Carola Dunn (20 page)

“So do we all, except my gullible widgeon of a sister. I’m off to see what she has to say for herself.”

Once again Sir Barnabas followed Euphemia from the morning room. Her determined, heavy-footed tramp boded ill for Sophie. As she stumped up the stairs, he slid up the bannister beside her, one of the few joys of ghosthood he had discovered.

She gave a single peremptory knock on Sophie’s door and stormed in. Quelling his qualms at entering a lady’s bedchamber, Sir Barnabas sailed in on the wind of her passage. Sophie was sitting up in bed, a bundle of shawls with a round pink face peeking out, topped with a pink-ribboned nightcap.

“How kind of you to come, Effie,” she quavered hopefully. “I am really fit as a fiddle but dear Nerissa....”

“Traitor!”

“Oh dear, you do not think I....”

“I think you revealed our plans to the enemy....”

“Oh no, Effie, not enemy!”

“The enemy,” Euphemia repeated firmly. “Now that Miles and Nerissa know we have been watching them, how shall we ever catch them creeping into each other’s rooms?”

“But they don’t,” Sophie protested with the air of one prepared to go to the stake for her beliefs. “I mean, yes they know, but they don’t creep. Besides, what difference does it make if we watch the passage when there is a connecting door between their chambers?”

Effie’s lower jaw fell until all her chins were squeezed together like a stack of undercooked drop-scones. Not a pretty sight--Sir Barnabas turned away his eyes with a shudder.

She recovered herself. “A connecting door?” she exploded. “For pity’s sake, why did you not tell me?”

“I forgot. And then when I came to know Miles and Nerissa, I knew they would never use it, so it did not seem to matter.”

“Ninnyhammer! Is it locked?”

“I’m sure I have not the least notion, Effie.”

“Then go and check. No, you are not to be trusted, I shall go myself.”

Sir Barnabas hurriedly withdrew as Sophie scrambled out of bed, shedding shawls like hairpins. She scurried after Effie; he brought up the rear.

Round the corner Effie charged, past Miles’s room, and drew rein at Nerissa’s door. Her imperative knock was unanswered. Marching in as if she owned the place, she stood staring around.

“Really, Effie, I cannot think you have any right in Nerissa’s chamber uninvited. Do come away.” Sophie plucked at her sister’s sleeve, to no avail. “See, the bolts are shot on this side.”

“Naturally she would bolt it afterwards,” said Effie scornfully, “to mislead the servants.” She went to the connecting door, opened the bolts, and tried the handle. “Locked.”

“I told you they would never use it.” Poor Sophie was almost crying with vexation.

“The key must be on the other side.” With a last, suspicious glance about the room, Effie returned to the passage and knocked on Miles’s door.

“Surely you are not going into Miles’s chamber!” Sophie gasped.

“Of course.”

“Pray do not! Well, I am going back to bed.”

Sophie sped away round the corner, followed by Effie’s stentorian, “Deserter!”

Effie invaded Miles’s room with no less boldness than she had Nerissa’s. She went straight to the connecting door. Sir Barnabas saw that on this side the bolts were open, the key in the lock. A wave of fury overcame him. Had his granddaughter and his godson been indulging themselves with impunity all this time?

Checking that the door was indeed securely locked, Effie removed the key from the keyhole and concealed it somewhere about her ample person. Then, instead of making a quick escape, she moved to the bed. She picked up a book from the bedside stand and opened it, fanning through the pages as if in search of incriminating evidence.

No lascivious love-letter fell out, no damning list of gambling debts. About to close the book, disappointed, Effie stopped and stared at a page in horrified fascination. Peering around her bulk, Sir Barnabas saw a passage marked in pencil, but before he could see what it was about Effie slammed the volume shut. Her face scarlet, eyes popping, hand pressed to heaving bosom, she dropped the book on the table as if it burned her fingers.

“Disgusting!”

“Well, what a surprise.” Miles’s suave voice made Effie jump visibly and Sir Barnabas jump invisibly.

Effie swung round, catching Sir Barnabas a blow in the ribs with her elbow that would have left a spectacular bruise on a living body. “You!” she said in tones of utter loathing.

“It is my bedchamber you are in. Good Lord, my dear Mrs Chidwell, never say you have come to give your all--and a more than adequate all it is--to save the family fortunes? Fair Euphemia, can it be that you wish to seduce me?”

Her face took on an alarming hue, her breathing became stertorous, and she backed away. Sir Barnabas dodged. The night-stand crashed to the floor.

Miles smiled mockingly. “Such maidenly modesty,” he marvelled. “But come now, you and I both know a certain licence is permitted to widows of a certain age.”

“Ravisher!” she yelped.

“By all means, ma’am. Do you wish to make an assignation for later, or shall I...er...ravish you on the spot?”

This polite question caused some remnant of common sense to revive in Effie’s tumultuous breast. “I came,” she said haughtily, “to retrieve a key.”

His eyes went straight to the connecting door and his lips tightened. “I don’t pretend to know what you are about, but if you have unlocked the door anticipating that I will therefore ravish Nerissa....”

“No, no!”

“...Or vice versa, perhaps?--you are sadly out in your reckoning.”

“Nothing of the sort,” said Effie in a sulky huff. “I was making sure it is locked.”

Miles crossed to the door and checked. “Very well. I suppose you merely want to be sure that when we ravish each other one of your spies observes us.”

“I told you I am calling off the watch.”

“Ah yes,” he agreed with a cynical look. “But I don’t trust your mischief. Give me the key, if you please. It will be safest with Mr Harwood, I believe. You may come with me and see me hand it over.”

He held out his hand and Effie put the key into it, with a bad grace. Holding the door for her, he swept her a low bow as she sailed out, nose in the air.

Delighted, Sir Barnabas hurried to escape while the door was open. His godson had undoubtedly had the better of the exchange, he thought, yet nonetheless the end result was that the door was definitively locked. Most satisfactory.

Besides, he wouldn’t have missed the look on Effie’s face for a monkey.

* * * *

Miles, too, cherished the memory of Effie’s face. However, the incident left him dissatisfied. Not that he gave a tinker’s curse for the loss of the key. He had no desire to use the door, but he wished he had not spoken so casually of Nerissa’s using it.

On the other hand, the old harridan was so determined to think ill of Nerissa that any protestations of her innocence would have fallen on deaf ears. As it was, as long as Effie Chidwell lived in hopes of catching them in the act, she was unlikely to try any other tricks.

He was sure she was the ringleader of the efforts to discredit them though the others were just as bitterly resentful. Raymond Reece’s clerical calling, which he appeared to take seriously, ought to hold him back from desperate measures. Aubrey and Matilda had other absorbing interests. Sir Neville and Lady Philpott were too weak to act on their own account though they must expect to be the principal heirs if Miles and Nerissa were out of the way. All of them would follow Mrs Chidwell’s lead.

What she hoped to gain from the alternative Will was debatable. From what Miles had learned of the animosity between her and Sir Barnabas, the late baronet was not at all likely to have left her a larger share of his fortune. The puzzle was why the old curmudgeon, though firmly in control, had ever let her reside at the manor.

In comparison, coercing Sir Neville into giving her a home would be child’s play, whereas she must know Miles was not to be intimidated. Nerissa, of course, was not going to be at Addlescombe.

He was going to miss her, Miles realized. The pleasures of having a little sister far outweighed the pains. Perhaps she and her parents would visit him sometimes.

Unless she married a Dorset gentleman. Surely not Clive Digby!

The following day did not bring Clive Digby, but the Loftings called at the manor. Miles scarcely allowed Jeremy Lofting to exchange courtesies with the ladies before he whisked him off to the estate office to discuss agriculture.

What with one thing and another, not until the following evening did Miles remember to ask Nerissa about the kitchen maid’s sleeping quarters. She had just won from him a dozen slave girls, dressed in Mosul silk embroidered with gold stars and playing upon flageolets and psalteries.

“Maybe we could teach some of the maids to provide music for my dancing lessons,” she said, giggling.

“With tambourines and cymbals? I suspect lutes and flutes are beyond them and I wouldn’t know where to find a psaltery, or recognize one if I saw it. By the way, I have been meaning to ask you about the kitchen maid. I found her sleeping on the hearth the other night. Is there no proper bed for her upstairs?”

“She prefers to be in the kitchen. It is warm there, and the other girls tend to tease her for being such a scrawny little thing.”

“She has enough to eat?”

“Plenty, and Cook is no slave-driver. Many children her age have voracious appetites yet remain thin because they are growing. I can see you are going to ask whether the rest of the maids are comfortable and well-fed. I assure you I would never allow anyone working for me to go cold or hungry. I inspected their quarters, and you must have noticed how plump and cheerful they are. Mrs Hibbert told me Sir Barnabas believed well-treated servants work harder.”

“Trust Sir Barnabas to have any motive but philanthropy. Dash it, where did that draught come from?” he cried as their pack of cards and lists of stakes slithered across the table and fluttered to the floor.

As he picked up the cards, Miles thought how much Nerissa had changed since her arrival at Addlescombe, when she had been downright timid with Hibby and Snodgrass. As her self-confidence had grown, so had a sense of responsibility for her dependents.

He had indeed noticed the buxom, cheerful maids, several of them decidedly pretty in a countrified way. The rural nature of their charms, otherwise just what he preferred in a chère amie, must be the reason he had admired from a distance without being the least tempted. Not that he was the sort to seduce an honest serving maid, yet it was odd that those lush figures awoke in him no hint of desire.

Only Nerissa roused his senses, but of course that was solely due to the suggestive circumstances of Sir Barnabas’s wretched Will. She was no more to him than a little sister to be advised and protected.

Chapter 14

“Out of the question,” said Miles.

“Oh.” Nerissa blinked back tears of disappointment that momentarily hid the page of the
Ladies’ Magazine
. The evening gown depicted there was quite the most beautiful dress she had ever seen. She had asked Miles, who had been out all day, to come down to dinner early so that she could show it to him.

The frock of white British net over a rose satin slip had a very high waist, trimmed with lace, and tiny puff sleeves with knots of rose ribbon. The skirt, fuller than the ordinary, boasted a deep lace flounce embroidered with roses and seed-pearl rosettes. “I daresay it is too elaborate,” Nerissa said sadly. “Mr Harwood will never agree to pay so much.”

“The cost has nothing to do with it. I’ll engage to talk Harwood into whatever you please.”

“Then you think it will not suit me?”

Miles took the magazine and studied the fashion plate more closely. “No. Though the girl in the drawing is too plump for the style it will look very well on you. All but the...” He cleared his throat. “All but the neckline.”

Silly tears rose to Nerissa’s eyes again. Miles thought she had not enough bosom for the glorious dress.

But he hastily went on, “Not that it will not suit you, only the décolleté is far too extreme for a country hop.”

“No it is not. When Miss Firston lent me the magazine this afternoon, she showed me what she and her sister will wear to the Christmas assembly. Here, look, these are just as low.”

“Possibly.” He frowned. “However, the Firstons are well established as a respectable family. You are still in the process of establishing your reputation, so you must be particularly careful not to offend even the highest stickler.”

Nerissa sighed. “I suppose so,” she said.

He continued to frown at the plates, turning from one to another. “You know, I believe the shape of the one you have chosen makes it appear lower. These...er...sort of scoops in the bodice...” His voice trailed off and he flushed.

His embarrassment surprised and amused Nerissa. After all, he was a rake! When she realized he had expurgated the Arabian Nights, she had been grateful for his kindness but had not imagined he might find the stories equally disconcerting.

She agreed with him about the gown, though. The shape of the neckline was the one thing she did not care for. The satin bodice was scooped out on either side, rising to a knot of ribbon between the breasts. It looked too much like something Bess Rigby would wear hoping to suggest the possibility of her voluptuous bosom popping out of its confinement.

She was not about to enlighten Miles on that subject, however. “I’m sure the shape can be altered without spoiling the gown,” she assured him. “Cousin Sophie and I are going into Porchester tomorrow to the dressmaker, so I shall see what she has to say. This wide V is prettier, is it not?”

“It will do, if it can be made a bit higher and with a wide fall of lace above it.”

“I expect so,” she conceded. After all, he had her best interests at heart. Besides, the girl in the picture was wearing a rose-garnet necklace to fill the expanse of skin above the corsage. All Nerissa owned by way of ornament was her plain gold locket, worn on a ribbon for lack of a chain, which held tiny miniatures of Mama and Papa and a lock of Lucian’s hair.