A Dog in a Doublet Page 16

  Chapter 19

  A fox - a sharp, cunning fellow

  - The 1811 Dictionary of the Vulgar Tongue, by Francis Grose.

  To Harry’s everlasting relief, Wilfred and the rest of Satan’s spawn were delayed. He didn’t know why and didn’t care, either, seeing as he was sick as a horse himself.

  Through the haze of the worst hangover in living memory, and enlivened by a rather enthusiastic fever, Harry was told he had influenza. That much he gathered from Beryl’s scolding. No doubt a result of sitting in the mud and the rain and drinking himself insensible. He’d done stupider things in his time, but was hard-pressed to think of them right at that moment.

  Further than that, things got rather fuzzy as he drifted in and out of sleep, and he wondered if dying might be a damn sight easier than enduring all the fuss and turmoil that would be awaiting him when he was well again.

  Despite feeling like death warmed over, he wasn’t unaware of how Beryl fussed over him. Whatever anger she’d had initially over him being named Alistair’s heir, she seemed to have put it behind her, and was now as attentive as a mother hen.

  He’d been more than a little surprised to discover that she’d put him in Alistair’s bedroom. Despite his initial misgivings, he found he liked being here. Alistair’s things were still all around, and it felt familiar and strangely safe.

  Harry was so sick that he didn’t protest in the slightest at having his brow mopped. He even submitted with good grace to being fed chicken broth and enduring the revolting mixtures Beryl poured down his throat under instructions from Dr Quack, who really was every bit as irritating as Alistair had said he was. But then the ridiculous fellow tried to bleed him, and Harry felt so thoroughly queasy and revolted at the idea that he refused to allow it, becoming quite agitated as the man insisted. Dr Quack, in turn, became increasingly adamant that he must do as he was told, viscount or no, and Harry had never been more grateful in his life to Beryl as she faced the pinch-faced fool down and all but threw him out of the room.

  “Thank you,” he whispered, exhausted by the fuss as Beryl bustled back to straighten his covers.

  “Never mind thanking me,” she retorted, though her voice was too soft to be at all reproving. “Just you get yourself well again. We’ve got those dreadful creatures arriving in a couple of days, and you need to be strong again. For all our sakes.”

  “Satan’s spawn,” he whispered, trying to smile.

  Beryl snorted. “That’s as may be, my lord. But creatures of that ilk prey on weakness, you mark my words.” She sighed, then, and smiled at him. “So be a good lad and get some rest now, eh?” she added, stroking his hair in an affectionate manner that made Harry feel sleepy.

  “Right you are, then,” he murmured and closed his eyes.

  ***

  Harry was about as robust and steady as a new born lamb the day Wilfred and his family arrived, but he was damned if anyone should guess it. He greeted them, enduring the insults and barbed comments and finding some solace in the fact that Reggie and Beryl would take no instructions from anyone but him.

  “I’ll have to ask his lordship,” was to become a very familiar refrain.

  As Harry could touch none of the funds left him, they all took great delight in giving the family the dampest, draughtiest rooms, and especially the ones whose chimneys smoked. Beryl almost wept over it, but she didn’t properly air the beds, and if hot water was ordered, it was generally cold by the time it arrived at its destination.

  “Ah, but until your claim against the viscount is settled, there’s no money for more staff, I’m afraid, Mr Preston,” Harry had overheard Reggie say to Wilfred with barely disguised mirth. “And that damp patch has been growing bigger this past twelve-month, but there’s nought that can be done for now.”

  Reggie had closed the door on Wilfred and a volley of foul language, and come face-to-face with Harry in the hallway.

  “My lord,” he replied, deadpan, but then gave Harry a wink as he carried on along the hallway, whistling to himself.

  Harry was becoming ever more distrustful of Mr Brewer, Wilfred’s valet. He seemed an insinuating sort, at pains to be too friendly, too helpful, and yet he took in everyone and everything with those quick, watchful blue eyes. Harry suspected him of spying, though he thought Norah Preston was behind it, not her husband. Harry had to turf him out of more than one room where he was found poking around for no good reason.

  “A regular sly-boots, that one,” Beryl would mutter in dark tones of foreboding whenever he left her kitchen.

  The food served was as appalling as Beryl could bear to produce, as well, though she seemed to warm to the task with rather more enthusiasm as the family grew ever more obnoxious. The three ladies’ maids that served the Mrs Prestons were a harried-looking trio, worn and leery-eyed. Miss Drebble, the eldest, was a thin, serious woman who seemed fond of quoting the Bible whenever she opened her mouth. Beryl said the two younger women, both Miss Evans, as they were sisters, were her nieces, and as much in Miss Drebble’s power as Miss Drebble was in Mariah’s. The omnipotent Mariah had decreed that they should not mix with the staff of Stamford Place, no doubt fearing gossip. Though mortally affronted at this, Beryl had arranged one of the back rooms for them to eat in, and other than that, they were barely seen. The three stuck together, looking askance at any who tried to draw them into conversation. They seemed to be in Mariah’s thrall, and Harry strongly suspected she had engaged them for her daughters-in-law for the express purpose of spying on them.

  Harry took his meals in his study and often asked Beryl and Reggie to join him there, as he felt lonesome by himself. Mr Brewer ate in the kitchens, though - as he was not allowed to fraternise with the ladies’ maids. In truth, Harry doubted there was much risk there. Miss Drebble was as desiccated an old maid as Harry had ever seen, with a pinched face that he suspected had never smiled in its life. The two nieces were younger yet, but already fair imitations of their aunt. They seemed to hold all men in contempt, and Harry was glad that they were kept in seclusion.

  So whilst the family and their staff ate the dreadful meals sent to them, Beryl and Reggie would make a show of eating it, too - at the same time as the valet did - whilst barely touching theirs; thus, Mr Brewer was not made welcome, and would eat fast and leave as quick as he could, and so he didn’t notice that they never finished a meal. So far, they’d been discreet enough that no one had remarked upon it, but Harry didn’t much care if they did.

  Needless to say, the food they really ate was as delicious as it had ever been.

  Harry sat back with a sigh, pushing a spotless plate away from him that had contained the finest steak and ale pie that he’d ever eaten.

  “I hope they’re enjoying that rabbit,” he said, a smile twitching at his lips as Beryl covered her mouth with her hand.

  “May God forgive me,” she said with a chuckle, looking thoroughly unrepentant, much to Harry’s amusement. “A stringier, more malnourished animal, I’ve never seen in all my days.”

  “If only we could starve them out,” Reggie added with a sigh.

  Harry snorted. “Sadly, I suspect Mr Wilfred Preston is made of sterner stuff.” He frowned and wondered how much longer they would need to endure this farce. “What’s that oily valet been up to?” he asked, frowning at them.

  Beryl snorted. “He’s oily, alright, but no more or less than before. Creeping about, smiling through his teeth.”

  “He’s sleeping with Wilfred’s wife,” Harry said, raising a rather fine glass of claret to his lips as Beryl’s eyes grew wide with disgust. “This is lovely,” he said, smiling at Reggie and raising the glass to him.

  “Aye, one of the late lord’s favourite years, that was.” Reggie coughed, looking a little sly himself. “I hope you don’t disapprove, my lord, but I took the liberty of ... misplacing most of the good bottles whilst you were sick.”

  Harry spluttered over his next mouthful, tickled to death by the glee in the fellow’s eyes. “Misplaced
, eh?” he said, amused.

  “Just a little, sir,” Reggie said, grinning at him. “They’ve got the 1805,” he added, his lips twitching just a little.

  “Bad year?” Harry asked, raising one eyebrow.

  “Disastrous,” Reggie replied with aplomb.

  Once dinner was finished, Harry retired, treading the familiar path up to the master bedroom and feeling bad that he wasn’t helping with his chores as usual, but Beryl and Reggie were adamant. This was how things would have to be until this affair was settled. Harry had reminded them several times that they could retire now. They had a snug little cottage waiting for them and plenty of money to live on, after all. To which Beryl had exploded like he’d lit a fuse beneath her.

  “If you think we’re leaving you alone to deal with those mealy-mouthed shag-bags, you’ve got another thing coming!” she’d raged, and with such passion that Harry had been forced to hug her.

  Now, though, he was left alone with his thoughts, and the worries for his future seemed to get heavier as the night drew on. He was sleeping badly, dreaming either heated dreams of Clarinda and her soft body, pliant and willing in his arms, or of a noose closing around this throat. Either one would find him waking, breathless and sweaty, though for entirely different reasons.

  Once Clarinda had stolen into his thoughts, though, she was hard to shake. Of course, he’d missed his dinner with her and the squire through being ill, though it had been rescheduled for tomorrow. The squire had been quick to send over lush bunches of grapes for the invalid, too, still warm from his hothouses. Harry sighed. Seeing Clarinda was not a good idea. She was a temptation he could not yield to, yet now that her father had changed his tune, his opportunities were likely to be rather more numerous than they had been. The idea was like a sore tooth that was hard to ignore, and, try as he might, his thoughts returned to it again and again as he remembered how it had felt to kiss her.

  She’d visited often while he was sick, according to Beryl, but his nursemaid and self-appointed protector had ushered her away, telling her she’d not see him until he was well again.

  Harry paused as a soft sound caught his ear. Walking forward again, but this time as silently as he could, he peered around the corner to where the corridor headed off to the guest rooms. The worst ones.

  Two figures were just visible in the gloom, locked in an embrace. With a grimace, Harry noted Mr Brewer, as he suspected, with his hands all over Norah Preston. He wondered where her husband was, and if he had any idea of his wife’s infidelity with his valet. With a shudder, Harry looked away, and carried on to his room.

  ***

  The squire’s table was a magnificent sight, so heavy with silverware and crystal that the glare of the hundreds of candles was almost blinding. Harry might not have any right to his title, and therefore to the opinion, but he couldn’t help but feel Alistair had been right. The squire was vulgar.

  But he was obviously taking great pains to please Harry, too many, truth be told, as his obsequiousness had long since lost any amusement. Clarinda sent him a chagrined look of embarrassment, but Harry had been able to do little but stare at her in mute awe.

  She looked stunning this evening. Dressed all in fine white muslin trimmed with lace, with her porcelain skin set against that jet black hair, he could think of nothing but the story of Snow White. Books had been one of the few things Alistair had occasionally been roused to spend money on, and whilst he’d been learning to read, the stories of the Brothers Grimm had enraptured Harry. Yet now, in front of him was Snow White herself, with one simple row of pearls around her lovely neck, and blue eyes like a summer sky, staring back at him with soft adoration.

  Harry found himself utterly lost in dreams of a life with her.

  The squire droned on and on, forcing so many varied and exotic dishes at Harry that he was overwhelmed. The indulgent opulence, the excess and the temptation of everything he wanted sitting opposite him made Harry feel the devil was at his elbow, and the embodiment of his every desire being offered him like one of so many sweetmeats.

  To the squire’s obvious disappointment, Harry made his excuses as early as he felt able to, citing his recent illness as an excuse. This naturally had the squire falling over himself to recommend his own doctor - a superior man - and many health-giving and pricey cure-alls that the squire promised to send over the next day.

  “But, Clarinda, you must show our guest out,” he boomed, making Clarinda blush with the impropriety of it, even as her eyes glittered with amusement.

  Once they’d been ushered out of the room, Clarinda put her arm though his and looked up at him.

  “I’m sorry, Harry,” she said, her voice soft. “He’s kind-hearted, really, and he does it all for me.” She paused and looked up at him, her eyes warm and inviting, and Harry knew she’d want to be kissed. “Now he knows I love you, and you’re a viscount; well, he’d fetch the moon from the skies if you demanded it as my bride price.”

  Harry laughed a little, though he was too taut with keeping his hands to himself to make it sound authentic. “I know it, love,” he said, hearing the longing in his own words. “But I’m not a viscount. We both know it.”

  Clara stopped in her tracks and tugged on his arm, her eyes suddenly filled with the fire that he’d first seen there all those years ago. “Lord Alistair Preston swore, in writing and before a lawyer, that you are his heir, Harry. It’s what he wanted. You know it was. You were his son, as far as he was concerned. Don’t let them take it from you.”

  He smiled at her and reached out, tucking a thick lock of hair behind her ear and sighing. “If only I was as courageous as you, love,” he murmured as she flushed a little.

  “Sorry, you got me on my high ropes again,” she muttered, fiddling with her pearls and looking away from him.

  “I always do,” he chuckled as she sent him a peevish look.

  “Yes, you do,” she agreed with a prim little sniff, steering him back down the corridor. She glanced up at him again. “You are going to fight for it, Harry?”

  He nodded, wondering if he was truly insane. Surely the path would lead them back to the thieving Harry Browning and a corpse on the streets of London ... and him to Tyburn?

  But the stakes were so very high.

  A life with Clarinda, Stamford Place as his home, and Alistair Preston as the father he’d always longed for. But it was all fiction, and likely to remain that way.

  “I’ll fight,” he agreed, realising too late he’d not been paying attention, and that she’d guided him into a quiet, dark room, and not to the front door.

  Before he had a chance to protest she was pulling at his neck, pulling his head down, his lips to meet hers, and he was too full of longing to resist. She tasted sweet, like the strawberries and cream they’d eaten, both of them choosing that simple pleasure over the squire’s other towering confections.

  Everything she had learnt from him in that brief, heady time in the woods had not been forgotten, and she used her new found skills to devastating effect. Harry pulled her closer, wanting nothing more than to lose himself in her soft curves and whispered sighs.

  She pulled away suddenly and he saw a little trepidation in her eyes, and, for the first time, a glimmer of misgiving. “Harry, if it all goes well, if ... if everything is settled as you hope. You do ...” She paused, obviously anxious and embarrassed, and Harry gave a little huff of laughter.

  “You’re not actually going to ask if I want to marry you, surely?” he demanded, the words soft and teasing.

  “Yes,” she admitted, biting her lip. “Oh, Harry, you might have anyone, now, and ...”

  He kissed her again before her ridiculous fears could be voiced.

  “I love you,” he said, feeling lighter at the admission and the look in her eyes, even though he ought not let her hopes grow, nor his come to that. “I love you, and if I can, I’ll marry you the first chance I get.”

  She gave a little crow of delight and threw her arms around him, pulling h
im back to her, but the thought that the squire was probably lurking with a shotgun somewhere at hand pulled him up short.

  “No, love,” he protested, pulling back and trying to keep some distance between them. “Not in your father’s house, not like this.”

  Clara just snorted at that. “Harry, he’s fully intent on blackmailing you into marrying me whether you want to or not, so you may as well ask him for my hand now. Don’t you understand that yet? He’ll play nice all the time you’re showing signs of doing as he wishes, but back off and he’ll say you compromised me in the woods.” He watched as she pursed her lips, a thoughtful and darkly amused glint in her eyes. “Which you did,” she added. “So you see, you’re honour-bound to marry me.” She looked dreadfully smug at the idea.

  “Oh, no, you don’t!” Harry exclaimed, horrified at the idea that Clara could find herself married to a common murderer if things went badly, instead of a viscount. “You’re not forcing my hand, either of you!” he said, pulling her hands away and foolishly ignoring the glitter of fury in her eyes as he did so.

  “Are you saying you won’t marry me, after all?” Clarinda demanded, a dangerous tone to her voice now that Harry well recognised. She folded her arms and Harry remembered her as a very young woman looking remarkably similar. She only need stamp her foot.

  “I can’t ask you, nor make it official. Not yet,” he said, trying hard to keep his voice even, though frustration was making his own temper rise now. Did the silly chit seriously think he didn’t want to?

  “I don’t think you want to marry me!” she threw at him, as though echoing his thoughts. “You said you needed to prove to my father that you were good enough, that you could support me; well, good Lord, Harry, you’re a viscount!” she raged.

  Harry took a breath, determined not to row with her, though it would likely be for the best.

  “Only for now, Clara,” he said, his voice low. “They’re going to look into my past,” he added, taking her by the shoulders and giving her a hard look. “Don’t you understand, love? I ran away from my old life for good reason, and if they turn up that good reason ...” He took a deep breath. “Well, I’m no more a viscount that you are Queen of England.” He watched her face as the truth settled in, and wished he wasn’t always taking her hopes and dreams away from her. It seemed so cruel. But believing in a lie was far worse, and far more dangerous.