Evelyn Richardson (29 page)

“Thank you, Crimmins.” The marquess gratefully accepted a mug of his host's best home brew. “Actually, I was hoping you could put me up. I'm sure they're all at sixes and sevens at Camberly, having just gotten back. I don't know how long my business here will take, and I don't want to put them out.”

“You're more than welcome here, my lord.” Crimmins completely accepted this barefaced lie. If he suspected that his wife's excellent cooking and his genial hospitality were luring Lord Mainwaring from Cousin Honoria's parsimonious housekeeping and smoking chimneys, he was welcome to. Mainwaring was not prepared to admit to anyone, even to himself, the real reason for his choice of accommodation. His presence in the neighborhood was much less likely to be brought to Frances' attention if he were at the White Hart than if he were at Camberly.

He had not reckoned on the sharp eyes of Master Frederick and Miss Cassandra Cresswell. The twins had just escaped from their lessons and had ridden straight to the village to see William's latest crop of baby rabbits. Since his performance at the picnic and subsequent offer to teach them the simplest of his tricks, that young man had become quite the favorite of the schoolroom set. William was at work mending fences in Squire Tilden's lower fields, but he had instructed his mother to show the rabbits to the children. He had not told her to regale them with freshly baked currant buns, but this offer was eagerly accepted and Cassie and Freddie came away more than satisfied, despite having missed their friend. They promised to visit Mrs. Tubbs next week when they came to check on the progress of the dear little bunnies.

As they rounded the bend in front of the inn, Cassie said, “Look, Freddie, there's Lord Mainwaring's curricle. Isn't it beautiful?”

“It couldn't be. He's doing business in London. You must be mistaken.” The brotherly scorn in his voice implied that no mere girl could be capable of distinguishing one equipage from another, no matter how magnificent it was.

His twin was not so easily dismissed. “You are an odious boy, Freddie Cresswell. I can recognize Lord Mainwaring's grays just as well as you can, and well you know it! You might as well own up, Freddie. You know I'm right.”

By now they had come abreast of the vehicle and there was no question as to whom they belonged. “Well, you may be right,” her brother conceded unwillingly. Then he resumed with his superior air, “But don't tell Fan, whatever you do. I don't want you upsetting her.”

Which, Cassie thought indignantly, was outside of enough and just like her toplofty brother. He never could stand to be bested at the least little thing. After all, she had not fallen off her pony and given her sister a week of worry in London.

But when they reached Cresswell in time for tea, both Frances and Nelson looked so agitated—an extremely uncharacteristic frame of mind for both of them—that they completely forgot this interesting turn of events. “I can't think where Wellington has got to,” worried Frances. “Cook says he didn't show up for breakfast, and he hasn't bothered me for a walk the entire day. You know he always appears at teatime to tussle with Nelson and upset things as much as possible. Besides, Nelson has been meowing and trying to get my attention since I got up. And you know he's become so fat and lazy he wouldn't stir a paw if his life depended on it unless Wellington were playing with him.”

“Mrrow,” her companion agreed dolefully.

“Perhaps he found some stoats,” volunteered Freddie. “Fanner Stubbs told me he thinks there's a family of them living in Hanger Wood. He's been meaning to go after them, but he's just too busy.”

“Perhaps you are right,” His sister agreed with little conviction. “He usually is here dropping them in my lap the minute he's caught one, though.”

“Maybe they're very clever stoats and he's having difficulty catching them,” ventured Cassie skeptically.

No one wanted to be the one to suggest what they all feared and suspected most. It was Cook, bursting in wrathfully to inform them that the chicken she had planned to dress for dinner had been stolen, who articulated their worst fears. “It's them rascally Gypsies, buffer nappers all of 'em, miss. They'll take anything that isn't tied down and locked up.”

Frances interrupted soothingly. “It may have just gone off to find a nice private nesting place, or maybe a fox got it.”

Cook was not to be mollified. “Humph. I don't believe no such thing, and it's my belief that they've stolen that pesky cur as well.”

“You've no right to call Wellington that when you sneak as many scraps to him as anyone,” protested Cassie. “But, Fanny, what would they steal Wellington for? They wouldn't. . . they wouldn't...” Cassie couldn't go on.

“Lord, no, you silly clunch,” her brother exclaimed. “They've kidnapped him to turn him into a performing dog. They know that terriers like Wellington are very good at that sort of thing. And anyone looking at him can tell he's highly intelligent. That stupid nit has probably forgotten all about us and is having himself a fine time learning all sorts of tricks. You know how he likes to show off. He certainly enjoyed it when I tried to teach him some of the things I saw the dogs doing at Astley's.”

Hearing the name of his friend, Nelson howled and got up to scratch at the library door.

“Not tonight, Nelson. But if he's not back tomorrow, we'll go find him,” Frances promised. “Now, what do you say? I think a little of Caesar's Gallic Wars to take our minds off this.”

The twins groaned more out of habit than anything else, for they realized as well as Frances that since nothing could be done for Wellington that night and they were more likely to fret impatiently if they were unoccupied, they might as well direct their energies somehow. “But,” Freddie pointed out, “there are lots more pleasant ways to drown our sorrows or forget them.”

“Yes,” his sister agreed. “And none of them is nearly as productive.” All resistance squelched, the lesson began.

Freddie was wrong about one thing. Wellington was not enjoying himself in the least. In fact, he could not remember a time in his short life when he had been more miserable, he thought to himself as he sat morosely under one of the Gypsy caravans. He'd been happily following the fresh scent of stoat when he'd been roughly snatched up and thrust into a foul-smelling bag. He must have been tied to a saddle, because there was a distinct smell of horse and he was jolted quite dreadfully. It must have been an underfed pony. Wellington had ridden occasionally with Frances and he'd been behind the marquess's team of grays and he knew full well that no horse of any breeding would have as rough a gait as the one to which he had just been subjected.

They had bounced along for some time and then the air was suddenly alive with commotion. Women and children were shouting, dogs barking, ponies whinnying, and babies crying. The bouncing stopped. Wellington was jerked from his bag and pawed by a thousand curious hands, pulled and mulled like some object instead of a purebred West Highland Terrier of impeccable lineage, he thought huffily. Then, as if this manhandling by the common herd weren't enough, he was subjected to the final indignity—a dirty rope was tied around his neck and he was rudely pulled under a caravan, to be ignominiously tied there alone with his thoughts under the baleful eyes of the ill-assorted mongrels of the camp. One by one the fires were put out. The appetizing smell of stew died out, and as the cold evening fog descended, he sat alone, miserable, hungry, and sorry for every time he hadn't come when Frances called, hadn't sat down when one of the twins told him to, had nipped Nelson a little too hard when they were wrestling. With a gusty sigh he buried his nose in his paws and tried to sleep.

“Mrrow.”

One ear lifted cautiously. Just a dream, he told himself, shaking his head.

“Mrrow.”

This time, both ears shot up. “Arrph,” he responded cautiously. A soft, furry body snuggled up next to him and purred loudly in his ear. Unable to persuade Frances to look for Wellington that evening. Nelson, his partner in crime and adventure, had set off to do so himself. Following the elusive trail and relying on a good deal of feline instinct, coupled with the conversation he had overheard at tea and a natural distrust of Gypsies, he had found him at last. All Wellington's loneliness and misery vanished, but it would never do to show Nelson how overjoyed he was to see him. Not only did someone now know where he was, but he had a friend and ally of his own. He had stuck out his square little jaw and showed himself completely unimpressed by those ravenous Gypsy dogs, even-though all the while his insides were quaking. Together he and Nelson worried the rope, but it resisted all their determined efforts. They were at last forced to abandon the project, and Nelson slunk off in the dark, promising to round up reinforcements.

He arrived back at Cresswell only a few hours before dawn-just enough time to take a catnap at the end of Frances' bed before waking her. This he promptly did, just as the faintest streaks of morning light appeared in the east. He was loath to let her complete her entire morning bathing ritual, and complained loudly when she sat down in the breakfast parlor for some muffins and chocolate.

“Nelson, I am coming, but I shan't be able to help anyone on an empty stomach,” his mistress admonished. “And what's more, you won't be able to either. Come, have some breakfast.” She poured some cream in a bowl and laid on a saucer the kipper that Cook insisted no breakfast table be without. Despite the dreadful state of his nerves. Nelson succumbed to the delicious aroma of the kipper. Once that was finished, he needed the cream to wash it down. Much of his anxiety vanished once his stomach was full, and he was able to wait with a reasonable amount of patience for Frances to finish her repast. This she did with dispatch, fearing the descent of the twins and the inevitable delay while she told them her plans and dissuaded them from coming with her. As it was, she left the briefest of notes informing them that she and Nelson had left to search for Wellington, but not giving the slightest indication of their direction. In this way she hoped, without much confidence in the effectiveness of her stratagem, to prevent them from following her.

It was still quite early when she and Nelson set out. Nelson running a few feet ahead of her, tail waving proudly. It was a beautiful hour of the day, bathed in the golden glow of early-morning light. The grass, wet with dew, and the air, unsullied with the dust of the day, were fresh with the just-washed newness of a summer morning. In spite of her anxiety over Wellington and the emotional strain of the past few weeks, Frances felt glad to be there and alive with the sheer delight of ripening fields, singing birds, and trees in full leaf.

She was just a bit glad no one else knew of Wellington's disappearance, because it did seem a trifle absurd to be so upset over a mere dog. How Wellington would scorn her for such a heretical thought. And he would have been right to do so. To her, he wasn't a mere dog. He'd been a constant companion as she walked or rode the estate. He had sat up nights with her while she pored over the accounts or agricultural journals. When she had longed to rest her head on the shoulder of a parent or friend, he had snuggled up to her, beaming loyalty and encouragement out of his bright black eyes, and licked her face.

Absorbed in her thoughts, she tramped several miles, always keeping her eye on Nelson's tail but otherwise not paying a great deal of attention to her surroundings. All of a sudden Nelson stopped so abruptly that she almost tumbled over him. She looked about. Several hundred feet away was the Gypsy camp. In the early-morning light with the smoke rising from breakfast fires, it looked like some ghostly caravan from an Oriental tale. Frances stood taking in the scene a moment before collecting her thoughts to plan the next step. She had barely begun to do this when there was a rustle behind, a sharp pain at the back of her head, a flash of light, and then darkness.

Chapter Thirty

“Freddie, Freddie,” shouted Cassie as she raced up the stairs two at a time. She was usually an earlier riser than her slugabed brother, who remained warm and cozy under the bedclothes until the last possible moment. Today her matinal energy had been rewarded, as she was the first to discover Frances' note and was able to impart the news with an important air to the rest of the household that her sister had gone to look for Wellington.

Cassie had already apprised her Aunt Harriet of the news as that lady frowned over a botanical journal in the breakfast parlor while she absently crumbled a muffin into her morning chocolate. “Gracious, even Frances can't have been so pigheaded and independent as to have gone off to tackle those Gypsies alone,” she remarked before returning to the latest theories for propagating orchids in England's inclement atmosphere. But an inquiry among the staff revealed that Frances appeared to have done exactly that.

Armed with this illuminating discovery, Cassie tore off to rouse her somnolent twin. For a moment he gaped owlishly at her from under a rumpled thatch of blond hair. “All alone, was she? That was dashed selfish of her to go off on a splendid adventure just like that when she knew we were dying to see ... ahem, when she knew we would be worried to death about her. Perhaps we should go help her,” he suggested. Galvanized by the prospect of such excitement, he leapt up and pulled on his clothes.

He was forestalled by the venerable Higgins, who, knowing his young master's mind better than anyone else, appeared just in time to put a stop to any such plans. “Now, Master Freddie, you know as well as I do that Lady Frances doesn't want any interference from you.” He silenced the indignant objections that burst form with an admonitory gesture. “No! You know that anyone who is capable of standing up to that villainous Mr. Snythe is not to be put off by a few vagabond Gypsies. No, Master Frederick, and Miss Cassandra too, don't try to gammon me. You know it's as good as my position is worth to keep you here even if it means tying you two up and locking you in the schoolroom. If Miss Frances had wanted company, she would have asked for it. Now, that's an end to the matter.” Determination was written large in every line of his countenance. The twins sighed and contented themselves with topping each other's speculations as to Frances' probable course of action once she reached the Gypsy camp.