Mine Till Midnight (12 page)

Amelia took a deep breath. “What you didn’t mention, Mr. Rohan, was that if a Roma steals a woman from her bed according to tradition, it is with the purpose of marriage in mind. And the so-called stealing is prearranged and encouraged by the bride-to-be.”

Cam gave her a charming smile, deliberately dispelling the tension. “It lacks subtlety, but it hastens the proceedings considerably, doesn’t it? No asking for the father’s permission, no banns, no prolonged betrothal. Very efficient, a Romany courtship.”

Their conversation was checked by the reappearance of Beatrix. “Spot’s gone,” she reported. “He seemed quite happy to take up residence at Stony Cross Park.”

Seeming relieved by her sister’s return, Amelia went to her, brushed at the crumbs of soil on her sleeve, and straightened her hair bow. “Good luck to Spot. Are you ready to go back in to supper, dear?”

“No.”

“Oh, everything will be fine. Just remember to look chastened while I grimace in an authoritative manner, and I’m certain they’ll allow us to stay through dessert.”

“I don’t want to go back,” Beatrix moaned. “It’s so dreadfully dull, and I don’t like all that rich food, and I’ve been sitting beside the vicar who only wants to talk about his own religious writings. It’s so redundant to quote oneself, don’t you think?”

“It does bear a certain odor of immodesty,” Amelia agreed with a grin, smoothing her sister’s dark hair. “Poor Bea. You don’t have to go back, if you don’t wish it. I’m sure one of the servants can recommend a nice place for you to wait until supper is done. The library, perhaps.”

“Oh, thank you.” Beatrix heaved a sigh of relief. “But who will create another distraction if Leo starts being disagreeable again?”

“I will,” Cam assured her gravely. “I can be shocking at a moment’s notice.”

“I’m not surprised,” Amelia said. “In fact, I’m fairly certain you would enjoy it.”

Chapter Nine

The company at Westcliff’s table had been relieved by the news that Beatrix had elected to spend the rest of the evening alone in quiet contemplation. No doubt they feared another interruption by yet some other pocket-sized pet, but Amelia had assured them there would be no more unexpected visitors at the table.

Only Lady Westcliff had seemed genuinely perturbed by Beatrix’s absence. The countess excused herself sometime between the fourth and fifth courses and reappeared after a quarter hour. Amelia later learned that Lady Westcliff had sent for a supper tray to be brought to Beatrix in the library, and had visited her there.

“Lady Westcliff told me a few stories of when she was a girl, and how she and her younger sister used to misbehave,” Beatrix recounted the next day. “She said bringing a lizard to supper was nothing compared to the things they had done—in fact, she said they were both diabolical and rotten to the core. Isn’t that wonderful?”

“Wonderful,” Amelia said sincerely, reflecting on how much she liked the American woman, who seemed relaxed and fun-loving. Westcliff was another matter. The earl was more than a little intimidating. And after Leo’s callous dismissal of Westcliff’s concerns over the Ramsay tenants, it was doubtful the earl would be kindly disposed toward the Hathaways.

Thankfully Leo had managed to steer clear of further controversies during supper, mostly because he had been drawn into flirtation with the attractive woman beside him. Although women had always been beguiled by Leo, with his height and good looks and intelligence, he had never been as ardently pursued as he was now.

“I think it says something odd about women’s tastes,” Win told Amelia privately as they stood in the Ramsay House kitchen, “that Leo wasn’t chased by nearly as many women when he was nice. It seems the more odious he is, the more they like him.”

“They’re welcome to have him,” Amelia replied grumpily. “I fail to see the appeal of a man who goes through each day looking as if he’s either just gotten out of bed or is preparing to get back in it.” She wrapped her hair in a protective cloth and tucked the ends under turban-style.

They were preparing for another day of cleaning, and the ancient house dust had a tendency to cling obstinately to the skin and hair. Unfortunately the hired help was not wont to arrive in a timely manner, if at all. Since Leo was still abed after a night of heavy drinking, and probably wouldn’t arise until noon, Amelia was feeling particularly cross with him. It was Leo’s house and estate—the least he could do was help restore it. Or hire proper servants.

“His eyes have changed,” Win murmured. “Not merely the expression. The actual color. Have you noticed?”

Amelia went still. She took a long time to reply. “I thought it was my imagination.”

“No. They were always dark blue like yours. Now they’re mostly light gray. Like a pond after the sky has turned in winter.”

“I’m certain the color of some people’s eyes change as they mature.”

“You know it’s because of Laura.”

A dark heaviness pressed against Amelia from all sides as she thought about the friend she had lost and the brother she seemed to have lost along with her. But she couldn’t dwell on any of that now, there was too much to be done.

“I don’t think such a thing is possible. I’ve never heard of—” She broke off as she saw Win wrapping her long braids in a cloth identical to hers. “What are you doing?”

“I’m going to help today,” Win said. Although her tone was placid, her delicate jaw was set like a mule’s. “I’m feeling
quite
well and—”

“Oh, no you’re not! You’ll work yourself into a collapse, and then you’ll take days to recover. Find some place to sit, while the rest of us—”

“I’m tired of sitting. I’m tired of watching everyone else work. I can set my own limits, Amelia. Let me do as I wish.”

“No.” Incredulously Amelia watched as Win picked up a broom from the corner. “Win, put that down and stop being silly!” Annoyance whipped through her. “You’re not going to help anyone by expending all your reserves on menial tasks.”

“I can do it.” Win gripped the broom handle with both hands as if she sensed Amelia was on the verge of wrenching it away from her. “I won’t overtax myself.”

“Put down the broom.”

“Leave me alone,” Win cried. “Go dust something!”

“Win, if you don’t—” Amelia’s attention was diverted as she saw her sister’s gaze fly to the kitchen threshold.

Merripen stood there, his broad shoulders filling the doorway. Although it was early morning, he was already dusty and perspiring, his shirt clinging to the powerful contours of his chest and waist. He wore an expression they knew well—the implacable one that meant you could move a mountain with a teaspoon sooner than change his mind about something. Approaching Win, he extended a broad hand in a wordless demand.

They were both motionless. But even in their stubborn opposition, Amelia saw a singular connection, as if they were locked in an eternal stalemate from which neither wanted to break free.

Win gave in with a helpless scowl. “I have nothing to do.” It was rare for her to sound so peevish. “I’m sick of sitting and reading and staring out the window. I want to be useful. I want…” Her voice trailed away as she saw Merripen’s stern face. “Fine, then. Take it!” She tossed the broom at him, and he caught it reflexively. “I’ll just find a corner somewhere and quietly go mad. I’ll—”

“Come with me,” Merripen interrupted calmly. Setting the broom aside, he left the room.

Win exchanged a perplexed glance with Amelia, her vehemence fading. “What is he doing?”

“I have no idea.”

The sisters followed him down a hallway to the dining room, which was spattered with rectangles of light from the tall multipaned windows that lined one wall. A scarred table ran down the center of the room, every available inch covered with dusty piles of china … towers of cups and saucers, plates of assorted sizes sandwiched together, bowls wrapped in tattered scraps of gray linen. There were at least three different patterns all jumbled together.

“It needs to be sorted,” Merripen said, gently nudging Win toward the table. “Many pieces are chipped. They must be separated from the rest.”

It was the perfect task for Win, enough to keep her busy but not so strenuous that it would exhaust her. Filled with gratitude, Amelia watched as her sister picked up a teacup and held it upside down. The husk of a tiny dead spider dropped to the floor.

“What a mess,” Win said, beaming. “I’ll have to wash it, too, I suppose.”

“If you’d like Poppy to help—” Amelia began.

“Don’t you dare send for Poppy,” Win said. “This is my project, and I won’t share it.” Sitting at a chair that had been placed beside the table, she began to unwrap pieces of china.

Merripen looked down at Win’s turbaned head, his fingers twitching as if he were sorely tempted to touch a blond tendril that had slipped from beneath the cloth. His face was hard with the patience of a man who knew he would never have what he truly wanted. Using a single fingertip, he pushed a saucer away from the edge of the table. The china rattled subtly across the battered wood.

Amelia followed Merripen back to the kitchen. “Thank you,” she said when they were out of her sister’s hearing. “In my worry over making certain Win didn’t tire herself, it hadn’t occurred to me that she might go mad from boredom.”

Merripen picked up a heavy, clattering box of discarded odds and ends, and hoisted it to his shoulder with ease. A smile crossed his face. “She’s getting better.” He strode to the door and shouldered his way outside.

It was hardly an informed medical opinion, but Amelia was certain he was right. Looking about the dilapidated kitchen, she felt a surge of happiness. It had been the right thing to come here. A new place offering new possibilities. Perhaps the Hathaways’bad luck had finally changed.

Armed with a broom, mop, dustpan, and a stack of rags, Amelia went upstairs to one of the rooms that hadn’t yet been explored. She used her full weight to open the first door, which gave way with a cracking sound and a shriek of unoiled hinges. It appeared to be a private receiving room, with built-in wood bookcases.

There were two volumes on one shelf. Examining the dust-coated books, their aged leather covers shot with spidery cracks, Amelia read the first title:
Fine Angling, A Symposium on the Fisherman’s Art With Much on Roach and Pike.
No wonder the book had been abandoned by its previous owner, she thought. The second title was far more promising:
Amorous Exploits of the Court of England in the Reign of King Charles the Second.
Hopefully it would contain some ribald revelations she and Win could giggle over later.

Replacing the books, Amelia went to open the shrouded windows. The draperies’ original color had faded to gray, their velvet nap ragged and moth-eaten.

As Amelia labored to pull one fabric panel to the side, the entire brass rod came loose from the ceiling and clattered heavily to the floor. A cloud of dust enveloped her. She sneezed and coughed in the clotted air. She heard an inquiring shout from downstairs, probably from Merripen.

“I’m all right,” she called back. Picking up a clean rag, she wiped her face and unlatched the filthy window. The casing stuck. She pushed hard against the frame to loosen it. Another push, harder, and then a determined shove with all her weight behind it. The window gave way with astonishing suddenness, unsettling her balance. She pitched forward and caught the edge of the window in an attempt to find purchase, but it swung outward.

In the flash of forward-falling panic, she heard a muffled sound behind her.

Before another heartbeat had passed, she was snatched, pulled back with such force that her bones protested the abrupt reversal of momentum. She staggered, fetching hard against something solid and yet supple. Helplessly she tumbled to the floor in a tangle of limbs, some of them not her own.

Sprawled over a sturdy masculine chest, she saw a dark face below her, and she muttered in confusion, “Merri—”

But these were not Merripen’s sable eyes, they were light, glowing amber. A shot of pleasure went through her stomach.

“You know, if I have to keep rescuing you like this,” Cam Rohan remarked casually, “we really should discuss some kind of reward.”

He reached up to tug off her hair covering, which was askew, and her braids tumbled down. Mortification swept away every other feeling. Amelia knew how she must look, disheveled and dust-stippled. Why did he never miss an opportunity to catch her at a disadvantage?

Gasping out an apology, she struggled to get off him, but the weight of her skirts and the stiffness of her corset made it difficult.

“No … wait…” Rohan inhaled sharply as she squirmed against him, and he rolled them both to their sides.

“Who let you into the house?” Amelia managed to ask.

Rohan gave her an innocent glance. “No one. The door was unlocked and the entrance hall was empty.” He kicked his legs free of her clinging skirts and pulled her to a sitting position. She had never known anyone who possessed such ease of movement.

“Have you had this place inspected?” he asked. “The house is ready to fall off its timbers. I couldn’t risk coming in here without offering a quick prayer to Butyakengo.”

“Who?”

“A Gypsy protective spirit.” He smiled at her. “But now that I’m here, I’ll take my chances. Let me help you up.”

He tugged Amelia to her feet, not letting go until her balance was secured. The grip of his hands sent thrills through her arms, and she gasped a little.

“Why are you here?” she asked.

Rohan shrugged. “Just paying a call. There isn’t much to do at Stony Cross Park. It’s the first day of fox hunting season.”

“You didn’t want to take part?”

He shook his head. “I only hunt for food, not sport. And I tend to sympathize with the fox, having been in his position once or twice.”

He must have been referring to a Gypsy hunt, Amelia thought with concern and curiosity. She wanted to ask about it—but this conversation could not continue.

“Mr. Rohan,” she said awkwardly, “I wish I could be a proper hostess and show you to the parlor and offer refreshments. But I don’t have refreshments. I really don’t even have a parlor. Please excuse me for sounding rude, but this isn’t a good time to call—”