The Valentine Legacy (4 page)

“He was a sniveling coward, pleading on his knees that no one challenge him to a duel. He preferred jail to facing any of the men he'd cheated.”

“He wasn't a sniveling coward to me.”

“You didn't have anything to steal. Now, enough of that. I assume you didn't break anything from your fall?”

“No, I was just a bit sore. Papa had the ceiling repaired yesterday. The damned wood was rotted through right where I put my knee.”

“I don't suppose that taught you anything?”

He used his obnoxious drawling English accent again, knowing it enraged her. Her jaw twitched, her shoulder actually jerked, but she kept her head down. “Yes,” she said, then finally looked up at him. “I learned that I've got to scout out my terrain before I venture into it.”

He laughed; he couldn't help it. “Would you like to come to the house for a glass of claret?”

She looked suddenly like a child who'd been offered an unexpected treat. He drew back from that glowing smile. “With lemonade in it, naturally.”

Jessie Warfield was back, in spades. She looked away from him, toward the overgrown rose garden. “I must go home, but thank you for your kind offer. The garden is a mess, James. You should have someone fix it.”

She didn't wait for him to say anything to that, just turned and strode away, those long legs of hers eating up the graveled drive until she got to Rialto, the damned horse who'd beaten Tinpin. He watched her stroke Rialto's muzzle, check the saddle girth, then swing herself gracefully onto his back. She pulled her hat over her eyes, lightly kicked Rialto in his muscled sides, and rode down the drive. She never looked back. One long tail of red hair had escaped her hat and hung down her back.

He would swear he'd smelled cucumbers. He wondered if she carried them around in her coat pockets; they certainly bagged out enough.

G
LENDA
W
ARFIELD STARED
at James Wyndham's crotch. She knew it didn't matter if a man wasn't looking at her, as James wasn't now. He would look at her soon enough, even if he was in the deepest conversation with someone else, as James was now, speaking with Allen Belmonde, that dark-haired, swarthy man whose crotch she'd never stared at because he frightened her with those dark, lightless eyes of his. She couldn't stand his weak, fluttery little wife, Alice, who, strangely enough, seemed to adore Jessie, always praising her independence, nauseating Glenda in the process.

She stared at James. If she just kept staring long enough, he would eventually turn around and she'd see a leap of lust in his eyes and pain as well because he'd quickly realize there was nothing to be done to assuage his lust.

But James didn't turn around for the longest time. He turned around finally when his brother-in-law, Giff Poppleton, greeted him. He met Glenda's eyes briefly, nodded, but then he listened to something Giff said, and laughed.

Glenda wasn't pleased. She was eighteen, quite pretty, her breasts milky white and full. Men loved to look at her breasts; she'd known that since they'd blossomed two years before. The stable lads were in a constant state of male turmoil whenever she came around, which was often since she had hit sixteen and was more than eager to test her power on anything male.

Why wasn't James Wyndham interested
? Surely he must realize that if he married her, he'd eventually have the Warfield stables to add to his own holdings.

“It just doesn't make any sense.”

“What doesn't, dearest?”

“Oh, Mother, I was just thinking that James Wyndham should be proposing to me rather than ignoring me.”

“You're right,” Portia Warfield said, frowning at this injustice. “It doesn't make any sense. It is perplexing. Your chemisette is nonexistent, dear. Come with me to the ladies' withdrawing room and I'll arrange it. You don't want to be thought loose by the other ladies.”

“Yes, Mama,” Glenda said. She dutifully followed her mother from the large Poppleton drawing room.

Portia Warfield said to her daughter as they climbed the wide cherry-wood Poppleton stairs to the second floor, “I just wormed it out of your father—James was married to an Englishwoman. Your father wanted to stop there, but I wouldn't let him. He gave in finally when I offered to let him order whatever he wished for dinner. The woman James married was the daughter of a baron and very young. Evidently she died in childbirth within the first year of their marriage. One supposes that he's still wounded, at least as much as a man is capable of being wounded when his wife dies. Of course he hadn't known her all that long, less than a year. The child died with her. I suppose that would depress a man to have his heir lost, but I understand it's been at least three years since it happened. He should be snapping out of this indifferent stance he's taken with all the lovely girls in Baltimore.”

“He has a mistress. He doesn't need any of the lovely girls until he is ready to marry for an heir.”

“A mistress?” Mrs. Warfield said, pausing a moment, pursing her lips. “Why haven't I heard anything about that? Do you know who she is, Glenda? Not that you should
know anything at all about such improper situations, but anyway, who is she?”

Glenda leaned closer. “Mrs. Maxwell.”

“Connie Maxwell? Goodness, she must be at least thirty-five years old! She's been a widow for years now. Fancy that. Are you certain, dearest?”

“Oh yes. Maggie Harmon told me she heard her papa tell her mama that he saw them together in her garden and they were kissing and laughing and doing other things, too. Her papa told her mama that they disappeared behind a huge rosebush and the laughing stopped.”

“Interesting,” Mrs. Warfield said. “I'm not saying that Connie's an old hag, but she isn't a fresh innocent like you, dearest. She has kept her figure, I'll have to say that for her. And I suppose she has a pretty enough face, what with all that blond hair of hers and skin so white I've often wanted to shoot her. Ah, well, James is a man, so I'm not at all surprised. But soon he will have to find himself a wife. He must be nearing thirty.”

“James is twenty-seven,” Glenda said, her voice sounding depressed. “Just three weeks ago he was twenty-six, not very old at all for a man, Mama.”

“That's close enough. Don't frown, dear, it will wrinkle your angel's brow.”

“Maybe when James decides to marry, he'll want to marry another Englishwoman. Maybe he's already met her. His cousin is an earl, you know, and that's nearly royalty. He could marry anyone.”

“Why ever would he want another Englishwoman? The first one didn't even last out the year. Even though his accent hints of an Englishman, he's only half English, doubtless his worst half, the half that is still wounded, though not so wounded he doesn't see to his man's pleasure. Now, your father tells me that James will be here the rest of the year. That gives you a goodly amount of time, Glenda. But listen,
dear, there are other young gentlemen for you to consider.”

“Who, Mother?”

“Emerson McCuddle, for one. A nice young man with a very rich father.”

“His breath is bad.”

“Let him kiss your cheek and hold your own breath whilst he does it.”

“Emerson is a lawyer. He has no interest in horse racing or breeding. What would he do with the stud and stables?”

“There is that. As for James Wyndham, perhaps he will recover himself soon. Perhaps he will tire of Connie Maxwell. Perhaps her years will begin to tell on her, but I wouldn't count on that. You will dance with him this evening. Ah, let's not pull your chemisette up too high, all right, dear?”

 

Jessie eased back into the shrubbery. She would have sworn that James had looked right at her, but that was impossible. He was inside in all the light. He could only see the black night and that quarter moon just behind the budding apple trees off to her left. She heard the four musicians set at the far end of the drawing room strike up a waltz. Even though she hadn't a clue as to how to dance, she loved the waltz, the sound of it, the feel of it, the way it made her want to sweep around in wide circles and laugh and laugh with pleasure. She eased back up and looked through the window. She saw James bow over Glenda's hand and swing her into the rhythm of the fast German music.

She saw him lean down to listen to something Glenda said. He smiled. Jessie couldn't remember the last time Glenda had said something that had made her smile. She saw her mother moving to stand beside Wilhelmina Wyndham, James's and Ursula's mother. Ursula and her husband were now waltzing, laughing over at James. There was Giff calling something out. More laughter. Soon the whole
dancing area was filled. Even Mr. Ornack, as fat as a stuffed clam, was galloping happily about with his thin wife.

She lightly touched her fingertips to her cheeks. The cucumber mixture had hardened nicely. She'd looked very closely this morning. The bridge of freckles over her nose was lighter; she was certain of it. She sniffed. James was right. She did smell like cucumbers. Not a bad smell, but certainly distinctive.

She sighed and watched. She counted off steps, swaying with the music. When it came to a stop, she watched James guide Glenda back to their mother, who was still speaking to Mrs. Wyndham. She turned away from the window when a dark cloud blocked the moonlight. Knowing Baltimore weather, it could begin to rain at any moment. Jessie got to her feet and brushed off her bottom and legs. She heard voices then and recognized James and his brother-in-law, Gifford Poppleton, coming from the open French doors.

“I tell you I saw her with her nose pressed against the window.”

“That's ridiculous, Giff. You drank too much of your own punch. Filled it with rum, didn't you? What the hell would the brat be doing here?”

Jessie froze in her boots. Oh God, she had to get out of there. They were coming nearer, coming down the steps that led from the balcony outside the French doors down into the garden. She fell to her hands and knees and began creeping through the low rosebushes that filed all the way to the garden gate, not more than thirty feet away. Just keep down and keep crawling. But she paused when she heard James say, “Does Glenda Warfield stare at your crotch, Giff?”

Giff laughed. “I've heard she stares at every man's crotch. She began doing it about a year ago, Ursula told me. She practiced a goodly bit on me when we arrived from Boston the end of January. It was quite an experience. I understand she's a bit more discreet now. That is, she
doesn't stare at every single man, just ones she thinks will marry her. Did you get that succulent look tonight?”

“Yes. It was disconcerting.”

Giff laughed. “Perhaps Jessie Warfield will learn it from her sister since she was sitting here watching through the window.”

“I think you're mad, Giff. Look, here we are. This is the window, right? No Jessie.”

“She must have heard us talking and run off. Yes, she must have gone through the back garden gate. It gives onto Sharp Street. I'll bet you anything she had a horse tied there.”

“Well, no proving it now. She's gone. I do wonder why the brat was here, if she was here.”

Their voices faded, and Jessie started to breathe again. If James had gone through that back gate, he would have seen Benjie tethered to a scrub bush just beside the gate. She shuddered, only beginning to picture the humiliation had she been discovered. She couldn't do this again.

She ran low to the gate and let herself through.

James stood beside the large French door that gave onto the balcony. “Good God,” he said to himself, as he lit a cheroot, “Giff was right. What was the brat doing here?” He wondered if she'd been invited. Surely yes. But he couldn't begin to imagine her in anything but disreputable trousers and those large shirts and coats of hers. No, she would have turned down an invitation where being a female was a requirement. He ground out his cheroot, turned on his heel, and made for the stables.

 

“This road needs some work, don't you agree, Jessie? Lilac here has stumbled nearly a good dozen times.”

She nearly fell off Benjie she was so startled. He must have been riding in the grass on the side of the road.
“James! Oh dear, what do you want? What are you doing here?”

“I saw you and followed you. I hadn't believed Giff when he said he saw your nose pressed against the window, watching all of us. Then I was on the balcony and I saw you slip out the back gate. Why were you there, Jessie?”

“I wasn't.”

She didn't say another word. She looked behind his left shoulder, her eyes widened, and her mouth gaped. When he whipped about in the saddle, she was off. But she was riding twelve-year-old Benjie, sweet tempered and slow, so Lilac was galloping next to her in just a few minutes. James leaned over and remarked, “Your hat is just about ready to blow off. Of course your hair is so tangled, it just might hold it on.”

She didn't look at him, just clapped her palm down on top of her head.

“Actually it looks like one of Oslow's old hats. Perhaps he gave it to you after it was so old and pitiful he didn't want to wear it anymore?”

She looked over at him then and if her lips could have curled, they would have. She looked madder than James had the morning when Grand Master had bitten his shoulder rather than the mare he was going to mount. “Go to hell. I don't have to talk to you, James. Go away.”

Benjie was slowing. Jessie let him. James knew she wouldn't ride the poor old fellow into the road. Soon they were both at a walk, Benjie blowing just a bit. Lilac tossed her head and snorted.

“She sounds just like you,” Jessie said, staring straight between Benjie's ears. “Obnoxious and impatient. Did you import her from England?”

“You don't care for my English accent?” he asked, drawling each word into the most supercilious British English he could manage.

“You sound like a pederast.”

James's hands jerked on Lilac's reins and she sidestepped. “What did you say?”

“You heard what I said.”

“How the devil do you know that word? No lady would say that word, much less know of it.”

She turned slowly to look at him, the moon behind her, framing that old hat and the tangles of red hair that hung on either side of her face. “I'm not stupid. I read a lot.”

“The question is, what do you read?”

“Everything. In this case, I agree that pederast is very definitely a man's word.”

James smote his forehead with his palm. “I don't believe this. It's close to midnight. It's Baltimore and thus it will rain on us any minute and you know about pederasts. Worse, you called me one.”

“It's how you sound when you speak with that ridiculous accent. You do it to make yourself sound important, to sound different from all of us Colonists. To make us all feel inferior to you just because your cousin's a bloody English earl. You want everybody to forget you're half a Colonist yourself. You're a fraud, James.” She wanted to whip Benjie into a gallop, but she knew she couldn't.