THE
captain was right to fret about gossip, for Miss Oldridge had
enemies.
Some
twenty miles away, in the valley at the other end of Longledge Hill,
Caleb Finch was busy this Sunday encouraging the villagers to imagine
the worst about her.
He
had come from Northumberland a few days earlier ostensibly because he
suspected mismanagement of his master Lord Gordmor's coal mines.
Caleb certainly was well qualified to judge, being a master of
chicanery, con-nivery, double-dealing, and double-crossing. However,
his real reason for returning was to make trouble for Miss Oldridge.
He
had attended church partly to impress the locals with his piety and
partly because it offered an opportunity to make mischief among the
greatest number of people with the smallest amount of effort. His
sober black suit hanging from his tall, lanky frame, his sparse,
greying hair slicked back, he was clean and proper on the outside and
convinced he was equally so on the inside.
By
some mental sleight of hand, his lies, frauds, and subterfuges always
had a moral rationale. Since Caleb was no intellectual giant, the
rationale usually boiled down to a simple proposition. For instance:
This fellow has something I don't have, which can't be right, and so
if I get it from him—it don't matter how—I've righted
matters.
Eleven
years ago, Miss Oldridge had committed the hateful crime of making
him stop righting matters for himself with her father's wealth. She
had dismissed him with-out a reference, saying he was incompetent.
After that, no one for miles around Longledge would employ him. He'd
had to seek work elsewhere.
A
wiser man would have counted his blessings. She might have had him
charged with a long list of property crimes. She might have let him
figure out how to account to a magistrate for improperly kept books
and the mysterious disappearance of large quantities of livestock,
produce, timber, and numerous other articles. Instead, she had given
him the benefit of the doubt.
But
Caleb wasn't grateful. He didn't take the opportunity to turn over a
new leaf. It was easier to nurse the grudge for ten years and more
and jump at any opportunity to make unpleasantness for her.
For
instance, he was delighted with his master's plans for a canal,
because it would go through the Oldridge property and be a constant
misery to Miss Oldridge.
And
so, after church, when he heard of Mr. Carsing-ton's accident, Caleb
was not slow to cast Miss Oldridge in the worst possible light. He
donned a pious look and said he hoped it was an accident. When asked
what he meant, Caleb was only too happy to explain. He meant, he
said, that some people might ask what was they doing up that high on
the hill on a day like that? The London gentleman probably didn't
know no better. But what was the lady thinking, taking him all the
way up there? And where was her groom all mis time? Why weren't he
with 'em?
Within
minutes, these and similar remarks had traveled through the
congregation, where they met with incredulity and dismissals for the
most part, e.g., "Where does that man get his ideas?" Or,
"I do believe every word of parson's sermon went in one a them
big ears of his and straight out the other."
But
here and there were like-minded individuals who loved nothing better
than tearing others down, especially others prettier or wealthier or
better-natured than they. These persons were happy to imagine the
worst.
They
took up Caleb's version of What Really Happened, and embroidered on
it, and passed it on to every other small-minded individual they
knew.
By
Sunday afternoon, it had traveled the full length of Longledge Hill
to the parish in which Miss Oldridge resided.
CAPTAIN
Hughes delivered Mrs. Entwhistle early in the afternoon.
By
this time, Crewe, who'd arrived at daybreak, had put away the
belongings deemed necessary for a few days' stay.
According
to Captain Hughes, who paid the patient a brief visit, these
essentials were "sufficient to equip a seventy-four and every
man-jack upon it."
Yet
he admitted to the ladies that the valet had everything stowed neatly
enough, and Mr. Carsington appeared more at ease than before.
Certainly
when Mirabel entered the room sometime later, her houseguest appeared
more elegant. Nothing the captain had said prepared her, though, for
the full effect of Mr. Carsington's appearance.
Her
houseguest lounged in a cushioned armchair before the fire. He wore a
fine silk dressing gown over a shirt of feather-light lawn, complete
with elaborately arranged neckcloth. A pair of wide trousers hung
loosely over the long legs. Upon his feet—his naked feet—were
Turkish slippers.
She
told herself it was wise not to attempt stockings. While his ankle
was not badly swollen, it must be tender. She told herself to note
how the injured foot was wrapped and propped up exactly as the doctor
had ordered.
But
she couldn't focus. Though her guest was more fully dressed than when
she'd last seen him—last night, when she should not have been
here—he was a great deal more exposed.
Under
the bedclothes, those long legs had been mere shapes. Now they
stretched out shamelessly before her.
The
soft cloth of his trousers clung to their contours, reminding her of
the rock-hard muscle she'd felt when she'd examined him for injuries.
Then she'd been too anxious, too busy suppressing panic to feel
anything else. Now…
She
looked away, scanning the room as though making sure all was in
order.
It
wasn't, not in any order she recognized. The very atmosphere had
changed.
Starched
white linen and dark wool and leather… masculine toiletries
crowding the dressing table… a shaving box… the scents
of palm soap and boot polish… and him.
The
room was male, and he dominated it.
She
felt his gaze upon her and gathered her composure. "You seem
more comfortable, Mr. Carsington," she said. "I am glad of
it."
"I
told you I was an expert at lounging about," he said.
He
was far beyond expert. He made his very surroundings seem languid,
sultry, and… sinful.
Which
was absurd. Her imagination was running away with her. Mirabel told
herself to be sensible and directed her attention to the tray her
servant carried. Dr. Woodfrey had ordered light meals, several times
a day, and she had accompanied the latest one.
She
watched Crewe relieve her servant of the tray and set the dishes out
upon the small table.
When
all was arranged to his satisfaction, the valet drew up a chair for
her. She sat, wishing she felt as much in command of herself as her
guest seemed to be.
Crewe
discreetly withdrew to a far corner of the large room.
"You
look like an Eastern potentate," she told Mr. Carsington.
"I
am not partial to these trousers," he said. "They are
rather faddish, and I can't recollect what possessed me to buy them.
But Crewe would not let me wear breeches or pantaloons because they
are made to fit snugly. He feared my ankle would be jostled when I
put them on."
She
remembered, too vividly, the long, muscled legs thrust out from under
bedclothes. Her mouth went dry. She folded her hands tightly in her
lap. "Crewe is most sensible," she said.
"Regrettably,
I am not allowed stockings, either, for the same reason, and I am
sure it isn't proper for you to see my bare ankles, Miss Oldridge."
She'd
seen a great deal too much for her peace of mind: the way his shirt
had fallen open during his momentary delirium, and the hard, muscled
chest glinting gold.
She
said lightly, "What a fuss everyone makes about proprieties. But
put your mind at rest. My former governess has arrived to protect my
reputation, and so you needn't fear that the sight of a bit of your
bare skin will corrupt my morals."
"I
envy your mastery of your feelings," he said softly. "I
doubt I could gaze unmoved at your naked ankles."
Heat
spilled outward from somewhere in the center of herself and washed
over every inch of her skin.
A
cough came from the other end of the room. Mr. Carsington looked
impatiently at his valet. "What is it now, Crewe?"
"I
merely wished to observe, sir, that the cook went to great trouble to
tempt your appetite, and certain delicacies do not improve with the
passage of time."
By
the time her guest's attention reverted to her, Mirabel had her mind
back in working order. He was teasing, she told herself. For Society
beaux, such gallantries were a habit. Flirtation and innuendo were
merely a part of conversation. They even whispered naughty remarks in
the ears of elderly ladies.
It
was absurd to imagine that a pair of thirty-one-year-old ankles, bare
or otherwise, could stir any strong emotion in him.
"Will
you not join me?" he said. "Your cook seems to have
provided enough for a regiment."
"She's
accustomed to Papa's appetite, which is prodigious," Mirabel
said. "Still, this is not an excessive meal for a man of your
size, and I am not at all hungry. But perhaps you would prefer to
dine in private."
She
had better leave. She had come only to look in on him. She would gain
nothing by lingering. She had softened toward him too much already.
If she did not have a care, she would become infatuated—absurd
at her age, and dangerous to more than her virtue.
She
rose.
"I
vastly prefer your company," he said.
Mirabel
sat down again.
TO
Alistair's annoyance, as soon as he'd finished eating, Miss Oldridge
once more rose to depart.
"Mrs.
Entwhistle will wonder what's become of me," she said. "I
told her I would look in on you briefly."
"To
admire my quiet fortitude?" he said.
"Yes,
and to make sure you didn't feel abandoned," she said. "I
hope you don't think that is the case. You would be overrun with
visitors had Dr. Woodfrey not forbidden it. But he says you are not
to tax yourself in any way."
"All
I have done is sit here and eat and talk," Alistair said.
"That
isn't all," she said. "You have exerted yourself to be
witty and charming. It is pleasant for me but not good for you."
"I
was not exerting myself," he said. "Wit and charm come
naturally to me."
"Then
perhaps it isn't good for me" she said, and quickly added,
"While I sit here being charmed and amused, a dozen important
tasks are left undone."
He
slumped in his chair. "I am crushed. There is something in your
life more important than I. Well, then, I must bear it and find some
trivial tasks I shall pretend are more important than you. Crewe,
bring me pen and paper. I shall write some letters."
"Certainly
not," she said. "You are not to tax your brain."
"I
must let Lord Gordmor know I am temporarily laid up. He will be
expecting to hear from me, anyway."
"I
sent an express letter to him this morning," she said. "And
another to your parents."
"To
my parents?" Alistair started up from the chair, and his leg and
ankle brutally reminded him to stay put. He sank back down, gripping
the chair arms. "Who told you to write to my parents?"
"My
conscience," she said. "Your friends and family are bound
to hear of your accident before long. I did not want them to be
troubled with the usual garbled and exaggerated version of events.
You will not believe the rumors flying already."
Alistair
had enough experience with rumors to know that they generally defied
all laws of reason and oftentimes far outstripped his wildest
imaginings.
Now,
too late, he saw the fatal errors he'd made. He'd paid too much
attention to her. He'd singled her out at the Tolberts' party. He'd
gone riding with her, accompanied only by a groom. He'd spent the
better part of the night with her, unchaperoned, in his bedroom. It
wasn't hard to guess what people would think.
"It
is believed in some quarters that I deliberately lured you to a
dangerous spot and attempted to cause a fatal accident," she
said.