Читать книгу The Dubious Miss Dalrymple - Kasey Michaels, Кейси Майклс, Kasey Michaels - Страница 8

HE WAS STARING at Elinor Dalrymple; he knew he was, but he couldn’t help himself. Alastair had come to Seashadow to unmask the new Earl as his attacker. It had seemed so simple, so straight-forward—in a backhanded sort of way. But Leslie Dalrymple, bless his paper skull, wouldn’t harm a fly—even if he knew how. Alastair wasn’t so bent on revenge that he couldn’t see that.

Unfortunately, he told himself as Mrs. Biggs called them to the dinner table, that left only the sister, Elinor, to take Leslie’s place as suspect. Offering Elinor his arm to escort her in to dinner, and throwing a stern look at Mrs. Biggs, who so forgot herself as to begin a clumsy curtsey as he moved past (after she had done so well earlier when he had first arrived at the door), Alastair knew he had to rethink his deductions.

A man, after all, did not accuse another man of attempted murder without a wheelbarrow full of irrefutable evidence. Wasn’t the desire to accumulate evidence what had brought him, under an assumed identity, to Seashadow in the first place? But a man—at least any man who considered himself to be a gentleman—never accused a lady of anything.

Once he had helped Elinor to her seat and taken his own chair across from her, Alastair resumed staring at her, knowing he was dangerously close to being indiscreet, but unable to help himself. A woman! It had never occurred to him that his attacker could be a woman. Oh, certainly she had employed someone to actually perform the dirty deed—to conk him on the head and send him to a watery grave—but that didn’t make her any less guilty, did it?

This was going to take some getting used to, Alastair decided, deliberately smiling at Elinor Dalrymple, as if enchanted by her spinsterish charms and idly wondering if her small, shell-like ears really fit so snugly against the sides of her head or if her ruthlessly pulled-back hair had anything to do with it. He watched her spine straighten as it had on the beach and this time recognized the action as the proud, stiff-necked posture of one who has had more than a nodding acquaintance with poverty.

And with a brother like Leslie to support her, he considered thoughtfully, is it any wonder the two of them had been purse-pinched? He doubted he had to look much further for a motive.

“Do I have a smut on my nose?”

Alastair blinked, his attention caught by the question in Elinor’s voice, although he hadn’t quite comprehended what she had said, his attention still concentrated on her blonde hair as he tried to imagine her as she would look with it soft and loose against her high-cheeked face. “I beg your pardon?”

“You’re staring, Mr. Bates,” she pointed out needlessly. “I wondered if there was something wrong with me that has put you off your food. You haven’t even touched your meal, and Big George has really outdone himself with the veal.”

“Yes, indeed, I have—” Alastair had always relished Big George’s way with veal—so much so that he nearly gave himself away, only catching himself in time to amend his conversation by ending, “always enjoyed a veal. Big George, you say? Is there also, perchance, a Little George running about somewhere?”

Leslie Dalrymple, his mouth full of veal, answered. “Little Georgie, actually, even though he’s past eighteen and fully grown. He doesn’t cook, though—big George won’t let him, at least, according to Mrs. Biggs, not since he set the capons on fire. Little Georgie just helps. Biggs is their name. You already met Mrs. Biggs, our housekeeper. Big George is her husband.”

“Making Little Georgie their son,” Elinor completed hastily. “It is as logical as it is boring, Leslie, my dear, and before you launch into a dissertation on all the other little Biggses running tame about Seashadow, I suggest a change of subject. Perhaps our guest would rather discuss something more worldly than our servant situation.” Leaning forward slightly, she went on encouragingly, “You served with Wellington perhaps, Mr. Bates? What battles were you in, exactly—and when?”

Alastair was amazed at the obvious intensity of her interest. He suddenly felt like a prisoner in the dock, undergoing a detailed cross-examination bent on exposing his guilt in some heinous crime. “Well, actually, madam, I didn’t see much action before—”

Leslie stuck out his bottom lip petulantly and interrupted, “Who cares, Elly? I wanted to tell Mr. Bates about Rosie.” He brightened slightly, looking to his sister. “I’m going to paint her, you know.”

“Yes, dearest, I do know,” Elinor said, reaching over to pat her brother’s hand. “Rosie will be a wonderful subject, once she cuts her second teeth. Now, why don’t you try some of those lovely peas?”

Alastair watched, bemused, as Leslie obediently picked up his fork and began to eat. Oh yes, there was no question as to just who was in charge here. Elinor Dalrymple of the flat ears, scraped-back hair, and miserable disposition—sitting at her brother’s right hand—was the real Earl of Hythe in all but name. Wait until he ran this one past Wiggins!

“Mr. Bates?”

Alastair looked across the table at Elinor, his grey eyes deliberately wide, his expression purposely guileless. If he had decided nothing else, he had decided that this woman was intelligent—which also made her dangerous. “Yes, Miss Dalrymple?”

“You were telling us about your time with Wellington,” she prompted, accepting a small serving of candied yams from the hovering Mrs. Biggs. “From the left, Mrs. Biggs. You serve from the left.”

“Do yer wants ’em or not, missy?” Mrs. Biggs challenged, glaring at Alastair as if begging his permission to dump the bowl on Elinor’s head. “Right, left. What does it matter? I’ve got Baby Willie crying in the kitchen, afraid of that horsey-faced brute, Hugo, and that lazy, good-for-nothin’ Lily nowheres ter be found.”

“Baby Willie’s crying?” Leslie exclaimed, hopping from his seat so quickly, the chair nearly toppled behind him. “We can’t have that, Elly, now can we?” He reached up to pull the large linen serviette from his shirt collar, where he had obediently tucked it after dripping soup on his neckcloth. “I know. I’ll make him a crow from this serviette—of course, it will be white rather than black, but then, that just adds to the romance of the thing, doesn’t it? I can use these peas for eyes,” he went on excitedly, filling his hand with the green vegetable before heading for the kitchens. “It will be famous, I vow it will! Here I come, Baby Willie! Caw! Caw!”

“Leslie, come back here—” Elinor began as Alastair hid a grin behind his own serviette. “Oh, what’s the use? It’s like speaking to the wind.”

His sense of the ridiculous overcoming his good manners, Alastair threw back his head and laughed aloud for a moment before sobering and apologizing almost meekly, “I’m sorry, Miss Dalrymple. I am but a lowly soldier sitting at an Earl’s table. I really shall have to cultivate more elegance of mind. But you have to own it, Miss Dalrymple—your brother is most amusing.”

Her brown eyes turned as black and forbidding as an angry sea. “You think he’s an utter addlepate, don’t you, Mr. Bates?” she accused hotly. “Well, perhaps he is, but Leslie is my addlepate, and I’ll thank you to keep your thoughts to yourself!”

Alastair waved his hands in front of his face, as if to ward off her accusations. “No, no, Miss Dalrymple, please don’t fly into the treetops. I meant nothing by it, really I didn’t. Besides, you are wrong. Your brother is not an addlepate. He’s rich, madam, which makes him a delightful eccentric. Only a poor man is an addlepate.”

There was a commotion in the kitchens that reached into the dining room, turning the heads of both its occupants toward the baize door just as Hugo exploded into the room, Leslie on his arm. “Elly, look! A giant. A Titan! Isn’t it above everything famous!”

Leslie turned delighted eyes to Alastair, who felt himself rapidly wilting beneath Elinor’s white-hot glare. He had brought Hugo along with him because he couldn’t feel right leaving him alone in the cottage. He’d had no idea the man’s presence would cause either Baby Willie’s tears or Leslie’s euphoria.

“Is he really yours?” Leslie went on in accents of rapture. “Mrs. Biggs says he is. Do you think I could borrow him? I’ve just had the happy notion of painting him—for comparison, you understand—alongside of Baby Willie, if that poor dear will ever stop crying. Hugo’s the loveliest thing I’ve ever seen!”

“Aaahh,” Hugo crooned softly, accepting the compliment most graciously by picking Leslie up by the coat collar with one hand and placing a smacking wet kiss on his lordship’s thin cheek.

Elinor leapt to her feet. “You brute! You put my brother down this instant!”

“Aaarrrggh!”

Feeling as if he had just stepped unawares into a Covent Garden farce, Alastair rose as well, ordering, “Don’t growl, Hugo. It isn’t polite. And put his lordship down; I think he’s having a spot of trouble getting his breath.”

“Dear me!” Leslie gulped, nervously smoothing his neckcloth as he gazed up at the giant. “He is a strong fellow, isn’t he? But not to worry, Elly, I’m convinced that Hugo and I will become fast friends. Won’t we, Hugo?”

The giant grinned, showing the gap between his teeth—the sight of which immediately transported Leslie into another bout of ecstasy—and gently patted the young man’s blonde head. “Glugg, glugg,” he crooned affectionately.

“That is it!” Elinor exclaimed, the high pitch of her voice clearly indicating that she was about to fly into the boughs. Alastair privately commended her restraint, for he should surely have exploded long ago had he been so pressed. “Leslie, excuse yourself,” she ordered in a voice that brooked no opposition, and her brother meekly left the room, turning only once, to wave goodbye to Hugo.

She then turned to Alastair and said coldly, “Mr. Bates, as you are living on the estate, we shall doubtless be forced to deal with each other from time to time—at least until I can have my brother’s solicitor make other arrangements for you. But for the moment, sir, I ask nothing from you other than that you retrieve your cane, whistle this brute to heel, and remove yourself from these premises at once!”

Alastair, who had grown heartily sick of Hugo’s attempts at the culinary arts over the past weeks, eyed the veal hungrily before giving in to the inevitable. The evening had been a shambles from odd beginning to even odder end. But, knowing that tomorrow was another day, he wisely motioned to Hugo, and the two of them headed for the door.

They had just stepped onto the porch—the heavy oak door slamming behind them, obviously propelled by the gentle hand of their hostess—when an insistent “psst, psst” came from the bushes.

“Who’s there?” Alastair whispered, looking about in the darkness as Hugo growled deep in his chest.

The bushes rustled behind them, and out stepped Lily Biggs, her hips undulating wildly as she approached, as if she were trying to navigate her way across a mound of feather pillows. “G’evenin’, yer lordship,” she crooned, batting her eyelashes at her master. “Mum told me yer was back, but I didn’t believe it. She says I’m not ter say nuthin’ about knowin’ yer neither, or else I’ll get my backside switched.”

“Your mother is a very wise woman, Lily,” Alastair said, idly inspecting the impressive cleavage revealed by the snug white peasant blouse and wondering just when it was that the once angular young girl had developed the soft, enticing body of a woman. Had it really been that long since he’d visited his smallest, yet favorite, estate? “You won’t betray me, will you, my little darling?”

With a toss of her head, Lily’s long, dark hair re-settled itself on her snowy white shoulders as she stood toe to toe with Alastair, her firm young breasts pressed invitingly against his chest. Reaching up with both hands to smooth his neckcloth, she grinned and purred, “And what would be in it fer little Lily, d’yer suppose, iffen she was ter do as yer says? I love yer beard, yer lordship,” she continued, lightly stroking his face. “It’s so golden—like the sun or somethin’—and so fuzzy.”

Now, here was a dilemma to tax the brain of the wise Solomon himself. Alastair had been without a willing woman for more than a month—quite possibly a new personal record he wouldn’t wish bruited about among his acquaintances. It would be nice having an unattached, willing female so close to hand—although he supposed he could just as easily import one from the city if he so wished.

Besides, Alastair had known this child since her birth, and would never do anything to betray Billie Biggs’s faith in him. But at the same time—could he trust this willful child to keep his secret if he insulted her by turning down what she was so obviously offering?

“Lily, I—” he began at last, not really knowing what he was going to say, just as the oak door swung open in a rush and he looked toward it, praying it was Mrs. Biggs come to his rescue.

But, alas, just as it had been with the veal he’d hoped to enjoy, he wasn’t going to be that lucky.

“Here, Mr. Bates, you forgot your—oh, good Lord!” Elinor exclaimed, her arm halting in the action of tossing Alastair’s curly-brimmed beaver at him. “Oh, this is beyond anything low!” The beaver came winging toward him, to be deftly snatched out of the air by Hugo, who then sat the undersized thing atop his own oversized head. “You lech! Let go of that poor, innocent girl this instant!”

“Miss Dalrymple,” Alastair began hastily, silently cursing his continuing run of bad luck, “this isn’t what you think. Let me endeavour to explain.”

He turned toward the doorway, slapping Lily’s greedy hands away as he tried to explain. “Leave go, Lily, for God’s sake,” he hissed angrily. “Don’t make this any worse than it is.” He looked up into his hostess’s angry face. “Miss Dalrymple—please listen to me!”

“Listen to you? Listen to you!” Elinor exploded, grabbing hold of Lily’s elbow and yanking her up the steps and into the foyer. “I have two eyes, don’t I, Mr. Bates? There is nothing you can say that could possibly erase the evidence my own eyes have delivered. You may be a veteran, but you are no gentleman. Kindly keep to your cottage until I speak to my brother’s solicitor—and don’t try to approach this house or any of its inhabitants again. Do you hear me?”

“I should think they heard you in Dover, madam,” Alastair replied tightly, his pride stung. “And once again, Miss Dalrymple, I bid you good night. It has truly been an experience.” Feeling he had gotten in the last word, he then limped off into the night, Hugo, as Elinor Dalrymple had so imperiously ordered, at his heels.

“HERE THEY COME! I can see the bow of the boat hitting against the waves, turning them white. They’re about to land.”

“Quietly, your lordship, quietly,” Captain Geoffrey Wiggins admonished in a fierce whisper. “There are three of us and twenty-five of them. I don’t much like the odds.”

Alastair pushed his prone frame more closely against the body-sized hollow he had dug in the sand, kicking out his left foot as some hungry insect feasted on his ankle bone.