Barbara Metzger (18 page)

At least someone thought to ask her opinion, Delia fumed, tired of the others discussing her future as if she were not there. But, yes, an invitation to his sister’s just might do very well indeed. To the devil with Lord Tyverne’s debts and obligations, this would not be charity. The duchess would not want the care of an infant on her hands, so would appreciate Delia and Nanny and Aunt Eliza.

After that, Delia would have to see. She had her doubts that the viscount’s sister required a companion, but one of her friends might, or Her Grace might give Delia a reference. Meantime, Delia would dearly like to spend more time with little Melinda, to make certain the new family Tyverne chose for her was a loving one. Maybe they would grant Delia the occasional visit with the child, who was her goddaughter, after all. If she were honest with herself, she would not mind spending more time with his lordship, to see if he really did decide to sell out. And perhaps, just perhaps, by the way Lord Tyverne was gnawing on his lower lip, perhaps her answer really mattered to him.

“Yes, it might serve, my lord. I shall be pleased to consider your sister’s invitation.” Then she added, wondering if the managing major’s sister even knew of the proposed visit, “When it arrives.”

Ty had to be content with that. At least Miss Croft did not seem averse to London, although he could not tell if the baby were the carrot, or Dallsworth, et al., were the stick, or if he had anything whatsoever to do with her decision.

He also had to move to the inn in the village. The poor girl had suffered enough lectures from her relatives, for one thing. If he stayed, she would have to invite her encroaching relatives to dine, too, for another. No one deserved that.

So Ty saddled Diablo. Someone had put the big white gelding back in his stall, groomed and fed, but Jed Groom refused to get him tacked.

“Lost me a new shirt, last time I tried. Could of lost me an arm, iffen the devil was fresh.”

The viscount’s wounded arm was now strong enough to manage the sack of sweets, while his other hefted the saddle and tightened the girth. After a minor disagreement over who was in charge, and who paid for the delicacies, Ty rode to the village livery stable, where the ostler politely doffed his cap.

Ty rode back to Miss Croft’s.

“I must apologize,” he said when she left off her study of the new cow to see why he had returned to the stable.

Perhaps he was going to rescind the invitation, Delia thought, and wished to do so out of anyone else’s hearing. Or maybe the dratted horse had tossed him. She studied the viscount carefully for injuries or grass stains, but he appeared more handsome than ever with his blond hair in disarray from the ride. Maybe he just wanted to spend more time in her company.

“And I must beg yet another favor. Will you keep Diablo here? They refuse to take him at the livery. Someone on your staff seems to have the knack of handling the brute, though, exercising him and such.”

Delia scowled at the gelding, who was lapping at a dish of ale while Ty awkwardly took the saddle off again and brushed him down. From having a brother, she knew better than to offer assistance. “Of course. We’ll manage.”

“In fact, I would be willing to hire the fellow if he is interested and if you can spare him.” He looked at Delia’s old mare, the empty spaces for the carriage horses Sir Clarence and his wife had commandeered, and the cow and the goat that now shared the stable. Anyone who could deal with Diablo was wasted here. “I’ll double his salary.”

Delia bit back a word she had overheard George once use. “I will pass that on,” she said instead.

“Are you quite sure the horse belongs to me?” Ty asked. “I would be happy to leave him here, permanently, if not. Your brother never truly gave me his mount. It was more in the manner of a loan, you know.”

Delia grinned. “And I know you are wishing both of them to Hades. But, yes, I am certain George meant you to have the horse. The fact that you rode him to town and back is proof enough he is yours.”

Ty walked back to the inn. The same road was growing tedious after five trips in one day. On the other hand, he thought he’d never be bored watching the fading light shimmer through the dark red curls that had escaped Delia’s coiled topknot. He would definitely never weary of waiting for one of those glorious smiles that showed the intriguing space between her front teeth.

* * * *

Ty walked back to Faircroft House the next day, in order to walk back to church with the ladies. The biggest gossip in the village could not find fault with that. Of course the biggest gossip in the village was Gwen, who rode in the Croft family carriage, despite living closer to St. Jerome’s. He might be on his way to church, but his lordship’s thoughts were anything but holy. For a cavalry officer, Major Tyverne was doing a deuced lot of marching: he had the sores to prove it. Worse, he went to the wrong pew. The Earls of Stivern commanded the first row of seats in at least three churches, two chapels, and a restored abbey, but this church was not one in their living. Here Dallsworth sat alone in the prestigious first pew, the only cushioned one. Squire Gannon sat, also alone, in the third pew. The Croft baronetcy merited the second, so Ty was sandwiched between two men he would cheerfully have consigned to the devil, on this the Sabbath. Worst of all for Ty’s spiritual well-being, he was seated between Miss Croft and her aunt. No, his thoughts were not at all sacred. Blisters and blackguards and beguiling smiles, by Heaven. Or not.

* * * *

Belinda’s funeral the next day was all one could have wished for—unless, of course, one wished there was no need for a funeral. There were flowers and bell ringers and fancy handles on the coffin. The day was even overcast and drizzly, befitting the solemnity of the occasion, and no one doubted Lord Tyverne had ordered that, too. Stephen Anselm returned to share the duties with the local vicar, and most of the men of the village came out for the ceremony. Belinda’s father wept copious tears: not only was he never going to see his daughter again, he was never going to see her dowry again, either.

Afterward, the men and their wives proceeded to Faircroft House. The funeral meal should by rights have been served at Squire Gannon’s, not Miss Croft’s, but Tyverne would not have accepted, had the man offered. Everyone in the village already knew of the connection anyway, so there was no more gossip than usual, and no less.

The house was so full of mourners, some had to drink Molly Whitaker’s ale outside on the lawns. Gwen fluttered through the drawing room in layers of gauzy black netting, while Sir Clarence stationed himself in the dining parlor, where plates and platters and pitchers had been set out.

Wearing her best black gown, a black lace shawl, and her mother’s locket, Delia was in looks. She was better rested than in weeks, it felt, and a certain anticipation added a glow to her smile. She accepted insincere compliments along with the insincere condolences, but held Tyverne’s unspoken yet obvious admiration in her heart like a rare orchid.

She held the baby, too. Let the self-righteous old shrews of the neighborhood see what a beautiful, precious gift Belinda had bestowed on her husband, Lord Tyverne. She moved over to where he stood with Mr. Anselm, near the fireplace. “Here, my lord, would you like to hold your daughter?”

He’d rather jump in the grave with his wife. “No, my bad arm, you know.”

“Nonsense, I have seen you riding Diablo, remember.”

Anselm was grinning. Delia was holding out the pink-wrapped bundle. Ty was sweating. “Go on, old man,” the viscount’s former friend teased. “You’ve faced down the French. How much more courage does it take to hold an infant?”

More than Ty had. He shook his head. “No, I—”

“Take her,” Delia hissed in a sharp whisper. “Hold her so they all see you are not ashamed of her.”

He let the Croft fiend—ah, female—place the baby in his arms. “Just watch her head,” she told him.

Horrified, Ty asked, “Why, is it going to fall off?” But the baby’s head stayed right where it was supposed to, and half the women dabbed at their eyes at the tender scene. The other half smirked when Melinda did what infants often did, on his lordship’s scarlet regimentals.

Well, Ty thought, now he truly had to resign his commission.

Chapter 21

He was on his way to London, at last. Ty had left behind his horse, his man, and his purse. Lud, he had not spent this much blunt in three years of soldiering. He felt as if he were financing the restoration of every building in Kent, from the church to the inn to Sir Clarence’s house to Hessie Wigmore’s cottage. He added checking on his investments to the long list of things he had to do in London.

Ty had also left his new daughter, of course and, he feared, part of his mind. He’d vowed to return in less than a week with a more comfortable carriage than this hired one, a baggage wagon, a cart to transport the cow and/or the goat, or a wet nurse if one were needed, the invitation from his sister, and more money. But he was forgetting something. The viscount did not know what it was, but some tiny detail, some lapse was niggling at the edge of his thoughts.

What he had gained from the short venture to Kent—Gads, was it less than a week?—besides a daughter, of course, was a black armband, Dover, and a dog.

“What do you mean, the animal is mine?” he’d demanded of Miss Croft when she handed him a satchel containing the creature’s brush, bowl, and leather lead.

Delia was fluffing up the dog’s white fur. “Why, she was your wife’s pet. Of course she belongs to you, as all of Belinda’s property and possessions would, if she had any. George bought the pup for Belinda before he left, so there is no question of Squire Gannon claiming her. Belinda named her Angelina to match Diablo, so it is only fitting you have both. Besides, you cannot think that Clarence means to keep her here, can you? His ill-mannered children would torment the poor little thing if he did.”

“Then you keep her.” Mindle had barely managed to make the viscount’s uniform presentable. Ty did not need the blasted thing covered in white hairs now. “That’s it, I shall deed her to you as a remembrance of your friend. A bequeathal, for your loyalty and care. Miss Gannon, Lady Tyverne, that is, would have wanted you to have the dog.”

Delia shook her head and gave the terrier one last pat. “No, she seems to have adopted you as her new owner. Cook swears Angel has gone into a decline just since you moved to the inn, she is so off her feed.”

The dog was not eating in the kitchens because Ty and Dover had fed her at the inn, the bakery, and the butcher’s. After the funeral, she’d eaten more than Sir Clarence, by Jupiter. He took the satchel, but made Dover carry the dog.

The boy, it seemed, was another of his inheritances. Ty had intended to see to Dover’s education, not become his guardian. It seemed Sir Clarence was not going to keep the foundling around, either, though, so as not to contaminate his own children with Dover’s base origins.

“Furthermore,” Miss Croft told him as she bent to straighten the boy’s cap one last time, “we took him in to run errands for Belinda, so I suppose he is as much yours as the dog is.”

So Ty had to hire the carriage, instead of riding Diablo hell-for-leather. That was the only speed the horse seemed to know, and would have suited the viscount perfectly, he was so late in getting to his brother. Instead, they had to stop every twenty minutes or so for the boy or the dog to piss.

At the second such stop, Ty got out to stretch his legs, stiff from being confined in the narrow carriage, and realized that the troubling prickle was growing worse the further they got from Faircroft. For the life of him, Ty could not think what he could have forgotten. He was too good a soldier, though, to ignore the tingle between his shoulder blades, the intuition that something was wrong.

As he paced, he went over his leave-taking: Aunt Eliza’s tears had not even given him a qualm, so enured was he; Nanny’s prayers and godspeeds had drifted past, as had Winsted’s assurances that he was on sentry duty until the major’s return. Mindle had bowed with great dignity, smoothly accepting the coin Ty passed him. And Miss Croft
...
had not believed him.

That was it. Delia did not believe Ty was corning back. Oh, she assumed he would fetch the baby eventually, and his horse sooner, he thought, but she did not credit his vows of a speedy return and a welcome for her in London. Tyverne, whose word was his bond, could not accept that anyone could doubt his sworn oath, but there it was. He’d seen the doubt shadow her green eyes, dimming their radiance. He’d accepted the polite, distant wishes for his journey. He’d missed her smile; that’s what he’d left behind.

Miss Delia Croft’s brother must have ridden off in similar fashion, amid tears and prayers and promises to return. He had not.

Miss Croft did not, therefore, trust soldiers. Or maybe men. Between Sir Clarence, Dallsworth, and Squire Gannon, she had not found a chap whose word was worth tuppence. She simply had to be taught otherwise.

He ordered the driver to turn the carriage around.

* * * *

Delia was in the stable, talking to Diablo. The conversation had cost her six carrots and a glove, but now, perhaps, the gelding did not feel as if he had been abandoned. If only a handful of vegetables could work for her.

The baby was sleeping, watched over by no less than four doting females, and Delia was alone with her thoughts, which were not good company. She might always be alone, she worried, never get to hold Melly when a new family claimed her. Never hold an infant of her own. Never know a man. Never know love. She very much feared that her best chance for any of it had just driven away in a hired coach.

He was never coming back. He’d send for Melinda, see Delia and her dependents settled with his sister, but that was all. His sense of honor and obligation would be fulfilled. Then he’d go back to the army in one capacity or the other, or take up the gay life of London Society. In a month or two, a year at the most, Lord Tyverne would forget Miss Delia Croft existed. When would she forget the image of him smiling down at her, sharing his awe at the baby he held? Never.