Patricia Rice (5 page)

Ah, hell, he’d stuck his foot in it again. When would he learn that he had no place in the company of ladies?

He stared up at the towering mansion on the hill as
she hurried toward it. Against the evening sky, it soared majestically
in a fantasy of turrets and gables that swept the stars. Lights twinkled
in mullioned windows. An oil lamp swung outside, illuminating the
half-timbered stone wall of the older block, shadowing the ivy-covered
stones of the new.

The house was as lush and provocative and haughty as its owner.

***

Mac rubbed his forehead and sighed as Percy
clambered to the back of what was probably an antique sofa and reached
for what was most definitely an antique Black Forest cuckoo clock. Even
the steward’s cottage in this place came with expensive ornaments.

“Get down, Buddy,” he yelled as he dragged his
exhausted body into the front room. As time passed, he had more and more
sympathy for the nursery maids. He hadn’t had a moment’s rest since
he’d left London.

“My birdie,” Percy declared firmly, reaching for the
swinging wooden pendulum. The cuckoo warbled one final note and
withdrew behind closed door.
Smart bird.

Mac crossed the room and scooped the boy up before
the entire clock fell on his head. Percy screamed in fury. From the
floor, Pamela joined in.

“Are you murdering them?” a female voice asked through the open parlor window.

Oh, hell.
Holding a
wiggling, screaming Percy, Mac glanced out to see his hostess framed by
the multi-paned windows. This morning she wore a complicated pin of jet
at the throat of her high-necked abomination of a gown. An enormous
bonnet covered her hair and hid the better part of her face.

“I’m saving this one from breaking his neck. The
other is apparently disturbed that I didn’t do the same for her.” Mac
shoved the kicking, cursing child through the open window. “Here. You
shut him up. I’ll look to the other.”

Holding Percy at arm’s length, Miss Beatrice
Cavendish of Cavendish Court looked properly appalled at finding herself
in possession of a screaming child, but Mac lacked the patience to
care.

As he lifted Bitsy from the floor and gingerly
tested for wetness, he watched Miss Cavendish wrestle with her
unexpected burden. Percy—Buddy—had apparently shut up long enough to
inspect his new keeper. His lower lip stuck out, suggesting he’d not be
quiet for long.

“Did you have oatmeal for breakfast?” Mac heard her
ask as he wrapped a blanket around his niece in preparation for taking
her into the chilly morning air.

Buddy nodded suspiciously.

“Then you should have jam for dessert,” Miss
Cavendish informed him briskly. “Apollo likes apples and sugar cubes
after he eats his oats.”

Mac briefly contemplated the possibility that he’d
handed his nephew to a lunatic, then realized she’d just compared Buddy
to her favorite horse. He was beginning to suspect she knew as little
about kids as he did.

“Come on, little bit.” He swung the now quiescent
babe to his shoulder. “We’ll feed you sugar cubes and apples, too. Miss C
will turn you into a good, strong horsie.”

Pamela gurgled happily and yanked on his hair.

Grimacing, Mac joined Miss C in the yard and offered
the smaller child in exchange for the rambunctious Buddy. “He’ll
disappear into the mist if we let him go.”

She didn’t look at him as they made the exchange,
but defiance tinted her whispery voice. “I wish to accompany you today
so that I may learn how to hire a thatcher without giving him money.”

Hellfire.
He didn’t need
this woman following him all over the countryside. He’d almost rather
haul the brats with him. “I’ll barter,” he said testily. “It’s nothing
you need worry your pretty head about.”

Her pretty head jerked up as if he’d slapped her.
For the first time, she really looked at him, and her eyes spat the
fires of damnation. Mac was so surprised that he almost walked into a
rhododendron.

“Don’t
ever
say that to me again.”

She marched up the drive before he could process the
warning. He’d seen soldiers with less rigid posture. What the devil had
he said now?

Balancing Percy on his shoulder, Mac strolled after her. “Don’t ever say
what
again?” he inquired with interest. Obviously she didn’t expect gentlemanly flattery.

She didn’t turn around as he fell into step with her. “My
father
always
told me never to worry my pretty head. And look where that’s got me.”
She gestured at her unscythed lawn and tumbling roses. “I haven’t a clue
as to what I’m supposed to do about leaky roofs or unplowed fields or
sheep in need of shearing. I’m supposed to sit in my parlor and knit
while everything falls apart for lack of management, but I mustn’t worry
about a thing.”

That gave him a glimmer of understanding as to why her estate showed such signs of neglect.

“You’re supposed to hire a steward or caretaker or
some such. Or find a husband.” He added that with a hint of spite. His
parents had drummed the need for a wife into his head often enough for
the words to pop out without much thought.

She glared at him from beneath the bonnet trim. “Oh,
very fine. I’ll send for Lord Knowles, shall I? I’ll tell him he can
have my father’s hounds in exchange for marriage. Then I can sit and
knit while he drives the hounds into the ground and my tenants into
penury. And if I’m truly fortunate, he’ll break his neck in a drunken
jump, and I’ll have to start all over.”

Beatrice blinked in astonishment that she’d actually
uttered such scathing comments. She buried her face in the
sweet-smelling neck of the child in her arms, and tried not to look at
the tall man who was easily keeping pace with her and watching her with
such interest. Perhaps she dared speak her mind because he’d be gone in a
week or two. Perhaps she dared because he had no expectations of her.

He didn’t seem to be appalled at her vehemence. He actually seemed to be pondering her diatribe.

“I take your point,” he said gravely. “Husbands are a nuisance. Now, explain away a good steward.”

“They quit when one disagrees with them.” She refused to tell him that she couldn’t afford one.

“Of course. If one is disagreeable, stewards would be hard to find.”

He was laughing at her. She didn’t know whether to weep in frustration or tell him what she thought of his behavior.

No doubt he’d just laugh at her if she tried.

“I’m going with you to the thatcher’s,” she said firmly as they reached the house.

“You will learn nothing that will be of any use to you,” he warned.

Yes, she would. She would learn how to stand up for herself—at least with one man.

It was a long way from confronting the bankers and
solicitors who threatened to take away her home, but it was a step in
the right direction.

Refusing the offer of the lady’s antiquated
barouche, Mac harnessed the horse to his rented post chaise. He’d hated
leaving his own horse in London, but he’d had to remove the children in
haste.

“It is a very small carriage,” Miss Cavendish said
dubiously. Her fingers trembled as he helped her in, making him
extremely aware of how small her hand was.

Odd, how he could forget for even a moment that she
was one of those delicate ladies he so despised. Her soft scent of
lilacs crept up on him when he least expected it.

“The carriage is light and well-balanced, which is
more than that monstrosity of yours can claim.” Irritated by his
reaction to her, Mac circled the carriage to the driver’s side. He’d
already determined that everything about her estate was ancient, except
the house and its contents. The mansion had been added on to, improved
upon, decorated, and embellished until it looked more a fantasy castle
than a place to live.

The princess presiding over the fantasy crossed her
hands in her lap and haughtily straightened her shoulders. Mac might
despise snobbery, but Miss Cavendish came by her regal bearing
naturally. A woman of her build and stature could do no less. Now, if he
could only persuade her to talk or smile, the next few weeks might be
tolerable.

As they drove down the drive and through the hedged
lane, the village of Broadbury spilled down the hillside below them. The
unusually wide road running between rows of neat two-story cottages
identified it as a market town. Built one against the other, each
cottage glowed with the warm golden tones of the local stone. Nodding
heads of colorful flowers adorned windowsills and yards all up and down
the road. He’d come from a country of large brick houses, some with
gracious columned porches, but Mac couldn’t remember ever seeing a town
as charming and picturesque as this one. Or as indolent.

A lone man stood on a ladder in front of one of the
wider buildings, removing a tattered wooden sign depicting a faded bull.
At the foot of the ladder rested a bright new sign of a golden crown.
An idler leaned against the inn wall, apparently directing the placement
of the sign, probably to the annoyance of the sign maker.

A few sheep ambled in the green pastures surrounding
the village. A brown cow chewed contentedly at a sheet hanging on a
line in a backyard. A small boy kicked a stone down the rutted lane.
Beyond that, Mac couldn’t find a single sign of industriousness.

At home, there would be farm wagons and horses
traversing the street, men arguing on the tavern steps, women gossiping
on the walks as they strolled from shop to shop, and carters and smiths
and wheelwrights all going about their business. How in the name of
heaven did this backwater survive?

He’d hoped to find someone who could help him with
the children when it came time to sail, but he’d be lucky to find
someone who remembered what children were.

Frustration gnawed at him as a bell pealed
desultorily in the church tower opposite the inn. A black-robed curate,
looking too young to be out of school, strolled from the front door of a
neighboring cottage in the direction of the crumbling church. The
church’s wide door sagged open, welcoming any creature who cared to
enter. He’d find no protection from the viscount and his men here.

“Oh, there’s Mr. Rector on his rounds now,” Miss Cavendish said with what sounded like relief.

Owl-eyed behind gold-rimmed spectacles, the curate
watched with interest as their carriage approached. Mac had never
intended to meet the whole town. He’d meant to hide the children with
Nanny Marrow while he rode back to London. He needed to see to his cargo
purchases and the preparation of his clipper. He was at a loss as to
how he would accomplish either in this place, but his main concern was
concealing his identity.

Not being one to cower behind bushes, Mac resolutely
drove Miss Cavendish down the hill into the narrow confines of
Broadbury. A portly gentleman joined the vicar to gape at their
approach.

***

“Miss Cavendish, it’s a pleasure. I see the
gentleman found you.” Nearly sixty, Mr. Digby appeared very much the
butler he once had been as he helped Beatrice from the carriage.

“I don’t believe I’ve had the pleasure.” The curate
rocked back on his heels and inspected the newcomer with curiosity as he
waited for Mac to tie up his horse.

Flustered, Beatrice handled the introductions,
although she suspected she flubbed them badly. Mr. Warwick was regarding
her with a raised eyebrow, an expression that produced shivers all the
way to her toes. He had the most amazingly thick and expressive brows,
in a shade of brown darker than his hair.

Rubbing elbows with him all the way into town had made her extremely light-headed. Perhaps she was coming down with something.

“Mr. Warwick is teaching me estate management,” she said primly. “We need the name of a thatcher to repair the stable roof.”

“Teaching?” the curate asked with amusement. “Is
that what it’s called these days? And are you an acquaintance of the
earl’s, or of the Carstairses, Mr. Warwick?”

Beatrice narrowed her eyes at the implication that
her neighbors had sent a man more interested in acquiring her property
than a nanny. “He’s an American, Mr. Rector. He was hoping to find Nanny
Marrow to look after his children.”

“Nanny Marrow’s sister lives in Virginia,” Mr.
Warwick explained curtly. “She wished me to persuade Nanny to come live
with her. It seems I arrived too late.”

Mr. Rector clucked his sympathy. “Well, fine thing
that you and Miss Cavendish have found each other. Miss Cavendish surely
knows all that Nanny Marrow taught her. Fine woman, our dear Miss C.”

“Really, sir,” Bea demurred, “if we could please have the name of a reputable thatcher, we shall be on our way.”

The obstinate American pursued his own goal. “I’m
sure the children are in good hands with Miss Cavendish, but my time is
limited. I shall see what I can do while I look for a nursemaid.”

“A nursemaid,” Mr. Digby mused, then abandoned that
unprofitable subject. “When will your aunt be arriving for her annual
visit, miss? The gypsy circus she brought with her last year has been a
constant source of conversation.”

Just the thought of the turmoil her aunt always
created made Beatrice’s mind reel. Of course the villagers talked about
her. The gypsies had sold half the shire ancient mares painted black to
disguise their age, and her father had had to recompense everyone once
they realized they’d been cheated.

Still, she so desperately needed her aunt’s wisdom
right now, she would willingly endure the mischief that accompanied it.
“I’ve not heard from her yet. I’m sure you’ll know the minute she
arrives.”

The gleam in her ex-butler’s eye spoke his full agreement on that point. “We’ll look forward to seeing her.”

Tortured minutes later, they escaped with the direction of a reputable thatcher.