Authors: Heather Cullman
“Exactly what I told him,” his father crowed. “Said, ‘See here, Ruben, the only help for the gripe is a good bleeding.’ “
Bleeding? H-m-m. Nicholas’s eyes narrowed as he absently observed Sophie’s clumsy attempts to right her mess. Could it be that his own embarrassing condition stemmed not from lust, but from ill humors in his blood? He had, after all, overindulged in brandy the entire week following his disappointment with Sophie. And as every gentleman knew, staying floored for any length of time inevitably led to unpleasant consequences.
Consequences such as the ones he now suffered? He considered for a moment, then sighed. Maybe. But even if drink was responsible for his problem, was opening a vein really the solution? In his experience only one thing cured what ailed him: a woman. Unfortunately, he had no woman at the moment. He’d pensioned off his mistress out of respect for Sophie the day he’d decided to court her. And since he had no stomach for casual relations …
“Oh? Then, you think the idea addled?”
The dismay in his father’s voice paired with his own wretched thoughts proved an effective antidote for both his visual and mental captivation with Sophie. Hoping to gain a clue as to what it was he was supposed to be considering, he looked at his father and murmured, “I’m not yet of an opinion. Please do elaborate.”
Instead his father frowned and laid his palm against his forehead. “Saw you talking to Ruben yesterday. Didn’t catch the gripe from him, did you?”
Nicholas frowned. “No. Why?”
“Your face is flushed, and you look deuced uncomfortable.”
“Oh. Well, I must be flushed from standing in the sun. As for my expression — ” He broke off, momentarily distracted as Sophie stood up and flounced off out of sight. As usual she didn’t spare him or his hideous face a single glance. Hating that that fact bothered him, he more growled than uttered, “I look pained because I stubbed my toe this morning, and it still hurts.”
“But of course. Of course.” His father grinned and clapped him on the back. “No need to fret about your health, eh? Never been sick a day in your life, not since — ” The rest of what he said was drowned out by a most terrible clatter, the clatter of what appeared to be an out-of-control coach.
Up the drive it careened, its speed so perilous and reining erratic that Nicholas wondered at the coachman’s sobriety. It wasn’t until it halted with an abruptness that nearly sent the vehicle plowing into the horses, that he saw the driver and ceased his speculation.
Brumbly. Of course. Dotty, eccentric, Lester Mayhew, Viscount Brumbly. Nicholas and his father exchanged amused glances. Leave it to Brumbly to make such a harrowing entrance.
“Ho there, Beresford! Lyndhurst! Nice day for a drive, eh?” Brumbly hollered, waving his arms as if they could possibly overlook him.
The marquess grinned. “Looked more like a race than a drive to me. Aren’t you a bit withered to be a Whip, man?”
The viscount cackled. “Had no choice but to take the reins if I wanted to arrive in this century. Old Henry, here, drives slower than a slug on hot sand.” Brumbly jovially elbowed old Henry, who sat frozen beside him looking as if he’d just looked death in the face. Judging from the way the hatless viscount’s gingery hair flew nilly-willy about his head, the poor man no doubt had.
After retrieving a parcel from amid the haphazardly heaped baggage lashed to the roof behind him, the viscount climbed from the coach. Scurrying toward them as fast as his bandy legs would carry him, he jabbered, “Can’t wait to show you my latest invention. The ‘Si-rena,’ I call it. Sings to the fish like a siren to a sailor. Draws them every time.” He paused a beat to give each of his hosts a hearty hug. “You’ll be sure to want at least three.”
Grinning like a tickled loon, he opened the moth-eaten bag and extracted something that looked like a bagpipe impaled by a long, twisted horn. Making it all the more curious was the cork dangling by a chain from what had to be a mouthpiece.
Proudly waving his creation before them, his watery blue right eye shifting wildly between their faces while
his drifting left one floated off the opposite direction, he crowed, “Well, what do you say? Damn impressive, eh?” “Er … how does it work?” the marquess quizzed, looking as he always did when faced with Brumbly’s inventions: bewildered.
“Well you should ask. Well you should ask.” The viscount nodded vigorously, which sent his left eye coasting to the corner nearest his nose. The sight was distracting, to say the least.
Smiling in a way that displayed a set of remarkably good teeth, he explained, “First you blow in here,” he stuck the mouthpiece between his lips and blew. When the bagpipelike bladder was fully inflated, he removed it from his mouth and plugged the mouthpiece with the cork. Looking giddy enough to giggle like a schoolgirl, he queried, “Ready?” At their nod he squeezed the bladder, producing a noise like a constipated cow with flatulence.
“Ah.” His right eye rolled heavenward in ecstasy, while his left one stared at his companions. “Sings like an angel, eh?”
The marquess slanted his son a look of suppressed hilarity. “Impressive,” he murmured. “Don’t you agree, Colin?”
“Very impressive indeed,” Nicholas concurred, ready to choke on his laughter.
The viscount grinned, visibly pleased with himself and their response. “Of course this end — ” he thumped the flaring brass horn end — “goes into the water to call the fish.” For once, both eyes were trained in the same direction. “Say. You’ve been going on about the Hawksbury fishing stream for years. What say you to taking the Sirena down there and testing it on Devonshire fish?” The marquess cleared his throat. “Ah, Brumbly. Aren’t you forgetting something?”
The viscount frowned for a beat, then resumed his grin. “By Jove! My tackle. Might as well catch a few while I’m at it.”
Nicholas and his father exchanged a look of fond exasperation. “Er, no, Brumbly. I was referring to your daughter. You did remember to bring Minerva, didn’t you?” By his expression it was clear that his father had his doubts.
“Minerva?” Brumbly looked momentarily nonplussed, then he slapped his stringy thigh and cackled. “Oh, yes. Of course. My Mayfly.”
“Mayfly?” Nicholas didn’t dare to so much as glance at his father, certain they would both spill their hilarity. Leave it to Brumbly to nickname his daughter for an insect that just happened to be common fish food.
“He calls Minerva ‘Mayfly’ because … well, why don’t you tell him yourself, Brumbly?” By his father’s choked tone, it was clear that he was one syllable away from howling with laughter.
“What?” The viscount’s gaze, at least that of his right eye, shifted from the coach back to his hosts. “Oh, yes. Mayfly. Call her that because I used to make Mayfly flies from her hair when she was a babe. Tried it as an experiment, you see. Was curious to find out whether fish bite better for human hair or animal fur.”
“And the results?” Nicholas squinted at the coach, attempting to catch a glimpse of the queerly nicknamed girl. It appeared to be empty. H-m-m. Perhaps Brumbly had lost her somewhere along the way.
“The fish practically jumped on the hook. Used her hair until she was about three. Must have changed about then, because the fish no longer fancied it.” He cackled and jabbed Nicholas in the ribs. “Maybe you and Mayfly will spawn a fish fly babe, eh?”
Now there was a disturbing notion, one that Nicholas had no intention of exploring. Clearing his throat uncomfortably, he changed the subject by inquiring, “Are you certain you didn’t leave your daughter at a posting inn? I don’t see her in the coach.”
Brumbly seemed to consider the possibility, then turned to the vehicle bellowing, “Mayfly? You there, girl?” A second later a head topped by a crooked bonnet appeared at the window. The viscount waved. “Well, come along, then, girl. None of your dawdling.”
Always mindful of his manners, Nicholas strode down the steps to greet the girl, pausing on the bottom one to await a footman to open the door. As he did so, her head popped down again.
After waiting several moments, during which he didn’t dare speculate upon what she did in the coach, he frowned and glanced around. There was no one about save old Henry, who was either dead or frozen from shock. Apparently the Mayhews either had no footmen, or they had fallen off their perches during Brumbly’s mad dash.
Or it could be that there was no room for them, he added, eyeing the fishing gear lashed to every available surface.
Since the Hawksbury footmen were no doubt scrabbling to change from their work clothes into their livery, what with the guests arriving early, he had no choice but to act the part himself.
“Miss Mayhew? May I assist you?” he called, fearful of what he might see should he neglect to warn her.
The only response was an odd scraping sound.
Taking that noise for a yes — after all, he was dealing with a Mayhew — he more wrestled than folded down the rusty steps. After mentally preparing himself to be greeted by oddness, Nicholas opened the door and peered inside.
There, crawling about the filthy floor, muttering to herself, was whom he assumed to be Miss Mayhew. The instant she saw him her face flushed a hectic red, and she let out a braying laugh. “Dropped my w-worms w-w-when w-w-e s-stopped,” she stuttered, holding up one of the squirming creatures.
Nicholas eyed the grime beneath her nails, wondering if she’d dug them up herself. Finding that notion almost as diverting as the dozen or so fishing flies dangling from her shabby bonnet, he somehow remembered himself enough to say, “I see. U-m-m. Perhaps I should send for a servant to attend them so you can freshen up.” The freshen up part was meant more as a hint than a solicitude.
She looked as horrified as if he’d suggested setting the coach on fire with her still in it. “Oh, no. They c-can’t w-w-wait. It’s too h-hot in h-here. They s-s-shall die for c-certain!” She gave her head an emphatic shake, which sent her fly-festooned bonnet toppling from her head.
Her hair, Nicholas noted with distaste, was as much in need of “freshening” as her clothes and hands. Indeed, judging from the greasy clumping of the pale, lank strands, it looked to have been last washed sometime during her father’s Mayfly experiment. And they wondered why the fish no longer fancied it?
Refraining from grinning at his sardonic conclusion, he promised in a cordial, albeit tight voice, “If they do die, I shall see that you get new ones. Lovely plump ones.”
She shook her head again. “These are lugworms from a s-secret s-s-strand near Formby. B-best b-bait in England there. P-Papa and I s-s-s-stopped on the w-w-way h-here to dig them out of the s-sand. W-we’re going to b-b-breed them at our b-bait farm.”
“Your … er … bait farm?”
She nodded as she plucked up another worm and dropped it into a creel full of wet sand. “W-we h-have the finest one in England.”
“Indeed?”
Thus prompted, she described her enterprise in detail, her stutter lessening in her rising excitement. As she spoke, Nicholas studied her features.
Eyes, pale blue and watery, but lovely in both size and shape. Nose? Not exactly regrettable, though it was rather short and turned up at the end to be of his taste. Then, there was her mouth.
He narrowed his eyes as he considered it. Nice lips. Yes, very nice indeed, though it was a pity about those protruding front teeth. As for her complexion, well, only one word came to mind: unfortunate. Whatever could she have been thinking to let it get so brown and speckled? He eyed her weak chin for a moment, then blinked and appraised her overall appearance.
While she wasn’t what one would call pretty, she wasn’t the plainest miss he’d seen, either. No, not the plainest, he mused, taking in her stained gown, just the dirtiest.
She was rattling on about artificial leech habitats when she abruptly fell silent. Looking as if she’d just hooked a shark, the enormous man-eating kind, she poked the worm nearest her hand. It didn’t move. She poked it again.
Once, twice, thrice, her mouth flapped, then she wailed, “It’s dead! C-c-c-cooked in the h-h-heat!” Keening as if her heart were broken, she snatched up the stringy corpse and cradled it in her palm. “O-o-o-o! W-what a fine fish it w-w-would’ve c-c-c-caught.”
Not certain whether to console the girl or ignore her outlandish eruption, Nicholas looked helplessly about for Brumbly. He was gone, as was his father. He sighed. Now what?
Deciding it best to get her out of the coach and into someone else’s care, he suggested, “Perhaps we should gather up the rest of your, ah, breeding stock before it suffers a similar fate.”
She broke off mid-keen. “W-w-we? You w-want to h-h-h-help?”
He graced her with his most charming smile. “But of course. That is what gentlemen do, help ladies.”
“W-w-well — ” She eyed him critically, as if deciding whether to trust him not to steal a worm or two for himself. After a beat she nodded. “All right. B-but only if you p-promise to b-b-be c-careful. Lugworms are s-s-sensitive c-creatures, you know.”
Nicholas cast a long suffering glance skyward. Heaven save him from crazy fisherwomen and matchmaking mothers. When he’d sworn upon his life, she nodded again and stuck her head beneath the seat, calling in what he assumed to be some sort of worm language.
Vowing to make short work of the worm-catching business, he leaned into the coach as far as his body would allow him. Instantly he lunged back out again, gasping for air. What in Hades was that smell? He exhaled forcefully through his nose, trying to expel the lingering foulness.