Anita Mills (10 page)

When he looked up, Anne Morland was watching him expectantly, and he felt a surge of anger. She knew not what she asked of him. Swallowing it back, he managed to tell his mother, “You are going to be all right. You cannot die, else I shall have everything.”

He stood there holding his mother’s hand, wishing he were almost anywhere else, until Anne found the laudanum and brought it back. Measuring out four drops into a small amount of water, she restoppered the bottle and handed it to the maid. Looking directly at him, she spoke rather bitingly. “I do not suppose it too much to ask, surely, but would you lift her head? And if she begins to choke, she must be raised immediately.” Then, “Meg, will you stand ready with a napkin should she not be able to swallow?”

She poured carefully, giving but a tiny bit at a time, testing for throat paralysis. At first she thought it hopeless, for the liquid seemed merely to lie in the old woman’s mouth, but finally there was an involuntary swallow. It was a painstakingly slow process, one that left Anne wet with perspiration before she was done. A great sigh of relief escaped her as Deveraux eased his mother back against the pillow.

“Came as soon as the horse could carry me,” she heard someone say behind her. “Daresay she’s had another one.”

“Found ’er on the floor,” the maid explained.

“Thank heaven you are here, Dr. Rand,” Margaret said fervently. “She cannot even speak.”

“Don’t do her any good to have everyone standing over her, I’ll be bound,” Bertie declared. “Scare me if I was to wake up in this.”

“Quite right, young man,” Rand said. “Miss Mitford will stay whilst I examine Mrs. Deveraux. The rest of you ought to have a bit of brandy.”

Meg hesitated nervously, then demurred. “I think it ought to be Miss Morland—she’s ever so much better at this than I.”

“Nonsense. Don’t know her.” Turning his attention to Trent, he urged, “Go on, my lord, and take ’em all with you. If there is anything that needs to be said, I’ll send to you.”

“Her son is here,” Anne pointed out.

“I saw him.”

It was not until they were out in the hall that Dominick hung back to speak with her. “My thanks, Annie.”

“If you were my son, I should cheerfully strangle you,” she muttered. “Telling someone she cannot die else you will have everything is scarce my notion of comfort, Mr. Deveraux.”

For a long moment he stared down at her, his face sober. “Had it not been a capital offense, Miss Morland, I am certain my mother would have tried,” he said evenly. Turning on his heel, he started the other way down the hall.

“Wait.” He barely hesitated, then went on. And once again, she felt regret. “Please.”

“Miss Morland. I am mortal man—not a saint.”

“I’d apologize, sir.” When he swung back to face her warily, she nodded. “ ’Tis not my place to criticize what I do not know.”

“No, ’tis not,” he agreed.

“I know not why I say such things to you, for I seldom speak my mind to anyone anymore.”

“As you can see from Dr. Rand, you are not alone in your opinion of me. One word of advice, however: never apologize for what you believe to be the truth. It ill becomes you.”

“Still, when I leave with Mr. Bascombe, I’d remember the adventure rather than the rancor, sir.”

The almost familiar smile twisted his mouth for a moment, then disappeared. “I forgot—you are the romantic Miss Morland, are you not? My dear, you have a lot left to learn in this life. Not everything is as it seems here.”

A pall hung over the great house, making it seem even darker than it was. And it did not help that as the supper hour approached, a late-afternoon rain poured steadily outside. As Anne came down the stairs, a flash of lightning lit the panes that lined the sides of the outside door.

Looking upward toward the chandelier that illuminated the foyer, she saw the row of paintings, all men but one. And she could not help noting the tall portrait of the handsome, elegant woman on the wall. There was a vague familiarity about it, something that possibly reminded her of Dominick Deveraux. It was not the coloring, for the woman’s hair was fair, her face was more oval than his, and though her eyes were blue, there was a softness to them.

“ ’Tis Aunt Charlotte,” Trent murmured beside her. “Done many years ago by Gainsborough—one of the last, I believe.”

She turned around, meeting his eyes. “She was lovely, wasn’t she?”

“If the artist can be trusted. Actually, I am told she was, but by the time I came to know her, I could scarce see it.” He stared upward at the woman on the wall. “Life changes one, I suppose.” He shrugged and returned his attention to her. “You are down early, Miss Morland.”

“Actually, there was not much to do upstairs, my lord.”

“Perhaps you would care to join me in a glass of punch before we sup?”

“Well, I …” She’d heard so many tales of him, of his opera singers and other bits of fluff, that she hesitated. “I don’t think …”

He favored her with Dominick’s twisted smile. “Miss Morland, I assure you that my salad days are behind me. You behold a man utterly besotted with his wife.”

“Oh, I did not think … that is, I assure you—”

“Yes, you did,” he told her bluntly. “And I cannot say I blame you for it. A man’s rep, once earned, is deuced long-lived.” He opened a saloon door and held it for her. He waited for her to enter, then walked past her to a steaming punch bowl on a table. Filling a cup, he handed it to her. “Actually, I am quite eager to make your acquaintance, my dear.”

“I cannot think why, my lord. You behold an utterly ordinary female.”

“Let us just say that you pique my curiosity, Miss Morland.’ Lifting his own cup, he looked over the rim at her. “You were quite efficient upstairs this afternoon.”

“I am not without experience in the care of elderly females, sir,” she said simply.

“Nonetheless, you have my compliments. Between the ninnyhammer and the hysterical maid, I doubt either would have done much for my aunt had you not been there.” Continuing to regard her, he sipped the hot, spicy liquid. “Which brings me to a curious point, Miss Morland—how do you come to be here?”

She colored uncomfortably beneath the marquess’s gaze and wondered what plausible story she could tell. She’d been truthful with Dominick Deveraux—prevarication was rather alien to her nature. And she did not want to spin a pack of lies now.

When she did not immediately answer, Trent observed wryly, “Somehow you do not seem the sort of female to be in Dom’s company, you know.”

“I am not quite certain whether I ought to be gratified by that opinion, sir,” she answered a trifle tartly.

“You mistake my meaning, my dear. ’Tis that my cousin is not particularly noted for his association with respectable women.” Gesturing to a chair before the fire, he said. “Do you mind sitting down, Miss Morland? ’Tis a deuced nuisance having to stand with you. Go on, please—I have left the door open should you wish to bolt.”

She took the chair and placed her cup on the small reading stand between them. “There is much about you that reminds one of Mr. Deveraux, you know,” she told him. “I suppose it is the bluntness usually missing in polite discourse. Or perhaps the spoiled nature of very rich men.”

“I should never consider Dominick spoiled, my dear—quite the opposite, in fact.” A corner of his mouth twitched. “As for me, when one has dealt with Miss Mitford for nigh to a week, one loses the will to be overly polite.”

Anne looked down at the green gown and felt the need to defend its donor. “Miss Mitford is possessed of a kind and generous nature, but is perhaps overwhelmed by your presence here. From what she has said to me, she is merely shy before men.”

“Coming it too strong, Miss Morland. Had she come down before you, I should be alone and grateful for it. The girl is as empty in the cockloft as Bascombe, if the truth were known.” This time, when his eyes met hers, there was a glimmer of amusement in them. “But I shall not be fobbed off so easily by you, my dear. Drink up, then tell me of your journey here.”

She eyed the punch suspiciously. “I do not deal well with spirits, my lord. Nor with wine,” she added.

“There’s scarce more than drop of rum in it,” he assured her. “Just enough to warn the bones against winter’s chill. ’Tis mostly apples and spices, Wilkins tells me.”

He was waiting expectantly, and she knew it. Capitulating, she took the cup and sipped gingerly. The sweet and spicy liquid warmed her throat as it slid down. It was exceedingly good. She set the cup back.

“Somehow I did not take you for a coward, Miss Morland.”

“I’ve no wish to be foxed with you, my lord.”

“And I’ve no wish to see you foxed either—I’d hear a lucid tale, believe me.”

“There’s naught to tell,” she began evasively. “I am but on my way to London.”

“By way of a wharfside inn?” His eyebrow lifted incredulously. “My dear, that much of the story I had of Bascombe. He said you and Dominick were attempting to escape from the authorities.”

“Not precisely. That is, it was not my intent to run, my lord.” Not knowing what Albert Bascombe might have said, or how he might have missaid it, she twisted Miss Mitford’s handkerchief nervously in her lap. “Really, my lord, but I shall be leaving in the morning, and I cannot think it any of your affair.”

“If you are in truth General Morland’s granddaughter, I might be willing to help you.”

Her eyes widened; then she recovered. “He had no right to tell you that, sir.”

“Are
you General Morland’s granddaughter?” he asked, persisting.

“Yes, but… Oh, ’tis too long a tale! And … and I’ve no wish to share it.”

There was silence for a long moment, and when she looked up again, she saw unexpected sympathy in his eyes. “In the basket, Miss Morland?” he said softly. “While I cannot claim a close association with your grandfather, I should not hesitate to offer my assistance.”

“I am beyond assistance, my lord. Suffice it to say that.”

“If my cousin has wronged you, I am prepared to see that he acts responsibly in the matter.”

She blinked blankly; then, as his meaning sank in, the blood rushed to her face. “You think that I … that Mr. Deveraux and I … ? Oh, no! ’Tis nothing like that, I assure you! Mr. Deveaux has ever been the gentleman to me.” But even as she said it, she knew that was not quite true. “Well, if not the gentleman,” she conceded, “certainly he has never threatened my virtue.”

“You relieve my mind.”

He sat back and propped his legs up, much in the manner Dominick had done in the carriage. “The mysterious Miss Morland,” he murmured. “I wonder.” Abruptly he sat up again. “I’d still know how you came to be with my cousin.” When she stared into the fire rather than speak, he said gently, “Whatever you tell me will not go beyond this room unless you wish it. Word of a Deveraux.”

She twisted the handkerchief more tightly and sighed. “When you have heard the tale, you will no doubt call the constable.”

“I think not, my dear, for then I should have to give over Dominick.”

There was no sound beyond the rain against the windows and the popping of the fire as she considered all manner of things to tell him. Finally she decided to believe him and tell him the truth.

“Very well, my lord, but I would prefer to close the door, I think.”

A long time after she left him, ostensibly to return upstairs to find herself a cap, Trent contemplated the fire. Anne Morland’s story was a preposterous one, and yet he believed it. He sipped his fourth cup of tepid punch and considered what he could do for her. Ordinarily he would have said nothing, and he would have done nothing, but there was a quiet calmness about the girl that reminded him of his wife.

“Oh, your pardon, I …”

He looked up to see Margaret Mitford backing out the door, her face paling at the sight of him. Every time he saw her, she took on the appearance of a cornered rabbit, and he’d not done a damned thing to frighten her.

“Would you care for some punch, Miss Mitford?” he inquired politely.

“Oh, no! I thought that perhaps Miss Morland … But I quite see I was mistaken … uh …”

With that, she turned and fled, leaving him to shake his head in disgust. How Charlotte Deveraux ever thought she could foist the hinny on Dominick was beyond his comprehending. Dom was too much like the rest of the Deveraux—and Margaret Mitford could not hold his attention above two minutes, if that long, making any marriage between them utterly disastrous. Trent would have thought from her own experience that Charlotte would not wish such a fate on the girl. But there was little danger of its coming to pass anyway. It would take more than mere breeding to leg-shackle Dom. Dom was too much like him—he would require someone like Ellen, someone possessed of common sense, wit, and passion.

Trent’s thoughts returned to Anne Morland, and he mulled over in his mind everything she’d told him—how Dominick had dropped her off the roof, had dressed her in Bascombe’s clothes, had paid for the unsuitable taffeta dress, and finally had brought her and Haverstoke’s heir home with him. She’d not even spared herself the details of Quentin Fordyce’s attack, nor had she glossed over his possible death. And she’d not failed to tell of getting disguised with the two men over the port. His mouth curved into a smile as he recalled the way she’d described their flight. Most females of his acquaintance would have played the tale for his sympathy, but she had not. She could in truth be compared to Ellen.

He sighed. He was homesick for Ellen, and it was beginning to make him maudlin. He wanted to be with her before the child came, but he could not rely on the little mouse to keep peace between Dom and Charlotte. Charlotte’s stroke had thrown a spoke into his and Dom’s wheels, tying them inexorably to her until the last. What she’d not wanted in life, she was like to have in death.

“Oh, I didn’t know you were down, Alex,” Dominick murmured, coming into the room. “I’d thought perhaps to find Bascombe or Miss Morland.” He poured himself a glass of punch and sprawled wearily in the chair opposite. “Devil of a coil, isn’t it?” He closed his eyes briefly. “Never thought I’d be glad to have you, you know, but I don’t think I could stand being here with Miss Mitford.”

“Your Miss Morland was quite prompt with her assistance this afternoon,” Trent observed casually.

“She isn’t my Miss Morland, Trent.”

“So she says. And Bascombe insists she isn’t his either.”

Dominick brushed a stray black lock back from his forehead wearily and opened his eyes defensively. “If you are meaning to pry, Alex, I can tell you I am too tired to answer anything right now.” Taking a swig of the punch, he made a face. “Must’ve been better hot,” he muttered. “Too sweet by half.”

“Miss Mitford is no hand at all with your mother.”

“Who is?”

“Betty didn’t know what to do, you know.”

“I daresay ’twas the first time she saw her speechless.”

“ ’Twas the second. But this is worse, I believe.”

“Mother will recover,” Dominick predicted flatly. “She could not bear to go and leave it all to me.”

“A harsh judgment, Dom.”

“Is there another?” the younger man wondered bitterly.

“Given the circumstances, why did you come back?”

Dominick stared into the amber liquid for a long moment, then sighed heavily. “I don’t know. Perhaps I had hopes that the stroke had mellowed her. Maybe I was enough the fool to think there could be peace between us yet.”

“It isn’t too late.”

“The devil it isn’t! No, nothing’s changed, Trent. Only a fool could fail to see that.”

“At least you brought Miss Morland—and Bascombe, of course.”

Mistaking his cousin’s meaning, Dominick snapped, “I had no choice in the matter. I couldn’t in conscience put her on the mail coach like that. And I had to bring Bascombe— ’twas his carriage.”

“A stroke of fortune, don’t you think?”

Dominick glanced at Trent suspiciously, but the older man’s expression was bland, betraying nothing. “What difference does it make to you?”

His cousin sat up abruptly and leaned to place his cup on the table. “I need to go home, Dom. I need to be with Ellie.”

“Mother would not expect you to remain. I cannot say that she likes you much better than me, you know.” Rising, Dominick walked to the window and stared absently for a time. “Miss Morland will say she cannot stay,” he said finally. “Though I cannot deny she’d be welcome.”

“Because of the Fordyce thing?”

Dominick gave a start, then muttered, “Someone ought to put a plaster on Bertie’s mouth. I don’t care what he told you, you cannot believe it. Ten to one, he got the tale wrong.”

“I had it of Miss Morland. General Morland’s granddaughter, I believe,” Trent added softly.

“He doesn’t claim her.”

“More’s the pity.”

“She wants to turn herself over,” Dominick said slowly. He swung around to face his cousin. “Much as it may surprise you, I’ve thought a great deal on the matter, and I cannot think such a course wise.” His eyes met Trent’s soberly. “For one thing, if he is not dead, Fordyce is apt to seek revenge on her. And he will no doubt seek her at Mrs. Philbrook’s.”

“Mrs. Philbrook?”

“Her employer.”

“Ah, the old tartar.”

“Yes.”

“Perhaps you could persuade Miss Morland to wait until Fordyce’s fate is known.”

“ ’Twill not be long.” A wry, almost rueful smile curved the younger man’s mouth. “I’d thought of that also, you know, and have dispatched one of the grooms back to the Blue Bull to make an inquiry.”

“ ’Tis to be hoped he is discreet.”

“He will be. His instructions are merely to remain there overnight, to tipple a bit, not flash much money, and listen. Even in the Blue Bull, a dead toff must surely be much discussed, I’d think.”