Danice Allen (2 page)

“There would have been speculations, whispered rumors,” suggested Nan. “Your father would have found that sort of thing … unpleasant.”

“How pleasant has it been for my brother, or sister? Practically imprisoning the poor thing, with no idea who he is, with no one to love him but a servant who may or may not be kind!” Amanda shook her head vehemently. “I shudder to think my father’s conscience was so easily mollified by sending off fifty pounds every other month, then never giving the poor little merry-begotten another thought!”

“Amanda Jane!” exclaimed the aunts in unison, surprised by her loose language.

Amanda stopped her furious pacing and turned to face her aunts. “Do you realize that no money has been sent to Thornfield Cottage since March and it is now the fifth of October?”

“Have there been no letters from Thornfield Cottage requesting money of your father?” asked Prissy.

“According to Father’s letter, the caretaker was never told the family name or given the directions to this house. Father’s instructions to me were to continue the same practice as long as I deemed it necessary—basing my decision on yearly visits in the spring to Mrs. Grimshaw at a prearranged spot away from Thornfield Cottage—or to simply quit sending the money if I chose to ignore the situation. It sounds like he never once clapped eyes on the child.” She shook her head. “And he must have thought me as heartless as he if he thought I could act in a similarly cold and businesslike manner.”

“What are you going to do, Amanda Jane?” asked Nan. “Obviously you are gravely concerned about the child.”

Amanda felt a calmness wash over her even as she drummed up the courage to speak. “I’m going to fetch the child and bring it here.”

“You’re going to do
what
?” Once again the aunts were in fine voice and completely unified.

“Well, why shouldn’t I? I’ve led a proper life, looking up to my parents as shining examples of how to behave. And look where’s it’s got me! I’m quite on the shelf, as stuffy and joyless as my parents ever were. Did you see them exchange one tender look, aunts? Did she ever straighten his cravat? Did he ever stroke her cheek or allow his hand to linger at her waist once he’d guided her through the door? Never!”

“They did not approve of public displays of affection, I daresay,” offered Prissy, not very convincingly.

“Nor private, either, I’d wager,” said Amanda. “Once Mother gave birth to me, they probably never again shared a warming pan. I shan’t let my life be dictated any longer by my parents’ notions of what’s proper. I’m going to go immediately and find out what’s happened to that child and then rescue it from Father and Mother’s so-called charity.”

“People might think the child is yours,” suggested Nan in a quiet voice.

“I don’t give a blessed fig what people think of me anymore,” announced Amanda, moving to the bellpull by the fireplace and giving it a vigorous tug. “I only want to do what’s right for the child, and the gossips be hanged.”

Prissy wrung her hands with feverish intensity. “What’s right for the child might not include bringing it here, Amanda Jane. Are you perhaps thinking of yourself a little? Have you wanted a brother or sister to care for?”

Amanda was brought up short. Was she being selfish? Did she want a brother or sister to share this massive house with her? Did she want a child to raise, since she apparently wasn’t destined for marriage and children of her own? She loved her aunts, but they’d not be around forever. And even now, they couldn’t fill a need in her that grew stronger every day…. Would a child, a sibling, fill that void?

“I’m not going to worry about my motives right now, aunts,” she told them. “Time is of the essence. Who knows what’s happened to that child since the money stopped coming. Once I’ve made sure of the child’s well-being, I’ll give considerable thought to the future.”

The door opened, and the butler entered the room.

“You rang, miss?”

“Yes, Henchpenny. I need you to make some arrangements for me. I’m going on a trip.”

“To the village, miss?”

“No, Henchpenny, this will be a long trip. I may be gone several days.”

He did not blink an eye, although Amanda hadn’t ventured much beyond Edenbridge since her miserable season in London four years ago. “You’ll need the traveling chaise then, miss. How many outriders will you require?”

“Only two. Harley and Joe will do nicely. If Theo complains, simply tell him I’ll drive myself.”

The butler’s lips twitched. “Yes, miss. I make no doubt that such a threat will secure Mister Theo’s immediate cooperation. And shall I tell your abigail to pack for the both of you?”

“No, Henchpenny,” said Amanda, stooping to retrieve the letter from where it still reposed on the floor. When she stood up again her face felt flushed, but whether it was from dipping her head or from the exhilaration of the new sense of freedom that surged through her veins, she wasn’t sure. And she didn’t care. “No, Henchpenny,” she began again. “Tell Iris to pack only for me.”

The aunts gave a collective gasp.

Henchpenny was beginning to look baffled and disapproving. “Er … may I tell Iris to pack for Miss Nancy and Miss Priscilla, then?”

“No, you may not. I’m going alone.”

“Amanda Jane, this is foolishness!” exclaimed Prissy.

Nan pushed herself up from the sofa. “It’s too dangerous to go alone. If you insist on going, I’ll go with you.”

“I wouldn’t dream of exposing you to such an arduous journey, Aunt. And, as the mission I’ll be on is of a rather delicate nature, the less people involved the better.” Amanda turned to Henchpenny. “I give permission to my aunts to explain to you where I’m going and why, but that’s as far as I wish the story to spread. I’m counting on all three of you to be very discreet. Of course I must confide in Theo, too, but no one else. When I return from Thorney Island, hopefully with someone with me, we’ll decide what the next best step should be. Does everyone understand?”

By now, Henchpenny was looking thoroughly perplexed. “I shall strive to, miss,” he murmured.

“Now hurry along, Henchpenny,” said Amanda as she breezed by him into the hall. “I want to leave before dark, and it’s already half past four. There’s a full moon tonight, and unless it rains, we’ll be able to drive quite long after sunset. I’ll stop at a roadside inn around midnight, then resume my journey on the morrow. And do get rid of that Friday face, Henchpenny. All will be well.”

As Amanda’s quick footsteps echoed down the hall, Henchpenny turned to the aunts. “Pardon me, ladies, but what the devil has come over the mistress?”

“You might well ask, Henchpenny,” said Nan with a raised brow. “See to the mistress’s traveling arrangements, and Miss Priscilla and I will be happy to explain.”

Henchpenny stalked away, his heavy brow still furrowed in a deep frown. The aunts watched him go, then turned to each other and nodded their heads sagely.

“I was wondering when some of
our
side of the family would show up in the chit,” said Nan. “I was beginning to fear that father of hers had completely ruined her, just as he ruined Clorinda.”

“You know, Nan,” said Prissy, her eyes taking on a dreamy quality, “now that I’ve given it some thought, I think I shall
like
having a child about the house.”

“Yes,” agreed Nan with a decided nod. “A child would be even better than a seaside holiday.”

The tiny country pub called The Spotted Dog was filled with smoke and smelled of liquor, sweat, and cow manure. Jackson Montgomery, Viscount Durham, slumped in his chair and counted the empty tumblers on the table in front of him. It was becoming rather difficult to focus, and he greatly feared that he was counting some tumblers twice.

“Tha’s one, tha’s two, tha’s three—”

“Fifteen. Thirty-four. Ninety-nine. What does it matter how many you drink, Jack?” was the devil-may-care question posed by his traveling companion and best friend, Robert Hamilton. “I say, eat, drink, and be merry, old chap, because tomorrow you …
marry.”

“You’re so right,” said Jack, squinting across the table and seeing two of his friend instead of one … two heads of blond curls styled à la cherubim, two choirboy faces with blue eyes and long lashes. “But why don’t you join, me, ol’ chap. You’ve only had a couple, Robbie.”

“I’m
not getting married, Jack. You’re the
lucky
one.

Jack frowned. “I do believe you’re hoaxin’ me, Rob.”

“Drink up, Jack!” said Rob in a bracing tone. “Finish your brew and I’ll call the barkeep for another.”

Obediently, Jack took another long drink from his tumbler of Blue Ruin, then wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “Bad form to
shtagger
down the aisle, don’t ya know.”

“Pooh, Jack,” said Rob, waving a hand—or was that two hands?—dismissively. “You’ve got Charlotte in your hip pocket, just like every other chit in London. She’ll be waiting for you at the altar whether you dance, march or fly down the aisle. Wish’t I had your way with the ladies,” he added with grudging good humor.

Jack took another drink. “Charlotte likes you, Rob.”

“Not as well as she likes you.”

“Only wish’t I liked her as well as she likes me,” observed Jack morosely.

“If you don’t love her, Jack, why don’t you leave her to me?”

“Don’t think I’ll ever fall in love, Rob. Never have, ya know, and I was two-and-thirty last June.” He bit his lip, concentrating hard. “Or was that
three
-and-thirty? But never mind. Charlotte’s a good ’un, ain’t she, Rob?”

“Rich, too,” grumbled Rob.

“That don’t signify,” objected Jack.

“Not to you.”

“Fun to hug, she is. Plump in all the right places … if you know what I mean.”

“Yes, and plump in the purse, too.”

“A man’d be an idiot, a
shelfish
brute, a … a … villian to want more, eh, Rob?”

“I couldn’t agree with you more,” concurred his amiable friend, rising from his chair to stand over Jack. “Stay here, old man; I’m going to see if they’ve got any food in this godforsaken place. I’ll send the barkeep over to pour you another drink.”

Jack didn’t bother to reply but finished off the dregs of his brew in anticipation of another full tumbler.

“Milord? Are ye wantin’ another?”

Jack carefully lifted his chin and peered at the blurred figure of a man standing by the table. He had to look up … and up … and up to finally fix on the man’s face. Eventually Jack’s head was resting on the back of the chair. There was only one of them, but the face was merely a fuzzy oval with two dark slashes for eyebrows and tiny dark holes for eyes. Those slashes and holes were vaguely familiar…. Ah, yes. The barkeep.

“How kin’ of you t’wask, my good man,” said Jack, stretching his mouth into a friendly smile. “Rob sent you over, did he?”

“He did, milord. Only I wonder if’n ye really need another drink,” he said doubtfully.

“If Rob says I need a drink, I need a drink,” said Jack, sounding as firm as his slurred speech would allow. “He saved my life, ya know, in Oporto, fightin’ that bloody bastard, Napoléon.”

“He’s got you as a friend fer life, then, don’t he, milord?”

“Right as rain, my good fellow. Now pour the gin,
pleash.
I’m
thirshty
, y’know. So damned
thirshty
I could drink the North Sea.”

The man’s shape shifted, the broad part of him bobbing up and down. There was a sound like an owl hooting, only in fast succession. Then he realized the barkeep was laughing. Jack was glad he’d said something amusing, but he couldn’t for the life of him remember what.

“Still thirsty, eh? Must have coated yer throat with dust good and proper on yer way up from Brighton,” said the barkeep, pouring more gin into another tumbler. “Well, I’ll give ye one more for the road. Ye’re in yer altitudes, milord, and bound t’ be shootin’ the cat soon. I wouldn’t let ye get so foxed if’n I didn’t depend on yer friend … what’s raidin’ my kitchen and chasin’ the scullery wench … t’ get ye safely back to London t’night.”

“Safely to London,” repeated Jack, staring wide-eyed at the tumbler of gin. “Safely home to my blushing bride.”

The barkeep whistled. The sound made Jack’s head buzz, and he shook it to clear out the infernal hive of bees that must have entered through one ear or the other. “Ye’re newly leg-shackled, men, milord?”

Jack dragged the tumbler to his side of the table. Then with considerable effort he lifted his head again to look at the fuzzy oval that was the barkeep’s face. “No, my good man,” he said with deliberate pronunciation. “I’m not shackled yet.” He pointed to his chest with his forefinger. “Till tomorrow morning, I”—he poked his chest—“am”—another poke—”a free man.” Poke, poke, poke.

“Ah, so’s that’s the reason we’re in our cups, milord? Can’t say I blame ye. Marriage is a drastic step for a chap.”

“One
drashtic
step,” agreed Jack. And one he’d avoided for years. But he wanted an heir. Legally there was only one way to accomplish that, and he was prepared to make the sacrifice.

“It’s not that she’s such a bad sort,” he mumbled into his mug.

“What’s that, milord?”

“My fansee—”

“Yer fancy, milord?”

Jack hiccupped, then furrowed his brow in serious concentration. “No. My fee-on-shay—”

The barkeep bent near. “ ‘Fraid I don’t understand ye, milord,” he apologized.

“My betrothed,” said Jack, abandoning the French word for one less difficult to pronounce.

“Ah!”

“She’s smart, pretty, and pleasant to kiss,” he said, praising his bride-to-be to this total stranger, much in the same way he’d praised her to Rob. He suspected he was only trying to convince himself, and not them, that he was doing the right thing. “What else could a man want?” He looked to the barkeep for corroboration.

“Right ye are, milord,” the barkeep said readily. “What else could a man want?”

What else indeed? thought Jack philosophically. A man could want to be truly in love for once in his life. But right now, after too many tumblers of gin to count, a man could want to relieve himself. He put both hands flat on the tabletop and pushed himself to his feet. Immediately his head began to spin.