The Random Gentleman (6 page)
“Where could I purchase such a coat and hat as you are wearing, sir?” he asked. “They are handsome and suitable for travel.”
The old man appeared pleased at the comment. “I am my nephew’s—what you would call—quartermaster,” he said with a smile. “In my van I have such garments as our men might need on a long journey. I shall be happy to let you make a choice.” The keen old eyes scanned His Grace’s wide shoulders and well-muscled frame.
“A hat like yours, especially, senor,” the Duke urged with a smile.
“Why do you seek to become like us, I wonder?” the old fellow grinned. “Is it that you are tired of being a Gorgio and would seek to be a Romany Rye?”
The Duke gave his charming smile. “I’ve already figured that a Gorgio is an Englishman—”
“It is any man who is not Rom,” corrected the oldster.
“—but what, pray, is a Romany Rye?” continued the Duke, smiling.
“That is a man who wishes to ride with us, speak our language, share our life,” defined Quebracho.
“Are there many such?”
“A good few. And some of them we accept. Fewer women seek to follow the gypsy patteran, but there are some. The Whip’s mother was one such. A self-willed daughter of good Gorgio family, who saw his father at a festival in Cornwall, where our Romany chals displayed their horsemanship. She left her home that night and came with us. I do not believe she ever regretted it. She taught her son all that she herself knew, and he learned well.” The old man hesitated. “He is a very dangerous man, Rye. Do not underestimate him.”
The Duke nodded sober agreement. “Believe me, I shall not, Quebracho! I have no plan which threatens anything the tribe possesses, only a very pressing need to go down into Devon without being recognized. Still, I thank you for the warning.”
“If you have no secret plan, you have nothing to fear,” said Quebracho quietly.
Dane felt uncomfortable as he considered his mission to survey the elusive Belinda Sayre. If the old gypsy noted his embarrassment, he did not comment.
Dane decided it was time to change the subject. “Does your name have a meaning, like The Whip’s?”
Quebracho chuckled. “
Verdad!
It means axe-breaker. I am such a tough Rom that they would say the axe blade would shatter on my hide! My given name, Alphonso, has almost been forgotten.” He motioned to one of the larger vans being driven by a young man. “Come to my storehouse and let me get a hat for you, senor, for we ride into the westering sun.”
By dusk, when The Whip gave the signal to make camp for the night, the Duke was more than ready to dismount and ease the ache in his muscles. He was impatient with himself, watching the lithe agility of the gypsy men as they dismounted, set the wagons in a semicircle, and led all the horses to a picket line. The Duke joined them, unsaddling Ben and rubbing him down. The old skills came back to him, in spite of the recent years during which he had unthinkingly turned his mounts over to his grooms. When he finally led Ben to the line and looked about him for fodder, he found Bracho at his shoulder, holding out a leathern feed bag full of grain. Gratefully the Duke strapped it over Ben’s head.
“My thanks, Quebracho,” he said softly. “When I settle with you for the clothing I hope to buy, I shall also contribute to the cost of feeding Ben and myself.”
Bracho shrugged. “I did not doubt it. Now come to the fire and rest until food is ready. I promise you will enjoy it.”
The Duke did indeed enjoy the spicy stew which was served to him as he joined the group of men around the fire. The Whip had chosen a clearing in a small wood near the highway as the night’s campground, and the Duke, an old campaigner, was unable to fault him. The wood hid the encampment from the road, and the fire, although bright enough to provide light and some warmth, was well screened by the caravans as well as by trees and underbrush, and would not be noticed by a casual scrutiny from the highroad.
Lying back against his saddle with a satisfied groan, the Duke looked around him with pleasure. This was a good life, he decided. It had all the challenge and interest of a campaign without the inevitable death and suffering of war. The gypsies appeared to be a happy company—there was laughter, some horseplay among the younger men, and considerable good-natured jesting between the men and the women.
These latter were a strong, handsome group, carrying their heads proudly, dressed in gowns which accentuated their graceful bodies. Dark eyes shone and sparkled; red lips pouted and smiled.
Careful
, he warned himself. Let these fighting cocks think you are encroaching, and they’ll have you drawn and quartered before you can say
“pax”
—or should it be
“paz”?
At his shoulder he heard Bracho’s voice. “If you will come with me, I’ll fit you out in a costume which will help you to look like one of us—if you’ll cover that guinea-gold hair!”
“Gracias,” said the Duke. “I’ll take one kerchief for my head. I see you wear one under your hat. It’s a dashing style.” The Duke got quickly to his feet and followed the old man to the largest of the wagons. After a very satisfactory ten minutes spent in making his choices from the garments Quebracho produced for his approval, he took out his heavy purse and insisted upon paying for the clothing.
“Do you wish a blanket, senor?”
“No, thank you. I’ll just roll up in my coat and sleep by the fire. I often did so in the war. Good-night.”
The old man shook his head. “You have much to learn of our ways, Gorgio. You should have bargained with me, not given me my first asking price! Ah, well! I did not charge you for the head scarf.”
Chuckling, the Duke approached the fire. It was burning low. Someone was strumming gently on a guitar, and a pleasant baritone was softly crooning a love song. Light shone warmly through the curtained small windows of the caravans. It was a soothing lull after the stress and embarrassment of his experience in London. His Grace was pleased to commend his wisdom in taking matters into his own hands to settle the question of his arranged marriage. A few days in the country, wooing the little minx out of her sulks, then a triumphant return to the Metropolis with the girl gentled and adoring, malleable to his wishes. Or, if she proved to be quite unacceptable, it would surely be easy to discourage her to the point where she would gladly agree to end the archaic arrangement. He removed his boots, and, wrapping his coat around him, stretched out for the night with his head on his saddle.
When the Honorable Belinda Sayre took a hired carriage to the Saracen’s Head Inn to catch any kind of west-traveling coach, which would get her away from the searing humiliation of the past three days, she had to mind no more daring escapade than a flight to her real home, the Earl’s estate in Devonshire. She had no wish to cause her grandfather worry. Of course he would know where she had gone and would seek her out in a few days when his temper had cooled a little. He would still be very angry, and there would be a scene, perhaps several, but eventually Grandy would accept the fact that this arranged marriage was an affront to himself as well as to her, since
that man
so obviously did not wish to join himself to the Earl’s family. So she set her dainty jaw and kept tears from her eyes with a real effort, and occupied her mind sensibly during the trip with what story she would offer the staff at Sayre Court—all old friends, allies—and critics.
It then occurred to her, with a pang of fear, that the Earl might not be the only angry visitor to the Court. What if the Duke decided he
did
wish to marry her? Or, more likely, that he must honor his father’s commitment, whatever his own feelings in the matter? A lowering thought! As the much-indulged only grandchild of the Earl of Sayre, Belinda had never known humiliation until now. Must she be wedded, willy-nilly, to the arrogant nobleman? The girl set her teeth in a gesture of rebellion, and glared, narrow-eyed, at a young farmer seated across from her in the stagecoach. Her fulminating look caused the poor fellow to wonder what he had said or done to make the beautiful young lady glower at him in that crabbed way.
Belinda, who was quite unaware of his presence, was mentally running over all the devastating things she would say to the Duke if he dared to show his front at Sayre Court. She finally tired of this bootless exercise and when the coach stopped at a posting house to change horses, got down to partake of a hasty meal. The young farmer descended thankfully, and the married couple who shared the seat with Belinda, having reached their destination, got off also. However, an elderly priest, an earthy-smelling farmer, his buxom wife and three daughters got on in their places, which so crowded the coach that Belinda began to wish devoutly that she had planned to spend the nights at inns rather than going straight through to Sayre Village. The excitements of the day finally caught up with her and she fell asleep, so firmly wedged between the side of the coach and one of the stout daughters that the jolting progress of the vehicle became a cradle-rock.
Although shorter in actual hours than the Earl’s usual leisurely progress to and from his estate, Belinda’s unbroken journey home to Sayre Court seemed to the girl to stretch to nightmare lengths of discomfort, and it was with heartfelt relief that she began finally to discern familiar landmarks. When she dismounted from the coach at Sayre Village, she did not wait for her small handcase to be thrown off into the road, but ran directly into the Climbing Man Inn to greet Mrs. Appledore, the landlord’s wife, and demand a gig to take her at once to Sayre Court. While Appledore himself hurried out to retrieve her case, his wife insisted on making the girl a cup of tea while Ned harnessed the gig to drive Miss Belinda home. There was such a welcoming warmth and bustle that the girl cried a little, causing the landlord’s good lady to mutter darkly about the folly of sending young lambs to the cruel City.
This enthusiastic reception was tame compared to the welcome Belinda received at Sayre Court. Most of the servants had been there longer than Belinda. They remembered with often embarrassing devotion her earliest remarks, actions, and occasional tantrums. In no time at all the girl was installed as safely as though she had never left home five months earlier for the London Season. From answers Belinda made to the probing inquiries of her old nurse, it swiftly became common knowledge that Miss Bel was fleeing from a Man, and moreover, a Man the Earl had insisted that she marry! The youngest footman, who was a mere forty summers, was heard to say that he’d personally black the Blade’s eye for him, if he came prowling about the Court. Mrs. Mayo, the stout and dignified housekeeper, was heard to threaten the Monster with a dire fate, not specified, if he so much as laid hand on Missy. It remained for Dittisham, the Earl’s butler, to express the sentiments of the whole staff.
“If,” uttered Mr. Dittisham, in intimidating accents, “any Town Beau or Loose-screw comes ogling and leering after Miss Bel
, I shall know what to do!
”
This was felt to be a most satisfactory resolution, and the staff awaited the next development in the drama with avid interest.
Belinda only knew that the comforting ranks of her champions had closed loyally about her, leaving her free to take thought of what her own attitude should be. Exhausted by the rigors of her flight, she had convinced herself that her tormentor would pursue her to her sanctuary and seek by force to ravish her away from her devoted partisans. But after a good night’s rest amid familiar surroundings, reassured by the lavish affection of her besotted staff, her natural high spirits began to reassert themselves, and she devised a Plan. It would surely be good enough to deceive such a pompous, conventional creature as the Duke must be, she told herself. Summoning Dittisham and Mrs. Mayo to her, and sending a groom for Appledore, she laid her scheme before them.
“You are all to say, if you please, that Miss Belinda Sayre has not come home, and that you do not know where she may be, if she is not in London. You must manage to look anxious about me if His Grace becomes too pressing or seems to doubt your word. But I am sure he will be vastly relieved to know that I am not here, and will return to London poste-haste!”’
Dittisham did not seem convinced by this lighthearted assumption. In his experience, Town Beaux who pursued innocent maidens to their lonely country estates were not so easily fobbed off.
Mrs. Mayo expressed doubts of a different kind. “The villagers’ll see you about, Miss Bel, unless you’ve a mind to keep within doors by day and night. And that Man would have only to ask—”
“No, no, for Appledore shall tell them all what our story is to be,” said Belinda lightly. “They’ll back me up.”
Mrs. Mayo was not convinced. “There’s a couple of old biddies in the village who’d jump at the chance to gossip to a fine gentleman,” she said grimly.
Belinda was struck by another idea. “I have it! You shall all say that there’s only one of the Sayre’s poor relations staying here—Miss Belinda’s cousin-german at the fourth remove!” She twinkled impishly
“And what is the name of this removed cousin, if I may be so bold as to inquire?” asked Mrs. Mayo repressively.
“Why—Prudence Oliphant!” Belinda recalled the name of an old retainer who had lingered on at the Court in Belinda’s childhood. “Be sure everyone tells him that Cousin Prudence has no money and no expectations. A sort of unpaid drudge.”
Mrs. Mayo looked scandalized. “Your grandfather wouldn’t allow anything like
that
at Sayre Court, Miss Bel! Most generous he was with Miss Oliphant, your blessed mamma’s former governess, and not a cousin French
or
German! As for your cousin Anabel—twenty years he kept her here, with every observance and attention! Unpaid drudge, indeed!”
