Lovers Forever (21 page)

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Authors: Shirlee Busbee

BOOK: Lovers Forever
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Sometime later, standing tall and urbane at his grandmother's side, a coolly polite smile pasted on his mouth, he greeted her guests, his handsome features never giving a clue as to what was going on behind his polite facade. They were all there—Lord and Lady Spencer, their son, and his sisters; Admiral Brownell, his wife, their two older sons, and their daughter, Jane; and John Frampton, the squire, and his friend from London, Edward Dickerson. Athena was there, too, an almost pitying look in her fine dark eyes whenever she glanced his way. It was going to be, Nicolas thought dismally, a
long
evening.
The evening was every bit as long and bad as Nicolas had feared. When he wasn't being treated to simpering smiles and giggles from the young ladies and arch looks from the parents, he found himself surrounded by a bevy of eager young men who bombarded him with questions about Sir Arthur Wellesley and the war with Boney on the peninsula. It had been nearly a year since he had resigned his commission and returned to England, and while his information was months old and long out of date, it didn't seem to matter to the gentlemen—even Lord Spencer and Admiral Brownell appeared to hang on his every word. It was pleasant at first, but it soon grew wearying, and Nicolas began to wish he had followed his first instincts and told his grandmother that he'd made other plans.
He had to confess, though, that there had been an ulterior motive for his being so amenable to Pallas's blatant matchmaking: tonight would give him a chance to observe John Frampton and young Robert Brownell in a neutral setting and allow him to decide how to use the information Pallas had given him about their possible connection to the smugglers... and whoever might be passing along vital secrets to the French!
It was apparent that Robert, a dark, brooding-faced young man of twenty-four, should have been allowed to join the cavalry unit as he passionately longed to do. Nicolas watched him closely after the ladies had departed from the dining room and the gentlemen were enjoying their cigars and port. He could well imagine that Robert, bored and restless, full of youthful high spirits, and stuck in the country with nothing to do, might very well join in John Frampton's wilder activities. The second Brownell son, Jeremy, was a mild-mannered youth two years younger than Robert. From the intricate folds of his starched cravat and the daringly embroidered white waistcoat he wore, it seemed that this particular sprout's highest ambition was to take the London dandy set by storm. Robert appeared to hold Jeremy in great scorn; his lip curled constantly at his younger brother's conversation, which focused mainly on the cut and style of clothing.
Nicolas's eyes drifted around the table, skipping over the rotund, bald-pated Admiral Brownell and the slim, elegant, gray-haired Lord Spencer before resting for a moment on the bold, hawkish features of the squire. John Frampton more resembled his late, unlamented father than his amiable mother; his hair was dark brown, his mouth was full to the point of sulkiness, and his eyes were a restless deep blue. A raffish air hung about him, despite his fashionable attire, and Nicolas had no trouble picturing him skulking about the neighborhood in the wee hours of the morning, in the company of lowborn smugglers, or outriding dragoons.
His friend, Dickerson, was much of the same mold. Idly observing the two of them, Dickerson and Frampton, as they talked animatedly with the younger men, Nicolas wondered why they were wasting their time in the bucolic hills of Kent. From their form-fitting jackets by Weston, the neat but unremarkable folds of their white cravats, it appeared they both followed the sporting set—their conversation was sprinkled with comments about Tattersall's, nights at Limmer's Hotel, and boxing matches held at Fives Court. Why, Nicolas wondered, had Frampton and his friend buried themselves in the country?
“I say, Sherbourne, it's a good thing that you decided to spend the winter at home,” said Admiral Brownell, breaking into Nicolas's thoughts. “Perhaps with you in residence these damn owlers won't be quite so bold! Do you know,” he added in outraged accents, “they actually had the nerve to take three of my best hunters the other night to transport their goods? Brazen fellows!”
The admiral's comment caused a moment of silence. It was Lindsey, Lord Spencer's son, whose blue eyes held the expression of a startled fawn, who said hastily, “Well, you know, sir, Caldwell House is near one of the paths used frequently by the owlers. In this area it's to be expected that occasionally they might, um, borrow some of your stock. They never really do any harm, and it's common practice for them to leave behind a cask of brandy or two to compensate for the use of the animals.”
Ignoring his son's words, Lord Spencer, sitting to the left of Nicolas, said, “It's true that something should be done about them—decent people cannot sleep easy in their beds while they're about!”
Nicolas regarded his brandy snifter, not certain how to respond. He wanted to reassure the two older men that he did indeed intend to do something about the smugglers, but it would be foolhardy to bluntly admit that he had more than a cursory interest in the smugglers. Certainly he had no intention of mentioning the hidden goods in the cellars of the old gatekeeper's cottage. Idly twisting the stern of his snifter, he said evenly, “I daresay you're right, but I don't really see what you expect me to do about it. It's my understanding that there is a company of dragoons stationed in the area—surely they can do something!”
A sly snicker came from Frampton, bringing an angry flush to the admiral's face. Making no attempt to hide his displeasure, he said angrily, “Oh, yes! I'm sure that you young bucks think it is amusing—I've heard tales of your outrageous high jinks, but you mark my words—you won't be able to outfox His Majesty's hardworking servants forever! You think it's a great lark now, but one of these nights, you'll come a cropper—mark my words!”
“Oh, come now, sir,” said John Frampton. “It is a lark! What harm is there in tweaking the noses of some stiff-rumped dragoons?”
“Yes, Father, what harm does it do?” demanded Robert, his dark face intent. “It's not as if one is actually
smuggling
anything. Surely there is nothing wrong in just baiting the revenuers or riding with the smugglers. God knows there is nothing else here to do for excitement!”
Nicolas thought for one moment that the admiral was going to suffer an apoplectic fit. His eyes bulged, his heavy jowls turned an alarming red, and he stared at his eldest son as if he had sired a monster. “Nothing wrong?” he finally choked out. “I'll tell you what's wrong, you young rapscallion—it's a crime! A damned bloody crime! Smugglers are hanged!”
“Better hanged than rotting away in this tedious backwater!” Robert grumbled.
The admiral's color deepened. Seeking to avert a full-blown argument, Nicolas rose and said hastily, “I think that we have lingered here long enough. Shall we join the ladies?”
In the general exodus from the dining room, the disagreement between the Brownells was smoothed over and the topic of the smugglers was gratefully left behind. Steeling himself as if for battle, Nicolas led the way into the blue sitting room, where the ladies were scattered decoratively about, sipping their tea.
Upon the appearance of the gentlemen, particularly Nicolas, there was a flurry of movement, and the younger ladies suddenly became quite animated. Gowns were twitched into place, demure glances were flashed his way, and there was much head tossing and many soft giggles. Nicolas sighed. Yes, it was definitely a long evening.
The gentlemen spread out around the room, and Nicolas took his usual place standing before the fire. After those wishing tea were served, the conversation became general. Nicolas noted that Lindsey gravitated in Jane Brownell's direction near the blue sofa, followed closely by Dickerson. To his astonishment, Frampton walked directly over to where Athena was sitting and began a light flirtation with her. Frampton and Athena? Well, well, well! Perhaps his grandmother had the correct reading of the situation after all.
Athena glanced his way, and Nicolas arched a quizzical eyebrow. She smiled sweetly and coolly turned back to her companion.
Pallas caught his attention just then as she said, “Nicolas, dear, Athena and I have been talking with the other ladies and we all think that it would be an excellent idea if we held a ball in the near future to celebrate your return to the neighborhood. Would you like that?” She glanced fondly around the room. “The young ladies have already indicated that they think it a capital notion!” There was an unholy gleam of amusement in her eyes that made him distinctly uneasy. “I've told them that it is entirely up to you, dear.”
Nicolas was instantly engulfed by a cloud of giggling, pleading-eyed young ladies, their pastel-hued muslin skirts fluttering as they descended upon him. Over the heads of his fair besiegers, he shot his grandmother a look of wry amusement. She had outflanked him and trapped him neatly.
Looking down at the young ladies who crowded around him, he smiled teasingly. “And what is your pleasure, mademoiselles—shall we have a ball?”
“Oh, please, Lord Sherbourne,
do
say yes!” begged Jane Brownell prettily as she stood in front of him, her fair hair gleaming in the light from the chandeliers.
“It would be most exciting,” exclaimed Frances Spencer, Lord Spencer's eldest daughter. A tall girl, Frances was built on strapping lines, but she had a kind face and her big brown eyes sparkled attractively.
Her sister, Rosemary, chimed in with, “A ball at Sherbourne Court! Oh, it would be just divine!”
With amusement in his eyes, Nicolas glanced down at the eager upturned faces and said, “With such lovely supplicants, how can I refuse? Of course we shall have a ball at the court.”
Amid much squealing and clapping of hands, Nicolas escaped and sat beside his grandmother. Under his breath, he said, “Happy now?”
She flashed him a demure glance. “You know that you always make me happy, dear.”
Choking back a laugh, Nicolas brushed aside her offer to fix him tea and helped himself from the silver tray in front of him. Drinking his tea, he glanced around the room, listening idly to the conversation that swirled around him. To his left, the young ladies were busily discussing the promised delights of the ball; Lindsey and Jeremy joined their group, seeming to be caught up in the unexpected treat that lay before them, although they did try to act as if a ball at Sherbourne Court were nothing out of the ordinary.
Athena, Lady Edwina Spencer, an attractive woman of some fifty years, and the admiral's wife, Sophie, a formidable matron in puce satin and diamonds, were seated in a semicircle in front of the settee where Nicolas sat with his grandmother. After some polite chitchat with him, all the older ladies were soon deep in conversation about the ball. The remaining gentlemen were gathered at one end of the room, and from the snippets that drifted his way, Nicolas surmised they were enjoying a lively discussion about a cockfight that had recently been held in the area.
For the moment everyone seemed occupied, and with deceptive idleness, Nicolas gazed slowly about the room. The conversation about the smugglers had been most interesting. It was obvious from the reactions around the table that John Frampton, no doubt aided by Dickerson, was definitely chasing excitement by joining with the owlers—and, perhaps less regularly, so was young Robert. Nicolas's eyes rested thoughtfully on that young man's dark, intense features. Yes, a cavalry regiment was just what Robert needed to funnel all that youthful daredevil energy into something worthwhile. He wondered why the admiral hadn't made the arrangements long before this. Not enough money to buy a pair of colors? Which led him to wonder in general about the finances of both the Brownells and the Spencers.
If pressed, Nicolas would have guessed that both families were comfortable rather than wealthy—comfortable, that was, if one didn't have a quiver full of offspring to establish respectably.... The price of a military career could be costly, and a London season to launch a daughter—in the case of the Spencers
two
daughters—could be ruinous to a man of even considerable means.
Speculatively his gaze traveled from Admiral Brownell's hearty features to the more ascetic face of Lord Spencer. Both men were relatively new to the neighborhood, and the argument could be made that the pressures of providing for their families
might
drive them to take a course that would normally be abhorrent to them. They both might have spoken out about the smugglers, but that didn't prove anything. Nicolas admitted it was highly unlikely that either man was his spy, but he wasn't going to overlook anyone. At the moment, however, his favorite choice for Roxbury's spy was Frampton—who knew the ways of the owlers better than someone born and raised in the area?
Nicolas frowned slightly, wishing he knew more about the new squire and the Frampton fortune. Had the old squire been as warm as everyone had surmised? Or were his famous clutch-fisted ways born of necessity? And would lack of a fortune entice his son into dangerous and infamous activities in order to present a dashing facade to the world?
The evening hadn't proven as useless as he had first assumed. He'd had a chance to meet with some very good, ah, suspects. Brownell. Spencer. Frampton. And last but certainly not least, Dickerson. For the time being it was those four who would hold his attention. As for Robert, Jeremy, and Lindsey... it was possible that one of them was an inordinately clever youth and had begun dark dabblings at an early age—Alexander the Great had conquered the known world by age thirty—but Nicolas doubted that any one of these three possessed such spectacular abilities.

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