The Valentine Legacy (10 page)

“Threaten me, will you, you prissy little boy with all your damned English airs!”

The rage in his voice scared the devil out of Jessie. She'd heard him speak like that once to one of his jockeys who'd just lost a race right before he'd sliced open his face with a whip. She managed to pull the pistol from the pocket of her man's coat. She shinnied backward on the branch, then swung astride it so she could more clearly see the men below her. What she saw scared her nearly witless.

Mortimer Hackey had drawn a gun on James and was waving it at him. “No one knows you came out here, Wyndham. I looked. I made sure no one was paying any attention. I know all about you and Alice Belmonde. I heard you bedded her while poor old Allen was sleeping with every whore in Baltimore. But you'll give her up. You'll not interfere. I won't beat you, Wyndham, I'll blow your puny brains out.”

“Slept with Alice? You stupid bastard!”

Hackey jerked his pistol up, aiming it at James's heart. In that instant, James leaped on him, his hands grabbing Hackey's arm and wrenching it upright. There was a sharp report. A cascade of leaves fell down to the ground. The two men were grappling, struggling wildly, punching to little effect, each trying to gain the upper hand. Jessie watched James, the larger and younger of the two men, slam his fist into Hackey's belly. Hackey howled and jerked backward, freeing himself for an instant. He raised the pistol, panting now, hard, as he said, “You miserable whelp, you—”

“James! Where are you?” It was Glenda.

James didn't move. Hackey's attention wavered a bit. James yelled, “Stay away, Glenda!”

Hackey brought the pistol back and laughed. “You little bastard, I—”

Jessie aimed her pistol and fired it. She heard a yelp of surprise followed by a groan. The gun recoiled, spinning her backward. She grabbed madly at the branch and only succeeded in scraping her fingers. She cried out as she plummeted to the ground.

James only had time to look upward in the direction of the unexpected shot before Jessie came hurtling down, knocking him flat on his back. She landed on top of him, her arms and legs sprawled out.

Mortimer Hackey stood over them, his pistol loose in his hand. “Dear God, Jessie Warfield! You tried to kill me, you
miserable little girl. You shot me in my damned foot. Why, what you need is—”

James was nearly unconscious, but he held on. He saw Hackey standing over them. He was terrified that Hackey would shoot Jessie. He prepared to roll over on top of Jessie. Then he heard Glenda call out again, “James!”

Then he heard Mrs. Warfield, loudly scolding, saying, “Now, my dearest, you mustn't come out here with dear James. Why, do you know what everyone is already saying? You know what this will mean, don't you? Wait a moment, Glenda. Something isn't quite right here. Where is dear James?”

They were just feet away. Jessie was shaking her head to clear it. James was breathing beneath her, but he was lying very still. She was afraid she'd knocked him out. She managed to gasp, “Mr. Hackey, you'd best get out of here. You can't kill both of us. There are other people coming. I didn't mean to shoot you in the foot. Actually I was aiming for your arm.”

Mortimer Hackey cursed fluently, kicked James's leg, kicked Jessie in the ribs, and took himself off through the rear of the garden.

Jessie reared up a bit and began to pat James's face. “Come on, James, wake up. I'm sorry I landed on you. Please, wake up. Don't be hurt, please.”

James blinked and opened his eyes. Jessie was lying on top of him, her breasts pressed against his chest, her thighs against his, spread wide. Her face was so close to his he felt her breath warm on his mouth. If it hadn't been so dark, he could have counted the freckles across her nose.

“You killed me,” he said. “Are you all right?”

“Just a bit shaken, I think. Give me a minute and I'll get off you.”

“Take your time,” he said, and brought his arms around
to gently push her over a bit. His right leg hurt, and a lot of her weight was on it.

“You feel female, Jessie.”

“Well, I am a female. Oh dear, I see what you mean, that is, goodness—”

“No, don't go all maidenly on me. Catch your breath, then just slide off.”

“I heard Glenda and my mother.”

James didn't have time to shove Jessie an inch either way, much less shove her off him and out of the garden.

“Oh, my God!” Mrs. Warfield bellowed. “Glenda, it's your sister with James, not you. Dear heavens, she's lying on him. How could this have happened?”

Another bellowing voice rained down on them. “James, my dear boy, what are you doing with Jessie on top of you, kissing you, stroking you?”

James couldn't believe it. It was his mother. He heard other voices behind them. At least half a dozen. He closed his eyes. He couldn't believe this.

Glenda yelled, “Jessie Warfield, you're a wretched bitch. You get off James. He's mine. You'll not have him. I can't believe you're letting him have you right here in the garden. You're not even dressed in a gown.”

“Well,” Portia Warfield said, hands on her hips, “it seems that this is a muddle of major proportions. But don't worry, Glenda dear, it will work out.”

“Oh God,” James said.

 

Jessie was sore and bruised, but not, she thought, as sore and bruised as James was. She held a cup of tea between her hands, sipping slowly, trying to warm herself. James wasn't drinking tea. He was drinking brandy. He was staring off at nothing in particular.

They were seated in Mrs. Wyndham's parlor, a very nice parlor, Jessie thought, but it jarred her, what with all the
shades of peach. Pale peach brocade on the settees, dark peach silk on the chairs. Peach everywhere. Mrs. Wyndham's town house was next to the Blanchards' and thus the obvious place for everyone to gather. She wanted to die. She looked at James again. He was staring at the mantelpiece as if he wanted to eat it or perhaps just chew on it and spit it out at someone—probably at her.

Her father, her mother, and Glenda were there, now blessedly silent for the moment.

Mrs. Wyndham was seated on the settee across from Jessie. She looked to be deep in thought.

Glenda ran gracefully across the room to fall on her knees beside James's chair. “Shouldn't you have Dr. Hoolahan examine you, James?”

“No,” James said, not looking at her. “He's doubtless fixing Hackey's foot. That's where you shot him, isn't it, Jessie?”

“I think so. He was sort of dancing around on his left leg. He kicked you with his left foot.”

“He kicked you, too. In the ribs?”

“Yes, but I'm just a bit sore, nothing more.”

“Oliver, are you ready to listen now?”

Oliver Warfield rubbed his jaw. “I don't know, James. I saw Jessie sprawled out on top of you. I saw her kissing you.”

“She didn't kiss me.”

“She was sliding her fingers all over your face. Everyone saw that. Oh, all right. Say what you have to say.”

“I was having an argument with Mortimer Hackey. He was threatening to go after Alice Belmonde. He wants her and he wants the stud farm. He wants me to keep my nose out of it. Our argument became rather heated. I hadn't intended to go out into the garden with him, but I did. There was no reason to cause a scene in the middle of the Blanchards' ballroom. It would have gotten back to Alice, and
she would have been hurt by it. So I went into the garden with him. When he drew a gun on me, I jumped him. The gun went off wildly and we fought. He got the upper hand after I smashed him in the belly. He broke free and he still had the gun. It was then that there was another shot, followed by Jessie hurtling out of the elm tree to fall on top of me. There was nothing more to it than that.”

Oliver Warfield sighed.

Mrs. Warfield said, “I don't understand why you were there, Jessie. You weren't going to the Blanchards' party. Why did you have a gun? Why were you up in that tree?”

Everyone was looking at her, James as well. She stared at her scraped fingers. She wished she could become a peach shade and fade into Mrs. Wyndham's parlor rug. She looked over at James, and in that instant he knew he didn't want to know the truth of why she'd been up there in that damned elm tree with a gun, not in front of this group. He said quickly, “I was wondering why there were suddenly so many people in the garden. I heard Glenda calling me. I heard you, Mrs. Warfield, asking Glenda where I was.”

“Ah, well, that was nothing, really,” Mrs. Warfield said, and called out, “I should like some more tea, Wilhelmina.”

“So that's it,” Wilhelmina Wyndham said slowly, staring at her girlhood friend whom she'd always bullied. “You had told me to come into the garden and bring my friends because you had a wonderful surprise for all of us, me especially. My God, you wanted all of us out there as witnesses. I told Glenda that you schemed and connived well, Portia, but this time it didn't work. You wanted all of us to see Glenda and James together. It was all a plot, and you didn't tell me a bit of it.”

“No!”

“Yes, Portia. Just look at Glenda. Her face is all red, and there might as well be a sign on her forehead reading
GUILTY
. But Hackey and Jessie here botched everything.
Now Jessie is ruined, my son looks like a seducer of virgins, and will thus become far more romantic in every silly female's eyes. I do wish you'd stop trying to deny that you and Glenda plotted between the two of you to trap him into marrying Glenda. If only you'd discussed it with me, I could have helped you foresee all the possible difficulties. But you didn't, and look what's come of it.”

Jessie had had enough. She managed to get to her feet without moaning from all her bruises. “This is ridiculous. I'm not ruined. I'm the very last virgin James would attempt to seduce. All of you know it was just a silly mix-up. I'm going home. Father, will you come with me?”

“Your face is scraped,” James said, rising slowly himself. “Be sure to wash it well.”

“I will. Don't worry about Hackey, James. Tomorrow at the track he'll be racing that knobby-kneed three-year-old of his and I'll make sure his jockey winds up in the dirt.”

“Jessie, mind your own business. Now, is everyone quite through with all of this?”

“I want to know what Jessie was doing there,” Mrs. Warfield said, standing now, staring down at her daughter. “Why were you there, Jessie? The truth now.”

James was on his feet in the next instant. “I'm through with all this. I don't give a good damn why Jessie was hiding up in that elm tree, but I'm glad she was. I fancy she saved my hide because Mortimer was going to shoot me. Now, I'm leaving. Ladies, Oliver, good night.”

“I don't know, James,” his mother said, “maybe you'd best wait a bit.”

“I'm leaving, Father,” Jessie said, and walked with a limp to the front door, ignoring her mother's loud voice behind her.

James was there beside her. “Come along, Jessie, I'll see you home. It's the least I can do in payment for your shooting Mortimer in the foot.”

They rode side by side, down Sharp Street, crossing over to Waterloo Road, then to Calvert Street. It began to rain—heavy, cold sheets of rain. The sky was blacker than a bucket of coal. They both were wearing hats, but it did little good. The rain was coming down sideways, slapping at their coats and their unprotected necks. A sudden gust of wind sent Jessie's old hat into a ditch and out of sight. She slapped her hands to her head too late. “Oh dear,” she said. “It was the only one I could find in the trunks.”

He handed her his gentleman's top hat.

She just shook her head, and he slapped it back down on his head. They rode side by side shivering, each cursing the rain silently, each wondering what the other was thinking until James said, “Jessie, why were you in the elm tree?”

“To save you.”

“Well, you did save me. But why were you there in the first place?”

“To save you.”

He sighed and got a mouthful of rain. “Ah, I guessed as much. You knew what Glenda and your mother had planned, then?”

“Yes, and I did eavesdrop—lucky for you, James. So don't rip a strip off me.”

“Oh, I won't. If you hadn't saved me from Mortimer and possible extinction, then you would have what, Jessie? Shot Glenda when she swooned against me or grabbed the buttons on my breeches and pulled them open?”

“I was going to shoot the ground near both of you. Glenda hates guns and jumps ten feet into the air whenever one goes off close to her. She would have run as fast as she could back into the ballroom.”

“Why did you want to save me from Glenda?”

She turned to look at him then. Her hair was plastered against her face, falling in sodden strings down her back
and over her shoulders. Her lips were blue from the cold. She had to look as wretched as he felt.

“I had to,” she said finally, then kicked her booted heels into Benjie's sides. He obligingly scuttled forward, eager for dry hay and a dry stall.