Amanda Scott (17 page)

Both young men were laughing now, and when Sabrina turned on them angrily, Emily looked to Miss Lavinia for explanation.

“Meriden told that Tickhill person that you was attacked in the home wood. Fool man leapt to the notion that your assailant was the same villain as stole our jewels. He and Earswick went round collecting lads with horses, and then this morning young Oliver and Mr. Saint Just, when they were out riding, came upon a group of them clattering to and fro in the woods.”

“Said they were searching for the man who struck you down,” Oliver said, chuckling. “Even a nodcock like Tickhill ought to know the fellow wouldn’t hang about overnight to be caught. Gave us a good laugh, I can tell you.”

“I hope your cousin is also laughing,” Emily said slowly. “Is he about?”

“Aye,” Oliver said, “been here nearly an hour. He is in the library reading over the household accounts. Dull stuff, I should say. Bound to have put him in a bleak humor. I wouldn’t disturb him just now.”

“Well, I shall certainly finish my breakfast first,” Emily told him, taking a tentative sip from the cup the maidservant placed before her. “This tea is good, Miss Lavinia.”

“Don’t matter a whit if it’s good or not, so long as it does the job,” was the tart response.

Emily grinned at her, but her mind was racing. Though she knew Sabrina was probably right in saying that an uproar would be caused by this recent turn of events, she couldn’t imagine what could be done to prevent it.

W
HEN EMILY HAD FINISHED
her breakfast, she went down to the hall, debating with herself over whether she would disturb Jack before noon. The decision was made for her, however, before she had reached the bottom step of the grand stair. Merritt turned sharply toward her, and William, who was the footman on duty in the hall just then, straightened with the same startled air, for their attention had been firmly riveted upon the library doors and they had failed at first to note her approach. Emily could scarcely blame them, however, for the racket penetrating the closed doors of the library would have distracted anyone.

She had no difficulty recognizing the source of the noise. Having now been in Yorkshire for some weeks, she could not fail to recognize Mr. Scopwick’s stentorian accents.

“How long has he been here, William?”

“Half an hour, sithee, miss. Happen his lungs’ll wear out soon, think on.”

“I doubt that. Is it the Runners again?”

“Aye. Searched through his kitchen garden this time. Told him they had orders from that Mr. Tickhill, sithee, to search every nook and cranny of the woods and surrounding countryside. Near as we can tell, the vicar wants his lordship should either hang both them Runners or send ’em back to Lunnon, post.”

“If they’ve destroyed his kitchen garden, no one can blame him for being a trifle put out,” Emily said fairly.

“Nay, miss.” Both Merritt and William grinned at the understatement, but neither man offered further comment.

Emily regarded the library doors thoughtfully. Scopwick had neither run out of breath nor lowered his volume. Deciding that Jack had heard enough shouting for one morning, she took a deep breath and moved purposefully toward the doors.

“Tha’ must not go in, miss,” said William quickly. “He said they wasna to be disturbed.”

“Who said? His lordship or Mr. Scopwick?”

“The vicar, miss.”

“Open the doors, William, and stand back.”

Grinning now, the footman did as she told him, and Emily, chin high, sailed past him into the library.

“Good morning, my lord,” she said briskly. “Good morning, Mr. Scopwick. How nice to see you, sir. My sister was saying only yesterday that we see too little of you these days. Perhaps you would honor us by dining with us one evening soon.”

Mr. Scopwick, having been interrupted mid-bellow, straightened and turned on her, his anger unmistakable, and for a moment Emily feared the man would continue where he had left off. She was amazed as always to see how large he was. Jack was sitting in his chair behind the library table, more or less as though he had been pinned there, and when she entered, the vicar had been leaning across the table glaring at him, words pouring forth from his mouth like a river in full spate. At her entrance he had whirled indignantly to face the door, and it was clear from his expression that he intended to deal short shrift to whoever had dared to interrupt his discussion with Meriden. Fortunately, he recollected himself at once. Instead of sharp words, he executed a curt bow and waited impatiently to hear what she would say. Her words had clearly astounded him.

Behind him, Jack was grinning, his relief at seeing her as self-evident as the vicar’s dismay.

Mr. Scopwick, dark blue eyes flashing, shoved a hamlike hand through his curly black hair and regarded Emily doubtfully. “I should be honored to receive an invitation to sup with you ladies at any time,” he said, striving to achieve a proper note of politeness. “However, perhaps you … that is, I have some trifling business just now with his lordship—”

“Oh, my dear sir,” Emily said, stepping forward with her hand held out to him, “I heard of the damage done to your garden, and I cannot tell you how sorry I am. Sabrina has told me what a wonderful garden it is, and Miss Lavinia too, for you must know that she simply adores gardening, and so she is quite an authority on the subject.” Dazed, the vicar took her hand, and she rattled on quickly, “Both of them are so very distressed over what happened, and I was hoping you would be able to tell us that the damage was not so severe after all, but clearly that is not to be. Sabrina is beside herself to think that the attack on me should have stirred Mr. Tickhill to such extravagant action. Indeed, my trifling hurts should not be considered at all, for as you see, I am quite restored to my customary good health, except for a slight headache, which I am persuaded will pass off before long. You must not consider me. Certainly not.”

She raised a hand to her brow and allowed herself to sway a little, glaring at Meriden when he moved quickly, as though to come to her aid, and with a deep sigh of gratitude accepted Mr. Scopwick’s strong arm when that gentleman moved to assist her. “Oh, thank you, sir. So kind,” she murmured, letting him seat her gently in a nearby chair. Meriden’s eyes were hooded now.

“My dear Miss Wingrave,” said the vicar loudly, shoving his hand through his dark curls again, “indeed you must not believe for one moment that I am not fully conscious of your injuries. Nor would I deny anyone the least opportunity to lay the villain who assaulted you by the heels.”

“Oh, you are very kind,” said Emily faintly, not daring to look at Jack. “But your poor garden. I have heard that it was completely destroyed.” Indeed, she had heard that much through the doors while she stood in the hall.

“’Twas not so bad as that,” he assured her. “No, I daresay that with a careful hand, a good many of the plants might be rescued. Not that it was necessary for those louts to ride their horses right through it, for it wasn’t. A clear lack of consideration, that’s what it was, for they might have seen perfectly clearly that no one was hiding there. Invasion of my privacy, that’s what it was. That fool Tickhill—”

“Indeed,” Emily cut in gently, her voice in clear contrast to the vicar’s, “Mr. Tickhill is most assiduous in performing his duties. He is—”

“He is a damned officious scoundrel,” Mr. Scopwick interjected, building up a new head of steam. “Those men had no business to be doing what they were doing, and if Meriden don’t mean to send them about their business, I’ll make it my business to write directly to the chief magistrate at Bow Street. We’ll just see what Mr. James Read has to say about his people destroying valuable property.”

“I will speak to Tickhill,” Meriden said quietly when the vicar paused for breath. “You may write your letter to Mr. Read if you wish to do so, of course, for I certainly agree that Tickhill’s searchers overstepped their bounds. But they are not trained men, Scopwick, nor are they Read’s men. They are merely local lads who wanted to help.”

“Oh, yes,” agreed Emily, leaning forward in her chair and striving to sound breathless, “and how kind it was of them, too. Surely, Mr. Scopwick, you would not be so cruel as to blame them for searching too hard to find the man who knocked me down!”

“Not at all, ma’am. Furthest thought from my mind.” The vicar regarded her ruefully. “You mustn’t think that I don’t want to catch the villain as badly as anyone does, for I’d soon teach him better manners, I can promise you. Well, Meriden,” he added, turning back to the earl, “I suppose I’ve said more than enough. I still cannot approve of your having brought that Tickhill fellow down upon us all, but I don’t wish to be accused of putting a rub in the way of finding Miss Wingrave’s assailant. Trust you to keep an eye on your man, though.”

“I’ll do that,” Jack replied, getting to his feet. When the vicar had gone, he looked at Emily and shook his head in mock reproof. “My dear Miss Wingrave, you ought to be thoroughly ashamed of yourself for deceiving a man of God like that.”

“I suppose I ought to have let you manage alone,” she said sweetly. “You were doing so well with him before I came in.”

“I was having my character described to me in terms that I’d as lief never hear again,” he said shortly, taking his seat once more and propping his feet up on the table. Then, realizing what he had done, he eyed her warily. “I say, you are planning to sit there in that chair for a time, are you not?”

She grinned at him. “Coward. If there is any finish left on that table, I shall be amazed. Do you treat your own furniture so sadly, or only the things at Staithes?”

“I like to be comfortable,” he said, returning her grin, “and my boots don’t touch the finish. The blotter will have to be replaced soon, however. In case I have failed to make my gratitude clear, may I express my thanks to you now for a timely rescue? That man is a menace.”

“At least he only bellows,” Emily said. “Consider what might happen if he were the physically violent sort.”

Jack’s mouth twisted. “Do you mean to imply that I would be bested by that fellow? Me? You cannot know my reputation for fisticuffs, swordplay, and the like.”

“Bragging, my lord?”

He chuckled. “No, but I don’t fear Scopwick either. Even if he were the physical sort, big men like that are generally slow movers. I think I could hold my own against him. Verbally it’s another matter, however.” His expression became serious. “Emily, I may have made a bad mistake.”

“Several, I would imagine, but which one in particular has raised its head to distress you, sir?”

“Scopwick, of course. I knew he was loud, but I’d no idea the man had such an outrageous temper.”

“But we told—”

“Don’t say you told me so,” he said sharply, “for you didn’t say that at all. You merely complained about the fact that he bellows at people. Giles can do with some bellowing. But now that I’ve seen Scopwick lose his temper—twice, actually—I begin to wonder if I was as wise as I thought in turning that boy over to him to tutor.”

Although she made no attempt just then to debate the earl’s statement, believing it would do him no harm to doubt for once the rightness of his actions, Emily found herself thinking more and more about Giles’s situation as the day went on. She realized she had seen no sign whatsoever that the boy feared his mentor, and many signs to indicate that he was taking an uncharacteristic interest in his studies. Several times she had actually seen him curled up in a chair reading long after his allotted study time had ended for the day. And although he had twice begged to be allowed to stay at home in order to accompany Oliver and his friends when they took their guns out to the moors for a day’s shooting, he had put up little argument when his request had been denied.

For the most part, Emily had been pleasantly surprised by Giles’s behavior. The scowling, churlish boy whom Harbottle had delivered to the doorstep seemed to have turned into a cheerful, though rather inwardly focused young man. Indeed, the change in Giles had been remarkable enough that, had they not all been distracted by other events, it must have been noted by everyone.

Deciding to find out just what was going on, Emily set out that very afternoon to visit the vicarage. Upon leaving the house, she recalled the events of the previous day and nearly asked William to accompany her, but she changed her mind at once, silently stigmatizing herself for a coward. It was but a step through the wood, after all, to reach the path leading to the vicarage and the little chapel. And she could be in no danger so close to home, particularly since she was firmly convinced, as she told herself more than once after entering the wood, that her assailant had been either the old woman or an accomplice.

It was, nevertheless, a trifle daunting to discover upon her arrival at the two-story stone cottage that served as the vicarage that neither Mr. Scopwick nor his charge was there.

“Gone fishing, they have,” the vicar’s housekeeper informed Emily at the door, dusting her hands on her apron as she spoke.

“Fishing! How shall I find them?”

“Happen they be a mile or so up the dale from yonder dam, Miss Wingrave. Vicar’s favorite spot, that be. Just tha’ follow the brook, sithee, and happen tha’ll find them afore long.”

Following the woman’s directions, Emily soon found herself in the thickest part of the wood, some distance from the road. The merrily rushing brook sang to her as she carefully made her way along a deer trail, between trees and through shrubbery that clung to her skirts and scratched at her bare arms. The mile or so described by the vicar’s housekeeper seemed much longer.

Finally, when she stopped to disentangle her skirt from a blackberry bush, she heard a shout of laughter ahead that carried well above the babble of the water. Scopwick’s voice was easily recognizable. As she drew closer, she heard Giles too.

“I’ve caught another!” he shrieked. “He’s a foot long if he’s an inch.”

“‘A man may fish with the worm that hath eat of a king, and eat of the fish that hath fed of that worm,’” pronounced Mr. Scopwick in his customary accents.

Emily was close enough now to see them through the shrubbery. Both were nearly hip-deep in the waters of the brook, and Giles was leaning back, his rod bending forward with the weight of the trout that leapt and danced in the sparkling water beyond. Emily watched, fascinated, but the boy’s mind appeared to be only half on his sport.