Dedicated Villain (23 page)

“All these years I have dreamed of finding you again,” declared Captain Firebrand, lifting Miss Barbara's hand to his lips.

She swayed to him, and said tenderly, “Much has happened since we parted, Jack. I am changed from the—”

“Louder, Fiona,” called Bradford, from the edge of the sunlit clearing they had chosen for this rehearsal.

“I am changed from the simple milkmaid you once knew,” she declared in a carrying voice.

Firebrand said ardently, “You are the loveliest and purest milkmaid in all Sussex, and—”

“Shropshire!” shouted Torrey, adding an audible, “Stupid oaf.”

Mathieson frowned and referred to the sheets in his hand. “But, it distinctly says—”

“We change it depending upon which county we are in,” explained Fiona, helpfully.

“Oh.” He smiled down at her. “Then tomorrow you will be the loveliest and purest milkmaid in all Cheshire.”

“Brilliant,” snorted Torrey.

Mathieson bowed. “Thank you. I am glad to see that you are not
completely
lacking in perception Mr. Torrey.”

Torrey swore under his breath and took a step forward.

“Devil!” whispered Fiona and added hurriedly, “Yet, only a milkmaid, sir, and not worthy to be the bride of a gentleman of
your station.” Mathieson's laughing gaze still held on Torrey, and she prompted a low-voiced, “Sir Roger …”

“Sir Roger finds you worthy,” he recited dutifully.

She hung her head. “Ah, but—but Sir Roger does not seek my hand in marriage.”

“Which goes to prove how slimily stinking a swine he is,” intoned the dauntless Captain Firebrand.

“Devil take you, it don't say that!” Torrey, who was now to portray the villainous Sir Roger, flourished his pages aloft and stamped onto the impromptu stage.

“Then it should,” said Mathieson, adding politely. “Now do please go away, Sir Roger. You spoil our nice scene.”

“Yes, but Freemon is perfectly right,” Fiona pointed out, her eyes sparkling. “You are supposed to say—‘Which proves him a wicked man.'”

“That, too,” said Mathieson agreeably. “But I really think my words are more forceful, Thaddeus.”

Heywood, sitting on a tree root, grinned broadly. “Very true, dear boy.”

“Forceful enough to offend every lady in the audience.” Mervyn Bradford's resonant voice overrode the smothered chuckles of the watching group. “Come now Mathieson, you must stay with the part as writ. Torrey, we'll have your fight scene after this.” He turned to Mathieson and murmured softly, “And no slips of the fist, else I'll let Torrey play Firebrand, you rascal!” In a normal tone, he added, “Now try to finish from memory. You take the leading role tonight, and you must be letter-perfect.”

Torrey gave a contemptuous snort and marched into the trees again. “Damned popinjay,” he growled to Alec Pauley.

Pauley, whose bowed legs provided Torrey with much amusement, had no love for the man. “A fine actor, for all that,” he said, his hazel eyes amused. “Especially in that final love scene with Miss Bradford. Do ye no agree, Miss Moira?”

The dark girl said shyly, “He does make it seem so real. In my scene with him, where I cut the ropes and free him and he
kisses me on the cheek …” She sighed. “Oh, he does it passing well.”

“Does he so?” muttered Pauley, a frown chasing the smile from his eyes.

Torrey gave an exclamation of impatience. “Much you know of it, Miss Innocence! But I'll tell you this—clever Captain Mathieson may succeed in fooling all you silly females, but he don't fool me! And he'd best not take advantage of his role to molest either you or Fiona!”

“Molest!” gasped his sister, dismayed. “But I promise you, Freemon—”

“Quiet!” shouted Bradford irritably. “May I
beg
, dear my daughter, that you continue? ‘No matter what …'”

Torrey glowered his resentment but was silent. Alec looked at him with a curl of the lip, then caught Moira's anxious eye and forgot his dislike of her brother.

“No matter what may chance,” said the much tried milkmaid, “no matter how long we must be apart—I shall never forget you, Captain Jack.” And she whispered provocatively, “Nor your crumpets!”

Firebrand stepped closer and took her hand in his. “Why do you speak as in farewell? I shall be gone two days—no more. My dearest girl …” he slipped an arm about her slender waist. She lifted her hand to his shoulder and gazed up at him. And there was no teasing in her green eyes now—only a deep tenderness. The faint aroma of her perfume was in Mathieson's nostrils; such a clean, sweet fragrance. The simple dairymaid's cap framed her little face … her mouth surely was formed for kissing. “I do so—love you,” he said huskily.

“Then why not share your emotions with your audience?” howled Bradford, incensed. “With luck, they'll hear you in the front row!” He glared at his silent mother and snarled, “One would think they shared a secret!”

“And I—you,” responded the pretty milkmaid with yearning softness. “Until death, and beyond … my dearest, dear …”

“Oh dear, oh dear!” whispered Lady Clorinda.

“Lord! Lord!
Lord!
” raged Bradford. “You're not just talking to
him!
Here—let me show—No! You DO NOT kiss her, damn your eyes!”

Mathieson blinked at him innocently and, very aware of Miss Fiona's rosy blush, said, “Good gracious, did I mistake it? It says—‘they embrace,' so I thought—”

“Devil you did!” Infuriated, Torrey again rushed forward, fists clenched, but was seized and held back by Heywood and Cuthbert.

“
What
a fuss,” drawled Mathieson. “We are only acting, are we not, Miss Bradford? Your pardon an I offended.”

Her pulses racing madly, Fiona stammered, “Why—no—I mean, yes, of course. That is—well, it
does
say that, Papa.”

“It don't say he is to
kiss
you!”

“Dammitall, I'll not have you pawing my betrothed!” raged Torrey, struggling to free himself.

“I am
not
your betrothed!” said Fiona indignantly.

“You will please to keep quiet, miss,” interposed Lady Ericson, her voice cold. “Captain Mathieson, I allowed you to journey with us because you said you wished to be of help.”

“That's
exactly
what you said,” bellowed Bradford. “We all heard you!”

My lady gave him an irritated glance. “'Tis not helpful to cause bad feelings between our people, and I warn you, young man, I'll not tolerate it.”

“No more shall I!” said Bradford grandly. “Give you some personal instruction so you will understand the directions, and—”

With acid disdain my lady interpolated, “Nonsense, Bradford! Mathieson knew perfectly well what was implied by Mr. Heywood's directions. He chose to take advantage of the situation.”

“But, Grandmama—” began Fiona. My lady's eyes turned to her, and she quailed into silence.

Mathieson said quietly, “You are perfectly right, ma'am. The temptation was—extreme, but I had no right. I apologize.”

“As you should. No, Fiona! Take yourself to your caravan. Do you speak again you'll stay there for the rest of the day—rehearsal or no!”

Scarlet, the girl fled. My lady returned her attention to Mathieson. “I will accept your apology. This time. An it happens again we must judge the—ah, ‘temptation' too strong for you, and will have no alternative but—”

“Of course it will prove too strong,” said Torrey, blazing with fury. “He can scarce keep his hands from her. Send him off, before—”

“Before … what …?” asked Mathieson, in a soft deadly voice.

“Enough!” shrilled my lady. “When I require your advice Freemon Torrey, I will ask you for't.”

“I have a right to defend the lady I mean to wed!” argued Freemon, loud and defiant.

There was a moment of complete stillness while every eye was fastened on the three tall men and the small but invincible figure of my lady.

Flushed, and her bright eyes the brighter with anger, Lady Clorinda looked at Mathieson but he, more skilled than Torrey in the ways of women, kept his own eyes lowered and remained silent.

“Your rights, Freemon Torrey,” said my lady coldly, “exist only if your claim is valid, and—”

Torrey turned to face Bradford. “Tell her, sir! I am to marry your daughter. You gave me your word!”

Mathieson frowned, and directed a narrow look at Bradford.

With monarchial dignity the tall man declared, “You have evidently forgot that my word was qualified, Freemon. I promised that if my daughter was
willing
to take you to husband, I'd give you my blessings. No more. No less.”

“And since my granddaughter has made it perfectly clear she does not consider herself betrothed to you,” said Lady Ericson, “your rights in the matter extend no farther than those of a friend and a—”

“It has been understood for years—” stormed Torrey.

“
Silence
, sir!” The old lady stood very straight, head high-held, fine eyes flashing, chin outthrust, and the power of her such that everyone in the clearing was breathlessly still. “Twice,” she said awfully, “you have dared interrupt me! I suffer few men to do so. A third time, sir, and you will leave us, just as surely as will Mathieson does he displease again! Do you take my meaning?”

For a moment Torrey glowered at her rebelliously. Then he said, “I do, madam,” and offered a stiff bow.

“Thank you,” said my lady crisply. “We will not speak of this again, I trust. Bradford, shall you wish another rehearsal? We must be on our way by two o'clock.”

Her son consulted his ornate pocket watch. “'Tis precisely ten minutes past twelve. We should, I think, apply ourselves to luncheon first, and then we'll have time to try the duel scene again, before we pack up.”

Alec Pauley turned to Moira. “The duel!” he muttered. “We'll be lucky do those two gamecocks not fight a real duel before we've the chance tae stage one!”

“How dreadful.” Contrarily, Moira's dark eyes glowed with excitement. “But, surely my brother knows he would stand small chance with Captain Mathieson.”

“I fancy he is aware o' that fact,” said Pauley drily. “I wonder …” he frowned and did not finish the remark.

“Whether we should speak to Mr. Bradford? Is that what you were going to say?”

Pauley shook his head. “No lassie. I—I just wondered … what chance Captain Mathieson stands with little Miss Fiona …”

‘Or the other way around,' thought Moira.

Alone in her caravan, Fiona was wondering much the same thing. Mathieson's eyes had been ardent during their love scene.
Had
that been mere acting? Despite all the consternation, he had only kissed her on the brow, yet her heart had thundered a response that had shocked her by its intensity. It was the very height of folly to indulge such feelings. From the
beginning she had known it would be dangerous to give her heart to such a man. And yet …

Agitated, she sprang up from the chair and began to pace about. Oh, why must life be so difficult? Why could she not be comfortably in love with Freemon Torrey, who was genuinely fond of her, and was not, after all, a bad man? Nor was she the only one in a pickle; there was Thaddeus Heywood, who Grandmama said was a titled gentleman, and who certainly was grieving and likely rejected by some silly girl. And only look at poor Moira—so shy-eyed and blushful whenever Alec Pauley looked her way. And he, poor lad, so enamoured of her it was a wonder Torrey did not see it. Heaven help them when he did notice, for there'd be trouble a'plenty! Freemon Torrey had larger plans for his sister than a practically penniless young rebel. It was all so unfair and—She whirled about as the door opened to admit Lady Ericson.

“Well, there's no cause to look at me as though I were a two-tailed dragon rather than a feeble little old lady,” scolded the grande dame, sinking onto the chair and fanning herself with her diminutive handkerchief. “Oh, how very warm it is for October. And Lud, but I miss the refinements of life—my kingdom for a proper fan!”

Fiona knew her too well to be taken in by this carefree attitude, and handing her a week-old copy of
The London Gazette
which her father had purchased in Cirencester, she waited in silence for the storm to break.

My lady fanned herself with the
Gazette
, and hummed. “The play goes along well, I think,” she remarked airily. “Young Mathieson makes a dashing Firebrand, do you not agree? But of course you agree. That is very plain.”

“Is it, Grandmama?”

“Oh, very.” My lady sneered, “La, but you must learn not to be so transparent, Fiona. Had I behaved as warmly to the gentlemen who courted me as you do to Mathieson—”

“Who is
not
courting me.”

“Pah! I'd like to know what else you would call it. Those wicked black eyes of his fairly devour you, innocent that you
are! Foolish child, I warned you before. 'Ware the likes of Rascal Mathieson. He was not fashioned for your kind.”

“For whom was he fashioned, ma'am?” asked Fiona meekly, but with a spark dawning in her green eyes.

“For opera dancers. His type always is—until they run out of funds. Whereupon they find themselves some indulgent and wealthy widow, usually years older than themselves and often slightly touched in the upper works. They marry the widow, whether or not she smells of the shop, keep her pacified with an occasional kind word or a night's
amour
, and spend most of her fortune and their time between the muslin company and the tables.” My lady leaned forward, suddenly grim, and shook the newspaper under her granddaughter's sagging jaw. “Aye, you think me a properly vulgar old woman! Well, perchance I am, but I've seen forty years more of life than you have. And I know a rogue when I see one. Oh, never tilt your chin up at me, miss! You may not think Mathieson a rogue, but—”