Patricia Rice (37 page)

“Search the upper stories,” the viscount commanded
his henchman. “Even MacTavish can’t spirit away those brats without a
train of servants and trunks.”

Bea had no desire to see these men stomping through
the privacy of her home, but she couldn’t ask an old man like Digby to
stop them. She sent him a questioning gaze, and he nodded even more
regally than she could.

“If madam does not mind, I shall show these gentlemen the door.”

The viscount ignored him, shoving past to the hall,
followed by his lackey. Bea watched anxiously as Digby followed them
out. Where in
hell
was James? He was at least large enough to be intimidating.

At the sound of a new voice and even angrier tones
from the hall, she couldn’t bear the suspense. Slipping from her chair,
she peeked through the space between the doors.

Overton waited just inside the wide front portals, a
shotgun cradled in his arms. On the other side of him, the curate in
full dress robes waited. Digby blocked the bottom stairs, and as Bea
watched, the hall gradually filled from the rear.

Cook’s massive round form waddled to center place.
Bea’s maid stood righteously on her right. The scullery maid, clinging
to Cook’s apron, stood proudly on the left. Behind and around Cook and
Digby, upper and lower servants formed a block of humanity protecting
the household from invasion. Trapped between the servants at the stairs
and the steward and curate at the door, the viscount could only vent his
outrage in curses.

“They’re my children!” he shouted. “Percy is my heir. You cannot steal him away. I will call the magistrate!”

“Your father is our local magistrate now that Squire
Cavendish is gone,” the curate said kindly. “We would greatly
appreciate the earl’s return. There are quite a few matters awaiting his
counsel. I can assure you, the children are well cared for, far better
than in the past, if the evidence of my eyes is to be believed. Please,
if you would, fetch the earl.”

Defeated by reason, the viscount swung around and
located Bea shoving the dining parlor doors open. “You! You will pay for
this,” he shouted. “My father won’t let you get away with it. Return my
children or this land will be mine.”

Satisfied he’d had the last word, he spun on his
boot heel and stalked past Overton and the curate. The law officer
lingered, throwing a speculative glance to the stairs, but Cook’s
menacing glare and kitchen cleaver deterred him. He, too, stomped out.

Bea’s lips trembled as Overton and the curate
followed, shutting the doors behind them. Tearfully, she glanced at
Digby, then to her servants as they returned to their places. She’d
always thought of them as her family, but she’d never known they felt
the same for her. A tear spilled from her eye, and she hastily wiped it
away.

“I cannot thank all of you enough,” she whispered to
Digby as he gently offered his arm and guided her back to the table.
She knew he would pass on the message to the others. That was the way it
had always been before her father died. She spoke to Digby, and he
spoke to the others. She didn’t know if she wanted that distance
anymore, but she wasn’t quite up to calling a meeting to express her
gratitude.

“We know what you’ve done for us,” he said with
dignity. “You’ve stepped into your father’s shoes far better than we
could have hoped. You’ve married a good man in expectation of saving our
positions and the village. You cannot be blamed if a spoiled little boy
like the one who just left throws a tantrum and ruins it for everyone.
As your husband would be the first to tell you, you cannot do it all.”

Digby had never spoken to her in such a manner. Of
course, Digby was an innkeeper and no longer her butler, but... she
thought he might also be a friend.

“If only the earl were a reasonable man...” Her
voice quavered, and she couldn’t complete the sentence. She wanted to
lay her arms on the table and bury her face and weep in terror, but she
didn’t have time for self-indulgence. Everything her father had left in
her care would be lost if the viscount had some means of demanding that
the loan be repaid. He could force all her friends from their homes.

The viscount could travel faster than Mac. What if
the viscount suspected Mac had just left? He’d hunt him down and throw
him in prison. She hadn’t caused enough delay.

Only the earl could stop his son. If her aunt
trusted him, surely the man couldn’t be a complete cad. Bea stared at
the epergne filled with flowers, her thoughts racing. She turned to
Digby. “Where is James?”

Digby cleared his throat. “Ah, hmm, I believe he went with your husband.”

Bea thought her eyes might fall out of her head. “With Mac? James went with Mac? Why ever for? They’ll kill each other.”

“I cannot say as to all his reasons, but I believe he had some notion of speaking with the earl.”

“The earl?” Astounded, Bea pushed up from the table, staring at her former butler. “How? Why?”—and more importantly—“
Has the earl returned
?” She had a dozen other questions, but this one was imperative. She’d thought the earl in Paris.

Digby looked worried. “I don’t know that it matters,
madam. There is naught any of us can do. He’s not likely to see James.
He’ll certainly not see the rest of us.”

“He’ll see me.” Bea knew the instant she said it
that she should have bitten her tongue and thought three times, but she
would not take it back now.

She hadn’t seen the earl since adolescence, but he’d
know her name. She’d plead Mac’s case, the children’s plight, and fight
for her home. He might laugh in her face, but she could leave no stone
unturned, and the earl was the only stone in sight.

He’d once called himself her father’s friend. “Is he at Landingham?”

Digby coughed and looked at her skeptically. “James
said he’s just returned to London, madam. Perhaps Mr. MacTavish will see
him.”

London
! The childrens’ grandfather was in London. “Will James tell Mac where to find the earl?” she asked anxiously.

Digby had the grace to look guilty. “I don’t believe so. He has some notion of a confrontation. I tried to persuade him—”

She didn’t know what bee had invaded her cousin’s
bonnet, but he and Mac weren’t likely to speak. She’d like to smack
their heads together, but to do that, she’d have to follow them to
London.
London
. She had to be insane even to think she could.

If she went to London... Perhaps if she explained,
Mac wouldn’t have to run. Perhaps the earl would stop his son and the
children could be safe....

She would not let her hopes run away with her. Mac might have sailed before she found the earl.

Swallowing fear, she considered it. Her cousin was
up to something, which was all the more reason she must go to London.
She firmly believed James had the capacity to turn London into a circus
should he apply his lazy mind to it, but a circus wouldn’t save her home
and the children.

“I’ll need someone to take me to Evesham,” she said
as firmly as her shaking soul would allow. She’d never seen a train. She
had no idea how to get around London. She had lost her mind.

Evidently thinking the same thing, Digby looked at her doubtfully. “You cannot go alone, madam. It is impossible.”

“My aunt does it.” She hadn’t known she possessed a stubborn streak, but she felt one forming now.

He sighed deeply, but whether with resignation or
exasperation, she could not tell. “I will inform Mrs. Digby, and we will
join you shortly.” With a stiff bow, he turned on his heel and
departed.

Bea stared after him in astonishment. He
hated
to leave his inn unattended.

Tears of gratitude welled in her eyes, but she still did not have time for them. She was going to
London
.

Maybe she could catch the same train as Mac.

Heart soaring at the thought, she raced up the stairs as fast as her skirts allowed.

She didn’t want to stay behind any longer. Her world was no longer her house, but wherever her husband was.

“Would you care to tell me
now
what the devil you are doing here?” Mac growled, not for the first
time, as the garish footman carried his luggage into the train station.

“Cutting my own throat,” James replied airily, striding down the rough wooden platform ahead of Mary and the children.

“I’ll gladly slit it for you,” Mac muttered as he
lowered the bags at the ticket booth and pulled out his purse, “but if
you don’t tell me what you’re doing, you’ll have to buy your own
ticket.”

He would damned well throttle the footman if he did
not receive some answers soon. With the children, their nursemaid, and
the luggage to carry, he’d been forced to use Bea’s ancient barouche.
The blamed footman had climbed onto the servants’ rumble seat as it
pulled out of the stable, and Mac hadn’t had time to argue. But he
wasn’t taking the man to London without good reason. Several good
reasons.

“I can buy my own ticket,” James said loftily. “I needn’t be obliged to you.”

“I counted on your helping Bea!” Mac shouted, beyond
frustration as he heard Pamela whining and, from the corner of his eye,
watched Buddy straining at Mary’s hand, ready to escape at the first
opportunity.

“It’s about time you thought of her,” James answered acidly.

Mac didn’t have to put up with this. Grabbing the
tickets from the seller’s hand, picking up the bags, Mac stalked back to
help Mary. He wished with every ounce of his life that it was Bea
standing there, babe in arms.

He didn’t have enough damned hands. Setting down the
bags again, he lifted Buddy onto his shoulders and bounced him. His
first journey on his new ship would be a horror; he could see that now.
If he could find an alternative, he would, but his prospects looked
increasingly dim. The damned carriage had been so slow, he’d spent the
last hour frantically looking over his shoulder, certain Simmons had to
be on his heels.

“The train will be here in a few minutes,” he reassured the nervous maid. “We’ll feed them then and maybe they’ll fall asleep.”

She nodded and watched with curiosity as James
appeared, ticket in hand. Mac didn’t think punching the fop a wise idea,
but it would certainly make him feel better.

“If we stand over there, we can catch the first car
and avoid most of the smoke.” Tucking one of Mac’s bags beneath his
arms, James lifted two others, leaving Mac free to balance Buddy with
one hand and carry a fourth.

All right, so he’d wait until they were on the train
to punch him, which was probably what the coward hoped. “You left Bea
alone with Simmons,” Mac griped as he used his size to shove his way to
the spot indicated.

Arguing with James gave him an excuse not to think
of the trembling of Bea’s lip, or the tears on her cheek. Yelling
covered a whole range of emotions.

“I did not. I left her in Digby’s hands,” James said, staring at the rails ahead. “You are the one who deserted her.”

Mac refused to be bullied into that argument. Bea
knew why he had left. The target the footman’s garish scarlet coat
offered galled him, but the powdered wig was the outside of enough. “You
stand out like a sore thumb!” he shouted in frustration. “Everyone in
the shire will know we’ve been here and when.”

James frowned fiercely. “They’ll know anyway. Your
only hope is to be on board ship and on the tide before the viscount
realizes where you’ve gone.”

The hiss, roar, and wail as the train clattered down
the track rendered conversation impossible. Mac would have taken time
to admire the magnificent machine’s speed and beauty, to compare it to
the American version in hopes of noting improvements, but he was too
furious with the footman and too concerned about the children—and too
devastated at leaving Bea—for either.

On his shoulders, Buddy screamed in terror at the
noise and yanked Mac’s hair. “It’s all right, Bud. That’s a train. It
goes faster than horses.”

That shut him up. Buddy loved horses better than anything.

“Giyyap, horsie,” Buddy shouted over the roar of the
steam engine pulling into the station. “Giyyap!” He pounded Mac’s
hatless head, dug his small fingers into Mac’s hair, and tugged
mercilessly.

With malice aforethought, Mac shuffled closer to the
footman. They were almost of a height. Shifting slightly to the right,
he put Buddy’s busy hands within arm’s reach of a certain haughty,
bewigged head.

“Jemmy, horsie!” Buddy whooped, grabbing for the
familiar servant and trying to grapple his way to a new set of
shoulders. “Be my horsie!” With his small fingers digging into the
powdered wig, he tried to lift himself forward, but Mac held him too
tightly.

The wig slipped, and Mac straightened.

Buddy crowed at the new toy flapping in his fist.

James screeched, the train belched coal smoke, its
brakes hissed and squealed as it pulled into the station, and, joyfully,
Buddy flung the wig as far as he could.

Iron wheels crushed fragile white hairs into dust as the wig landed on the tracks.

Grinning broadly, Mac tried not to stare at the
footman’s shorn red hair. A man that tall and square-jawed really ought
to have masculine black hair, not that feminine reddish stuff that
looked just like Bea’s—

Mac blinked and took a better look. Just like Bea’s.

James glared at him defiantly, clutched his
assortment of bags tighter, and shoved his way onto the first car as
other passengers descended.

Ten thousand reasons for that red hair ran through
Mac’s head as he waited for the stairs to clear so he could guide Mary
and the children aboard. He could just have Bea on his mind. The maid
had giggled at the footman’s new look but hadn’t seemed to notice
anything else odd. After all, James was purported to be a distant
cousin. How distant?

It took at least a thousand years to elbow past
porters and passengers to the seats James had claimed. He juggled
baggage and children, retrieved lost toys and ribbons, and dug out the
finger foods Cook had provided, before everyone was settled. James
growled at Mary’s shy smile at his shorn head, glared at Mac, and
frightened a bonneted matron away from their seats with his forbidding
expression.