Lily and the Lion (11 page)

"When Papa came home from the foundling home that night, I'd never seen him so humbled and distressed as he was by the sights he'd seen. It became his singular cause from then on to reform the place and its 'neglectful' patron, which is how Papa tactfully referred to the villain who owned that deplorable institution!"

"And he brought Janet home with him, I conjecture, to serve as your abigail?"

Lily smiled. "Yes, and I know what you're thinking—she is not suited to such a post. But I don't really require an abigail, after all! When I need help dressing, our chambermaid, Sally, does very well. But Papa was determined to give the girl a chance to prove herself capable of doing something besides scrubbing out pots. He pitied her excessively, you see."

"Yes, I see. Do you think Janet has promise as an abigail, then?"

Lily chuckled and shook her head. "What Janet's talents may be, I've yet to discover," she admitted. "She's a very good-natured girl. I expect that her happiness in finding herself amongst people who do not ill-use her has made her spirits rather high. At any given time, one might find her romping with the children, examining with delight the feathery perfection of a dandelion, or doing cartwheels in the hall!"

Lord Ashton smiled. "I can well imagine her gratefulness at the change in her circumstances."

Lily grew sober. "It is more than gratefulness. Janet had been but barely existing before. Simply put, in the past year she has begun to truly
live.
And we all know what abundance life has to offer to those who have the health and strength of spirit to enjoy it. All those little things, you know."

Lord Ashton pursed his lips and said acidly, "Ah, yes! The
little
things. Sunsets, a child's laughter, et cetera."

Lily was not daunted by his mock and answered with characteristic facility. "Maudlin and trite, you are thinking. But I'm not ashamed to admit that I feel you are teasing me about the very sort of things that
do
make life worth living."

"I should rather think a spanking team and a well-sprung carriage, being beforehand with your tailor, and able to command at least some of the more elegant creature comforts would be more effectual in making life worth living. Seems to work for most of my friends."

"Don't take me for a gudgeon, Lord Ashton. I do not scorn the niceties of life you refer to. Yet I still believe that your friends cannot truly enjoy such niceties if they become immune to the simple pleasures—like a child's laughter."

Lord Ashton did not reply. His lips were rather tightly compressed and his eyes were averted. She thought she may have gone too far, and wishing to stay on speaking terms with Peter's uncle for all their sakes, she said, "Goodness, just listen to me! I beg your pardon, Lord Ashton. I did not mean to lecture you! I'm persuaded that you do not wish to exchange philosophies. I promise you I will sit mumchance till we stop for nuncheon."

Lord Ashton bowed his head in mute acceptance of her apology. She prepared herself for an uncomfortable, protracted silence, so was greatly surprised when he turned to her with a rather friendly expression in his eyes, saying, "You learned all that cant from your brother Paul, who brought it home from Oxford, I suppose. Does Papa approve, Miss Clarke?"

"No, indeed, my lord," Lily admitted sheepishly. "But then, I'm not perfect. That would be so boring, don't you think?"

"Exactly my thoughts on the matter," Lord Ashton returned gravely. "I knew you and I could come to agreement on
something!"
Lily was sure she perceived a rather wicked twinkle in his eyes before he tipped the brim of his hat down to cover them and leaned back into the squabs for a nap. Silence reigned within the carriage for several moments, and Lily thought it would indeed continue this time till they'd reached the destination they'd decided upon for the partaking of the noon meal. But it was not to be. The carriage lurched to an abrupt stop, waking Lord Ash-ton, Peter and Sebastian from their respective snoozes.

Sebastian, caught unawares while he purred happily through a fishy dream, was projected into the air and onto the floor. To his credit, though his fur certainly stood on end, he did not yowl. Peter would have quickly landed on top of the cat if his uncle had not handily caught him mid-tumble. "What the deuce?" Peter exclaimed, his wide-opened eyes still fogged with sleep.

"Don't panic, Nephew," Lord Ashton reassured him, leaning forward to straighten Peter's blankets. "We've stopped for some reason. Probably the other carriage is mired in a muddy rut."

Lily, not easily put into high fidgets (except in the presence of a rodent), calmly pressed her face against the window glass to see what she could see. She came nose to nose with the groom who'd been riding on the box with the coachman. She bashfully drew back, as did he. Standing at attention, he rapped ceremoniously on the carriage door.

"Yes, Bob?" said Lord Ashton. "What's the matter?" Lily noticed that while he spoke in a calm manner to the groom, Lord Ashton looked uncommonly rigid and alert, and had reached inside his greatcoat pocket with deliberate intent. But his hand remained inside and appeared to be balled into a fist, or perhaps clutching something. Lily was curious and, despite herself, faintly alarmed. It appeared that Lord Ashton carried a weapon on his person!

The groom, a freckle-faced young man with a shock of red hair that protruded from beneath the brim of his three-cornered hat, opened the door marginally so as to keep the cold air out, and stuck his pink nose inside. "There's a gig orf the road, milord. The coachman o' the forward carriage stopped t'lend a 'and. 'E knew that's what ye'd want, milord, but 'e sent me down t'ask ye, what with the cap'n aboard an' all, if'n ye'd rather go on and leave 'em to Prov'dence."

"How nice of Bertram to ask my permission," drawled Lord Ashton. "I suppose he's already off the box and digging the unfortunates out from a snowdrift, or some such thing?"

"Yes, milord, 'e is," admitted Bob with a grin. "Bert, 'e knew what ye'd say, milord. 'E didn't need t'ask!"

Lily listened to Bob with interest. So Lord Ashton's servants took it for granted that their master would never pass a mishap on the road without lending assistance. This spoke well for the viscount's inherent "goodness," whether the notion suited him or not.

"How depressing to be so well understood by one's servants," commented Lord Ashton. "I suppose you made certain that nothing about the accident appeared havey-cavey? Have you got your weapons about you, Bob? Sometimes the most innocent scene can be a facade for, er, ulterior motives."

Bob waved a large pistol in front of the window. "Yes, milord. Me barkin' iron is loaded and ready! But the cub don't look shady t'me, jest a mite young and stupid, I'd wager. 'Pears 'e run orf th' road fer no reason what's clear t'me. There's a chit with 'im, and she's givin 'im pepper, she is! Kickin' up dust t'blind ye, milord!"

"A woman?" Lily spoke up. "And you say she's distressed?"

Bob shifted his gaze to Lily and ducked his head respectfully, a furtive hand movement indicating that he wasn't sure whether or not to remove his hat. Since it was much too cold to be outside with an exposed scalp, Lily was glad when he decided to keep it on. "Yes, miss. In the boughs, she is," he cheerfully reiterated. "Can't ye hear 'er caterwaulin'?"

Indeed, now that he mentioned it, Lily did hear some discordant noise in the background. She immediately grew suspicious that the woman might need assistance of a rather different nature than the righting of her carriage. "I had better go and see if there is something I can do for her," said Lily, throwing off her lap-rug.

"My dear Miss Clarke, I can't conceive of one good reason why you should leave your warm carriage to run to this woman's aid," Lord Ashton began repres-sively. "From Bob's account, I must conclude that she is in no way harmed, only nettled. And if she is angry with her companion, you can be sure it's because she feels it entirely his own fault that they are in their present predicament."

"Sounds logical to me, Lily," Peter agreed, rubbing his eyes sleepily. "Man and wife having a tiff."

"Well, and so it may be," admitted Lily, wrapping her scarf more securely about her neck in anticipation of the brisk winter air outside the carriage. "But if she is needful of something else, she is more apt to confide in another woman." Lily reached for the door handle and was greatly surprised when Lord Ashton covered her hand with his. The feel of his warm palm and the sight of his strong, tapered fingers closed over hers sent a ripple of awareness up her arm. She lifted her startled gaze to his. The Lion's eyes, fixed upon her as they were and at such close proximity, were mesmerizing.

Julian was momentarily arrested by the shy hesitancy in Miss Clarke's expressive brown eyes. The girl was so damned genuine, and it was apparently impossible for her to hide her honest and immediate reactions. He had flustered her by touching her—yes, he'd felt that shiver!—and he'd done so without meaning to, without any flirtatious intentions whatsoever. But the delicate colour that rose to her cheeks made the idea of a flirtation rather appealing. Too appealing. He suppressed such a horrendous notion by reminding himself that she was a meddlesome do-gooder, and that she was, at that very moment, determined to meddle and do good in a situation where her interference would very likely not be appreciated. He removed his hand.

"I cannot physically bar you from leaving the carriage," he coolly began, assuming a look of indifference. "You are not a servant of mine who can be ordered about, nor are you related to me in any way, which relationship would grant me the freedom to exercise a bit of authority in your behalf—for example, to save you from doing something... foolish."

He watched her stiffen. He saw her eyelids lower in embarrassment or anger, he wasn't sure which. There was a pause while she gathered her composure, and then she finally lifted her gaze to meet his. Her small chin jutted defiantly. The soft, shy look in her eyes had been replaced with fiery determination.

"If you consider it foolish to try to discover if you can be of service to another human being, then I
will
be foolish," she told him flatly. She pushed open the door and stepped out. Bob, all agog with watching the Quality spar, jumped quickly out of the way. "Besides," she said on a parting shot, "I don't understand why you're making such a fuss over what
I'm
doing, when it doesn't seem any different to me than what
you 're
doing by assisting them with their carriage!"

"The difference, Miss Clarke," Julian retorted, control over his own temper slipping away, "is that I am not prying into their private affairs! Helping to right a carriage that is off the road in a snowdrift is quite a different matter than playing a self-elected referee in the middle of a marital boxing match! I only hope the lady does not land you a facer!"

Miss Clarke "humphed" over her shoulder and stomped away through the snow.

"Zounds, Uncle," Peter ejaculated, his sleepy eyes now fully alert. "Never before heard you raise your voice to a lady!"

"I never—" Julian began loudly, then in a much quieter tone repeated, "I never raised my voice to her." He leaned back into the squabs and crossed his arms.

"Beg pardon, Julian, but you did!" Peter insisted, grinning. "She's a feisty little baggage, I'll admit, but it's in her nature to— "

"Put herself in the way of danger," Julian snapped, gritting his teeth. "Miss Clarke's trusting nature may someday get her so deeply in the suds, not even those innocent brown eyes of hers...!" He released a hiss of frustration. Leaning over to look out of the window, he craned his neck to try to catch a glimpse of the carriages ahead without letting down the glass and sticking out his head in so obvious a manner. "I suppose I must get out and sully the shine of my boots in this damnable snow! Pleshy will sulk tonight as he restores them to their original luster. But I dare not leave the little shatterbrain to her own devices!"

"Julian!" said Peter, laughing. "You're making much to-do over nothing! Surely the worst that could happen is that they will tell her to mind her own business!"

"You are mistaken, Nephew. Much worse could happen." This comment silenced and sobered Peter, so Julian tried to reassure him with a smile. "Don't fret. I'll take care that nothing happens to her. You go back to sleep. Here's your cat! At least the considerable amount of warmth this fat, furry fellow emanates partially repays us for keeping him." He picked up Sebastian, who was still a bit tetchy from being thrown from his berth, and placed him in the circle of Peter's arms. "Use him for a muff," he advised before he let himself out of the carriage and shut the door quickly behind him.

The air was quite nippy and a chill breeze struck him in the face as soon as he stepped past the lee side of the carriage. The coach that carried Pleshy and Janet was just a few feet ahead. And farther up the road was the unstable vehicle in question, its front left wheel sunk up to its top spoke in slushy snow. It was an unprepossessing gig with a tattered leather hood. His servants were digging industriously to free the wheel, after which they would have to inspect it to ascertain if it was still roadworthy.

The tall, muscular, ruddy-complected fellow in the simple yeoman's garb who was assisting them in this effort was, no doubt, the driver of the gig. Julian observed that he was no more than a lad—perhaps eighteen or nineteen by quick estimation—and his help in digging out the wheel was intermittent, due to the necessity he felt in replying to the constant barrage of recriminations being flung at him by a ginger-haired girl of about sixteen who ranted at his elbow. What the girl was saying was indecipherable to Julian, for she spoke with the speed of a hummingbird's wings. Miss Clarke stood quietly at the termagant's side, her hands clasped demurely together, as if waiting for a lull during which she might throw herself into the fray.