Authors: Rakes Ransom
Claibourne sliced off a wedge of cheese, pushed it toward the boy and said, “That’s it? No names, no places, no times for exchange of prisoners? A most peculiar kidnapping, cawker. I take it the Squire, Uncle, that is, knows both you and your intentions?”
Jacelyn giggled around a mouthful. “You might say so.”
“Then what’s to keep him from coming after you, young Jason? Even if you succeed in obtaining your friend’s release, you’ve still committed a crime. One cannot go around kidnapping people, you know, especially not a peer of the realm. You are obviously well-born, though, and young, so Squire might consider it a boyish prank. He mightn’t send you up for hanging after all.” Claibourne pensively sipped his wine, which, he noted incidentally, was excellent. “No, my guess is that he’ll take a birch rod to your backside.”
“I don’t think so, my lord,” Jacelyn answered as she removed the droopy hat, letting a heavy shower of dark brown waves cascade down past her shoulders. “I don’t think so.”
*
“Do you remember me now, Arthur? It’s Jacey, Jacelyn Trevaine.” Remember her? The gentleman barely remembered to breathe! No, if he’d seen this girl, he’d never have forgotten her. No girl though, definitely a young woman, he could see now, especially as the shirt strained across her chest as she reached in a pocket for a ribbon to tie back her hair. He watched as she gathered the chestnut mass into a haphazard pony’s tail, the rich brown colour catching the fire’s light and reflecting its gold. Some of the waves strayed loose to frame her face delightfully.
“Don’t ever cut it.” He surprised himself by speaking his thoughts.
“No? Papa likes it too, but it’s very unfashionable, you know.”
“It’s perfect.” And it was, in a way, even trailing wisps, just as the girl herself was enchanting, in a warm, softly smiling way that was far from Society’s standards. No china-blue eyes or rosebud mouth or porcelain complexion, or affectations. Miss Trevaine had pansy-brown eyes which sparkled with her enjoyment and a full, laughing mouth just made to be kissed! Claibourne cleared his throat and redirected his thoughts, with great effort. He carefully wiped the knife on a napkin and said, “Well, Miss Trevaine, I’d be mightily obliged to know just what rig you are running.”
Jacelyn was a bit disappointed at the formal address; she much preferred “Arthur” to the sober “Lord Ponsonby,” which did not seem to fit the gentleman now grinning as if ready to share her triumph. She compromised with, “Of course, my lord, you have every right. And I’d like to say that you’re a regular Trojan, letting me play my game. I know I couldn’t have kept you here against your will, even without the knife.”
“You mean you wouldn’t have pulled the trigger?”
The chit even had dimples—unfair! “But you didn’t know the guns were empty, not at first, did you?”
“No, but I knew mine weren’t. Come now, an explanation. And if it’s not a good one, my girl, and honour-true, then I
shall
leave, and you’ll really be in the suds.” It was a silly threat; he could no more leave now than he could fly. He was already thinking ahead to what difficulties such a madcap might be in, to resort to kidnapping, and what strings he could pull to extricate her. First, however, what was such a little charmer doing in britches—he was trying not to stare—in a workman’s cottage? “Now, ma’am, if you please,” he ordered, severe with concern.
That voice had commanded whole battalions. Jacey started. “You see, my lord, Squire, your uncle, that is—and I’m sorry for that, not that he’s your uncle, of course, else you’d not be here, but that it’s your uncle that I’m referring to. Does that make sense?” Jacelyn was unaccountably flustered by her companion’s look of disapproval. “Squire arrested Pen, and I kidnapped you in exchange,” she hurried on, not choosing to discuss the reasons behind Squire’s actions. “He will release Pen, I will, ah, let you go. You’ll go on to the house party, I’ll return home. Simple.”
Her explanation wasn’t simple, it was simple-minded, telling him nothing he didn’t previously know except the other prisoner’s name. If this friend were a man, if this were all to free her lover… “Who is Pen, and what are the charges?” he demanded.
Jacey shrank back in her seat. “There
were
no charges, Arthur. Squire arrested Pen so I wouldn’t interfere with his fox hunt and…and Pen is my dog, Penelope.”
“A dog? Squire, er, Uncle, arrested your dog?” Leigh had to laugh, partly at the idea, but mostly in relief that a convict lover didn’t wait in gaol for her. He poured another glass of wine, then it struck him as even funnier. “You are actually holding me hostage to ransom a dog? My dear, what a blow to my pride! I’ll have you know I was once traded for three French prisoners of war, two officers and a spy; our esteemed government thought I was that valuable. Three Frenchmen, one dog. How the mighty are fallen.”
Jacelyn laughed with him. “But she’s a very special dog, my lord. She’s named for Ulysses’ wife, you know, and she is every bit as faithful and wise.”
“Wasn’t Ulysses’ dog named Argos? Why didn’t you name your dog after him?”
“Argos died when his master finally came home. It was too sad.”
“What a curious mix you are, Miss Trevaine. Swaggering highwayman one moment, sentimental schoolgirl the next. I don’t even want to go into the fox-hunting reference. I’m not quite ready for that yet. Tell me about your grandfather.”
“Oh, he’s our gardener, Shoop. I thought you would remember him for sure. He shouted at you for practicing your cricket in the formal gardens.”
“Did he? Will he find himself up on charges over this nonsense, or dismissed from his position?”
“Oh no. Squire only blames Papa. He’ll turn all red and rage at my poor father to do something about me.”
“And will he? Your father, I mean. You’d ought to be spanked, girl, for what I’m beginning to suspect is a long history of thoroughly disreputable behaviour. It’s too much to hope, I’m sure, at this late date.”
Jacelyn laughed at the idea of her dear sweet father even raising his voice in anger, much less his hand. “Papa is a scholar, remember?”
“Well, someone had ought to tan your sweet britches over this escapade, pet, for you’ve landed us both in the briars this time.”
“You haven’t changed so much, after all, Arthur. You always were a spoilsport. Too bad, I was beginning to like you. What, are you afraid of what Squire will say?”
“Aye, girl, Squire and the whole countryside, likely. Here you are in the middle of the night, in an isolated little cottage, improperly attired, alone with a man. Didn’t you even think of your reputation?”
Jacelyn threw back her head and laughed, a sound which nearly melted the earl’s heart for good and all. “But I don’t have any reputation to speak of!” At his sudden scowl she hastily added, “Not for being a lightskirt, Arthur, just a hoyden, you know. And if you think Squire is going to storm in here, demanding you do the honourable thing by me, you’re more paper-skulled than you used to be. Never fear, the last thing in the world Squire would want is to have me as part of the family.”
She giggled at the very thought of it, till her companion quietly announced, “The only problem, sweetheart, is that I am not Arthur.”
“George,” Squire Bottwick told himself, hands crossed over his full belly, “life is sweet.” Good wine, good food, good friends, and, for once, good riddance to the aggravating Miss Trevaine. He patted his inside pocket where reposed the most satisfying correspondence he’d had in years. He had received the note before dinner, and was still tickled pink at the idea of letting the interfering little wench cook in her own stewpot while he enjoyed his meal.
It was good English fare, none of those Frenchified dishes drowning in sauces that curdled Squire’s digestive juices. It was good enough for the fine London folks, too, judging from all they ate and drank, even his sister Clothilda Ponsonby, who’d put on enough airs for a duchess after snabbling herself a title. In her widowhood she had grown positively stiff-rumped with pride. Plain missus was good enough for Mrs. Bottwick, Squire thought, glancing at his wife at the opposite end of the table. She had done him proud, just as though she set ten places with five courses and six removes every evening. Even his daughter Samantha, invited to leave the nursery party when they found themselves an odd number at table, was behaving just as she ought. The gal was young, but she could take a few lessons from her cousin Priscilla, who had been Out for two years and was considered last Season’s Toast. Too bad Priscilla seemed to share her mama’s top-lofty consequence. Still, she was a taking miss, judging from her partners’ attentiveness. Colonel Highet, was it, and Lord Humboldt, or Captain Humboldt and Mr. Highet? Ah well, friends of Arthur’s.
Arthur sat between Samantha and Priscilla’s pretty friend Miss Marcella Chadwick, here at Squire’s table, unthreatened, unfettered, uncaptured! Squire beamed. Top of the trees, young Arthur was, too, his shirtpoints nearly reaching his ears, his neckcloth done up in some pattern so intricate that it must have a name of its own. Personally, Bottwick thought it all a little overdone for a country dinner, but what did he know about fashion? He looked down regretfully at his own figured waistcoat, just a trifle redecorated with his dinner’s spatters, and wished he could undo a few of the buttons. Ah well, a man couldn’t have everything, he decided. It might spoil him.
*
By the time dinner was over and the men had shared port, cigars, and lies of their prowess on various hunting fields, Squire was fit to burst more than the seams of his jacket. A few more brandies, and the joke was just too good not to share.
“Arthur,” he said when the tea tray was brought in, “do you recall Jacelyn Trevaine, m’neighbour’s daughter?”
“You mean the nasty little tomboy with freckles? How could I forget? She pushed me in the lake once when I was searching for birds’ nests.”
“She’s not changed much, I’ll warrant. Oh, she’s filled out some, but she still gets up to her mad starts. You’ll never guess what she’s done now!” He slapped his beefy hand down on his thigh, the sound drawing the attention of everyone except Lord Smedley, Clothilda’s cisisbeo, who was snoring in the corner, a handkerchief over his face.
“I was just telling Arthur here about my neighbour,” Bottwick informed his listeners. “The father’s a good man. Not the sporting type, you understand, but good, for all that. The daughter, though, is an unprincipled baggage. Always was, always will be.”
“You don’t mean Jacey, do you, Father? You know she is the dearest, most good-natured girl. I—”
“You’ve said enough, girl. Past your bedtime anyway.”
“Yes, Father.” Aghast that she had disagreed with her father in front of all the fine London company and been reprimanded, Samantha made an awkward curtsey and fled the room, nearly in tears.
“That was unkind, George.” His wife took Squire to task. “Jacelyn has been a good friend to Samantha, even though she is older.” This last may have been quietly directed at Priscilla who, after a perfunctory kiss in the vicinity of Samantha’s ear, had totally ignored her young cousin in favour of the gentlemen’s company. “Miss Trevaine may be somewhat high-spirited, but even you, George, have admitted that she is pluck to the backbone, as you would say.”
“Aye, the gel’s got bottom, I’ll grant you that. Just listen to the scheme she’s concocted now.” Squire read the note aloud, then guffawed so hard tears streamed down his red cheeks.
When he was able to speak again, Captain Highet pressed him for an explanation. “I do not understand, sir. Arthur’s right here, and there is no mention in the letter of any Miss Trevaine. I say, could you let us in on the joke?”
So Squire sketched a background to the scenario, using such phrases as “like a boil on m’butt,” and “a bitch in heat,” to his wife’s frown, his sister’s pursed lips, and his niece’s twitters. “And now she thinks to diddle me with this farrago of nonsense,” Squire finished, “with Arthur right here!”
The young men up for the fox hunt were all sympathetic and now shared Squire’s amusement. The lines of displeasure on Lady Ponsonby’s face, though, deepened, until she recalled they might become permanent if held too long. “This is highly unseemly, George. I hope we are not to be subjected to more of this indignity. Kidnapping my Arthur, indeed.”
“George,” Mrs. Bottwick asked thoughtfully, “if Arthur is here, who do you think penned the note? Whatever Jacelyn might be, and I’ll acknowledge that this does sound somewhat irregular, she is not foolish.”
“Quite right, Uncle George. She always was a little hellion, but a downy one. She must have thought you’d go for it, but why?”
Squire was off in a laughing fit again when the captain made the obvious deduction: “You mean the chit’s held up some poor chap she thinks is Arthur here, and is holding him to ransom a dog?” He and Lord Humboldt pounded each other on the back, saying it served the pushy female right. Priscilla and Miss Chadwick, side by side on the sofa, shared haughty looks of feigned disinterest.
They’d
never be caught doing anything so ill-bred or vulgar, much less anything as silly as getting between a man and his sporting instincts. Mrs. Bottwick was murmuring about the “poor, motherless child” while Clothilda Ponsonby simply looked disgusted.
“Arthur,” she addressed her son in an effort to change the topic, “I’ve told you not to wear that shade. It makes you look liverish. Or was it the food?”
Indeed, Arthur had paled to a greenish tint. He ran a finger under his suddenly too-tight collar. “Yes, Mother. That is, no, Mother. I’m quite the thing. A trifle weary. Um, Uncle, perhaps I might—”
“Dang,” interrupted Squire, “I’d give my best mare to know who the chit’s snagged.”
Arthur choked. There was no hope of getting his uncle alone, not with everyone looking at him. “Do you remember when I arrived early I said there was another fellow who might come this evening, or else tomorrow, if it got too dark to ride? Another army friend?”
Mrs. Bottwick was relieved. “That’s all right then, an officer friend of Arthur’s. I’m sure he’ll see that Jacelyn’s just an impulsive child.”