Sari Robins - [Andersen Hall Orphanage] (5 page)

Mrs. Nagel scowled. “Don’t be looking for bedbugs when you haven’t even itched, Catherine. I know that you and Marcus had your disagreements as children, but you should not look for flaws simply because he did not return your affections.”

Catherine started, appalled. “But this has nothing—”

“Go take your bath. And while in it, refresh your outlook.”

Catherine gritted her teeth, realizing that she was not going to get anywhere with Mrs. Nagel. Some people only noticed what they wanted to see. “Yes, ma’am,” she muttered, then headed toward the new rooms that Headmaster Dunn had recently assigned to her. There, at least, she would have some quiet and a chance to think. Headmaster Dunn had moved her quarters recently, another unusual move that had her wondering what was going on.

What could compel Headmaster Dunn to go behind her back and exclude her from orphanage affairs? Personal issues within the Dunn family were one matter, but when it came to Andersen Hall, the children, the board, her job…Well, it was just
wrong
to be so heavy-handed. And so unlike Uriah Dunn as to make her certain that there was much more to this little conspiracy than the father and son were professing.

Uriah Dunn always did everything in an honest, open fashion. Which meant that Marcus was clearly the instigator of this scheme. Marcus had to be at the center of it all. No, she did not like this new turn of events. Not one bit. And she was not about to let Marcus Dunn get away with it.

M
arcus shifted on his crutch, suddenly uneasy at being alone with his father once more. They had barely exchanged two words when an uncomfortable Dunn had gone to retrieve his coat and Cat had rushed into the room. Now father and son stood face-to-face, as duelists do before a contest. Their rift yawned between them, a whopping purple elephant crowding them in the seemingly large office.

As an experienced officer who had faced countless dangers, it galled Marcus that seeing one old man would make his armpits sweat and his stomach churn. But he’d never given in to the desire to turn tail and run, despite shots flying, swords flashing and shrieking barrages. He was not about to do so now. So he stood firm under his father’s scrutiny.

Dunn’s penetrating blue gaze, the same that Marcus saw reflected in the mirror each morning, traveled from Marcus’s stitched brow down to the crutches, to the leg he was favoring. Finally Dunn asked, “Is the injury real?”

Marcus shook his head in the negative.

“Well, you look fit,” Dunn commented awkwardly.

“You, too.” It was a lie and they both knew it. It was idiotic for Marcus to have expected his father to remain unchanged in seven years, yet somehow Marcus had. Age had not been overly kind to Uriah Dunn. He was still tall and imposing, with his feet planted wide as if he owned, and yet was part of, the earth. He still had a full head of thick wavy hair, but now it was almost completely steel gray, with none of the raven luster that had always marked Marcus and his father as kin. His face was ivory-pale and, as usual, clean-shaven, exposing wide laugh streaks around the mouth. Worry lines that Marcus did not recall marred his broad forehead.

“I hadn’t heard back from Wellington.” Pain flashed in his father’s eyes, quickly veiled. “I, ah…didn’t think that you were coming.”

“I was…detained.” Marcus did not bother to explain his incarceration or the deal he’d finally struck to save his friend Captain Luke Hayes’s life.

“I am glad that you made it, although not the reason for your return.” Dunn paused, then waved Marcus into a chair.

Setting his crutches beside him, Marcus eased into a hardwood-slatted seat, facing the door.

Instead of sitting behind his imposing desk, Dunn pushed a threadbare armchair directly before Marcus and sat. Marcus felt hemmed in, and did not like having anyone blocking his path to the exit, but he did not say so. Instead, he shifted his body sideways, allowing for mobility if he needed it. Similarly, that way he could avoid staring his father directly in the face.

“This is a good time for us to talk.” Dunn began. “Most of the children are at chapel.” He cleared his throat. “Now
that I’ve had the chance to really think about our parting—”

Marcus stiffened. “You know why I’m here. It’s best that we move forward…not waste time on…
ancient
history.”

Dunn pursed his lips, obviously not well pleased. Still, he nodded, replying softly, “As you wish.”

Marcus hid his surprise. His father was never one to acquiesce so easily. What was he scheming, an ambush of some kind? Marcus mentally shook himself. Dunn was not like the men he’d been facing these last seven years. His most devious plot was how to squeeze a few more pounds from Society for Andersen Hall. Still, to Marcus, Dunn posed a challenge that felt hazardous on a different level.

A knock resounded on the door. Dunn shot Marcus an apologetic glance. “Come.”

Mrs. Nagel stepped inside carrying a tray with food, a pitcher and cups. “I have some of Cook’s spice cakes for you. And some tea and milk,” she explained, setting it on a side table.

“Thank you, Mrs. Nagel,” Marcus stated, knowing he would sooner eat a soldier’s boot at the moment; his stomach was so tied in knots.

Mrs. Nagel preened. “I’ve told everyone that you’re here and they are just dying to see you.” Raising a hand, she ticked off her fingers. “Cook, Old Bertram, Betty, even the gardener, Graves.” Mrs. Nagel frowned. “Although he’s retiring shortly.”

Sighing, Dunn stood. “As I’ve told you before, Mrs. Nagel, rules are rules and he left me with little choice.”

Marcus could see that some things never changed: His father was as intractable as ever.

The matron sighed. “Yes, well, here are some lovely refreshments for you—”

“Thank you, Mrs. Nagel,” Dunn interjected, “but Marcus and I are headed to my club for a spot of luncheon.” He patted his middle. “And we wouldn’t wish to spoil our appetites.”

Realizing that his father was trying to give them some privacy to discuss his mission, Marcus jumped to his feet, grabbing the crutches. “Yes, I’m primed for a leg of lamb. It’s still a specialty of the house, is it not?”

“Like cutting through butter,” Dunn agreed quickly. “I’m sure that the tutors would love the cakes, Mrs. Nagel.”

“Oh.” Disappointment flashed across her features. “I thought you might stay for a bit…”

Then Cat charged into the room. She had replaced her dirty apron with a similarly staid, albeit clean, one. Nonetheless her gown was a disgrace, a drab sackcloth, with the line showing baldly where she had dropped the hem.

The cobwebs were gone from her flaxen locks and her cheeks were shiny as if just washed. Her golden hairline was dark with wet and wisps of hair still spiked out of her loose bun like sticks of hay. She obviously had spared no time for a full bath or a glance in the mirror.

“I hope you didn’t clean up on my account,” he quipped.

Her porcelain cheeks reddened and tempests flashed in her smoky gray eyes, but she ignored him and turned to his father. “If I could have a word with you, sir?”

Why had he said that? Marcus asked himself. And why did it bother him so much that she would have such little care for her appearance? Perhaps because he was oddly drawn to her despite the hideous sack of a gown and the cobwebs. The attraction surprised him; he usually went for buxom brunettes, not willowy, flaxen-haired pixies.

Mrs. Nagel lifted the tray and left, sulking. “I’ll tell Timmy to bring around the gig.”

Marcus watched as Dunn and Cat moved into the hall. It seemed odd that they would show him the courtesy of allowing him to stay in his father’s study. He realized that he needed to remember he was not a lad in his teens and should expect to be treated differently.

He bit back a groan. This mission was going to be a nuisance on so many different levels.

His eyes strayed to the girl, no, woman arguing with his father. He had to admire her gumption; few could go head-to-head with Uriah Dunn with the intensity that she displayed. Her gray eyes flashed icy fire at Marcus as she argued with the headmaster, obviously about him. How droll.

Was it his placement on the board of trustees that bothered her? Or the fact that his father had asked her to take Marcus under her wing? Although he had no intention of actually learning all of the things his father wanted him to, he rather liked the idea that she resented it. There might actually be some sport in this wretched circumstance yet. He bit back a chuckle. She was barely allowing his father, the mighty orator, to get a word in edgewise!

Had she always been this fiery? Memory surfaced of a waif with golden hair that stuck out like errant sticks from her thin braids. She’d been a timid thing, hanging about on the corners, her pink lips pinched. He’d really had little to do with her. He’d traveled with an older, more raucous crowd. She’d read a lot if he recalled correctly. And didn’t play much with the other children. Her leg. She’d had a bum leg.

His eyes drifted to the discolored hem of her gown. With her graceful, even stance she didn’t appear lame. In
fact, she looked positively perfect. The hideous sack couldn’t hide the bountiful swell of her breasts, the trim, bowed waist and the lush arc of her derriere. And he was enjoying watching it jiggle as she tapped an impatient foot. Her high, rounded rump had just the right measure of curve, perfect for filling his hands. Nothing brought his blood to boil like a curvaceous bottom undulating above him as he kneaded the smooth, soft flesh—

Aghast, Marcus coughed into his fist.

Cat and his father stopped arguing as their gazes fixed on him.

“I’m fine,” he muttered with a slight smile. He waved. “Please, go on.” Better that they were focused on each other than on him.

After a moment’s hesitation, Cat turned back to Dunn and launched into another whispering tirade.

He’d been too bloody long without a woman, Marcus realized. He was starting to see nymphs where there were trolls. Well, not exactly a troll, more like a fishwife.

She was stabbing her finger in the air to make a point, for heaven’s sake! His father was taking it quite well, listening patiently and trying valiantly to insert a remark here and there. Marcus wondered if he was used to her sharp tongue and those flashing eyes.

He couldn’t quite tell their color, neither the darker agate gray nor pigeon-wing pale. They reminded him of tempests that traveled on the wind, darkening the clouds to swirls of iron, then lighting to vapor when the storm had passed.

When she was younger, her huge eyes had overwhelmed her pale, heart-shaped face, giving her a haunted look. Now the wide-set eyes were well balanced by wheat-colored winged brows above and lush, pink, bowed lips below. A small upturned nose was the only
thing dainty about her compelling features. Especially when she was scowling like a disapproving matron.

He didn’t know what he’d been thinking a moment before. Cat was a spinster, a bluestocking most likely, who’d rather stick her little nose in a ledger or argue about the price of bread than dance on a moonlit night. What other kind of woman would clean closets on a glorious day like today?

She was certainly nothing compared to Angelica, the raven-haired, dark-eyed beauty he’d left behind in Portugal. It was the abstinence, it had to be. And so long as he needed to maintain the appearance of his “injuries,” bed sport was not an option. Typically, while occupied with a mission this would not have bothered him, and he wondered why it seemed more of a trial today.

“Enough, I said,” Dunn bellowed, then blinked as if surprised that he’d raised his voice.

Cat crossed her arms, obviously not cowed. “But sir—”

“We are leaving.” Dunn nodded to Marcus and grabbed his cane.

Cat’s pink lips pinched and she glared, but kept her peace. Somehow he doubted that she would let the matter lie. Like any fishwife worth her salt, she could probably kick a dead topic to life at the drop of an innocent comment.

Grabbing his hat off the pedestal, Dunn set it on his head and headed out the door. Marcus followed close behind, not limping too badly on his crutches. He really was growing almost accustomed to the bloody things.

Catherine trailed him like a hound on the scent of a fox, only one kept on a tight leash.

Dunn hurried down the steps and climbed into the gig. It was an open black box with well-oiled springs and wide smooth wheels. Not nearly as fancy as others whipping about London, Marcus could see as he climbed in, but
sturdy and well maintained. The breeze pressed against his face, carrying the familiar scents of horse, leather and oil.

“When will you be back, sir?” Cat called with obvious restraint, as Dunn accepted the reins from Timmy the stable lad.

“Not until late.”

“Good day, Cat,” Marcus called with a tilt of his shako. “I hope to see you again soon.” He realized that it was true. Doubtless they would cross swords and he was looking forward to it. He almost groaned, knowing he was near bottom if he was seeking amusement from exchanging insults with a harpy.

Her eyes clouded dark to iron and a deepened scowl was her only response.

He really needed to find some entertainment while he was back in town.

Flicking the leathers, Dunn clicked his tongue and the horses sprang forward.

Marcus adjusted his crutches and settled into the seat as the familiar scenery rushed by, seemingly unchanged by the passage of time.

Columns of trees guarded the orphanage in squared formation, reminding Marcus of the battlefields where he’d rather be. Still, if one had to be in London, at least it was on a splendid day like today. The landscape was washed golden in the sun, the trees were heavy with emerald leaves and the fresh scent of pine filled the air.

As they approached Andersen Hall’s wrought-iron gates, Marcus twisted around, oddly compelled. Cat still stood on the porch, her arms crossed, her shoulders hunched. Her very stance declared that she was ill pleased with his return.

Well, that made two of them.