Barbara Metzger (10 page)

Scully was coming out of the kitchens, wiping his mouth, when he spotted Juneclaire in the dark hallway with her hands full. Before she could begin to guess his intent, he grabbed hold of her and was slobbering damp kisses on her neck and cheek as she struggled to avoid his mouth on hers.

“Come on, pet, it’s Christmas. Give a fellow a kiss now.”

It was all of a piece that such a self-inflated shopkeeper as Mrs. Coglin would have a loose screw for a footman. Juneclaire didn’t have a darning needle about her person, so she pushed at him, but he was too strong. Or the ale he’d been drinking was.

“What’s the matter, lovey? Who’re you saving it for? That last gent couldn’t’ve been any good if he sent you on the road. Scully’ll show you a better time.”

What Scully showed her was that he was bigger, so she’d better be quicker. Scully was Mrs. Coglin’s servant; let
him
carry the blessed restorative, drip by sticky, sugary, reddish drip. Down his face, down his shirt, down his ardor.

Now she couldn’t go on with the Coglins.

Juneclaire fetched her bag and left the inn just as that noisy family was departing. A gaunt woman with an infant in her arms was trying to herd her brood onto the back of an open wagon half filled with boxes and bundles and two chickens in a crate. The father chewed on the stem of his pipe and patted the workhorses hitched in front while he waited. The patient beasts’ noses were pointed west, toward Strasmere, toward Stanton Hall.

“Pardon, sir, but could I ride along with you for a bit? I can pay my way, and I won’t mind sitting in the back with the children.”

Juneclaire was going home. Uncle Avery would never let her be thrown on the dole, and Aunt Marta would just have to take her back. It might be too optimistic to hope Lady Stanton would appreciate her niece more, now that she had a day or two of running the Hall by herself, but no matter. Juneclaire was good at it. What she wasn’t good at, it seemed, was facing the world on her own. She wasn’t quite that brave, no matter what Merry thought.

Despite what she saw as a grievous flaw in her character, and a disappointment to Merry if he should find out, Juneclaire was determined not to be cowed by her relations. She would
not
marry a fusty old man of her aunt’s selection, not after turning down the most handsome, most intriguing rake in England. She would
not
be harassed by her cousins, not after routing Scully, and not after spending a night safe and unafraid in the arms of a true gentleman.

Juneclaire pulled the little runny-nosed moppet toward her and curled up on the hard wooden wagon bed, her satchel under her head as a pillow. She’d just rest after her adventures, and she would
not
cry.

S
t. Cloud thought he’d leave the pig. Then he thought of trying to convince Miss Beaumont that he was a worthy candidate for her hand without that blasted pig in his. There was no way he could look into those soulful brown eyes and tell her that he’d found Pansy a good home. Not when he was bound to recall Ned’s thin frame and hungry, hopeful expression every time the boy glanced at the porker.

Then the earl had to consider that he couldn’t spring the horses without seeing if pigs really could fly. Those little trotters weren’t meant for clinging to a swaying bench going sixteen miles an hour, nor was St. Cloud willing to dawdle. Neither could he manage the chestnuts, fresh as they were, with one hand.

Rope, that’s what he needed. Ned almost lost his front teeth, grinning at the impatient nobleman, but he did fetch a coil of hemp. St. Cloud made a harness of sorts, looping the rope under Pansy’s legs, across her belly, and over her chest, around her neck, meeting in a sailor’s knot on her back. The other end was snubbed to the arm rail, over Pansy’s vociferous protests. The shoat was even more unhappy when, not three yards from the barn door, she slid off the seat to dangle inches from the wheels, all four feet kicking in the air. The volume of noise coming from the baby swine was far out of proportion to her size and was only equalled by St. Cloud’s curses.

“Is there a crate around, boy?” he demanded of Ned, who was thrilled to be enlarging his vocabulary. Ned shook his head, then learned a few more new words.

St. Cloud gave up. He unbuttoned his greatcoat and stuffed the piglet into his waistcoat. Pansy stopped complaining immediately. The earl rebuttoned all but two middle buttons of the outer garment so Pansy could stick her snout out and breathe. No one in London would believe this.

No one in Bramley would either.

 

It had surely been an eventful Christmas morn in the little village: that widow screeching about highwaymen; then Charlie Parrett riding in facedown, and a slip of a thing running off to London to save herself from a fate worse than death, now this bedlamite. The fellows brimming with Christmas cheer in the inn’s taproom couldn’t decide if the raggedy chap with the thunderous look was Charlie’s killer and confederate, a rapist, or just a raving maniac. Then the hostler who led the horses away reported a well-known crest on the curricle. Worse yet, he was Satan St. Cloud.

Now, coincidences were one thing, but not one of the men gathered at the bar doubted for an instant that all the day’s unlikely events circled around this nasty-looking nobleman like steel bits near a magnet. From his reputation and the ugly bruise on his face, they assumed he’d helped Charlie Parrett to the big poaching preserve in purgatory. From his reputation and his query about a missing young lady, they knew he was bent on having his way with the chit. Not in Bramley, he wouldn’t, not when jobs were scarce and prices were high, with him closing down the old quarry and shutting down the wood mill, and half the farmers paying him rent without ever getting to speak their piece about repairs or crops. They dealt with his uncle or his agents, and that wasn’t half right. St. Cloud sure wasn’t going to be helped in his hellraking, not when many of the local families sent their girls to the Priory to be maids and such. Not even rounds for the bar loosened tongues.

They drank his ale and watched out of the corners of their eyes when he poured his mug into a saucer and fed it to the pig. His reputation or not, none of them could figure out about the pig. None of the locals had any truck with the gentry anyway—queerer than Dick’s hatband, all of ’em.

St. Cloud ordered breakfast for two and carried his mug and the pig’s dish over to a table to wait, to think about his next move. On the way, he saw himself in the cracked mirror over the bar—and shuddered. Black hair sticking at all angles, purple bruises on his cheek and chin, no cravat whatsoever, and two days’ growth of dark beard—it was no wonder the sots at the bar wouldn’t give him the time of day. They most likely thought he’d steal it from them! In London the earl shaved morning and evening, bathed at least as often if he was riding or boxing or fencing, and changed his clothes from buckskins to pantaloons to formal knee breeches without a second thought. His valet, Todd, was liable to go off in an apoplexy if he saw the earl in such a state. Then he’d quit.

The citizens of Bramley might be more forthcoming if he didn’t look like Dick Turpin, and he’d feel better, too, the earl decided after a satisfying breakfast of beef-steak and kidney pie, potatoes, hot muffins, and coffee. Pansy did not care for the coffee, so he drank hers also. Then he addressed the landlord about a room to wash and shave in. Money still opened some doors, he was relieved to note, although he was forced to rent the room for a day and night, payment in advance. No amount of money was going to see Pansy up the innkeeper’s stairs, so St. Cloud tied her to his chair and tossed a coin to the barkeep to keep her ale flowing.

There wasn’t much he could do about the bruise. Todd would have some concoction to cover it up, but he was at the Priory, likely steaming imaginary wrinkles out of St. Cloud’s evening attire. And there was no hope for the caped greatcoat. It would have to be burned. St. Cloud could wash, at least, and didn’t cut himself too badly with the borrowed razor. The serving wench who brought the hot water managed to find a cravat somewhere, likely some other guest’s room, he didn’t doubt from the way she quickly tucked his coin down her bodice. There, now he felt presentable again.

The maid must have thought so, too, for she stayed to admire the earl’s broad shoulders and cleft chin.

“I don’t suppose you know anything about a young woman wearing a gray cloak, do you?” he asked her, thinking she might be interested in talking.

That’s not what Betty was interested in at all. She shook her head. Foolish chit, refusing the likes of this top drawer. So what if he looked like storm clouds; he was generous, wasn’t he? A girl could do worse. “Why don’t you stay the night and I’ll ask around? Maybe I’ll find something out, or maybe you’ll forget about looking. The room’s paid for anyways.”

The earl smiled at her, if you could call a cold half sneer by that name, and walked by her without commenting. Something in his bleak look made Betty call after him, “I heard she came through town early, but she never came by the inn that I saw. You might try the church.”

St. Cloud didn’t know if the suggestion was for the sake of his immortal soul, his manhood, or his quest for Juneclaire, but he had nowhere else to try.

He gathered up a sleeping pig, a sack of potato peelings and yesterday’s muffins, and proceeded to the church.

The second Christmas service was in progress; maybe Juneclaire was inside praying. He eagerly stepped over the threshold, then halted. Not even the Earl of St. Cloud would bring a pig to church. Pansy barely roused when he tied her to the hitching rail outside, between a dappled mare drowsing over a feed bag and a fat, shaggy pony harnessed to a cart decorated with greenery and red ribbons. St. Cloud scattered a few muffins near the piglet just in case she woke up hungry—she always woke up hungry; in case she woke up, period—and fed one to the pony. Then he went into the little church and took a seat near the rear.

Now Merritt Jordan was not one for practicing religion on a regular basis, but never since his school days had he sat on bare wooden pews with the reprobates and recalcitrants avoiding the preacher’s eye. He scowled, and his neighbors on the bench scooted over. That was one benefit of two days in the same clothes, he told himself, and sharing them half that time with a pig. Now he was free to stare at the backs of the worshipers ahead of him, those too well bred to turn around to look at the latecomer.

There was Cantwell in the first pew, the one with the carved aisle piece. St. Cloud wagered old Hebert’s fat behind wasn’t on any hard bench. He’d have soft cushions for himself and his family while the rest of the congregation, his people, wriggled and writhed in discomfort. Cantwell’s wife was the broad-beamed lady beside him with the stuffed white bird mounted on her bonnet. What kind of hypocrite killed a dove for Christmas? he thought maliciously, flicking his gaze over the rest of Cantwell’s party: two washed-out blond misses, a sandy-haired youth.

The earl studied each rear view in the church. There were five ladies with gray mantles, but two had gray hair, one had black, another was suckling an infant under the cloak, and the last one’s head barely reached over the pew in front. Of the brunets, in case Junco had removed her cloak, only one was of the right height and slimness, with erect posture and neatly coiled braids. He stared at the woman’s back, willing her to turn around. She did and gave him a wink from one of her crossed eyes.

The minister was stumbling over “the Lord coming among us this day,” and the choir was singing the final hymn. St. Cloud turned his back to study the stained-glass windows as the parishioners filed out after the recessional. When the foot shuffling and whispers had passed, the earl turned and approached the doorway, where the vicar was shaking the last hands.

“A word with you, Reverend, if you don’t mind? I’ll only take a minute of your time.”

Mr. Broome nodded, pushing the spectacles back up his nose. He led the way back down the church aisle and out a side door to a covered walk leading to the manse.

When they were seated in the vicar’s office, the earl declined a politely offered sherry, knowing the reverend must be wishing him to the Devil, with his Christmas dinner growing cold.

“To be brief, sir, I was told you might have information about a young woman passing through here this morning.”

Mr. Broome polished his glasses. The earl ground his teeth. When the spectacles were wiped to the gray-haired man’s satisfaction, he looked up at his caller and asked, “And who might you be?”

The earl was trying his damnedest to hold his temper in check. “Merritt Jordan,” he replied, thinking to keep his unsavory St. Cloud reputation as far away from Juneclaire as possible.

The vicar blinked, then blinked again. Yes, he had that look of his father and uncle before him. Broome had grown up with the Jordans. But the young earl was said to be an intelligent man, among other things. How could he suppose that a vicar who got his living from the family would not instantly recognize his patron’s name? Didn’t Reverend Broome pray for St. Cloud’s reform and redemption every night?

“Ah, what might you want with the young lady, if I might ask?”

St. Cloud bit back a curse. He was not in the habit of explaining his actions to anyone, yet he knew he wasn’t going to hear a word until he reassured the old dodderer. “Nothing havey-cavey, I swear. I intend to marry the girl.”

Thank you, Lord. The vicar raised his head with a smile. “Do you, now?”

“As soon as I find her, damn it. Excuse me, vicar. You can perform the ceremony yourself to see it’s all on the square, if you just tell me where Miss Beaumont is.”

Positively beaming now, Mr. Broome rose and poured out a glass of the unwanted sherry. “I’ll just go speak with Mrs. Broome for a moment. She’s the one who saw the young lady off, you know. She wasn’t happy about such a sweet young thing out on her own, going to London, so she’ll be pleased as punch to make your acquaintance. I’ll just be a second, my lord.”