Love Alters Not (10 page)

Lady Helen stroked her hand absently. “He was such a dear little boy—who would have guessed…?” She sighed. “But to answer your question, my dear, I cannot ask him to leave. You see, The Palfreys belongs to him.”

“To
him?
But I had understood you took the captain in when he was a small child and his parents died.”

“Quite true. But the property is entailed, do you see? Gilbert, my late husband, was the fifth baronet. He adored Anthony, and divided his fortune into three equal shares; one third to Harding, one third to me, and the final third to Anthony, each share to revert to the title-holder should the others die unmarried.”

Harbouring the beginnings of a terrible suspicion, Dimity stared at her in silence.

My lady, inwardly intrigued by that obvious dismay, went on, “The title passed to Harding, of course, and would have gone next to Walter, since he was two years older than Anthony. As it is, title, estates, and two thirds of the fortune have come to my only surviving nephew.”

Dimity whispered, “Then—he is Captain Sir Anthony Farrar!”

“Unless your claim is proven, my dear.”

“My … goodness!”

My lady bent nearer. “You surely have realized that—if Carlton is Walter's son, then the title would rightfully be his?”

“And,” croaked Dimity, horror struck, “The Palfreys?”

“Yes. And the part of the fortune that is bound up in the entail, besides what came to Anthony upon my son's death.”

‘He will be ruined!' thought Dimity. ‘Oh, how he must
yearn
to be rid of us!'

*   *   *

“But you scarce ate a morsel,” said Lady Helen, walking downstairs beside Dimity, and watching the pale and troubled face with no little anxiety. “We can postpone this matter for a day or so and give you a chance to regain your strength.”

Between her discomfort and the shock of learning that she had somehow been placed in the position of wresting a man's title and estates from him, whereby—if he was as base as everyone thought him—he had very good reason for murdering both her and little Carlton, Dimity had found it impossible to force more than one slice of toast down her reluctant throat. Not that she could have eaten more at all events, for her stays were so tight she knew her poor sides must be on the point of meeting in the middle of her stomach. To add to her misery, her feet felt raw, and she could barely endure to set one before the other. The sooner she was out of this perfectly dreadful mess, the better. She thought of the cypher under her mattress, and was so distressed that a faint moan escaped her.

Startled, my lady exclaimed, “No, really, I think we
must
call in our physician. Mr. Chandler will, I am sure, be willing to send him to us.”

“Mr. Chandler is still here?” asked Dimity, clutching at straws.

“Yes. He and his brother Quentin and Anthony have been friends from school days.”

“And your son, ma'am?”

“Well—no. Harding was not— He had his own friends.”

They were halfway down the stairs at this point and, despite her misery, Dimity said admiringly, “Oh, what a
very
lovely house it is! See how the sunbeams come through the stained glass to light this painting. Isn't it pretty?”

“Quite one of my favourites,” my lady agreed without expression. “Anthony did it.”

Dimity lurched to a halt, staring her astonishment.

“He is quite a fine artist,” said Lady Helen.

Dimity scanned the painting. It was a charming rural scene and although she knew little of art, she recognized a considerable degree of skill. The plaque on the lower edge of the elaborate frame read, “The Village Green.”

Green. Memory triggered, she forgot to comment on the painting, and babbled, “That reminds me. An acquaintance of mine lives hereabouts, I think. Perhaps you know him, ma'am? A Mr. Green.”

“Rafe? He was one my son's closest friends.” My lady sighed and added regretfully, “But alas, he does not come here any more.”

Dimity's hopes, which had soared, crashed down again. “No. This must be a different gentleman.”

As they reached the ground floor, Carlton, face flushed and rigid, eyes glittering, stalked past with silent dignity and went limping up the stairs. The heavy riding crop still gripped in his hand, Farrar sauntered up the steps, crossed the music hall and stopped before them.

“Did you
dare
to whip that child?” cried Dimity, enraged.

He slanted a bored look at her. “I gave him ten of the best. And
daring
plays no part in it, madam. You claim the brat is my nephew. At present, happily, I am still the head of this house and thus have every right in the world to discipline him. Besides which,” he brandished the crop before her outraged face, “had you one single grain of sense, you'd see that the boy wanted to be punished. Egad, but I'm almost driven to hope he
is
my nephew! Certainly,
you
would ruin him within another year or so! Already, he's almost completely out of hand.”

Opening her mouth to denounce him, Dimity had a sudden mental picture of Peregrine or Piers, had Carlton done one tenth of what he'd perpetrated at The Palfreys. Seething, but bowing to the justness of his remarks, she closed her lips.

Gordon Chandler, his dark hair unpowdered today, hastened to join the little group. “Good morning, my lady, Mrs. Deene,” he said with a polite bow.

Dimity swept him a curtsey. She rose to discover a glazed look in Mr. Chandler's grey eyes and Captain Sir Anthony's jaw at half mast. Uneasy, she said, “An I offended, sir…”

“No, no! Not at all, ma'am,” replied Farrar, laughter dancing into his eyes. “I perceive you to be a woman of many—er, parts.”

His gaze seemed incapable of moving from one such part.

With a gasp of fright, her hand flew to her bosom. Her curtsey had been a nice flourish, but a major error. The balky clasp of the ugly little brooch had parted. The scarf was hanging uselessly on her skirt. Instinctively, she grabbed for it. The brooch had fallen also, and the pin jabbed her finger spitefully. She gave a little jump of pain and shock. Another error. With unspeakable horror she felt something snap. She could breathe! And then, pop! pop! pop! pop! went the four buttons poor Rodgers had battled so hard to close.

In another second, her skirts would plunge.

There was really only one possible thing to do.

She fainted gracefully into Gordon Chandler's ready arms.

V

Alarmed by her beloved master's distress, Shuffle stood with her front paws on his muscular thigh, her tucked-in tail quivering anxiously, adoration apparent in every inch of her golden body.

“It-it is quite … all right, old lady,” gasped Farrar, mopping at his eyes with one hand and caressing her head with the other. He looked up from the hay bale in the barn that was serving him as a chair, and went on breathlessly, “'Pon my oath, I've not laughed so much in months. No, really Gordie, however did you keep your countenance? Had I not departed—”

“Departed, is it?” His shoulders propped against a post, Chandler said, grinning, “Man, you ran like a rabbit!” And at once bit his lip, appalled by his faux pas.

Appearing not to notice that unfortunate choice of words, Farrar said, “'Twas either run, or laugh in the doxy's face! What on earth compels women to persist in squeezing themselves into garments four sizes too small, and crippling their feet with shoes that make 'em look downright deformed? I'll wager Madam Deene's toes were curled halfway to her instep in those gaudy atrocities! And as for her quarter-deck! Heaven help us! I fancied we were going to have a bacchanalian revelation at any second! Jove, what a disappointment!” He lapsed into hilarity again. “And—and then,” he wheezed, “to see you struggling upstairs with—the wench! Burn it if it wasn't like—like the climactic scene of … a poor farce! You, bearing the lightskirt up to your bed and … and staggering every step!”

“I was not staggering!” protested Chandler. “Though she's no skin and bone wisp.” He smiled reminiscently. “All womanly curves and softness, rather.”

Farrar's mirth eased. “Never say you've formed a
tendre
for the vixen? 'Ware, Gordie! I'd not want
that
one for my peculiar!”

“Which is as well, for I fancy you'd get your come-uppance did you suggest it.” Sobering, Chandler murmured thoughtfully, “She's no opera dancer, Tony.”

“She's not preparing for her presentation, either. Can you not picture her making her curtsey to the world?” He chuckled. “Come to think on it, she'd best not! Not in those gowns, or the world might see more than it bargained for!”

Chandler knit his brows. “Yet the habit she had on yesterday was very well cut, did you notice? And although her hair was disarrayed by the time I saw her, it was not in that—er, unfortunate style she affected this morning. Her speech is cultured. And did you mark her hands?”

“Aye. Both of 'em. Deep in my purse!”

“No, I mean it. They are white, and quite lovely. Certainly well manicured. If she's ever scrubbed a floor or cooked a meal, I'll shave my head and wear a French peruke!”

Farrar stood, laughing at him. “You
have
formed a
tendre
for her! Our chaste Gordon has at last—”

“Now blast your ears, Tony! If you're spoiling for a mill—!”

“Well, compared to Quentin, you
are
chaste.”

Chandler responded in French, the kennel language making Farrar chuckle again.

A groom led a fine mare from the barn, and as the two men started towards it, Farrar said with genuine regret, “
Must
you go? It would be nice to chat of old times for a week or two.”

‘Yes, I'm very sure it would,' thought Chandler, and said, “I'll try to come up again before I go home. But I've business in Town I've already kept waiting too long.”

Farrar drew him to a halt. “At Boudreaux House, perchance? Have a care, you clunch. Don't let Treve de Villars embroil you in his treasonable plottings.”

“Treve saved my brother's life. He may embroil me in whatsoever he wishes.” But Chandler read concern in Farrar's eyes and gripped his arm, saying with a smile, “Never worry so. I tread carefully.”

“You'd best tiptoe, old lad. The ground becomes a bog around those who aid rebels.”

Chandler mounted up, and Farrar added more revealingly than he knew, “You will try to come back?”

“Aye.” Chandler raised his gauntletted hand in farewell, then brought the mare to a canter. He did not look back. He knew that until he was out of sight Farrar would stand there, gazing after him.

*   *   *

For the sake of appearances, Dimity was obliged to remain in her bed for the balance of the day. Lady Helen came in several times and said it was perfectly understandable that she should be unnerved, and she must not think of getting up. If Dimity was unnerved, it was by the waste of precious time and by her inability even to try to cope with Mrs. Deene's wicked wardrobe. She asked about Carlton and was informed he was “with Farrar,” that his care had been assigned to Cissie, who was very good with children, and that she was not to worry. She dozed and had a nightmare in which Farrar lured Carlton to a lonely copse and strangled him. Waking, shaken and not at all sure her dream had been so outlandish, she looked through periodicals, and fretted until evening. But even then she was forbidden to get out of bed. A tray was brought up and Rodgers sat beside her with the announcement that she had been instructed to remain until Mrs. Deene fell asleep.

To her great relief, Carlton stuck his head around the door, said he hoped she was feeling better, and before she could reply, gave a whoop and went galloping off. So Farrar had not murdered the boy. Yet.

Determined to wait out the abigail's vigilance, then get up and see what could be done about the gowns, Dimity lay down and feigned sleep. She was more affected by the series of disasters than she would have admitted, however, and between her aches and pains and her troubled thoughts, she fell fast asleep and did not waken until Rodgers brought in her hot chocolate the next morning.

She felt much better for her enforced rest and insisted she was eager to get up. Rodgers helped with her toilette, wrapped her in Mrs. Deene's lurid dressing gown, and ushered her along the hall to my lady's parlour. It appeared that Lady Helen had been called to see a sick tenant, and Dimity was not sorry to find she was to breakfast alone. Carlton was nowhere to be seen, and as soon as she had enjoyed tea, some delicious scones, and a slice of cold ham, she went back to her bedchamber.

She was delighted to find it empty, her bed neatly made, and the room tidied. She flew to the press and took down the blue gown. Sitting in the middle of the bed, she peered hopefully at the waistband. Someone had sewn the buttons back on, probably believing they had been torn off when she “fainted.” She turned the great skirt inside out, and her hopes plummeted. The gown was cheap and poorly made, with small allowance in the seams. Even if she could enlarge the waist, it would not help much, for there was no turn-up at the hem of the skirt, the lower edges having been rolled. She thought despairingly, ‘Besides, it must be a mile wide and would take
days
to sew!' Thanks to Tio, she had funds, but if she asked to be taken shopping and purchased more tasteful garments it would very likely raise suspicions about her identity. Nor dare she claim that her luggage had been mixed up, for it would take very little to send Farrar over to the Winchester coaching station, and if he started poking about, heaven only knew what it might lead to! Lady Helen had been kind; perhaps she could beg the loan of a fichu at least. The thought was scarcely born than it was discarded. Lady Helen was nobody's fool; she would know that the woman who had bought such gowns was not the type to cover what they were designed to display! She gave a small moan of frustration. There was
nothing
she could do! She would simply have to endure these dreadful clothes for a day or two, until she could find Mr. Green, pass on Tio's cypher, and go home!