Hayley Ann Solomon (5 page)

“You don’t know?”

“No, for all I could see of him was a blur, fuzzy at the edges. But he used to be passing handsome, and he has not, to my certain knowledge, grown fat.”

“That must be a relief! How came you by such knowledge?”

“If you must know, he kissed me on the balcony. Shocking behavior, but I don’t see what else he could have done, for my parents practically forced him into it, much to my extreme mortification!”

“And delight?”

“You ask too much for a stranger!”

“We are not strangers; we are friends. Would you not confide so in a sister?”

“Yes, but I have none!”

“Voilà, then! I am of some use! You may unburden your feelings.”

“You are not my sister, but I shall not quibble. I have done enough reprehensible things this past quarter to know that one more cannot matter. You help me clear the muddle from my head, Lord Sandford.”

“Then it is well. So tell. Did the kiss delight you?”

“Yes, but I have no notion why, after his abominable behavior toward me!”

“Well, he has been punished for it, as you say. Why don’t you just explain to him the matter of the spectacles?”

“He would think I was having second thoughts.”

“You are.”

“I am not! I have always loved him! Well, for five years at any rate. Clandestine and odd, maybe, but real, nonetheless! I used to look for him at so many balls, but it was only once that he ever acknowledged me, and then in such a hideously toplofty manner I was crushed.”

“So tell him. If he wants to wed you . . .”

“That is the point! After last night, he would be a bedlamite if he did! I released him from any obligation, and if I go to him now, it will simply look as though I regret it.”

“You do.” The logic was unarguable.

Fern sighed. “Yes, but for the
right
reasons. He will suspect the
wrong
ones.”

“That you are an unconscionable little fortune hunter with nothing but rank in your heart?”

“You put it severely, but I must thank you. Yes, that is how he would see it. He would think I was merely regretting my fit of bad temper.”

“You will not give him the benefit of deciding for himself?”

“No, for I will be mortified either way. He does not love me, you see. He cannot, if he chooses to ignore me all these years, then haggle with Mr. Potters over bits of land!”

Warwick, who knew perfectly well that he had not
haggled,
had not had the remotest interest, even, in settlements, bit his tongue. He could not defend himself for fear of giving away the game. And somehow, he did not feel that this particular game had played itself to its conclusion.

“What shall you do, then? Closet yourself away with your potions?”

“No, for Mama will wear me down to the bone. If I do not marry him, I shall never live down the disgrace.”

“Then you should remove immediately to London! Have you no relatives?”

“None at all. Or none who would bear the cost of an extra mouth to feed when I have been so undeserving! No, I shall have to do something more drastic, I fear. I shall disguise myself as a boy—for I am not so green as to think London a safe place for a lady on her own—and I shall seek work of some kind. Perhaps as a scrivener, for my handwriting is as neat as ninepence even if I say so myself.”

“Your parents shall die of mortification!”

“They might, but more likely they will wash their hands of me. It is better than spending the rest of my life in their black books, I think, being a pensioner in my own home.”

Warwick thought not, but he did not wish to quibble at so interesting a point. So he asked the obvious. “Why not just simply a marchioness?”

Fern looked up sharply. “So! You guessed the identity of my suitor?”

“But naturally. It is the talk of the neighborhood and I am judged, in some circles, to be quite astute, Miss Reynolds.”

“Well, you are. No, I can’t be a marchioness. The poor man is probably thanking his lucky stars for his narrow escape. You have not heard the worst.”

“Good Lord, there is more?”

“Indeed. I attempted Bach’s air on G. A trifling little piece, I assure you, though pleasant—Bach is always pleasant.”

“How unexceptional. I fail to perceive the problem!”

“The problem is that I was seated farther from the harp than I thought, so started on the incorrect note! I tried frantically to make the correction, but succeeded only in a series of excruciating twangs that must have sent his lordship into whoops! Or spasms of despair, since he was honor bound to marry me!”

“So you cried off?”

“Of course! There was no other option!”

“You could have explained—”

“And sounded like a whining little ninnyhammer? I think not. No, I shall leave on the next chaise for London. If I simply disappear, he need feel no qualms about terminating the arrangement. If I stay, Papa will doubtless threaten to sue for breach. I would sink with mortification, then!”

“
Y
es, I see that. But all the same, Miss Reynolds, I cannot permit you to take the stage by yourself, disguise or no.”

“Well, I agree it is not . . .
convenable,
as my French governess would say, but there is no other option.”

“There is. You shall disguise yourself as a page in my household and travel under my protection. I assure you, the path of a viscount is smoother than that of the common stage. And the carriage, I might mention, is a great deal better sprung.”

Fern jerked up her eyes. They were so expressive, it was like watching a mirror, framed, of course, in iron, like the ubiquitous spectacles. Doubt warred with hope. Excitement warred with flat despair. He waited in stillness, for much hung on her answer, and he feared she might waver or doubt his pure intentions. Which
were,
by the way, pure, unlike his desires. These he steadfastly ignored, despite their obtrusive nature.

It seemed he would like nothing better than an illicit day of pleasure with his bride-to-be. His “quizzing-glass bride,” he liked to think of her, though she would have gasped in horror. The patience paid off.

After several moments of painful deliberation, Miss Fern made the hardest and bravest decision of her life. She would alienate her family, disgrace her name, but surely,
surely,
save the man she loved from annoyance. He would not be forced to marry her. Neither would he be dragged through the courts for breach. Fern smiled brilliantly at Viscount Sandford. Her lips curved delightfully, but in the translucent green of her eyes, there was no answering laughter.

Fern struggled through a note to her parents, then sealed it quickly before she had a chance to change her mind. They would never understand her reasoning—
she
hardly did, only she knew for certain it would be a shabby thing to do to foist herself upon Warwick. Of course, she told herself crossly, if he had only taken the time to get to know her, he might have saved her a lot of bother. He would never, most likely, have proposed, and therefore never exposed himself to issues of breach.

She had little doubt that Sir Peter, stuck with a daughter whose first season had been an unmitigated disaster, would stop at nothing to get her firmly established. He would undoubtedly therefore threaten breach, knowing full well the famous Hargreaves dislike of scandal. All very well, but the direct consequences of all this conniving would be that she was foisted upon a man who despised her! And if he didn’t now, he soon would, when he was leg-shackled forever in such distasteful circumstances.

A small voice told Fern that she was foolish, that she should seize her chances and marry the man of her dreams. Unfortunately, it was not just
she
who dreamed of him, but also half the unwed ladies of London. The wed ones, too, if rumor was correct. The Marquis of Warwick, she suspected, was a rake. Which brought her full circle again. Rakes do not take kindly to having their hands forced. He would hate her, hate her spectacles, and hate her pet parrot, Kate. She simply could not bear that, for she and Kate went way back to the fourth county fair, where she was purchased for threepence from a sailor.

Her language had never been expurgated, of course, but oh, she was the most intelligent creature alive! Fern could not imagine life without her. Even Mimsy indulged her, which was saying a lot, for she did not normally hold with birds and had been severely disapproving from the first. Now she and Kate had called a truce.

Kate no longer squawked “Washerwoman washerwoman!” when Miss Garret entered Fern’s chamber, and Miss Garett, upon occasion, poked seeds in through the bars.

The parrot, blue tailed and bright, eyed Fern suspiciously. “Squawk! Squawk!” she said.

“Yes, of course you shall come! I cannot think that one extra piece of luggage will burden the viscount a great deal. He seemed a very pleasant gentleman!”

The parrot, satisfied, stopped squawking and cocked her head against the bars.

“Yes, you are wondering what is to be done. So am I. But if we keep wondering, we shall lose our nerve. I shall take all of my pin money for the next quarter and pray that something comes up. Why, we might even apprentice ourselves to an apothecary! I have always been interested in potions. Or I could seek work as a clerk. There is always a need, I am perfectly certain, for educated gentlemen who can read and write. It might be fascinating, Kate! What say you?”

But the words that Kate squawked were not suitable for a young lady’s ears. Fern ignored her, therefore, and finished her final note—addressed to Mimsy, this time—painstakingly dotting each
i
and blotting her work so that it would not smudge from either ink or tears.

It was not until her baggage was safely stowed—Kate conveniently covered on the floor between them—that the coach had made its first jolting start. The shudder was due, Fern realized, more to a rut in the road than to any defect with the carriage itself. This was very tastefully outfitted, in dark royal blue velvet with squabs that were functional rather than flowery. A man’s chaise, for though it paid painstaking attention to detail, it was not extravagantly embellished like Lady Reynolds’s was. It was paneled in oak with copper trim and made the other occupant seem larger and more intimidating than he had seemed before. Also, rather more immaculate, for he was dressed for driving, in a coat that sported four capes and fitted his form rather too perfectly for strict maidenly comfort.

Fern tried not to stare, then revised her strategy to trying not to be caught staring—there was no doubt about it, she had underestimated Viscount Sandford. He was a magnificent specimen of a man.

“Satisfied?”

“Beg pardon?”

“I only wondered if I passed muster. You have been staring at me through those spectacles of yours these five minutes past!”

“Oh! How impertinent of me! I must beg your pardon, of course.”

“Not at all. I find the situation quite novel. It is usually I, you see, who does the scrutinizing.”

Fern did see. She could quite see, and she colored up quite horribly. Actually, Warwick, eyeing her with amusement, did not think her delicate flush horrible at all, but poor Fern, distracted, was not to know—or be comforted—by this fact.

“Squawk, squawk!”

“What the blazes?”

“Fine as ninepence! Fine as ninepence! Squawk!”

“Miss Reynolds, am I going crazy or is there a . . .”

“Parrot! It is a parrot, Lord Sandford! I do trust you do not mind? She has a wicked tongue at times, but I simply could not leave her, and since there is all this carriage space . . .”

“Oh, yes. Quite. I quite see the need to bring . . . eh . . . Polly?”

“No! Polly is for pirates! My parrot is Kate. Do you wish to see her, or shall I keep her covered?”

“Oh, by all means uncover her, if her modesty is not offended!”

Fern grinned. “It would take a lot to offend Kate’s modesty, I am afraid. She is a wicked bird!” She removed the dark cover from Kate’s golden cage. Kate glared at the viscount.

“Squawk!”

“Now, Kate! Don’t be rude! Allow me to introduce Viscount Sandford.”

The parrot regarded Warwick with stubborn, unblinking eyes.

“Fine pair of legs. Fine pair of legs!” she squawked.

Fern could have sunk through the carriage floor, so exactly did the parrot mirror her wayward thoughts. “Be respectable, or I shall cover you up.”

“Spare my blushes. Spare my blushes!”

“You shameless old biddy! You could not blush if you tried! Now hush, will you? We are trying to talk.”

“
Talk
, talk talk talk, talk
talk,
talk talk talk!”

“Good God, cover her up for the love of Jacob!”

“I shall, for she is being impertinent.”

“Squawk!”

“And please put her on your side. My nerves won’t stand for her coming between us.”

“Jabberwit! Jabberwit!’ ”’

“You must think me a complete hoyden.”

“It does not mater what
I
think. It is Warwick’s judgment that matters, is it not?”

“If he saw me now he would think me a hoyden. This shirt scratches.”

Personally, Warwick did not think Fern should concern herself with the scratchiness of her borrowed plumes, but rather with the tightness. Her abundant curves were clearly visible beneath the tight cambric, causing him to change his plans with swift decision.

He rapped smartly on the carriage door, using his silver-topped cane for emphasis. The horses slowed almost at once.

“Lester, a change of plan. We shall not dine at Trentham, but rather press on to London. You may fetch yourself a tankard of ale at the change, and procure for me a packed lunch. A cold collation will suit perfectly.”

He did not refer to his occupant, and the coachman, his eyes respectfully upon Warwick, did not peer any farther inside. Instead, he doffed his cap in acknowledgement and returned to his box.

“There! I hope you do not find me high-handed, but your attire will cause comment.”

“Oh! I quite thought I looked perfect! I’ve had these clothes for an age. We used—my brother and I—to go on all sorts of wild pranks in them. That is where I got Kate.”

Warwick ignored the last part of her statement and began calmly with the first.

“Your brother is . . .”

“Peter Reynolds, like my father. He is at Oxford, worse luck for me.”

“You are lonely!” The tone held discovery and a smidgen of sympathy that Fern found herself drawn to.

“Only a little. But Peter and I always had such fun, always crept away to the fairs—which Mama disapproved of, you know, on account of the boxing and the cant language.”

“Yes, I see. But Peter?”

“Oh, he was a great good gun! Found me these clothes and we had a quizzing good time! We were never caught, but it came close at times!”

“You have grown, I infer, since then.”

“Yes, for I find myself surprisingly uncomfortable, when normally I just bless the freedom of . . . of . . .”

Fern blushed. She had been just about to make a most serious mistake. It was not
comme il faut,
even in the worst of circles, for a lady to allude to a gentleman’s unmentionables.

Warwick’s eyes danced, but he came to her assistance, offering the more mild term “shirtsleeves,” though of course these, too, were rather risqué for a lady to mention. Fern snatched at the offering gratefully, muttering “shirtsleeves” under her breath several times as if to erase suspicion of the other, more damning comment. Warwick nodded sagely, hard-pressed indeed not to laugh outright. Well, Fern was not a prude at least. He did not think he could stand a prudish wife.

He looked forward to getting to know her better and blessed strange circumstance for this chance. It was not every day a gentleman got to inspect his bride so minutely! Before the wedding, that is. After, of course, it was always too late. Fern looked prettier than ever in her boyish clothes, with her hair unfettered, even by a ribbon. It looked just marvelous, a golden stream of sunshine in the darkened chaise.

He wanted to run his fingers through it, for it looked softer than the finest china silk. He restrained himself, however, permitting himself the reward of just one glimpse at that white shirt, far too revealing for its purposes! He would have to, of course, gently broach the topic again.

“As my page, you will naturally wear my livery. It is rather smart, I think you will find. Crimson velvet with gold trim. I shall spare your blushes by not requiring the usual clocked stockings, but Martha, my housekeeper, shall sew up some garments suitable for a young boy in service. In the meanwhile, I suggest you keep to your chamber away from the other servants. You are not yet, you know, quite believable in your part.”

Fern gazed at him in rapt amazement. “My lord! I am only traveling to London with you! This ruse was simply meant to confound innkeepers and tollgates and such. You can’t, surely, mean to actually take me into your household?”

“Why ever not?”

“Because it is scandalous, that is why! I cannot keep up such a charade indefinitely, and I shall have to earn my keep! I am not going to bludge on a total stranger!”

“You are not bludging. You are going to be my page. You shall earn an honest day’s work and receive wages.”

Fern felt herself in far deeper than she had imagined. Warwick’s jaw had a familiar strength about it that she found alarming. Perhaps he and the marquis were not so dissimilar after all! Certainly, she had felt that odd twinge of . . . awareness upon this trip, a complicating factor even she could not fathom, though why she suddenly wished to be kissed so often, the Lord only knew. Perhaps she was ill, or sickening for something.

Be that as it may, Sanford was looking quite obstinate, and she hardly knew how to respond. Her stupid heart was beating faster, too, which made serious thought an utter impossibility—absurd and childish, but the truth, nonetheless.

“That would be most improper, my lord.” Now she was being trite and prissy, but how else could she respond?

He countered at once. “More improper than running off in a closed chaise, unchaperoned, with an accredited rake?”

“Are you an accredited rake?”

“
I
ndeed, though I do not boast of it.”

“You might have told me before I agreed to this trip!”

“You were desperate. I could think of no other way to help, and you have to agree, my behavior has been impeccable.”

Too impeccable! Though their knees were practically touching, he had taken care never to make the smallest contact, despite the ruts in the road. Though her lips were behaving utterly traitorously, he never so much as tried to kiss her! It was actually more mortifying because he was a rake!

Fern’s voice was small as she answered. “You have been all that is gentlemanly.”

“Good. Then why quibble at honest employment?”

“I would rather hire myself out as a clerk.”

“They are not hiring clerks at the moment. It is too late in the year.”

“An apothecary’s apprentice, then!”

“You have no references. You need references, skill, and influence.”

“A scullery maid?”

“Don’t be ridiculous. I may allow you to cavort about London because your parents are hen-witted, but I shall certainly not permit you to be a scullery maid!”

“How does being a scullery maid differ from being a page?”