Elizabeth Mansfield (13 page)

"No, of course not," she said quickly.

He took a seat and looked round at Parks. "Good God, fellow, it's as dark as Hades in here. Do you always make Miss Douglas dine in such gloom? Have Joseph bring in a candelabrum."

"Yes, my lord," Parks said, hovering over him. "Is there anything in particular you'd like for dinner? We have pearled barley soup and trout provençale for the first course. And Mrs. Hawkins can prepare some poultry fillets
à la marechale
in a trice. Or, if you wouldn't mind waiting a bit, sautéed pheasant with truffles."

"What is Miss Douglas having?"

"Mutton pàtê à l'Anglaise, isn't it, miss?" Parks asked her.

"Why, er, yes," Jane answered awkwardly. The question, and her answer, made her feel like a conspirator in a deception; she'd never before been asked what she wished to eat. Her meals always consisted of whatever the housekeeper chose to serve.

"Mutton pate will be fine," his lordship said.

"And some wine, my lord?" Parks asked, throwing Jane a glinting look.

"Why isn't there a bottle on the table?" Luke asked. "Aren't you having any wine, Miss Douglas?"

"Miss Douglas doesn't usually take spirits, my lord," the butler said.

"Perhaps she will this evening. Bring up some port, will you, Parks?"

Parks nodded, threw another there-I-told-you-so glance at Jane (a glance that his lordship, though amused by it, pretended not to see), and took his leave.

"Do you always take your meals here?" his lordship asked when they were alone. "I thought Mama said you were to eat at the family table."

"Do you mean in the small dining room?" She threw him a quick grin. "Where there's seating for eight?"

"Touche, ma'am. It
is
much cozier here."

She had a question for him, too. "Is there some special reason you are not dining at your club tonight?"

"No special reason," he replied. "I'm bored with the club dinners. Always roast beef and kidney pie. Besides, I've been wishing to speak to you."

'To me?' This was a greater surprise than his presence. "What about?"

"What do you think? About the accounts, of course."
 

"The accounts? But didn't you say—and quite firmly, too—that you had no interest in them?"
 

"I changed my mind."

"I'm delighted to hear it. I would very much like to speak to you about them. About the stable accounts in particular."

"Go ahead, then. I'm all ears."

"You are stabling nine horses at great expense, my lord. And I—"

"Eight, I'm afraid," he said with a sigh. "I... er... lost one."

"But you went this very day to Tattersall's, where I understand horses are sold, so I must assume you are now in possession of another one."

"Your assumption is incorrect," he said, his cheerful demeanor gone. "I did not buy another one. I was outbid."

"If you expect condolences, my lord, you shall not get them. I fail to see why you have need of so many horses."

"My stable, ma'am," he declared with unmistakable implacability, "is the one area where I do not intend to practice economy. I will brook no interference there."

"But, my lord," she objected, braving his displeasure, "how can you defend the possession of so many horses? It seems to me that five—four for the coach and one for riding—would be more than adequate—"

"It seems to
me,
ma'am, that your opinion is less than adequate. What can a mere slip of a girl, one who's been buried in ledgers and accounts, know about horses?"

"I've not always been buried in ledgers and accounts. I once had a horse of my own. I was thought to be a rather fine horsewoman, too, if I may say so."

"Were you indeed?" He leaned toward her, peering at her through the dim candlelight. "You, ma'am, are a constant astonishment to me."

"I don't see what is so astonishing about my having had—"

But she didn't finish, for the footman, Joseph, came in at that moment with a brightly burning candelabrum. He was followed in by Parks, who carried the wine, and another footman carrying a large tray with a soup tureen and several covered dishes on it. While the manservants all busily served the soup and portioned out the trout, Luke studied the face of the girl opposite him. She was quite lovely, he realized in some surprise. He hadn't taken particular notice before. He saw now, in the light of eight candles, that her bright eyes were not brown but a striking greenish-gray and that an appealing dimple appeared in her left cheek at the merest twitch of her lips. Her hair, which had always been primly pinned in a coil at the nape of her neck, now hung about her face in careless waves. He could see now that it was a glowing auburn rather than the faded brown it had seemed before. And with her neck and shoulders bared, she gleamed with inner warmth. Tonight she was not in any detail the prim, Friday-faced bluestocking he'd once judged her to be.

When Parks and the footmen had served the food, his lordship waved them all out of the room. "So you're a fine horsewoman, eh?" he asked, pouring a glass of port for her.

"I was," she said. "It's been many years since I last sat a horse."

"Oh? Why is that? Did you take a fall or have an accident?"

"Really, my lord, isn't that a rather naive question? I'm your mother's secretary. A servant. Servants do not keep horses."

"No, of course they don't. Foolish of me. But in your case, this was not always so?"

"My father, while he lived, kept his family in comfortable circumstances." She held her wineglass up to the candlelight, staring into the red liquid as if it contained scenes of her happier past. "I had a lovely, gentle hack for my very own."

"I see. Your father did not leave his family well provided for, I take it."

"My father had a nobleman's taste. He lived beyond his means and died a pauper." She threw a little smile across the table at him. "Perhaps that should be a lesson to you."

"A cautionary tale, eh?" He returned her smile with a mock glower. "If you're suggesting that my having a stable of eight horses is living beyond my means," he retorted, "you don't know the full extent of my fortune."'

"Even a
great
fortune can be dissipated by immoderate spending, my lord," she said primly.

He snorted. "Spoken like a veritable parson. A cliché for the sermon of the week." He cocked an eyebrow at her. "What a little prig you pretend to be, Miss Douglas."

The word
prig
cut her to the quick. "A prig I may be, but—"

"I did not call you a prig. I said you
pretend
to priggishness."

"There's no pretense in what I said. I believe every word, even if it is a priggish cliché."

The second course was served, but Jane could not eat. The thought that his lordship might really consider her a prig was terribly disturbing. Was she truly a prig? Or was it her assignment—being the constable of his finances—that made her seem so in his eyes? She glanced over at him. He was looking at her with an expression she could not fathom, but it was not dislike. There was a warmth in his eyes she'd not seen there before. A man would not look at a woman that way if he thought her a prig, would he?

She felt her color rise. She had to escape from his gaze at once or he would see her agitation. She dropped her eyes from his and got up from her chair. "I beg you to excuse me, my lord. I'm... rather tired."

He rose, also. "But you've barely touched your mutton pàtê, and it's quite delicious."

"The soup was enough for me. I'm no longer hungry. Please don't disturb yourself on my account."

"Very well, ma'am, go along," he said, feeling disappointed. He crossed the room and held the door for her. "Good night, Miss Douglas."

"Good night, my lord."

She took only a step over the threshold before his voice stopped her. "Would you care to try riding again?" he asked.

She stopped short. "What?"

"I have a sweet litde mare who'd be quite perfect for you. Spirited but not wild. You may take her out whenever you wish."

"I?
Take one of your horses
riding?"
The offer was astonishing.

"Yes, why not?"

"But I... Surely it can't be proper for me to... for you to..."

"I see nothing improper about it. I sometimes think, ma'am, that your ideas of propriety are too... too—"

"Priggish?" she offered, that little dimple appearing in her cheek.

"Deucedly so. Good God, woman, don't you
want
to go riding?"
 

"Of course, but—"
 

"But what?"

"What will people think? The staff—?"

"But me no
buts,
ma'am. If I have no objection to your making use of my stable, why should anyone else?"

She could not believe she'd understood him. "You're not suggesting that I go riding with
you,
are you?"

"Not with me. I don't ride with females. That would be much too sedate for me. I'll have one of the grooms accompany you. My stableman, Hodgkins, will arrange it all. He can surely procure a sidesaddle for you. When do you think you'd like to go?"

She shook her head. "It is very kind of you to offer, my lord. Very kind. I thank you most sincerely, but... I couldn't."

"More
buts?
Why couldn't you?"

"It's not... I'm not... well, you see, my lord, I don't even possess a riding costume!"

"Oh. I never thought of that." He looked nonplussed, but only for a moment. "Wait! Mama used to ride in the park in her younger days. There must be something stowed away in her chests or cupboards that you can use. I'll have Mrs. Hawkins see to it."

She stared at him agape. The prospect of sitting a horse again was as thrilling as it was unexpected. She could hardly speak. "B-b-but, my lord—" she stammered.

"Enough!" He waved her off. "No more objections. My mind's made up. You'll go riding tomorrow sometime before noon. The Ladies Mile in Hyde Park should be suitable. I see many young women riding there. And when I see you tomorrow at... well, let us say at tea..." He suddenly leaned down and squinted into her eyes. "You do take tea, don't you?"

"Well, only a small pot at my desk."

"You'll take a real tea tomorrow, right here in this room."

"T-Tea, my lord? With
you?"
 

"Yes, with me. Why the surprise? I've been known to take tea."

"Yes, my lord, I suppose you have," she said with a sudden twinkle, "although I've never witnessed it."

"You may take my word, Miss Saucy Tongue. And when you join me at tea tomorrow, I shall expect a full report on the entire riding experience."

"A report?"

"Yes, a report on how you liked the mare... if she was too spirited for you, for example. And on how you found the bridle path. And if the saddle was satisfactory, that sort of thing. But no more questions now. My dinner will be cold, and all your fault. Take yourself off to bed."

SIXTEEN

When she woke next morning, Jane warned herself not to expect too much. In the first place, his lordship might already have forgotten his offer to let her ride his mare. In the second place, Mrs. Hawkins might not have been able to find any suitable riding dress for the purpose. And in the third place, it might be raining.

But a peep through the curtains showed a sunny sky. And, just as the clock in the hallway struck seven, Mrs. Hawkins and Meggie entered her bedroom, both of them breathless and both carrying an assortment of clothing. His lordship had not forgotten, and Mrs. Hawkins hadn't failed her. All her doubts had been allayed. Before noon that day, it seemed, she would be riding a horse, just as the Viscount had promised.

With the help of a needle and some well-placed pins, Mrs. Hawkins soon had her fitted out with a full-skirted black gown, a high-necked white tucker, and a tight-waisted riding coat. "Per'aps a little full in the bosom," the housekeeper said, eyeing her critically, "but otherwise it could've been made for ye."

Meggie held out a tall, narrow-brimmed riding hat and, reaching up, placed it on Jane's head, cocking it at a stylish angle over one eye. 'There!" She stepped back to see the effect. "Oh, miss," she cried, awed, "you do look a real lady!"

The housekeeper clapped her hands together. "Yes, indeed, Miss Jane, you look in fine feather! I couldn't be more pleased."

When they'd gone, Jane studied as much of herself as she could in her little mirror. The rakish angle of the hat was too daring, she felt, and she adjusted it to sit more squarely on her head, but otherwise the costume seemed perfectly acceptable. She could hardly wait to get to the stable. She hurried to the door, but there she paused. Then, turning back to the mirror, she cocked the hat at the angle at which Meggie had originally set it. "Let me be rakish," she said aloud, grinning at herself in the glass, "just this once."

Two hours later Luke and his friend Taffy, after having tired themselves out with a good long gallop along Hyde Park's sandy bridle path, were trotting at their leisure when Taffy cried out, "My word, Luke, ain't that your mare over there? I think your stableman's let some blasted female ride her!"

"It's all right, Taffy. I know all about it."

Taffy's eyebrows rose. "You do?" He peered at the distant rider intently until she disappeared round a curve in the path. "She looks an out-and-outer!" he exclaimed. "Who the devil is she?"

Luke laughed. "You'd never guess. That, my dear Taffy, is my new man of business."

Taffy blinked at him stupidly. "It's a
girl,"
he said.

"I'm quite aware of that. Mama brought her to me from Cheshire to get my finances in order. Claimed the girl's a wonder. And, do you know, Taffy, I really think she is."

Later that day Taffy was joined at luncheon at the club by his friend Ferdie Shelford. Ferdie looked agog behind his spectacles. "Who was that delicious game pullet riding one of Luke Hammond's horses in the park this morning?" he asked as soon as he'd seated himself.

Taffy grinned. "She's no game pullet, Ferdie," he said conspiratorially. "You'll never credit it, but she's Luke's man of business."