Anita Mills (13 page)

“Mother …”

There was no sign that she heard—no flinch, no recoil—nothing. He moved his hand to her face, tracing her profile with his fingertips from her forehead to her nose. And he felt the faint rush of her breath.

“Mother.” Dropping to the chair Betty had kept by the bed, he leaned over her. “Mother, ’tish Dominick—’tish Dom. Your other son.” Again there was only the spitting, crackling logs and the faint ticking of the clock.

He ran his fingers through his hair as though he could somehow clear the fog in his head. For once she was going to hear him out, for once she was going to know. And he would not have to listen yet again to her bitter tirades against his father. He began to talk to her, pouring out his own bitterness, his own pain, in a lengthy, rambling discourse.

“Wasn’t me that left you, Mother,” he reminded her. He leaned forward again, so close that his face was but inches from hers. “Not Nicky Deveraux, Mother—never was—jusht looked like him. Dom never left you, for all that you wished he would.”

He paused, drawing in his breath, then exhaled heavily. He could scarce hold his head up now, but he didn’t want to stop—not yet. “Hell, Mother—you gave me hell—d’you know that? You wouldn’t let me mourn my brother, Mother—you wouldn’t even give me that. What did you think I did—jusht live to spite you? Man ought to think someone lovesh him, you know.”

His head had fallen into his hands, and it seemed too heavy to lift, and yet he had to see that she’d heard him. Forcing himself to lean back, he looked once more into her still face. She couldn’t hear him. Once again she’d cheated him, and he knew it.

“Damn you!” he shouted at her. “Damn you! Even now, you will not let me be a son to you!”

Struggling to his feet, he lurched toward the door. The room spun around him, and for a moment he thought he was going to be sick. She wouldn’t want that. He fell back into the chair, then leaned to cradle his head in his arms on the side of her bed.

The morrow, he promised himself, would be better. Annie Morland would be gone, and that he regretted, but a fugitive had no business even looking at a respectable female. As long as he had to run, he could not afford to get attached to her. As long as he had to run, there was no room in his life for her. But he would apologize for what he’d said ere she left. She’d deserved better of him. Finally, unable to sort it all out, unable to reason rationally, he turned his head against his sleeve and slept.

The room was cold, the sleet pelting the windows when he woke. And at first he could not place where he was. It was dark. He moved his hand from beneath his head and felt along the covers until he reached his mother’s arm. Wincing, he sat up gingerly, trying not to shift the ache in his pounding head. It was as though the pulse in his temple was a hammer.

The fire had died to embers. Shifting his gaze back to his mother, he could barely make out her face. Touching it, he felt a sense of shame flood through him. Whatever she’d done to him, she’d still borne him, and he ought to honor her for that at least. He did not have to love her.

He rose unsteadily, this time taking care to hold his head, and an imperfect memory of what he’d done returned. Vaguely he remembered that Annie Morland was leaving, and he knew he didn’t want her to go. She had to wait. She had to wait until he knew if Fordyce was dead. Forgetting that he’d decided she could not stay, he flung himself into the hallway, then stood until the pain in his head subsided.

Groping his way down the dark passage, he beat on her door. “Annie!”

She woke with a start. Her heart pounding, she tumbled from bed to find the wrapper. Pulling it on, she managed to light a candle from the fire and hurried into the hall. “Whatever … ? Mr. Deveraux! What is it—is your mother taken worse?”

“Got to stay until Burton comes back. Got to find if Fordyce is dead.”

“What? Who is Burton?”

“Cannot go,” he insisted.

“Mr. Deveraux, you are foxed,” she told him severely.

“Dishguised,” he agreed.

“Cannot this wait until morning, sir? You are in no condition to ask anything just now.” Despite the soft slur of his speech or his disordered, almost wild appearance, there was a certain boyish appeal to him. And she felt almost angry with herself for responding to it. “You won’t even remember this when you wake,” she muttered. “Go on to bed.”

The flickering light of her candle reflected in his blue eyes. “Like me, you know—got nowhere to go, Annie.”

“What a lowering thought, sir.”

“Could’ve left you at the Blue Bull, but didn’t.”

“Well, if this don’t beat the Frenchies!” Bertie declared, disgusted. “Don’t anybody but me want to sleep?” He regarded Dominic Deveraux peevishly. “Ain’t at all the thing to be standing yallering in the hall in the middle of the night. Ain’t at all the thing to be standing out here with Miss Morland neither.” He turned to her. “If you was a-wanting to, I’d demned near as lief leave now. Get more sleep in the carriage anyway.”

“Morning will be soon enough, I think.”

“What the deuce is he thinking of?” he demanded plaintively. “Making a racket at…” Abruptly he disappeared back into his room, then returned with his pocket watch. “It ain’t but three o’clock!”

“Mr. Deveraux is merely foxed. No doubt he will feel more the thing after he has slept. Though I am not quite sure how to get him to his bed.” She looked at Bertie hopefully. “I suppose between us—”

“Eh? No, you don’t. It ain’t done—be the talk of the house if you was to be in his chamber.” Bertie peered up and down the hallway as more discreet observers retreated behind their doors. “Never a footman or a valet when a man needs one,” he complained under his breath. Reaching for Dominick’s arm, he sighed. “Come on, sleep it off. Wait… don’t lean on me.” Favoring Annie with a look of long suffering, he pulled manfully. “Don’t know what you was thinking of,” he told Deveraux. “Gel’s half-asleep, and shouldn’t wonder at it. You want to talk, talk in the morning.” As they reeled unsteadily down the hall, the smaller man trying to steer the larger one, she could hear Bertie say, “You’re a demned lost soul, you know.”

It was some time before he came back alone. Anne heard him stop outside her door, then heard him say, “Annie?”

“Yes?” she answered.

“If anybody else’s to knock, don’t come out.”

“I quite agree, Mr. Bascombe.”

His door had scarce closed before she heard the tap. Sighing, she answered it, and Margaret Mitford slipped in. “Are you quite all right, Miss Morland—Annie?” the girl asked, whispering.

“Yes.”

“You must stay—you must! With Trent gone, I cannot bear to be left with Mr. Deveraux!”

“Meg, ’tis three o’clock,” Anne reminded her. “Can we not speak of this a bit later in the morning?”

“Oh. Oh, yes, of course.”

It wasn’t until she was back in bed that Anne came fully awake. Lying there beneath the warmth of the thick covers, she pondered Dominick Deveraux’s strange behavior. After what he’d said to her in the library, why had he asked her to stay? Was it pity?

Like me, you know—got nowhere to go. Could’ve left you at the Blue Bull, but didn’t.
She had somewhere to go, all right. She was surely bound for Newgate. And who was Burton?
Got to stay until Burton comes back. Got to find if Fordyce is dead.

Finally, unable to sleep after all that had happened, she rose reluctantly and went to the window. The sleet had ceased, but the sky was nearly white with heavy snow. She stared out into the cold, pristine beauty of it, thinking Bertie would surely be cast down when he saw it. Then she thought of Lord Trent and his precipitate race home, and she offered a small, silent prayer that he made it safely.

Throwing on the wrapper yet again, she picked up her book and let herself out into the hall. If she could not sleep, she could at least be of use to someone. Besides, if she were to read aloud to Charlotte Deveraux, it might do both of them some good. At the very least, it would relieve her own mind for a while.

Bertie came down early, only to be greeted by the news that snow had been falling for hours. Staring glumly out the saloon window, he had to admit he could not see much beyond twenty feet. It was all of a piece, he decided irrationally. His flight to France had been doomed from the start. He wouldn’t even put it past his omniscient parent to have ordered the ridiculous sequence of events that brought him to the Haven.

“I feel like a demned Greek,” he muttered. “And the Fates has caught me.” Turning around, he sighted Wilkins. “Anybody down yet?” he asked.

“I don’t believe so, sir. But if you are wishful of breakfast, naught’s to say you cannot be served now.”

“I
am
deuced hungry,” Bertie admitted. “And there ain’t nothing else to do.”

It wasn’t until he was already into the dining room that he realized Wilkins had been mistaken. Margaret Mitford was already there. He considered bolting, then decided if either of them was to give up breakfast, it could be she. When she looked up, her eyes widened, then she dropped her gaze to her still-empty plate, saying nothing. He took the chair at the other end of the table.

“ ’Morning, Miss Mitford,” he said casually.

“Yes.”

“Seen Miss Morland yet?”

“No.”

“Deveraux?”

“No.”

“Well, daresay ’tis just us, ain’t it?”

“Yes.”

“Havey-cavey business last night,” he observed. Apparently in the absence of a direct question, she did not feel it incumbent to comment. He began to hope breakfast was served soon. As the silence grew heavier between them, he fidgeted uncomfortably. Finally he could stand it no longer. “Hanged if I’m going to spend m’breakfast like m’dinner, Miss Mitford.”

She blinked. “I beg your pardon?”

“Look,” he told her, “you ain’t got nothing to worry about from me. For one thing, I ain’t much in the petticoat line, and for another, I ain’t got much conversation neither.”

“Yes.”

He eyed her suspiciously. “What’s that supposed to mean? I didn’t ask anything.”

Keeping her face averted, she said quite low, “I can tell you are not an accomplished, flirt, Mr. Bascombe.”

He brightened. “You can? See, told you—you ain’t got nothing to worry about.” Twisting in his chair, he looked toward the door. “Where the deuce is everyone, do you think?”

“Possibly they are asleep.”

“Oh. Yes. Shouldn’t wonder at it, what with all the doings last night.”

Apparently that did not require a response from her either. To his relief, Wilkins appeared with the coffeepot.

“Chocolate, Miss Mitford?” the footman inquired. “Quite sorry, but I did not realize you were down.”

“Yes.”

After the man withdrew, Bertie studied her curiously. “Was it yes, you was wanting chocolate, or was it yes, you was down?”

“He knew what I meant.”

Determined to pursue some sort of conversation, he stuck his oars into the social waters manfully. “Place looks like one of them gothic houses, don’t it? Wonder Caro Lamb didn’t set that story here, don’t you think? I mean, we got a place filled with folks as don’t talk to one another, and Deveraux’s running round as tragic as Byron. Got the old woman a-dying upstairs. Give a man the dreads, if he was to think about it.”

“Yes.” Then she asked suddenly, “Do you think Miss Morland will stay?”

“Eh? Well, she ain’t going anywhere today, I can tell you. Ain’t nobody going,” he added glumly.

“No, I mean do you think she will stay after the storm is past?”

Recalling Quentin Fordyce’s body on the tattered rug, he shook his head. “Can’t.”

“Why?”

“Just can’t, that’s all. Got business in London.” He looked toward the door, wishing Wilkins back. “Place is like a tomb, ain’t it? Don’t know how you can stand it.”

She stared down at the grain on the table, reddening. “My papa will not let me come home,” she mumbled finally.

Before Bertie could digest that, the footman reappeared with her chocolate and the bread rack. The one he placed before Margaret Mitford, the other in front of Bertie. “Would you have your eggs coddled, sir?”

“It don’t matter. I’d just have ’em quick.”

When Wilkins left again, Bertie glanced down the table to where she sat. “You eating, Miss Mitford?”

“Just bread and jam. ’Tis all I take.”

“Only brought one rack,” he observed.

“Yes.”

He eyed the vast expanse of table between them and sighed. Rising, he reached for the bread, the butter dish, and the jam pot and carried them all to her. Then he returned to retrieve his coffee and the pot. Moving them to the place across from hers, he dropped to a chair. She looked up curiously.

“Look, I ain’t a-going to trot the food for you, so we might as well be civilized in the matter.”

“Yes.”

When she made no move toward the rack, he selected a piece of bread and began to butter it. “I ain’t here ’cause I’m a-wanting to be either,” he told her conversationally. When she said nothing, he gestured with his bread. “I got sisters, you know—you got any brothers?”

“No.”

“Sisters?”

“Yes.”

“Talk to ’em?”

She looked up at that. “Of course.”

“Then you can talk to me. And I’ll talk to you like you was one of m’sisters.”

“How many do you have?” she asked timidly, her curiosity stirred.

“Three. Louisa, Fanny, and Augusta. Gussie’s coming out this year. You come out, Miss Mitford?” he managed to ask between mouthfuls.

“No.” She hesitated, then blurted out, “There are too many of us.”

“Deuced nuisance anyway, if you was to ask me. Don’t know why m’father’s bothering, ’cause Gussie ain’t going to take—carrot top, you know … spots too.”

“Spots?” she repeated faintly.

“Freckles. Everywhere.”

“How awful.”

“Oh, m’mother tried bleaching ’em, but it lightened her skin also, so’s they were even more in evidence. But you don’t need to repine for Gussie, ’cause she don’t care whether she gets an offer or not.”

“I daresay your parents must care.”

“Eh?” He stuffed another piece of bread into his mouth and began to chew. His mouth full, he had to drink from his coffee and swallow before he could answer. “Devil of it is, they don’t,” he admitted. “Fired off the older girls, but Gussie’s not the same. Bit of a bluestocking,” he added, as though that would explain it. “Ain’t like me at all.”

“You are an indifferent scholar?” she managed to ask.

“Ain’t a scholar at all,” he retorted.

“Well, I daresay that as you are a wealthy man, it does not matter.”

“Humph! Everything I do matters to m’father, Miss Mitford—everything. M’father …” He paused to take another drink. “M’father ain’t going to rest until I am leg- shackled.” When he looked up, she was watching him, and then her eyes dropped. “Devil of a thing to be the heir, you know. I tell him I ain’t got no address, and he tells me it don’t matter—he’ll take care of the business for me. Now, how the devil’s he to do that, I ask you?” Not waiting for an answer, he rambled on, “Says he’s an earl, I’m going to be one when he pops off, and there ain’t many females as wouldn’t wish to be a countess.”

“Your papa is an earl?” she asked incredulously.

“Uh-huh. Haverstoke.”

“He must be very rich.”

He nodded. “Like a nabob.”

“Well …” She could not help smiling shyly. “Your pardon, but you do not look much like an earl to me.”

“I don’t look like one to
me
,” he said. “Thing is, I got no choice. Born to be one.”

“I suppose you could count that a burden,” she murmured.

“Deuced nuisance. Don’t know if anyone’s a-wanting to know me or m’father, you know. But it don’t signify, I suppose—I ain’t got too many friends anyway. Daresay you don’t either.”

“No.”

He reached for another slice of bread. “Turnabout. Know I’m here ’cause I’m running from m’father, but what about you?”

She appeared to study the jam pot, then sighed tragically. “Between Papa and Aunt Charlotte, ’tis determined I am to fix Mr. Deveraux’s interest, and I … well, I cannot.”

He nearly choked. “Egad! ’Course you cannot! Ain’t in his style, for one thing—have to be empty in the cockloft not to see that! Be like me throwing my hat over the windmill for … for …” He groped for some equally unsuitable example and was at a loss. “Princess Charlotte,” he decided finally.

Stung, she reminded him, “She’s dead—and one should not speak with levity of the dead, sir.”

“Well, if she wasn’t,” he shot back, unrepentant. “What was they thinking of? Deveraux indeed.”

Although she’d often reflected in much the same vein, she could not help feeling he lacked sensibility in the matter. “ ’Twas hoped I would restrain his … his rather reprehensible tendencies,” she said stiffly.

“Be like setting the chicken under the fox’s nose,” he snorted. “Ain’t no match for him.”

“So I have told Papa, but he will not listen. He says ’tis up to me to make a good match, and … well, I cannot! I should not know how to fix anyone’s interest, Mr. Bascombe!”

For a moment he thought she meant to cry, and he regretted trying to talk with her. He groped for the means to pacify her before she enacted him a tragedy. “Here, now, it ain’t all that bad,” he murmured soothingly. “Daresay if you was to talk up a bit … well, maybe some other chap—”

“I cannot! And I cannot abide the thought… the thought of Mr. Deveraux! And if I am cooped up here, there is no other chap!”

“Tell ’em you don’t like him,” he advised. “Tell ’em you want to look about a bit for another fellow.”

“Did that help you with your father?” she countered.

“No. Had to bolt.”

“Well, I cannot, for we are rather poor. Papa has every expectation of my snaring a rich husband. And, given my circumstances, Mr. Deveraux is all I am ever like to see.”

He considered her for a moment, then went back to his coffee. “Then you got to learn to talk up. A man finds it a deuced bore listening to himself. And Deveraux … well, he’s been with some high fliers, don’t you know? That is … Dash it, but he ain’t going to … Well, it don’t matter,” he decided.

“Mr. Bascombe, I have told you: I cannot.”

“Talked to me just now,” he reminded her. “But your papa’s deuced simpleminded to think you can fix Deveraux’s interest. Got to get out of here and find another chap,” he repeated.

“Where? Papa cannot afford a Season, and even if he could, I should die rather than be paraded about on the Marriage Mart.”

“Go to Bath.”

“Bath?” she repeated faintly.

He nodded. “Pump Rooms. Ain’t as starchy as London. Cheaper, too. Get your papa to take you for the Little Season. Know two fellows as went there last year and came back betrothed—said it wasn’t as bad as London. Didn’t like the water, though, but daresay it ain’t much worse than the lemonade at Almack’s.”

“I don’t think I could,” she ventured doubtfully.

“ ’Course you could! Miss Mitford, you ain’t exactly an antidote! Just …” His pale eyes studied her for a moment. “Just too shy, that’s all.”

“You don’t think me plain?”

“ ’Course not. Look better’n Gussie, after all.” He looked over at her, then nodded. “Yaller hair’s all the crack, I’m told. Besides, you ain’t got spots. Tell you what—you need to practice a-talking, you can practice on me. Don’t have to impress me, you know, ’cause I ain’t about to offer for you.”

“Mr. Bascombe, I don’t think I could. I mean, I—”

“Talking to me right now, ain’t you?”

“Yes, but—”

“Thing is, you got to quit thinking about parson’s mousetrap and start thinking about what you got to say, Miss Mitford. Speak up—man don’t want a female as don’t have nothing to say, you know.” Then, afraid he’d misled her, he added, “ ’Course, he don’t want one too forward neither.”

“Mr. Bascombe, they are wrong about you—I don’t think you are a slowtop at all.” Realizing what she’d said, she turned a dull red. “That is, I did not mean—”

“It don’t signify, Miss Mitford. I ain’t exactly a downy one neither.”