Lily and the Lion (7 page)

"I promise to stifle myself," Julian said carelessly. "I'm not usually such a jaw-me-dead, Miss Clarke. Ah, here is Kennington."

Yes, finally the outskirts of Kennington could be seen through the curtain of fast-falling snow. En route to Dover he'd stayed in Kennington at an inn called The Pig and Thistle and had found it to be (despite its name) very clean and comfortable for such a dwelling. Even the bedlinens had been aired, which spoke well for the efficiency of the inn's proprietor and made one feel reasonably sanguine about the cleanliness of the cutlery and dishes.

Julian had directed his coachman to stop there if they should happen to find themselves by first dusk only as far as Kennington. It was still an hour from sundown, but the snow was mucking up the roads to the point of becoming nearly impassable. He thumped on the carriage ceiling with his stick and the coachman pulled into the courtyard of The Pig and Thistle.

The weather being so reprehensible, the idea of Peter actually walking into the inn was not given more than a passing thought. He might fall in the slippery snow or, at the very least, be exposed to the cold and wet longer than would be prudent. Without a stretcher at hand, Julian decided that the best way to convey Peter into the inn was to carry him in his arms. Peter objected, his face turning absolutely crimson at the indignity of such a proceeding, and he staunchly refused to cooperate.

"Peter, don't be such a ninny," Miss Clarke advised him sternly. "If you're worried about looking unmanly or some such nonsense, I'll have you know that nothing impresses a woman less than the appearance of mulish pride. I know you're an out-and-outer when you're in health," she said bracingly. "You have nothing to prove to me or your uncle. We've only your welfare in mind, and want you feeling more the thing as soon as possible. But this can't be accomplished if you refuse to cooperate."

Peter bowed his head. "You're right, of course." Then, raising his head abruptly, he said, "But someday you'll see me strutting and as cocky as a rooster, Lily!"

Miss Clarke laughed. "I've no doubt of that, Peter. Now up you go and wrap your arms about your uncle's neck."

And so the thing was managed with nary another objection out of Peter. Julian had watched Miss Clarke's handling of the situation with interest and admiration. Truly she had influence with Peter, and her influence was improving his character. Carrying the light frame of his once-strapping nephew into the warm inn, Julian had the most disturbing thought that perhaps worse could happen to Peter than to make an alliance with an obscure vicar's daughter. But he determinedly thrust the thought aside.

"Lord Ashton," said the innkeep, a short, balding man with a face that had been ravaged by the pox, "ye're back, just as ye said! Will ye be wantin' the same room as ye bespoke before?" His eyes flickered over Peter, who had turned his head away in embarrassment, and behind Julian to linger for an uncertain moment on Lily. Then Janet and Pleshy appeared at the door, snow dusting their hats and coats. Janet had wrapped a scarf about the end of her peg-leg, probably to facilitate her walk from the carriage, made problematic by the slippery nature of the snow that sheeted the cobbled courtyard. Julian knew they presented an odd, discordant picture and probably engendered some colourful speculation in the innkeep's imagination. He decided to clear the matter at once.

"I'll need two rooms—a large one for myself, my nephew and my valet and another for my nephew's nurse and her chaperon."

The innkeep's deferential smile did not slacken, but there appeared a suggestion of uneasiness in his demeanour. Bearing the marks of one dreadful disease, he probably had no desire to expose himself to anything of an infectious nature. "Yer nephew is ill, then?"

"Ill, but not contagious. The war, you see. Please don't keep us standing thus in the hall, man," Julian said, his patience wearing thin as he sensed Peter's growing mortification. "My nephew requires a warm room immediately!"

The innkeep gave a start, made a deep bow and preceded them up the stairs. He led them to a room where a low fire was already burning and directly began piling more logs on the grate. "Now I'll go and make sure th' fire's built up in yer room, too, miss," he said, nodding to Lily. "When ye're ready, it's just next door."

"You may show my servant where it is," said Miss Clarke, indicating Janet, who still stood in the hall with Pleshy, the two of them talking and smiling like old friends. Julian noted that his valet certainly hadn't lost any time in becoming acquainted with Miss Clarke's comely abigail. And judging by the girl's giggling encouragement of Pleshy's much-practised charm, Janet wouldn't make a very attentive chaperon. She'd be forever in Pleshy's pocket. Indeed, it was the chaperon who most needed a chaperon.

Julian would have to be a flea in Pleshy's ear, tell him to refrain from seducing her. It would be cruel to saddle the poor crippled girl with a merry-be-got child. And judging by the vicar's propensity to harbour the unfortunates of society, the child would certainly become an addition to the prodigious quantity of God's creatures already residing at the vicarage.

Julian set Peter down on the bed and waited for the innkeep to shut the door behind him before he began to help his nephew out of his greatcoat. Peter brushed his hands away.

"By God, that was the most mortifying experience of my life! That innkeep ogled me as if I were some sort of weak-kneed cully! Now, do me the courtesy of allowing me to stand on my ownntwo feet long enough to undress myself, Uncle!"

"Why, Peter," Miss Clarke began brightly as she stood at the foot of the bed, "even quite healthy gentlemen, like your uncle here, require the help of a manservant to get in and out of their coats and trousers!"

"That's different, of course! I feel so helpless! Away from the vicarage, I realize how ill-equipped I am to function in the actual world." He looked at Miss Clarke with a plea for understanding in his weary hazel eyes. "I'm trying to be reasonable, Lily, but—dash it all—having to be carried to my bed like a babe makes a man feel foolish!" Peter punched the bed with both fists.

"And apparently it puts a man in bad skin, too," said Julian repressively. Peter's response to this mild reproof was to cross his arms and clamp his lips together in the manner of one highly offended. Julian was on the verge of delivering a lecture to Peter about behaving more like a man and less like the babe he compared himself to, but Miss Clarke had moved towards Peter and now leaned down to bring her eyes level with his. Julian waited to see what she would say before he spoke hastily and risked upsetting his nephew further.

"I understand a little of how you're feeling, Peter," she said with quiet sincerity. "I do not presume to know
exactly
how you feel, of course, but when I broke my arm as a little girl and had to be fed and bathed and couldn't run and play with my brothers as I was used to doing, I became absolutely blue-deviled. The one thing that sustained me was my father's assurance that my arm would certainly mend, and that once it
did
mend I would appreciate its usefulness all the more and be exceedingly gay. I daresay it is very uncomfortable being an invalid when you have always been so active and vigorous, but I've no doubt that you will very soon be as strong as ever you were. Be patient, Peter, and let those that love you help you through this difficult time."

Peter raised his head halfway through Miss Clarke's bracing monologue and listened attentively. Now he smiled and cocked a brow. "Those that
love
me? Of whom are we speaking, Lily?"

Miss Clarke returned his smile but said dampen-ingly, "I was speaking of your uncle, of course!" She straightened up and moved to the door. "Now I must check on Janet and discover whether or not she's conceived the good notion of having the groom bring up our bag from the carriage! Then I'll find the inn-keep and bespeak you a nice dinner, Peter."

"Will you share it with me, Lily?" he asked her as she put her hand on the doorlatch.

"She may sit with you while you eat, Peter, if she wishes," Julian spoke up, struck with a sudden disinclination to dine alone. "But Miss Clarke will be having dinner with me in the parlour."

They both looked at him, surprise clearly writ on their faces. "Pleshy will keep you company while Miss Clarke and I are occupied. Then she'll be up willy-nilly to check on you, I'm sure. She can't be at your elbow every minute, you know. I hope you do not begrudge her a little relaxation?"

Peter frowned. "Of course I don't, Julian, but I never thought she'd find relaxation sitting at table with
you.
You ain't going to plague her with your gloomy prognosticating, are you?"

Julian raised a supercilious brow. "I may safely promise you that I shall not plague Miss Clarke in any way."

"Pardon me, my lord." Miss Clarke spoke up in dulcet tones. "I do not recall that you asked me to take dinner with you. Goodness, but my memory must be failing!"

"As well you know, Miss Clarke," replied Julian, sporting an equally honeyed smile, "I never asked you"

Miss Clarke bristled, obviously determined not to be ordered about by the likes of him. His smile broadened. "I'm asking you now."

Something flickered in Miss Clarke's eyes, something between irritation and reluctant appreciation... for his audacity, he supposed. Despite herself, despite her disapproval of him and his cynical refusal to love all of God's creatures, she appeared to be on the point of agreeing to dine with him. Perhaps he presented a challenge. Perhaps the saint meant to help the sinner see the folly of his ways. What the sinner's motives were in inviting the saint to dine with him were most unclear to Julian, but he would not speculate.

Miss Clarke laid an index finger against her cheek and pursed her lips consideringly, as all the while her gleaming eyes hinted at a certain enjoyment in her power to refuse or accept his invitation. She probably had precious little experience with the opposite sex, though she handled herself very well despite this fact. "When do you mean to dine?" she finally asked him.

"At seven."

"In the parlour?"

"Yes."

"I'll be there. But you must put up with a rather drab little dress I stuffed into my portmanteau this morning," she confided matter-of-factly. "I haven't a lot of toggery, you know, and I chose it because it's warmer than most of my gowns."

"I shall contrive to 'put up' with it, Miss Clarke," Julian assured her. "Now do go and order Peter's dinner. I fancy he's sharp-set by now."

Miss Clarke looked a little abashed, as though she had indeed forgotten all about Peter and his dinner. She threw her patient a look replete with guilt and apology, smiled uncertainly, and swiftly left the room. Julian was still gazing at the door through which she had exited when he was recalled to the moment by his nephew's indignant voice.

"I'd never have thought it of you, Uncle, but having seen it with my own eyes...!"

Julian unhurriedly removed his greatcoat and draped it on a chair by the fire. "What can you mean, Nephew?"

"You
were flirting
with her! You were casting out lures to my nurse,
my Lily!"

Julian "tsk-tsked." He bent to pull on Peter's sleeve, easing out first one arm, then the other from the heavy coat. "I don't suppose you noticed that the lady finds me quite hopelessly beyond the pale. I'm not in the habit of casting out lures to women that haven't the slightest inclination to like me, you know. A damnable thing, rejection. I don't court it."

Peter eyed him suspiciously. "Don't say she doesn't like you. All females like you."

Julian draped Peter's coat on another chair near the fire, then proceeded to go down on his knees to remove his nephew's boots. "Well, though she is decidedly female, Miss Clarke doesn't like me. Bend your foot, Peter. Dash it, where is Pleshy when I need him? Probably dallying with that chaperon cum coquette, Janet!"

Peter looked a little relieved by his uncle's offhand assurance of Lily's indifference to him, but upon further consideration of the situation couldn't help but express concern for another possible complication. "It's all very well that she don't like you, Uncle, but
do you like her?"

Julian did not reply at first, but busied himself with the task of tugging off Peter's tight-fitting Blucher boot. While Peter's girth had shrunk in size, his feet were as big as ever.

Did he like Miss Lilith Clarke? Julian wondered. An interesting question. Despite her stomach-disordering cheerfulness and affection for all of mankind in general—criminals not excluded—he had the most unsettling impression that he liked her rather well.

"She's not my sort, Peter," he told his nephew truthfully. "Not my sort at all." Nor your sort either, he thought to himself. But now was not the time to broach that particular subject. Thankfully, at that moment Pleshy entered the room. Now he'd have the help he needed in getting Peter into his nightshirt and cap and tucked into bed where he could wait for his dinner in warmth and comfort.

Moments later, Peter offered Julian a repentant smile. "I'm sorry, Uncle Julian," he said, yawning hugely. "You must forgive me for being so suspicious. I'm taken with the chit, you see. When you feel that way about a lady, you think all other men must feel the same way you do." Peter's brows drew together. "We must talk about how I feel about her before we reach Ashton House."