Gallant Waif (28 page)

“Arnold’s angel.”

Chapter Twelve

Kate
yawned as she set the table in the breakfast parlour next morning. She had slept poorly, worrying about what to do. The very idea of leaving Sevenoakes, and Jack, pained her deeply, but she knew she ought to do it. The arrival of his friends had shown her what thin ice she was skating on. All Jack’s friends were soldiers; there would be more visitors, more soldiers. They’d come for the hunting as well as Jack’s company. And with more visitors there would be more chance of discovery, more chance of denouncement. It was just a matter of time.

But if she wasn’t here there would be no reason for any of Jack’s visitors to speak of a well-born English girl who’d lived in sin with a French officer. She wanted to stay near him for the rest of her life, but if the price of that was to have him look at her in disgust, then the price was too high. Better by far to leave him in ignorance, thinking well of her.

She stood back, regarding the table setting. As she did so, her hand went to her head, and she flipped at the irritating frill. She probably didn’t need to wear her disguise any more, but better safe than sorry. Jack’s introduction of her as a guest had given her another reason to wear it. The cap was the sort of thing a spinsterish housekeeper might wear and it, better than anything, would make her position clear.

Finally she heard male voices and footsteps and swiftly began the last-minute preparations needed to serve hot breakfasts. She had thick home-cured ham and fresh-laid eggs sizzling softly in a pan, slices of bread toasting gently, a jug of ale poured and the tantalising aroma of coffee filling the air when Jack entered the kitchen.

“What the devil are you doing in that thing again?”

“I have no idea what you are talking about, and if you wish to converse with me then I warn you that breakfast will be ruined. I am doing four things at once as it is, and if you expect me to bandy words with you at the same time, then you will be disappointed.” Kate was pleased—she was doing a very good imitation of her previous behaviour; he would not suspect anything was wrong.

“Please wait in the breakfast parlour and I’ll bring everything in to you and your friends directly.” She glanced up at him.
“I take it they are all downstairs?”

“What the devil are you doing in that abomination?”

Kate stamped her foot. “I know nothing of abominations; I haven’t got time for them. What I want to know is how many to serve breakfast to. Are all your friends arisen?”

“Yes,” he snapped. “Why are you doing all this yourself? Where are those girls and that good-for-nothing man of mine? Carlos!” he bellowed.

“Kindly do not deafen me with your shouting.” She whisked a slice of toast off the grill just in time to stop it burning. “Carlos and the girls have gone to the village to purchase additional supplies needed for your friends’ visit.”

“Need they all have gone? Surely one would have been enough.”

“Mr Carstairs!” Kate whirled around and glared at him, her resolutions forgotten. “If you must come in here and pick quarrels with me at this hour, it is your prerogative to do so—but do not expect to have an edible breakfast at the same time!”

The coffee smelt delicious.
The ham and eggs superb.
Some toast was beginning to smoke. It was a tactical retreat, Jack told himself.

The decision had nothing to do with his rumbling stomach. Besides, he had a responsibility to his guests. He would deal with her later.

Breakfast arrived with no further disturbance. Jack’s friends instantly hailed Kate as Arnold’s angel. Relief swamped her anew. They saw her as a heroine, not a traitor and a whore. A heroine! She couldn’t help but laugh. They insisted that Kate join them for breakfast and set
themselves
to entertain her further.

After a time Kate became very aware of Jack glowering at her cap. She had noticed his friends blink at it each time she brushed the frill from her eyes, but they were all far too well-mannered to comment. Jack, she felt with a sinking heart, was not similarly inclined. She put her chin up stubbornly and continued to ignore his black looks.

Francis’s eyes began to glimmer with humour. He’d noticed Jack’s foul mood the instant he had returned from the kitchen. He now perceived there was a silent battle of wills taking place across the table. She was not at all the angel his cousin had named her, but a vibrant little minx who gave as
good
as she got. She was perfect for Jack.

At the conclusion of the meal, Kate rose and gathered up the dishes while the others made plans for the day. Jack murmured his excuses and followed her.

Francis observed Jack’s hasty exit. Unless he missed his guess, there was about to be another confrontation between Miss Farleigh and his friend. He had no qualms about following them—it was certain to prove entertaining. Hearing the voices raised in conflict, he slid unobtrusively into the kitchen.

“And now, Miss Farleigh, I will have my answer at last. What the devil is that atrocity on your head?”

“What atrocity?”

“That white thing.” Jack gestured disdainfully. “It is a cap.”

“I know what it is! What the devil do you mean by wearing it?”

“Is it not obvious?”

“Not to me. That sort of thing is usually worn by dowdy old maids well past their prayers, and then only if they have something to hide. You are still a girl and your hair is too pretty to hide.”

The compliment took Kate by surprise, but she rallied. “It is kind of you to say so, but I am not a young girl. I am a spinster, and as such I will wear this cap.”

Jack snorted in disgust. “You are no spinster, so take it off at once and do not let me see the damned thing again.”

“I am indeed a spinster and I have every intention of wearing this cap, whether you like it or not.” Kate glared at Jack, hands on her hips.

“Oh, do you, indeed?”

Francis smiled, recognising the signs—Jack was in a fine temper, but doing his best to hold it back. Jack moved closer. Kate backed away warily, clutching the cap to her head protectively. Francis decided it was time to make his move.

“Pray forgive my interruption—no, no, continue, do. I would hate to spoil your conversation.” He seated himself, clearly with every expectation of being entertained.
‘ T
think you were about to make a dive for Miss Farleigh’s cap, old man,” he prompted helpfully.

Kate glanced from Francis’s polite expression to Jack’s black frown and began to giggle. Francis’s smile broadened into a grin. Jack dashed his hand angrily through his hair.

“Damn you, Francis,” he swore,
then
his sense of humour began to get the better of him. The twitching of his lips, so clearly at odds with his black frown, provoked his observers to further mirth, and finally he too joined in the laughter.

At last Kate stood up, and immediately Francis and Jack rose to their feet. “Please excuse me,” she said, “but I have things to do.”

“So do
I
,” agreed Jack, and before she knew what he was about he had snatched the offending cap off her head and tossed it into the fire. “That’s better.” He grinned triumphantly.

“Oh! You wretch!” exclaimed Kate.

“It was an abomination and the only thing to do with abominations is to burn them. Don’t you agree, Francis?”

Francis bowed towards Kate. “Forgive my perfidy, Miss Farleigh, but, much as I deplore his crude methods, that cap was indeed an abomination and not, therefore, to be borne by any man with an eye for beauty. Your hair is quite, quite lovely and should never be hidden.”

Kate blushed.

Jack looked at his friend through narrowed eyes. “Yes, well, I think you have said quite enough, Francis. It is time you took yourself off.
Er.
. .isn’t that Toby calling you?”

Francis smiled. “Wonderful hearing you must have, dear boy,” he murmured. “I didn’t hear a thing.”

Jack glowered and thrust him out the door. He turned to Kate, but encountered such a fiery look from the sparkling grey-green eyes that he decided his duty lay with his guests. He followed Francis out to the hall, where they found Mr Lennox.

“Fine morning for a ride, Jack, don’t you think?”

“Excellent idea,” Jack agreed, his good mood restored, and, after shouting for Sir Toby to join them, the foursome headed towards the stables.

It was a crisp, sunny morning, ideal for riding. Wisps of fog and remnants of snow lingered in the shadowy hollows, waiting to be burnt up when the bright sun finally discovered them. The horses were in fine fettle and snorted and pranced, eager to be out and moving, but Francis, Sir Toby and Mr Lennox kept their mounts well reined in, unsure of Jack’s capabilities and not wanting him to strain his leg. After several minutes of the dreary pace they’d set, Jack became aware of his friends’ strategy.

“Come on, you sluggards!” he shouted. “Race you to the top of that hill.” Recklessly he urged his horse into a gallop. Shouting and laughing, the others followed. It was a mad race and by the end of it all four of them were flushed and breathing heavily.

“By Jove, Jack!” exclaimed Sir Toby excitedly. “I would never have thought it; stap
me
if you’re not riding damn near as well as ever you did. S’a marvel, I tell you, a marvel!”

“Not quite as well as I used to, I fear,” responded Jack, grinning from ear to ear nevertheless. He stretched his bad leg a little awkwardly and the others became aware of white lines around his mouth, a sign that he was in some pain.

“I say, Jack, you haven’t overdone it, have you?” said Mr Lennox.

“No, no.” He met his friend’s doubting look and grinned ruefully. “Well, perhaps a little, but I couldn’t have you three keeping me wrapped in cotton wool, now could I? Such a pace you’d set, I’d have died of boredom.” The others laughed. “Now, you all ride on, don’t worry about me,” he said. “I’ll take it a little slower now that my blood’s moving again.”

“Yes, go on, you two,” agreed Francis. “I’ll keep Jack
company
for a bit. My head’s still a trifle delicate from last night, and any more riding like the last episode and I fear the wretched thing will fall off.” The other two laughed as they rode away, but Jack turned and regarded his friend sceptically.

“My poor Francis,” he said in mock-sympathy. “And I always thought you had the hardest head of anyone I knew.”

Francis smiled blandly back at him. “Ah, well, you have the advantage of me by several years, you know. I am nigh on thirty-five.”

They moved forward at a slow canter, chatting as they did so. After some time, the talk ceased and they walked their horses in companionable silence, enjoying the morning, each man absorbed in his own thoughts.

Then Francis chuckled to himself.

Jack turned his head. “What is it?”

Francis shook his head in amusement.
“Never thought I’d see you setting up as a milliner.”

“What the hell do
you.
. .? Oh, that. Stubble it, will you?” mumbled Jack.

But Francis had no intention of dropping it. “It was an ugly enough cap, to be sure, and it made that pretty little thing look like a dowdy, but you acted as if she deliberately wore it to annoy you.”

Jack harrumphed. “She did.”

”
Oho.
. .so it’s like that, is it?”

Jack glowered. “Like what? She’s my grandmother’s ward, that’s all.”

“And naturally you must supervise her headgear,” agreed Francis sympathetically.

“She was foisted on me by that meddlesome old witch. I had no choice in the matter.”

“Ahh.”
Francis nodded his head wisely.

“Ahh nothing!” snapped Jack. “You have added two and two and come up with five. The girl means nothing to me. She’s a damned nuisance, if you want to know the truth!”

“Mmm,” agreed Francis infuriatingly.

Jack ground his teeth. “Damn your eyes, Francis.”

His friend chuckled softly. After a few minutes he spoke again. “Well, dear boy, since you have no interest in little Miss Farleigh, you’ll have no objection if I pursue her myself.”

Jack wrenched his horse to a halt, slewed round in the saddle and glared at his friend. “What the devil do you mean by that? You’ll do nothing of the sort.
She.
. .she’s my grandmother’s ward.”