Amanda Scott - [Dangerous 03] (13 page)

Daintry said sharply, “I’ll have you know, Davina, that not one of my suitors feared my education, for not one of them had sufficient understanding to fear it. Indeed, all three proved to be little more than fashionable fribbles. I am going up to Charley now,” she added, striving to moderate her rising tone, since Davina was looking increasingly wary. “Will you come?”

“No,” Davina said hastily, “I must see that my woman is attending to my unpacking. Charlotte will be allowed to come down to dinner this afternoon, in any event, will she not?”

“I daresay she will,” Daintry said, sorry now for her brief outburst, knowing Charley would be waiting hopefully for her mother to come up and see her. “She has missed you, you know.”

“Has she, indeed?” Davina’s tone was skeptical. “We had no more than three letters from her the entire time we were gone.”

“And how many did you or Charles write to her?” Daintry demanded, her temper rising again.

Flushing, Davina turned away. “I must see to my unpacking.”

Sighing, aware that she had not handled Davina well, Daintry went to the upper west wing of the house, where the schoolroom and Charley’s bedchamber were located. Not much to her surprise, she found Susan and Melissa with Charley in the schoolroom. The two little girls got politely to their feet when she entered, and she saw that Charley wore Melissa’s gold bangle on one wrist and had been admiring the way the sunlight from the window reflected from its highly polished surface.

“That bracelet is lovely,” Daintry said. Grinning at her sister, she added, “And your ear bobs are dazzling, Susan. I seem to be the only one for whom Sir Geoffrey did not bring a gift. Even Cousin Ethelinda got a new silk scarf.”

“I daresay he simply forgot to give you whatever it is he brought you,” Susan said placidly. “Things did become a trifle unsettled down there, did they not?”

“That is certainly one way to put it.”

Susan grimaced. “Did Papa forbid Deverill the house?”

“He did. He was most unfair.”

“Oh, Daintry, do not tell me you have formed a tenderness for that deceitful young man! It will never do, for Papa will shout himself into a seizure, or worse.”

“Nonsense, Susan. He said he never raises his voice.”

Charley giggled, and even Melissa smiled. Hugging them both, Daintry told them they might sit down again, and took a seat beside Susan, saying, “Melissa, darling, did your papa bring you anything else?”

“This,” the little girl said, producing a flaxen-haired china doll from beneath a fold of her skirt, which had concealed it when she sat down. She handed it to Daintry.

“Oh, how pretty! She looks just like you, my dear.”

“Dolls,” Charley said scornfully, “are for babies. Melissa would much rather have had a new riding whip.”

“You
would rather have had a riding whip,” Daintry said, smoothing the doll’s pink silk gown and admiring the roses and cream complexion of its exquisite face.

Melissa said, “You can keep that bracelet since you like it so much, Charley. It looks very pretty on you.”

Susan exclaimed, “Oh, no, darling, your papa would be so extremely disappointed if you were to give away his gift. He will want to see you wear it frequently, you know. Gentlemen are very observant about such things.”

“Oh,” Melissa said. “I just thought that since Charley so rarely likes feminine gewgaws Papa would not mind if—”

“No,” Susan said with uncharacteristic firmness.

“Very well, but you may wear it this afternoon, Charley.”

“Well, I will wear it if we are allowed to go downstairs for dinner,” Charley said, “but since I mean to ride Victor this afternoon, perhaps you had better keep it until then.”

Susan said quietly, “I am sorry to sound disobliging, Charlotte, but when the two of you go downstairs, Melissa must wear her bracelet, for it will be the first time she sees her papa after receiving his gift. Moreover, you forget that you are in disgrace. Your grandpapa ordered you to seek your bedchamber, you know, and in all truth, though I did not like to say so, that is where you ought to be right now, not here with us.”

Seeing that Charley was about to say something impertinent, Daintry intervened. “Aunt Susan is right to remind you that your credit is not very good at the moment. You must make your peace with Grandpapa before you do anything else, certainly before you go out to the stables again.”

“But—”

“No,” Daintry said. “It is as important for you to learn that limitations exist as to learn to think and to speak for yourself. Part of thinking for oneself is learning to recognize obstacles when they present themselves, and understanding that one must confront those obstacles, not merely ignore them in the mistaken hope that they will disappear.”

“But I already sent an order to the stables,” Charley said stubbornly, “and I promised Melissa she could go too, so you are punishing her if you forbid me.”

Daintry stood up, but before she could administer the reproof the child so richly deserved, there was an interruption.

“Begging your pardon, Lady Susan,” the maid at the door said, “but Sir Geoffrey requests your presence in the drawing room at once. He said …” The maidservant paused, swallowed, looked at the floor, then murmured, “He said to tell you, you be neglecting your guest, ma’am.”

Daintry’s temper, checked mid-breath by the entrance of the servant, found welcome relief in an even more worthy target than Charley. “If that is not just like a man,” she snapped, “to blame a woman for not being where he wants her when he is the one who sent her away!” Turning on the quaking maidservant, she said, “Did he order you to say those exact words to her ladyship? Come, Millie,” she added, forcing herself to speak more quietly. “I did not mean to terrify you, but do answer my question.”

Still looking at her feet, Millie said, “In truth, m’lady, his lordship told Jago to say it, and Jago told me. Said it warn’t his business to be coming up to the schoolroom, that he’d go to Lady Susan’s bedchamber, and I were to come up here in case she had come up to visit the young ladies, which she had.”

“Just as I thought,” Daintry said. “You may go, Millie. And I hope you, Susan, will give Geoffrey a piece of your mind for sending such an impudent message to you by a servant.”

Susan smiled. “Oh, no, for it would do no good, you know, and I believe poor Lady Catherine must by now be quite bewildered by all the commotion, and yearning for someone to take her away for a quiet respite. Why, she has not even seen the bedchamber that has been allotted to her. We have been quite remiss.”

“In my opinion, she was highly entertained by it all,” Daintry said, “though I cannot doubt that she will be glad of a chance to get away from Papa’s ranting and Geoffrey’s absurd advice to him on how he ought to manage things. Even Davina abandoned her, for she followed me out of the room to speak her mind to me. She called the proceedings a commotion, just as you did, but she blamed me for creating it, if you please.”

“Well,” Susan said, getting to her feet and smoothing the front of her skirt, “you did little to pour oil on the troubled waters. No, no, pray do not bite my head off! I am sure that even you could not have stopped Papa from ordering that poor man off the premises. In any case, I must go downstairs at once.”

She was gone on the words, and Daintry turned back to attend to her errant niece.

The two little girls had their heads together, but Charley looked up just then and said quickly, “I’m sorry, Aunt Daintry. I should not have spoken as I did, and I ought not to have talked to Grandpapa as I did either. I will apologize to him when we go down for dinner. And,” she added with a sigh and a glance at Melissa, “if you truly forbid it, I suppose I can send a message telling them we won’t want our horses after all.” The look that accompanied this noble statement was both melting and hopeful.

Daintry, her sense of humor tickled and her temper eased by the opportunity to express her opinion of Sir Geoffrey’s behavior, nevertheless forced herself to remain firm. “An excellent notion,” she said. “If you do make your peace with your grandfather, then you and Melissa may go to the stables after dinner to take sugar lumps to Victor and Tender Lady.”

“Very well.” Charley sat down again, looking rather put out but resigned. Then a new thought entered her agile mind, for she widened her eyes and said, “And tomorrow, Aunt Daintry, will you take us riding again?”

Daintry hesitated. “First we must discover when your Uncle Geoffrey intends to take his family home,” she said.

Melissa said, “Mama told us that he wishes to remain here for a few days, Aunt Daintry. I think that when he wrote to tell her to look for his arrival, he wrote that as well.”

Charley said casually, “We could ride up onto the moor if it is not foggy, and have a really good gallop. Although,” she added with a thoughtful frown, “I daresay we ought not to mention the galloping part to Uncle Geoffrey.”

Deciding that she had been firm enough for one day, Daintry refrained from pointing out the impropriety of the afterthought, particularly since she wholeheartedly agreed with it. Instead, she said that if the little girls behaved themselves and the next day proved a pleasant one, she would certainly take them riding.

Not until later did she wonder if Charley had mentioned the moor for any particular reason, but she dismissed the thought at once, for it led far too easily to others that were much more disturbing. As she tossed and turned in her bed that night, unable to sleep, she came to the unwelcome conclusion that a certain tall, broad-shouldered gentleman with speaking golden eyes, an attractive smile, and a deplorably commanding nature had made more of an impression upon her wayward sensibilities than was commensurate with the comfortable image she had of herself as an independent female.

G
IDEON’S IMAGE OF HIMSELF
had been severely shaken. Riding away from the house, he had all he could manage to maintain his dignity, for the memory of St. Merryn’s demanding to know if he should send for his servants to escort him out had been nearly more than his temper could bear. Bad enough that it had happened at all; much worse that it had happened before such an audience. In his mind’s eye, he could still see Seacourt’s expression of contempt, and it brought forcibly to mind certain incidents of his school years that he would just as soon forget.

Briefly he wondered if Jack had ever made a cast toward St. Merryn’s daughters, but a moment’s reflection told him he had not. He had had no interest in galloping gentility, as he called it, and since he had not yet been on the lookout for a wife, and preferred to spend his time in such manly pursuits as boxing, gambling, hunting, and shooting, he was more likely to have been found at the Newmarket races than at Almack’s Assembly Rooms.

Gideon smiled, suddenly remembering the way Daintry had leapt to his defense against her irascible parent, just as if she had not torn a strip off him herself less than half an hour before. The wench had some odd notions in her head, thanks to that formidable aunt of hers, and was too much accustomed to having her own way of things, but she was nonetheless beautiful or desirable for all that. Penthorpe would have been no match for her, of course—would have found himself living under the cat’s paw within a month. She was a termagant, but a magnificent one, and his own temper could match hers any day.

It was a pity that St. Merryn’s commands would make it a trifle awkward for him to pursue the acquaintance. Still, she was determined to end the old feud, and she seemed the type who, once she’d got a bee buzzing in her bonnet, would do all in her power to put it to rest. Moreover, it was the house-party season, and he had received a number of invitations. No doubt Daintry Tarrant would turn up at some of the same houses.

His thoughts remained thus pleasantly occupied until Deverill Court came into view, at which time they shifted abruptly back to the scene at Tuscombe Park. Unaccustomed as he was to the sort of Turkish treatment he had received from St. Merryn, he could not deny that he had deserved the man’s anger. What his own father would have to say about it did not bear thinking about, and he had still not made up his mind whether to confess the whole to him or hope he never learned about it from anyone else—rather a forlorn hope considering the number of persons present and the fact that one of them, Lady Catherine Chauncey, was completely unknown to him. And, too, Sir Geoffrey Seacourt, having been a crony of Jack’s who had enjoyed helping him make life miserable for the younger boys at Eton, was scarcely a man whose discretion he ought to rely upon now.

Sighing, he gave his horse into a groom’s keeping and went into the house, removing gloves and hat and handing them, with his whip, to the footman who was the sole occupant of the hall.

“Is my father at home, Thornton?”

“Yes, my lord”

“The book room?”

“Yes, sir, and begging your pardon, my lord, but I’m afraid there has been a bit of a dust-up of sorts.”

Gideon raised his eyebrows. “A dust-up?”

“Yes, sir. Mr. Kibworth and Mr. Shalton, sir.”

Gideon grimaced. “I’ll deal with them later. First I must see my father.” His erstwhile batman and the fashionable valet his father had thoughtfully provided for him at Jervaulx Abbey had not yet managed to come to terms with each other for the simple reason that Shalton had accompanied him north while Kibworth had proceeded directly to Deverill Court, but it had become clear even before they all left the Abbey that the two men were not precisely kindred spirits. Gideon had accepted Kibworth’s services because Jervaulx clearly had expected him to do so, but Shalton was more than just a servant to him, and if he had to decide between the two, it was Kibworth who would go.

In the book room, a fire crackled on the hearth, and Jervaulx was standing by the window overlooking the south lawn. When Gideon entered he turned, saying, “Thornton said you had gone out. It is a good day for a ride, is it not?”

“Yes, sir.” Gideon was not generally one to charge before his defenses were in place, but he could see no reason to delay once he had made up his mind to a course. Shutting the door, he said bluntly, “I rode to Tuscombe Park, sir, to clear up some unfinished business. St. Merryn ordered me off his land.”