Seeking Celeste (20 page)

Read Seeking Celeste Online

Authors: Hayley Ann Solomon

Anne took a deep breath. “Lord Edgemere, it is not necessary to sacrifice yourself to that woman! If she is threatening you, call her bluff!”
The worst the world can think of you is that you are a jilt. Not pleasant, perhaps, but believe me, they will get over it. There are much more scandalous on dits to dwell upon. Look at Lord Carnavon ... the Prince Regent, even, though one grows weary with tales of
his
excesses.”
“I find myself singularly disinclined to be placed in that category.” The eyes and tone were habitually lazy, but Anne was not deceived. There was a dangerous drawl to his voice, and she could have sworn that the luxurious hazel eyes flashed for an instant.
“Then, she
is
threatening you!”
Robert vouchsafed no reply. Anne closed her dreamy, sultry eyes, took a deep breath, then plunged herself headlong into a world where there was no turning back.
“Your lordship, I beg you to consider! If you
must
marry, marry me instead! I care not the snap of a finger for society! Let them wag their stupid little tongues and call you a cad and a jilt. The worst they can do is give you—and, by extension, myself—the cut direct. Think I care? Not I! Sticks and stones, my lord, break bones. Not whispers and lies.”
The earl's eyes darkened with an arrested expression Anne could not quite fathom. He regarded her quietly for a moment or two before allowing his habitual sardonic attitude to return with the slight tightening of his jaw.
“I do believe, my very proper Miss Derringer, that I am receiving my first proposal of marriage! Flattering, albeit highly irregular!” He snapped open a gold embossed snuff box and inhaled deeply.
“A pox on flattery! And as for irregular ... I had not previously thought you too mindful of proprieties, my lord!”
The earl's eyes gleamed at this palpable hit. “Forgive me, my little Celeste. I am a creature of surprises. When it comes to proposals of marriage, I find that I am singularly inclined to propriety!”
“At the expense of happiness? Don't be such a toplofty gudgeon!” Anne could not believe how bold she had become, throwing caution to the winds like a cast-off mantle. Lord Edgemere loved her. She did not know why, but she was suddenly convinced of that fact. Perhaps it was the stubborn set of his chin, so uncannily like that of Kitty's.
She pressed her advantage home in the moment of slight hesitation. Amused eyes raked her up and down in the type of scorching manner that caused her words to tumble out in a rush of confusion rather than in the orderly manner in which they had been intended.
“I believe the connection is not entirely ineligible. I have good bloodlines, I am a lady born and bred, I believe I am healthy enough to ... to ...”
“Bear my children?” There was now more than a little laughter creeping into the earl's honeyed accents.
“Precisely!” She dropped her gaze, but carried on hurriedly, before she lost the courage. “I would never dream of suggesting this course but for the fact of my newly acquired fortune. You, my lord, shall not doubt my motives.”
“Oh, but I do!”
“Beg pardon?”
“I doubt your motives entirely! You speak of breeding and bloodlines. You disappoint me vastly, for I had hoped you'd mention my compelling attraction, my irresistible nature, my—”
“You see fit to tease, my lord!” Anne's tone was reproachful.
“I am in deadly earnest! I do not regard marriage in the same manner that I regard the qualities of my brood mares. Perhaps that is remiss of me, but there, you may set it down to my recalcitrant nature and to the fact that I have always preferred Socrates to Debrett's when it comes to matters of import.”
And that, precisely, is why I love you.
The words sprang unbidden to Anne's thoughts, but she was not yet so brazen as to voice them. Instead, she assumed her severest tones and scolded him for taking the matter of his lineage so lightly. She deftly skirted the question of his masculine magnetism. She was not so far beyond the pale that she would admit to the undercurrents that threatened to engulf her. If she did, they were both sadly in danger of steering off the point.
Still, Lady Caroline would have him locked in her clutches forever if a willing damsel did not rescue him from her coils smartly. She pressed her case home.
“I assure you I would not take so improper a course if I did not think it appallingly essential!”
The earl responded to her earnestness. He dropped his bored, slightly amused pose and drew her to him. The charade would have to play itself out, but by God, he wanted a conclusion by evening!
“Anne. My beautiful Anne. I thank you from the bottom of my heart.”
“Then, you will listen to reason? Lady Dashford—”
He held up his hand. “Hush. I am devastated to have to inform you that I decline your most generous offer.”
“Decline?” Anne's heart faltered, and she dropped the hand that had reached out to gently stroke his clean-shaven chin.
“Decline.” His voice was firm and his eyes unwavering upon her. “Do not appear so downhearted. I have feelings of the deepest and tenderest ... no, I shall hold my peace. Tonight, if all the pieces of my well-laid plans fall satisfactorily into place, the boot shall be on the other foot. It is
I
who shall be—damnation!”
“What is it?”
“That is Dartford! I would know the sound of his hooves anywhere!”
“But who could be riding him? The weather ...”
“Anne, where is Tom?”
“Oh my God! Surely he wouldn't ...” Even as she said it, Anne knew it was a forlorn hope. Tom had been peculiarly out of spirits that morning. Lady Caroline had been so definite about the betrothal ... perhaps he had taken it into his head to challenge her. Perhaps he was just in a wild, stormy, defiant mood. He
knew
Dartford was forbidden to him.
“I shall check the nursery wing.”
“There is no time. I shall go after the horse. It might just be some high-spirited groom, but I cannot take the chance.”
“No!”
My lord did not wait for a reply. He swung out of the gallery and down the front steps with the swiftness of Hercules.
It was left to Miss Derringer to help Lord Carnaby make his second circuit of the room. It was the mark of her breeding that she was able to maintain a civil tongue as she helped him with his cane and rang for a footman.
When the excellent gentleman arrived, she smiled politely and fled.
Nineteen
Lady Caroline purred with pleasure. She had barely greeted Lady Anchorford, her hostess, as she had passed her on the stairs. Miss Wratcham, however, had received a courteous nod of the head. Lady Caroline had not survived the rigours of the season with her reputation intact without knowing who to kowtow to when required.
Once within the portals of her chamber, she had dropped her gracious society pose and rushed feverishly to the dressing table, where she hoped she might find the gift. She was disappointed to find, instead, a posy of flowers. They were perfect blooms—red and scarlet scattered with dewdrops—but sadly, they went unappreciated for all their lovely scent. She noted the luxurious scrawl across the card: Edgemere.
Lady Caroline knew a moment of panic. Had he been teasing her or leading her on? Had he
really
retrieved the diamonds from Sir Archibald Dalrymple, or was she simply dreaming? Come to think of it, all that morning the talk had been about nothing but Sir Archibald's “dashed good luck.” What if the necklace was back in his possession? Fury blinded her, so she did not see the small package tucked neatly by her pillow. Hastings had gone to a lot of trouble to get it there.
“Jane!”
“Your ladyship?” Jane entered from the dressing room.
“Was a package left for me?”
“Package? Oh, the flowers you mean! Jeeves—we are walking out together, you know—asked me to set them upon your table. They are charming, I'm sure.”
“Don't be foolish, woman! I said
package ...”
Caroline's voice trailed as she caught sight of the item on her bed. Her relief was profound, though she noted it had been discreetly covered in brown paper. Not the best presentation, perhaps, but so long as it was the genuine article, she cared not a fig for such trifles.
“Thank you, Jane. You are dismissed.”
Jane's eyes wandered lingeringly to the bed in synchrony with her mistress's gaze. She was curious about the parcel, but knew it was more than her job was worth to question her mistress in such a mood. No doubt, if she was wily—and she was—she would be able to weasel it out of her at some later stage. She bobbed a curtsy and returned to her work.
There were still several buttons to stitch before the night's flowing creation was ready.
Lady Caroline was heedless of her riding habit as she dived on the bed. She ripped open the parcel, and seconds—a few glorious seconds—later, she was holding her prize. The necklace sat heavy in her hand and sparkled up at her invitingly.
“Yes!” She threaded it through her fingers and lay back upon the high, well-aired bed. Lord Edgemere would be trapped that very night.
He
might regard the gift as an expensive parting present, but he would never be able to extricate himself from the interpretation
she
would publicly place on it.
She shook out the parcel for a note, but found nothing but a blurry half memo “ad... .” Admirer! So he was not so indifferent, then, Lord Robert! He must have just stopped himself penning the rest of the missive. Caroline smiled. They would not, after all, deal too badly together.
The rain was pouring down in torrents as Dartford thundered down the meadows. Tom was by now too frightened to press on to the Anchorford estate, where he had had every boyish intention of confronting Lady Caroline. Up behind him was Edgemere, terrified of calling, lest he startle the boy and cause him to lose his grip upon the saddle. Dartford was the most flighty of his beasts, though undoubtedly the swiftest. The little Viscount Tukebury was a skilled rider and contrived not to tumble as he pulled in the reins and caused the animal to turn. He was flat upon the saddle, drenched to the skin, but he hardly noticed this circumstance, for his eyes were wet with unshed tears. His heart was hammering painfully in his chest, for Dartford was much, much higher than he had seemed in the comfort of the stables. If he fell ... he shuddered and tightened his grip on the reins. He would
not
fall! That beastly Lady Caroline would not win so easily. She wanted to be rid of him, he knew it... .
“Tom!” The earl's words were soft and gentle, but Tom did not hear them. Instead, he clung on for dear life as the horse lost patience and took off into the gloom. Edgemere thought he could detect a wail of fright as the hooves settled into a canter. Restlessly, the earl kicked his own heels in and set off after. If he had had time to brood, he would have been filled with the deepest dread. As it was, he concentrated only on the sound of the hooves galloping in the shadows. If he was to be of any assistance at all, he must keep up. The sounds of running water entered into his consciousness. They were heading for Tom's stream. If Dartford took fright, he might make a bolt for it across the track where Edgemere had first come upon Miss Derringer. Any number of carriages were due to head out in that direction, many to avoid the pike, but most, he was horrifyingly aware, to attend his ball. A collision with one of these would be fatal. The hooves were becoming fainter.
Edgemere increased his pace until Dartford once again came into view. Tom seemed to be hanging dangerously to the left, almost as though he had been unseated but had refused, stubbornly, to release his grip of the saddle. Even now, he seemed to be struggling to regain his seat, slowing the horse down in his efforts. Edgemere seized his opportunity and caught up.
Tom shuddered as he heard Robert's calm, authoritative voice behind him. “Easy does it, Dartford. Steady on, steady there, Tom.”
Tom gulped. He knew he was in a great deal of trouble, but he didn't care. Robert was a comfort, even if he
was
a gudgeon for choosing Lady Caroline over their dear, adorable Miss Derringer.
“Can you dismount?”
“I don't think so. He still feels restive.”
Edgemere nodded. “I shall lead you back. Can you pass me the reins?”
“I can try.”
It took so long for the horses to be positioned side by side that Anne had time, in the interim, to saddle one of the mares and fly—
fly
across the heather to the stream. Somehow, she suspected Tom might head for this haven. When he was not there, she deliberated whether to head on home or push onward toward the Anchorford estate. The child might, after all, simply be reading in the schoolroom. She should have checked! Out of the corner of her eye, she could dimly see carriage wheels—early guests. If they did not see Tom in the mists ... if he had been thrown, perhaps... . She urged her horse forward, taking care that Tom was nowhere underfoot.
“Tom! Tom!” She called out wildly, but her words were lost on the wind. At last, she thought she heard hooves upon the small track in the clearing. The rain had stopped, but her sheer gown was now nothing but a tangle of gold organdie and lace. She squinted into the fog and caught her breath.
A tall, burly man was seated on horseback just a few yards from the fir trees. Anne did not take note of his torn breeches or his grubby stocks. She was more interested in the blunderbuss that was directed squarely at her chest. The rains were ceasing almost as quickly as they had started, but this fact was little comfort as the dripping weapon was cocked and primed.
“Got yer now, me beauty!”
Anne's heart sank. She would know that snigger anywhere. It was the same throaty, heartless noise she had heard when she had been abandoned quite three miles from her agreed upon destination of Kingsbury. She straightened her back, her eyes kindling with anger and an unknown mix of fear and determination.
“Samson! What on earth are you doing here? And put down that weapon at once! It could misfire and cause grievous harm.”
“That it could, missy, so climb down from that prime piece of livestock there before I 'ave a mind to try it.”
“Dismount? Whatever for?” Anne played for time, her eyes cannily fixed on the ancient blunderbuss. The coachman was so remiss in his duties, the weapon was probably not well enough oiled. Should she risk making a bolt for it? Calling out? The earl was probably in the vicinity, for he was searching for Tom. Tom! Gracious, Samson could not be so iniquitous as to have captured the boy for ransom? A cold chill swept over her.
“Do you have Tom?”
“Tom? What git is ‘e?” Samson leered, and, the clinging gown offered little consolation to his victim. “I 'opes ‘e aint no gentleman toff what's given yer no slip o' the shoulder!”
Anne shuddered at his vulgarity but offered up silent thanks. If he thought Tom a lover, he obviously had no notion of the whereabouts of the young Viscount Tukebury.
“It is none of your business, Samson! Now put that gun away. This is the eighth Earl of Edgemere's property, and consequently you run a great risk. If he does not find you, his gamekeeper will. Either man will not hesitate to put a bullet through your head.”
“Then, they ‘ad better not find me 'ere, 'ad they? Now climb down, Miss
Derringer,
before I lose wot little patience I 'ave. Yer and I got business to attend to.”
“Business?” Anne strained her ears to listen for Edgemere. If she could call out, then leap from her mare, the earl might create enough diversion for her to run—or roll, as the case may be—into the thicket. She did not think much of this plan, but it was better than no plan at all. She held her voice steady as she listened for hooves upon the footpath.
Samson looked smug as he edged Lady Somerford's prize bay a little closer. “It be yer lucky day, Miss Anne! I am not going to ravish yer without making sure yer first 'ave yer marriage lines nice and snug in yer pocket. Yer can say
that
fer Samson Weatherby! Right refined I am and that's a fact.”
“Marriage lines?” Anne felt her stomach churn. There was more to this incident than mere bad feeling; she could sense it in her gut.
“Aye, yer ‘eard me right. Now 'urry up and slide down from yer ‘orse before I change me mind and 'ave me way wiv yer before we find the parson.”
“You mean to marry me?” Miss Derringer could think of nothing but the blunderbuss that was now pointing rather unsteadily at her stomach. If he had some outlandish notion to wed her, she had less to fear than she had thought. He would not dare to fire for fear of killing her.
“That's wot I said, ain't it? Now that yer as rich as a nob, I'd be dicked in the 'ead not to leg shackle yer all right and tight.”
So! Samson had pieced together news of her good fortune and was bent on turning it to his advantage. She felt sick, for a man with a motive as strong as his would stop at nothing. It was useless to point out that no parson would marry her until banns had been posted. He would merely ravish her and sit out the necessary time before a license could be procured. Anne knew his type. Ruthless and stupid. It was a terrible combination and one that she did not underestimate, for all Samson's clodpole manners.
How could Mr. Clark have betrayed her trust in this manner? Only he, Mrs. Tibbet and Lord Edgemere himself knew of her windfall. She noted the self-satisfied smirk on her captor's face and trembled slightly, though she still made no move to slide off the mare.
“Who told you I had come into a fortune? I am sure
I
have not heard of such a marvel! If I had, I assure you I would not still be hiring myself out as a governess.”
Samson's eyes narrowed suspiciously. For the first time, he had doubts. It was true what the wench said. If she was as rich as was whispered, she would be queening it in London rather than acting the servant. He released his breath as rosy visions of the future receded before his very eyes. There would be nary a guinea for his trouble if the rumour had all been a sorry hum. His ruddy face reddened in frustration.
It did not help that Miss Derringer was not so much as whimpering. Cool as a cucumber she was. Not for the first time, he wondered what it would be like to make her lose her studied poise. He would enjoy it, he would, and he needed
something
for his trouble. He licked his lips. Somehow, he must find out the truth. There was no sense in shackling himself to the ice maiden if there was no fortune to be bought for the cost of a ring. Bedding alone would be much more to his tastes. Despite the tension of the moment, he did not miss the intriguing outline of her slender form. It was excessively palatable against the revealing, wet and devastatingly flimsy organdie.

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