Betina Krahn (7 page)

“W
E SHOULD
arrive in Grantham early in the afternoon,” Jack announced as the carriage rocked along to the sound of the dozing Mercy’s adenoidal distress. “We’ll find an inn with a public room for you to rest while I inquire and make arrangements with the local vicar.”

“A bit premature, I think, to involve the clergy,” she responded.

“Not at all,” he countered. “What are the odds of
two
of your prospects being married off?”

“At the risk of repeating myself, there are more things to be considered than just eligibility. I have certain standards that must be—”

He gave a snort. “The gravy-on-the-vest test.”

“Well, you can tell a lot about a man from his eating habits.” Her eyes narrowed, daring him to meet them. He knew better than to accept that challenge. “You for instance.”

“Me?” Part of him went rigid with indignation, part of him just went rigid. Eating habits. He huffed dismissively and crossed his legs, trying to ignore the fact that his ears and his John Thomas were both itching for more.

“This morning you ate as if a wolf pack were waiting at your elbow to snatch it away.” She tilted her head to study him. “You don’t happen to have a raft of brothers at home, do you?”

“If you consider four a ‘raft,’ then I believe they qualify.”

“I take it you are not the eldest,” she said, her regard sharpening as it slid over him. “Nor the youngest.”

“I am the third of five sons, all still very much alive and well. Not that
that
means a thing. Except that St. Lawrences come from hardy stock.”

Her insightful smile said it meant more to her.

“Stuck in the middle,” she mused. “Never the first, never the last. Always being pushed somewhere by someone. That explains it.”

“Explains what, exactly?” He hated the way she openly analyzed things and drew conclusions that too often were dead-on.

“Your eating habits. Hurry, hurry, hurry. You don’t take time to
savor.
” Her gaze softened. “Have you ever slowly bitten into the yielding flesh of a warm, freshly picked peach…letting the tart flavor burst on your tongue and then turn into a sweetness that bathes your mouth and lingers for minutes afterward?” Her fingertips trailed over her chin and down her neck, carrying his gaze with them. “Ever allowed the juice to pool around your tongue and trickle lazily down your throat? Ever felt its liquid sunshine spreading warmth and vitality all through you?”

He had to clear his constricted throat.

“Food is food,” he declared, sensing he was never going to look at a peach the same way again. “Not a damned religious experience.”

“Some very wise men would disagree with that statement.
All
experiences, it has been said, have a spiritual component.”

“Well, I can think of a few things that would challenge that notion.” He pulled a sour face. “Your cook’s tripe-and-turnip sandwich, for one.”

She burst into laughter so clear and genuine that it was almost musical. Mercy started awake and sat up blinking. The gape on the old girl’s face added to the moment and he gave in to a wry chuckle himself.

“I’ll concede your point on Aggie’s tripe-and-turnips, but on the greater truth I remain firm,” she said, grinning. “But taking time to enjoy the small pleasures—food and drink, music, color, symmetry, texture—contributes to a sense of balance, and thus to a long, healthy life.” Her mirth muted to a warmth that clutched at something in his chest. “What do you enjoy, Jack St. Lawrence? Besides kissing.”

“R-Really, Mrs. Eller—” He glanced from her to Mercy, horrified by the interest on the old woman’s face.

“Naught to be squeamish about.” Mercy grinned, showing missing teeth. “Ain’t a man under eighty don’t like layin’ one on a handsome lass.”

Only somewhat reassured that Mercy’s statement had not implied knowledge of his behavior with her mistress, he tugged on his vest and shifted bum cheeks on the seat.

“Horses. I have a great interest in horses, and the mechanicals that replace them…locomotives and steam-powered carriages.” He glanced at her defensively, as if expecting her to laugh. When she didn’t, he found himself wanting to continue. “I am also interested in the engineering of electrical inventions like the telephone, the telegraph and streetlamps.”

“So, you’re a man who likes to understand the inner workings of things,” she mused.

“I suppose that could be said.”

“We have more in common than you might imagine. What else do you like? Clearly, you’re a devotee of hunting and the ‘manly’ sports.”

He studied her for a moment, seeing a genuine curiosity in her face, and was struck by a desire to tell her the truth.

“Not really. I confess to a love of the craftsmanship of a well-made gun, but I’ve never been fond of the bloody mess they make. Not overly pleased by what hounds do to foxes, either.”

“And yet, you ride with the prince and hunt with him.”

“Family tradition.” He glanced out the window to avoid the probing of her gaze. “My elder brothers hunted with the prince. Each was tasked with the prince’s well-being and served his interests. Now it’s my turn.”

“And your elder brothers, where are they now?” she asked.

“Settled in advantageous marriages on handsome estates.” A perverse impulse made him add, “Which is where I should be soon, providing—”

He halted, horrified. He was barking mad to have revealed so much. And madder still to reveal that what he truly hunted in the prince’s company was advancement via
marriage.

“Providing you can find a suitably ‘advantageous’ bride?” she finished for him with an alarming spark in her eyes.

“A
proper
bride,” he corrected.
Proper,
of course, meaning one who was noble or wealthy enough to add to the family prestige. It was his duty.

She studied him for what seemed an age.

“Well, it seems we’re both in the market for matrimony,” she said.

“We are?” Mercy, watching between them, turned to stare open-mouthed at her. “Yer gettin’ married, miz? Whatever for?”

Disarmed by Mercy’s blunt question and expectation of an answer, Mariah scrambled to hold on to some semblance of authority.

“There are certain…practical considerations…that require forging a new…partnership.” She lifted her chin with a censuring look, but nothing short of a brickbat could have prevented the old girl’s response.

“Well, why don’t ye just go to one o’ them bankers, like
before?” Mercy shook her head. “Ye don’t have to go an’ get—”

“Mercy!” Mariah’s face reddened as she drew her line in the sand. “There are a
few
things in my life that are not open for discussion with you.”

Mercy scowled and scratched beneath the bonnet ribbons under her chin. Then she managed to put one and one together.

“So, ye’re husband huntin’? That’s what’s got us traipsin’ all over?”

Mariah sighed tautly. “I am interviewing prospects.” Then as the old girl drew breath to speak, Mariah deflated her with a glare. “And,
no,
I do not need advice, thank you.”

Mercy turned to the window, her chin jutting at a stubborn angle. The way Mariah stole glances at her pouting servant made Jack reflect on what sort of woman kept old servants on past usefulness and indulged their cheek.

One who was bright enough to recognize the paradoxes of humanity. One who was complicated enough herself to know that the truth lay well beneath the surface of things. One whose vibrant, unselfconscious laughter could light up a coach. An inn. A life.

To combat the hollow, hungry feeling spreading in his chest, he leaned back into the corner of the carriage and propped his hat over his face.

Don’t think about how she makes you want to hear that laughter again. Don’t think about how chocolaty she tasted and how firm and full she felt in your hands. Or about garters…silk stockings…sleek thighs…breasts spilling over a lacy corset…whatever you do, don’t think about the way she responded when she parted her legs and fitted herself against your swollen John—DAMN IT!

He groaned silently.

He was in big trouble.

T
HE CARRIAGE
made good time on unseasonably dry and stable roads, so they arrived at the town of Grantham in time to pause for a bolstering bit of tea while Jack made inquiries as to Clapford’s location.

“The house is not far down the Cambridge Road,” he said with forced good humor as he escorted the women to the coach. “I have a good feeling about this one. Half an hour and your search will be over.”

After he handed Mercy up the steps and turned to assist Mariah, she paused for a moment and lowered her voice.

“I’ve been thinking about that,” she said. “To make the most of my
opportunities,
I think I should see all three of my remaining prospects before deciding.” At such close range it was impossible not to notice his color drain.

“The devil, you will. That could take days,
weeks.
” He looked alarmed, then accusing. “You promised to marry within a fortnight.”

“
If
I find the right man,” she said, having the unsettling thought that the moment she married, his job with her was finished. As was her cherished independence, she told herself, forcing thoughts of him aside.

“Clapford is the right man. He’s rich. Or soon will be.”

“That’s
your
criterion for a mate,” she said pointedly, “not
mine.
”

He reddened, but shook off the barb.

“It’s a sight more rational than the number of gravy stains on a weskit.” He waved her up the carriage steps with a sweaty hand. “Trust me. You’ll be a baroness-in-waiting by nightfall.”

And if I’m not?
she asked with her eyes.

His whole body flushed hot when she brushed against him on the way up the step and he felt that damned special license crinkle again.

C
LAPFORD
H
OUSE
proved to be a sizeable, plain-brick country house sitting on a knoll totally devoid of trees. The grass of what must at one time have been a proud lawn had gone to seed, and clumps of scrub growth and tall weeds grew randomly about the place. The singular feature of the house’s approach was a large garden pond that had a vine-wrapped fountain at the center. Knee-deep in the pond were a man in rubber boots and three bare-legged boys with reddened hands full of weeds and muck.

As the coach drew near, Jack lowered the window and they heard the man barking orders as he pointed and sloshed about in the water.

“It’s October,” Mariah said, shivering at the chilled air coming through the window. “What are they doing in the pond at this time of year?”

“Freezin’ their arses off,” Mercy muttered, crowding in for a look.

Jack bolted down the steps the moment the coach stopped at the unadorned entrance to the house. It took prolonged and vehement banging before the knockerless door finally opened to reveal an aged houseman in the shadowy interior, blinking at the brightness surrounding Jack.

“John St. Lawrence to see Mr. Clapford. Please tell him I am here on
royal
business.”

The old man sighed heavily and then pushed past Jack to trudge out across the gravel carriage turn, headed for the pond. Scowling, Jack looked back at Mariah and Mercy, who had just exited the coach with the driver’s help. They caught his puzzlement and hurried over to stand with him.

“Sarr’s got a visitor!” the old boy shouted hoarsely. He gave an arthritic wave and tried again. “Says ‘roy-al business!’”

The man in the pond stopped shouting and stomping long enough to cup his ear toward the old houseman.
“Loyal what?”

So the man in the pond was Clapford? Mariah thought.

“Royal…business!”

“Heeey, I got one!” One of the boys held up a large orange-and-black spotted fish that flopped sluggishly in the cold. “Make a fine supper!”

Clapford thunked him sharply on the top of the head.

“That’s
my
fish, you git!” He pointed to a wooden barrel on the bank. “Put it in the barrel!” As Clapford stalked toward the bank he fumed, “This damned well better be important. You lot—” he motioned for the boys to stay when they started to follow him out of the water “—I didn’t say you could quit. I want every fish out of this pond by the time I come back. I know exactly how many there are, and they’d better
all
be there!”

“But, it’s freezin’—” The smallest boy’s complaint was silenced by Clapford’s glare.

The baron-to-be waded out and stalked toward them with his aged woolen frock coat and his battered boots flapping. He was tall, lean and graying, with an aesthetic mien and features pinched into a perpetual frown.

“Yes?” He stopped in front of Jack, propped his fists on his waist, and assessed Jack’s fashionable appearance with suspicion. “What’s this about a royal matter?” Before Jack
could respond, he demanded, “Who are you? Am I supposed to know you?”

“I don’t believe we’ve met. John St. Lawrence, at your service.” Jack tipped his hat. “A friend of the Prince of Wales. And Baron Marchant.”

“Marchant? That gadfly?” Clapford snorted. “The prince?” He apparently reconsidered his rudeness, for he offered a grudging nod. “What does the young reprobate want with me?”

“May I present Mrs. Mariah Eller,” Jack said with a strained smile.

Clapford gave an impatient nod in her general direction.

“Bertie is very fond of gardens, you know,” she inserted, striving for a pleasant tone while studying the stony, unyielding man being offered up as her husband and master.

Hardly an auspicious start, she thought as she suffered a prescient glimpse of the life that awaited the woman who became the wretch’s wife. Forty years of mind-numbing misery flashed before her eyes.

Her heart sank, revealing the hope growing like a weed among her carefully cultivated defenses. Partnership. Desire. Passion. She wouldn’t be having such pointless thoughts if it weren’t for Bickering’s sentimental ramblings on marriage.

And Jack’s revelation of his own marital ambitions.

“Bertie is putting in a new pond at Sandringham,” she said, glancing at Jack to demand support for another of her spontaneous fictions. “And he asked us to stop by and see your fish. He’s heard so much about them.”

“The idiots damn near let the lot die while I was gone.” Clapford scowled over his shoulder at the boys shivering in the thigh-deep water. “Good thing I left London early. They’d done nothing to prepare for winter. Could lose half of my beauties before it’s over.”

“Not to mention a few servant boys,” she added archly.

Her comment didn’t earn her so much as a look, but Clapford’s long nose curled on one side as if he smelled something disagreeable.

“Deserve what they get, leaving my fish to freeze.” He raised his chin, addressing Jack alone. “So the prince wants some of my golden koi, does he? Well, he’ll have to pay for them. This isn’t the bloody middle ages, you know, when forest, fish and fowl all belonged to the crown.”

“I am certain the prince would wish you to get all that is coming to you,” Mariah said sweetly. “I must have a look at these ‘beauties’ you prize so.” She pulled Mercy along with her to the pond.

Clapford didn’t notice the sparks in her eyes or the force of her stride as she walked away. Jack, however, made note of both…as well as the tension in her spine and the set of her jaw. He groaned privately as he endured Clapford’s ramblings about fish pedigrees and the outrage of a royal making demands on a member of parliament.

This was not going to end in matrimony. He could just tell.

Not that he could blame her. Clapford was an oaf. Pompous and irascible…had about as much humanity as a slab of granite. And what kind of lout refused even to look at a beautiful woman, much less respond to her?

Gazing past the self-absorbed near-peer, he watched Mariah examine the fish in the barrels and smile warmly as she talked to the boys. The little wretches responded eagerly to her, gazing up at her as if she were made of pure sunshine. He felt a curious tug in his chest. When she sent Mercy bustling back to the coach and the maid returned with a dented pink pasteboard box, he couldn’t help a wry smile.

Clapford finally realized Jack was staring past him to the pond and hitched about to see what was taking place.

“What in infernal blazes—”

The baron-to-be went charging back down to the water to send the boys back to work. He was intercepted by Mariah, who offered him a piece of chocolate and then matched him move for move, blocking his way.

Jack could see veins popping out in Clapford’s neck as Mariah refused to step aside. He winced as she turned back to the boys and insisted that each take another piece of chocolate before going back to their bone-chilling work.

Typical of her. Taking charge. Sticking her nose where it wasn’t wanted. Wry pleasure washed through him. She was indeed a handful.

“A man’s servants are a man’s own business,” Clapford declared.

“And a man’s treatment of his servants is a measure of a man’s character,” she responded, stepping forward with her chin up, forcing him back into the water. “By which standard, sir, you are sorely lacking.”

In the space of a heartbeat, Clapford brandished a fist to punctuate his response, and she—thinking she would be struck—countered with a defensive shove. Caught off guard and off balance, the future baron fell back into the cold water with a huge splash.

By the time Jack reached them, there was nothing to be done but pull Mariah away from the water and watch Clapford flail and struggle to rise—to the sound of the servant boys’ laughter. Water poured down the baron’s face and dripped from his coat as he staggered, cursing, onto the bank.

Jack tried to apologize, offering him a handkerchief and calling it a dreadful accident, but the baron-to-be was beyond such appeasement. He focused on Mariah with fury in his eyes and declared he’d not take such insolence from a
female,
no matter how well-connected she was.

Clapford made for her with clenched fists, but Jack stepped into his path and the future-baron confronted his broad-shouldered frame instead. Cursing, Clapford tried to push past him, but Jack grabbed and held him by his dripping coat.

“Think, man—be sensible about this,” Jack growled.

The baron’s fist came up…Jack’s left arm shot up to block that blow and his right countered with a punch to the center of Clapford’s face…and Clapford went flying back into the pond.

For a shocked moment the only sound was water lapping. Then Clapford thrashed to the surface and sat gasping in pain and holding his nose. Jack stood on the bank above him, breathing hard, his tone making the pond water seem warm by comparison.

“A bit of advice, Clapford. Never raise your hand to a lady—especially one with highly placed friends. You would find mending a broken career a great deal harder than mending a broken nose.”

He stalked back to Mariah and ushered her and Mercy firmly to the coach, shouting to the driver to get underway.

No one spoke as the coach rattled down the ill-paved drive. As they made the turn onto the Cambridge Road, Mariah emerged from her shock enough to spring to the window for a look back. Mercy trampled on Jack’s toes to join her. Clapford was standing in the carriage turn, shaking a fist after them. When Mariah slid back into her seat, Jack was staring at her.

“You
hit
him,” she said in a shocked half whisper.

“I did. Yes.” He took a deep breath, set his hat aside, and started to remove his damp gloves.

“A right proper facer, sarr.” Mercy beamed fresh respect.

“He brought up a fist—I…I thought he was going to strike me,” Mariah said, still trying to grasp how such a calamitous string of events could have happened. “He very nearly
did.
If
you hadn’t—” She paused for breath and composure. “All I did was suggest he consider the health of his servants as important as that of his blessed fish…that he show a bit of common decency.”

“Expecting
common
decency from the
nobility?
” Jack’s brows rose. “How eccentric of you.”

“It is not ridiculous to expect people of rank and responsibility to behave with reason and restraint.” She bristled. “Did you see those boys? As blue from bruises as they were from cold. Was I supposed to just stand there and let him thrash me the way he does his stable boys? Someone has to stand up to overprivileged bullies.”

“Does that someone always have to be you?” he countered irritably.

Of course it did.

It was part of who she was, he realized, somewhat rattled by the conclusion. Standing up to arrogant, overprivileged noblemen was exactly what she would do—
what she had done that first night at the inn.

“She’s a good miztress, sarr,” Mercy defended her earnestly. “Got a fair an’ gen’rous heart.”

She felt a personal responsibility for the people in her employ, which was why she had inserted herself into the hunting party’s hazardous company. He glanced at the rotund maid whom she treated more like a dotty old aunt than a domestic. She had stood up for her people and her property and placed herself in harm’s way on their behalf.

The contents of his chest felt as if they were sinking toward his knees. Despite the pain in his hand, at that moment he’d have punched a thousand vile barons on her behalf…a few hundred M.P.s…sundry earls, marquesses and dukes…even a
prince.

His heart stopped.

Dear God. What was he thinking?

That she was a woman of substance, of surprising depths, courage and conviction. That the prince truly had gotten a mistaken notion of her character, just as she’d said. And that
he
was partly responsible.

M
ARIAH
watched the play of strong emotions in Jack’s face and guessed that he was thinking about potential consequences.

“Might this get you into trouble?” she said, feeling a stir of guilt.

“An assault on a sitting member of parliament? Whatever gives you that idea?” he said with an edge, brushing at the water spots on his trousers. “Clapford has a vile temper, but I doubt he will make an issue of this.” She watched him reason it through and set aside his concern. “He won’t want a report of his conduct to get around. Though it probably wouldn’t come as a surprise to any who know him. Men don’t lash out in anger like that unless it is from habit.”

“So, he behaves that way as a normal course,” she said with dismay. “If that is the way he treats a woman he’s only just met, imagine what he has in store for the one who is legally bound to honor and obey him.”

A twitch in his jaw let her know her point struck home. He didn’t respond with his usual verbal parry and his expression hinted he was more affected than he revealed. Was it too much to hope that he might have second thoughts about inflicting a husband on her?

She watched him test his right hand, flex it and wince. Her breath caught in her throat. His knuckles were swelling.

He had defended her.

She relived in her mind’s eye the moment when he’d slammed into Clapford to keep him from reaching her…the way his big frame braced and strained…the fierce determination in his face. The elemental female in her savored the
raw male power that had come to her defense. The rational woman in her wanted to express how grateful she was. But the feminine heart of her wanted to curl up around that battered hand and soothe—

A well-timed shiver claimed the rest of that thought. She forced her gaze away from him, and it fell on her cold, sodden footwear.

“My shoes.” She hiked her skirt to the top of her nine-button boot. “I didn’t realize I’d stepped into the water. They’re wet through and through.”

Mercy bent to feel the leather. “We got to get ye out o’ them, miz.” She patted the seat beside her, then reached into her carpet bag for a button hook. “Set yer feet up here. We’ll get ye warmed right up.”