Barbara Metzger (25 page)

"Not yet” came the soft comment from Wynn Alton, Visount Stanford, as he walked down the path, pistol in hand. “Not yet, but soon."

Vauxhall was vast and Rosellen was one small woman, but she had been remarkably easy to find. Wynn had only to follow the sounds of mayhem. Screams, shots, panicked party-goers, a dog barking—the frail female was definitely in the vicinity. He rushed ahead of his footmen and hired guards, pushing fleeing revelers aside.

Darkness, plaster dust, bodies on the ground—what the devil was going on and which one was Rosellen? As soon as Wynn made his presence known, a hysterical woman threw herself against his chest and he feared for a moment that Rosellen had been wounded, but it was Clarice Haverhill, peculiarly enough. Wynn passed her, still screeching like a banshee, into Stubbing's unsuspecting arms and bellowed for lanterns.

Rosellen was the one on the ground with the smoking pistol. Of course. Wynn lifted her up and removed the weapon, keeping his own pistol aimed on the others until he was sure who was who or what. He did not release Rosellen, and she made no effort to leave the shelter of his arms. She had grown some in wisdom, Wynn noted, for she was letting Helter and Skelter describe their great adventure. He kept his arm across her thin shoulders, both to reassure himself of her safety and to make sure she did not flit off on some other ill-conceived and unacceptable scheme.

"Well, children.” Wynn spoke with controlled fury. Rosellen should have let him slay her dragons. She should have been safe at home. “Now that you've got your villain, at great peril to your persons, I might unnecessarily add, what are you going to do with him?"

The Heatherstones were not long on subtlety or sarcasm. Tim was sitting on Merrihew's chest, Tom on his knees. “Dash it, I knew we should have brought the rope,” Tim complained. “We could string him up and save the Crown the cost of a trial."

The notion had definite appeal, but Wynn had to veto it “Then you'd all be charged with murder, you nodcock."

"Shall I send for the constables, sir?” Stubbing wanted to know. “Or some of the lads and I could drive the dirty dish to Bow Street.” He'd do anything to get rid of the clinging Clarice, who was still screaming in his ear.

"I have hopes of settling this a bit more quietly, to protect Miss Lockharte's privacy. She would have to testify, you know, which cannot be a comfortable thing. What say you, Merrihew, do you prefer to chance your fate with the courts? I suppose you might face transportation instead of hanging. Or will you take an offer of a passage to India? I know of a ship leaving this week, and I have enough contacts there to ensure your cooperation. Of course I'd have your signed confession before you left, guaranteeing that you'll never return."

"Confess?” Merrihew mumbled through cut lips and loosened teeth. “You cannot prove anything. I committed no crime."

Rosellen started to protest, but Wynn squeezed her. “You did not manage to succeed in your crime, rather, due only to your ineptitude. We can, however, prove that you misrepresented your credentials. I should think that those couples whom you married, who now find themselves living in sin, their children bastards, will have a few words to say at your trial. And there is the matter of Miss Lockharte's missing money."

"I never touched her blunt,” Merrihew insisted. “That was Mirabel. I told her to let it go till the chit was dead, but she wouldn't listen."

"Ah, honor among thieves. Unfortunately, your sister seems to have flown the coop. You're the only one we can charge for all the crimes."

"Go to Hell. You have no evidence but the testimony of an attics-to-let antidote."

Wynn's arm tightened around Rosellen, while his fingers tightened on the trigger of his pistol. “You know, I believe I might have a better idea. The press-gangs are always out working the docks...."

He did not need to finish. Merrihew whined, “I heard there are still opportunities in India."

"I regret inflicting you on the British populace there, but it does seem the most desirable solution. Do you agree, Miss Lockharte?"

Rosellen was about to give her opinion, now that Wynn had settled everything to his satisfaction, when she was pushed aside. Clarice took her place in his arms, sobbing into his waistcoat. “What about me, Stanford? I've been ruined. Just look at me, and all on account of your note to meet you here!"

Her dress was gaping at the bosom, and her hair looked like a squirrel had made a nest in it, but Wynn was not buying her tale. “I never wrote the note, as you very well know, Miss Haverhill,” he said.

"How was I to know that? I came in good faith, and now my reputation is destroyed. You'll have to make things right, Stanford."

"Gammon,” he said, trying to extricate himself from her barnacle-like embrace. “No one has to know you weren't with your cousin the whole time."

"What, a harum-scarum female of no account to anyone? No one will believe her, and I'll be tarred with the same brush."

Rosellen was sputtering in the background, one hand on Buck's head to keep him from eating the lady's stocking he'd found on the pavilion's floor.

"Devil a bit,” Wynn replied, free from her at last. “No one will doubt the credibility of the next Viscountess Stanford."

"Viscountess Stanford? That hoyden?” Clarice shrieked, while Rosellen had to hold on to Buck to keep from falling again. “You're going to marry me!"

"When Hell freezes over, madam. But there is always him.” Wynn nudged Merrihew with his foot.

"What, I should marry a nobody like him? Never."

Wynn shrugged. “It's the best offer you're likely to get. You can live quite comfortably in India on your father's money, you know, and you might even become something of a social success there, daughter of a baron and all. Otherwise, of course, you'll be a pariah here. Once it is known how you conspired to ruin your own cousin, no one will recognize you."

Clarice looked to Stubbing, who instantly faded into the foliage. Then she stared from one Heatherstone twin to the other.

"We're joining the army,” Tim informed her.

"Tomorrow,” Tom added.

"The ship's captain can marry you on the journey over,” Wynn prodded, anxious to end this contretemps. “Why don't you think on it overnight, discuss it with your father? Merrihew isn't going anywhere."

He was going to the windowless basement of Stanford House, under guard, until Wynn could have him escorted to the India merchant ship. Of course Wynn promised himself a few minutes alone with the dastard first, but there was no reason to mention that to anyone. Perhaps Clarice would like her bridegroom better with his face rearranged.

"I am sure the Heatherstones will escort you back to your box, unless, of course, they wish to stay and discuss with me how they happened to lead a young lady out of my house and into such peril."

The Heatherstone brothers each took one of Clarice's arms and towed her away, her sandaled feet barely touching the ground, they moved so quickly.

Wynn gave orders for the disposal of Merrihew and the dispersal of his retainers. Only when they were all gone, including the spectators, did he turn to Rosellen. He placed his hands on her shoulders so that she faced him. Gently brushing the white dust from her hair, he said, “Without a doubt, Miss Lockharte, you are the most rash and reckless female I have ever known. What the devil am I going to do with you?"

"For a start,” Rosellen answered, “you can kiss me."

He laughed. “Rash, reckless, and headstrong to a fault, and I do love you so, Rosellen.” Then he bent to touch her lips with his.

This was better than any kiss that had gone before, Rosellen decided, because now he loved her. The ground trembled, the stars turned brilliant, the very air vibrated between them.

"Hmm,” she said some minutes later, “I always knew I'd love fireworks, and they haven't even started yet."

"I take it that means yes?"

Rosellen opened her eyes. Wynn was inches away—miles too far—staring down at her. She licked her lips, savoring the taste of him. They hadn't moved farther than the bench in the ruined temple. “Hmm. What was the question?"

"The question was whether you were going to make me the happiest of men, but you already have. Now will you marry me?"

"Please don't tease, Wynn. I know you were only pretending for Clarice's sake, to get rid of her. I understand, truly, and you mustn't get any misguided notions of chivalry or such fustian. I was compromised long before 1 met you."

"Silly goose. I did not need an excuse for your cousin and I never pretend. You should know that."

"I also know that you cannot wish to marry me,” she insisted.

"And I know that there is nothing on this earth that I wish more."

"But it would be a dreadful misalliance. We come from such different worlds."

"You
are
my world, Rosellen. That's all that matters. Besides, you do have a dowry, remember, not that I need it. And your birth is as good as my sister's, if not better, but that is a tale for another day. Your education is certainly better. And if your father did not have a tide, so what? He had the wisdom and intelligence to raise a daughter with a mind of her own."

"You hate my independent thinking."

"Only when it collides with my viewpoint. Otherwise I think you brave and clever and loyal to your beliefs, everything I admire. But is it me you don't wish to wed, that you are making excuses? Are you afraid I'll ride roughshod over your feelings and opinions? You won't let me. Anytime I come the despot with you, you can sic your dog on me."

"You truly love me, despite my independent ways?"

"Do you remember the letter you wrote me?"

"Don't remind me of that idiocy, I beg of you!"

"But in it you spoke of all the things you never got to enjoy, all you'd miss if you were taken too early. You never had a dog, or a waltz, or a silk gown. I'd dress you in moonbeams and waltz you among the stars. Buck is another story, but you tore at my heart with your words about never holding an infant of your own. Rose, I cannot imagine greater joy than seeing you with my child, our child. I would give everything I own, everything I am, my prickly bramble Rose, just to see you happy."

"Oh, Wynn, you really mean it, truly?"

"Everything and then some."

They shared another kiss, after which Rosellen asked, “And fireworks?"

"I could never forget the fireworks, sweetheart. You said you never got to feel a lover's embrace. You will, as soon as I can arrange it."

"Never say I wrote such a thing!"

"I'm glad you waited, because I definitely wish to share that with you forever. But I was missing something, too. I thought I'd never know love, not if I lived to be a hundred and two."

"And now?"

"I was waiting for you, Rosellen. Only you."

Since she was still in his lap on the bench, it was an easy thing for Rosellen to throw her arms around Wynn and give him her answer. Sometime later, when Wynn felt her shiver, he pulled his caped greatcoat tighter around both of them. “We'll go to my Jamaican properties for our honeymoon. I have to see if your eyes really are the color of the Caribbean. Ah, if that's all right with you, my dear. Should you like to go there?"

"Anywhere with you, my love. Anywhere."

When the viscount and his lady returned from their bridal trip, a quantity of mail was waiting, with belated wedding gifts and notes of congratulations.

Rosellen looked up from her place at the desk adjoining Wynn's. “How strange."

"What's that, my love, that Stubbing left my correspondence in such a hobble? I daresay he was too busy making arrangements for Mother and Hume to go to Austria with himself and Susan. I only wish they'd taken the dog with them. The task of sorting through this mess would be easier if the blasted animal hadn't eaten half the letters."

"No, silly, this package. It's from Lord and Lady Comfrey, from Bath, I think. It seems to be a bank draft for fifty pounds, the last I'm to get, they write. At least I think that's what this part says."

"I should hope so. You won't be needing another wedding gift anytime in the foreseeable future, sweetheart. But I have an even stranger note.” He held up an unwrapped parcel, bits of brown paper falling away to reveal two small metal soldiers, painstakingly painted in meticulous detail.

"Tully Hadfield sends them from Wales, for the baby. I cannot make out if his guilty conscience was bothering him or he couldn't get a decent price at the fence's. It seems he just wanted to see my secret paintings, to find something to punt on tick. He found a wealthy mine owner's widow instead, and she has four—no, I think that's a five—girls, thank goodness, or he might have been tempted to keep the soldiers."

Rosellen touched her rounded stomach. “How did your friend know about the baby? And what if she's a girl?"

"Why, then, my darling Rose, we'll have to keep trying. Besides, haven't you been complaining about young females’ educations and limited opportunities? What's wrong with my little aqua-eyed angel learning how to play with toy soldiers?"

Rosellen was piecing together yet another bit of mauled mail addressed to Lady Stanford. This one was written in pencil, in crude letters, with an even more disreputable page folded inside. The inner note was so old and worn, faded and blurred, that Buck's depredations had made it entirely unreadable. She could decipher the outer page, however:
Lady, I found this letter with your name on it. It were in a hat what was floating in a stream. Yer man must of loved you a lot. My donkey needed the hat.

This one's for Jimmie, for taking the dog's temperature, for sucking the water out of the headlamp, and for being there, my friend

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