Reluctant Bride (22 page)
The knocker sounded, preventing my hearing his excellent plan. It was Uncle and his stepson. I got my wrap and bonnet, Edmund his hat and gloves, and we two were off to Bow Street to make our report. Maisie was busy ordering the servants to prepare delicacies to tempt Jeremy’s jaded palate.
The visit to Bow Street was not in the least unpleasant. I thoroughly enjoyed laying charges against Fortescue. With some persuasion, Edmund arranged it that we not have to remain for the trial, as my property had been returned. We left off signed statements. They had plenty of other witnesses ready and willing to testify that Mr. Douglas-Aberdeen-Fortescue-Czarnkow was assured of a long spell of free lodging.
Uncle Weston and Cummings left at once to terminate the lease on the latter’s apartment and get him permanently returned to Rusholme. They parted with all manner of cheerful promises to call on us, along with requests for us to come and see them on our wedding visits. We agreed amiably to this absurdity, then went to Edmund’s waiting carriage.
A festival mood descended upon us as a result of seeing our wrongdoer safely locked up. Edmund was sure the fellow would pick a lock or break a window and be back on the streets in no time, filling his pockets with stolen goods, but I did not fear that lightning would strike twice. It would not be
me
he preyed on next time. The rest of the world must fend for itself.
“What was the plan Maisie spoke of, about selling Westgate to Beattie I mean? I cannot think how he will offer if we are to conceal from him the news we want to sell.”
“Trust me. I’m a genius, remember?”
“Don’t
you
be making plans behind my back too. What a
stupid
thing for Jeremy to do, not telling us he means to sell. I want to apologize for his lack of manners.”
“I believe it runs in the family. Was I too hard on the cawker?”
“Not half so hard as I mean to be, when we get back.”
“His instincts were correct at least, to defend your reputation. You don’t suppose he will force me to have you? Marry you, I mean.”
“I never heard of an unlicked cub forcing a full-grown grizzly bear to do anything. Tell me the great plan Maisie spoke of.”
“I thought I might visit with you a few days at Westgate, letting word seep out I am interested in buying the place. When Beattie hears it, he will, we hope, take the idea that if it is to be sold, it would better be reannexed to Eastgate. He will make you a counter offer, and Jeremy will accept it.
Voilà!”
he said, splaying his hands in triumph.
“Voilà
what? Who is to say he will be so compliant as to make this offer? I never heard such rubbish in my life. We must put it up for sale in the regular way. I see absolutely no merit in your scheme beyond its novelty.”
“That’s odd. Maisie saw the merit of it at once.”
“I am not so sharp as Maisie. Tell me.”
“The point is, it provides me an excellent excuse to visit you, as my first pretext of hiring you a steward was rejected out of hand, and with very poor grace too, I might add.”
“I thought you were eager to get home.”
“I am, but not alone,” he said, taking my left hand in his. My heart speeded up. “Marriage and other disasters have the reputation of occurring in three’s. We have Willie and his bride, Glandower and his, now I fear my number has come up.” His other arm slid around my waist.
“You had no luck with your prowling last night, in other words, and are feeling amorous.”
“You understand me uncomfortably well. No luck. My heart was not in it. I think you know where it was.”
“Those are dangerous words, sir. When a man starts letting on he has a heart, his first object is to lose it to some poor lady.”
“They don’t come much poorer than you,” he was uncavalier enough to remind me.
“I meant poor in the ‘poor Willie' sense.”
“Ah, Willie! I find myself envying him of late. I have lost not only my heart, but my head as well.”
“Next thing to go will be your freedom. What of your misogamy?”
“It got smashed to bits, along with my carriage wheel. I expect it is even now lying in a ditch outside of Devizes, gasping its last gasp. Poor devil.”
“I would make a perfectly wretched wife, Edmund. I am a nagging, foul-tempered harpy, who would keep you under cat’s paw.”
“That is exactly the sort of lady I require. A watering pot would not suit me. I recognized you for an arch-shrew when you advised me to find a strong-willed woman, provide her with a club, and marry her. I considered it just one step shy of a proposal when you said it. Shall we go shopping for a club now?”
“Let us go home instead. I expect you are eager to get fighting with Jeremy, and I feel an urge to kick my mutt.”
“I am not feeling at all bellicose at the moment,” he insisted, his arms tightening around my waist. “I will just remind you, however, you cannot get my ring off, and your alternatives are to either lay legal claim to it, or have the finger removed by surgery. It is entirely up to you.”
“I think with a little butter . . .”
“Think again!” he said, and attacked me, very angrily, in the carriage, in broad daylight. I was subjected to a fairly brutal embrace which I enjoyed thoroughly, though it left my composure, to say nothing of my toilette, in a shambles.
“Try to remember I am not one of your pickups from a public inn!” I gasped, when he released me.
“No, you are much more accomplished. Just wait till I get you that whip to defend yourself.”
“Club,
Edmund, and don’t think I won’t use it.”
“Don’t think you won’t have to!”
Our voices had risen somewhat above a normal conversational tone. We both realized it at once, and laughed. “We’re off to a fine start, aren’t we?” I asked.
“Nope, we haven’t started yet. High time we did.” He reached for his watch with an impatient gesture.
I sighed to consider the large job I was taking on, keeping pace with him.
Copyright © 1982 by Joan Smith
Originally published by Fawcett Coventry in March, 1982
Electronically published in 2004 by Belgrave House/Regency Reads
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This is a work of fiction. All names in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to any person living or dead is coincidental.