Carla Kelly (15 page)

“Why sneak in?” he asked. “If we mention the events of this afternoon to the right people, soon it will be evident that you are a bit of a heroine. Even if they were gypsies.”

She shook her head. All she wanted was a long soak in a hot bath and the opportunity to reflect on what they had accomplished that afternoon, and put Dr. Cook’s proposal to rest somewhere in her brain where her rudeness would not come back to chastise her.

“I think I understand,” he said. “I remember that first case in Edinburgh where it all depended on me. Let me just see you in the house and I will go. I could use some sleep, too.”

She took a good look at Dr. Cook, noting how red his eyes were and how his shoulders drooped. Surely I could have found a kinder way to let you down, she thought.

Candlow saw her first. He threw up his hands and his mouth opened and closed like a nutcracker. Libby could feel Dr. Cook’s amusement as they stood shoulder to shoulder. She hurried forward.

“Candlow, I am all right,” she said. “We had to splint a gypsy girl’s leg in the field and nearly got stoned for our pains. Imagine that!”

Candlow could not. He leaned against the wall and slid into a chair, staring at Libby. The doctor hurried to his side and felt his pulse and then backed into one of Uncle Ames’ vases that teetered a moment and then crashed into a thousand Oriental fragments.

Libby heard rapid footsteps in the hallway, familiar footsteps. Her heart surged into her throat and then sank to her shoes. She looked into Lydia Ames’ startled face.

“Heavens, Libby, what has happened?” her cousin shrieked, her face as pale as the butler’s.

Libby hurried to her cousin, careful not to touch her and painfully mindful of her dishevelment. “It is a long story, cousin, but one perfectly reasonable when you hear it all.”

“I say, Lydia dearest, such a racket disturbs that bucolic calm you promised me. We can’t be under siege from Napoleon’s army. What have we here?”

The speaker was a tall gentleman, bereft of most of his hair but dressed in the latest stare of fashion. He was finely muscled and his bearing and manner were without fault, but his voice—high and reedy—already grated on Libby’s raw nerves.

His eyes, slightly pop-eyed, stared out of their sockets at the sight of her, muddy and dripping wet in the hall. He raised a quizzing glass with shaking fingers and examined her.

Libby drew herself up and glared back at him as Lydia recovered, gulped, and pulled him forward. “Libby dearest, I have the greatest pleasure to introduce you—you will not believe how droll this is!—to my own dear Eustace Wiltmore, the Earl of Devere.”

Libby’s jaw dropped as she stared at the elegant man, who stared back at her through one overmagnified eye.

Lydia came closer to her cousin, careful to stay out of reach but close enough to lower her voice. “And aren’t you the sly one, Libby?”

Oh, Lord help us, I will die of embarrassment if she suspects that Dr. Cook proposed, Libby thought. “Beg pardon?” she asked.

“Naughty, naughty Libby, and who has been hanging about here for weeks with the Duke of Knaresborough?”

Libby shook her head to clear it as Nesbitt Duke strolled around the corner, as if on cue, and stopped short at the sight of her.

Eustace Wiltmore turned from his openmouthed perusal of Libby to cast his magnified eye upon the duke. He dug him in the ribs. “Nez, you quiz!
This
is your paragon? How droll you have become here in Kent.”

Libby stared from one man to the other. “The Duke of . . .”

“Knaresborough,” said Nez, his voice low, his eyes hopeful.

Libby whirled about to face her cousin, whose attention was fixed upon Eustace Wiltmore with an expression not far removed from adoration. “Lydia. Lydia, pay attention! Are you telling me—”

“Yes, my very dear Libby,” the duke interrupted. “I was the spy. Do let me explain.”

12

THE PEACE she had expected to find in the quiet of her room was not there.

The hot bath had been welcome. With a sigh of relief, Libby had scrubbed off the grime and mud until her skin glowed pink, and she washed her hair until it squeaked.

“It does wash off, Dr. Cook, just like you said,” she said out loud.

And yet it didn’t, at the same time. As she thoughtfully scrubbed at skin already clean, she knew that the experience would never rub off. In idle moments, when all other subjects had been worked over and exhausted, she and Lydia used to speculate why someone as well-born and wealthy as Anthony Cook had felt the need to soil his cuffs with medical school.

She understood now, and it had changed her. Libby sighed and ran her hands under the water, creating whirlpools and undertows. It was unlikely in the extreme that she would ever have the opportunity to talk to Anthony about her feelings. She had already come to know that he would only blush and stammer and bump into something in his hurry to get away, as he had done after the chocolate merchant had made his startling revelation. Anthony Cook was remarkably efficient in an emergency, heroic even, but he was not a man readily accessible to earnest conversation. A pity, she thought. I would like to have known him better.

She drew up her knees and rested her forehead against them. “As it is, Dr. Cook, I will not joke about you anymore,” she vowed.

Any hopes of further contemplative time deserted her while she still sat in the tub. Lydia, her face animated, her eyes bright and brimming over with good humor, had eased herself into the bedroom, pulled up a hassock next to the tin tub, and waited for her cousin to ask her about Eustace Wiltmore.

That Libby had already taken a high dislike to the balding man with his ever-present quizzing glass, she would never have admitted to her cousin. Libby sat in the cooling water while Lydia, in that breathless way of hers, went through the chance meeting at the Pavilion, the dance when she stood up three times to waltz with Eustace, much to Aunt Ames’ discomfiture.

“Oh, but your mama is a high stickler,” Lydia said, rolling her eyes. “I do not know when I have been so thoroughly wrung out and hung up to dry.”

“You should have heard her with Papa’s lieutenants when they did something she disapproved of,” Libby said, her eyes lighting up at the remembrance of those fearsome dressings-down. “I don’t believe she ever knew—such a conspiracy we had!—but she was known as Tommy’s Little Captain among Papa’s troops.”

“I do not doubt it,” Lydia said. “‘How does it look?’ ‘What do you owe your family name,’” she mimicked. “If I heard it once, I heard it dozens of times.”

She was silent then. Libby stirred the bathwater about with her finger, watching the circles widen. “Did you know he was
the
Eustace? I remember your telling me at least once that you would never get within drawing-room length of anyone named Eustace, on the off chance that it was ‘That One,’ as you referred to him.”

Both cousins laughed. Libby got herself out of the tub and wrapped a large towel about her.

Lydia made a face. “It is a dreadful name, is it not?” Her eyes softened. “But he is a darling, Libby, simply a darling. Eustace Wiltmore is all that is elegant and slap up to the mark.” She giggled. “And, no, I had no earthly idea. I can only suspect that he thought it better to save the revelation of his name until later. Silly boy! He told me that he found out who I was, and decided then to pursue an acquaintance he had been dreading.”

“I can understand,” said her cousin. “Who on earth wants to marry someone that fathers have schemed over and decided is the right choice? Even if he is,” she added, hugging her cousin. “I’m happy for you, Lydia.”

Lydia beamed. “At our first meeting, the dear boy told me that his name was Barnaby Hackwell, and I suppose he is. Those are two of his names. And he said he was the Viscount Clonmel, which he is, but it is one of those Irish titles. Clever, clever lad.”

Libby nodded, thinking to herself that Eustace Wiltmore, with his pop eyes, his air of infinite superiority, and his silly voice, looked anything but clever. But he had fooled Lydia. Libby shivered and drew the towel tighter about her. And the Duke of Knaresborough obviously fooled me.

“Clever lads,” Lydia amended, her thoughts the same as her cousin’s. “When Eustace told me, as we were coming here, that he had sent his friend the duke to Kent to spy me out, oh, how I laughed.”

Libby managed a weak chuckle and wrapped her arms about herself. There was nothing funny about being duped so thoroughly. Her cheeks burned at how readily she had believed the chocolate merchant. She gave the matter rational thought a moment and decided, in fairness to the duke, that the issue rubbed both ways. He had assumed she was the heiress. She had no doubt that he had mistaken Lydia’s name for her own when Eustace had hatched the deception back in London. He had probably been foxed at the time, she thought. He had probably planned a minor accident on the road in front of Holyoke Green that would have been just enough to get him into the house and then out again in a day. Surely he had not intended to hurt himself so badly.

But perhaps he had every such intention. Libby stalked about the room, her towel tight around her. I do not think it would have mattered greatly to him if he had died then, she thought. How sad. Tears came into her eyes again, and only the greatest force of will made them go away. It would never do for her cousin to know how deeply involved she was. Maybe she had not really known it herself until now, when the duke was suddenly far removed from her sphere by Lydia’s artless disclosure of his title.

Libby rested her forehead against the window glass, savoring its coolness. She knew that she and Anthony Cook had done the Duke of Knaresborough a great favor. Anthony had doctored him and counseled with him, and she had held his hand through gloomy days and nights. They had helped him chase away the banshees that had followed him, shrieking and swooping, since Waterloo. She knew he had only told her the smallest part of his miseries there, and she realized with a sudden shock that he must have been the major commanding, and not the sergeant, as he had led her to believe.

“Libby, come away from the window,” Lydia scolded. “If you aren’t behaving like the funniest stick.” Lydia was beside her at the window. “I still haven’t told you why we are here. Eustace is taking me to London tomorrow to meet his family. Can you imagine? Me in London.” She whirled about the room and threw herself on Libby’s bed, arms outstretched. “He has told me I shall have a town house, a country estate, and carriages. And, Libby, imagine the parties. Think of the quarterly allowance. I shall go distracted with the mere thought.”

“He stopped here to collect his friend?” Libby asked, keeping her voice casual.

“Oh, I suppose,” Lydia said, her dimple showing. “And isn’t the duke a handsome devil? I wonder that you have not fallen deep in love with him, Libby. But then, you were already so practical, and besides, we know it would never do.”

Libby looked sharply at her cousin, who was examining her fingernails. Lydia, you are so heartless, she thought, even if you do not mean to be. You have no idea how your words wound. You would be appalled if I told you.

She said nothing, but pulled on her nightgown quickly as Lydia lay on the bed, listing all the treats in store for her that Eustace would provide. “We shall see all the sights in London, he assures me. His mama knows all the dressmakers and Papa has given me leave to spend and spend.”

Libby did smile then. The idea of Uncle Ames making such a statement was so far removed from the truth that she could only marvel at Lydia’s gift of imagination. As she listened with half an ear to Lydia’s list of elegant necessities, Libby could only hope that when the bills from the milliners and cobblers and modistes and mantua-makers avalanched into the book room, her mother would be on hand to provide Uncle Ames with the restorative jellies and soups that his enervated constitution would require.

I have to change the subject, she thought. It becomes too painful.

But Lydia had already chosen another tack. She rolled over and rested her chin on her hands, her eyes bright with merriment. “Libby, I told Eustace how quiet things were around here. ‘Dead dog dull,’ I told him. And there you were, soaking wet and filthy, with that ridiculous doctor. I do not know when Anthony Cook has appeared to less advantage. I wonder that you could stand there with a straight face.”

“I wonder, too,” Libby said, her voice soft.

Lydia stared at her. “Libby Ames, what is the matter with you? You would have been in whoops on any other occasion.”

“I think I must put it down to the fact that we did something rather extraordinary this afternoon, cousin,” Libby said as she sat down at her dressing table, her back to Lydia.

Lydia groaned and made a face. “I can only hope that bit of news doesn’t travel from here to Brighton. That you should have anything to do with gypsies makes my knees turn to jelly.” She looked at Libby, suddenly concerned. “You’re sure you brought no lice or fleas into the house? Your mama would cut up stiff.”

“No lice, no fleas, Lydia.”

“Thank God for that!”

Silence followed Lydia’s heartfelt pronouncement. As they sat regarding each other, it felt to Libby like the end of a friendship. Something had happened, but she did not entirely understand what it was. Whether it had to do with Eustace Wiltmore, or with the duke’s deception, Libby did not know. Maybe it had to do with Anthony Cook and the gypsies; Libby could not tell.

As she watched the cousin she loved and had confided in and joked with only a few short weeks ago, she knew that a page in her book of life had turned. There was a gulf between them now that had not existed before, and once Lydia was in fact Lady Wiltmore, the gulf would only widen.

Libby smiled at her cousin, put on her dressing gown, and started to brush her hair, the crackling sound filling the silence. They would always be polite to each other, and likely neither would ever mention the well-mannered estrangement that was taking place even as they sat there in Libby’s cozy room. They would nod and smile at each other at infrequent family gatherings to come and ask how they did and maybe even listen to the answer, but the damage was done. Libby had the wit to notice, but Lydia would probably only wonder why things weren’t the same and then move on quickly to more pleasant topics.

As it was, there was nothing to say. In another moment, Lydia rose, kissed her cousin on top of the head, and left the room.

“Libby?”

Libby sighed and turned around. Joseph stood in the open door. She held out her hands to him and he took them.

“I found Dr. Cook like you said,” he reminded her.

“I know. You did splendidly, Joseph. Mama will be so proud when I tell her.”

Joseph grinned in real pleasure. “Do you think so?”

“I know so.”

He let go of her hands and perched himself on the edge of her dressing table. “I went back to the gypsy camp, Libby.”

“Would they talk to you? I am surprised they did not stone you, too. Did you see the little girl?”

There were too many questions for Joseph. He nodded, as if surprised. “Of course they talked to me. I helped them shoe a colt.”

Trust Joseph, she thought. She could see him standing around with the gypsies, minding his own business, saying nothing, and then rushing forward to help. They probably found him useful. She touched his hand, her heart wrung out with love and misery. You would have no place in Lydia’s society, either. Perhaps it’s just as well that things have fallen out this way for us. We have always known they would.

“Good for you, my dear. Did you see that little girl?” she asked again.

He shook his head. “No. I think they were a bit suspicious by then.”

“Did they ask you to return?” she teased, amused at his understatement and grateful that the child did not appear to have been abandoned, or at least left out in the rain.

He regarded her seriously. “Libby, they said I could follow them to the next town, where there is a horse fair.”

She shook her head. “That would never do, Joseph.”

“I thought you would say that,” he replied, and left the room quietly.

When he shut the door behind him, Libby rested her elbows on the dressing table and stared into the mirror. “Elizabeth Ames, you have the perfect knack this day of putting people off. One could say you were a genius at it.”

She thought again of Anthony Cook. As they had stood shoulder to shoulder in the hallway, she had caught the amused glances that passed between Eustace and Lydia and she knew they were intended for the doctor. Deeply aware of their pointed amusement, she had moved closer to the doctor. He had touched her sleeve and then shook his head slightly, bowed, and made his ponderous way from the house, dripping water at every step like a sheepdog. No one had tried to stop him, offer him tea, or even a towel to dry his hair. She certainly had done nothing. The memory burned.

Tears stung her eyelids, but she brushed them away as someone else knocked on the door. She sighed. “Come in.”

Nesbitt Duke entered the room. Libby blinked at him in surprise and pulled her robe tighter about her.

He carried a small tray, which he set on the little table by the window. He glanced at the storm that threatened on her face and began to whistle softly to himself as he arranged the chairs closer to the table. He motioned to one of them.

Mystified, Libby came closer and sat down. Still without saying anything, he poured her some tea. She took a sip. It was scalding and strong and precisely what she needed. She sipped slowly, her eyed on the duke as he sat down beside her and took up his cup.

She set down the cup finally. “That’s the worst tea I ever drank,” she said.

“Yes, it is, isn’t it?” he agreed, and continued sipping. In another moment he put down his cup. “I used to have my batman brew me a pot like this right before we went into battle.”

She laughed out loud, the significance of his words not lost on her. “Battle, is it? I scarcely feel like loading a rifle, my lord, but I must admit that you have considerable cheek.”