How to Treat a Lady (12 page)

“I did a fine job! Even Mrs. Strickly said so, and she's been to dozens of London plays!”

Harriet made an impatient noise. “None of that matters now! How are we going to do this?”

“Simple,” Mother said. “We will just restate a few set facts.”

“Such as?”

“The captain is here to see you. He has only come for a short period of time—two weeks, maybe less. He's leaving as soon as his ship is ready.”

“And?”

Mother lifted her brows. “That's more than enough.”

“What about what the captain told Mr. Gower in the sitting room today? That his ship was named…oh, something, I can't remember—and that it was being repaired in Whitby? Should we mention that, too? Or that he injured himself in a battle with pirates?”

Sophia and Ophelia both gasped. “The captain is such a brave man,” Sophia breathed.

Harriet's hand curled into fists. “
He made it up!
”

Ophelia nodded. “He's so brave that he's even willing to live a lie, all to help us. Although…I wonder if he is remembering something in earnest and just doesn't realize it. Perhaps the captain really
is
a captain and—”

“For the love of—
he isn't real
!” Harriet burst out. “There is no Captain Frakenham, no ship, and
no pirates
!”

A short silence followed this outburst.

“Really, Harriet,” Sophia said, eyeing her sister as though she'd just grown a third head, “there is no need for you to get so vexed.”

“That's right,” Stephen said, trying to look like the man of the house, an irritating habit that seemed to be getting worse of late. “I think you owe Ophelia an apology.”

Harriet took a deep breath in through her nose. “I am sorry I shouted, but none of you seems to realize that this is a serious situation. If we are found out, the bank will waste no time in demanding their money, and we don't have it. And what will we do if the stranger remembers who he is?”

To dry the ink, Mother dusted sand over the letter she'd been writing. “We'll deal with that when it happens,
if
it happens. Remember Mrs. Billingsworth. She never remembered who she was. It's a pity she died.”

“Oh wouldn't that be wonderful!” Sophia exclaimed in a dreamy voice.

“What would be wonderful?” Derrick asked, looking up from his book, a frown marring his brow. “For the poor man to die?”

“No, that he might never remember who he is. Then he would just be Captain Frakenham forever and marry Harri!”

Five pairs of eyes turned on Harriet.

She colored. “When hell freezes over.”

“Harriet!” Mother frowned as she folded the note and slid it into an envelope.

“I am sorry. It's just that all of you are standing on
the edge of a cliff, cheerily planning to jump. You don't seem to realize how easily this could blow up in our faces.”

“How?” Stephen demanded. “What is the worst thing that could happen?”

“What if the stranger remembered who he really is? Then where would we be?”

Ophelia pushed her glasses back in place. “We'll just have to see to it that he's never alone without one of us present to head him off.”

“Good idea,” Stephen said. “And if he does remember who he is, he'll just leave.”

“That's what I would do,” Derrick said, settling back into his book. “I might say a few choice words beforehand, but nothing more.”

“Exactly,” Stephen said. “In the meantime, the captain's presence will make the bank hold off on demanding the payment and we can get the shearing done.”

Mother wrote something across the envelope. “Here, Sophie. Pray give that to Lady Cabot-Wells with my fondest regards, and be sure you're home by five.”

Sophia glanced over her shoulder at Derrick. “Are you coming with me?”

Derrick glanced up from his book, but remained lazing in his chair. “Where to?”

“To see Lady Cabot-Wells.”

He made a face. “The last time I saw her, she called me ‘Donald' and asked how my cat was doing.”

“She's an old woman, Derrick,” Stephen said, frowning down at his brother. “She's never gotten my name right in over ten years.”

“Well, I don't like her and so I'm not going to see her.”

Stephen's frown deepened. “It will not hurt you to get off your a—”

“Stephen!” Mother said.

“Sorry. It's just that I cannot abide a slugabed, and Derrick has become the worst.”

“I have not!” Derrick struggled to sit up, his face red. “I worked all morning and most of the afternoon in the barn, and all you can say is—”

“I think,” Harriet said firmly, “that Sophia should not be gallivanting about the countryside unattended. So one of you has to go.”

Derrick subsided into his chair, pulling his book back over his face.

Stephen regarded him for a long moment, then gave an exasperated sigh. “Oh very well! I'll go.” He collected his crutches from the wall, then hobbled to his sister's side.

Harriet watched as her mother handed the note to Sophia. “What's that?”

“An invitation to dinner. I thought Lady Cabot-Wells should meet the captain first.”

“This evening?”

“No, I thought we'd save this evening for just ourselves and the captain. We need to be certain he is convinced he is who we've told him he is. I asked Lady Cabot-Wells to join us for dinner sometime next week.”

“But she's the biggest gossip on earth!”

Mother smiled. “Which is precisely why I invited her. I thought we should begin at the top and work our way down.”

Sophia breezed to the door, Stephen hobbling after her. “We'll return soon, Mother.” She wiggled her fingers and went out the door.

He stopped on the threshold, a thoughtful expres
sion on his face. “You know, Harriet, if we work this right, we might be able to use your precious captain to help in other ways than just keeping the bank away.”

“Such as?”

“Well…if he's not injured too badly, he
could
help with the shearing. All of it.”

Harriet met Stephen's gaze, astounded at the thought. Good God, that would be perfect. It was difficult finding reliable workers, especially so close to shearing week, and things were getting desperate.

A slow smile began, then gradually grew until it matched Stephen's. That was an idea, the first good one she'd heard all day. One more pair of helping hands would make all the difference in the world.

“All we have to do,” Stephen said, “is convince him that the captain would do it, and since he's the captain…”

Harriet nodded, her heart lightening a little.

“Come on, Stephen,” Sophia said. “I want to change before dinner and fix my hair, and we won't have time if we dally.”

Stephen sighed. “All right. I'm coming.” He gave Harriet one last meaningful look, then followed Sophia out the door.

Mother beamed. “See how well things are going already? We have not only found a Captain Frakenham, but we've found another helper for the shearing. It's more than I had hoped—almost a miracle.” She smiled at her children. “Sometimes prayers really are answered!”

Harriet wasn't sure that she wanted to call the dark-haired stranger a miracle any more than she wanted to call him Captain Frakenham, but she had no say in the matter at all. She'd just have to make
do, put up with the man's odious, self-satisfied manner, and pretend she was engaged to the oaf. But only in public.

Meanwhile, she'd take comfort in Stephen's suggestion. If she and Stephen could contrive a way to get the stranger to help with the shearing, then perhaps some good could come of this mess after all.

H
e had only an hour until dinner. Chase tossed back the last bit of brandy. He closed his eyes as the liquid warmed a path down his throat and into his stomach. His head still ached, but the pain was subsiding with each swallow.

Thank God he'd found the brandy decanter in the library earlier or there would be no sleep that night. In London, he never slept without the assistance of a heavy dose of spirits. Not since—

He closed his eyes, his heart clutched painfully.
No. Don't think about it. Never think about it
.

Slowly the feeling of taut-eyed desperation eased. The soft sound of a clock chimed over his shoulder. His hand shook a little as he poured himself another glass. The last time he'd had spirits was the day he'd been attacked. He lifted the glass to his lips, then
paused. That was probably what had caused the entire ruckus—the fact that he was drunk. The thieves must have figured him an easy mark, just as Annesley had.

Chase set the glass back on the tray, his mind suddenly clear. He'd never be an easy mark again.

Meanwhile, he'd better finish dressing for dinner. He had little doubt that it would be served at a dismally early hour considering he was residing with a houseful of sheep farmers.

Chase sighed and turned, catching sight of his cravat in the mirror. Well, it was
supposed
to be a cravat. While most of his clothing had been salvaged, his cravat linens had been sadly muddied and mangled, except for two, both of which were now being laundered. Left with no recourse, he'd been forced to accept a horribly understarched cravat linen from the household.

He tried to adjust it one more time, then stopped and shook his head in disgust. Not only was it limp, but it was a damnable nuisance trying to fasten the thing without the benefit of a decent cravat pin.

The thought of his assortment of pins—gold, diamond, ruby, sapphire—made him sigh. Gone forever, the lot of them. It was intolerable, though not as intolerable as it would have been had he lost his mother's ring.

The thought of that ring and the pocket it rested in caused his teeth to grind of their own accord.

Damn it, he'd get that ring back if it was the last thing he did. Miss Harriet Ward was about to face the St. John determination, whether she was prepared for it or not. The thought eased his spirits some, and he caught his reflection in the mirror.

He'd removed the offending bandage a half hour
earlier. A huge bruise colored his forehead. The center was still a dark and forebidding deep blue, while the edges were fading to more muted shades of purple and red with the veriest stain of yellow.

“I'm a veritable rainbow,” he told himself with a rueful grin.

Chase found himself looking at the decanter once again, but he made no move toward it. Instead, he pictured Miss Harriet Ward, a disapproving look in her remarkably brown eyes, her brows lifted as if daring him to be so foolish as to appear before her drunk and witless.

That was the last thing he needed—to be witless in the presence of a woman he was beginning to think possessed an incredibly sharp mind. She would tear him to shreds before he knew what was happening.

A firm rap sounded on the door. Chase called a greeting and a mobcapped female entered, her face twisted in a look that was as welcoming as a cold stone floor in the height of winter.

She regarded him dourly as she bobbed a most unwelcoming curtsy, her disapproving gaze finding the brandy decanter almost immediately. Her expression turned even more sour. “Supper is ready. Everybody has been waitin' in the sittin' room fer ten minutes now.”

Chase glanced at the clock on the mantel. “It's only a little after seven. Surely dinner is not served before eight.” Even for country hours, eight was unseasonably early.

The woman stiffened as if he'd insulted her parentage. “We eat promptly at seven at Garrett Park and we're not likely to change just because ye're here.”

Lovely. He was interred in a house where not only
the eldest daughter held him in derision, but so did the upstairs maid.

Chase wasn't used to such treatment. Usually when he spent a day or two at someone's country estate, his hosts were more than happy to have him about since he was an unmarried son from one of the wealthiest families in England. People didn't fawn over him precisely, but they appreciated him. Enjoyed his company. Occasionally even laughed at his jokes.

As for the servants, he was known to be generous with his vails and that had earned him some respect as well. But he could neither inform his current hostess of his parentage, nor did he have any money to pay vails—not after the robbery, anyway. All told, he was relegated to a pecuniary, disrespected level of existence, and it wasn't one that he particularly enjoyed.

He eyed the maid with some misgiving. “I suppose I am ready to go down now, Miss—”

“
Mrs
.,” she snapped, as if suspecting he was attempting to flirt with her. “It's
Mrs
. Maple. I'm the housekeeper.”

“Ah. May I say that Garrett Park is a lovely house? I daresay you must work hard to keep it up.”

Her gaze didn't soften one bit. “See to it that you come down to dinner on time from now on. 'Tis rude to keep the family waitin', especially Miss Harriet.” With that admonition, the housekeeper spun on her heel and marched off, indicating with a glare that he was to follow her.

Chase did as he was bid, hiding a rueful smile. So Miss Ward was not the only prickly character in the house, was she? It seemed that some of the ser
vants were likewise afflicted. Perhaps it was the water.

It was a good thing he'd found that brandy decanter.

The housekeeper stopped beside the door of the same room where Chase had met Mr. Gower just that morning. She threw open the door, made a harrumph sound by way of announcing him, then stepped aside and gestured for him to enter.

Before Chase took two steps into the room, the door was smartly closed against his heels. Every eye fastened on him as the hum of conversation died an immediate death.

It was the first time Chase had been blessed with seeing the entire Ward family, and he was immediately struck by how handsome they were. There was a look of quality to them all, of grace and health. Chase felt a little guilty for having thought of them as sheep farmers.

On his entry, Harriet turned from her sisters with a genuine smile on her lips, her eyes sparkling with something other than annoyance or suspicion. It was a look Chase had yet to enjoy—unalloyed mirth. Her lips were parted to reveal even white teeth, her brown eyes shone with life, and her entire expression was winsome.

Mrs. Ward quietly moved forward, a lovely matron in an ice-blue gown, a modest bit of lace at her bosom. “Captain Frakenham, I hope your room is proving adequate.”

Chase bowed. “It's more than adequate. Quite lovely, in fact.”

She smiled. “Excellent. Since your memory is a bit spotty right now, I thought perhaps I should reintro
duce the family. I daresay you don't remember all of them.”

He flicked a glance about the room. “You have quite a number of children.”

“Yes. I have five.”

Chase had four brothers and one sister, but he wisely refrained from saying so. “That's a large family indeed.”

She patted his arm. “Allow me to reintroduce them to you. This is Stephen, my elder son.” She gestured to a tall, slender young man who leaned on a pair of crutches.

The young man grinned widely as he nodded a greeting. He was very broad shouldered, his hands as large as ham hocks. Chase noted the halfling's skin was as tanned as Harriet's.

“And this,” Miss Ward continued, gesturing to her other son, “is Derrick. You met him earlier, in your room.”

“Of course,” Chase said, bowing.

Derrick glanced up from the book he'd been reading while leaning against a chair. He returned Chase's slight bow, his gaze flickering over him a quick moment before he went back to his book.

“Derrick is something of a bookworm,” Mrs. Ward said by way of explanation. She gestured toward the two girls who were sitting side by side on the settee. “These are my younger daughters, Sophia and Ophelia.”

The two girls gleamed up at him, the more fair of the two even daring to simper a bit. Of all the Wards, Chase decided that Sophia and Stephen possessed the most conventionally accepted idea of beauty. With their golden brown hair and blue eyes, they would have been noticed at any function in London.
The others were equally as attractive, though in a quieter way, like the intriguing Miss Harriet, who faded from view until roused to ire when she'd burst upon the senses like a scorching fire.

“Oh, Captain Frakenham!” Sophia bounced in her chair, her golden brown curls springing to life. “I'm so pleased to meet you! I mean—I'm glad to meet you
again
. We've known each other for oh, so long. In fact, I daresay you remember the time you and I—”

“Sophia,” Mrs. Ward said in breathless tone, “let the poor man alone. He has just risen from the sickbed and will not benefit from all of your recollections.”

Chase was certain that since he had absolutely no recollections of Miss Sophia whatsoever, Mrs. Ward was quite correct in her belief that he wouldn't benefit from any memories the girl planned on dredging from her imagination. Still, he managed a pleasant smile. “I'm certain Miss Sophia can remind me of our past times together over dinner.”

He bowed to the youngest Ward girl. “Miss Ophelia, how nice to meet you again. I fear I don't remember you well after—” He touched his head ruefully.

She giggled, her brown eyes magnified by her spectacles. “Thank you, Captain Frakenham. I am pleased to meet you again, as well.”

Mrs. Ward smiled her approval. “That only leaves Harriet, whom I'm sure you remember from this afternoon.”

“Indeed.” Chase bowed to Harriet, who stood to one side, her expression so far from the unalloyed mirth he'd witnessed on her face when he entered the room that he wondered if he'd imagined it.

She bowed in response—prim, proper, and uninterested. “Good evening, Captain Frakenham.”

A chilled frost was flame-hot compared to the icy air that hung about Miss Harriet Ward. Chase was glad he'd had the brandy to warm himself before attempting to dine with this particular little ice maiden. From what he'd heard, frostbite was a horrible experience and not one he'd really desired to experience.

Still, fortified by the brandy, he managed a smile. “I am sorry to keep you waiting. I must still be on London hours.”

“London?” Harriet's smooth voice interjected. “I didn't know Captain Frakenham had ever been to London. Have you? If so, pray tell us all what you
remember
.”

Everyone stared at him, silence abounding.

Chase almost winced at his mistake. Damn it! He would have to guard his tongue with Miss Harriet about. “I don't know if I've ever been to London. Perhaps I have, since I seem to know that expression.” He met Harriet's gaze steadily. “Or isn't it a common expression?”

Mrs. Ward waved a hand. “Baron Whitfield says it all the time. Shall we retire to the dining hall? Stephen, you may escort me. Derrick, you may take Sophia and Ophelia. And Captain…why don't you escort Harriet?”

Chase was certain Miss Harriet would hate to be so importuned, so he immediately went to her side and proffered his arm.

She looked down at it as if it were a snake, and only at the last possible moment did she lay her hand on his arm. Even then, she maintained an unusual amount of space between them.

Chase led her around a small chair on the way to the door, lengthening their journey by four or five steps. The maneuver allowed Stephen and Derrick to escort their charges first, while Chase and Harriet followed. As soon as the others were out of sight, Chase drew to a halt.

Harriet frowned. “Just what do you think you are doing?”

“Waiting for the others to go ahead.”

“They are ahead.”

Indeed, no one remained in the room but Chase and Harriet. He decided that he rather liked that. “We will catch up to them in a second. I wanted to ask you something.”

“What? Everyone will notice we aren't with them.”

“I daresay. But by the time they've noticed, you'll have answered my question, and we'll be well on our way to joining them.”

“I don't like this one—” She frowned, then suddenly leaned forward and sniffed. “Brandy. I should have known it.”

“I'm a sailor. Brandy is mother's milk to me.”

“You are not a sailor,” she said loftily. “You are a captain. That's different.”

“How?”

“Well you”—she gestured vaguely—“order people about.”

“And?”

“And you sail the ship. But from the main…deck part. Whatever that is.”

“Hm. Your grasp of the technical aspects of sailing is quite limited.”

“And yours is better?”

Actually it was. The St. Johns owned a rather large
yacht, and Chase and Devon sailed it frequently. “I know starboard from port.”

“So do I. Starboard is left and…” Her brow puckered. “No, wait. I think that's wrong. Starboard is right and—”

“Miss Ward, may I ask you a personal question?” The brandy he'd consumed earlier combined with the exhilarating effects of one Miss Harriet Ward was making him brave, a feeling he decided he quite liked. “It's a very personal question.”

“I don't know—”

“If we don't hurry, the others will soon return.”

She bit her lip and he could see her curiosity warring with her tendency toward prudence. Curiosity finally won and she sighed, then asked, “What?”

“Do you want children?”

He'd thought to startle her, to rattle her fine composure. And he'd been right. The abrupt question left her with stained cheeks and wide eyes.