica, who, if all went as planned, would be spending a great deal of time in the town house of Winifred’s wealthy, titled husband. It was imperative that said husband should be of unimpeachable virtue.

Jane stared with as much equanimity as she could muster into Simon’s angry brandy-colored eyes, and smiled primly.

“It is not my intention to push Winifred into marriage with anyone. I merely wish to provide her with an opportunity to get to know a number of eligible young men, in the hope that she will make a wise choice among them.”

“May I remind you,” he said curtly, “that Winifred is my ward, and it is my responsibility to find her a suitable husband. I will thank you to refrain from meddling.”

Jane’s indignation rose. “And just how do you propose to stop me, my lord? Will you lock me in my room along with Winifred?”

Simon smiled nastily. “I hardly think that will be necessary. I shall simply pack you off to your father’s home, which I wish to God you’d never left.”

Jane wondered at her immediate desire to trace the line of that taut jaw with her fingertips, while at the same time wishing urgently to remove his smile with the back of her hand. “Leaving Winifred as the lone female in a house presently full as it can hold of bachelors?” she asked silkily.

Simon stared at her.

“As I told you,” he said at last, “that situation will soon be remedied. I have written to my aunt, and I expect her within the week. In the meantime, you will cease your wretched machinations.”

Jane stood silent for a moment, fuming. “I fail to see why you are so concerned, my lord. Are you telling me that Lord Stedford would not make a good husband?”

“Of course not,” sputtered Simon, pacing the floor before her. “That’s my point. Marcus will make an excellent husband—for somebody else altogether.”

“I beg your pardon?”

Simon drew a deep breath.

“There is an understanding between Marcus and my sister, Felicity.”

Jane’s heart sank. She might have known that such a marital plum would not have remained so long unplucked. “They are betrothed, then?” she asked, a pall of gloom settling over her.

“Well, no—not precisely.”

The pall lifted just a trifle.

“What do you mean,” she asked, “ ‘not precisely’?”

“It is just as I said,” replied Simon stiffly. “They have acknowledged their love for one another, and have declared their intention to wed, but they are not formally, er, betrothed.”

“Why not, if I am not presuming?”

“Because,” he said, a hint of desperation in his voice, “Felicity—or, Lissa, as we call her—is at present in London, enjoying a hugely successful Season, and she wishes to remain until its conclusion.”

“Oh, is this her first Season?”

Simon cleared his throat. “Actually, she was presented two years ago. She has, in that time, received a number of eminently suitable offers, but she has refused them all, because of the, ah, the understanding between her and Marcus.”

“But, why,” asked Jane innocently, “is she still in London? If she and Lord Stedford are so enamored of each other, why were they not wed long ago?”

Simon ran a finger around his collar. “Really, Miss Burch, none of this is really your concern.”

Jane stood, drawing herself up to her full height, meager though it was. “I think it is very much my concern. I mean no offense, my lo—Simon, but your sister sounds to me like the veriest flibbertigibbet. It does not seem to me that she loves Lord Stedford at all, or she would not leave him to his own devices while she prances about London. If she chooses to let him slip through her fingers, I see no reason why Winifred should not be at hand to scoop him up on the first bounce.”

Simon had swollen visibly during this speech. “Good God!” he exclaimed in some dudgeon. “We are not discussing a horse to be brought to stud!” He flinched at his own words. “I beg your pardon. That is not at all what I meant to say. What I meant to say was ...” He found himself unable to complete his sentence to his satisfaction, and Jane stepped into the breach.

“That’s perfectly all right, my lord,” she said kindly. “We females are used to being discussed as though we were breeding stock. If truth be told, it is rather refreshing to hear a man discussed in such terms.”

Simon moved to stand directly in front of her. “Have you no sense of decorum, you detestable wench?”

Jane flushed scarlet. “At least,” she said angrily, “I have enough decorum not to offer gratuitous insults to persons who have done nothing to deserve them.”

Simon drew back. Good God, what was the matter with him? How could he, whose diplomatic talents had earned him the highest commendations, have so lost himself? What was there about this female with the aspect of a forest nymph and the tongue of a fishwife that caused him to fling reason to the winds every time he was close to her?

He swung away from her, gripping the edge of the desk and the last shreds of his equanimity. He sucked in another deep breath, and after a moment, he turned back.

“Please,” he said, taking both her hands in his, “I do beg your pardon. That was a dreadful thing to say, and I did not mean it.” He grinned crookedly and Jane, to her intense irritation, felt her knees turn to blancmange. “I cannot deny that you drive me to distraction, but perhaps that is because we so often seem to be working at cross purposes. I propose we call a truce. This afternoon, we shall join the others on their outing to the village, and we will enjoy ourselves.”

“It is certainly no wish of mine,” said Jane, feeling stiff and remarkably foolish, “to brangle with you.”

“Then, I look forward to our outing. I must tell you that Roman remains are an interest of mine. In the meantime, I wish you would satisfy my curiosity.”

Jane’s brows lifted warily.

“You have spoken of your family, and your plans for Winifred, but you have not spoken of yourself. What is it you wish, Jane?”

At this, Jane frankly gaped. No one had ever asked her what she wanted of life.

“I wish to travel,” she said hesitantly. “I know it probably sounds foolish in a woman of my years, but I have always wanted to see the places described in the books I’ve read. I would dearly love to see—oh, the Roman forum, and I’d like to stroll down the Champs Elysee. And the Parthenon—by moonlight, perhaps!” She fell silent abruptly, feeling as though she had somehow just given away a piece of herself to this fascinating man.