Lord Haversham Takes Command (5 page)

“Hit?” Harry squealed. “I? But where?” he demanded, though his alarm had more to do with assignations under tables than with gunfire. “Higgins, do you see any bullet holes?” he asked, and twisted this way and that to inspect his person for damage, including the lace at his wrists about which he couldn’t care less, all the while watching Sir Anthony out of the corner of his eye to gauge his reaction. Was the Bertie act fooling him? And if it were, did a vestige of hope of being given Mira Crenshaw’s hand in marriage remain?

“Harry … ” Sir Anthony said, but was silenced by Harry’s wagging finger in his nose. “But of course, it’s Bertie now. I don’t know if I shall ever grow used to calling you such! Meanwhile, I must find my wife and daughter and make sure they are well. Will you join us back at the inn?”

“I mustn’t, no, I mustn’t take up any more of your time,” Harry averred, “but you may rest assured your lady wife and daughter are in good hands. But wait!” he said, once again snapping his forefinger to attention. Wasn’t it the Duke of Marcross with whom they tarried? As such, I must recant,” he said with a woeful wag of his head. “The last I saw of him, he was drying his tears with the tablecloth.”

“Then I had best hurry. Do be careful, Bertie,” Sir Anthony said and disappeared into the inn.

“Well, that Bertie of your’n is a right fine ninny, ain’t he?” Higgins said with a snort.

“Aye,” Harry agreed, “but there be worse men about.”

“No doubt you’re referring to that traitor with the pistol.”

“None at all,” Harry replied while privately wondering if an honest nincompoop such as Bertie weren’t a better man than the snide hypocrite Harry was becoming. “Let us part here, you to find a surgeon for that arm and me to track down the gunman,” he insisted.

“Nay, ’tis a cold trail already,” Higgins said. “I would as lief have you tuck yourself into bed for the remains of the day and continue your journey at night. You’d make a sight less easy target under a moonless sky.”

“Doubtless true,” Harry agreed. He scanned the horizon for any clue as to the identity of the person who wanted them dead. “I should be a bit of a babe in the woods remaining here though, shouldn’t I?”

“Rubbish! This is the last place he’ll look. He must know you are headed to London and doubtless has gone ahead to try his luck there. Snug as a rug you’ll be here, Harry, mark my words.”

“To tell the truth, I would rather feel the muzzle of a gun in my back than take a scolding in the face,” Harry said with a rueful smile.

“Eh?”

“Forget I spoke.” Harry thrust out his hand to bid Higgins farewell and watched his secret service contact ride out of sight before he reluctantly entered the inn. There was the small matter of having refused to return to the inn with Sir Anthony just a few moments past, while the matter of having kissed his daughter under the table was no small matter indeed. The possibility that Lady Crenshaw witnessed any or all of his and Mira’s
tete-a-tete
filled him with a hot and painful dread. He couldn’t bear the thought of Lady Crenshaw’s displeasure in word or deed. Returning to the inn was the last thing he wanted to do, but Higgins was right; it would be best to cool his heels until nightfall.

Meanwhile, his time would be best spent in the spreading of false rumors as to the nature of the bedlam let loose at the Cygnet and Lute. It simply wouldn’t do for a personage such as the Duke of Marcross to bandy it about that someone had been gunning for Harry. A plausible explanation for the gunfire must be thought of, and the malignant expression on George’s face when Harry strode into the dining room was all the inspiration he needed.

“Bertie!” Sir Anthony said with some surprise. “I thought you were off already.”

“I meant to be, but I felt duty bound to inform you that the Duke’s life is in danger,” Harry said with a studious determination to avoid Mira’s gaze, a task made more difficult when the sound of her gasp met his ears.

George said nothing in reply, but it was clear to Harry that the Duke’s overblown ego made it entirely possible for him to swallow such a preposterous notion.

Sir Anthony was not as easily flummoxed, however. “But I’m persuaded the bullet was meant for you. It came close enough to part your hair!”

“Oh, I do hope the bullet was not intended for you, Bertie!” Lady Crenshaw said, upon which a mortified silence fell over the group.

Harry was absurdly grateful for Lady Crenshaw’s affectionate response and quickly spoke to cover her lack of concern for the life of the Duke. “Marcross is the most important person in the room. There is no doubt the bullet was intended for him, do you not agree?” he asked with a deferential nod in George’s direction whose mulish expression did much to convey his outrage.

“If it were, the gunman was a dashed rotten marksman!”

“Without question,” Harry agreed and allowed his glance to fall for a moment on Mira’s white face with a surge of gratitude that the gunman did indeed miss. “As a result, I felt it best to offer my services as additional protection,” he heard himself say against all reason. It was worth it if it brightened Mira’s expression in response.

Apparently the idea appealed to at least one Crenshaw. “I daresay one can never have too many attendants, can one?” George drawled. “Besides, with you riding I am free to travel within the coach,” he added with a look for Mira that Harry could not like.

“In that case,” Mira said, rising to her feet with a great rustling of skirts, “I suggest we resume our journey in the morning. I have suffered enough abuse for one day, do you not agree,
Bertie
?” she said, her chin a shade higher than normal.

Harry, torn between appreciation for Mira’s spirited response to George’s lewd behavior and fury at himself for his failure to adequately maintain his Bertie persona, did not trust himself to reply. With a sketch of a bow for each, he followed the hastily retreating Mira from the room.

It was only as he was just about to catch her by the elbow that he remembered his promise to Higgins to sleep by day and travel at night. Yet, as wary as he was of bringing danger down on the heads of those he loved most in the world, he couldn’t bear the thought of parting from Mira and leaving her in the clutches of her odious cousin. Somehow he must think of a way to be the beau seated next to her in the traveling coach come morning. More torn in his duty than ever, he remained at the bottom of the stairs watching the red curls bob against the small of Mira’s back until she had shut the door of her room behind her.

There was no denying it now; the fat was well and truly in the fire.

Chapter Five

Mira was persuaded she heard strange sounds during the course of the night. Surely they were mere fancies — the result of having spent the afternoon and evening alone in a small room with naught but her riotous thoughts to keep her company. Unwilling to sup with George, she had bespoken a tray to be sent to her room and retired early but slept ill, fretful over George’s self-assured overtures that were hateful in the extreme, especially since he behaved as if their engagement were a decided fact.

As loathsome as was the thought of spending the better part of a day seated next to George in the carriage, Mira felt a deal more vexation over the problem of Harry. The mercurial changes in his character notwithstanding, there was plenty to mull over with regards to his behavior under the dining room table. What could it mean? More importantly, what did she wish it to mean?

She pondered these things as she lolled beneath the bed coverings in the minutes just prior to the rising of the sun but was startled by an echo of the troublesome noises she had heard in the dark of the night. She had thought perhaps it was a rat though it was more of a thumping than a scratching. The possibility of loose shutters and wind-blown branches had all been eliminated long since. When the noise came again, she was able to determine that it originated from the passage outside her door. This ruled out wild animals and other night crawlers and narrowed the choices down to a domestic animal such as a cat, dog, or chicken that had wandered in from the yard under the noses of its betters.

Wildly curious, she slipped out of bed and tiptoed to the door so as not to alert what promised to be a delightful source of relief from her tedium. Quietly, she released the latch and pulled the door open only wide enough to give her a view of the passage floor.

To her great surprise the space was not occupied by an animal of any kind. Rather, a man, as she presumed him to be, stretched along the carpet, his form wrapped entirely in a blanket, might easily be judged an ‘animal,’ but she felt she should reserve condemnation until she determined the reason for his being where she found him. If he pleaded ‘no room at the inn,’ she could find it in her heart to excuse his odd behavior. If he were sleeping off a night of riotous drinking and had passed out in front of her room on the way to his own, he was no better than an animal indeed.

“Sir,” she whispered so as not to awaken any guests other than the one who had made her threshold his bed. “Sir!” she hissed with a bit more intensity followed by a prod of her slipperless toe to his foot wrapped tight in tartan wool. It was clear that his sense of touch was stronger than that of hearing as this gentle contact brought him to his feet in one catlike leap of his powerful thighs as he dropped the blanket to puddle at his feet. He looked wildly about him, his disordered yellow locks stuck out at odd angles, as his attention finally came to rest on Mira who watched this unexpected spectacle with mouth agape.

“Harry!” she exclaimed whilst privately noting the all too swiftly dampened flare of warmth in his eyes when he saw her. “What are you doing out here? I assume you have your own room?”

“Yes. Yes, I do,” he said, looking abashed but not in the mood to further elucidate.

“Lost track of it, have you?” Mira snipped. “Perhaps it’s the very same in which you left your boots,” she suggested with a pointed look at his shoeless feet.

Harry looked down at the offensive articles then back at Mira with a Bertie-like smile of chagrin. It marred what Mira tended to think of as a masculine face blessed with a strong jaw balanced by striking eyes that were fringed with lashes any woman would envy. His gaze must have followed her thoughts because his eyes rolled upwards, and he clapped his hands to the top of his head just as she arrived at the subject of his hair.

“I must look a devil!” he cried followed by what amounted to a twitter.

Mira wanted nothing more than to roll her eyes as well, but quelled the desire. “I expect the state of your appearance can be rectified through the use of the wash pitcher and mirror made available by the innkeeper. Since these items are generally found in one’s room, I suggest you take yourself off forthwith.” Besides which, someone could come along the passage at any moment and would no doubt think it odd to find him outside her chamber door in his stockings. After what happened under the table the day prior, Mira felt it best to avoid even a breath of scandal with regards to Harry Haversham.

Unaccountably, he did not go.

“Miss Crenshaw, would it be too much trouble to make use of yours?”

“I’m sorry, I don’t understand. Make use of what?”

“Your room,” he said with a straightforward intensity that owed nothing to his alter ego, Bertie. “Quickly, now, for a door has just opened up down the passage, one I must pass to arrive at my own.”

Without a thought for the impropriety of his request save that of how suddenly similar this Harry was to the one she had been daydreaming about, Mira opened the door just wide enough to allow him to sidle through, whereupon she shut it silently behind him. Once he was in, however, there were few places for him to go. He stood, towering over her as he looked everywhere but at her, a habit of his that had become more than a little distasteful.

Just when she began to worry that her mother would discover them in such a compromising situation, Mira realized he hunted for an alternative exit from the room. It wasn’t until he bolted for the window, and she spied the butt of a pistol tucked into the waistband of his breeches that she began to form new opinions as to his continual presence in unexpected locations.

“Harry, are you in some kind of trouble?” she demanded as he thrust one muscular leg through the window. When the other followed and he slid through, she shrieked in alarm, sure he would at any moment completely disappear only to be found dashed to pieces on the ground many feet below. “Harry!” she cried as she dashed to the open casement.

She ought not to have feared for he stood at ease, his feet braced against a piece of molding half a man’s length below the window, a hand on each side of the casement, no sign of weakness showing in the muscles that lined his arms. His white shirt fluttered freely in the breeze, as did his hair, and as he leaned into the room, his green eyes blazed with a message she did not fully understand.

Instinctively, she bent towards him, her eyes closed and her lips parted in expectation of a kiss, resolved that, this time, she would not slap him. In fact, should this version of Harry remain, she would never need slap him again. Instead, he put his mouth to her ear to whisper “many thanks.” When she opened her eyes, heart pounding in her chest, he was gone.

Yet, he had been there — the Harry of her dreams. The Harry she dreamed of, the man she had always expected him to become, was adventurous, strong, dashing, and brave. Clearly, there was an important reason for him to hide his true self, the one who was startlingly similar to the one she believed herself to have invented, by behaving like a shallow youth. The question, one of many, was whether she were the object of his deceit or merely a chance looker-on.

The idea bore more contemplation. He had behaved the perfect fool when he had visited with her parents and brothers, yet he was much more the Harry she had expected when it was only the two of them. What was so important that he must keep his true self hidden from her family? She felt that if she were to put the question to him when they were alone, he would as likely lie as not. She found she could not abide a liar but owned the possibility of secrets so important to be kept that the truth could not be shared. Depending on his reasons, she could find it in herself to forgive him.

Whatever the case may be, Mira knew one thing: she had felt sure he meant to kiss her as he stood at the window, and for the first time in her life, was rather afraid she had meant to kiss him back. The tumult that had started in her chest when she feared he might plunge to his death on the ground below had subsided a bit, though perhaps it only seemed so in comparison to the insistent fluttering in her belly. Pressing her hands to her stomach, she moved to the washstand to begin her morning ablutions, suddenly determined to look her best.

As she washed her face and combed her hair, she was set on accomplishing a number of other imperatives as well. First, she must discover what it was Harry was hiding, as well as answers to so many questions, such as why he had passed the night in the passage outside her room, and why he had again behaved as the tiresome Bertie. If the reasons for his sham performances were acceptable, and if he trusted her enough to tell her the truth, that was all she needed to feel confident that he was the man she wished to marry. When she was honest with herself, she admitted that he always had been. Next, she must discover the means to convince her parents of that fact. Last of all, though perhaps most imperative, was a much more pleasant task: to win Harry’s heart.

With enticement in mind, Mira spent an inordinate amount of time over her
toilette
and refused to be rushed when her mother entered the room with a reminder that their journey would be resumed directly after breakfast. As it was clear her admonitions to be quick were falling on deaf ears, Lady Crenshaw took one of Mira’s long, red curls in her hand and proceeded to pepper her daughter with questions as they pinned up her hair.

“Should you like your curls divided and off to each side or should we add a topknot at the crown?” Lady Crenshaw asked.

“A topknot, certainly!”

“And what about a ribbon? Blue to match your eyes or something to match your gown?”

Mira briefly considered the blue but finally decided on the green as it matched the color of the leaves on her bonnet to perfection.

Next were the difficult questions. “You are up rather early this morning. Did you not sleep well?”

“In fact, I did not. I should be surprised anyone did with all that commotion,” Mira answered with a nonchalant air while analyzing her mother’s face in the mirror for a reaction.

“I didn’t hear a thing,” Lady Crenshaw said, her expression above suspicion, “but I doubt I would have heard a gale outside my window what with the way your father snores!”

“No! Not Papa!” Mira bantered, her mind occupied with the questions her mother should be asking, such as: What were you doing under the table with Harry Haversham yesterday afternoon?

To Mira’s great relief, her mother didn’t ask but her next question was far from better. “You seem a bit anxious to look your best this morning. Is it on account of your cousin?”

Mira bit back the sharp denial that came to her tongue. When the time came, it wouldn’t do at all for her mother to believe Mira had chosen Harry simply to escape marriage to George. Nor would it do for Lady Crenshaw to suppose that Mira was setting her cap for Harry, at least not at this point in her plans. “If I appear to be anxious, it is only in anticipation of arriving in London today. A girl has only one debutante Season, and I want everything to be flawless.” She twisted about in her chair to face her mother who was obliged to hastily release a clutch of curls from her grasp. “Mama, you know how much I love you and Papa, do you not?”

“But, of course, my darling!” Lady Crenshaw dropped a kiss on her daughter’s nose. “Goose! Why do you ask?”

Mira turned her attention to her reflection in the mirror and concentrated on holding still for the last few pins to anchor her coiffure. “It’s only that I am grown up now and shall soon be married. It is not a decision I take lightly. If I am to leave you and Papa, it would only be if I thought I should be truly happy with someone else.”

Lady Crenshaw caught her daughter’s gaze in the mirror and held it with her own. “So, this
is
about George, is it not?”

“I suppose, to some extent,” Mira admitted. “You know that I cannot abide him. Yet I do want to make you and Papa happy. Your happiness is my own.”

“Your father and I would never wish you to sacrifice yourself for us,” Lady Crenshaw insisted. “At the same time, it might surprise you how much better the older generation is at pairing men and women than we are ourselves,” she said with a coquettish smile. “I never would have married your father if your great-grandmother hadn’t taken steps.”

Mira had often heard the story of how her parents greatly disliked one another prior to being thrown together by Great-Grandmama. Mira rather doubted the quoting of a few lines from Shakespeare’s
The Tempest
at a house party forced upon the hosts by a pox quarantine could make her love George the way her mother and father loved one another. In the end, there was nothing about George she could find to love. He was knowledgeable but not in the least wise. He was somewhat handsome but not attractive, at least not in her eyes. He was rich, but Mira never cared much for the things money could buy, aside from beautiful clothes. Though it made her feel slightly ashamed of herself to think such a thing, Mira had to admit the problem was not in her ability to love but in his very nature.

“Mama,” Mira asked as she took her mother’s hand and rose to look her in the eyes. “Do you think you could have been as happy as you are now if you had married someone else?”

“Well,” her mother said with a little laugh, “it wasn’t as if I had any other offers. Not legitimate ones, anyway. I suppose if I had waited long enough, someone might have come along and taken pity on me.”

“Oh, Mama, never say so! I am persuaded there were scores of gentleman who would have given money to marry you!”

With a wry smile, Lady Crenshaw shook her head and drew Mira down to sit on the bed beside her. “As to the question at hand, no, I do not think I would have been as happy as I am with your father and not only because I love him so much, as he does me. It has as much to do with the fact that loving him made me a better person, a person I could more easily live with as much as he. If I had married someone else — or not at all — I rather doubt I would have had enough reason to grow and change in the ways I have. So, really, it is about more than simply being with the person you love best. It is about becoming the person you can best live with as well.”